This article was originally published on my previous blog on August 28, 2020.
It’s been less than a week since Jacob Blake was shot seven times by police officers in Kenosha, Wisconsin. Immediately thereafter, two interrelated debates emerged on news outlets and social media — whether the shooting was justified and whether the outrage was justified.
Those who think the outrage is premature and “wait for the facts” appear cold, as if we always wait for facts before we let ourselves feel. Conversely, those who think the outrage is justified appear incorrigible, as if facts have no guiding role in our feelings.
I am not writing about the Blake case in particular, but about the merits of the arguments surrounding facts and feelings. I simply offer three things that might create more meaningful conversation when a police officer shoots a black man in America.
UNDERSTAND THE RELEVANT STORIES
The Ferguson coroner’s report revealed that Michael Brown’s hands weren’t raised when he was shot by Officer Darren Wilson. This seemed to validate the argument that racism did not play a role in Brown’s death and vindicate those who dispassionately waited for the facts.
I remember talking to my friends at the time about the case and tried to argue that racism did play a role in Brown’s death. I misjudged how differently we thought about racial factors in a case and the context that shape our conclusions. They thought I proposed to know the heart and mind of Darren Wilson, the place where they think racism primarily exists. But that’s not what I meant by racial factors.
I meant the systems, structures, and history in Ferguson that led Wilson to allegedly yell expletives at Brown and make Brown so distrustful of the people who swore to protect and serve. The Department of Justice concluded that black people were under-represented and terribly mistreated by law enforcement in Ferguson. Therefore, you can imagine why the events unfolded the way that they did.
Malcolm Gladwell once gave a talk at a Q Conference about legitimacy. He described the factors that make people in authority legitimate in our eyes and therefore, worthy of our obedience and compliance: they respect us, they treat us fairly, and they can be trusted to be consistent.
But whenever those in authority lack these things — whether parents or police — don’t respect us, don’t treat us fairly, and cannot be trusted to be consistent, then they will eventually lose legitimacy in our eyes. The advice to simply comply with authority in Ferguson, which is the wisest course of action, can nevertheless feel like a Hail Mary in a game that was rigged from the start.
Let’s be clear.
Context matters to all of us. But the problem is that we disagree on what the relevant context is. Those who wait for facts believe the relevant context is what happened after the police arrived. Those who are outraged before those details are given believe the relevant context is the story of the people and the place before the police even arrived — or that the larger story of the people (Black Americans) and their history in the place (United States) determines what we feel.
In order to have a meaningful conversation, we must be willing to listen with both contexts in mind.
But those of us who wield the Scriptures do this already.
When we read that Moses struck the Egyptian who was harassing an Israelite, we simultaneously believe his action was wrong while also affirming that he was simply responding to the oppression of his people.
We struggle to pray imprecatory Psalms in light of Christ’s call for us to love our enemies, while simultaneously being sympathetic to the writers who wrote out of their experience of suffering and longing for justice.
We recognize that the disciples misunderstood Jesus’ mission when they rebuked Jesus for predicting his death, and tried to defend Jesus with violence, but understand that they only did so because of their larger story and desire for Israel’s independence.
In other words, we know what it is like to acknowledge both individual and historical context in a given story. We know that we cannot simply separate a part of the story from the whole if we are to truly understand it. So why is it so difficult to believe that both the individual context and historical context matters when a police officer shoots a black man in America?
ACKNOWLEDGE OUR ETHICS
In Jonathan Haidt’s book, The Righteous Mind: Why Good People Are Divided on Politics and Religion, Haidt cites the different ethics that guide societies: the ethic of autonomy, ethic of community, and ethic of divinity.
Western secular societies are shaped by the ethic of autonomy, while Eastern cultures are shaped by the ethic of community and divinity. He writes,
“It has long been reported that Westerners have a more independent and autonomous concept of the self than do East Asians. For example, when asked to write twenty statements beginning with the words “I am …,” Americans are likely to list their own internal psychological characteristics (happy, outgoing, interested in jazz), whereas East Asians are more likely to list their roles and relationships (a son, a husband, an employee of Fujitsu).”
“Western” can be a broad term to describe people in United States and Europe. But it does not account for the fact that many minorities who live in secular societies consider themselves Western while also having a communal identity.
They don’t simply see themselves as autonomous individuals who are disconnected from the whole. If a member of their community is hurt, they feel pain too. I remember when an elderly Indian man was body slammed by police officers in Alabama. It was horrific to see law enforcement use that kind of force on an elderly man. But it affected me differently, not simply because he was elderly, but because he was Indian. He was a member of my community.
In fact, I depersonalized the description just so that you wouldn’t be confused about my relationship to him. But if I were to share the story with another Indian Malayalee, I would ask, “Did you hear about that Appachan in Alabama that got body slammed?”
Appachan is the word we use for grandfather. Yes, it can be used to describe someone who is elderly, but also carries connotations of endearment and respect. I don’t even know another word that I could use to describe him.
When we only see the world through the lens of individual autonomy, we will struggle to understand why the Jacob Blake shooting could create the same visceral reaction as the death of Eric Garner or George Floyd. After all, they are all different people, from different cities, with disconnected stories, and with different sets of facts regarding their interaction with police.
But not everyone sees the world that way.
They see community. They see connection. They see themselves. Their sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, and Appachans.
And as a result, they feel.
To have a meaningful conversation, we must be willing to acknowledge both the ethic of autonomy and community at work in our interpretations and the way that it shapes our response.
MOVE TOWARDS WHAT IS RIGHT AND REAL
My mentor gave me invaluable advice on navigating personal conflicts.
I had gotten into an argument with someone and was convinced that I was right. And being right was all that mattered to me. When I shared the incident with him, I was convinced that he would agree with my assessment and say that I was right too.
But he said something that continues to shape the way that I pursue reconciliation even when I believe I am right and the other person’s feelings are wrong.
He said, “It may not be right, but it’s real. The feelings are real. So how will you minister to what is real?”
Our instinct is to respond to feelings with facts. But anyone who has ever successfully achieved reconciliation after conflict knows that it was only possible with empathy — by responding to feelings with feelings and not first with facts.
Now, this does not mean that people who feel don’t have facts on their side. Nor does it mean that those who have facts never feel. The point is that meaningful conversations require us to move towards the discomfort: those who have a tendency to focus on the feelings that are real must also consider what is right. And those who have a tendency to focus on the facts must be willing to acknowledge what is real for others.
One of my professors in seminary gave a lecture about the life of John the Baptist. In the waning moments of John’s life, the voice in the wilderness that had prepared the way for Jesus found himself voicing doubt about whether Jesus was really the Messiah.
He then asked us to pause before we judge John.
For John doubted because he cared. If Jesus was the Messiah, then why was he still in prison? Why was Israel still under the thumb of Roman oppression? He contended with Jesus because he felt. Because he cared.
And then he wondered out loud if the reason that we don’t doubt isn’t because of our fidelity as much as it is our apathy. What if it isn’t because of our great faith, but because we don’t care enough to doubt? We have our individual spirituality and comfort. And we don’t contend with Jesus for justice because it doesn’t have any practical implication upon our personal lives.
As C.S. Lewis noted in A Grief Observed,
“You never know how much you really believe anything until its truth or falsehood becomes a matter of life and death to you. It is easy to say you believe a rope to be strong and sound as long as you are merely using it to cord a box. But suppose you had to hang by that rope over a precipice. Wouldn’t you then first discover how much you really trusted it?”
For some of us there simply isn’t enough at stake for us to doubt.
Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not advocating for doubt. I simply want us to see that our dispassionate response may not be the result of faith or a commitment to truth as much as it is the result of not being close enough to feel.
Those of us who philosophize tragedy often have the privilege of being removed from the pain. But our perspectives will only become fuller by understanding all the relevant stories, acknowledging our differing ethics, and moving closer to the discomfort, especially to those who feel pain. For if we got close enough, we would likely care enough to contend with God and seek his face for justice, mercy, and peace in our cities.
And we just might have more meaningful conversations.