By James Murdoch

Identifying markers of privilege:

White
Male
Age 18-35
Heterosexual
Tall
Able-bodied
Natural-born U.S. citizen
Native English speaker
Middle-class
Access to education
Christian
Full-time employment with benefits

I am privileged. I often do not feel privileged, but there is no avoiding the factual evidence. I am privileged.

I was bombarded on social media this month by a call to action. I was reminded of the realities faced by black Americans across the nation who have lost their lives to gun violence. I saw videos and images of young men dying, and observed the impact on race relations. I was reminded that the time for silence is over, and that I must make a stand and proclaim out loud that Black Lives Matter.

Because of my status as a young, white, able-bodied, English-speaking, middle-class Christian with a paid position which gives me access to a pulpit and a microphone, I must be willing to stand before an audience in lockstep with those gathering in major cities across the nation to publicly condemn the actions of certain police officers.

To say nothing is to load the weapons of racist police officers who continue to harass a population of black men all too familiar with brutality and second-class treatment. To falter at this time is to stand opposed to the Black Lives Matter movement, and pledge an allegiance to bigotry and hatred. To stand down is to fail to see the plight of the under- privileged and marginalized and to waste an opportunity, as a privileged person, to use my voice. To remain on the side- lines is to give credence to the actions of xenophobic and armed vigilantes.

To do nothing is to say that black lives truly do not matter.

I don’t often post my opinion on social media, often out of fear of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time in the wrong place. It is this fear that creates feelings of social impotence when entering the conversation on black culture.

The years I have spent being unsure how much black culture I am allowed to promote leave me feeling more helpless than ever. I was reminded that conversations on black culture stem from a struggle which I simply did not/could not understand, and therefore I should tread lightly when at- tempting to commiserate with my black friends. It became unclear as to whether a white person could speak of black culture at all, or if it must be referenced as “African-American culture,” as to use the word “black” was akin to using the n-word.

I grew up outside of black culture because I believed that to be the socially responsible thing to do. I was under the impression that I could only resonate with what was being said as long as I was willing to step outside when it was time to recognize that I wasn’t all the way in. With this mutually-agreed-upon distance, there was never much time to practice defending a culture I was not inherently tied to or intimately coupled with.

But something changed. Something was corrupted. Something crossed the line. That something was a bullet. And then another. And another. And it came from one side and was fired over to the other.

A lot happened after that initial shot, but the one thing I didn’t count on was being blamed for the bullet because the lines remained in the field between black culture and white culture. I didn’t count on hearing that, because of a bullet fired somewhere down the line, the entire team would be penalized for its encroachment. I hadn’t counted on there being a need for an immediate response in order to be counted as one willing to step over the line once used as necessarily divisive. I hadn’t counted on there being a need for change in social status. I was unprepared and unpracticed for what happened next.

I never thought I was saying that “Black lives don’t matter.” I never meant for my message to be anything other than “Black lives matter.” I never wanted there to be a divide, but neither did I want to be the person who cried foul when someone asked for a little distance in a world where white, privileged men have taken so much. I never wanted to be afraid to speak up. But I am.

I believe that black lives matter. I know that black lives matter. Black lives matter.

I post this as a response to the call for the privileged to speak up when many have been unwilling to speak for those who are now unable to. But I do so with trepidation and anxiety that my voice is not the correct one. I do so with dread that my unrehearsed and unprepared rhetoric will be seen as racially insensitive and bigoted. I do so with apprehension that I will somehow make things worse, as there have been too many times when acts of commiseration were met with skepticism and suspicion. I do so knowing that I am entering into the game late and from the wrong side of the field. I do so with fear that my support will be taken as half-hearted and impotent.

I am overwhelmed by grief and sadness every time there is another story of tragedy in the black community. I am outraged at the incongruity of lives taken at the hands of officers assigned to protect and serve. I am disturbed by the lack of peace between the black and white communities. I am dismayed by the acts of violence that continue to disrupt this world.

I am privileged. I do not often feel privileged. But there is no avoiding the factual evidence: I am privileged.
I am, therefore, stepping out in faith and fear that there might be too few voices calling into the night for harmony.
I am unready for this moment and am going against all the voices in my head that tell me to wait and speak when I am more proficient on this subject. As I stand in solidarity and speak from my position of privilege, I ask for guidance, for wisdom, and for patience as I learn how to act and speak as a proponent of social change for a culture in which I am not well versed.

May all mortals, regardless of race, find ways to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God as one community.

–-James Murdoch is administrative pastor at Andrews University’s One Place congregation. He was associate pastor at Boulder Adventist Church until 2015 when he began studying at the SDA Theological Seminary in Berrien Springs, Michigan. This article is adapted with permission from a Facebook post.