This was first published in my newsletter earlier this year.
Why is it that you can know how terribly something will turn out and still be devastated when it does? This is what I was wondering on Wednesday afternoon after the grand jury declined to indict anyone for Breonna Taylor’s killing. When I read about the protest planned for that evening by Saint Sabina Catholic Church, I knew that’s where I had to be.
I’ve been to a lot of protests over the years and have helped organize a few. I knew how the space would feel: a mix of sadness and anger layered over a deep resolve to hold back the despair.
When I walked up to the church I saw that we’d be a relatively small group. Father Mike caught my eye and kind of smiled. And then, after reminding all of us why we had gathered, he and some of the church’s youth led us a couple of blocks to a large intersection where we proceeded to inconvenience traffic for the next thirty minutes. “Your commute is delayed, but Breonna Tayor is dead,” someone shouted.
As with many protests, our small group chanted, lamented, prayed, and kept silent vigil. But the thing I started thinking about on the drive home, the thing I keep coming back to is the way the truth was spoken so plainly at that intersection. There were no debates about the legality of what the police officers did that night in Louisville. There were no questions about whether Breonna or her boyfriend somehow deserved to have their front door knocked down. There was just truth: This is wrong. It has always been wrong. It has gone on so long. How much longer Lord?
There was more truth proclaimed in thirty minutes from that intersection than has ever been spoken from many pulpits and platforms.
There were a few of us pastors in the crowd that evening and I wish, in these days especially, that more pastors would show up to a protest. But what we really need is for more truth-telling protest to show up in our pulpits.
What do you do when the horribly unjust thing that you knew would happen happens? You join a protest, letting your small voice join a chorus of others who’ve determined, despite everything, to keep telling the truth.