Racial reconciliation

I'm tired of explaining to "friends" that the phrase #BlackLivesMatter doesn't mean that other lives don't matter or that it is somehow an anti-white or anti-police slogan. There is an implied "too" at the end of the phrase.
I made peace with the fact that in the United States I could be in the "wrong" at the "wrong" time and be shot and killed by police because a man or woman who feels threatened by my presence and calls 9-1-1. But I certainly have not accepted that for my Black, Chinese and Korean American daughter.
You live in suburban Atlanta and if I went for a run in your neighborhood before I left I would have to ask you a some questions. Do you have a neighborhood watch? Would I be questioned by your neighbors as to why I was there? 
The January holiday has passed, and I wonder if you're still thinking about it. As a parent, I am.
I had long known of his legacy, but I first, personally, met Governor Winter two years ago, shortly after I returned from graduate school to my home, Mississippi.
I know a cop, a "police officer," as he calls himself. I think an old fashioned job title offers the best description of how he does his work. He is an "officer of the peace."
Without black women administering the ministry, praying for the pastor, teaching the children, singing in the choir, cooking in the kitchen, answering the phones, photocopying the bulletin, and testifying to the goodness of the Lord on Wednesday nights, there is no Black Church.
The Diocese of Rhode Island is building a museum that will tell the story about how the church once profited from slavery.
I was already reeling from the video of Dominican citizens cutting the hair of a Haitian man with scissors as a crowd ridiculed him in the street for his dark skin. I prayed that the baseball bats and machetes would not be swung.
Jack* and I opted into the discomfort of racism, prejudice and the history of law enforcement in America among black and brown communities and Jesus met us there. We were honest about our fears, limitations and ignorance about the other because of our cultural lenses.
I told my wife to leave me alone because I was told men like me are not worthy of love and that something is wrong with the women who do. They are less-than by association. I am afraid for my marriage because music and movies tells me if my dad was unfaithful, I will be too.
We don't want to talk about race and religion because it might get awkward. We don't want to talk about sex because we might say the wrong thing. We can't speak about gay marriage and climate change because we're afraid of offending someone or sounding too open- or closed-minded. So we talk about work or complain or rave about the latest iPhone.
What causes pain and grief in my soul is that there are those people deeply saddened and grieving over the loss of another unarmed black male to a white police officer; those able to enter into the grief and complexity of law enforcement.
All three meanings of "resolution" are wonderfully attractive to me -- and timely for this brand new year.
Hope is not a feeling. It is a decision -- a choice you make based on what we call faith or moral conscience, whatever most deeply motivates you.
There are the large moments. The ones where the Veil is lifted. These are the moments when the music stops and the dance ends. These are the moments when one can keep humming the tune and twirling like nothing has changed or stop to realize that those beyond the Veil have no cause for dancing.
I am blessed to have been among thousands of white college students who participated in the 1963 March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom.
Death is horrible enough. But systematic injustice -- one that allows white boys to assume success, yet leads black boys to cower from the very institutions created to protect our own wellbeing -- is a travesty.
If Christian colleges are serious about moving forward in their diversity efforts, they need to listen to and empower the diversity officers on their campuses.