“Does it still work, daddy?” My oldest asks this, standing beside me at the bottom of a ladder.
I’ve been in the attic of my childhood home. I smell like mold and memories. Dust, grime and pink fiberglass insulation cling to me.
Up there, I uncovered a half-dozen original Goosebump books. I found my sister’s Home Alone 2 Talkboy.
When I dig under a pile of Christmas decorations, I spot the dark blue fur and bulbous green nose of the My Pet Monster I got when I was in kindergarten. I played with it so much that one of its arms ripped. My grandmother sewed it back on.
I clutch these treasures in my hands like they are doubloons from a deep-sea diving expedition.
When I hand them to my daughter, she looks amused and confused. I’m familiar with this expression. Her mother uses it all the time when she gazes at me.
I hand my daughter each discovery. Most are easy toys for her to understand, until we get to the Light Boy, an accessory for the first-generation Nintendo Game Boy that provided extra illumination for playing in the dark.
I try to explain its purpose to my daughter, who has never known a screen she couldn’t swipe. Fumbling for words, I sense the chasm between our childhoods. She turns the Light Boy over in her hands.
“Does it still work, Daddy?”
“I don’t know.”
The Question for Our Time
I say those words a lot lately. It has become my holy mantra. My daily prayer.
A reflex response to questions, including but not limited to:
How are you holding up?
I don’t know.
What are your plans for the future?
I don’t know.
What do you think about the state of the world right now?
I don’t know.
Are the rolling waters of the prophet Amos still flowing, preacher? Are they clear and drinkable? Or are they swirling, thick with mud, hard to move in?
I don’t know.
Do the Beatitudes still matter to Christians? Are they preached in pulpits? Do congregations find those statements of Jesus comforting? Reassuring? Troublesome?
I don’t know.
Is the gospel still good news for all? The poor, the poor in spirit, the orphan, the widow, the least of these?
I don’t know.
How do we respond to the chaos and evil we see? How do we push back against the powers and principalities?
I don’t know.
What are we to do with ICE? What do we do about the assaults by these federal agents on people in cities like Charlotte and Portland? When they attack ministers like Reverend David Black? When they kill those like Silverio Villegas González outside of Chicago? And Keith Porter in Los Angeles? What do we do?
I. Don’t. Know.
Hearing these questions, I feel exposed, like a nerve. Vulnerable like a fresh neck in a room full of vampires.
I felt the same exposure—raw and unguarded—when I heard about the death of Renee Nicole Good.
The questions started almost immediately, each one asking, “What do we do now?”
Standing Up
In the past several years, I’ve gone to more protests than I can count. I’ve organized vigils. I’ve raised my fist in support at rallies.
I’ve held hands and locked arms at marches. I participated in boycotts. I’ve become a creature of civil disobedience.
When I returned home last year to my gerrymandered state of North Carolina, I wasted no time jumping on the phone and calling Republican Senator Ted Budd. Other faith leaders and I visited Senator Thom Tillis’s Greensboro office. The latter wasn’t there and the closest I ever got to the former was his answering machine.
I sent emails to Congress Representatives Addison McDowell and Virginia Foxx. Their responses were the same: “Thanks for your email, but we’re going to vote the way we planned to anyway.”
And now, with the horrific killing of Renee Good, the cycle starts again. The text messages. The organizing. The call to action. The call to dissent.
A Change is Coming?
Will this time be different?
I don’t know.
Some think it will, including American historian and current Saint of Sanity, Heather Cox Richardson.
Several thousand others and I tuned in to watch HCR, who went live and addressed Good’s murder. From her January 8th Political Chat on Facebook, she said, “The shooting of Mrs. Good is a game-changer in that for the first time white Americans can see on their phones the power of the state being used to kill somebody just like them.”
Sadly, I’ve heard similar statements before, but is this different? Is the killing of a 37-year-old white woman at the hands of a masked federal agent the tipping point for these Divided States of America?
Will “we, the people” watch the video over and over, see her children’s toys scattered in the SUV, listen to the words of her family, friends, and her wife, and collectively shout, “This is enough!”
I don’t know.
I say that because I thought we’d already reached that point.
I thought the deaths of George Floyd, Michael Brown and Breonna Taylor taught us something.
I thought the killing of Tamir Rice would have been a deal breaker for many.
I thought the Las Vegas, Pulse Night Club and Sutherland Springs mass shootings would have woken people up.
And Sandy Hook. Virginia Tech. Uvalde. There are plenty more. For God’s sake, the death of children I thought surely would produce a come-to-Jesus meeting for the other half of a country hell-bent on stockpiling firearms.
This will be what unites us, right?
It didn’t. None of it did. We grew further and further apart.
And still I went to the gatherings. I wore my cassock and stole. I called those with influence and sat with those without.
My shoulders caught the tears of heartbroken individuals and my eyes ran like a river as I kissed my family at night. I kept writing emails. I wrote articles like the one you’re reading now.
Choosing Sides
I don’t know if it helps anymore, but I don’t know how to stop.
Sometimes it all feels performative, like I’m conditioned and just going through the motions. My body, mind and spirit are reacting through traumatic muscle memory. There’s some truth to that, like there’s some truth in thinking all my efforts are the equivalent of screaming into a Lovecraftian void.
I suppose I keep going for a couple of reasons. The first being, when the annals of history look back and shine their spotlight on me, I want it known that I chose a side and acted accordingly. I kept showing up no matter what happened.
And second, I keep trying because I hear my child’s voice.
“Does it still work, daddy?”
Love? Compassion? Inclusion? Empathy? Kindness? Respect? Acceptance? Unity? Equity? Peace?
I don’t know; I just hope it does.
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Justin Cox received his theological education from Campbell University, Wake Forest University School of Divinity, and McAfee School of Theology where he earned his Doctor of Ministry. He is an ordained minister holding standing in the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship and American Baptist Churches USA. When not spending time with his spouse and daughters, he can be found writing and baking late into the night. His thoughts and reflections are his own.
