I love where I live. I have more than an acre of land, a beautiful home, a great neighborhood and neighbors of all ages, races and cultures. I love the area. It's less than an hour south of DC (if you're lucky on 95S-ha!) and it is wildly diverse. My church has people of all socioeconomic standings, ages, colors and cultures. I feel safe here and I feel the level of overt racism isn't as thick as it is in other places of our nation.
But, I have felt the shift.
I felt it keenly when I stood in line with my neighbors as we waited to vote. I could feel the divide in ways I haven't felt since living in the rural deep south. I saw people of color looking to us with their unspoken questions- Will you stand with us? Will you vote against us? You're our neighbors, but do you really see us? I was pained. The quiet tension was broken when a young African American girl looked up at her mother and said "I'm so excited to be here!" The mom smiled down at her and I caught her eye. "I love that attitude. You're a good Mama for bringing her." The mother smiled back and we returned to our quiet thoughts. My face flamed. I wasn't excited to be there. I didn't take any of my children because I was ashamed of our choices. I had thought I was voting third party all the way up to the morning of the election. I changed my mind that morning when I decided I wanted Trump to lose more than anything else. I've never felt that way before. I'd never felt forced to vote against something instead of for something. But I couldn't darken the bubble beside his name and return to look into the eyes of so many people I love who are people of color. Immigrants. People who tirelessly battle mental illnesses. I made the choice to vote for Hillary as a stand against Trump.
My circle of friends and loved ones is multi-cultural and varied. It always has been, and I'm grateful for this as I know many white people don't share my experience. I had to vote for them.
I know my choice is surprising to many of those whom I love who have skin the color of mine. I have heard the reasoning, the desperation to explain why they chose him over her, and the ongoing talk of asking what God would have us do. None of those who I love who voted for him did it with celebration.
Let me be clear. I'm not a Hillary fan. I don't begin to pretend that we align on much of anything regarding political standing- but I was hyper aware that this wasn't an election where POC were championing Hillary as the perfect choice, rather the opportunity to reject Trump and his incessant hate from creeping into the oval office.
When I woke early on wednesday and checked my phone for the results, I was shocked. I sat up in bed and sobbed. I sobbed because I knew that many people I loved were feeling hated. As the last week has unfolded, my sadness has been confirmed.
Many of my friends who are POC have reached out to me. Grieved that blatant racism was ushered into office. Afraid for their families. Feeling rejected and disconnected from their communities of faith. I went to church on sunday, and couldn't help but notice that many of the regular faces were missing. POC had stayed home. As the texts and messages came in, I didn't have words of comfort to share. I listened, and as one of my dear friends shared her pain, I told her that the gift of hearing her heart was holy ground. I was honored that she allowed me to hold space in my heart for some of hers.
What's grieving to me is that as white people, we're still missing it. This wasn't an election about policy, or conservatives vs liberals. To POC, it was an election about awareness. Equality. Unity. About seeing them and their worth. About seeing ourselves inside of them. Humanity. About the opportunity for white america to open our arms and say we won't stand by and allow our next leader be someone who silences you, pushes you out, or sees you as worthless. We are equals and we want our leader to represent that all of us together is what truly makes America great. It was the moment when many POC collectively held their breath while waiting for us to see the expectation and anxiety in their eyes as they wondered if they are safe with us. And we failed. What is crushing is that in this monumental, horrendous election year we have come again to a deep divide. I don't think we white people saw how the gravity of his victory would affect so many of us. How his victory would sour after the political ads stopped and the realization that he really did win and oh my gosh, what have we done?!
Like so many others, I don't have answers. I am tired and weary of the ugliness this year has exposed. However, I've also been told by many of my friends of color that they feel the reality has been unveiled and while it has been painful, they also have resigned themselves to the realization that they know where they stand.
I guess my 'advice' to all of us would be this- We need to listen. Pay attention to things outside of our small circle of influence. We have much to learn, and we don't learn by talking and defending and justifying. We learn by studying. Listening. Making time to spend with people who have different life experiences than us. Hearing hard things we want to avoid but staying because ...love.
I'm not sure what the next four years will look like. But leaving it to one man and his staff to decide for us isn't an option I'm comfortable with. We have the opportunity to wake up and join our lives with others. We have the obligation to strive towards the greatness of America by working to ensure all Americans truly are treated equally as we have been created equally. If this awful election year can spur waves of powerful, lasting, healthy change in racial reconciliation- even as an act of rebellion-then not all was lost.
Monday, November 14, 2016
Thursday, October 20, 2016
Living Outside the Chaos
I’m really
quite good at managing chaos. I’ve had lots of practice, and have become a
warrior of survival. I’m proud of this, and have learned not to fear much as
the confidence in my ability to weather massive storms keeps me in peace.
But.
I’m not good at managing the manageable.
I’ve written about my oldest son and his battle with mental illness. He’s 15 now, and the ebb and flow of his sickness has lasted for more than 13 of those years. I have 3 other children, all younger than him. We have lived in the shadow of his illness for the entirety of their lives.
But.
I’m not good at managing the manageable.
I’ve written about my oldest son and his battle with mental illness. He’s 15 now, and the ebb and flow of his sickness has lasted for more than 13 of those years. I have 3 other children, all younger than him. We have lived in the shadow of his illness for the entirety of their lives.
Things are better now. While we still have situations that knock the wind out of me (as recently as earlier this week), the violent chaos that was normal in our home for more than a decade has waned. With his maturity has come some ability to push back against coping skills of aggression and destruction. I’ve come to a place of trusting my ability to parent him well, and rather than lean into the storm and exacerbate it with my own fear and anger, I’ve learned to utilize authority and boundaries in a healthier way. The last nine months has been the longest peaceful stretch of my parenting career. Even during this most recent drama, there has been no violence or aggression.
Yet, I’m struggling.
I’ve been dating a man for the last two years who has seen the dynamics of my family, who has seen the shocking aggression that can pour out of my beautiful first born, who has seen the fear in the faces of my other three, the sometimes unhealthy attachment that has been forged between me and my kids, and who has seen me cry and work and do everything I can to help my family. He’s bided his time, and occasionally he’s spoken up- asking questions and exposing what I already know: I am not good at managing the manageable. Over the last year there have been conversations that he’s initiated that have left me angry, sullen and sobbing. (Never his intention, and always a direct result of the wounds it picks at.) They say that the truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.
Last night was the second time we had a conversation where the things coming from his mouth seemed to be directly from the heart of God- piercing my soul, shredding my heart in the knowing, and rendering me silent as I knew it was sacred. My flesh wanted to rise up and scream in defense, but my soul knew it was everything I needed to face; and I was grateful to have someone willing to face it with me in love. Beauty doesn’t equal pain-free. Love doesn’t mean avoiding hard places. I ached. I sobbed. I heaved with grief and fear and disappointment.
The difficulty now is that while living in a constant state of chaos, I have never learned how to live in the normal. I did everything around the house while trying to keep my kids safe. I never had breathing space to teach them simple chores or provide a structured schedule. And now, I’m exhausted. My children rely on me to do everything. They don’t pick up after themselves, or only do so with my prodding and their attitudes. There isn’t much structure, and what is there, revolves entirely around me. It’s not healthy for any of us, and it’s not feasible for me to keep this up. But the reality is this: I have no idea how to do it. I didn’t start small, with toddlers who were pulling chairs up to the sink beside me to learn how to do dishes. I didn’t have homework time at the kitchen table in the evenings because many evenings were spent fighting darkness and aggression, and sending children into my room to stay out of the path of their brother. I don’t have a family-known set of rules, expectations and consequences because my oldest (who, by default, sets the example for the others) is not motivated by either reward or consequence. Parenting him has been a continual shifting of what might work for this day, this situation, this mood. It’s left the others wondering what the constants are… and, to my grief, they come up empty.
I have allowed things spoken to me when I was younger to take deep root and affect my ability to parent the children God gave to me- with my personality, skill set, strength and energy. I can tell you that logically, I know I have been paired with these children for a reason. That they have things to teach me, and I them, but the strangling vines grown from words once thrown into my soul have siphoned off the nutrients meant for healthy growth. I hear Failure. Flaky. Impulsive. Flighty. Unable to finish anything. Easily Bored. Lazy.
My love language is words of affirmation, and I haven’t loved myself well as I’ve given head space to words of destruction instead.
I’m nervous at the level of emotional energy this will take, but I’m ready to move into it and out of it in order to live well the life I’ve been given.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
We are all 'One Anothers'
I’m at a loss. Why are so many of the white people in
my community silent?
I have no idea what to do, what to say, how to help. I want to believe that love is enough. I DO believe it. It’s the very essence of God. It’s what we are created from. Love. It is written that love covers a multitude of sins (wrongs, faults, hurts, evil). It’s written that perfect love drives out fear. It’s written that we are made in the image of God. Male. Female. Those are the only distinguishing characteristics listed. Male. Female. No other distinction. No color, size, age, title. Simply man and woman.
So why are those of us who believe all of these ‘it is writtens’ being silent?!
On one hand, I guess I get it.
When something, no matter how terrible, doesn’t directly affect you and your life circle, it is easy to look away and focus attention elsewhere. None of us enjoy pain and suffering, and we spend copious amounts of energy trying to avoid it. If you’ve never experienced poverty, it’s easy to continue living without thought to those who live in financial desperation. There may be moments that move you, moments you give to those who need help, or offer other assistance, but for most of us not living in poverty, they remain moments. If you’ve never loved someone with mental illness, it is easy to offer simple fixes. Dismiss the complexity of the struggle. Look away with callousness or disdain when forced to bump up next to someone whose behavior or processing seems abnormal. You may have moments where you offer compassion, encouragement, a listening ear. But ultimately they sit separated. A series of disconnected, often forced, moments.
Most of us work hard to push pain far from our cultivated comfort, our fortresses of protection designed to buffer us against the ugly, dirty reality that comes with earthly struggle. Each of us have our own ugly, dirty reality in some form, and we work to manage those places while adding pitch to the cracks in our walls to keep out the ugly and dirty of things we’d rather not have to deal with. The ugly and dirty that exists outside of Us. Our lives. Our tightened circle.
So, is that it? Is this why, as white people, we can shake our heads in sadness when another black man is killed because of suspicion we hold inside of our walls that won’t allow us to separate villain from ‘other’, yet not be moved enough to speak? Is this why we can turn off the news feeling troubled but still able to sleep well knowing the epidemic of murdered black men isn’t able to breach our walls? It is also written that we are to ‘bear one another’s burdens, which fulfills the law of Christ’. (The simple law that states- Love one another.) That means to shoulder the hurt and fear and anger of others. Others. Not meant to be a separating word as we have made it, but simply: those not in our own personal skin. Every person outside of ourselves. All others. All. Others.
I’m so disappointed by the lack of response I see by the white community. Many people I love live inside of bodies just like mine; bodies that create babies, work hard, love passionately, ache with pain and weariness, battle disease, wrestle with faith, celebrate loved ones. Bodies just like mine simply shaded more heavily with God’s incredibly creative paintbrush. Where is the outcry from the lighter shaded people? Why are we so quick to dismiss what they are saying and gloss over it each time with responses such as “well, we don’t know the whole story”, “Maybe he was reaching into his car for a gun”, “he had other charges, so I’m sure they were afraid of him”, “his music was too loud, his clothes too ‘gang-y’ “. If this was happening to our husbands, sons, brothers and fathers, we would fill the streets and demand justice. Yet. Silence. What are we afraid of? Rejection? Misunderstanding? Hurt? Getting too close to those who weep and wail and grieve and watch us through saddened eyes waiting for our support, understanding and help? Those who we have made ‘others’ instead of seeing the reality that all of us are ‘one anothers’? Those we place in a category we do not list ourselves in. Why is this even an issue? How can we bear the image of God in our very existence and yet not honor His image in those with shaded skin? I believe the act of acknowledgment by those of us living in lighter skin, the response of- ‘I see this. I see you. I’m not looking away. This is not ok. Where is justice?! We are one. We will work with you as one anothers to stop the suffocating blanket of fear and danger to you and your loved ones.’ There is no script here. There is no perfect word that will alleviate their hurt, sadness and fear.
But love.
Love says, I’ve never done this before. I have no explanation as to why I’ve never entered into your world as friend. Neighbor. Church family. Community member. I have no explanation to offer for why I’ve put walls up between us. But I’m here now. I see you. I see your pain. I don’t understand how it feels to worry your husband or son, brother or father may not come home tonight. But because I bear the image of God, and you bear the image of God, I am here with you to listen. I want to hear what you have to say. I want to hear all of it because we are all ‘one anothers’.
Then? We do just that. We listen. We hold their babies like our own. We sit together at tables and play games and break bread. We share stories of laughter and hurt. We invite them into our lives and ask to be allowed into theirs. We don’t look away from their pain filled eyes to avoid the ache it elicits in us. That pain? The ache we are trying to avoid? That is exactly where we are connected. When your heart jumps at their hurt and senses the weary agony of not being heard or seen… that jump is God saying YES! Right here. This is the bearing of one anothers burdens. Don’t look away. Honor this space. Let it move you. Let it affect you. Let it sear you. Don’t pass up the gift of bearing this burden. It sounds simple. And it is simple. But it isn’t easy. Loving and honoring and bearing and weeping and listening and sitting and being moved to action will never be easy. It will take God sized strength and ability. It will require us to hurt as our one anothers hurt. Yet the incredible thing is this; we bear the image of God, and He is more than capable of sustaining us as we bear our one anothers burdens. Lean into the reality of image bearer in you replicated exactly the same in every single one another.
I have no idea what to do, what to say, how to help. I want to believe that love is enough. I DO believe it. It’s the very essence of God. It’s what we are created from. Love. It is written that love covers a multitude of sins (wrongs, faults, hurts, evil). It’s written that perfect love drives out fear. It’s written that we are made in the image of God. Male. Female. Those are the only distinguishing characteristics listed. Male. Female. No other distinction. No color, size, age, title. Simply man and woman.
So why are those of us who believe all of these ‘it is writtens’ being silent?!
On one hand, I guess I get it.
When something, no matter how terrible, doesn’t directly affect you and your life circle, it is easy to look away and focus attention elsewhere. None of us enjoy pain and suffering, and we spend copious amounts of energy trying to avoid it. If you’ve never experienced poverty, it’s easy to continue living without thought to those who live in financial desperation. There may be moments that move you, moments you give to those who need help, or offer other assistance, but for most of us not living in poverty, they remain moments. If you’ve never loved someone with mental illness, it is easy to offer simple fixes. Dismiss the complexity of the struggle. Look away with callousness or disdain when forced to bump up next to someone whose behavior or processing seems abnormal. You may have moments where you offer compassion, encouragement, a listening ear. But ultimately they sit separated. A series of disconnected, often forced, moments.
Most of us work hard to push pain far from our cultivated comfort, our fortresses of protection designed to buffer us against the ugly, dirty reality that comes with earthly struggle. Each of us have our own ugly, dirty reality in some form, and we work to manage those places while adding pitch to the cracks in our walls to keep out the ugly and dirty of things we’d rather not have to deal with. The ugly and dirty that exists outside of Us. Our lives. Our tightened circle.
So, is that it? Is this why, as white people, we can shake our heads in sadness when another black man is killed because of suspicion we hold inside of our walls that won’t allow us to separate villain from ‘other’, yet not be moved enough to speak? Is this why we can turn off the news feeling troubled but still able to sleep well knowing the epidemic of murdered black men isn’t able to breach our walls? It is also written that we are to ‘bear one another’s burdens, which fulfills the law of Christ’. (The simple law that states- Love one another.) That means to shoulder the hurt and fear and anger of others. Others. Not meant to be a separating word as we have made it, but simply: those not in our own personal skin. Every person outside of ourselves. All others. All. Others.
I’m so disappointed by the lack of response I see by the white community. Many people I love live inside of bodies just like mine; bodies that create babies, work hard, love passionately, ache with pain and weariness, battle disease, wrestle with faith, celebrate loved ones. Bodies just like mine simply shaded more heavily with God’s incredibly creative paintbrush. Where is the outcry from the lighter shaded people? Why are we so quick to dismiss what they are saying and gloss over it each time with responses such as “well, we don’t know the whole story”, “Maybe he was reaching into his car for a gun”, “he had other charges, so I’m sure they were afraid of him”, “his music was too loud, his clothes too ‘gang-y’ “. If this was happening to our husbands, sons, brothers and fathers, we would fill the streets and demand justice. Yet. Silence. What are we afraid of? Rejection? Misunderstanding? Hurt? Getting too close to those who weep and wail and grieve and watch us through saddened eyes waiting for our support, understanding and help? Those who we have made ‘others’ instead of seeing the reality that all of us are ‘one anothers’? Those we place in a category we do not list ourselves in. Why is this even an issue? How can we bear the image of God in our very existence and yet not honor His image in those with shaded skin? I believe the act of acknowledgment by those of us living in lighter skin, the response of- ‘I see this. I see you. I’m not looking away. This is not ok. Where is justice?! We are one. We will work with you as one anothers to stop the suffocating blanket of fear and danger to you and your loved ones.’ There is no script here. There is no perfect word that will alleviate their hurt, sadness and fear.
But love.
Love says, I’ve never done this before. I have no explanation as to why I’ve never entered into your world as friend. Neighbor. Church family. Community member. I have no explanation to offer for why I’ve put walls up between us. But I’m here now. I see you. I see your pain. I don’t understand how it feels to worry your husband or son, brother or father may not come home tonight. But because I bear the image of God, and you bear the image of God, I am here with you to listen. I want to hear what you have to say. I want to hear all of it because we are all ‘one anothers’.
Then? We do just that. We listen. We hold their babies like our own. We sit together at tables and play games and break bread. We share stories of laughter and hurt. We invite them into our lives and ask to be allowed into theirs. We don’t look away from their pain filled eyes to avoid the ache it elicits in us. That pain? The ache we are trying to avoid? That is exactly where we are connected. When your heart jumps at their hurt and senses the weary agony of not being heard or seen… that jump is God saying YES! Right here. This is the bearing of one anothers burdens. Don’t look away. Honor this space. Let it move you. Let it affect you. Let it sear you. Don’t pass up the gift of bearing this burden. It sounds simple. And it is simple. But it isn’t easy. Loving and honoring and bearing and weeping and listening and sitting and being moved to action will never be easy. It will take God sized strength and ability. It will require us to hurt as our one anothers hurt. Yet the incredible thing is this; we bear the image of God, and He is more than capable of sustaining us as we bear our one anothers burdens. Lean into the reality of image bearer in you replicated exactly the same in every single one another.
Friday, July 8, 2016
I'm Not an Enlightened White Woman
I'm the daughter of a preacher-man. One who had congregations made up of people from every class and creed. My parents taught me early on that people are worth loving. Worth hearing. Worth our time and love. That all people are the same, and created in the image of God. They probably didn't teach me this lesson intentionally, however growing up in a home where our dinner table was often shared with people who weren't the same color as us, it's a lesson I learned easily.
Some of my parents' closest friends are a black couple who began their family and careers in the growing of our church. Their family quickly became part of ours; and dinners, birthday celebrations, weddings, graduations- we did all of them together. He was a quiet and kind man in med school, and she was a plucky lawyer with a loud laugh, sparkly dancing eyes and welcoming arms. I remember my dad telling me that Thomas and he had had many conversations about race and oppression. Thomas was working as a resident in the hospital in our town and he had an ocean of student loan debt. He drove an old, beat up car, as the purchase of a new one was beyond his means. Like most med students, he was living the frugal life with the hope to one day live the 'good life'. He told my dad that after he had been pulled over and ripped out of his car and thrown against the side of it to be patted down and treated with suspicion, that he vowed to never again go out in sweats. He knew that his wardrobe alone could possibly change the perception of who he was- a black man in an old car. As a young girl, I was appalled. Thomas and Dayna were part of our family! Who would ever think that they would be a threat?!
We rejoiced with them as he moved up in his career, and she did the same. When Dayna became the first black woman to be published in the Harvard Law Review, my parents were just as proud of her as her own blood connected family. She is now actively working towards the time when it is expected she will sit on the Supreme Court. When Thomas was named one of the best cardiologists in the country, and his ad for UCHealth was published complete with Thomas in his surgical scrubs standing beside Peyton Manning in his uniform, we all stood a little taller, knowing he was worthy of the title. And I wonder... if he were gunned down and later his incredible story was revealed- would we as white americans then mourn because we would see his accomplishments rather than his humanity?! I know. None of us want to go there.
We hosted an Indian chief for dinner when I was in the 3rd grade. He came to our house in full regalia and allowed us kids to try on his headdress while he told us stories of his tribe and his ancestry. My mom made many meals for international students visiting our country, and many more for missionaries who were visiting home before heading back into the field.
I remember crouching on the stairs listening to the hushed voices in the kitchen when a couple in our church had miscarried the baby they had tried so many years to conceive. My dad was headed over to their house (one we had all been in many times as family) to offer comfort. Side note- He, a black man- an artist of epic proportions; my family had his paintings in our living room; she, a successful, professional white woman. Broken. Hurting. Grieving. (Romans 12:15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.)
My childhood was deeply marked by my parents' active love and friendships with people who looked nothing like us, and yet were exactly like us.
I attended junior high school in downtown Charlotte, NC. As a pastor, my father made meager earnings, and our parsonage was located in a rough area. Sadly, in America, poverty and race run neck and neck, and I was one of a small handful of white students. The only white girl who made the step team ( I actually have a little bit of rhythm!). Never once did I feel excluded, or thought it odd.
My church today is incredibly diverse. We have two campuses and one has a white pastor, and the other, a black pastor. My circle of friends is balanced with white, black, Hispanic and Asian loves. The man I have been dating for more than a year and a half is a friend from high school, a black man with brown children. My office is filled with people of all color and backgrounds and the company is owned by a black man. My son's mentor and counselor is an incredible black man whom Samuel adores.
My point is this. I'm not an 'enlightened' white woman. I don't believe there is any such thing. I'm a white woman who was given the gift of the love of all of humanity by two white parents who walked it out in daily moments. My mom is from the deep south, and while her childhood certainly was laced with the ever-present stereotypical southern racism mentality, her life experience with individual people carved out any of that inside of her. Her family (who all still reside in the deep south) have also come far from that pathology. The reason simply being- when you have a real encounter with the living God- the one we proclaim created heaven and earth- you can no longer look at any of humanity and believe that somehow some of humanity was declared good, and others declared subhuman. And when you have a real encounter with others who have brown skin, and know them as a person instead of as a color, you can no longer maintain a hateful mentality. A creating, loving, imaginative God designed each of us in His image- and that realization cannot leave room for anything less than love. (Genesis 1:27 God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.)
So what do we do? I think part of the answer lies in my history. I was mercifully given this gift of the example to love all people, and so it has become my life- but so many white people do not share my experience. I am continually blown away by the lack of black friends in the lives of so many white people. It's foreign to me to know many white people have never sat across a table and shared a meal and personal stories with anyone other than other white people. I cannot comprehend how so many of us as white people can express empathy for the trauma being experienced by our black brothers and sisters and yet never work to have a personal conversation with anyone of color. It becomes an over-arcing 'out there' and in order to bring any level of change, we have to bring it 'down here'. Into our personal lives. We have to be intentional. Nothing will ever change as long as we are 'us' and 'them'. But in order to collapse that divide, we have to dig deep into our humanity and get our hands dirty. We must be open and available to listen. Not listening with the intent to reply or somehow 'educate' black people on their experience, but to listen with the hopes of learning something. To listen to awful, horrible stories they've held close and not given over to us, out of fear of our continual minimizing or rejection. To listen to stories that might make us feel bad, guilty, embarrassed, helpless. And yet, listen anyway. Without running from the ugly feelings, or trying to brush them off of ourselves and onto a broken ideology that we purport not to accept. The greatest gift we have to offer one another is to listen to hear. To be willing to sit and hear the anger and grief and fear and not defend ourselves or try and explain away white privilege. To recognize that our experience has been blanketed by inherent protection- and we did nothing to earn it. To give space to the stories of pain that our black brothers and sisters have been longing to purge. It starts with us. Individually. Corporately. In our church families. In our work spaces. The black community does not need or want our pity, they want us to hear them. In hearing them, they are given back the mantle of humanity they have been stripped of. In hearing them, they are affirmed as worthy and seen. As people just like us; for that is who they are. Every one of us wants that. The black community has to scrape and claw and fight for it daily. How exhausted they must be. May it not always be so. We need to be a soft place to fall. We need to be willing to admit we don't understand, but are willing to listen. We must acknowledge our experience is not their experience- and that therein lies the struggle.
Nothing this horrific will ever be solved easily or quickly. But following the lead of God, and as it is written in John 15:13 Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't always in reference to death- but refers to laying down the life we know and take for granted in order to truly love and stand in solidarity with our friends.
Some of my parents' closest friends are a black couple who began their family and careers in the growing of our church. Their family quickly became part of ours; and dinners, birthday celebrations, weddings, graduations- we did all of them together. He was a quiet and kind man in med school, and she was a plucky lawyer with a loud laugh, sparkly dancing eyes and welcoming arms. I remember my dad telling me that Thomas and he had had many conversations about race and oppression. Thomas was working as a resident in the hospital in our town and he had an ocean of student loan debt. He drove an old, beat up car, as the purchase of a new one was beyond his means. Like most med students, he was living the frugal life with the hope to one day live the 'good life'. He told my dad that after he had been pulled over and ripped out of his car and thrown against the side of it to be patted down and treated with suspicion, that he vowed to never again go out in sweats. He knew that his wardrobe alone could possibly change the perception of who he was- a black man in an old car. As a young girl, I was appalled. Thomas and Dayna were part of our family! Who would ever think that they would be a threat?!
We rejoiced with them as he moved up in his career, and she did the same. When Dayna became the first black woman to be published in the Harvard Law Review, my parents were just as proud of her as her own blood connected family. She is now actively working towards the time when it is expected she will sit on the Supreme Court. When Thomas was named one of the best cardiologists in the country, and his ad for UCHealth was published complete with Thomas in his surgical scrubs standing beside Peyton Manning in his uniform, we all stood a little taller, knowing he was worthy of the title. And I wonder... if he were gunned down and later his incredible story was revealed- would we as white americans then mourn because we would see his accomplishments rather than his humanity?! I know. None of us want to go there.
We hosted an Indian chief for dinner when I was in the 3rd grade. He came to our house in full regalia and allowed us kids to try on his headdress while he told us stories of his tribe and his ancestry. My mom made many meals for international students visiting our country, and many more for missionaries who were visiting home before heading back into the field.
I remember crouching on the stairs listening to the hushed voices in the kitchen when a couple in our church had miscarried the baby they had tried so many years to conceive. My dad was headed over to their house (one we had all been in many times as family) to offer comfort. Side note- He, a black man- an artist of epic proportions; my family had his paintings in our living room; she, a successful, professional white woman. Broken. Hurting. Grieving. (Romans 12:15 Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.)
My childhood was deeply marked by my parents' active love and friendships with people who looked nothing like us, and yet were exactly like us.
I attended junior high school in downtown Charlotte, NC. As a pastor, my father made meager earnings, and our parsonage was located in a rough area. Sadly, in America, poverty and race run neck and neck, and I was one of a small handful of white students. The only white girl who made the step team ( I actually have a little bit of rhythm!). Never once did I feel excluded, or thought it odd.
My church today is incredibly diverse. We have two campuses and one has a white pastor, and the other, a black pastor. My circle of friends is balanced with white, black, Hispanic and Asian loves. The man I have been dating for more than a year and a half is a friend from high school, a black man with brown children. My office is filled with people of all color and backgrounds and the company is owned by a black man. My son's mentor and counselor is an incredible black man whom Samuel adores.
My point is this. I'm not an 'enlightened' white woman. I don't believe there is any such thing. I'm a white woman who was given the gift of the love of all of humanity by two white parents who walked it out in daily moments. My mom is from the deep south, and while her childhood certainly was laced with the ever-present stereotypical southern racism mentality, her life experience with individual people carved out any of that inside of her. Her family (who all still reside in the deep south) have also come far from that pathology. The reason simply being- when you have a real encounter with the living God- the one we proclaim created heaven and earth- you can no longer look at any of humanity and believe that somehow some of humanity was declared good, and others declared subhuman. And when you have a real encounter with others who have brown skin, and know them as a person instead of as a color, you can no longer maintain a hateful mentality. A creating, loving, imaginative God designed each of us in His image- and that realization cannot leave room for anything less than love. (Genesis 1:27 God created man in His own image, in the image of God He created him; male and female He created them.)
So what do we do? I think part of the answer lies in my history. I was mercifully given this gift of the example to love all people, and so it has become my life- but so many white people do not share my experience. I am continually blown away by the lack of black friends in the lives of so many white people. It's foreign to me to know many white people have never sat across a table and shared a meal and personal stories with anyone other than other white people. I cannot comprehend how so many of us as white people can express empathy for the trauma being experienced by our black brothers and sisters and yet never work to have a personal conversation with anyone of color. It becomes an over-arcing 'out there' and in order to bring any level of change, we have to bring it 'down here'. Into our personal lives. We have to be intentional. Nothing will ever change as long as we are 'us' and 'them'. But in order to collapse that divide, we have to dig deep into our humanity and get our hands dirty. We must be open and available to listen. Not listening with the intent to reply or somehow 'educate' black people on their experience, but to listen with the hopes of learning something. To listen to awful, horrible stories they've held close and not given over to us, out of fear of our continual minimizing or rejection. To listen to stories that might make us feel bad, guilty, embarrassed, helpless. And yet, listen anyway. Without running from the ugly feelings, or trying to brush them off of ourselves and onto a broken ideology that we purport not to accept. The greatest gift we have to offer one another is to listen to hear. To be willing to sit and hear the anger and grief and fear and not defend ourselves or try and explain away white privilege. To recognize that our experience has been blanketed by inherent protection- and we did nothing to earn it. To give space to the stories of pain that our black brothers and sisters have been longing to purge. It starts with us. Individually. Corporately. In our church families. In our work spaces. The black community does not need or want our pity, they want us to hear them. In hearing them, they are given back the mantle of humanity they have been stripped of. In hearing them, they are affirmed as worthy and seen. As people just like us; for that is who they are. Every one of us wants that. The black community has to scrape and claw and fight for it daily. How exhausted they must be. May it not always be so. We need to be a soft place to fall. We need to be willing to admit we don't understand, but are willing to listen. We must acknowledge our experience is not their experience- and that therein lies the struggle.
Nothing this horrific will ever be solved easily or quickly. But following the lead of God, and as it is written in John 15:13 Greater love has no one than this, that one lay down his life for his friends. Maybe, just maybe, this isn't always in reference to death- but refers to laying down the life we know and take for granted in order to truly love and stand in solidarity with our friends.
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