Speak now, or forever hold your peace

I've been going through Beth Moore's Breaking Free study with a couple of friends over the last few months. It's been a good place to examine myself; how I operate- in relationships, in my expectations, and life in general. It's been hard, and painful, and beautiful. (I highly recommend it!).  I'm in the beginning of week five, and the last couple of weeks have had us digging into our backgrounds to discover hard things passed down in our families as well as the really beautiful things. All of us carry both within our families of origin, and all of us will continue to pass on good and bad to the generations coming after us. The goal of the study is to discover, with intention, those things you desire to grab hold of and continue, and those things that have created difficulty, struggle, pain or dysfunction and in identifying those things- let them go.
Interestingly, I watched the video kicking off week five on Friday night. (start at 45:40 for the clip I'm referring to). The night that hate descended publically on my hometown of Charlottesville and made a blatant display of evil personified. The video addressed what Beth considers the most poisonous 'legacy' of many families: Racism. 

She does a great job of calling it out without mincing words, and without painting an ugly, insidious 'tradition' with sugared words to help us digest them. She calls it an abomination. A sickness based in fear and ignorance. She calls us to stand against it- with courage. Knowing for some, standing against the covert and overt racism in family relationships will cost something. She passionately argues that the ideology of being 'color blind' is a disservice, a farce, laughable. I'm with her all the way. She says when we are raised to believe that we are different because of skin color, then by default, it means someone has to be better. Yep. Amen. All things I am on board with. My only disappointment came when I realized she missed an opportunity to make another powerful, needed point. I would add this to her message:
Serving a creator God means we believe He has created all. All creatures, humans, plants, living things. Calling them good. As women, we frequently remind society that when we were created we were also deemed good, and also created in the image of God.
So... for my brain, for my logic, for my reasoning.. this seems a simple analogy. None of us look at the gorgeous blue butterflies flitting around our lawns and think "Man. Those blue butterflies are so much more important and valuable than the orange colored Monarchs. In fact, we should really try to get rid of those Monarch butterflies because they are in the way and annoying me by trying to get all of the nectar from these flowers! Dont they know they don't belong here?! We should make them go back to Mexico." We don't visit the animal shelter and tell the staff that all of the yellow dogs shouldn't be allowed to be adopted because they aren't as good as the other dogs; becoming incensed that the yellow lab is taking up space they could use for a chocolate lab and getting violent when told we are off our rocker for using such warped logic.

This is an overly-simplified analogy, stripping history and pain and wounding from the subject for a moment; but my point is this: Especially for those of us who love our creator God- why would we even consider the thought that skin color determines levels of value?! God is creative. Artistic. Intentional. We have no problem accepting that in the animal world, and with various plants and flowers- yet we stop short of offering the same effortless acceptance to the creatures called humans that He has created in.his.image. 
Beth Moore is correct. In many families of every color (especially here in the United States where our history is marred with horrific crimes against humanity based on skin color), there has been a passing down of racism at some level. It can be difficult to look at. She speaks of her grandmother who faithfully served others, loved her church, spent time in her bible every day and then spoke disparagingly about a group of people- made in the image of God. It's based in fear and ignorance and continues through generations with the subtle (or not so subtle) rhetoric of : if we are different- then someone has to be better. 
Pastor John Pavlovitz posted on his website this weekend calling those of us with white skin to speak up. To call out racism for what it is. To call out our white counterparts engaged in this disgusting display of fear and hate and brutality. To refuse to stay silent in our protected lives, and largely disconnected communities. His message is powerful and necessary- and I want to push it a step further.
I have heard many of my friends of color say that they are tired. They are no longer afraid- knowing God holds them. But they are tired of fighting. Of trying to speak out to deaf ears. Ears deafened by the noise of ignorance- never having faced ugliness directed at them or their families or communities based solely on skin color. Ears deafened by the rally of voices around them telling them that 'the American dream is available to all- if they would just work harder'; or 'black on black crime is worse than white on black crime.', or 'they need to get over it. I never owned any slaves and I don't understand what their problem is. I have tons of black friends.', or the more "accepted" statements such as; 'black people are so much better at sports than white people'; tossed out as though it is a compliment and should be received with gratitude. What about,  'well, he had been arrested before, so I'm not surprised'; and the ever-present: 'why do they have to say black lives matter?! Don't they know ALL lives matter?!'. Those continual sound bites.. perpetuated in our communities, churches, families, friendships, social media, television... they drown out the voices of the oppressed crying out to be heard.
They're tired of competing with the hum of words soothing the nagging worry in those of us with white skin who dare to consider that all of this is so horrifically, terribly wrong... and that maybe, somehow, we have played a part.


Yes, John Pavlovitz. We must speak. It's our turn. It's the responsibility of those of us with white skin to tell our friends and brothers and sisters with brown skin that 'we've got you'. You don't need to keep fighting. You can rest. We will fight FOR you. In love. In honor. And to tell our white brothers and sisters, no. No. We won't stand for this. It's evil.
To my white brothers- your voice carries the most weight. You have the 'in' to those who perpetuate this violence of word and deed. You have the highest probability of being heard by other white men- because you look like them. You have to be brave. Selfless. Honorable. Bold. To call out the coworker who makes a joke that turns your stomach. To challenge your child who makes a blanket statement about 'black people' that he picked up in the lunch room. To tell your family- No. That's not true. And it's hateful.
You have a huge responsibility to use your unearned place of privilege for good. Not to apologize for it, to feel guilty about it, or to try and deny it. No. To use it. For such a time as this.
To whom much is given, much is required. With great power comes great responsibility. Please. For the literal love of God and those created in His image. Use it wisely.

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'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.