Richard Twiss and I only met a couple of times. We never shared coffee or dinner. We never spoke on the phone or emailed each other about our travels. We never had long conversations or even a quick moment of prayer. And yet, none of this is necessary for me to write about the way his words have impacted my life. For two years, I have been listening to Richard Twiss challenge the Church, and I've enjoyed every second. 

Richard Twiss has left his mark on my mind and heart, challenging me to think more deeply about Christianity... about Christians. The following lessons he has taught me are in no particular order. They are scattered thoughts and scattered experiences- church services, CCDA, workshops and plenaries, but they are meaningful to me. They are the kind of thoughts I've had to chew slowly or risk choking- the kind that must be digested fully in order to bring their full value to the Body. Here are some of the Words I carry with me: 

"In order for there to be unity, there must first be diversity. God is One because He is Three." Even now I have trouble unpacking the beauty, the power of these statements.  In an age where there are so many who wish to avoid the muck and mud of race, ethnicity, and culture, who would rather be 'colorblind' and seek assimilation rather than dig for the treasures of our differences, this is so refreshing. He so clearly, so succinctly declares that if we are all the same, if we are not diverse, than we have achieved nothing. But if we are diverse, if there must be an act of coming together, if we are distinct and choose to be one- then we achieved unity. Could there be a more beautiful picture than that of the Trinity? Three in One.

"Behold, all things have passed away and all things are created... white," with this statement Richard Twiss challenged us all to take a closer look at the devastating history of Christianity that told the Tribes there is only one way to be Christian. He recounted his own childhood- a story that represents the lives of millions more- of stolen traditions, stolen language, stolen dress, stolen names, stolen culture. But of course, Richard Twiss wouldn't allow us to simply shake our heads and mourn the actions of history; he challenged us to look around, to ask ourselves how we are still perpetuating the idea that only one culture can define Christianity.

"Can we stop using binary language to talk about Christianity, and enter fully into the messy, ambiguous mystery of Christ among us?" Richard pondered allowed how long we would continue to fight over a singular culture that must represent Christ. He challenged us to expand the possibility of who Jesus among us might be- a black teenager with dreads, a latino girl eating hot-chips, a First Nations man singing his tribal song. He asked us to go beyond fitting people into boxes, judging their level of Christianity against each of our cultural norms. He asked us to imagine a Jesus bigger than us, a Jesus who sits and works and plays among us, who is not bound by our heritage but delights in us all, who doesn't lock His car doors in the hood or ignore the reservations until its time for a missions trip or require Spanish speakers to learn English before coming to Him. Instead He is Christ among us all. 

The Power of Narrative. I cannot recount all that Richard would say on this topic, but it is one he proclaimed without fail every time I heard him speak. The power of story. The power of narrative. And the awesome contribution that First Nations communities could contribute to Christianity and the narrative that is the Good News.

There will be many family and friends of Richard's who will speak about his humor, his heart, his life's work. There will be a number of people who can recount phone calls and emails and conversations over dinner. I look forward to these stories being shared, to delight in a man I knew only from afar. But today, I value that I was listener, a listener of Richard Twiss. 

Richard Twiss June 1954-Feb 2013 in this life... forever in eternity with Christ. 

While I wish I could tell you all that this post is being written in honor of black history month as an exploration of an age when black folks were regularly referred to as "colored" I'm afraid this will be disappointing for us all. I am writing this post because yesterday, in the year 2013, I was referred to as Colored. Yes, Colored, by a white man.

Ironically, this white man was lamenting living in a largely white suburb, being constantly bombarded with racial stereotypes that he admits infiltrate his thinking, and was ultimately disappointed that he doesn't have any black friends.  The more he explored his perceptions of other ethnicities and races, the more the word "black" seemed to get stuck in his throat... and eventually he decided that Colored seemed to be a more appropriate term for me and the people of my brown-skinned hue. 

I find it quite fascinating that that there are certain words that white America recognizes as "off-limits", offensive, and inappropriate, like nigger, for example. There seems to be very little confusion surrounding this word. Since "Colored" is still causing some confusion, allow me to clarify. 

The word Nigger is to slavery as Colored is to Jim Crow. The word nigger is steeped in the history of slavery. It reeks of slave ships and stolen language, of heavy chains and merciless whips, of being 3/5 human and only as valuable as cattle. Though the debate over the use of this word continues within the black community, there is consensus that white people who dare to harken back to this time with its use should beware. Make no mistake, the word Colored carries with it an ugly history as well. 

The word Colored simply transitioned black Americans from chains around our feet to ropes around our necks. To be colored was to be inferior, untouchable and intolerable. It was to be perpetually childlike in the eyes of whites- called "boy" or "girl" well into old age. It was to know our place. Colored is who were were before voting, before anti-discrimination laws, before black is beautiful. Colored is who we were before fire hoses washed our fear away and we marched into a new era of equality. Colored is who we were before the genius of Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston and Harriet Beecher Stowe was studied in traditionally white only universities, and small Ruby Bridges walked through the school house doors. Colored is who we were. And now we reserve the right to self-identify ourselves- black, African-American, Afro-Caribbean, Black Indian, or sometimes biracial- a beautiful combination of which black may play a role. You are welcome to ask us how we choose to be identified from a much longer list than that above, but of this I am confident, Colored will not be the answer you receive. 

So, please, stop using it. 

On Martin Luther King Jr weekend, I was honored to speak at Willow Creek Community Church, alongside one of my best friends, Jenny. The story we shared, the story of how we became friends is the namesake for this blog. We met on a college trip called Sankofa. 

Sankofa is a civil rights bus trip through the South, where a black student and white student are paired up for the length of a three day trip to talk about race. On this trip our group's first stop was a plantation in Louisiana. Far from being an educational experience on the harsh realities of slavery, all we learned was how ignorant and self-congratulatory our guides could be. For the entire tour, we were told about "happy slaves" who sang in the fields, and then we were given the chance to go pick some cotton ourselves. The whole trip was filled with misconceptions and inaccuracies that bordered too closely on defending the institution of slavery. 

The anger of the black students and the confusion of the white students, during this guided tour was no laughing matter. Our conversation quickly moved beyond superficiality, but it was the next stop rocked us all to our core.

Our bus pulled into a museum consisting of only one exhibit- a lynching exhibit. Every wall was filled with photographs of dark-skinned human beings swinging by their necks. A mother and son hang over a bridge, burned bodies swing over dying fires, the smiles of white faces proudly testify to the joy of the occasion. We came across newspaper stories advertising the community events and finally a postcard with a note on the back, "sorry we missed you at the barbecue." Startling, jolting, wrecking. There was no sound as we walked though the exhibit. We could barely breathe let alone speak. 

When we climbed back on the bus, all that could be heard were sniffles. The emotion was thick. It was as if no time at all had passed between the generation in the pictures and the one sitting on that bus. It was all so real. 

The first people to break the silence were white. They attempted to distance themselves from the pain and anger of the moment. "But I didn't know this even happened," or "Its not my fault; I wasn't there," even "Well, what about the holocaust; its not like your the only ones to face difficulties." They were reaching for anything; anything to retreat from the guilt and shame, the anger and disappointment, the atrocity of this practice. 

The emotion continued to build. Black and white grew further and further apart with each new speaker. Another white girl stood to speak. But instead of a different variation on "please don't make me responsible for this", she took a deep breath and acknowledged our pain. She gave in to the emotion of it all. She, too, was in disbelief but she didn't allow herself the luxury of not grappling with it. "I don't know what to do with what I've learned," she said. "I can't fix your pain, and I can't take it away, but I can see it. And I can work for the rest of my life to make sure your children don't have to experience the pain of racism."

And then Jenny said 9 words that I've never forgotten, "Doing nothing is no longer an option for me." 

As she said those words, tears began to fall down her cheeks, mixing with her mascara, they left dark streaks down her face. I turned to a friend behind me and whispered, "She's crying black tears."

This was my first experience of racial reconciliation. It was the first time I had connected so deeply with my own history. It was the first time I really tried to share that experience with others. It was the first time I heard what white people really think about African American history, and it was the first time I watched someone get it- really get it.

That was 9 years ago. Only by God's grace were we able to tell this story together, and it was pure joy because those words have remained true for us both- doing nothing is no longer an option.