RHE "Ask a racial reconciler" continues!  

In September Rachel Held Evens asked me to be a part of her "Ask A..." series by answering questions about being a racial reconciler. There were many more questions than I could possibly answer in one post (which you can find HERE). So this is a second installment of "Ask A Racial Reconciler" using 3 more questions submitted to Rachel's blog. Hope you enjoy!  

Q: "I am trying to become a racial reconciler, but am finding it amazingly difficult to overcome my anger. I find that Christians, white and black, here in South Africa are averse to changing the status quo unless it advantages their race. I feel like there are only a few of us who want to actually reconcile. I want to go on the journey, but I am just so angry at everything and everyone whenever the subject of race comes up. I want/need help overcoming my feelings and turning these emotional swords into spiritual ploughshares, so tell me, how did you overcome your anger? 

A: I haven't! I still get angry all the time! The work of reconciliation is tough, and though I have never been, my guess is South Africa is not an exception to that rule. Its been my experience that anger is a natural part of the work of racial justice. 

The question instead becomes, 'how do we work through the anger?' And my first answer is, we share it. You need a community of people around you that will nod and say, "We understand," when you share your anger with them. If you don't have anyone around who is just as invested as you are, knows the anger you're experiencing and can say, "been there!" then you need to focus on finding that community. If you are so angry that you believe no one in South Africa (or your city) cares about this as much as you do, you'll start sounding like Elijah in his dark days; we don't want that! I cannot stress enough the need for community in this work. They should be people you can turn to who immediately help you beat that sword into a ploughshare before you cut someone (or even yourself!)

The second thing you may need to do is clarify the work God has called you to do. I think sometimes when we have a passion, we think we have to do it everywhere, all the time, for everyone. Not so. God has called you to many things- a church community, a family, friendships, etc. There is a time and place for the work of reconciliation, but if you are never stopping, always engaged, always going, always 'on', you may find that no one is going to measure up to that standard of investment. For your own sake, clarify the work you've been called to do- in the church, on college campuses, for girls, for educators, for government? Focus your attention on the spaces God has called you and put boundaries around the rest.  

Lastly, it might be time to take a break. Find a spiritual discipline that reminds you reconciliation is the work of the Divine. Reconciliation is not done in our own power, and most people don't move through it quickly. It is a life-long journey to which we are all still growing, still learning, still reading, still asking questions, and still wrestling with our own junk! We need to recognize how little we are in this work for our own spiritual, mental, emotional and physical health! Don't forget to keep using that discipline when you begin the work again.    

Q: Most of the members in my church are completely okay with the lack of diversity in our church and are blind to issues of privilege and systemic/institutional racism. What is the best way to begin a ministry of reconciliation in such an environment.   

A: 4 steps!

Step 1: Determine if God has called YOU to the work of reconciliation or your church to the work of reconciliation. I think there are a lot of angry reconcilers out there who really want their church, pastor, elders, etc to care about racial reconciliation but are finding themselves alone in this desire. Lets not assume that both you and your church have been called to reconciliation and multicultural ministry. God might be calling you to do this work elsewhere! Your first step is prayer! 

Step 2: Find a community. Set up coffee dates. Talk with your friends. Network within your church or community. Reach out to others who might also feel called to the work of reconciliation. Discern together how you might proceed as a team. This is not work that should be done alone, especially if your church has been resistant or uninterested. Find community! 

Step 3:  I don't think there is any one format that works universally for introducing a church to systemic injustice. Start a class. Plan a worship service. Bring in a speaker. Go to a museum. Begin a book club or movie night. Start with whatever already moves your congregation- are they moved by movies? Are you always swapping books? Do you have a regular class or Sunday school schedule? Take the format that people are comfortable using, and reformat to teach about systemic injustice! 

Step 4. Story time.  I personally don't know one person who started the work of tearing down systemic/institutional racism because they were moved by definitions, statistics, or historical documentation. All these can be powerful aides on that journey, but the beginning is typically through personal narrative.

As advocates of racial justice, once we've realized the power, reach and devastation of systemic and institutional racism, its extraordinarily difficult to still care about individualized racism. When you want people to care about how racism affects millions in the criminal justice system, you don't want to recount that time last week your black friend got pulled over by the police. When you want people to care about environmental justice, you don't want to talk about your best friend's kid who just got asthma because of the newly built trash incinerator in the hood. When you want people to care about educational justice, you don't want to talk about the one kid at the one failing school who could have really achieved something great.   

But you have to. People are moved by personal stories. Stories matter to us. Stories move us to investigate. Stories move us to dig for more. One story, leads to more stories, and those stories make the case for systemic injustice. Eventually you don't need new stories. You know them. You've heard them. You're convinced that the justice work you are doing matters. But think about when you started. Was it numbers that moved you? Was it a story that you just couldn't shake, that struck you, knocked you senseless? What was the moment when you thought, "I'll never be the same."? Maybe it was a story you were told. Maybe it was a story you lived. Maybe it was when you realized how different your story is from someone else's. But almost always, if you want to move people to care about systemic injustice, you have to start with the individualized injustices. Then increase the opportunities for engagement, experiences, education and, yes, the numbers, too. Like a snowball, start small and keep rolling! 

Q:  Is there a day when white folks get to stop apologizing for all the bad that has happened?

 A: Maybe in a couple hundred years? No, just kidding. Though not intended to be, this is a very loaded question, as can be seen by the conversation that ensued online! So I'd like to take a couple approaches in answering. First I'd like to bring some clarity to what it is that people of color want! For a long time we have used the idea of apologizing or saying "I'm sorry" to respond to instances of injustice. Congress apologized for slavery in 2009. Lifeway just last week apologized to Asians for offensive materials they've published in the past. Don Young had to apologize at the beginning of the year for using a racial slur while describing migrant workers. In 2012, Victoria Secret issued an apology to Native Americans for a culturally insensitive costume in a runway show.  Apologies are all around us! And sometimes when we are sitting in small groups, listening to people of color recount the many instances of injustice faced in America, it seems like white people are being set up to apologize… again.    

In the instance of Congress, Lifeway, Young, Victoria Secret and many others, an apology is entirely appropriate. But it is only a small piece of what people of color want. What we desire far more than an apology is repentance, justice, and sometimes reconciliation.

What we want is to live in an America that acknowledges our histories of pain, many of which were legalized (slavery, internment camps, stolen land, arbitrary citizenship changes, and the list goes on.) 

What we want is to live in an America that no longer subscribes to the supremacy of whiteness.

What we want is equity and equality.  

What we want is to be able to bring our whole selves to the table- our language, our culture, our ideas, our beauty, our community. 

What we want far more than an apology is a world that recognizes us as fully human. We want to live in a world that so respects us that Lifeway, Young, and Victoria Secret can't even conceive these offenses, let alone perpetrate them. 

I'm sure there is more we want, but perhaps this is a good place to start :) 

The second approach I want to take, is to suggest that stories of lament aren't always a set-up for an apology. I personally really enjoy talking about my history, even when its painful. I take great pride in recounting how much my ancestors had to endure from generation to generation. From the shores of Africa to those of America, from being packed in boats to packed in slave quarters to packed in ghettos, from no rights and 3/5 human to a President of the United States. I am proud. But when I recount the pain, I am not expecting an apology. Oftentimes, I am just sharing. I wonder how often white people mistake a desire to be understood with a desire for an apology. Now, I can't say that no person of color anywhere, ever wants an apology! And sometimes an apology is necessary, particularly when an offense has occurred between people. But in the moments of hearing someone share their pain, rather than jumping to the conclusion that you are expected to insert your apology [HERE]… just sit in the pain with them. Be honored that they trust you with their pain. Do something far greater than apologizing. Repent of the system of injustice and work to change it! 

So last week I look through my twitter feed, and come across a ton of articles on feminism and exploring what it means to be a woman. I discovered information about Sarah Bessey's soon coming book Jesus Feminist. I read a very insightful article on feminism by Bell Hooks critiquing Sheryl Sandberg's claim that Lean In is "a (sort of) feminist manifesto," a book I thoroughly enjoyed but would not call a feminist manifesto. I also saw this piece by Osheta Moore called we are pierced women, and this piece called Dear Patriarchy by Idelette McVicker. Then I ended the week unpacking evidence of white, male privilege in the church with a girlfriend. Its been quite a week!

After all of this, here is an incredibly simple conclusion I've come to: patriarchy is not the obvious purple dragon I want it to be. Instead it is subtle, insidious and often resides just under the surface. It is only occasionally overt and mean-spirited. In the evangelical church I have found that the "he-man-woman-haters club" has adopted some much subtler language.  

When I was a child, I remember attending churches where women were not permitted to preach or teach, being relegated to the kitchen and nursery room. There were churches who would not allow ordained women to sit in the pulpit, instead deciding the first row is as close to the cross as we were allowed. While I am aware that these churches and these rules still exist, the kind of patriarchy I find myself casting off now just isn't so clear.

Instead the patriarchy I am encountering doesn't tell me that I am not permitted to teach, only that my style is not as familiar, captivating, or desirable as my male counterparts. It makes men the standard for my success. 

It includes me in the speaker line-up at conferences, the elders in leadership, the voices leading worship but not with any conviction. My presence is little more than an effort to stay out of trouble. The voices of women are not sought after, pursued, or chased.

It doesn't tell me that an all-male line up is acceptable, but that I only need one female representative at the podium, the table, the microphone.  After all, there were many sessions, meetings, and emails trying to find that one woman. Our names, our efforts, our experiences don't easily come to mind. In order to find us there must be twitter shout-outs, google searches, combing the websites of other churches to find someone who can represent that elusive female voice. 

Its in the music- God as male, masculine, fighting, battling, winning  

Its in the prayers- God as male, masculine, fighting, battling, winning  

Its in the sermons- God as male, masculine, fighting, battling, winning

It doesn't ban me from leading, but it often questions my authority, always looking for the wizard pulling the levers behind me. It asks insulting questions like, "Who is really in charge here?" or "Who should I really be talking to?"

 It thinks my ideas are truly brilliant, but only after being repeated by a man.  

It doesn't tell me I won't be successful, but it needs to protect me from myself because I am, of course, incapable of success without it. I am too emotional, trusting, and inexperienced  to make it on my own. 

Here's the kicker, my complexion only complicates things further. I must also work around its whiteness, affluence, assumptions. I must hold my culture in tension. I'll bring that "black mysticism" to the table- the eternal prophetess of the Matrix, handing you all the insight you need to succeed, but I won't go overboard. I  wouldn't want to make our largely white audience uncomfortable with my blackness.

So best not be too sing-songy, too loud, too outgoing. I won't talk directly about race or anything that might be code for race- you know words like "hip-hop" and "urban" and "collard greens"… really black things. I mean, who can relate to any of that?

I'll be mindful about my language, too. I wouldn't want to get on stage and "sound white" so its really important that I use just a dash of ebonics, so that people can see I really represent the black voice. But its also important I sound educated (whether or not I am is of little importance), here it is all about the privilege of affluence. So many rules.

And I promise not to forget about style… I mean there is only one black style, right, so I had better get that right, too. 

No, this is no dragon. It's a slow and steady poison that will produce symptoms of insecurity and indentity crises so large that losing oneself, hating oneself is a real possibility. As much as I want to break out a sword to slay this thing, I have come to realize that the only anti-potion for this poison is the truth. 

So, Sarah Bessey, keep reframing our place in the gospel story. Bell Hooks, challenge us to always analyze the system. Sheryl Sandburg, call us to claim our space. Osheta Moore, remind us how we've been pierced. Idelette McVicker, keep challenging patriarchy. And to all my girlfriends, I am so grateful for the ways you have spoken truth with me; perhaps one day the truth will set all of humanity free. 

Over the weekend I went to see 12 Years A Slave. I thought I was ready. I went with friends- friends who talk about race and justice on a regular basis. I refused to listen to any interviews by actors or producers so as to not give any scenes away. Other than short "reviews" from friends on Facebook, I didn't indulge in any blog posts about the movie, even from people I adore like Christena Cleveland's post here and Lisa Sharon Harper's post here. I wanted to go into it with no one else's thoughts except my own, sitting beside friends I trusted with any emotional reaction I might have during the film. 

I also didnt indulge my desire to hear other's thoughts after I saw it. I didnt talk about it. I didnt read about it. I didnt even tell my husband the storyline when I got home. I decided to just sit with it in order to see what would bubble to the surface most often.  Now, after more than 60 hours of simply calling the movie intense, there is another word I would like to use: torturous. 

I mean that word in the best possible way, but there is no getting around that the movie was torturous for me. Honestly, that shouldn't be surprising. It makes sense that slavery, the n-word, the violence- everything you would expect in a movie called 12 Years A Slave might be difficult to sit through! But it wasnt those moments that I found the most torturous; it was the moments of waiting. So many moments of just waiting. Waiting to get to the next scene, waiting for relief, waiting for something- anything to happen. For all their beauty, there were so many scenes in this movie of stillness, when hardly anything or anyone moved, when little changed, when things werent moving forward. And it was so very uncomfortable. So very intense. So very excruciating. 

And here is what made me drive to McDonalds at midnight to get a large fry for some sense of comfort after this film- my ancestors have endured a lot of excruciating waiting. They waited in slave houses before being forced to board ships that would carry them across the Atlantic. They waited on ships that cut through the waves of the ocean, piled on top one another, chained to the ships core. They waited on auction blocks, naked, confused, angry. They waited on plantations, to plant and to harvest, to plant and to harvest, to plant and to harvest. Some waited to run, waited to read, waited for a signal, waited in the underground. Some waited for freedom. But not all. For some the only notion of freedom came with a spiritual waiting- for Christ to return, for the master to die, for an escape from this life, for entrance into eternal life. For centuries my ancestors waited in the institution of slavery. 

And even when slavery was abolished, there was more waiting. Waiting to be considered more than 3/5ths human. Waiting to be able to move about freely. Waiting for access: to public bathrooms, to movie theaters, to education, to hotels, to restaurants, to stores, to water fountains, to churches. They also waited to be lynched, to be accused, to be declared too dangerous to live. Some preached while they waited. Some sang. Some advocated. Some voted. Some met and marched and waited for something to change, for the scene to move on, for the background to change, for relief to come. For decades my ancestors waited... my great great grandfathers, my great grandfathers, my grandfathers waited. My great great grandmothers, my great grandmothers, my grandmothers waited. My parents waited in cars on the road when hotels weren't an option. My parents waited for the riots to end when MLK was assassinated. My parents waited for their schools to be integrated. My parents waited for white flight to end and the promise of equality to begin.  The waiting was not as long ago, as distant as we would have ourselves believe. It is close. It is personal.  

You see, the reason I had to eat seriously salty, warm McDonalds french fries is because we are still waiting. Never mind the inequality in the school system, health system, housing system, food system or justice system. Never mind the inequality in employment, income, and wealth. Never mind the waiting for equity in large institutional and structural systems.

We are still waiting for churches to expand their leadership.     

We are still waiting for Christian bookstores to reflect our intellect.  

We are still waiting for cultural costumes to be considered unacceptable.  

We are still waiting for white people to stop desiring to say the n-word.  

We are still waiting for shops to stop assuming we cant afford anything costly.  

We are still waiting for folks to keep their hands out of our hair- literally. 

We are still waiting for simple freedoms.  

We are still waiting for America to realize that slavery didn't initiate racism but that slavery, Jim Crow and our current inequities are results of racism. Racism is the seed that has allowed all these inequities to exist, and not until this seed is rooted out will we stop waiting.for.freedom. 

And the waiting is excruciating.  

*I apologize for any typos in the piece. This is so personal, I am having trouble editing myself. Please forgive any obvious mistakes, as there may be many. I'm going to go read the posts of Ms. Cleveland and Ms. Harper. You should, too. 

Have you ever had a conversation with someone about race, and it seemed like our Christian language was doing more harm than good by preventing the conversation from going to deeper levels of truthfulness and vulnerability? You know... someone risks tiptoeing into the murky waters by sharing a personal frustration about race relations, and all of a sudden the next person to speak is erasing the significance of the story by reciting Galatians 3:28.  

Too often, rather than propel us forward into our shared pain, Christian quick-fixes serve to insulate and isolate. In recent years, I think a lot of work has been done to make us challenge these surface responses. Some great theologians, pastors, writers, and teachers have reframed many of these verses, offering a more arduous but adventurous way. Taking Galatians 3:28 for example, rather than using it to suggest God doesn't care about culture and neither should we, we can take a closer look. Isn't it strange that we are all too willing to erase the cultural element (Jews and Greeks), but we continue to explore our differences as male and female quite openly? Instead of using this verse as a blanket to cover up, diminish, or erase altogether our cultural differences, we can use the verse to propel us out of our comfort zone, to challenge the power dynamics and hierarchy between all the groups listed. What if we analyzed our own churches and asked ourselves, if Paul walked into our church on Sunday, would he still see a hierarchy of one culture over another, of one gender over another, of one class over another? Much harder, right? 

While there has been much written (and spoken) on this and other verses that traditionally have been recited to tranquilize rather then agitate us into action, I think there is more "Christian-language" that we really need to work on challenging, particularly in our churches that are seeking to be multicultural. 

One that I'd like to focus our attention on today is what we call a "blessing" from God, but is actually (or also) privilege at work. Sometimes when opportunity routinely comes our way, we can ask ourselves, "Is my voice continuing to reinforce the dominant culture?" Often times our reasoning that God has given us an opportunity relieves us of our responsibility to seek space for other's voices to be heard, too. 

Lets look at Christian conferences. How often have you been to a conference, and more than 80% of the speakers and presenters are white (and male)? If you are one of the presenters who has routinely been invited to this conference, what might it look like for you to invite the planners to seek more voices? What if you as a presenter said, "I would love to talk about this again at your conference, but I have a friend who is also an expert in this field. She is a young, Asian American woman and her philosophy around this topic would be of tremendous value to attenders." Its a thin line between what could be another great blessing for you, and what could be an opportunity to lend your privilege to another voice. 

I use conferences as an example but consider where you can release a little of your privilege and bless someone else- worship leaders, preachers, teachers, writers, musicians etc... Just to be clear, I am not suggesting that every time an opportunity comes it must be given away. I am asking that you consider lending your credibility to another voice, and to do so creatively. Can you co-present? Can you feature another voice or new style? Can you promote someone else?

Rather than leading with the assumption that God is just blessing us, might we ask ourselves if privilege is at play, and how we might give that away.