I grew up the daughter of two college graduates. My entire childhood, I knew that my education would not end until I, too, had gone to college. It wasn't just the next logical step, it was the only step. When I was a sophomore in high school someone asked me if I was already thinking about college. "Are you going to go?" they asked. I paused for a moment. It had never occurred to me that people didn't go to college. That was never presented as an option to me- to go or not go… For my parents (and then for me), college was a must. 

Of course, I soon realized that attending college is a luxury not afforded to many. I also know that many people who could go, choose not to because thats the right decision for them. I write about my experience not to shame or judge anyone who made a different choice (or couldn't make the choice), I write it only to underscore how important the idea of traditional education has been in my life. I am descended from a long line of principals and teachers. Even my great grandfather, born in 1906, had a masters degree. I mean its serious around these parts, people. Because of this, I have often relied on educating myself to teach me about the things that matter to me. I've spent years reading books by Paulo Friere and MLK Jr. I've read Soong Chan Rah, Brenda Salter McNeil, and the great Dr. John Perkins. Divided By Faith is so marked up, I don't think anyone could barrow it; reading around my notes could prove impossible. From Black Like Me and To Kill A Mocking Bird to Caucasia, and Five Smooth Stones I devour books that play with our ideas and experiences around race. Ntozake Shange, Pearl Cleage, Nikki Giovanni and others have given me words to explain myself. I have an armoire in my bedroom; its filled with books, and this particular stack is dedicated exclusively to racial justice.  

Most of you know the vast majority of my twitter feed contains more things to read- articles, studies, biographies- anything interesting is fair game. I want to know how people are interpreting the importance of race. I want to know how people are loving, hating, engaging, or withdrawing. I.want.to.learn and so much of my learning has come from books, professors, classes, conferences. I've used traditional forms of education to try to understand the world. But I am finding that now I am entering a place in my journey of racial justice and reconciliation that has focused far less on learning. I am unlearning. 

1. I am unlearning the need to be all things to all {white} people. I am growing a backbone. I am choosing when I want to teach and when I don't. I am learning that I don't have to bust out my scars to prove their presence. I am learning to trust myself, my needs, my body, my emotions, my discernment. I am choosing when to walk away. There is nothing in me that needs to be the one black friend of every white, progressive, evangelical who has just discovered the existence of racism. Some people need to go read a book first. Others can have a coffee date, but nothing more. Still others I will be in relationship with- some for a season and others a lifetime. Both are okay. I no longer feel the need to change the minds of white people by showing them how great we (black folks) can be. If you don't know, your loss. Finally, I'm not fighting with folks who don't want to fight for themselves. I refuse to care more than you do. And by doing this I have more energy, more life for the people and institutions who are ready to move forward. But I first unlearn my "duty" to teach anyone who expresses even a passing interest. 

2. I am unlearning to center whiteness instead of the stories of people of color, even when those stories are divergent. For such  long time, I have been so focused on number one, on the incredibly importance of teaching white people so that the world will finally change, that I forgotten to pay attention to the healing of people of color- and more specifically women of color. I have been so focused on whiteness, that I stopped investigating what it means to be a person of color for the sake of our healing. And the result of focusing so much on the education of whiteness, has produced a need for people of color to share a similar story. Though I know our stories, our journeys are unique, I haven't always let those diverging stories live. I am unlearning the constant centering of whiteness and by virtue of this, I am learning to enjoy without hesitation the diversity of stories contained within communities of color. Its quite liberating. Recently there was a campaign on twitter called #WhatKindOfBlackAreYou. It was so much FUN! It proved that blackness is deep and wide, that there are things we share, and things are that are vastly different. It showcased subcultures of blackness and celebrated them all. It was wonderful. That is the atmosphere I want to create- where are similarities and our differences are truly (not just claimed to be) celebrated. (I should note that the longer this hashtag trended it of course garnered negativity, so be sure to filter if you check it out).

3. I am unlearning the ways I perceive my own areas of privilege as "normal". I am so aware when white people normalize their cultural decisions (or even declare them holy). I can smell when patriarchy is leaking all over a man as he interacts with me. But there are plenty of other ways that that I engage in oppression, ignorance, avoidance, and all kinds of crazy. While I want to continue learning- owning my education so that I am not reliant on the scars of others for my own edification- I also want to focus on unlearning the ways my unchallenged mentality assumes that anyone who is not Christian, able-bodied, cis, a singular race, etc is a deviation from the "norm". I don't suffer from believing that everyone is like me, but I do sometimes still have a knee-jerk reaction that goes, "Ohh! how interesting" which is my internal code-word for "different" in an alien sense of the word. It must change. But this I cannot learn from a book. This is learned through interaction with the world as it is, seeing people as they are, being a safe place for others to be themselves, and expanding my world. I have some unlearning to do.

I love books. I will always love books. But I don't just want to be informed, I want to be transformed. I am in need of a transformed mind. Its all pretty scary, but its all exciting. 

Perhaps you are unlearning, too? 

As a junior in college, I was part of a multi-racial group of Resident Advisors. As a team building experience, our Director thought it would be fun to go jet-skiing. When I received that email, I panicked. Now, I can swim, so it wasn't the water that terrified me; it was my hair!  Though we were a multi-racial group, my hair was very different from the others in my group. After dousing it in water all day, I would undoubtedly be required to spend hours trying to put it back together or would have to find a hairdresser who could help me out. And I would have to do so immediately, or look crazy until I could book an appointment with someone I trusted. When I expressed my concerns about how our community building experience would actually make me feel isolated and alone, the Director immediately changed the game plan. Instead we spent the afternoon on a sailboat enjoying the Chicago skyline. It was a great alternative that allowed me to feel fully a part of the group.  

Had my director chosen to be colorblind, he would have dismissed the reality that my hair is different because my race is different. Instead he chose to engage the complexity of being color conscious and figured out a way to honor everyone in our group. Living a color conscious life opens the possibilities for honoring everyone by delighting in our complexities rather than ignoring them.  

When we talk about making room for race and culture, particularly in church settings, the conversation quickly takes a turn toward the "sacrifice" that some must make on behalf of others. I find this line of thinking intriguing. I wonder if my fellow RA's thought they were sacrificing jet-skiiing for me. I wonder if they felt that I had taken something away from them.

Its possible, but considering how well I knew them, I don't think they did. In fact I think they were happy that I spoke up. I think they would have been devastated if I had been silent and felt uncomfortable and out of place during our team building time. And I think one of them would have spoken on my behalf if I hadn't had the courage to ask that our plans be adjusted.

Why were they not sacrificing for me? Because the team building exercise wasn't theirs to own. I didn't take anything from them because our time together was about us as a group- not them as individuals, not them as different from me. I had every right to request a change in plans, an alternative because we were owning the experience together.

One more example. Also as a student in college, I remember well how much the worship was stretched to include multiple cultural voices. At first those voices were primarily black by adding African American vocalists and including gospel music. I readily admit since my cultural needs were met, I was pretty satisfied. Then we started doing songs with a clear Latin sound, and I was thrilled. Though I didn't have the foresight to fight for it, I enjoyed every moment. But the day we started singing in Spanish, I was moved. Despite 4 years of Spanish classes, my ability to speak it (let alone sing it) was pretty pathetic. But the first time we belted out those spanish lyrics, I happened to be standing next to friend who's bilingual. Though I had known her for a couple years at that point, it was the first time I heard her speak in Spanish. I looked over at her, and she was beaming, singing from her soul, every beautifully pronounced word. I imagine thats how I look when gospel is playing. Let me tell you, in that moment of seeing my friend lost in worship in her own language, I lacked nothing. I sacrificed nothing. I needed nothing. I was giving nothing. All was well. I joined her in worship.

When I think about sacrifices, I think about Abraham standing over his son with a knife. I think of the prophets who lived painful experiences to proclaim the Words of the Lord. I think of martyrs who died rather than renounce the faith. I think of Jesus stretched on the cross. I do not think of worship services, languages, or music styles. I do not think of team building exercises or retreat locations. I do not think of leadership opportunities like expanding the number of teachers, preachers or key influencers in your institution. These are not sacrifices that you are making. These are decisions. You have chosen control. You have chosen power.  You have decided that your preferences are of utmost importance. Don't blame that on "colorblindness" and don't dress it up as a sacrifice.   

Choosing to be color conscious rather than colorblind is not a series of sacrifices on our part. We are not dying. We are living, expanding, welcoming, growing. 

I think the words we use to talk about how we deal with race and culture matters. Using terminology like "sacrifice" doesn't seem to be a helpful one. It implies that the requests of "the other" (whomever they may be in your institution) are over the top. It implies that I am asking you to change your DNA rather than live into it. It implies that I am taking that which does not belong to me. It implies that you are the owner, caretaker, creator, and lord of the community. It implies that I only belong if you lose. 

There may be some things in the world, in the Church even, where the language of sacrificing is helpful. I do not suggest the word should be eliminated from our vocabulary. But I do wonder if it has gotten in our way, if it has reinforced racial hierarchies rather than torn them down. Let us no longer choose to look at embracing multiculturalism as a zero-sum game where I only gain what you are willing to lose. When will we learn to view diversity as a gift that enhances us all? 

(For more posts on colorblindness, click here or here) 

Lately, I've found myself working more and more with adults who are interested in exploring conversations about race, justice and reconciliation. It is not uncommon for adults to draw comparisons between their childhoods and the current experiences of their children or grandchildren. Adults often note "how much things have changed" pointing to increased diversity on playgrounds and in Sunday school classrooms. Some are looking for a little bit of hope that America is getting better at this; others are questioning the need to talk about race at all. If things are getting better, can't we just leave it to our children?

On one level I agree. In some respects things have certainly changed in the last 50 years, but can we agree that America kind of has a low bar on this topic? Things are better compared to what? Slavery of African Americans, genocide of First Nations tribes, internment camps for Japanese Americans, changing borders on Mexican Americans, legalized segregation and discrimination for a number of ethnicities and the list goes on and on. I'm glad we are doing better than all of this, but I don't know how much celebration we should be doing for treating one another like… humans.   

Still. Our hearts warm when we see children of various races playing together. We are proud of our diverse classrooms and love to see kids sharing their toys during Sunday school. I don't wish to negate these things, but I would like to suggest that we can't just wash our hands of racial injustice believing that our children have figured this out. 

Proximity doesn't equal peace.  

Consider this. We are decades out from integrating classrooms, workspaces and churches. Yet, there continue to be explosions of racial tensions on high school and college campuses- you know those young people who are growing up surrounded by diversity. They aren't escaping the complications. Nooses. Microaggressions. Hoods. Flyers. Violence. Bullying. Parties. Even Easter eggs aren't safe. This is just a smattering of incidents, but consider for a moment that all the above took place recently and many of them in schools. If we are now spending more time together, being raised together, attending church and schools with one another- how can this be? Unfortunately, putting us all in a room and teaching us to play nice isn't enough, though we desperately want it to be.

Our history of racial tensions are real. The segregation that has kept us isolated from one another's pain was quite thorough. Our ability to use old props to create new wounds continues to abound. Why anyone in their twenties knows how to string a noose suggests that racism is not a thing of the past. It is present, passed on, continuing down through the generations. The stereotypes of Asian and Latino communities abound with no real understanding of geography, history, language or the diversity of culture within those communities. Why? Because proximity doesn't equal peace. 

A really good girlfriend of mine wrote a brilliant recounting of the beginnings of our friendship, which became a worship element during an MLK service at our church. It was incredibly meaningful for us to share our story with our community. We received a great deal of support from our church community even months later. We were thrilled that a topic that can be so hard to talk about touched people so deeply. What I wasn't prepared for were the waves of confessions that followed from complete strangers. I won't recount them here, but I wished we thought to include some element of reflection and repentance. It was clear that many were close enough proximity to people of different backgrounds to have committed some racial sin, but were not in deep enough relationships to make personal apologies to the victims. I (and others) become the stand-ins. I wonder if perhaps our closer proximity invites not peace but a higher occurrence of pain. We have no idea how to be with one another. 

So if proximity- just being around each other more- doesn't bring peace, what will? In a word: WORK. Friends, it takes real work to build meaningful relationships across racial lines, but it does get easier the more you do it! And believe me, its so worth it. 

Here is what that work looks like: 

We have to be willing to share the truth. 

We have to be willing to listen to the truth. 

We have to be committed to ongoing dialogue. 

We have to be committed to self-reflection. 

We have to be patient and gracious. 

We have to express our anger and disappointment. 

We have to make space for different perspectives and experiences. 

We have to be in relationship with one another.

We have to be willing to make confession.

We have to be willing to forgive.  

We have to be willing to make mistakes. 

We have to dig into multiple levels of ourselves- race, culture, personality, gifts, skills. We are whole beings who seek to know one another. 

Its not enough to just "hang out" if what we seek is reconciliation. That might make us integrated but proximity alone will not make us reconciled.

Reconciliation comes by way of love. But we cannot love each other if we do not know each other. And knowing comes not from proximity alone, but from working towards relationship. 

What would you add to the list?

May it not be depressing that it isn't easy, that we can't just sit a room and wait for the magic moment. Let us instead create that moment together and enjoy the incredible fruit of knowing and being known. 

He rode into town on a donkey to shouts of praise. Hosanna! Hosanna! Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord! Blessed is the King of Israel. Palms wave in the air and scatter the road as he clunks along. This is no powerful steed, so the entrance is slow and the praise long. "Hosanna! Save us," the crowd cries. They are desperate to be freed, desperate to become a nation unto themselves, freed -no- saved from the tyranny of the Romans. Surely this is the new David, the promised one. After all, he has already done the impossible. He raised a man from the dead. Everyone heard. Surely this is the new king. With disdain the Pharisees watch the growing fervor of the crowd. Shaking their heads, they throw shade at Jesus, "Look how the whole world has gone after him!"

Once the crowd has made way for Jesus to pass, he and the disciples enter a home and eat. Much to their dismay, Jesus washes their feet. This seems like a hard turn of events following the excitement and emotion of the crowd. But Jesus insists on loving them to the end. As if this were not confusing enough, Jesus then speaks of betrayal and denial. And none of it makes sense. Who would betray the next king? Why would anyone deny a king? Then comes another bomb, "My children, I will only be with you a little longer." What? What does that mean? Is this another parable, Jesus? Where could you possibly be going at a time like this? People are waiting for you. Expecting you. Hoping for you. You can't leave!

Jesus gives them all the wisdom, all the instruction he can muster: 

"I go to prepare a place for you." 

"I am the way and the truth and the life." 

"If you love me, keep my commands."

"Because I live, you also will live."  

"Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you."

Jesus just keeps going. The disciples can't figure out what he means. Is he being figurative? Is this a puzzle. Or is he saying what we think he might be saying. Is he talking about death? The disciples desperately grasp for meaning, as Jesus goes on and on and on. Revealing more about what's coming next. And then, they come to the garden. 

Kiss. Arrest. Swords flash in the light of torches. Jesus bound. Questions and answers. Questions and answers. Lies and Questions. High priest. Roman governor. Flogging. Nakedness. A purple robe. A crown.made.of.thorns. "Crucify! Crucify!" A Cross. Nails through flesh. "It is finished." Death comes heavily.

Darkness. Pain. Confusion. Frustration. Fear. Silence.

Then resurrection comes. Resurrection comes! He is alive!

We retell this Gospel Story every year. And it never ceases to sound crazy. The Divine in flesh. A King who refuses a heavenly throne and then an earthly one. Blood covered sins. Resurrection from the dead. Resurrection from the dead. But we believe the impossible. We believe in salvation through blood. We believe in heaven, in a prepared place. We believe in the Trinity. We believe in God with us. We believe that the proclamation "Hosanna!" was just too small. Salvation in the most imaginative and painful way. We believe that souls live on.

And as wild as it sounds, this is sometimes the easiest to believe. In eternity. In forever. But my faith believes in other impossible things. 

I believe in the death of injustice, in the life of hope, grace, mercy, and love. I believe in the impossible. I believe there can be healing where there is violence. I believe reconciliation is possible- hearts can be moved, minds can be changed, politics broken. I believe that justice can roll down like a river and we can all taste its sweetness. I believe in the impossible. I believe we can treat people- all people- with dignity; we can recognize their humanity; recognize the divine within. I believe we can do more. Create more jobs. Build more homes. Turn food deserts into promiseland harvests. Subvert racial and gender hierarchies. Consider others more important than ourselves. Slay preferences that lead to exclusion. Set captives free. Welcome the stranger. I believe in impossible things. I believe in death because I believe in life. I believe in the death of -isms. I believe in the life of love. I believe humanity can change because I believe in the impossible. 

I believe in life, in death, in resurrection. Not just for me. Not just for my salvation, for God so loved the world.     

Though the world often feels like Saturday- silence. death. frustration. fear. Though the earth often feels like Saturday- disease. hunger. pain. violence. Though our communities often feel like Saturday- barnabas wreaking havoc on us all. Though our hearts often feel like Saturday- heavy. embarrassed. shamed. sad. I believe in the resurrection. I believe in life, in healing, in fullness. I believe in light, in joy, in peace. I believe in mercy, in second chances, in surprises. I believe in resurrection. 

I believe the impossible. 

Happy Easter, All.