I grew up immersed in white culture through private education. I attended predominately white schools from preschool through college. Though I successfully navigated the ins and outs of school, there, I was often too black.

My ponytail didn’t move like the other girls. My father was a step ahead of the hairstyle scene, so I was wearing cornrows the decade before they became super popular again. My hair choices regularly confounded those around me, and I quickly learned to dodge wandering fingers touching my hair without permission.

I was called a nigger and told I look like a monkey. My parents taught me to never place my hands in my pockets or in a purse after touching something on a store shelf and to always hold my receipt until I’ve made it safely to the parking lot. Along with driving lessons came a tutoring session in dealing with the police.

I was questioning what we learned in history class and used every opportunity I could (book report, art project, research paper) to study black history. I learned that I had a choice growing up, I could give the answers teachers were hoping to receive or I could risk the F and speak my truth (ie- Christopher Columbus discovered America? Nope.) Though I succeeded in school, that success was not indicative of sameness. I was regularly negotiating my identity and establishing demands for respect...

Read the rest of this post at SheLoves Magazine by clicking HERE   

Photo by Anna J Yoder. Click photo to view her portfolio. 

It amazes me that the small town of Ferguson, essentially unknown to most of the country just 10 weeks ago, is now a part of conversations happening all over America and around the world. Its story has so impacted us that we use Ferguson as a noun, not to describe the city, but to more concisely say “the black community whose legal protests and acts of civil disobedience showcased to America that distrust of police is often the result of a history of exaggerated responses of violence toward people of color.”

Ferguson has become synonymous with resistance.

As Ferguson marches on, they have become a great teacher. They taught us about military-grade weapons being used in small, suburban towns. They reminded us of the importance of journalism and its necessity to record police abuses. They taught us the power of social media to bypass traditional modes of broadcasting and still capture the attention of people around the world. They asked us to make the systemic connections between Eric Garner, John Crawford, and Michael Brown, refusing to consider these deaths isolated incidents of coincidence. (...)

Read the remainder of the article at Relevant Magazine by clicking HERE

Photo by Anna J. Yoder. Click through to view her portfolio.

We use the language of reconciliation fairly often in Christian social justice circles. Sometimes we offer ourselves synonyms like diversity or multiculturalism, but I think it's really important for us to explore the realities of practicing reconciliation. The fact that there is no singular definition of racial reconciliation, practically speaking, has created a situation where we are not entirely sure when we're doing it and when we are failing miserably at it. So let's explore the requirements for reconciliation to take place.

Heres what many think reconciliation looks like:

1. Having friends of color
2. Having diverse congregations
3. Serving in justice ministries
4. Hiring a person of color

I know this is going to be a little disheartening, so I am just going to say it. None of these things fall under the umbrella of reconciliation without one very large precondition: Justice.

Thats right. You could have an Asian friend, attend a diverse church, read to Latino children after school, and hire a Black speaker for the conference you're planning--- and still you may not actually be practicing reconciliation in your life. Why? Because none of these things require the presence of justice, equality, shared power.

Reconciliation is what we practice after we have chosen justice.

Reconciliation requires far more than hugs, small talk, and coffee dates. Being nice is well... nice, but it is not reconciliation. Reconciliation is what we do as we listen to hard truths from the marginalized among us. As our friends point out how troubling our words have been, how hurtful our actions have been, it's our reaction that determines whether or not we are practicing reconciliation. Drinking in the words. Sitting in the pain. Committing to understanding. Committing to doing better. Desiring the hard truths because they lead to growth. These are the sign posts on the path of reconciliation. It's spending time in each other's spaces- physical space, head space, heart space. And it's creating shared spaces where both can breathe freely.

Reconciliation requires more than a rainbow of skin-tones at the 11:00 o'clock service. Diversity without justice is assimilation. And assimilation makes clear whose culture is the favored one, the good one, the right one, the holy one. If your culture is the standard for rightness, you have found the Imago Dei in others to be insufficient. It is the definition of racism- the assumed superiority of your race, your culture, your way of being. We can discuss who is assimilating into what, how and why, but a pound of diversity without an ounce of justice, is not reconciliation. Reconciliation is how we respond after being told we are racist, sexist, xenophobic, homophobic, agist, ableist congregation hiding behind platitudes of love rather than acting justly. Reconciliation is having our hearts broken that people are experiencing these things, not having our feelings hurt for being called out on it. Reconciliation is staying in relationship until all these are cast out and love reigns.

Reconciliation requires more than hiring a person of color. Reconciliation is when we cheer for decisions to implement new, just policies and processes. Reconciliation is our commitment to stay in organizations that restructure leadership positions and add co-positions in order to place marginalized voices front and center. If your leadership (or speaker line-up or authors or cabinet or board of directors or elders or management) is monocultural, you should ask yourself whether or not you have bought into the lie- that whiteness is preferable. Could it be that your leadership reflects a belief (conscious or not) that leaders must be like you? Act like you. Speak like you. Dress like you. Think like you. If you have a negative reaction to sharing power, raising up new leaders, adding decision-makers who embody diverse experiences, you're not ready for the work of reconciliation.

Reconciliation requires more than serving people of color. Reconciliation is what we do while we confess the ways folks have been excluded, left out, cast aside, downgraded, and treated only as recipients of paternalistic spirituality. If you only encounter "the other" through participation in a clear hierarchy of power and therefore value, it might be service, but it is not reconciliation. Are you in a position of equality or subordination to those you "serve"? Are you just the feet to the plan created by those experiencing homelessness? Are you advocating according to the instructions of those who eat at your food pantry? Are you learning the Scriptures from those who are imprisoned? Are you so valuing the innate human dignity of the marginalized that you are willing to share power or even submit your will to the oppressed? If so you might be moving from service work to reconciliation work.

I believe each if these can be on-ramps to the work of reconciliation. I do not believe one of these is better or more impactful than another. They each have the ability to open us wide, to challenge us beyond measure, to make us better people. They have a tendency to bleed into one another. When you've grappled with one, it's impossible to turn away from the others. They chase after one another desiring the fullness of the Kingdom. It's not easy work. The internal work and external effort can be gut wrenching. And yet. And yet there is no experience like working toward justice and watching reconciliation unfold.

This is for Cynthia. 

And this for you when told that you deserved to be harassed because your clothes are too skimpy, too revealing, too low cut, too high waisted, too sexy, too skinny, too attention grabbing. This is for you because you can't wear anything unflattering enough to guarantee not being harassed. This is for you because you were taught to take ownership for the vileness of strangers.  May this weight be forever cast off; its not yours to carry. 

This for Cynthia.

And this is for you who stared down the barrel of a gun and wondered if today would be the day, the one when you couldn't make yourself small enough, when you couldn't stay out of the way, when your cloak of invisibly was broken. This is for you because no matter how much you gave, loved, sacrificed, offered, released, tried- it was never enough to create permanent change. May nonviolence not be an abstract concept but a practice in every aspect of your life. 

This is for Cynthia.  

And this is for you who couldn't share that you've been sexually assaulted because he is a nice Christian guy with a good GPA and is well liked, and sex isn't a word you use on a Christian college campus. This is for those who were coerced by an authority figure- someone you were supposed to be able to trust. May truth win. 

This is for Cynthia.

And this is for you who cannot speak about what happened that day, that night. Who doesn't want to remember but cannot forget. Who must drive by the same spot. Who must go to the same class, same job, same church. Who must sleep in the same bed, or in the same house, or under the same roof. Who cannot trust. Who cannot get away from the trauma. May healing be yours. 

This is for Cynthia.

And this is for you who must hide- in closets, in bathrooms, in bedrooms. Who hide the bruises, the scars, the scrapes, the burns. Who hide from family, from friends, from pastors, from coworkers. Who put on your smile with make up, who use visine to hide red eyes, who knows more tricks than anyone should to cover the pain. May visibility finally equal love. 

This is for Cynthia.

And this is for you who attend a church that never talks about abuse or harassment or assault or rape. Who has heard numerous sermons on being submissive, but not one on how much you deserve respect and love. Who believes this is Divine. Who believes this is love. May our churches do better for you. 

This is for Cynthia. 

And this is for you who tried to tell, tried to tell the men you loved and were asked 20 questions about what you should have done differently and how you handled that badly and how you should do 25 things differently next time. Who knows there will be a next time. May you be heard by someone who will protect you. 

This is for Cynthia.

This is for you who tried to tell your mom, your girlfriends, your sisters but were silenced instead. Who dropped hint after hint but no understood. Who expected words, hugs, comfort, and a game plan. Who received a lecture on why you must stay. Who expected more. May you be heard by someone who will protect you. 

This is for Cynthia. 

And this is for you because everything hangs in the balance- a home, a family, children, money, career- your entire world. This is for you who risk it all when you attempt to leave. This is for you who loves someone who stays. This is for you who lost someone who had the courage to leave. May freedom and peace be yours. 

Cynthia is a woman I loved deeply. She was my parents best friend, who in many ways took on the role of my aunt. She tried to leave her abuser, and when she did was chased out of her home and held at gunpoint in the middle of the street. He shot her and broke the hearts of many- most significantly her children. I still think of her often.

Knowing what can happen to a woman who tries to leave, I have no time for judging why women stay. I hope all of our hearts will be ruled by compassion rather than condemnation. They have enough condemnation in their lives. Choose to sing a different song- of love, of peace, of care.

This is for Cynthia, I miss you. -Austin