Thursday, March 8, 2007
NEWS FROM A NEIGHBORING DIOCESE
A dear friend received troubling news from her diocese today. They had commissioned a career study to discern her gifts and talents for ministry. The results that arrived today delivered a series of encouragements and a litany of questions regarding her suitability for ordained ministry in the church we love.
We read the words together, searching out the positive comments and teasing a positive perspective on the more negative comments. At the end of the report there is not a clear yes or no answer to the call to ordained ministry, only more questions.
I cannot help but wonder what lies behind these words. I do not know the persons who administered these tests and if they harbor racist or discriminatory views. I also do not know the people who will interpret these results for the diocese, and there is no way I can know their commitment to developing a clergy that more closely resembles the world in which they live.
What I do know is that all of us face battles for acceptance, for validation, for encouragement and for a sense that God is smiling on our endeavours. To face these battles as a person of color must be an additional burden to carry in times of duress.
God is in this struggle, just as God is with us in all things -- renewing us and giving us strength and love.
For this knowledge and truth I give thanks.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH WELCOMES YOU
The traditional slogan of the Episcopal Church is "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You" and it is found on signposts around the country announcing the location of the local Episcopal Church. We, as a church, love the idea that we are welcoming and that we would graciously host anyone who would dare to enter our sanctuaries.
But there is the rub, is it not? We do not do much by way of ushering the unchurched into our churches on Sunday mornings and we do not go out of our way to open our doors to those not already associated with our little parish churches. When worship occurs on Sunday mornings, we are apt to assume that everyone there knows the service and the hymns and will know just when to sit, stand, or kneel. That is not always the case.
I look at my home parish and become deflated when the realities of the lack of diversity become apparent. I want to worship in an inclusive church -- one where people of all colors, backgrounds, sexualities, and classes are at home -- but I hold little hope of it happening at this time and place.
My little parish is white in appearance, actions, heritage, activities, and opinions. We are unlikely to change because it is unlikely that we will ever be confronted by others who are different. They probably will never enter our doors, because we will not have invited them, and if they do come inside, they probably will not stay around long enough to find a place and a way to be heard.
But these realities are not what is bothering me today.
What is eating at me today is the reality of my personal failure to be welcoming to others. When have I seen people of color in church and way too busy to extend a sincere welcome? When did I talk to the people I knew rather than the new person standing at the margins?
I wonder what has kept me from learning a few phrases in Spanish or Portuguese or even a word of welcome in Hebrew or the language of Islam.
What keeps me doing the same things over and over expecting others to make great changes in order to worship the God I claim to love? What do I need to do to change? What will it cost? What will I gain?
Will God still recognize me if I change?
THE EPISCOPAL CHURCH WELCOMES YOU
The traditional slogan of the Episcopal Church is "The Episcopal Church Welcomes You" and it is found on signposts around the country announcing the location of the local Episcopal Church. We, as a church, love the idea that we are welcoming and that we would graciously host anyone who would dare to enter our sanctuaries.
But there is the rub, is it not? We do not do much by way of ushering the unchurched into our churches on Sunday mornings and we do not go out of our way to open our doors to those not already associated with our little parish churches. When worship occurs on Sunday mornings, we are apt to assume that everyone there knows the service and the hymns and will know just when to sit, stand, or kneel. That is not always the case.
I look at my home parish and become deflated when the realities of the lack of diversity become apparent. I want to worship in an inclusive church -- one where people of all colors, backgrounds, sexualities, and classes are at home -- but I hold little hope of it happening at this time and place.
My little parish is white in appearance, actions, heritage, activities, and opinions. We are unlikely to change because it is unlikely that we will ever be confronted by others who are different. They probably will never enter our doors, because we will not have invited them, and if they do come inside, they probably will not stay around long enough to find a place and a way to be heard.
But these realities are not what is bothering me today.
What is eating at me today is the reality of my personal failure to be welcoming to others. When have I seen people of color in church and way too busy to extend a sincere welcome? When did I talk to the people I knew rather than the new person standing at the margins?
I wonder what has kept me from learning a few phrases in Spanish or Portuguese or even a word of welcome in Hebrew or the language of Islam.
What keeps me doing the same things over and over expecting others to make great changes in order to worship the God I claim to love? What do I need to do to change? What will it cost? What will I gain?
Will God still recognize me if I change?
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
A TIME TO TURN
I have been reading a book this Lent entitled, "A Time to Turn: Anglican Readings for Lent and Easter Week" and digesting the selections assigned for each day by Christopher Webber. My responses to the readings have been diverse -- some hit close to home and others seem more like the compulsory reading one does in high school but does not appreciate or enjoy.
As I finished the reading for today, I was moved to review the list of writers and read the biographies included in the "About the Authors" section. There were 31 biographies included and of the 31 only 4 were women. I found no evidence of the inclusion of people of color in authors included in the book.
I would have been surprised if Chris had not included readings from Andrewes, Bacon, Brooks, Cramner, Donne, Gore, Herbert, Law, Pusey, Taylor, and Temple. I was pleasantly surprised by the inclusion of Benson, Kingsley, and Williams. I thought that More, Rossetti, Rowe, and Beecher-Stowe were excellent examples of female Anglican writers, but would have wished to see Brown-Taylor, Te Paa, or Kaeton included also.
I was very disappointed that no people of color were included in the listing.
Now let me hedge my bet here -- the biographies do not include racial information and I am recalling my perception of their race from memory -- but it is clearly not an inclusive hearing of the voices of Anglicanism.
The Episcopal Church is involved in a battle that sometimes seems like a battle for the soul of the Anglican Communion. The two hemispheres of the world seem pitted against each other in a mythic battle for a controlling voice for the Church. To find no voices from this significant and growing portion of the Church is to be accessible to only a segment of the Church.
If we are to be one church, we will need to hear all voices and learn to be intentional about seeking out other voices. Inclusion of these voices right mean that we will need to hear less of the voices of the past, but in listening more to the voices of today, we just might be enabled to see a way forward together.
I am still listening.
A TIME TO TURN
I have been reading a book this Lent entitled, "A Time to Turn: Anglican Readings for Lent and Easter Week" and digesting the selections assigned for each day by Christopher Webber. My responses to the readings have been diverse -- some hit close to home and others seem more like the compulsory reading one does in high school but does not appreciate or enjoy.
As I finished the reading for today, I was moved to review the list of writers and read the biographies included in the "About the Authors" section. There were 31 biographies included and of the 31 only 4 were women. I found no evidence of the inclusion of people of color in authors included in the book.
I would have been surprised if Chris had not included readings from Andrewes, Bacon, Brooks, Cramner, Donne, Gore, Herbert, Law, Pusey, Taylor, and Temple. I was pleasantly surprised by the inclusion of Benson, Kingsley, and Williams. I thought that More, Rossetti, Rowe, and Beecher-Stowe were excellent examples of female Anglican writers, but would have wished to see Brown-Taylor, Te Paa, or Kaeton included also.
I was very disappointed that no people of color were included in the listing.
Now let me hedge my bet here -- the biographies do not include racial information and I am recalling my perception of their race from memory -- but it is clearly not an inclusive hearing of the voices of Anglicanism.
The Episcopal Church is involved in a battle that sometimes seems like a battle for the soul of the Anglican Communion. The two hemispheres of the world seem pitted against each other in a mythic battle for a controlling voice for the Church. To find no voices from this significant and growing portion of the Church is to be accessible to only a segment of the Church.
If we are to be one church, we will need to hear all voices and learn to be intentional about seeking out other voices. Inclusion of these voices right mean that we will need to hear less of the voices of the past, but in listening more to the voices of today, we just might be enabled to see a way forward together.
I am still listening.
Monday, March 5, 2007
D'ANGELOS REVISITED
Today I made my way back to D'Angelo's Restaurant, the site of my previously described encounter with reverse racism.
I approached the counter, ordered a sandwich, and made my way to a booth to wait. This visit my order is taken by a middle aged white woman. She is pleasant and makes eye contact as she takes my order. The company customer service training or her natural disposition are an asset to the company. I wonder if there is such a thing as being too friendly?
When my sandwich is prepared she rounds the counter and carries the tray to my booth. I thank her and apologize for not realizing that my number was called. She insists that there is no problem and tells me to enjoy my meal.
I watch as one by one she carries trays of food to each of the people who have entered the restaurant. Some, like me, react with surprise and apologize for the inconvenience. Others take the meal delivery in stride, either from habit, or for a belief that food service involves not only food but service.
I can't help but wonder if racism works the same way. If a person acts in the way they have been taught -- a way that is socially acceptable to every one in their social circle -- without ever being told or realizing that it is racist, is it truly racism? Does racism involve the intentional oppression and subjugation of others while the unintentional is something less than racism, perhaps bad manners or thoughtlessness?
Part of me hopes that intentionality counts for something. As if when confronted with opportunities to be racist or inclusive we are given a choice with clear boundaries of right and wrong. I don't think this is ever the case. Reality is so much more nuanced and right and wrong can be made cloudy by intentions, hidden meanings, and unknown consequences.
No matter how long I struggle to come up with the perfect storm of situation, scenario, characters and actions, I keep returning it the knowledge that intentionality is not a factor in whether an action is racist.
The best intention of the actors cannot change the facts that oppression and subjugation of others causes real pain, actual damage, and negative results in society. We can hope to be inclusive and to refrain from causing harm, but despite our intentions, we cause danger, harm, and pain. These are results that we cannot dismiss. They are real, just as the people who are demeaned by racism are real.
As the time for this racism journal draws to an end, I am beginning to look for signs of growth, understanding, and change. Perhaps it is too early and I should wait for the final meetings of the class. What I do see is a developing realization of the need for forgiveness -- of those who have caused pain by their racism and of ourselves for the racism residing in ourselves. There must be both.
People who have spent lifetimes carrying the burden of the weight of racism will have no cause to offer true forgiveness to reformed racist people unless they witness the repentance and new lives of those who truly ask for forgiveness. Racists will never truly reform unless they know in their hearts that forgiveness is possible and available.
We must work at changing racism together.
D'ANGELOS REVISITED
Today I made my way back to D'Angelo's Restaurant, the site of my previously described encounter with reverse racism.
I approached the counter, ordered a sandwich, and made my way to a booth to wait. This visit my order is taken by a middle aged white woman. She is pleasant and makes eye contact as she takes my order. The company customer service training or her natural disposition are an asset to the company. I wonder if there is such a thing as being too friendly?
When my sandwich is prepared she rounds the counter and carries the tray to my booth. I thank her and apologize for not realizing that my number was called. She insists that there is no problem and tells me to enjoy my meal.
I watch as one by one she carries trays of food to each of the people who have entered the restaurant. Some, like me, react with surprise and apologize for the inconvenience. Others take the meal delivery in stride, either from habit, or for a belief that food service involves not only food but service.
I can't help but wonder if racism works the same way. If a person acts in the way they have been taught -- a way that is socially acceptable to every one in their social circle -- without ever being told or realizing that it is racist, is it truly racism? Does racism involve the intentional oppression and subjugation of others while the unintentional is something less than racism, perhaps bad manners or thoughtlessness?
Part of me hopes that intentionality counts for something. As if when confronted with opportunities to be racist or inclusive we are given a choice with clear boundaries of right and wrong. I don't think this is ever the case. Reality is so much more nuanced and right and wrong can be made cloudy by intentions, hidden meanings, and unknown consequences.
No matter how long I struggle to come up with the perfect storm of situation, scenario, characters and actions, I keep returning it the knowledge that intentionality is not a factor in whether an action is racist.
The best intention of the actors cannot change the facts that oppression and subjugation of others causes real pain, actual damage, and negative results in society. We can hope to be inclusive and to refrain from causing harm, but despite our intentions, we cause danger, harm, and pain. These are results that we cannot dismiss. They are real, just as the people who are demeaned by racism are real.
As the time for this racism journal draws to an end, I am beginning to look for signs of growth, understanding, and change. Perhaps it is too early and I should wait for the final meetings of the class. What I do see is a developing realization of the need for forgiveness -- of those who have caused pain by their racism and of ourselves for the racism residing in ourselves. There must be both.
People who have spent lifetimes carrying the burden of the weight of racism will have no cause to offer true forgiveness to reformed racist people unless they witness the repentance and new lives of those who truly ask for forgiveness. Racists will never truly reform unless they know in their hearts that forgiveness is possible and available.
We must work at changing racism together.
Sunday, March 4, 2007
A TOTALLY WHITE DAY
I sit here at the computer struggling to identify the ways I have confronted racism in my world today. I cannot recall any interactions with people of color, I did not read anything about racism in the newspaper, and my time at church was once again remarkably monolithic in race.
I am embarrassed about this and I find myself wondering if I did encounter people of color and simply do not remember them or was it that I was able to ignore them as it they do not exist. I kick myself for glancing through the newspaper sale sheets and ignoring the news and arts sections. The television has been, for the most part, quiet and the radio silent. The few phone calls we received today were from white family members who called to speak with my parents.
My time at church was very white as usual. The person who read the prayers of the people did not pray for the people of the Darfur region of the Sudan, as usual and prayed for the members of our military serving in harms way instead. I know in my heart that many of these US soldiers are people of color, but I also know that when the people of my parish pray for them, they are envisioning tall, handsome white men with strong jaws and determined looks.
I cannot figure out if I think I am blessed or cursed by my ability to avoid the challenge of racism for an entire day. In the end, I decide that this is yet another privilege of whiteness that I did not know that I possessed. It functions in many ways as a gift -- relieving me from guilt and fear -- but it is a gift that I am uneasy about receiving and wonder if I can find a way to regift it to someone else.
I wonder about my friends who cannot get up in the morning and spend an entire day without experiencing or thinking about racism. Where do they find relief? What do they do to hide from the pain and the struggle? Is there any way I can protect them from this pain or to lessen its sting?
I have no answers. I end my day in prayer, thanking God for the blessings of this life and for the hope of a new day tomorrow. I ask God to bless the people of color in the world and give them a peaceful night and a share of the new day tomorrow.
A TOTALLY WHITE DAY
I sit here at the computer struggling to identify the ways I have confronted racism in my world today. I cannot recall any interactions with people of color, I did not read anything about racism in the newspaper, and my time at church was once again remarkably monolithic in race.
I am embarrassed about this and I find myself wondering if I did encounter people of color and simply do not remember them or was it that I was able to ignore them as it they do not exist. I kick myself for glancing through the newspaper sale sheets and ignoring the news and arts sections. The television has been, for the most part, quiet and the radio silent. The few phone calls we received today were from white family members who called to speak with my parents.
My time at church was very white as usual. The person who read the prayers of the people did not pray for the people of the Darfur region of the Sudan, as usual and prayed for the members of our military serving in harms way instead. I know in my heart that many of these US soldiers are people of color, but I also know that when the people of my parish pray for them, they are envisioning tall, handsome white men with strong jaws and determined looks.
I cannot figure out if I think I am blessed or cursed by my ability to avoid the challenge of racism for an entire day. In the end, I decide that this is yet another privilege of whiteness that I did not know that I possessed. It functions in many ways as a gift -- relieving me from guilt and fear -- but it is a gift that I am uneasy about receiving and wonder if I can find a way to regift it to someone else.
I wonder about my friends who cannot get up in the morning and spend an entire day without experiencing or thinking about racism. Where do they find relief? What do they do to hide from the pain and the struggle? Is there any way I can protect them from this pain or to lessen its sting?
I have no answers. I end my day in prayer, thanking God for the blessings of this life and for the hope of a new day tomorrow. I ask God to bless the people of color in the world and give them a peaceful night and a share of the new day tomorrow.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS
I wander in and out of the room in which my son is watching Saturday morning cartoons as I try to cram a week's worth of cleaning and laundry into one morning. I am grateful for the opportunity to work uninterrupted, but guilty that he is being left with the television as a sitter. I keep an eye on the screen, ready to adjust the channel if a violent show appears. And then it happens.
I am vaguely aware of the characters on the screen. At first they were typical cartoon characters drawn to resemble school kids, but stylized in a way that makes them pop from the screen and appear more exciting than the kids I see walking the halls of our elementary school. The kids on this cartoon are cool and the ones who are not cool are crazy or exciting in their appearance.
Somewhere in the storyline, part of the group forms a band and works to perform at at upcoming concert. In the midst of their preparations, some portion of the group becomes blue -- from head to toe blue -- and in doing so become the coolest kids in the entire school. After this life changing experience, the cool blue kids down want to have anything to do with the plain white kids and don't allow them to play in their band. The leftover white kids are forces to spend their time practicing their instruments, rather than doing all the cool things to blue kids are doing. When the day of the concert arrives, the cool blue kids are booed off the stage because their music was horrible and the plain white kids were grooving the school. A moral lesson, I guess.
Perhaps this was a message about practicing and doing your homework, but deep within it was a message about racism and judgements about others based on purely physical characteristics. I wonder exactly where my son is getting messages about racism, and I am concerned that in the end the plain white kids come out on top, despite the reverse of colors that was adopted in the script. I'm not sure my child is up to making all the mental leaps to understand that it is no better to be blue than to be white, just like it is no better to be white than to be black or brown.
Maybe it was just a cartoon about practicing. Maybe I am straining to see racism in the world around me. Definitely this race question is more complex than I ever imagined.
SATURDAY MORNING CARTOONS
I wander in and out of the room in which my son is watching Saturday morning cartoons as I try to cram a week's worth of cleaning and laundry into one morning. I am grateful for the opportunity to work uninterrupted, but guilty that he is being left with the television as a sitter. I keep an eye on the screen, ready to adjust the channel if a violent show appears. And then it happens.
I am vaguely aware of the characters on the screen. At first they were typical cartoon characters drawn to resemble school kids, but stylized in a way that makes them pop from the screen and appear more exciting than the kids I see walking the halls of our elementary school. The kids on this cartoon are cool and the ones who are not cool are crazy or exciting in their appearance.
Somewhere in the storyline, part of the group forms a band and works to perform at at upcoming concert. In the midst of their preparations, some portion of the group becomes blue -- from head to toe blue -- and in doing so become the coolest kids in the entire school. After this life changing experience, the cool blue kids down want to have anything to do with the plain white kids and don't allow them to play in their band. The leftover white kids are forces to spend their time practicing their instruments, rather than doing all the cool things to blue kids are doing. When the day of the concert arrives, the cool blue kids are booed off the stage because their music was horrible and the plain white kids were grooving the school. A moral lesson, I guess.
Perhaps this was a message about practicing and doing your homework, but deep within it was a message about racism and judgements about others based on purely physical characteristics. I wonder exactly where my son is getting messages about racism, and I am concerned that in the end the plain white kids come out on top, despite the reverse of colors that was adopted in the script. I'm not sure my child is up to making all the mental leaps to understand that it is no better to be blue than to be white, just like it is no better to be white than to be black or brown.
Maybe it was just a cartoon about practicing. Maybe I am straining to see racism in the world around me. Definitely this race question is more complex than I ever imagined.
Friday, March 2, 2007
TEACHING OTHERS TO PRAY
This is Friday and one of my classes for this semester begins today. Teaching Others to Pray will be held on four Fridays and will be led by a team of brothers from a local monastery. I am excited about the course and can't wait to learn more about the hands on methods of leading others into a deeper relationship with God.
Part of me wonders, though, if prayer is something that can be taught. Riding a bike, crocheting a shawl, quilting a throw, installing a new transmission, or tuning up a motorcycle all seem like things that can be taught. Relating with God, however, seems more like something that just happens or it doesn't.
I tend to think about relating to God like one would a parent. There is new life and dependency on the one who is closest and most available to meet the needs one cannot meet oneself. Over time the parent-child relationship becomes less dependent and more interdependent. Perhaps that is how I think relating with God should be.
In reality I know that life is much different than my imagining. Life gets succeedingly more complex and the problems and challenges we face become more formidable. Rather than getting more interdependent, I see myself becoming more dependent on God - for support, for guidance, for lovingkindness, and for forgiveness. I cannot imagine what possessed me to think that my first tentative steps away from the guiding hand of God were a good thing and not a turning my face from God and God's will.
I find myself turning back to God again and again. Each time, God is patiently waiting for my return not matter the depths of my misdeeds or the pain I have caused.
Is this something that can be taught? Isn't this something that one just inherently knows? Perhaps not. Maybe we need the model of our earthly parents acting out this dance of free will and redemption again and again before the knowledge forgiveness truly lives in our hearts. Perhaps it is the forgiveness of God that illuminates the forgiveness that we might have received from our parents.
In any event, I wonder if this course, or others like it, will be a boondoggle of middle class, educated, elitism. Lining up in rows behind a monk or two, listening to the right way to pray to one's God, perfecting one's prayer technique seems like actions that might qualify as self centered rather than God centered.
I think about the women of color I see portrayed in movies and on television. The women I am thinking about are spiritual giants and they are physically large and imposing too. They are usually not well educated and they lack the polish of society and the styles of the most modern clothes. Underneath it all, however, they are people of prayer. They open their mouths and from their hearts flow the most wonderful, honest and affirming prayers.
I know in my heart that God listens especially for these prayers from black women who have no other person or place to turn, but to their God. I doubt many of them have attended a seminary class on teaching or learning to pray.
I will attend this class and work to learn new ways to lead others into a deeper relationship with God. I will, however, continue to stand with women of color who pray to God and bask in the knowledge this homeschooling provides me.
TEACHING OTHERS TO PRAY
This is Friday and one of my classes for this semester begins today. Teaching Others to Pray will be held on four Fridays and will be led by a team of brothers from a local monastery. I am excited about the course and can't wait to learn more about the hands on methods of leading others into a deeper relationship with God.
Part of me wonders, though, if prayer is something that can be taught. Riding a bike, crocheting a shawl, quilting a throw, installing a new transmission, or tuning up a motorcycle all seem like things that can be taught. Relating with God, however, seems more like something that just happens or it doesn't.
I tend to think about relating to God like one would a parent. There is new life and dependency on the one who is closest and most available to meet the needs one cannot meet oneself. Over time the parent-child relationship becomes less dependent and more interdependent. Perhaps that is how I think relating with God should be.
In reality I know that life is much different than my imagining. Life gets succeedingly more complex and the problems and challenges we face become more formidable. Rather than getting more interdependent, I see myself becoming more dependent on God - for support, for guidance, for lovingkindness, and for forgiveness. I cannot imagine what possessed me to think that my first tentative steps away from the guiding hand of God were a good thing and not a turning my face from God and God's will.
I find myself turning back to God again and again. Each time, God is patiently waiting for my return not matter the depths of my misdeeds or the pain I have caused.
Is this something that can be taught? Isn't this something that one just inherently knows? Perhaps not. Maybe we need the model of our earthly parents acting out this dance of free will and redemption again and again before the knowledge forgiveness truly lives in our hearts. Perhaps it is the forgiveness of God that illuminates the forgiveness that we might have received from our parents.
In any event, I wonder if this course, or others like it, will be a boondoggle of middle class, educated, elitism. Lining up in rows behind a monk or two, listening to the right way to pray to one's God, perfecting one's prayer technique seems like actions that might qualify as self centered rather than God centered.
I think about the women of color I see portrayed in movies and on television. The women I am thinking about are spiritual giants and they are physically large and imposing too. They are usually not well educated and they lack the polish of society and the styles of the most modern clothes. Underneath it all, however, they are people of prayer. They open their mouths and from their hearts flow the most wonderful, honest and affirming prayers.
I know in my heart that God listens especially for these prayers from black women who have no other person or place to turn, but to their God. I doubt many of them have attended a seminary class on teaching or learning to pray.
I will attend this class and work to learn new ways to lead others into a deeper relationship with God. I will, however, continue to stand with women of color who pray to God and bask in the knowledge this homeschooling provides me.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
EMBER DAY AGAIN
This week I am writing an Ember Day letter to my bishop. I struggle with each letter to find the right tone. I want to be respectful, but not distant and I hope to be personal without being flip. It is a gentle dance of words that eventually find their way onto the page and the letter finds its way to the bishop.
Writing home in the midst of seminary is a peculiar act. One travels to seminary and travels the journey of self discovery and understanding that leads one to a very different place from the place one started years ago. Have I been too conservative and failed to risk enough in the course of this process? Have I travelled to far astray from what I believed when I started this process? I know that I am not the same person who started this process, but I am not certain that I am being the person the bishop expects to receive back after this process.
I don't really have a choice, do I? I am the person I have become. I came here emotionally mute and worried about each step I took. I am here today using my voice -- tentative at times and strong at other times -- and finding my way in the world.
I am not alone in this. God is in the midst of this guiding and leading, urging and cajoling me to come closer. I enjoy this dance and the growing intimacy with God and the people alongside me in the journey. We travel together not knowing exactly where this will lead us, but confident that we are on the right path and that there is no turning back.
EMBER DAY AGAIN
This week I am writing an Ember Day letter to my bishop. I struggle with each letter to find the right tone. I want to be respectful, but not distant and I hope to be personal without being flip. It is a gentle dance of words that eventually find their way onto the page and the letter finds its way to the bishop.
Writing home in the midst of seminary is a peculiar act. One travels to seminary and travels the journey of self discovery and understanding that leads one to a very different place from the place one started years ago. Have I been too conservative and failed to risk enough in the course of this process? Have I travelled to far astray from what I believed when I started this process? I know that I am not the same person who started this process, but I am not certain that I am being the person the bishop expects to receive back after this process.
I don't really have a choice, do I? I am the person I have become. I came here emotionally mute and worried about each step I took. I am here today using my voice -- tentative at times and strong at other times -- and finding my way in the world.
I am not alone in this. God is in the midst of this guiding and leading, urging and cajoling me to come closer. I enjoy this dance and the growing intimacy with God and the people alongside me in the journey. We travel together not knowing exactly where this will lead us, but confident that we are on the right path and that there is no turning back.
+ + +
Where is the racism in today's entry? There doesn't seem to be anything to address or question. I pause to talk to a friend on her way to do laundry. It is her birthday tomorrow and will be flying home to spend the day with family. As she is heading off to the washing machines I remind her to separate the whites from the colors.
We laugh. Even our laundry is oppressed.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
BARACK OBAMA, MY FRIENDS AND ME
I am thinking back to the discussion of Barack Obama's run for the Presidency of the United States that took place in our Changing Racism class weeks ago. I have a general idea of the conversions, but do not remember exactly what everyone said. What I do remember was the tone of the conversation. We struggled together to find words to express our reactions to his campaign, to the editorial comments of the media, and to the website information from his church. I remember a wait and see attitude -- a desire to watch him negotiate the perilous waters of journalists and public opinion. There was hopefulness in the room.
Today I participated in a conversation about Barack Obama that addressed the same issues discussed in class and in our assigned readings. The difference was that this conversation was with an entirely white group of people.
To say I was shocked is an understatement.
This group of well educated, intelligent, well-meaning people expressed some of the most unreasonable, judgemental, and divisive opinions and ideas that I have heard in a long time. Statements like, "Black people think...." or "Blacks can't find a way to...." or even "Colored people represent colored people...."
I was appalled.
When did the black community become a monolith that could be dismissed with generalization? When did people of color become so transparent that people who don't even know them can tell what motivates them how they will react? When did it become us versus them and not Democrats versus Republicans or conservatives versus liberals?
When did these friends become bigots?
I remain quiet for a while and finally give voice to my disapproval of their dismissal of the man because of his color. I wonder aloud about their commitment to the community and to inclusivity.
Then I cross a line.
I ask them about their baptismal vows. I talk about respecting the dignity of every human being, including Barack Obama. I ask them if the Body of Christ is for whites only.
I tell them that I am embarrassed by them and hope that they will open their hearts and their minds. They offer awkward apologies and say they don't understand me and didn't mean to hurt my feelings.
I tell them it is not about me, but I fear it is.
BARACK OBAMA, MY FRIENDS AND ME
I am thinking back to the discussion of Barack Obama's run for the Presidency of the United States that took place in our Changing Racism class weeks ago. I have a general idea of the conversions, but do not remember exactly what everyone said. What I do remember was the tone of the conversation. We struggled together to find words to express our reactions to his campaign, to the editorial comments of the media, and to the website information from his church. I remember a wait and see attitude -- a desire to watch him negotiate the perilous waters of journalists and public opinion. There was hopefulness in the room.
Today I participated in a conversation about Barack Obama that addressed the same issues discussed in class and in our assigned readings. The difference was that this conversation was with an entirely white group of people.
To say I was shocked is an understatement.
This group of well educated, intelligent, well-meaning people expressed some of the most unreasonable, judgemental, and divisive opinions and ideas that I have heard in a long time. Statements like, "Black people think...." or "Blacks can't find a way to...." or even "Colored people represent colored people...."
I was appalled.
When did the black community become a monolith that could be dismissed with generalization? When did people of color become so transparent that people who don't even know them can tell what motivates them how they will react? When did it become us versus them and not Democrats versus Republicans or conservatives versus liberals?
When did these friends become bigots?
I remain quiet for a while and finally give voice to my disapproval of their dismissal of the man because of his color. I wonder aloud about their commitment to the community and to inclusivity.
Then I cross a line.
I ask them about their baptismal vows. I talk about respecting the dignity of every human being, including Barack Obama. I ask them if the Body of Christ is for whites only.
I tell them that I am embarrassed by them and hope that they will open their hearts and their minds. They offer awkward apologies and say they don't understand me and didn't mean to hurt my feelings.
I tell them it is not about me, but I fear it is.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
WRITING, WRITING, AND MORE WRITING...
Today is Tuesday and I am spending the day writing an essay and finishing up the three sermons required of me by by Thursday.
I remember the days years ago when I would hurry home from school to write. Poetry, short stories, the introductory chapters of a number of novels filled spiral bound notebooks that formed piles in my room. I have never written about racism regularly as required by this process. At first it had seemed artificial and I struggled to identify the ways I encountered racism in the world. I had wondered if I would have enough experience with racism to fill 28 days of journaling.
I live in a world where it is very easy to avoid thinking, writing, and acting against racism. I see very few people of color in my local grocery store and my home is so rural that I do not see any neighbors for days regardless of their color. My travels to Cambridge are the only times I have what I call fellowship with people of color.
In these few days of journaling I have come to realize that I covet these relationships. The people of color I know are a blessing to me and I could not begin to imagine life without them. I have come to question so much that lives inside me and I know that there is much work to do within myself and in the world.
My companions in this journey have been wonderful guides. This is territory that they have travelled before and they know the scenery. The excitement of discovery for them is long gone. They wait respectfully for me to get my bearings and they stand close by as I struggle to make my way through this strange territory.
Exploring my own racism has been a time in the wilderness and I wonder if this is a journey that I will complete or if it will last a lifetime.
Time will tell.
WRITING, WRITING, AND MORE WRITING...
Today is Tuesday and I am spending the day writing an essay and finishing up the three sermons required of me by by Thursday.
I remember the days years ago when I would hurry home from school to write. Poetry, short stories, the introductory chapters of a number of novels filled spiral bound notebooks that formed piles in my room. I have never written about racism regularly as required by this process. At first it had seemed artificial and I struggled to identify the ways I encountered racism in the world. I had wondered if I would have enough experience with racism to fill 28 days of journaling.
I live in a world where it is very easy to avoid thinking, writing, and acting against racism. I see very few people of color in my local grocery store and my home is so rural that I do not see any neighbors for days regardless of their color. My travels to Cambridge are the only times I have what I call fellowship with people of color.
In these few days of journaling I have come to realize that I covet these relationships. The people of color I know are a blessing to me and I could not begin to imagine life without them. I have come to question so much that lives inside me and I know that there is much work to do within myself and in the world.
My companions in this journey have been wonderful guides. This is territory that they have travelled before and they know the scenery. The excitement of discovery for them is long gone. They wait respectfully for me to get my bearings and they stand close by as I struggle to make my way through this strange territory.
Exploring my own racism has been a time in the wilderness and I wonder if this is a journey that I will complete or if it will last a lifetime.
Time will tell.
Monday, February 26, 2007
SICK DAY TELEVISION
I finally gave into the plague that had been attacking my body and spent the day either in bed or on the couch. My son was home from school because it was a snow day and he spent the day standing in the doorway wondering when he would be able to go outside and play. Grandma and grandpa were involved in a continuing discussion about the redecoration of the bathroom, while I dozed in front of the television.
I awoke to find Maury Povich's face on the television screen. It has been years since I have watched his show. I don't remember it being so low-brow. I seem to remember him interviewing people and moderating questions from the audience. And when did he stop shaking and hands and start greeting people with the secret handshaking ritual from some odd fraternity?
I watch for a while and feel very superior to the parade of guest who come to the show to find out who is the father of their child or children. All of the guests, without exception are black. Some of the folks are having two or three men undergo DNA testing to find the real Daddy. In each instance, the woman is introduced and vows that the man to the only possible father. Then Maury introduces a video presentation where the father, usually in caps, baggy clothes, and elaborate jewelery, denigrates the mother and accuses her of infidelity, prostitution, or other offense.
They verbally joust onstage and finally Maury draws the results of the DNA test from an envelope. We witness the vindication or shock of the mothers and the bravado or crestfallen expressions of the fathers. It is like watching a train wreck. You know that you shouldn't look, but you just can't turn away until you have seen it all.
I thought I had seen it all, until the last segment. The mother arrives onstage with the tale of the questionable parentage of her three children. Her husband, hidden backstage, is sure they are his and soon he will hear of the infidelity of his wife and the possibility that the children are not biologically related to him.
I was lulled into the ritual of the fathers hearing that they were not the father and the excited jubilant reactions they could not hide. When I heard "you ARE the father" I knew the dejected reaction of a head in hands, hiding of a face, and the abject depression apparent in their bodies.
I watched as this black man was told three times running that each of the children he was raising were not his biological children. I expected relief and the lifting of the burden of supporting these three children and their promiscuous mother. Instead, he cried.
He cried tears of loss. Uncontrollably the grief flowed across his body in waves. There was no comforting him.
I sat on the couch shocked at my reaction. How could I be so racist to assume that because he was black he would love the opportunity to avoid responsibility for children? How could I accept such a stereotype without question? Why did I think I was so much better than the folks on this show?
I cried too. For the man who lost his family and for my own loss.
Neither one of us will be the same.
SICK DAY TELEVISION
I finally gave into the plague that had been attacking my body and spent the day either in bed or on the couch. My son was home from school because it was a snow day and he spent the day standing in the doorway wondering when he would be able to go outside and play. Grandma and grandpa were involved in a continuing discussion about the redecoration of the bathroom, while I dozed in front of the television.
I awoke to find Maury Povich's face on the television screen. It has been years since I have watched his show. I don't remember it being so low-brow. I seem to remember him interviewing people and moderating questions from the audience. And when did he stop shaking and hands and start greeting people with the secret handshaking ritual from some odd fraternity?
I watch for a while and feel very superior to the parade of guest who come to the show to find out who is the father of their child or children. All of the guests, without exception are black. Some of the folks are having two or three men undergo DNA testing to find the real Daddy. In each instance, the woman is introduced and vows that the man to the only possible father. Then Maury introduces a video presentation where the father, usually in caps, baggy clothes, and elaborate jewelery, denigrates the mother and accuses her of infidelity, prostitution, or other offense.
They verbally joust onstage and finally Maury draws the results of the DNA test from an envelope. We witness the vindication or shock of the mothers and the bravado or crestfallen expressions of the fathers. It is like watching a train wreck. You know that you shouldn't look, but you just can't turn away until you have seen it all.
I thought I had seen it all, until the last segment. The mother arrives onstage with the tale of the questionable parentage of her three children. Her husband, hidden backstage, is sure they are his and soon he will hear of the infidelity of his wife and the possibility that the children are not biologically related to him.
I was lulled into the ritual of the fathers hearing that they were not the father and the excited jubilant reactions they could not hide. When I heard "you ARE the father" I knew the dejected reaction of a head in hands, hiding of a face, and the abject depression apparent in their bodies.
I watched as this black man was told three times running that each of the children he was raising were not his biological children. I expected relief and the lifting of the burden of supporting these three children and their promiscuous mother. Instead, he cried.
He cried tears of loss. Uncontrollably the grief flowed across his body in waves. There was no comforting him.
I sat on the couch shocked at my reaction. How could I be so racist to assume that because he was black he would love the opportunity to avoid responsibility for children? How could I accept such a stereotype without question? Why did I think I was so much better than the folks on this show?
I cried too. For the man who lost his family and for my own loss.
Neither one of us will be the same.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
OLD DOGS, NEW TRICKS, AND OTHER MYTHS
I am sitting here watching the Academy Awards wondering when it happened. When did I get so old and so out of touch with contemporary culture?
I am listening to the presenters list actors, actresses, and movies that I did not know existed. It is not just that I haven't seen them-- I had no idea they were made, who starred in them, or what the plots might contain. I can say with some certainty that the only nominated films that I have seen are Cars and Happy Feet. One was nominated for best soundtrack and the other for animation. (I think...)
Previously, I have had opinions on the entries, favorite movies and stars, and could speak intelligently about the nominees. Not this year. Perhaps this is the year that will be the bell weather of my gradual (I hope) decline into oldness.
How can I hope to understand the diversity of cultures present in the world today if I cannot keep track of my own? What does this say about my involvement in the larger community? Am I going to be able to come up with acceptable sermon references and illustrations if the only movies I continue to see are in the children's category?
Maybe what I am witnessing is the diversity of cultures that have already made their way into the cultural mainstream of society. I notice that the presenters are a wonderful assortment of nationalities, native languages, and perspectives. Granted I don't know all their names, but they do look to represent a racial diversity that I do not remember from my childhood.
Maybe that is the way it happens. The old dogs sit on the couch watching the new dogs be praised for the glamorous and exiting performances. I know that the movies were exciting and the acting was enchanting because all these folks that I don't know keep telling me it is so.
It is late. I think I will go to bed and visit Blockbuster in the morning.
OLD DOGS, NEW TRICKS, AND OTHER MYTHS
I am sitting here watching the Academy Awards wondering when it happened. When did I get so old and so out of touch with contemporary culture?
I am listening to the presenters list actors, actresses, and movies that I did not know existed. It is not just that I haven't seen them-- I had no idea they were made, who starred in them, or what the plots might contain. I can say with some certainty that the only nominated films that I have seen are Cars and Happy Feet. One was nominated for best soundtrack and the other for animation. (I think...)
Previously, I have had opinions on the entries, favorite movies and stars, and could speak intelligently about the nominees. Not this year. Perhaps this is the year that will be the bell weather of my gradual (I hope) decline into oldness.
How can I hope to understand the diversity of cultures present in the world today if I cannot keep track of my own? What does this say about my involvement in the larger community? Am I going to be able to come up with acceptable sermon references and illustrations if the only movies I continue to see are in the children's category?
Maybe what I am witnessing is the diversity of cultures that have already made their way into the cultural mainstream of society. I notice that the presenters are a wonderful assortment of nationalities, native languages, and perspectives. Granted I don't know all their names, but they do look to represent a racial diversity that I do not remember from my childhood.
Maybe that is the way it happens. The old dogs sit on the couch watching the new dogs be praised for the glamorous and exiting performances. I know that the movies were exciting and the acting was enchanting because all these folks that I don't know keep telling me it is so.
It is late. I think I will go to bed and visit Blockbuster in the morning.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
CULTURAL ANALYSIS OF SELF
Today will be crazy, so I am checking in early to post the Cultural Analysis of Self that I mentioned in yesterday's posting. I will be back on-line Sunday, after the visitation of our diocesan bishop. For those of you who do not know me, here are some details...
I identify myself as a white person with a genealogical history that includes forbears from England, Scotland, Ireland, and Germany. More recently, my maternal family emigrated from Canada and my father’s family moved from Maine to Connecticut at roughly the same time my mother’s family moved from Canada to Connecticut. I am proud of my Canadian heritage and my Anglican roots. Culturally, I am what has been called a white Anglo-Saxon protestant and I am socially liberal and fiscally conservative. My class background at the generation of my grandparents is working class poor, and because of their educational background, my parents were able to enter the ranks of the professional class. Strategic investments and fiscal conservatism has allowed my parents to retire in a lifestyle that might be considered wealthy.
When I was growing up I may have identified myself as middle class, but I was not encouraged to make that kind of assessment until well into college. My parents were especially eager to see my brother and me succeed in school and proceed into higher education. At this time, as a single parent, unemployed person living in my parents’ home, I hesitate to identify myself is upper or middle class. I realize that my educational background and my access to the benefits of middle and upper class resources keep me from being classified as poor or working class, but I am not sure if I identify with any of these classifications at this time.
The cultural variables in my life include my status as a divorced woman, a single parent, a full time graduate student and a seminarian and postulant for holy orders in the Episcopal Church. Each of these classifications either augments or detracts from my standing in the community and in the world. I am also self-identified as a heterosexual person; however I proudly take on the labels of black and queer when they refer to my solidarity with oppressed peoples.
One thing that I like about my cultural identity is my commitment to a liberal standard of social order. Diversity, inclusivity, and respect for multiculturalism are for me hallmarks of an educated and open minded person. I do not like the assumptions people can make about me because of my commitment to my Anglican and stereo-typical white heritage.
As a person labeled white by this society, I will be hampered in my limited exposure to other cultures and lifestyles. I am working to rectify these shortcomings, and God willing, I will go about the work of ministry with and for all peoples.
CULTURAL ANALYSIS OF SELF
Today will be crazy, so I am checking in early to post the Cultural Analysis of Self that I mentioned in yesterday's posting. I will be back on-line Sunday, after the visitation of our diocesan bishop. For those of you who do not know me, here are some details...
I identify myself as a white person with a genealogical history that includes forbears from England, Scotland, Ireland, and Germany. More recently, my maternal family emigrated from Canada and my father’s family moved from Maine to Connecticut at roughly the same time my mother’s family moved from Canada to Connecticut. I am proud of my Canadian heritage and my Anglican roots. Culturally, I am what has been called a white Anglo-Saxon protestant and I am socially liberal and fiscally conservative. My class background at the generation of my grandparents is working class poor, and because of their educational background, my parents were able to enter the ranks of the professional class. Strategic investments and fiscal conservatism has allowed my parents to retire in a lifestyle that might be considered wealthy.
When I was growing up I may have identified myself as middle class, but I was not encouraged to make that kind of assessment until well into college. My parents were especially eager to see my brother and me succeed in school and proceed into higher education. At this time, as a single parent, unemployed person living in my parents’ home, I hesitate to identify myself is upper or middle class. I realize that my educational background and my access to the benefits of middle and upper class resources keep me from being classified as poor or working class, but I am not sure if I identify with any of these classifications at this time.
The cultural variables in my life include my status as a divorced woman, a single parent, a full time graduate student and a seminarian and postulant for holy orders in the Episcopal Church. Each of these classifications either augments or detracts from my standing in the community and in the world. I am also self-identified as a heterosexual person; however I proudly take on the labels of black and queer when they refer to my solidarity with oppressed peoples.
One thing that I like about my cultural identity is my commitment to a liberal standard of social order. Diversity, inclusivity, and respect for multiculturalism are for me hallmarks of an educated and open minded person. I do not like the assumptions people can make about me because of my commitment to my Anglican and stereo-typical white heritage.
As a person labeled white by this society, I will be hampered in my limited exposure to other cultures and lifestyles. I am working to rectify these shortcomings, and God willing, I will go about the work of ministry with and for all peoples.
Friday, February 23, 2007
HOW WHITE IS WHITE?
I spent time last night composing a Cultural Analysis of Self. I wrote about my heritage, my social location and the locations of my parents and generations into the past. I wonder how much of it is factual and how much is clouded by the passage of time and the perspectives of others who have passed the stories of previous generations on to me. They have every expectation that I will pass this lore on to my child, and I expect that I will.
I find myself wondering what exactly one gains from calling oneself white. I am struggling with the notion of self identifying myself as white, given all the baggage that carries. I do not want to be a white person, but I have skin that burns after fifteen minutes in the sun and red hair the betrays my Irish and English roots.
If I call myself black, am I calling attention to and bragging about my progressive liberal stance on issues of discrimination and oppression? If I call myself black in a room full of white people am I creating schism or making a judgement about them? If I call myself black in a room full of people of color am I attempting to create false intimacy or am I simply making a fool of myself?
I guess for now I will put away the label white and struggle to use the identifier given to me at my baptism, Sandra - Child of God, and expect that people will learn who I am by my love for them and by my actions.
I will strive to do the right thing, confident that God will forgive the difference.
HOW WHITE IS WHITE?
I spent time last night composing a Cultural Analysis of Self. I wrote about my heritage, my social location and the locations of my parents and generations into the past. I wonder how much of it is factual and how much is clouded by the passage of time and the perspectives of others who have passed the stories of previous generations on to me. They have every expectation that I will pass this lore on to my child, and I expect that I will.
I find myself wondering what exactly one gains from calling oneself white. I am struggling with the notion of self identifying myself as white, given all the baggage that carries. I do not want to be a white person, but I have skin that burns after fifteen minutes in the sun and red hair the betrays my Irish and English roots.
If I call myself black, am I calling attention to and bragging about my progressive liberal stance on issues of discrimination and oppression? If I call myself black in a room full of white people am I creating schism or making a judgement about them? If I call myself black in a room full of people of color am I attempting to create false intimacy or am I simply making a fool of myself?
I guess for now I will put away the label white and struggle to use the identifier given to me at my baptism, Sandra - Child of God, and expect that people will learn who I am by my love for them and by my actions.
I will strive to do the right thing, confident that God will forgive the difference.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN
It is Thursday and I am back in Cambridge. When I arrive on campus is it clear that the events of the weekend class are a distant memory for everyone. Instead, the events half a world away in Tanzania occupy minds and stir emotions. I am grateful for the change -- I have needed to move on too.
I make my way to class where a couple dozen of us are led step by step in the motions of the Eucharist. We move our hands as directed and many of us are self-conscious. We have never before done these sacred gestures in public. Perhaps we have stood behind closed doors in our homes and watched as we struggled to remember and mimic the priestly motions. We have spent years working at becoming -- and in this simple exercise the slow progress is suddenly changed to lightning fast movement. It scares and excites me at the same time.
I am struck by the make up of the class. All but two of us would be identified by society as white and we sit quietly as a older white man speaks about the liturgy and how we are icons for the community of faith and how we are called to embody everything about the congregation in our presence. I wonder if I will ever be an icon for people of color.
In the midst of all this seemingly whiteness I am remembering the Eucharist that was celebrated on minutes prior to the start of class. A woman of color preached a wonderful sermon and later stood at the altar to lead us in the remembrance of our shared salvation story.
She is an icon for me and I am blessed by her presence in my life.
I pray that I can be a blessing too.
BACK IN THE SADDLE AGAIN
It is Thursday and I am back in Cambridge. When I arrive on campus is it clear that the events of the weekend class are a distant memory for everyone. Instead, the events half a world away in Tanzania occupy minds and stir emotions. I am grateful for the change -- I have needed to move on too.
I make my way to class where a couple dozen of us are led step by step in the motions of the Eucharist. We move our hands as directed and many of us are self-conscious. We have never before done these sacred gestures in public. Perhaps we have stood behind closed doors in our homes and watched as we struggled to remember and mimic the priestly motions. We have spent years working at becoming -- and in this simple exercise the slow progress is suddenly changed to lightning fast movement. It scares and excites me at the same time.
I am struck by the make up of the class. All but two of us would be identified by society as white and we sit quietly as a older white man speaks about the liturgy and how we are icons for the community of faith and how we are called to embody everything about the congregation in our presence. I wonder if I will ever be an icon for people of color.
In the midst of all this seemingly whiteness I am remembering the Eucharist that was celebrated on minutes prior to the start of class. A woman of color preached a wonderful sermon and later stood at the altar to lead us in the remembrance of our shared salvation story.
She is an icon for me and I am blessed by her presence in my life.
I pray that I can be a blessing too.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
ASH WEDNESDAY
I sit with my son near the back of the congregation, and in a room that seats 400 there are 14 of us. We are mostly elderly, but that does not matter. They are familiar with my son and he with them. They are for him an extended family of aunts and uncles.
We return to our seats with ashes on our foreheads and my son moves my hair back so he can get a good look. He tells me that as soon as we get home we are going to take baths. "I don't like being black" he tells me with all the authority and seriousness his five year old body can muster.
I hug him close and redirect his attention to the Eucharist being celebrated at the altar yards away from us. I remind him of the names of the altar, the lectern, the pulpit, and the credence table. He reminds me that I forgot the sanctuary lamp.
I wonder about the people who cannot simply wash the black away -- those who remain marked for their whole lives. I know that later I will be self-conscious as we make our way around the grocery store. I wonder what that barely noticeable mark means for people of color who attend Ash Wednesday services elsewhere. Does our society make them so acutely aware of the reality of their "dustiness" that they do not need this day of remembrance?
I remember the sermon that shared a fable of a storyteller who gradually disappeared as he continued to tell his stories. Soon he was invisible, much like the people of color in our community.
I wonder if I too will disappear if I chose to tell the story of racism.
ASH WEDNESDAY
I sit with my son near the back of the congregation, and in a room that seats 400 there are 14 of us. We are mostly elderly, but that does not matter. They are familiar with my son and he with them. They are for him an extended family of aunts and uncles.
We return to our seats with ashes on our foreheads and my son moves my hair back so he can get a good look. He tells me that as soon as we get home we are going to take baths. "I don't like being black" he tells me with all the authority and seriousness his five year old body can muster.
I hug him close and redirect his attention to the Eucharist being celebrated at the altar yards away from us. I remind him of the names of the altar, the lectern, the pulpit, and the credence table. He reminds me that I forgot the sanctuary lamp.
I wonder about the people who cannot simply wash the black away -- those who remain marked for their whole lives. I know that later I will be self-conscious as we make our way around the grocery store. I wonder what that barely noticeable mark means for people of color who attend Ash Wednesday services elsewhere. Does our society make them so acutely aware of the reality of their "dustiness" that they do not need this day of remembrance?
I remember the sermon that shared a fable of a storyteller who gradually disappeared as he continued to tell his stories. Soon he was invisible, much like the people of color in our community.
I wonder if I too will disappear if I chose to tell the story of racism.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
EVAN AND HIS GRANDMA AND GRANDPA
Today is a special day. We have scheduled a play date with my son's friend from swimming lessons and his grandparents who care for him when his mother is at work. We met at swimming lessons and my parents, who care for my son, struck up a relationship with the other grandparents. The bond has continued past the end of swimming lessons at that place and the grandmothers still talk and share stories and concerns.
Evan's father is Chinese and lives half way around the world. My son's biological parents live on the same continent, but worlds apart. My son's adoptive father lives a few miles away, but with the exception of a few Sunday afternoons, might as well be half way around the world.
As the boys play, we discuss our lives. The pressures of grandparenting in this very involved way and the pains of leaving one's child when you would much rather be with them. Evan is taking Chinese lessons and recently attended a Chinese New Year celebration. I wonder if I am raising my son "Russian enough" or if I am forcing him to acclimate to the American way of life. I make a mental note to find Russian Orthodox Easter eggs.
My son pulls me aside and whispers that Evan is different. I ask him why and he says that his hair is different. I assume that he is noting the characteristic Asian hair that I remember glistening at the poolside. I note the date and with wonder that it has taken him five years to give voice to racial differences.
He breaks my illusion when he says, "His hair is different. It was always wet and went back like this" and moves his head back like one coming up out of the water.
If all racial differences could be so insignificant and given such an honest voice.
EVAN AND HIS GRANDMA AND GRANDPA
Today is a special day. We have scheduled a play date with my son's friend from swimming lessons and his grandparents who care for him when his mother is at work. We met at swimming lessons and my parents, who care for my son, struck up a relationship with the other grandparents. The bond has continued past the end of swimming lessons at that place and the grandmothers still talk and share stories and concerns.
Evan's father is Chinese and lives half way around the world. My son's biological parents live on the same continent, but worlds apart. My son's adoptive father lives a few miles away, but with the exception of a few Sunday afternoons, might as well be half way around the world.
As the boys play, we discuss our lives. The pressures of grandparenting in this very involved way and the pains of leaving one's child when you would much rather be with them. Evan is taking Chinese lessons and recently attended a Chinese New Year celebration. I wonder if I am raising my son "Russian enough" or if I am forcing him to acclimate to the American way of life. I make a mental note to find Russian Orthodox Easter eggs.
My son pulls me aside and whispers that Evan is different. I ask him why and he says that his hair is different. I assume that he is noting the characteristic Asian hair that I remember glistening at the poolside. I note the date and with wonder that it has taken him five years to give voice to racial differences.
He breaks my illusion when he says, "His hair is different. It was always wet and went back like this" and moves his head back like one coming up out of the water.
If all racial differences could be so insignificant and given such an honest voice.
Monday, February 19, 2007
PRESIDENTS DAY
It is Monday and classes are not scheduled due to the Presidents' Day holiday. I am in Connecticut, miles away from Cambridge and the events of the weekend.
It is not lost on me that this day has been set aside to remember all Presidents, but especially two: George Washington, who fought to make "all men" free and Abraham Lincoln, who is best known for his role in the Civil War and the Emancipation Proclamation.
I spend the day with my son, learning vowel sounds and remembering rhyming words. I worry that he is not picking it up fast enough and that he will not be able to keep up with his classmates. I try not to think about racism or oppression and to live in the moment. It is not easy.
I wonder how many inner city mothers are talking about "aeiou and sometimes y" with their children. I assume that there are not many. Is that my racism showing or is it a statement of what school testing results show as fact? I don't know the answer, but what I do know is that if I state my opinion, I am liable to be labeled in a way I do not appreciate.
I repeat the numbers 1 to 20 and invite my son to join me.
PRESIDENTS DAY
It is Monday and classes are not scheduled due to the Presidents' Day holiday. I am in Connecticut, miles away from Cambridge and the events of the weekend.
It is not lost on me that this day has been set aside to remember all Presidents, but especially two: George Washington, who fought to make "all men" free and Abraham Lincoln, who is best known for his role in the Civil War and the Emancipation Proclamation.
I spend the day with my son, learning vowel sounds and remembering rhyming words. I worry that he is not picking it up fast enough and that he will not be able to keep up with his classmates. I try not to think about racism or oppression and to live in the moment. It is not easy.
I wonder how many inner city mothers are talking about "aeiou and sometimes y" with their children. I assume that there are not many. Is that my racism showing or is it a statement of what school testing results show as fact? I don't know the answer, but what I do know is that if I state my opinion, I am liable to be labeled in a way I do not appreciate.
I repeat the numbers 1 to 20 and invite my son to join me.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
SLEEPING ON IT
Well, I have slept on it and Sunday morning had arrived as expected. I cannot say, however, that I feel any better.
I was accused yesterday of being a racist, creating an unsafe space, and interfering with the learning goals of a fellow classmate. It was not pretty. It was publicly, in the midst of a room filled with more than a dozen students and an instructor. We were to remain in that shared space for an additional seven hours after the accusations were made.
Her stated perception of the interaction: I was engaged in a conversation with a classmate and she approached and offered comments on the topic at hand and asked a question of me. I refused to answer and in doing so made her feel less than, excluded, unvalued, and this was because she was a person of color and I and the person I to whom I was speaking are not.
My perception of the interaction: I was engaged in an intimate conversation with someone who would soon be writing an evaluation of me and my performance. Another person walked up and began speaking about a topic mentioned briefly in the course of our discussion. I finished the conversation and turned to the person who had approached and noticed her glasses. At that moment a person she had been waiting to see entered the room and they walked off to talk about music. I made a note of her question and assumed we would catch up later.
Later never came because in the meantime the interaction was volunteered in the opening moments of the class. How should I have responded? Is is better to keep silent in the face of being called a racist and an oppressive person or to speak the truth and say that the person had been impolite, not respected my boundaries, and unfairly labeled me with caustic accusations I did not deserve.
So, this is what it is going to be like? I work to overcome racism and oppression and in doing so am offered up and a scapegoat or punching bag for all comers? I realize the blood of people of color has flown for centuries, but does that mean that mine must flow now too?
I think back on the excitement I brought to the class and the ways I saw growth in myself before the moment in question. I mourn the loss of those additional seven hours of learning and I hope that the hardness I feel will soften soon.
SLEEPING ON IT
Well, I have slept on it and Sunday morning had arrived as expected. I cannot say, however, that I feel any better.
I was accused yesterday of being a racist, creating an unsafe space, and interfering with the learning goals of a fellow classmate. It was not pretty. It was publicly, in the midst of a room filled with more than a dozen students and an instructor. We were to remain in that shared space for an additional seven hours after the accusations were made.
Her stated perception of the interaction: I was engaged in a conversation with a classmate and she approached and offered comments on the topic at hand and asked a question of me. I refused to answer and in doing so made her feel less than, excluded, unvalued, and this was because she was a person of color and I and the person I to whom I was speaking are not.
My perception of the interaction: I was engaged in an intimate conversation with someone who would soon be writing an evaluation of me and my performance. Another person walked up and began speaking about a topic mentioned briefly in the course of our discussion. I finished the conversation and turned to the person who had approached and noticed her glasses. At that moment a person she had been waiting to see entered the room and they walked off to talk about music. I made a note of her question and assumed we would catch up later.
Later never came because in the meantime the interaction was volunteered in the opening moments of the class. How should I have responded? Is is better to keep silent in the face of being called a racist and an oppressive person or to speak the truth and say that the person had been impolite, not respected my boundaries, and unfairly labeled me with caustic accusations I did not deserve.
So, this is what it is going to be like? I work to overcome racism and oppression and in doing so am offered up and a scapegoat or punching bag for all comers? I realize the blood of people of color has flown for centuries, but does that mean that mine must flow now too?
I think back on the excitement I brought to the class and the ways I saw growth in myself before the moment in question. I mourn the loss of those additional seven hours of learning and I hope that the hardness I feel will soften soon.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
THE PLOT THICKENS
A funny thing happened on the way to D'Angelo's Sandwich Shop. My friend and I ran straight into the reality of reverse racism.
We entered the restaurant together and I told my sandwich preference to the man behind the counter. After a moment my friend, a person of the same race as the counterman, placed her order and I paid the bill. We asked for our items "to go" and moved to a booth to sit and wait for our sandwiches.
Minutes later my sandwich was prepared and I was called to the counter to retrieve it. No problem. I returned to the booth to wait with my friend. I watched as the counter man brought my friend's sandwich to the counter carefully placed them in a bag with her drinks and chips and began walking toward us. He turned around and returned to the counter and grabbed a handful of napkins and added them to the bag. He presented the bag to my friend and we left.
As we made our way across the icy parking lot I asked my friend if she thought we had witnessed reverse discrimination. We agreed that we had and she asked me how that felt. I answered honestly that I was surprised. She volunteered that it felt good to her.
I felt more than surprised at that point.
So, let me get this straight. When others are discriminated against because of their race, I am supposed to be appalled and engage in the struggle to overcome that oppression. When I am discriminated against because of my race, I am supposed to grin and bear it, while persons of other races enjoy the benefits of my oppression. Am I missing something here?
I know that living with the oppression of racism is a horribly demeaning experience, but my reaction to this minor act of discrimination betrays the reality facing people of the dominant race who chose to fight racism and the oppression of others.
Somewhere deep inside me I hold the fear of nearing equality. If I work for the reality that being white and being a person of color provide equal benefit, am I constructing a trap into which I lead others? How can I expect people of color to act in ways that promote equality? Why wouldn't they, as the scales tip towards them, use that momentum to swing the oppressive forces of racism against me and others like me?
It is not a matter of looking at people of color and seeing the potential oppressor residing within them. It is a matter of looking at people of color and seeing in them exactly what resides within me. We are all beloved Children of God capable of great love and great sinfulness.
Whether or not to continue to fight oppression and racism is not a choice. I promised to do that work at my baptism. I can't stop now.
As I type, my friend is outside in 17 degree weather, clearing off her car so our circle of friends can make our way to breakfast. I am sitting here, warm and comfortable, giving thanks for her love and devotion to our little band of brother and sisters.
The struggle continues.
THE PLOT THICKENS
A funny thing happened on the way to D'Angelo's Sandwich Shop. My friend and I ran straight into the reality of reverse racism.
We entered the restaurant together and I told my sandwich preference to the man behind the counter. After a moment my friend, a person of the same race as the counterman, placed her order and I paid the bill. We asked for our items "to go" and moved to a booth to sit and wait for our sandwiches.
Minutes later my sandwich was prepared and I was called to the counter to retrieve it. No problem. I returned to the booth to wait with my friend. I watched as the counter man brought my friend's sandwich to the counter carefully placed them in a bag with her drinks and chips and began walking toward us. He turned around and returned to the counter and grabbed a handful of napkins and added them to the bag. He presented the bag to my friend and we left.
As we made our way across the icy parking lot I asked my friend if she thought we had witnessed reverse discrimination. We agreed that we had and she asked me how that felt. I answered honestly that I was surprised. She volunteered that it felt good to her.
I felt more than surprised at that point.
So, let me get this straight. When others are discriminated against because of their race, I am supposed to be appalled and engage in the struggle to overcome that oppression. When I am discriminated against because of my race, I am supposed to grin and bear it, while persons of other races enjoy the benefits of my oppression. Am I missing something here?
I know that living with the oppression of racism is a horribly demeaning experience, but my reaction to this minor act of discrimination betrays the reality facing people of the dominant race who chose to fight racism and the oppression of others.
Somewhere deep inside me I hold the fear of nearing equality. If I work for the reality that being white and being a person of color provide equal benefit, am I constructing a trap into which I lead others? How can I expect people of color to act in ways that promote equality? Why wouldn't they, as the scales tip towards them, use that momentum to swing the oppressive forces of racism against me and others like me?
It is not a matter of looking at people of color and seeing the potential oppressor residing within them. It is a matter of looking at people of color and seeing in them exactly what resides within me. We are all beloved Children of God capable of great love and great sinfulness.
Whether or not to continue to fight oppression and racism is not a choice. I promised to do that work at my baptism. I can't stop now.
As I type, my friend is outside in 17 degree weather, clearing off her car so our circle of friends can make our way to breakfast. I am sitting here, warm and comfortable, giving thanks for her love and devotion to our little band of brother and sisters.
The struggle continues.
Friday, February 16, 2007
CLASSES RESUME
I woke up this morning in Cambridge, ready to take on a four hour class in Parish Administration and Finance. As usual, I am awake early and those around me have not roused or opened their doors. On the other side of this wall sleeps a young Asian American woman who probably stayed up half the night studying. Through the other wall a black woman about my age is probably talking to her mother and will soon make her way out into our shared hallway. Above us more people of color are sleeping and rousing and their steps will be heavy on the wooden steps between us.
I am at home here. We care about and for each other and know the struggles, hopes, and fears that we each share, and we understand the distinctive ways each of us confronts the demons who reside close by. Each of us is involved in a mythic struggle for acceptance, for validation, for understanding and for a new a better life. I suspect that each of us realizes ways that the others could more effectively deal with their "issues" but we each wait patiently for the others to make these discoveries for themselves. We share the little victories of self-realization and we mourn the lost opportunities with equal but different passion.
I wonder what about my skin color makes me different and know in a place deep within me that we are all the same -- beloved children of God -- responding to that love in the best ways we know how. At the same time, I wonder about the differences -- the rich skin colors, the distinctive hair, the beautiful faces -- and I know that the differences beneath are equally beautiful.
I love these people and I love this place.
CLASSES RESUME
I woke up this morning in Cambridge, ready to take on a four hour class in Parish Administration and Finance. As usual, I am awake early and those around me have not roused or opened their doors. On the other side of this wall sleeps a young Asian American woman who probably stayed up half the night studying. Through the other wall a black woman about my age is probably talking to her mother and will soon make her way out into our shared hallway. Above us more people of color are sleeping and rousing and their steps will be heavy on the wooden steps between us.
I am at home here. We care about and for each other and know the struggles, hopes, and fears that we each share, and we understand the distinctive ways each of us confronts the demons who reside close by. Each of us is involved in a mythic struggle for acceptance, for validation, for understanding and for a new a better life. I suspect that each of us realizes ways that the others could more effectively deal with their "issues" but we each wait patiently for the others to make these discoveries for themselves. We share the little victories of self-realization and we mourn the lost opportunities with equal but different passion.
I wonder what about my skin color makes me different and know in a place deep within me that we are all the same -- beloved children of God -- responding to that love in the best ways we know how. At the same time, I wonder about the differences -- the rich skin colors, the distinctive hair, the beautiful faces -- and I know that the differences beneath are equally beautiful.
I love these people and I love this place.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
KINDERGARTEN PICK UP
I stood outside my son's Kindergarten classroom waiting to pick him up from school and travel to McDonald's for a special mother son meal. I peek inside the classroom and watch as he interacts with his classmates and teacher. I am proud of the way he seems at home, talking to everyone, waiting patiently for others to put their classwork away, helping another put away building blocks that he did not use.
As I look around the classroom I am struck by the diversity in his classroom, compared to the kindergarten class I attended. He is learning side by side with a young black child, twins from Pakistan, two youngsters adopted from Korea, and a child newly immigrated from Italy. There are also two children who are Jewish. I do not remember such diversity in my class, but on second thought wonder if it was there, but I was not able to recognize it.
Looking at all the diversity in that classroom reminds me that my son is part of that diversity. He was born into a different culture, to a mother who spoke a different language and lived half a world away. When I visited the country of his birth, I was a stranger in a strange land and people on the street recognized me as American simply by my dress and behavior.
I am struck by the way others probably do not see my son as "other" and I pray a silent prayer of thanks that he does not know the pain of racism. I look carefully at his forehead, chin, and hair -- all of which betray his Russian heritage to anyone who cares to notice.
Finally, he runs to me clutching a big bag of Valentines and we look at each one before starting the car. As we read each one, he reacts the same way. "Megan, she really loves me." "Tyrone, he really loves me." "Omar, he really loves me too." In this moment race, color, religion, gender, and the like does not matter to him. What matters most is that they love him and he loves them.
We go off to lunch and he regales me with stories of his class and the way cat rhymes with hat and also bat and mat.
If only today could last forever.
KINDERGARTEN PICK UP
I stood outside my son's Kindergarten classroom waiting to pick him up from school and travel to McDonald's for a special mother son meal. I peek inside the classroom and watch as he interacts with his classmates and teacher. I am proud of the way he seems at home, talking to everyone, waiting patiently for others to put their classwork away, helping another put away building blocks that he did not use.
As I look around the classroom I am struck by the diversity in his classroom, compared to the kindergarten class I attended. He is learning side by side with a young black child, twins from Pakistan, two youngsters adopted from Korea, and a child newly immigrated from Italy. There are also two children who are Jewish. I do not remember such diversity in my class, but on second thought wonder if it was there, but I was not able to recognize it.
Looking at all the diversity in that classroom reminds me that my son is part of that diversity. He was born into a different culture, to a mother who spoke a different language and lived half a world away. When I visited the country of his birth, I was a stranger in a strange land and people on the street recognized me as American simply by my dress and behavior.
I am struck by the way others probably do not see my son as "other" and I pray a silent prayer of thanks that he does not know the pain of racism. I look carefully at his forehead, chin, and hair -- all of which betray his Russian heritage to anyone who cares to notice.
Finally, he runs to me clutching a big bag of Valentines and we look at each one before starting the car. As we read each one, he reacts the same way. "Megan, she really loves me." "Tyrone, he really loves me." "Omar, he really loves me too." In this moment race, color, religion, gender, and the like does not matter to him. What matters most is that they love him and he loves them.
We go off to lunch and he regales me with stories of his class and the way cat rhymes with hat and also bat and mat.
If only today could last forever.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
VALENTINE'S DAY BLIZZARD
Today I am a shut-in, the wind is blowing and a combination of snow, sleet, freezing rain, and the like are falling all around me. In an act of supreme sacrifice, I bundle myself and trudge toward my car, moving it across the driveway so that the plow driver can clear a path to the garage doors. Two cars sit quietly in the warmth of the garage.
I cannot help but feel blessed despite these conditions. I do not work in a job that lists me as essential personnel, making my progress out in a storm required in order to earn my pay. I do not have to wrestle groceries or other purchases home via bus or subway; I can unload my purchases in the windless environment of the garage. I do not have to deal with the loss of pay because my hours were cut or cancelled. In short, I am aware that I live a blessed life.
I am thinking about the reality that I did little to deserve these blessings. The situation of my birth plays a large role in who I am, what I have, who I interact with, and the extent to which I am free to imagine and dream. I wonder what the perspective of a person on public assistance or lacking a home would be in this situation. I can imagine an answer, but I probably will never know.
I wonder about the extent of all that I do not know, especially the things that I can't even imagine to ask. What does it feel like to not be able to keep warm, to feed one's family, to clothe my child in a warm winter jacket and mittens?
These are not questions directly related to race, but I am aware that many of those who confront these problems, also are dealing with an inability to overcome the oppression of racism in their lives. I imagine that reality puts an extra chill in the air and a heavier weight on the shovel.
What else don't I know?
VALENTINE'S DAY BLIZZARD
Today I am a shut-in, the wind is blowing and a combination of snow, sleet, freezing rain, and the like are falling all around me. In an act of supreme sacrifice, I bundle myself and trudge toward my car, moving it across the driveway so that the plow driver can clear a path to the garage doors. Two cars sit quietly in the warmth of the garage.
I cannot help but feel blessed despite these conditions. I do not work in a job that lists me as essential personnel, making my progress out in a storm required in order to earn my pay. I do not have to wrestle groceries or other purchases home via bus or subway; I can unload my purchases in the windless environment of the garage. I do not have to deal with the loss of pay because my hours were cut or cancelled. In short, I am aware that I live a blessed life.
I am thinking about the reality that I did little to deserve these blessings. The situation of my birth plays a large role in who I am, what I have, who I interact with, and the extent to which I am free to imagine and dream. I wonder what the perspective of a person on public assistance or lacking a home would be in this situation. I can imagine an answer, but I probably will never know.
I wonder about the extent of all that I do not know, especially the things that I can't even imagine to ask. What does it feel like to not be able to keep warm, to feed one's family, to clothe my child in a warm winter jacket and mittens?
These are not questions directly related to race, but I am aware that many of those who confront these problems, also are dealing with an inability to overcome the oppression of racism in their lives. I imagine that reality puts an extra chill in the air and a heavier weight on the shovel.
What else don't I know?
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
INTEGRATION PAPERS
Today we shared integration papers. Integration papers in this context are not studies of the effects of bringing together of those of diverse cultures and histories, but rather an accounting of the synthesis of the work we have done over the past semesters.
As I sat reading my paper to two people that I trust, I was struck by something that was missing from my paper. I struggled with the question of whether to raise the issue or not. I spoke of needing to rewrite the draft, but did not give voice to the feelings that were stirring within myself since the previous weekend.
I continue this struggle to this minute, knowing that is journal is going to be read by the folks in my Changing Racism class and by the professors who are leading us in this endeavor. I have chosen to take the leap...
As I sat in the classroom during the Changing Racism classes I became acutely aware that I would love to spend the rest of my life being present as people come to grips with the ways racism and oppression have effected their lives and the lives of others. I was alive in a way that I cannot remember being alive and I was listening with my head, my heart, and my whole body responded to the things I heard and felt. I was privileged to be part of this holy action and I went home and prayed prayers of thanksgiving for the experience.
I sit here now, committed to actively discerning whether this is the path that my life should take, and wondering what the next step would look like. As always, my inner self is offering doubts about my ability as a privileged white person to do this work and my ability to overcome the oppression that I have experienced in order to help others along the way.
I want to ask others in the class whether they experienced any of the same feelings or if they sensed something different about me.
Clearly, things are changing within me -- changing faster than I can perceive and share -- but I know in my heart that God is in the midst of this.
Prayer continues. Hope lives.
God is good.
INTEGRATION PAPERS
Today we shared integration papers. Integration papers in this context are not studies of the effects of bringing together of those of diverse cultures and histories, but rather an accounting of the synthesis of the work we have done over the past semesters.
As I sat reading my paper to two people that I trust, I was struck by something that was missing from my paper. I struggled with the question of whether to raise the issue or not. I spoke of needing to rewrite the draft, but did not give voice to the feelings that were stirring within myself since the previous weekend.
I continue this struggle to this minute, knowing that is journal is going to be read by the folks in my Changing Racism class and by the professors who are leading us in this endeavor. I have chosen to take the leap...
As I sat in the classroom during the Changing Racism classes I became acutely aware that I would love to spend the rest of my life being present as people come to grips with the ways racism and oppression have effected their lives and the lives of others. I was alive in a way that I cannot remember being alive and I was listening with my head, my heart, and my whole body responded to the things I heard and felt. I was privileged to be part of this holy action and I went home and prayed prayers of thanksgiving for the experience.
I sit here now, committed to actively discerning whether this is the path that my life should take, and wondering what the next step would look like. As always, my inner self is offering doubts about my ability as a privileged white person to do this work and my ability to overcome the oppression that I have experienced in order to help others along the way.
I want to ask others in the class whether they experienced any of the same feelings or if they sensed something different about me.
Clearly, things are changing within me -- changing faster than I can perceive and share -- but I know in my heart that God is in the midst of this.
Prayer continues. Hope lives.
God is good.
Monday, February 12, 2007
WITNESSING THE PAIN OF A BLACK MAN I LOVE
Today was very difficult. I sat in silence as I listened to a dear friend talk about his experience of the church -- the same church that I know and love. We worship in different congregations, but we share a history and love of Anglicanism.
My heart is heavy with sadness. Sadness about the ways the church treats its members and the way we go about doing God's work. The work of ministry, ordained ministry in this case, is never easy to explain and the act of discerning call to ordained ministry is fraught with opportunities for misunderstanding and pain.
We as a church say that we believe in the ministry of all baptized people, yet we clearly put greater emphasis on ordained ministry. We say that the call to ordained ministry is a gift of the Holy Spirit, but we continue to mete out ordination to those who meet our qualifications and I wonder how well we do discernment the will of the Holy Spirit. We say that the ordination process is open to all, regardless of race, color, age, gender, or orientation, but the truth is probably not nearly that inclusive. Over and over again we raise up for ordination people just like us, and when we look at others who are not just like us, we fail to see the Holy Spirit working in them.
It is our loss as well as theirs. When I look at the passion and love of the church that my friend expresses, I cannot imagine a church without him. I can see the Holy Spirit working in and through him, and I know that the church would be graced by his presence in a leadership position. I also know, as he does, that he will not be given an opportunity to live into that ministry without significant change in the church. We both pray for that change to happen -- and to happen quickly, so that we can go about the work of ministry together.
Racism is a scary thing. It so often parades around as something else -- political differences, theological argument, age discrimination, or a host of other ways we actively seek to exclude others.
All my friends deserve a place at God's table.
All my enemies deserve a place there too.
When will the church welcome all of us?
WITNESSING THE PAIN OF A BLACK MAN I LOVE
Today was very difficult. I sat in silence as I listened to a dear friend talk about his experience of the church -- the same church that I know and love. We worship in different congregations, but we share a history and love of Anglicanism.
My heart is heavy with sadness. Sadness about the ways the church treats its members and the way we go about doing God's work. The work of ministry, ordained ministry in this case, is never easy to explain and the act of discerning call to ordained ministry is fraught with opportunities for misunderstanding and pain.
We as a church say that we believe in the ministry of all baptized people, yet we clearly put greater emphasis on ordained ministry. We say that the call to ordained ministry is a gift of the Holy Spirit, but we continue to mete out ordination to those who meet our qualifications and I wonder how well we do discernment the will of the Holy Spirit. We say that the ordination process is open to all, regardless of race, color, age, gender, or orientation, but the truth is probably not nearly that inclusive. Over and over again we raise up for ordination people just like us, and when we look at others who are not just like us, we fail to see the Holy Spirit working in them.
It is our loss as well as theirs. When I look at the passion and love of the church that my friend expresses, I cannot imagine a church without him. I can see the Holy Spirit working in and through him, and I know that the church would be graced by his presence in a leadership position. I also know, as he does, that he will not be given an opportunity to live into that ministry without significant change in the church. We both pray for that change to happen -- and to happen quickly, so that we can go about the work of ministry together.
Racism is a scary thing. It so often parades around as something else -- political differences, theological argument, age discrimination, or a host of other ways we actively seek to exclude others.
All my friends deserve a place at God's table.
All my enemies deserve a place there too.
When will the church welcome all of us?
Sunday, February 11, 2007
SUNDAY WORSHIP
I have heard it said that Sunday morning at eleven o'clock is the most segregated time in America and I arrived at church this morning prepared to the parish through the eyes of one newly enlivened with energy to witness and confront racism and other forms of exclusivism. I was not surprised by what I found.
The worshipping community that I love was almost exclusively white. From outward appearances, there was one Hispanic family and one family with a mixed race mother. From all appearances we are exclusively one race. I continue to be surprised by the extent that the parish accepts and does not question the lack of diversity in this place. We come together in a community that is home to a significant Hispanic population and and smaller representation of black and island heritages. We drive past these neighborhoods en route to church and do not question the fact that we are for the most part ignoring their presence in our community.
As I think back on this parish that I have known for more than forty years, I can remember almost every person of color who stayed around long enough to claim membership. There was the Jamaican couple who read the lessons in church (We loved the British sounding accent.) and the family who moved to the area from an unknown French speaking part of Africa. They were at the center of many activities and I went to high school with the only son. Couple these two families with the two mentioned earlier and there you have it -- four families in forty years. Clearly, something more than chance is happening to keep these numbers so artificially low. As I picture each family in my mind, I am struck by the extent to which each family appears to be 'white' in every way except their skin color. I wonder if the message that people of color receive is that it is okay to be here as long as you don't rock the boat. Are they somehow getting a message that says "Don't act, talk, think, dress, or appear ethnic and you can stay."
Right now, I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Is this really the parish I love? Can we really be this callous? Are we this shallow? Am I portraying the place honestly? Would others see the same parish and see things differently?
I have no answers, only more questions.
Sunday mornings aren't ever going to be the same.
SUNDAY WORSHIP
I have heard it said that Sunday morning at eleven o'clock is the most segregated time in America and I arrived at church this morning prepared to the parish through the eyes of one newly enlivened with energy to witness and confront racism and other forms of exclusivism. I was not surprised by what I found.
The worshipping community that I love was almost exclusively white. From outward appearances, there was one Hispanic family and one family with a mixed race mother. From all appearances we are exclusively one race. I continue to be surprised by the extent that the parish accepts and does not question the lack of diversity in this place. We come together in a community that is home to a significant Hispanic population and and smaller representation of black and island heritages. We drive past these neighborhoods en route to church and do not question the fact that we are for the most part ignoring their presence in our community.
As I think back on this parish that I have known for more than forty years, I can remember almost every person of color who stayed around long enough to claim membership. There was the Jamaican couple who read the lessons in church (We loved the British sounding accent.) and the family who moved to the area from an unknown French speaking part of Africa. They were at the center of many activities and I went to high school with the only son. Couple these two families with the two mentioned earlier and there you have it -- four families in forty years. Clearly, something more than chance is happening to keep these numbers so artificially low. As I picture each family in my mind, I am struck by the extent to which each family appears to be 'white' in every way except their skin color. I wonder if the message that people of color receive is that it is okay to be here as long as you don't rock the boat. Are they somehow getting a message that says "Don't act, talk, think, dress, or appear ethnic and you can stay."
Right now, I have a sick feeling in my stomach. Is this really the parish I love? Can we really be this callous? Are we this shallow? Am I portraying the place honestly? Would others see the same parish and see things differently?
I have no answers, only more questions.
Sunday mornings aren't ever going to be the same.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
NEW LIFE
Today, it appears, is the first day of my new life.
I have sat for almost twelve hours on some of the most uncomfortable chairs in a room that somehow manages to be both too hot and too cold while hours and miles away from those I love. In summary, it was wonderful.
It might have been the people. The leaders with well prepared and the students were earnest and committed. It might have been the topic. The readings were both current and interesting. It might have been the discussions. Our words managed to be both carefully chosen and wildly impromptu. I do not know exactly how it happened, but it happened.
We talked about race and racism. How racism happens in the world and how fear takes hold of our emotions and gains control of our hearts and minds. How over time we have allowed fear -- fear of our differences -- to control of our selves, our families, our communities, and our world. We are being held captive by forces we ourselves have created and hardly realize that we are in chains.
I have looked in the faces of people of color and have seen the effects of racism. I have watched as my friends have been made to feel less than. I have listened to the stories of families who recount their histories claiming the bondage of slavery. I have listened as those I respected and admired offered judgement on people of color that was without merit or truth. I have looked with pity on those who live their lives as people of color.
Tonight I am realizing the effects of racism on myself -- how it has eaten at my heart and deprived me of friends, experiences, and a richer life. I am looking again at the institutions I love and seeing them with new eyes. I am noticing the fractures that have existed beneath my notice. I wonder what else I am missing.
It seems terribly self centered to grieve what I have missed or lost, when others have not experienced an iota of what I have been blessed with simply because I have been identified as white.
I want to be less white, no I do not want to be white at all.
How does that happen? Can it happen? What does that feel like? Will I still be me?
I have no choice but to try.
NEW LIFE
Today, it appears, is the first day of my new life.
I have sat for almost twelve hours on some of the most uncomfortable chairs in a room that somehow manages to be both too hot and too cold while hours and miles away from those I love. In summary, it was wonderful.
It might have been the people. The leaders with well prepared and the students were earnest and committed. It might have been the topic. The readings were both current and interesting. It might have been the discussions. Our words managed to be both carefully chosen and wildly impromptu. I do not know exactly how it happened, but it happened.
We talked about race and racism. How racism happens in the world and how fear takes hold of our emotions and gains control of our hearts and minds. How over time we have allowed fear -- fear of our differences -- to control of our selves, our families, our communities, and our world. We are being held captive by forces we ourselves have created and hardly realize that we are in chains.
I have looked in the faces of people of color and have seen the effects of racism. I have watched as my friends have been made to feel less than. I have listened to the stories of families who recount their histories claiming the bondage of slavery. I have listened as those I respected and admired offered judgement on people of color that was without merit or truth. I have looked with pity on those who live their lives as people of color.
Tonight I am realizing the effects of racism on myself -- how it has eaten at my heart and deprived me of friends, experiences, and a richer life. I am looking again at the institutions I love and seeing them with new eyes. I am noticing the fractures that have existed beneath my notice. I wonder what else I am missing.
It seems terribly self centered to grieve what I have missed or lost, when others have not experienced an iota of what I have been blessed with simply because I have been identified as white.
I want to be less white, no I do not want to be white at all.
How does that happen? Can it happen? What does that feel like? Will I still be me?
I have no choice but to try.
Friday, February 9, 2007
CHANGE HAPPENS
We met for the first time this evening. We huddled together in the confines of a classroom with tables pushed to the periphery and our chairs hauled together in a circle in the classroom. We sat nervously with notebooks and pens balanced on our knees, waiting to record the event. What happened for the next five hours defied note-taking.
Sure, there were Xeroxed articles and time tested charts and diagrams, but what happened in that classroom can't be witnessed in class notes or in essays to be graded.
What happened in that classroom was not scribbled on paper, but written on my heart. I would like to share what I learned, but that is not possible right now. It is still settling, taking up residence in my thoughts, moving into and out of my consciousness, and reappearing in my mind as icons hanging on the walls of that place I go to to pray.
God is in this work. God is with us and in us and making a new creation in this place and in these persons. Preparing to retire for the evening in preparation for the work of tomorrow, I am offering prayers of thanksgiving for these people and this place.
I look at all that God has created and know in my heart that it is good.
CHANGE HAPPENS
We met for the first time this evening. We huddled together in the confines of a classroom with tables pushed to the periphery and our chairs hauled together in a circle in the classroom. We sat nervously with notebooks and pens balanced on our knees, waiting to record the event. What happened for the next five hours defied note-taking.
Sure, there were Xeroxed articles and time tested charts and diagrams, but what happened in that classroom can't be witnessed in class notes or in essays to be graded.
What happened in that classroom was not scribbled on paper, but written on my heart. I would like to share what I learned, but that is not possible right now. It is still settling, taking up residence in my thoughts, moving into and out of my consciousness, and reappearing in my mind as icons hanging on the walls of that place I go to to pray.
God is in this work. God is with us and in us and making a new creation in this place and in these persons. Preparing to retire for the evening in preparation for the work of tomorrow, I am offering prayers of thanksgiving for these people and this place.
I look at all that God has created and know in my heart that it is good.
Thursday, February 8, 2007
WAITING FOR THE CHANGE
It is Thursday night, less than twenty four hours before the first session of Changing Racism. I know that I am supposed to be keeping a journal about racism and my experiences of race, but I am not entirely sure exactly how that is supposed to happen. Am I supposed to be actively seeking out opportunities for interaction with those of other races? Am I supposed to be "doing" something to heal the racial divide that I know is present in my communities and the world? If so, what exactly provides healing? What counteracts years of oppression and degradation?
Rather than ferreting out opportunities to beat racism from my surroundings, my thoughts turn to the racism that I suspect resides deep with my own self. I like to think that I am above racism, that I take people for who they are, rather than the color of their skin. But deep beneath all of that hubris is the knowledge that am more comfortable around people who look, act, and talk as I do. Does that make me a racist? Does that make me interpersonally lazy? Does that make me no better than those who don hoods and spread fear via burning crosses and hurled stones?
I do not want to be a racist, but more than that, I do not want to be perceived as a racist by others, especially those who have felt most acutely the sting and humiliation of racism. I want to do more and I want to be someone who by my words and actions counteracts the years of oppression experienced by others. I want to make it better. I want to spread a balm over the wounds of centuries of injury. I want to change the world.
I fear I will be able to do none of these things and that I will find myself simply standing alongside those who suffer.
WAITING FOR THE CHANGE
It is Thursday night, less than twenty four hours before the first session of Changing Racism. I know that I am supposed to be keeping a journal about racism and my experiences of race, but I am not entirely sure exactly how that is supposed to happen. Am I supposed to be actively seeking out opportunities for interaction with those of other races? Am I supposed to be "doing" something to heal the racial divide that I know is present in my communities and the world? If so, what exactly provides healing? What counteracts years of oppression and degradation?
Rather than ferreting out opportunities to beat racism from my surroundings, my thoughts turn to the racism that I suspect resides deep with my own self. I like to think that I am above racism, that I take people for who they are, rather than the color of their skin. But deep beneath all of that hubris is the knowledge that am more comfortable around people who look, act, and talk as I do. Does that make me a racist? Does that make me interpersonally lazy? Does that make me no better than those who don hoods and spread fear via burning crosses and hurled stones?
I do not want to be a racist, but more than that, I do not want to be perceived as a racist by others, especially those who have felt most acutely the sting and humiliation of racism. I want to do more and I want to be someone who by my words and actions counteracts the years of oppression experienced by others. I want to make it better. I want to spread a balm over the wounds of centuries of injury. I want to change the world.
I fear I will be able to do none of these things and that I will find myself simply standing alongside those who suffer.
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