Dear White Brothers and Sisters

Dear white brothers and sisters,

Today is Monday -  I don't know how your day began, but mine started with feeding a sick baby. Making breakfast.  Changing diapers.  Running errands.  With sunshine and blue skies, and warm weather, and an ease about it that seemed to forget the events of last Wednesday.  Facebook affirms me in my short-term memory, with a few exceptions from white friends that I could tell you ahead of time would continue to respond because I know their hearts for justice and reconciliation, and a larger number of black friends, spanning the gamete of grief, anger, pleas for engagement, and broader historical perspective in their continued response.

And I have to confess, this is my luxury - twitter-length attention span.  I am able to have a very short attention span regarding any issue pertaining to race - because unless it's in my face, or tragically in the headlines, I am able to avoid it most days, simply by the color of my skin.

But for me - maybe it was the fact that it was in a church, maybe it was just the sheer volume of times that I have seen violence and inequality perpetuated against black men and black women simply because of their skin color - or maybe I caught a glimpse of myself, my own sin, and my own excuses in a more raw and depraved way - or maybe the fact that he was barely a man, but already hated so deeply and I'm trying to raise two of my own little men - but this time has taken a chunk out of my apathy and made me want to commit to speaking and acting in a different way.  Hold me accountable on this: I want things to be different this time.  I want to actually be an ally, a real friend, and an advocate - rather than just wanting to be one, or patting myself on the back for not being worse than I am.  I am committed to continuing to engage, continuing to repent, and continuing to seek change in myself and in my spheres of influence.   And you, lucky you, get to come along with me.

I intentionally did not write yesterday or Saturday, because I was convicted by a friend who urged us not to speak before we had taken the time to lament, to mourn, to grieve.  To not be too fast to move into the distance of words, theories, and discussion, without allowing ourselves to feel the intimacy of loss.  Another friend's 4-year old daughter asked, "what were their names, mommy?" and reading her question, I realized that I too did not know them.  And so I stopped talking.  And I read their stories.  Clementa.  Sharonda.  Tywanza. Myra.  Ethel. Cynthia. Daniel. DePayne.  Susie.  And I gave space for tears.  For their humanity. The tremendous strength, loss, and character of their families in proffering forgiveness to the man who had robbed them of their loved ones.  Jesus, have mercy.  This is your church.  These saints are modeling for us what it means to be your followers.  In their last acts, welcoming in the stranger.  Blessing him, even as he sought their blood.  And then their families, again, and again, and again.  Forgiving.  Entreating.  Forgiving.  This is Imago Dei.

But Monday, as grief continues, I am convinced of this: my white brothers and sisters, we must - we must - be intentional about ways that we can stay engaged.  That we can #prayforcharleston, yes.  But that we can also #actforcharleston too.  If not, apathy will take over once again, and the banner of oppression and racism will both figuratively (and literally, in SC) continue to fly.

May I humbly give you four tangible suggestions of how I am attempting to do this this week? I don't know how to do this - but I'm trying to live out-loud, so I'm sharing with you the in-process:

1.  Be aware of your own heart and actions - confess out-loud to yourself the thoughts, the fears, and the delineations that you often keep hidden in your heart or pretend aren't there.  Name them.  The ways that you look at people differently.  The assumptions you make about what makes a neighborhood "bad" or "good."  The things I say about my neighbors' party.  When you want to lock your doors, clutch a pocketbook closer, or cross to the other side of the street.  Which parents you talk to on the playground.  Why or why not.  Jesus, have mercy.  Even our desire to disengage or the things that distract us - name them.  It's painful, but convicting.  We have to begin here - to confront our own racism, first and foremost.

2.  Read or have a conversation.  Learn more so that we can be better informed to act - I feel woefully under-educated on what, how, and where I should act or speak - deeply unaware of what is actually helpful versus not in the slightest.  Take the time to learn more in relational, historical, and tangible ways.  Ask someone - a friend, preferably - what can I do?  If you have kids, consider how you talk to them about race and ethnicity - my oldest is two, but we are trying to talk about it and are intentional to read books that help him understand the beauty of all cultures. If you need resources, I am on a hunt for them as well, so maybe we can learn together.  If you have them, I'd love to learn and receive from you.

3.   Commit to not being thin-skinned - to be willing to hear critiques of yourself or your own cultures' sins, without becoming defensive.  Give a friend permission to teach you.  To speak honestly, without fear of you removing yourself from the conversation.  Commit again and again - it's hard.  Friends, I write this with trepidation, but that means that I want to hear from you.  I want to know how I can grow.  I need your help, because I don't know how to start this journey.  I am good at writing with authority - but on this one I need instruction and your wisdom instead.

4. Christians - write a letter to your pastors.  Ask to have a longer conversation.  Did your church engage with this?  Did they engage for just one Sunday? Not at all?  Take the onus upon yourself to begin the conversation, don't wait for someone else to do it.  Then follow up.  Need ideas?  Below is the letter I sent my pastors late last week - that now I need to follow up on.

Will you join me?  Will you remind me?  Will you help me?  We will be messy.  We will not get it right all the time - or sometimes at all.  We will have to constantly - daily - be men and women of repentance.  But two steps forward, one step back, we will go forward together.

KD

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Dear Pastors,

((personal introduction of my contexts within the church))

I wanted to write to you today - a little out of my comfort zone, honestly - but with a sincere heart and a request to you.  I'd love for this to be the beginning of a conversation - not something comprehensive in and of itself.  Lord knows, I have no idea how to have this conversation.  Please forgive me if it's long - brevity in emails has never been my strong suit.

I, as I am sure you are, have been deeply troubled by the news about the Charleston church shooting - as I have been each of the times that race issues have been in the news this year alone (and they are many).  I am grieving the racism that is still so prevalent in our nation.  I am not naive enough to think that this is a new issue, nor one that is easily solved or addressed, but I am confident that it points back to a deep racial wound, long history of division, and ultimately a heart-level issue of separating ourselves from, distrusting, and thinking ourselves better than others who are different than us.   And while I am confident that it will be discussed in nearly every Black church in America this Sunday, in even just the few days since it happened, I have found majority White churches/Christians to be strangely silent, and unwilling to denounce this as the racist act that it was - horrible, sinful, racially motivated, and broken.  Unwilling, or apathetic, or too busy, to validate the grief of our brothers and sisters.  Unwilling to acknowledge that racism, while legally addressed in many ways, is still very much alive in our midst, and in our hearts.  And uninterested in acting in tangible ways.  I recognize that our church is not a "White church" per se but strives to be a church of the nations - and is in many ways. But in that sense, I think it is even more important that we not be silent.

I think our silence is powerful - and not in a good way.  Rather, it says to the Black church, "you are right. The White/majority culture church does not see racism, and your pain as its problem."  And that is not a reflection of the Body of Christ that I love, where  "If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it." (1 Cor. 12:26)

Here's what I'd love to see happen - and my request to you:

At very least, can we acknowledge the pain of our brothers and sisters, without trying to explain it?  Maybe that even is just a moment of silence, or a moment of prayer.

This is a spoken word piece that was particularly moving to me on grieving with the black church or the One Church Liturgy call to worship.

Can we acknowledge that racism is not a "those racists over there" thing - but that all of us have to examine our hearts and souls, and ask God to change us from the inside out.  That racism is not an identifying characteristic like "blue eyes" or "blond hair" but a heart attitude of superiority, indifference, or judgment.  Lead us, in a prayer of repentance.

If you haven't seen Jon Stewart's monologue, I'd highly recommend it.

And can we ask, what do we do? How do we partner in meaningful ways with our black brothers and sisters, to bring meaningful, repentant, change.  Not as a white fixer or savior, but in humble partnership. Not one time, just this Sunday, but in a long-term, committed partnership.  Are there actions that we can take together, in partnership, to see this tide shift.  Offer a tangible suggestion of actions we can take.

Here're a friend's tangible suggestions that I found helpful places to start, individually.

Or another writer's thoughts on what one can say.

Or a friend's thoughts on the need of the white church to be silent no longer.

I have high confidence in our church, in longing to be a church that loves every nation, every people, and lives out the Gospel in our day-to-day lives - and is willing to step into places that are uncomfortable . That is why I am writing to you today.  Please, please, do not be silent on this.  Please do not minimize it as the act of one insane white supremacist who acted on isolated feelings.  Please be willing to step into the gap and say to the church, to us, brothers and sisters, this has happened too many times for us not to consider what we can do.  To examine ourselves and our hearts, first and foremost, and to repent of our own biases, ignorance, and apathy.  And then to consider as a church, and individuals, how can we move forward.  To partner together with black churches to grieve, to heal, and to bless the city.  I have no idea what that looks like - but I do know that I want to be a part of it.  And maybe that's part of the further conversations...

I'm sorry for the length of this email - pastor, I think I might have given you a run for your money in loquaciousness!  But I am a recovering apathy-ist and I don't want this to be just another thing that I think "oh, that's terrible" and then move on from.  I would love to talk more about this, even as I am not sure what I would say. I don't know what to say, aside from knowing that it's time for me to say something.

Thanks for being willing to engage.  Grateful for you, your ministry and fellowship of our church.

As part of the Body,
Kristen
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