"Reconciliation is the Game Changer"

On Sunday, August 9, 2015 I preached my first sermon at Grace Christian Fellowship in Philadelphia, PA under the guidance of Rev. Cean James, pastor and founder.

Check it out here.

Click here to view the full sermon.

I mention this at the beginning of my sermon, but I modeled it after Jesus' initial sermon, found in Luke 4:14-30. In this passage Jesus proclaims what his ministry on Earth is going to look like. He describes who He is and what He came to accomplish, saying: 

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me,

    because he has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim liberty to the captives
    and recovering of sight to the blind,
    to set at liberty those who are oppressed,
19 to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor.”

-Jesus (Luke 4:18-19)

I, too, with my initial sermon, lay out who I am and what I understand my calling to be. The Lord has given me a burden for restoring people to right relationship with God, bringing people together, and pursuing justice--all summarized in one word: reconciliation. 

Through my public declaration of this calling I have already learned so much on many levels, and I look forward to everything else I have to learn--about myself, about the Church, and about the prophetic voices that have come before me in the ministry of reconciliation.

Thank you for your support and prayers as I continue to explore my calling and seek out knowledge and experience to push me further into what God has in store for me.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come. All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. Therefore, we are ambassadors for Christ, God making his appeal through us. We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God."

-Paul (2 Corinthians 5:17-20)

Confessions of a 20-Something White Man from SC

I’m sure you’ve heard by now about the tragedy that occurred on Wednesday night in my hometown of Charleston, SC. As the reactions poured out on social media, I became increasingly uncomfortable as people entered an almost ritualistic process of putting distance between themselves and the perpetrator, Dylann Roof.

I saw the same thing happen when white police officer Michael Slager killed Walter Scott, a black man, in North Charleston. Then I couldn’t quite put my finger on what made me uncomfortable, but now I understand—my fellow South Carolinians are unwilling to accept that we have created a culture where this sort of tragedy happens. We make them out to be ‘one bad cop’ or ‘one troubled youth’ instead of sons of South Carolina who really aren’t that different from us.

Take, for example, South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley, who defiantly declared at a prayer vigil on Thursday, “What happened in that church is not the people of South Carolina… We are a state of faith, we are as state of prayer, we are a state of love.”

But I’d like to take a moment to say in fact, Governor Haley, we are a state that raised a white supremacist that entered the prayer service of an historic black church and murdered nine black people.

Most people immediately proclaimed how different this killer was from them, but as I took in the story, I was struck by how much we have in common. I fit the initial description released by the police: “white male, early 20s, clean shaven, slight build.” (I think I have a better haircut than Dylann, but I’ll let you decide.)

Kind of a strange reaction, right? Of all South Carolinians that look like Dylann and me, I probably have the most right to distance myself from him. I completed high school. I went away to a fancy, liberal college. I moved to Philadelphia (Yankee territory!). I’m a member of a black church. I live in a black neighborhood and work at an organization that serves a largely poor black community.

Indeed, there is great distance between the path that Dylann took and the one I’ve followed. But still, I couldn’t help but feel like we weren’t all that different.

For starters, Dylann and I were educated according to the same state standards, which include SC history. I love history, so I soaked it in. I would have remembered if we ever learned about the black freedom struggle in South Carolina, for instance about the Denmark Vesey slave revolt and the burning of Mother Emanuel AME Church. It wasn’t until college that I had the opportunity to explore the South Carolina Civil Rights movement. Black history wasn’t taught in my SC classrooms.

And I grew up misunderstanding black culture that was all around me. Each week we drove past an AME church on the way to our (almost exclusively white) church. And every so often I would say, “I just don’t understand their name. How can you be Methodist and Episcopal?” Dylann Roof would probably have agreed when I rolled my eyes at such an ignorant name that only black people would come up with. (If you know the history of the AME Church, you recognize the irony of my thinking.[1])

And finally, I confess that as a kid I was kind of obsessed with Confederate war history. I had books about Confederate history, a replica CSA soldier’s cap, and for an elementary school art project I used paper pulp to create a Confederate flag. Like Dylann, I grew up celebrating that flag as a symbol of the glory days of the South. And why shouldn’t I? When I was a kid it still flew high above the state capitol building.[2]

White South Carolina, we have rushed to put distance between ourselves and Dylann Roof, to say that his actions don’t represent what we stand for. I’m not afraid to say that Dylann Roof and Preston Hogue sound pretty similar; we were raised in the same white South Carolina culture! We may want distance from Dylann, but if we’re honest we can see a little bit of Dylann Roof in all of us.

We must confess that Dylann Roof is a white South Carolinian. And we must confess that South Carolina is a state where we would rather celebrate the glory days of the South than admit they were purchased with black lives.

…a state where our children only learn the white side of history.

…a state where we would really prefer our kids to not have interracial relationships.

…a state where we ignore black history and culture.

…a state where we would rather everyone have a gun than everyone have healthcare.

…a state where symbols of hatred are revered, defended, and celebrated.

We must confess that South Carolina is a state that raised a white supremacist that entered the prayer service of an historic black church and murdered nine black people.

White people of South Carolina, let this tragedy be a wake-up call so that we can truly become the state Governor Haley and all decent people long for, “a state of love.” But let’s not deny where we are right now as we work toward that goal:

We are a state that raised a racist mass murderer. Until we own that fact, we will raise another one and face this tragedy again.

---

[1] The AME Church took its name from the white denomination they left—the Methodist Episcopal Church (now United Methodist Church)—because of discrimination against blacks.

[2] At the time of writing, the flag still flies on the grounds of the state capitol after a long fight to have it removed from atop the building. [Update: the flag was removed from statehouse grounds on July 10, 2015.]

Our Struggle

"This is their experiential moment, that moment when the weight becomes too much, when the abstract becomes real, when expectations of continual, inexorable progress slam into the back of a slow-moving reality, plagued by fits and starts and sometimes prone to occasional regressions."

Recently I read these words in a New York Times op-ed column by Charles M. Blow that captures a realization I've had while participating in the demonstrations sparked by Ferguson and Staten Island. Blow writes that he grew up, like most of us, learning about the black freedom struggle that has existed in this country since its founding. But he didn't have a connection to it until the killings of Rodney King and James Byrd, Jr. Those events awakened in him the fervor of the Civil Rights Movement and showed him their relevance in his own day.

Just a few months old in 1991 when Rodney King was killed, I learned about the tragic event in the same way that I did Jim Crow: in history class. And although I've learned a lot about what modern systemic racism looks like, including mass incarceration, I haven't yet felt the fervor and urgency of the black freedom struggle that has at points gripped this nation and moved it to action, such as when slavery and then Jim Crow ended.

That fervor has again been awakened in this country, and my generation is once again taking up arms for true equality. And I feel it.

To participate in this movement I recently attended "Strange Fruit: Seven Last Words of Seven Black Lives," an event hosted by POWER (Philadelphians Organized to Witness, Empower, and Rebuild), an interfaith group of congregations committed to justice in Philadelphia. The main feature of "Strange Fruit" was seven sermons reflecting on the last words of black men and women whose known killers (most of whom were police officers) went unpunished. The service also included worship, poetry, prayer, an update from those on the ground in Ferguson, and demands POWER is issuing in response to such unpunished killings.

The event opened up to me in a mysterious way the deep and long struggle of black people in this country. As I listened to poetic words and sounds, submitted to culturally different worship styles, and heard a people cry out to their God, I realized that I had stepped into an ancient struggle, a pain, a perseverance that has endured hundreds of years. We mourned the loss of people slain for their black skin, a dirge that has been sung over and over. We lamented the reality that black sons and daughters could be next. In the prayers, sermons, and songs I saw the resilience of the black soul and felt its strength, its warm embrace, and heard its deep, melodic refrain.

I also witnessed a mobilization--people organizing, demanding, crying out for justice to the powers that be. It was a collision of history with the present struggle. The demands, although distinct in their particularities, have been the same for centuries. And here they were in my context, in reaction to current events, sometimes made by people my age. Everything seemed at once new and ancient--like the gurgling of molten lava to form a new island.

See me pictured at "Strange Fruit" in bottom right corner.

There I stood in the middle of the ancient struggle. Suddenly it was not just the struggle from ages past, but it was of my time, of my generation and, though I am not black, it was mine.

As my generation boldly steps forward to claim the struggle in a new way and determines to no longer be dragged backward, we can find hope in the advances of generations past, the faithfulness of God to respond to the cries of His people. Blow titled his article "This Is Your Moment." Indeed, this moment is ours, but it carries the momentum of a few hundred years. Let's push forward like so many before us in the ancient struggle against racism--our struggle.

Outside the Gates of University City

I love the location of my apartment—situated between some of the poorest neighborhoods in Philly and “University City,” where some of the wealthiest, most privileged students in the country live, learn, and play. The contrast between them can be staggering sometimes: the rich and the poor, the privileged and the oppressed, the white and those of color, the clean and the dirty, those gorging and those starving—so close in proximity, yet so distant from one another.

I have positioned myself to be able to engage in both of those spaces. In my work and church, I am often serving, learning, and worshipping with Philadelphia’s poor. But I am also volunteering with the chapter of InterVarsity Christian Fellowship at the University of Pennsylvania, so I have a foothold in that world, too.

At this point, I’m pretty comfortable in both. I’m used to being me in both of those spaces, and they each offer me a lot, but the two don’t always know what to do with each other. It’s the tension between them that I often find myself navigating.

Like this conversation I heard on my way home from the Penn IV Bible study last Thursday between a group of students I didn’t know:

--You see a lot of people like that on the streets.

--Yeah have you seen the guy down near our apartment? The one that’s always just sitting?

--Yeah! He sits there all day—the one with the red shirt. His eyes are yellow as the sun!

--I mean when I see him, I get worried if he’s going to die in like the next 3 months or something. It’s sad.

--Well he does it to himself. At seven in the morning, with one bottle already down—that’s how you’re gonna spend your day? Where do you go from there?

--I really wonder how much longer he’s gonna live, though. It’s depressing to think about, but it can’t be much longer…

--Nah, those people don’t die. You can’t get rid of em.

This conversation is in itself interesting, one bro-ish student intrigued by and genuinely concerned for a man he sees dying, or at least only minimally alive, the other student wondering why the man can’t pull himself together and make something more of himself. Neither of them is really doing anything about the guy they apparently see all the time.

What makes the conversation more interesting is what we discussed at Bible study right before I overheard it: the story of the rich man and Lazarus (Luke 16: 19-31), which illustrates exactly the situation of the these students and the red-shirted, sitting man.

Like the rich man in the story, the students probably have way more than they need to survive; they’ll likely have incredibly successful careers and live comfortably, rarely in need. And like Lazarus, the red-shirted man sits right outside their apartment, a social outcast in desperate need. Finally, like Jesus’ story, the college kids know all about the guy who sits there and even suspect he may die soon, yet they do nothing for him.

Wow. Who knew the story could get so real?

I’ve learned over the last few years to love like Jesus loved, to love the poor, who, if they’re like Lazarus, go to heaven just because they live lives of anguish. That’s why I live, work, and attend church in the ‘hood, to have as many opportunities as possible to share Jesus’ love for the poor.

But God is also teaching me to love the rich guys, the college students with access, opportunity, resources, and privilege. The rich man in the story ends up in hell, begging for a touch of water on his tongue to relieve his agony, and although it’s hard to love him based on how he treated Lazarus, it’s also difficult to read about his eternity. Likewise, it was hard for me to love those guys as they talked about the man with the red shirt. It hurt me to hear so little regard for his life. But I don’t like to consider the idea of them sharing the same fate as the rich man in Jesus’ story.

University City is just as much a part of Philadelphia as Mantua, Powelton, or Southwest Philly. Loving this city means loving all of its people and positioning myself between the different worlds within it to pursue reconciliation.

While the conversation I overheard was disheartening, the ones I shared at Bible study were encouraging, with students asking questions like, “Who are the ones sitting outside our gates?” and making plans to bridge those divides by showing love to a neighbor who spends much of his time on the street. At rare moments in this city I get to see people reach across those divides. It’s those moments I love most about where I live.

You Are Here

It started today when I saw an article responding to the feeling that someone else's calling was better than one's own. I don't really feel that way, but in skimming it, I found a few thoughts that were not new to me, but ones I needed to hear: "You are on a long journey of working toward where you are going. Have patience," and "The process is just as important as the destination. What you are learning now is important for where you are going." These are things that I understand. But it's still hard.

After reading those words I kept going on with my day, but they kept swirling around in the back of my head, causing more of a distraction than I thought they actually should have. I didn't have time to consider them, so I tried to file them away for later contemplation, but I couldn't stuff them away with enough force to keep them suppressed.

At the end of my work day, I headed to Bible study at my church where we discussed Joseph (one of my favorites!), who many of us know as the King of Dreams. (If you don't know it, read Genesis 37-47.) The topic of the teaching was--you guessed it--dreams. Not like Joseph's literal dreams he had when he was sleeping, but more like the aspirations, the goals we have for life. Kind of like my calling. As I kept listening, I realized there was a connection to the thoughts that earlier had bounced around in my head and the feelings that accompanied them--discontent, eagerness, frustration, wonder, excitement.

Like Joseph I have dreams. I have a place in life I want to go, a community I want to be a part of, a Church I want to build, a neighborhood I want to love, a society I want to change, relationships I want to see healed.

But I'm not there yet. I'm still learning, still growing. But I have so much vision, so much ambition, so much to pursue, that sometimes it hurts. I'm not there yet; there's a process of getting there. And I'm burdened by the process, but I know that it will it will make me a better leader one day to go through this process now.

While I'm in this formation process, I find myself caught between gratitude and ambition. I appreciate so deeply what has been entrusted to me for this time. I write that with all sincerity. But is it wrong to want more? I want so badly to be there--where I'm going--now.

And I fear my ambition, my longing, sometimes shows itself as ingratitude. Am I just as unruly as young, foolish Joseph proclaiming his prophetic dream that all--including his superiors--would one day bow down to him? Is it wrong to see myself as someone who will one day have influence and be a part of something where God is moving mightily? I don't equate my dreams with Joseph's (i.e. I don't see people bowing down to me...), but I do feel like one day I will be among the leaders of something incredible. And I don't want to feel bad for having that dream. But should I?

I live in this tension. I have amazing opportunities and I'm taking full advantage of them. I see how they build toward where I feel like God has called me. But it's hard to sense that calling and not be there--where I'm going--yet. And it's hard to feel like one day I'll have more responsibility and not yet have it. So yes, "The process is just as important as the destination," is good for me to hear. But it is really hard to hear. And I'm not finding it helpful. So what is helpful?

Knowing that where I am has just as much value as where I'm going. And its value isn't based on the value of where I'm going. Wherever I'm going (and honestly, I really don't know where that is) may be incredible beyond imagination, but that's not what gives my present location value. God has me here now, and later I'll be there. This is not just a process preparing me for when I'm there. I am here. So why wouldn't I fully engage with it? This brings me peace.

If you're interested, here's the link to the article I read. The "quotes" above are actually paraphrases.

I See

You see a cramped block.

I see a community.

You hear senseless rap, unnecessarily loud.

I hear self-expression.

You see a news story of a shooting.

I see a neighbor get shot.

You see wasteful spending.

I see a celebration.

You see black skin.

I see diversity: dark-skinned, light-skinned, and chocolate.

You see a drug dealer.

I see a man who built a business.

You see drug money.

I see the only capital investment in this neighborhood for decades.

You hear shouting and wailing, a disruption.

I hear worship.

You see a future athlete.

I see a black youth who loves to read, write, paint, and make bracelets.

You see a lazy black woman.

I see a tired but strong mother (and grandmother) with a degree and debilitating chronic pain.

You see another dangerous black man off the streets.
I see the latest victim of the prison industrial complex.

You see a culture of poverty.

I see an oppressive system.

I know what you see because I used to see the same things.

But I heard rumors of something different. So I moved to Southwest Philly.

Relationship--with a person, a place, an institution--changes things. It changed what I saw, heard, felt, thought. It confirmed the truth behind the rumors. There is something different.

Photo credit to Walter Levi Wawra.

Behind the Veil

Over the course of the last year we've made friends with a lot of our neighbors. It's easy to meet people by just hanging out on the block, and when you share the same space all the time, you eventually get to know people. 

But some are more difficult to be friends with. Usually it's something like fear or misunderstanding that puts a moment of hesitation between you and your neighbor and keeps you from fully interacting with one another. 

There's one family at the end of our block where that was the case. Although the kids from this family are often outside, we saw the parents much less often. We played with their kids regularly, especially their nine-year-old son, the second-oldest of five. Like most kids, he always runs up when we come onto the block. When we did different activities with the kids he, and sometimes his siblings, were there too. So we played ball, painted, chalked up the sidewalk, and read together.

But we didn't let them into our house. Other kids would come in and play on Saturday afternoons, but not the ones from that family. They wanted to so badly, but as a team we decided long ago that we must meet a child's parent and have permission before they can play in our house. And we had never met their parents because they rarely spent time outside.

And when their mom did make an appearance, it was from behind a veil. Something about the veil made it difficult to approach her, especially being known on the block as a "missionary" from the church around the corner.

From the beginning we had a hunch that they Muslim because of their head coverings. Islam is pretty common in Philly, especially in Southwest, so it's not really a big deal to anyone around here, including us. But for some reason the fact that she was Muslim, represented by her veil, made it a little more difficult to approach her. I wondered if my presence was offensive or if she would want to speak to me. Maybe that's why she never comes outside?

 

But one day I did. She was sitting with some of the other women I know, so I greeted them and introduced myself and her. I told her I enjoyed playing with her son, that he was a bright kid with a lot of questions. And after that conversation the veiled face had a name: Ms. T. 

I wasn't the only one initiating a friendship with Ms. T. Nicole, who has much less inhibition than me, had been trying to be friends with her for a while and actually invited her and the family to come to our house for dinner on Saturday. And, to my surprise, they came!

After she got into the house with the door closed behind her, she reached up and removed her veil. For the first time I saw her face. And it was as if our invitation to friendship was accepted. For the next two hours we talked, ate, danced, and had a great time together. Some of the kids were away for the weekend, so it allowed us to have more personal conversations with Ms. T and her oldest daughter. It was one of the most lively, engaging, and comfortable community dinners we have had in a while. Clearly my assumptions about her--that she didn't want to talk to the missionaries, that we were an offensive presence--were wrong.

In our conversations we learned that the reason Ms. T doesn't come out of the house often is because she has chronic pain that makes it difficult to do much at all. She wants so badly to work, but between her pain and a special-needs three-year-old, it's nearly impossible. 

Just like the label of "missionary" doesn't keep me from wanting friends on the block, I shouldn't have made the same assumptions based on Ms. T's veil. She enjoyed the time with us and stayed later than most. 

As she left, she covered her face once more. But now I know what's behind the veil. It's not a mystery. It's Ms. T, a friend.

**Some might read this and blame Ms. T for my fear and misunderstanding: "If she didn't wear a veil, it would have made things easier." I do not at all intend to blame or speak poorly of Muslims or anyone else who dons a face covering. I was wrong from the beginning for allowing her veil to be a source of discomfort for me. I am sharing a journey of overcoming fear and misunderstanding to become friends across barriers of difference. I inherited those fears from society, and I write this with hope that our society one day understands and accepts women who choose to wear a veil.