Stories of Black and White

I remember the first time a Black man walked through the doors of my childhood church.

He walked in late…really late. Actually, the sermon started to wrap up by the time he took his seat in the very back. As he later explained, he had spent most of the service out front pacing. See, he was just passing through the area and was trying to decide if his desire to attend Bible Study that evening outweighed his fear of walking into an unfamiliar church in a predominantly White area. He just didn’t know what to expect or if his presence would be well-received.

I couldn’t have been more than 10 years old at the time, but I remember feeling a mix of confusion and sadness. Confusion because I couldn’t quite grasp why he felt the need to be so cautious. Sadness because I could sense the anxiety in his voice when he thanked us for letting him be a part of our church for the evening.

I don’t share that “thanked us” part to pat myself or my church on the back. Quite frankly, I’m saddened that merely allowing him to exist safely in our presence prompted him to go out of his way and express a heartfelt thank you.

Why am I telling you this story?

I suppose this interaction may not seem all that life-changing for you. But for me, this is the earliest recollection I have of coming to grips with my own White Privilege; although, I clearly didn’t have those words at the time. To tell you the truth, I don’t remember that man’s name, but I’ve never forgotten him. I think about him each and every time a new story breaks testifying to the ongoing racial tension in our nation. He had an impact on me, and I wish I could thank him for his vulnerability.

Like many in recent days, I’m spending a great deal of time processing my thoughts and feelings on racism. Of course, I’ve grappled with whether I’m “qualified” to speak up on the matter. After all, I’m White and as such will never fully grasp what it feels like to walk in the shoes of a person of color (POC).

I’ve never paced in front of a church wondering if I could walk inside due to the shade of my skin.

I’ve never worried about being mistreated for existing while White.

I’ve never been concerned about whether wearing a hoodie or ball cap in public would somehow make me look dangerous.

In the two times I have been pulled over by a police officer, I didn’t make sure I parked under a streetlight to ensure the interaction would be visible on the officer’s body camera. I didn’t grasp the steering wheel at 10 am and 2 pm to ensure the officer would see my hands. I didn’t stress over whether I’d get arrested or shot on either of those days. 

I could go on…Nevertheless, I acknowledge that a lack of first-hand experience ought to be considered a lousy excuse for silence in the face of obvious injustice. After all, we can champion justice while learning about injustice.

Not only must we look in the eyes of the oppressed and recognize their intrinsic worth as humans who bear the Image of God, we also must recognize that we ourselves bear the Image of God. As such, God assigns us the responsibility of caring for and contributing to the flourishing of the world around us on His behalf (Genesis 1 and Psalm 8. See Also: The Gospel Project). There’s no room for silence in the face of suffering.

So, where do we go from here?

Might I suggest we begin by sharing our personal stories? Stories have such incredible power to open our eyes to a world we might not otherwise notice.

Of course, the process might be painful and require that we make ourselves vulnerable. For some of us, it might feel incriminating as we acknowledge our own misconceptions about POC while for others of us, it might feel pointless. After all, it could be that you’ve tried to share your stories for years to little avail. If that’s you, I’m so sorry you’ve not been heard and I humbly ask you try sharing once more.

Tell me. I see you, I’m listening, and I want to understand your story.

Would you share with me in the comments?