12. Race and Prejudice
12
Race and Prejudice
Good faith Christians admit their racial bias, see the image of God in others, and build diverse friendships.
If we get relationships wrong, little else matters.
The Christian God is a relational God. He exists relationally within his Triune self—as Father, Spirit, and Son—but God’s actions in the world are also driven by a mission to reconcile his relationship with humanity. He was so intent on this mission that he emptied himself by becoming the “other”—a human being.
We see a similar drawing close to the other in the way Jesus discipled the Twelve. He chose followers and friends with different experiences and lifestyles. Their differences—from fisherman to tax collector, hotheaded to cool and calculating—reflected God’s mosaic history of forging unlikely relationships to accomplish his mission.
If you have a few years of life experience under your belt, you know that human relationships are one of the primary places God does his good work of redemption and re-creation, sanctifying us into the people we were created to be. Relationships are the engine of God’s transformative work in us. And it is often when those relationships are most difficult, when the differences between us are most profound, that the deepest of God’s sanctifying, reconciling work is done.
How good faith Christians engage in relationships says more about the truth of what we believe than all our well-argued apologetics or carefully worded doctrinal statements.
How do we respond to those who live and think differently? Do we see ourselves as better and smarter? Are we open to learning lessons we’ve never even imagined about our world and ourselves?
Good faith does not prioritize relationship with God over and against relationships with one another. It reveals relationship with God in relationships with others.
I like to be a part of solving problems. Wisdom warns that no one person has an infallible perspective on any situation. Proverbs reminds us, “Where there is no counsel, the people fall; but in the multitude of counselors there is safety” (Prov. 11:14 NKJV). Because I don’t have all the answers, I convene others who might. That urge to bring people and ideas is the impetus behind Q. It’s common for me to respond to pressing issues in the church or the broader culture by inviting a group of thoughtful people with different points of view and takes on reality into a room to listen to one another and talk about those issues. Some already have relationships with one another, while others embark on new and unlikely friendships. In either case, our guards are let down. We roll up our sleeves and try to find a way through together.
For me, the need to convene in pursuit of wisdom never felt more urgent than in 2014 and 2015, when race once again rose to the surface of our national consciousness. Of course for many it has been a front-and-center reality for their entire lives, but in the last few years, many Americans began to understand that the questions of racial reconciliation were not as settled as we imagined.
When Trayvon Martin and then Eric Garner and then Michael Brown and then Tamir Rice and then Freddie Gray were killed, and then protests arose in Ferguson and Baltimore and around the country, I began to see—really see—the pain, grief, and righteous anger of African Americans. Like many of my white brothers and sisters, my gut reaction was to point out the importance of obeying the law and cooperating with law enforcement. But as I began to listen also to my black brothers and sisters, it became clear they saw these deaths not as isolated tragedies but as the latest iteration in a long, long history of death.
I realized that, when it came to race in America, I was way out of my depth. I felt lost at sea. On many cultural topics, I have at least a working knowledge of the history and issues involved. But on race, there was something going on beyond what I could begin to understand on my own.
So I did the thing I know how to do: I convened.
I made some calls and set a date, and the governor offered the Tennessee Residence as a place where ten black leaders and ten white leaders, all Jesus people down to the core, could get together and talk about what Christians can and should do about the deep and persistent racial divides in the church and the country.
The appointed day came—a beautiful, sun-dappled Nashville morning that seemed to promise peace and reconciliation. I was savoring the winding drive through the neighborhood that surrounds the governor’s mansion, admiring the stately, gracious elegance of the historic homes, when suddenly it occurred to me: some of these properties were once plantations.
This was followed by a sickening question: Had the governor’s mansion—the place I’d invited descendants of slaves to share their stories and offer their wisdom—also been a plantation?1
A pit opened up in my stomach. How had this not crossed my mind until this moment? Through the many weeks of planning and preparations, not once had I or anyone who works with me thought to consider the location’s history and what it might mean to our honored guests.
I gripped the steering wheel as my hands got clammy, and that’s when it dawned on me. This is what they mean by “white privilege.”
As a white guy in America, I have the luxury of (mostly unconsciously) expecting to belong just about anywhere I want to go. I rarely worry about whether I’ll feel like an outsider or whether anyone will be suspicious of my presence or intentions or will question my ability or right to speak my mind, pay for what I want, or succeed on my own merits. Even more fundamentally, I (mostly unconsciously) assume my views and experiences are the universal norm—everyone else is “other.” That’s why it had not occurred to me that anyone would feel uncomfortable or alienated at the historic governor’s residence: I didn’t feel uncomfortable or alienated, so how could anyone else?
I’m thankful for that drive and the troubling things I discovered about myself. But I’m even more grateful for what I learned that day. Listening to the stories and perspectives of nineteen other leaders changed me. As the day unfolded, their wisdom illuminated some paths forward, not only for the issue of race in America but also for how Christians are called to relate to anyone who is the other.2
Honor the Image of God in Each Person
Every human being carries an indelible imprint of God’s image (see Gen. 1:27). Nothing else in creation bears this mark. As Lisa Sharon Harper, evangelical and longtime mobilizer for racial and economic justice, says, “It’s the thing that actually makes us human.” As his image-bearers, we are God’s representatives, entrusted with the job of exercising “dominion” (Hebrew rada) as stewards of creation. For Lisa, the idea of exercising dominion is inextricably linked to a person’s agency—their capacity to act.
Many factors can limit a person’s agency, but the two most systemic—that limit not just individuals but entire communities or groups of people—are poverty and oppression. When people don’t have and can’t get the resources they need to provide for themselves and their families, their capacity to act as God’s representatives is limited by their needs. Likewise, when people are unjustly burdened by others’ unchecked power, their agency is limited by social, legal, and cultural inequity.
Most US adults recognize that the agency of people of color, in particular, is often limited in this way: seven out of ten Americans agree that people of color “are often put at a social disadvantage because of their race.”
For Christians, this might translate, “People of color are often limited in their ability to act as God’s representatives”—not because they are black or brown but because of the social, legal, and cultural inequities that are the enduring legacy of racial oppression. And yet evangelicals—the vast majority of whom are white3—are more than twice as likely as the general population to “strongly disagree” that people of color are socially disadvantaged because of race. They are also twice as likely to “strongly agree” that “racism is mostly a problem of the past, not the present.”
Talk about a blind spot!
These research findings lend weight to Lisa’s opening thought on that sunny Nashville morning: “The widest divide in worldview in America is found not between [politically] liberal blacks and [politically] conservative evangelical whites. The widest divide is between black and white evangelicals.”4 Our African American brothers and sisters testify that there are critical ongoing problems with racial inequality in this country, but too many of us do not hear.
We must start to listen—yes, because it’s the right thing to do but more importantly because God handcrafts human beings of every hue in his own image to act as stewards over creation. And our society’s unholy habits of injustice and inequality degrade and disempower God’s image-bearers.
Christians of good faith recognize and honor the image of God even—or especially—in the other. And therefore it’s time for us to repent of our (and our forebears’) contributions to injustice and inequality, even if those contributions have been unintentional. We must deal with the past and prepare for a more (not less) diverse future.
We should pursue reforms so that our systems—criminal justice, academic, economic—reflect racial equality and fair application of the law. Children should have access to a good education no matter their skin color or zip code. Black men, women, and children should not be arrested, convicted, and imprisoned at higher rates than other ethnicities.
We might differ on the precise mechanisms for meeting these ends, but we must prioritize justice over partisan objectives. We should also reject the use of racial issues to stoke fear and political appeals to racial animus. Our systems and our politics should reflect a biblical understanding of human dignity and equality.
Confront Racial Bias in Ourselves and Each Other
We all have biases. But the ones that should scare us most are those we can’t or won’t admit. Explicit bias is on display for all to see, but the most destructive prejudices are hidden, packed so far down in our psyche that we don’t even know they’re there.
Growing up in rural Virginia, I experienced this firsthand. Where I come from, racial differences were underlined for emphasis. A general policy of white superiority reigned over schools, churches, and neighborhoods. There were no-go zones, certain parks and such-and-such streets, where whites knew to stay away. Not because the black community had issued some kind of warning but because whites were afraid. Growing up in that environment, bias is the air you breathe. Those feelings sink in. And they can take years, decades, or even a lifetime to overcome.
As my friend David Bailey has helped me to understand, these unspoken or even unacknowledged biases are at the root of most racial animus in America today. David, a modern-day peacemaker, defines “implicit racial bias” as the unconscious attitudes or stereotypes related to race that affect our perceptions, actions, and decisions. There may be fewer true racists in post–Civil Rights America, but that doesn’t mean racism is dead and gone. Instead, it has a new face: implicit racial bias. Our biases are not explicit or deliberate, yet they have enormous power over how we see society overall and individuals who look, speak, and live differently than we do.
David Bailey is part of a community in Richmond, Virginia, called Arrabon that trains people to be multiculturally competent and to form reconciling communities. That day at the governor’s mansion in Nashville, he explained implicit racial bias like this: “Gabe is over six feet tall and pretty broad across the shoulders, but he has probably never been referred to or even thought of as a big scary white dude. But ‘big scary black dude’ just sounds normal. That’s implicit racial bias.”
The only remedy for people of good faith, David says, is for us to intentionally become aware of our unconscious biases with the help of a diverse Christian community.
Those relationships can change everything.
In seventh grade, I met my new best friend, Cedric. We did everything together—from going to church and Awana to climbing around in the woods and playing sports. Cedric’s was one of only a few black families in a church made up mostly of whites. They welcomed me into their home without hesitation. And as I look back, my friendship with Cedric was a fresh wind that blew through the stale air of racial bias I had breathed since birth. There were still plenty of unacknowledged assumptions and prejudices, but there is no doubt in my mind that my implicit biases would have been more stubbornly rooted in my heart had it not been for my relationship with Cedric and his family.
The problem for the church is that many (if not most) Christian communities in the United States are homogenous—that is, not diverse at all. And layered atop the problem of most churches’ ethnic homogeneity is the popular idea that the “good Christian” thing to do is to practice colorblindness—where we ignore differences altogether. Out of a sincerely good intention to judge others “not by the color of their skin but the content of their character,” as Martin Luther King Jr. challenged, white people often make an effort to see everyone the same—at least consciously. But colorblindness does not make space for people to appreciate different social narratives and cultural expressions. It also tends to make white people defensive—as if, by merely acknowledging differences exist, we are racists. And when we’re defensive, it’s almost impossible for us to be vulnerable and honest enough to become aware of our biases.
It’s a vicious cycle, but good faith Christians can escape by building true friendships with believers of other ethnicities who help us confront our unconscious assumptions.
Acknowledge Our Poverty of Friendships
If building true friendships across ethnic and racial divides were easy, everyone would do it. But the truth is that most of us live in a “racialized reality.” Our everyday interactions are peopled mostly by those who look, think, and act like us. Intentionally or not, most of us maintain friendships with people who are ethnically and culturally similar to us. These relationships distort our perception of reality.
Just 17 percent of Americans say it is “completely accurate” that they enjoy spending time with people who are not like themselves. That low number may be one reason many white people were caught off guard—downright shocked might be more accurate—by the intense anger black Americans expressed through the protests in Ferguson, Baltimore, and elsewhere; too few of us spend time outside our own bubble and didn’t see it coming.
Chris Heuertz was mentored by Mother Teresa and is an advocate for what he calls “contemplative activism.” He believes that the racialization of our daily reality leads to a deep poverty of friendships. In the governor’s mansion in Nashville, he challenged us to take a look at the last ten texts and phone calls on our phones. “If you’re a twentysomething Protestant black woman or a fiftysomething straight white man, most of the calls or texts you send and receive are to and from people who look like you, think like you, live like you, worship like you.” This lack of what Chris calls “textured diversity” keeps us poor in friendship and keeps us believing there is an us and them rather than a we.
Mother Teresa used to say, “We need the poor more than the poor need us.” Chris wrestled for many years to understand what she meant by those words. He now believes that it’s only through relationships with the other—the poor, the gay, the Catholic or charismatic, the black or white or brown—that we can become the we Christ intends the church to be. We need “them” if we want to be a signpost pointing to the new creation. When we form and cultivate friendships with the other, the we of the church becomes a tangible, visible sign of the kingdom of God.
Where should good faith Christians start?
Perhaps for you it will begin by pursuing a friendship with someone of a different ethnicity. Others might join a minority-led faith community for worship. Read writers and thinkers who do not share your cultural background; loving the other means actively trying to excavate, understand, and wrestle with their personal and community narratives. To do this you may need help; seek a mentor of a different color who can lead and coach you.
We believe pastors and other church leaders have a special responsibility to pursue racial reconciliation and church unity—and a majority of Americans back us up. Three-quarters of US adults agree that “Christian churches play an important role in racial reconciliation.” Especially if you are a white leader, we urge you to start listening to your fellow leaders who are also people of color. Consider inviting a local nonwhite pastor to your home or out for a meal. Explore the possibility of partnering in ministry with churches in your community that have a different ethnic majority than your church (and don’t assume you’ll take the lead). Share your pulpit with clergy from a different cultural background. Organize a regular “worship swap” with another church that uses a different style of music. Bring together ethnically diverse church leaders and congregations for an annual or even quarterly joint service.
Beyond that, consider how you can partner with minority church leaders to create safe spaces for grace-filled conversations where learning, understanding, and healing can happen. As Americans’ perceptions about the role of churches show, church-sponsored events and activities have the potential to help people feel safe and comfortable enough to share openly and honestly about difficult topics such as race, bias, and reconciliation.
At a recent Q Conference, we were privileged to interview Captain Ronald Johnson, a highway patrol officer from Missouri. If that name doesn’t ring a bell, Captain Johnson is the man who was called in to coordinate law enforcement’s response to the civil unrest that followed Michael Brown’s death. For several days the nation couldn’t tear its eyes away from this one man, wondering if he could bring calm to Ferguson or if more violence would erupt between police and protestors.
Captain Johnson became a bridge between two communities who saw the other as an enemy. And like a bridge, he got walked on from both sides. Some among the protesters called him a coward for wearing the uniform. How dare a black man represent the police who were responsible for Michael Brown’s death? He was criticized by some in law enforcement for being soft, for marching with protesters, and for apologizing for the police force’s initial heavy-handedness.
Others called him courageous.
At Q, Captain Johnson told us that, on one of his first evenings on the job, his young daughter asked, “Daddy, are you scared?”
“Yes, I’m scared,” he replied.
The next day his daughter texted a few verses from Matthew 14, where Peter walks on water toward Jesus, along with a message: “When you feel like giving up and you think you are ready to fall remember Jesus is going to pick you up, just like Peter.” Those words carried Captain Johnson through the grueling days ahead.
When we asked him what made the ultimate difference in Ferguson, he replied, “The strongest voice that brought calm to Ferguson was the clergy and those of faith that came out and ministered to the citizens of St. Louis. . . . When the law enforcement voice or [school] superintendent’s voice . . . could not calm the crowd, the faith of God did.”5 His concluding thought was sobering: “We’ve gotten to this point [where a Ferguson situation is possible] because we’ve stepped away from our faith.”
Not many of us are in a position to be a Captain Ron Johnson. But good faith Christians of every color can be a bridge that brings together us and them to become we.