Privilege in a Dangerous World

A More Dangerous Place
I, like many of you, went to worship on Sunday with the shadow of the attack on the synagogue in

Poway, California, on my heart.  When one adds up the cumulative carnage of this attack, the attack on the synagogue in Pittsburg, the attack on the mosque in New Zealand, the driver in California who is charged with eight counts of attempted murder for intentionally targeting Muslims, the hundreds of Christians killed in Sri Lanka, and the bombing of three African-American churches in Louisiana, it can feel as if resurrection hasn’t really taken hold in the rest of the creation.

Although we all carry grief for these outrages spawned by prejudice and white supremacy, many of us—being European-Americans participating in the majority faith of our nation—perhaps do not feel directly threatened. 

This struck me as I sat in one of our churches this past Sunday, a church of fellow ABC/NYS brothers and sisters from the Burmese Diaspora.  These new Americans are the type of people who become the target of animus born of nationalism and racism.  (Nationalism and patriotism are not the same thing.  These words grew to carry different baggage in the 20th century.)  To sit in that church this past Sunday was more dangerous than it used to be.

We have a variety of ABC/NYS churches where the majority of worshippers are people of color.   Sunday morning, the threat felt among them was not abstract or hypothetical; they were sitting in places that are more dangerous than they used to be.

Power-intoxicated white supremacy, self-centered nationalism, and fearful racism are a threat to many of our ABC/NYS brothers and sister.

People of Privilege

So what about those of us who live with the privilege granted to white Christians in America?  We often hear the timely admonition “if you see something, say something.”  Maybe it is time to start practicing “if you hear something, say something.” 

We cannot shed our privilege like a coat.  We can, however, use it.  When we hear something ugly and dangerous, we can speak up on behalf of people who do not move through life with our unearned privilege.  We can listen to what is going on around us, and we can intervene.  We can demand that the dignity due those who bear within them the image of the Creator of the universe be acknowledged and honored.

I do not think it a stretch to see this as a Christian duty.  The author of 2 Timothy writes: "I solemnly urge you:  proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience in teaching [4:1b-2]."  We can be mindful of the time in which we live and our opportunities to teach about what it means to honor the one who created us all.

Giving the Dignity Due
I was waiting in line at the Rite Aid recently, in a hurry to get home to dinner.  I stood behind two Hispanic men whose English was not yet fluent.  They wore dusty work clothes and dirt-encrusted boots; they obviously had spent the day working hard.  One of them was buying left-over Easter candy, all of it 50% off but without the prices clearly marked.  The clerk was trying to explain the various prices.  One of the men kept putting back one item after another; apparently he had a spending limit.  It was quite a process to complete this transaction.  The clerk was incredibly patient and kind and warm, smiling through the whole encounter.  He even tried speaking some Italian to them, thinking that it might be easier for them to understand than English.  I was proud of this man using his position and privilege to make these men feel comfortable and of value.  It was a small thing to do, but it was a powerful expression of kindness and character.

None of us can compel the creation to embrace resurrection, but we can speak out when those around us treat people as if they do not carry within them the image of the Creator of all things who raised Jesus from the dead. 

We, who were undeniably privileged by our culture at birth, can use that privilege for the benefit of those who do not move through the world as easily as we do.  We can at least be kind and loving and affirming to those who among are not so treated all the time, and in that moment resurrection breaks out.

Jim Kelsey
Executive Minister—American Baptist Churches of New York State.

 

The Hope of Lent: We Can Change

The hope of Lent is that we will come out of it a bit different than when we entered, having changed in some way for the better.  When I think of people changing, I think of the pastor of a church I once attended.

First Baptist Church, with its tall white columns and pipe organ and church suppers with real plates, sat just off the town square and was an institution of influence in that southern county-seat town. I joined the Second Baptist Church, with is low slung one-story red brick building and wood paneled sanctuary; it sat on the edge of town and was not a place of power.

I was serving as an intern campus minister at the nearby university.  People assumed I would join First Baptist.  I don’t clearly remember why I joined the other church.  Maybe I wanted to enter fully into the cross-cultural experience of living in a small southern town; I was from the urban north.  Perhaps it was an amateurish attempt at ethnography.  In any case, I joined Second Baptist and parked among Chevrolet pickups instead of Buick sedans.

I began taking several of my male African-American students with me to church on Sunday; they could not afford to go home on the weekend.  The young men were treated politely. They were most likely the first people of color to worship in that church.

One day the pastor took me aside and shared that it was OK for these young men to worship at Second; they were students and would be gone at the end of the year, as would I. He went on to say, however, there would be a problem if one them ever tried to join. So I needed to share that with them or stop bringing them. I told the pastor that I would do neither of those things.  In response he shared that if one of these young men were to present himself for membership, well that would “not be good for me or for you.”

I had moved south with a robust sense of self-satisfied superiority when it came to issues of race.  I believed the south was way behind the north in this arena. My first pastorate in Philadelphia years later disabused me of any naiveté I might have had about the north as the land of enlightenment and justice when it came to racism; but back then in that small town, I was still clothed in my arrogance-producing naiveté.  I went home from that conversation feeling pretty good about myself.

Several months later I was daydreaming my way through one of the pastor’s sermons.  He always ended up preaching about the same three things: gambling; the liquor dealers; and “liberal” politicians.  I already knew he was against all three.  Besides, the closest place to gamble legally was a 150 miles away; it was dry for 80 miles in every direction; and I was not registered to vote in that State. 

I came awake when in the middle of a sermon one Sunday this pastor said the words  “racial prejudice.” He said it was wrong.  He went on to say, and I will never forget the words:  “Don’t look at me like that.  I come from the same place you all come from, but something happened to me.”  He went on to say that the love of God in Jesus changed him; he wasn’t like that anymore.  I was stunned at the risk he was taking in that moment.

As I reflected upon his words later in the day, I engaged in what ethnographers call “reflexivity.”  That is where ethnographers, while studying another group of people, also study themselves.  We grow in self-understanding as we grow in our understanding of others.  I realized I carried a pack of stereotypes and prejudices in my own soul.  I also wondered, “How much was I willing to risk to do the right thing?”

Not long after that, two of these students joined the church.  I am sure there were some in the church who did not like it; but that day as the two young men stood at the front of the sanctuary, they were swamped by people welcoming them.  Change was gaining the upper hand.

Lent is about change, about coming out of it a bit different than we went into it.

People can change.  I saw it in a pastor, while sitting six rows back, center pew, during a sermon to which I was not really listening.  I saw it among pick-up driving folks at a red brick church at the edge of a southern county seat town.  I experienced it as I saw some things about myself through the lens of another’s courage.

We really can change.  That is the hope of Lent.

Jim Kelsey
Executive Minister—American Baptist Churches of New York State