I wish I didn’t have to say what I am going to say. This is not a sermon. This is a discourse. A discourse so we can discuss, and in our discussion find the way forward. I take comfort in the words from James 1:19, “My dear brothers and sisters, take note of this: everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to become angry.” For two weeks, I’ve been listening and now I must speak, and not in anger but in love.

My record on race is not great. I was raised in a racist culture. I heard the jokes. I was taught the stereotypes of black people on my grandpa’s knee. I was infected with it from the conversations of some of the adults around me.

We had a Confederate Flag raft[1] growing up. There was no cognitive dissonance in having that flag in the same house as my great-great-grandfather’s Springfield Musket that he took to fight against that flag with the Union army.

As much as it shames me to admit to you today, I wrote a defense of the Confederate Flag in my senior year of high school. I said it was for state’s rights. I said it was a symbol of being a rebel. I said other things to cover up what I subconsciously knew the flag stood for all along: Bigotry. Prejudice. White Supremacy.

I went to college and my mostly white world was shattered. I took a black history class and black media studies. I studied to become a resident assistant and had diversity training. I was shocked to learn of just how horrible Jim Crow laws were. I was inspired in my Martin Luther King Jr. class where we read his writings. My heart broke and I learned some hard things. Yet I still rejected the full reality of racism and how far it reached. I denied that I had any white privilege.

I was in denial because the extent of the pain was so much. The weight of the tragedy of black bondage, slavery, and oppression made me feel guilty and powerless and hopeless. As the Rev. Dr King said, “Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality.”[2]

I hated the feeling of guilt. I hating the feeling of being trapped by such a horrible history of slavery and Jim Crow, and the Ku Klux Klan, and of over 3,000 lynchings of innocent black folk. To distance myself from that pain, I tried to console myself with the fact that my ancestors weren’t slave owners. We fought for the Union. We were poor Irish and Slovak immigrants who broke their backs in the steel mills and brickyards. I didn’t have privilege. I’m not part of this problem. I’m not interrelated. I’m not racist. And I said this knowing full well that we had a musket of a Union soldier and the Confederate Flag in the same house.

I believed this well into seminary. Until one day, I was speaking with a fellow student who was black. We had just had a class on white privilege and they asked how I felt. I said that I didn’t believe it. I didn’t have it. I was raised poor.

They said that of course I had white privilege. I was the example of white privilege. I was a tall, somewhat handsome white male. I had won the genetic lottery in this country.

I still denied it.

My friend said that white folks and black folks both have THE TALK with their kids. Yet this means two different things. For white families, THE TALK is about the birds and the bees. For black families, THE TALK is how to survive when pulled over by the police.

My friend said that I couldn’t even imagine what it was like growing up as a black child in the south during Jim Crow. To be bullied. To be made fun of. To live in fear. To be followed in the grocery store because the color of your skin automatically made you a criminal.

I said that I did know what it was like to be followed in the grocery store. I was followed once in a local store. We rarely shopped there. I wondered if it was because I had mowed all day and looked pretty shabby that they followed me. I paid and left and didn’t go back until the store changed ownership. But I know what it’s like to be followed.

They looked at me, blinked and said, “Wow. I didn’t know that about you. I’m sorry that happened. Yet you were followed because of your clothes. You just had to change your clothes in one store. I can’t change my skin. And it’s happened in multiple stores.”

I was floored. They were right. That’s what it took for me to acknowledge my privilege. Privilege doesn’t mean that I won’t have pain or an easy life. Privilege means that one of the sources of that pain won’t be my skin color.

Privilege means that you can have a different story in this country simply because of your skin color. If all things were equal between two people save for the amount of melanin in one’s skin, you can have radically different lives.

And we are interrelated in the history of the past mistreatment of other folks because of their skin color. And we hate that fact. We deny it. We complain more about property destruction than the unjust and unnecessary taking of a life that spawned the demonstrations.

In response, I’ve tried to learn about stories other than my own. I read books by black authors and theologians. I watch movies with black leads. I seek out black artists and poets. I’m by no means a role model when it comes to anti-racism as it’s still in me. I’m still in process. Yet the learning and the openness to having the conversation and thinking about it and discovering the realities of racism in myself, in my society, and in our history… that is something we all can do.

It is something I know our church can do because you have done it. In my first months as your pastor, I went on Luke’s Listening Tour. I wanted to go to lunch and have dinner with as many folks as I could. I wanted to learn your story and the people who make up the body of Christ here. So I took a page from Jesus and spent time around the table.

At one session, one of you told me why you joined this church. On your first Sunday visiting sometime in the 1960s, you saw how our church hosted a black congregation that was in the process of building their own sanctuary. You joined up and have been a staple here ever since.

I learned at the table that we are the church of H.G. Blake[3]. Mr. Blake built the Phoenix Block where the bank is. He served as a colonel of the 166^th Ohio Infantry in the civil war. He was a conductor on the Underground Railroad. After the war, he served as a member of the Ohio House of Representatives and in the Ohio State Senate where he worked to end the black laws. The black laws were laws in Ohio similar to Jim Crow. He is our church ancestor. He did this because of his faith. His faith that the God he followed was a God of every nation, of all people. Jesus came to save because God so loved the world, not just the people we like. We have at least 5 houses that were on the Underground Railroad here in Medina, we are the perfect place for a change. God works in unexpected places through unexpected people. That’s us!

We stand on the shoulders of giants. And it is our time now to step up and learn and have the hard conversations. For we are losing too many lives. Trayvon Martin should have been enough. Tamir Rice in Cleveland should have been enough.  Too many lives have been lost due to racism and white folk’s unwillingness to have the conversation.

Here is how we count the lives lost. One life. One life. One life. For each life is connected to a family, a community, and our own lives. Until we see our life connected with our neighbors, we won’t get anywhere close to the kingdom of God. It is unity. It is peace. It is a place where all are welcomed to the table to share their story and see it in God’s story. Each life is a sacred story. Each life interrelated with the other.

Suppose you had a hundred sheep, and one ran away. One refused to see itself as part of the flock. The Good Shepherd leaves the 99 and searches and finds the one. The Shepherd comes back rejoicing saying to their friends, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

Don’t you see? Don’t you see that we are in a moment to recognize that we are interrelated to a wider group of people than we realize? Don’t you see that we white folk are the lost sheep who are acting like we are separate and independent from the flock. We need to repent and think differently about this God who is searching us out and bringing us back. I rejoice! And God’s flock of all different colors; black, brown, red, all who are precious in God’s sight are waiting to welcome us back and rejoice!

I rejoice that I’m starting to see just how interrelated we are. Just how much we have in common. Much more than the lies of white supremacy told me. I rejoice that area pastors gathered on the Square last weekend and again this Wednesday to talk about how to faithfully tackle the sin of racism for it has no place in God’s kingdom. And we’re meeting again later this month to continue the work. For even we pastors must see that we are interdependent upon one another

We are interrelated and we can no longer deny it, for your life and my life are tied up. When I heard of Tamir Rice’s death, I saw my own story. I took a BB gun to a local park when I was little, and my friend and I shot cans off of the baseball field dugout. Tamir was killed for doing the same thing because he was black, and I was white. One life.

Ahmaud Arbery went out for a jog. Like I do. His jog took him through another neighborhood in his town, much like mine do. He stopped to look at a house being constructed. This used to be my job in the Washington D.C. area. I can’t tell you the number of construction sites I walked onto. Even here in Medina, there’s a whole house reconstruction that I go and look at in Forest Meadows. Yet I am alive, and he was run down and killed. We did the same exact thing. The only difference was the color of our skin. One life.

Brionna Taylor worked as an emergency room technician. She was shot and killed in her own apartment by the police. No body cameras were turned on. In this pandemic, we need all the hospital workers and nurses we can get. Because someone thought she hung around with drug dealers and “sinners.” The number one complaint about Jesus was just who he hung around with. People shouldn’t die due to the company they supposedly keep. One life.

George Floyd was allegedly under arrest for trying to pass a counterfeit $20 bill. Officer Derek Chauvin knelt on George’s neck for 9 minutes as George pleaded with him. Nine minutes. When I asked a Medina City Police Officer at the protests last weekend how he felt, he said, “Disgusted. What Chauvin did is what I’ve been fighting all my 20-year career against. That’s bad policing. That’s so dehumanizing. Once I have the suspect in handcuffs, I tap their shoulder three times to bring myself back to our shared humanity. I am disgusted. This should never have happened.” One life.

Medina Mayor Dennis Hanwell used to be the chief of police. He was one of your references when I was interviewing to become your pastor. I asked him whether something like what happened to Eric Garner or Tamir Rice or Philando Castile could happen in Medina. How would he respond to the statement that black lives matter? He said that he believes in community policing. That his officers know the community and act in ways to deescalate the situation. He believes that Medina is a great place to live and he’s committed to making it even better for all people, regardless of race. He’s committed to the conversation. And I am proud that he is our mayor for he put that statement three years ago into practice at the demonstrations last weekend.

Last weekend, Pastor Arthur Ruffin from Second Baptist locked arms with Police Chief Ed Kinney. And our mayor locked arms with Pastor Dawan Buie from the United Methodist Church, and walked around our square. To say “no more.” To say “this stops here.” No more lives. We seek the transformation and healing of the world.

And it starts with us. We cannot ignore this issue. We can no longer pretend that it doesn’t affect us. We can no longer pretend that the problem is out there, in other people. You know, the really racist ones. We have more Confederate Flags flying in Medina than I am comfortable with. I am uncomfortable not because I’m some purist who doesn’t know what those mean, but because I’m one who used to fly and defend that flag. I used to deny that it had anything to do with race, when it had everything to do with race. I used it to separate myself from the flock.

I denied the realities of the history of our country because I couldn’t handle the pain or the guilt. I denied the privilege my gender and skin color have afforded me. I avoided having the conversation and was silent when the topic came up. Now I must say Black Lives Matter.

Many will counter with “All Lives Matter.” And that’s true. But it’s like Doug Williford wrote, “If my wife comes to me in obvious pain and asks, ‘Do you love me?’ an answer of ‘I love everyone’ would be truthful but also hurtful and cruel in the moment. If my coworker comes in and says, ‘My dad just died.’ A response of, ‘All parents die.’ Would be truthful, but hurtful and cruel in the moment.  So when a friend speaks up in a time of obvious pain and hurt and says, ‘Black lives matter,’ a response of ‘All lives matter,’ is truthful. But it’s hurtful and cruel in the moment.”

I am in process. I’m not a role model when it comes to race relations or being a perfect ally. Yet I’m willing to go on the journey and talk about it openly. I don’t want to short-circuit your journey. Many of you are far beyond where I am. Maybe some of you haven’t started. I don’t know where you are, but wherever you are on this journey, you are welcomed here.

I want to commit to the journey today. We will be hosting a class on White Privilege put together by the United Church of Christ. I will continue to meet with other Medina pastors on how we continue this important work. Jeanine Murray saw an idea for an interracial book study, so she’s working on that. Maybe having the Diversity Project come in for some classes. Let me know YOUR ideas.

We will learn as Sonia Gupta tweeted, “Unlearning white supremacy isn’t instagrammable. It’s deeply personal, existential, and difficult work. It often feels horrible. It will make you cry. You might become depressed. It can be very lonely and isolating. It will shatter your ego and your belief system. Do it anyway.”[4]

Do it because too many lives have been lost. Do it because we need a wider sense of just who is our neighbor. Do it because we are interrelated to one another. Do it because God will break our hearts until they stay open. As my friend Pastor Julian stated, “Our God does not protect us from pain, but allows us to feel all of it. ALL. Of. It. Just as Jesus did on the cross. And then from that death, a new life can begin.”[5]

The actions of others affect our lives. Not just the people we choose, the people we like, but all the rest of them. Those we don’t see. We don’t acknowledge. Whose pain is too much to accept. Whose stories are so hard we feel helpless at the weight of it. For there is only one God who created and shepherds us all. One God. One flock. We cannot pretend we are separate from others any longer. We must rejoin the flock and repent of the idea that we are separate, independent, or racially superior than any other sheep because our wool is white and theirs is brown, or black, or any other color. One flock. One Shepherd.

And once we discover that there really is only one life, a holy and connected life where even our enemies are loved, there will be much rejoicing. And heaven will kiss earth. Every tear will be wiped from our eyes and will be will standing in our one, wild and holy and dependent life with one another at Christ’s banquet table. Amen.

Bibliography

Code Switch, A Decade of Watching Black People Die. May 31, 2020. https://www.npr.org/2020/05/29/865261916/a-decade-of-watching-black-people-die

Cone, James. The Cross and the Lynching Tree.

DiAngelo, Robin and Michael Eric Dyson, White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism

King Jr, Martin Luther. Strength To Love. And Where Do We Go From Here: Chaos or Community

Saslow, Eli. Rising Out of Hatred: The awakening of a former white nationalist

Sannah, Lamin, Disciples of All Nations; Pillars of world Christianity.

Sides, Hampton. Hellhound on his Trail: The stalking of Martin Luther King, Jr. and the international hunt for his assassin.

Spellers, Stephanie. Radical Welcome: Embracing God, the Other, and the Spirit of Transformation.

Tatum, Beverly Daniel. Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria.

Videos
Just Mercy, streaming for free on YouTube and Amazon

Selma

13^th, Documentary on Netflix https://www.netflix.com/title/80091741

Strange Fruit, Emmy-award winning short film featuring Luke’s friend the Rev. Julian DeShazier, https://vimeo.com/85272088

Works Cited

[1] https://medium.com/@TheologicalDino/confessions-of-a-white-supremacist-5628fbe368bf

^[2][2] Remaining Awake Through the Great Revolution, 1965. Oberlin archives: https://www2.oberlin.edu/external/EOG/BlackHistoryMonth/MLK/CommAddress.html

[3] http://mcdlgenealogyspot.blogspot.com/2017/04/hg-blake.html

^[4][4] @soniagupta504 posted 9:08 p.m. on 6/6/2020

^[5][5] JKwest: https://youtu.be/o_xeZb3vmt8