It was an offhand comment from a high school friend that first made me think about my own racism. We were turning from the main hallway into chemistry class, talking about social circles at our large suburban Chicago school. “I’m too white for the black girls and too black for the white girls,” she sighed. She didn’t talk often about being biracial—her mother white, her father Kenyan—and I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. But fifteen years later that statement still rattles around in my mind, along with all the things I didn’t say.
How many instances of racism have I seen and walked away from? How many times have I turned a blind eye to someone’s pain because I wasn’t sure what to do? It’s hard to know the exact answer, but I am sure ashamed by it. My not knowing has kept me from listening, from asking difficult questions, and from participating in the kingdom of God with people I love. I have been complicit in racism, mostly in very quiet and even subconscious ways, ways that would allow me some form of plausible deniability. I find within myself the desire to protect myself, to be defensive, to shy away from conflict. My posture has not been to seek reconciliation or justice.
Last summer, I read several articles about the families of black victims killed at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina.On June 17, 2015, nine African Americans were shot and killed in Charleston, South Carolina, during a Bible study session at one of the nation’s oldest African-American churches, Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charleston_church_shooting (accessed 4 March 2023). Much was made about the forgiveness offered by some families to the killer, a young white man: Was it too much? Did forgiveness flow too easily from their hearts? Should they have been more cautious?
It took some time for me to realize what was unsettling about these questions. What they were saying, at their root, was this: We don’t trust you. Evangelicalism has historically been racially divided, and the white evangelicals watching this scene unfold—a group I very much belong to—were not taking our black brothers and sisters at their word. Their experiences were different from ours, and instead of asking questions, we resorted to suspicion.
I was reminded of this when I read Felix Gilbert’s article on the power of God’s grace in relationships [link]. “The problem of forgiveness intensified for me,” he writes, “when discrimination was involved and experienced from a person or persons from a culture other than my own. Forgiveness . . . required that I began with a right relationship with Christ and called for me to reflect theologically on the power of God’s grace to both forgive and heal the broken relationship.” My own assumptions about what faith should look like are based on what faith has looked like for me. My perspective is limited, yet most of the time I act like it is unassailable. To some degree, this is what we all do, and how we all get by—it would be a strange kind of life indeed if we asked every perspective available on decisions like how to take our coffee or when to leave a movie.
Yet even with a limited perspective, I have learned so much in the last few years. I have started to read more and more books and articles by authors of color, making sure that I am responsible for the diversity of what I consume. My own understanding of history has been challenged, and I have seen the ways that people of color in America have been oppressed, passed by, discriminated against, and made to feel that they don’t belong. I have also seen how this has happened in the church, that most segregated hour.
So, what now? It would be very easy to get lost in anger or despair or inaction. None of those are good stopping points, and none of them pass muster with a God who prays for all of his people to be one, as God is one. Part of why I am so proud to be a part of Conversations is the conviction that we will not shy away from difficult topics. What kind of conversation would it be, after all, if we just kept talking to each other about the things we all agree on?
Now we do the real hard work of calling our friends, asking them questions, extending and receiving forgiveness. We inspect ourselves for any racism, for any meanness, and we repent, believing, in the words of the old song, that Jesus loves the little children of every race. We insist that we hold ourselves to higher standards of reconciliation because of the God we worship. We trust each other.
The issue you hold in your hands is one I hope you will return to time and again. I know I will.
Laura Turner is a writer and editor living in San Francisco, where she also works on the communication team at City Church. She has an MFA in creative nonfiction writing from Seattle Pacific University and writes regularly about the intersection of faith and culture. She is a regular contributor to Christianity Today’s Her.meneutics site, has a column at Religion News Service, and has written for publications such as The Atlantic, Pacific Standard, and Books & Culture. She has one husband, Zack, and one dog, R2D2.