Apologies, Repentance, and Racism in Mixed Company

I had an uncomfortable lunch on Monday.

At first it was because my friends and I were absolutely the only customers in the restaurant. It was 12:30 pm. Where was everyone? Was there something about this place that we didn’t know? Apparently there was, because by the time we had ordered and received our food, the place was packed.  We were all relieved we hadn’t made a horrible choice of restaurants – just in timing.

I was still uncomfortable, though. We had chosen the table in the far corner of the restaurant. Immediately above our heads the television blasted the George Zimmerman trial. We were the only white people in the place. Lots of reasons to be uncomfortable – but my discomfort was because one of my friends asked me over lunch, “Are you still going to go to Paula Deen’s restaurant?”

We collected our money, and one of us went to the window to pay. I’m pretty sure we tipped well. We hadn’t been bad customers, but I felt on the defensive as we wove our way through the tables. I wanted to apologize for something. I wanted to hug each and every person I passed and say, “I’m not a racist. I love you!”  I wanted to have on a t-shirt that said, “I have black friends.” No one in that restaurant knew anything about me, but I felt like they hated me - and that they should.

I felt the same way when the movie, “The Help” was over and I walked out into the hallway. It was one of those times when I was embarrassed to be white.

I made my reservations at Paula’s restaurant several weeks ago when we started planning our vacation, and I’ve been looking forward to the butter ever since. I had some guilt about it, but we made reservations for a bike tour afterwards, and I rationalized that it’s okay to eat poison, if you make plans to pedal it off.

In light of recent events, I am rethinking those reservations again. I still want the buttery goodness, but can’t figure out a way to work off the poison of racism. Is there a fairly simple 2-hour penance tour for that? The terrible truth that started taking hold and made me so uncomfortable at lunch on Monday was this: I’ll probably feel more at home in Lady & Sons than I did at Two Sisters.

We’ll sit around our fried chicken and biscuits, and self-righteously talk about “the issue.”  We’ll dig up stories that show how not-racist we are.  We’ll celebrate increased diversity in our church and our decision to do public school. We’ll talk about how appalled we are by racism. Then we’ll say, “Pass the butter.”

Frankly, I’m a little weary of hearing white people talk among white people about other white people’s racism. I think it’s time for me to climb out of the muck of guilt and awkwardness, and bring this conversation into mixed company. I’m talking about taking a good hard look at myself, and asking the Holy Spirit to show me if there is any wicked or harmful way in me.

What is a racist?

If you ask, “What is a sinner?” the answer is easy. A sinner is someone who thinks sinful thoughts, says sinful words or does sinful things. I’m including sins of omission here, because not doing the right thing is doing the wrong thing. One sin makes a person a sinner. “But if we confess our sins, he is faithful and righteous, forgiving us our sins and cleansing us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9).

It would seem to follow then, that a racist is someone who thinks racist thoughts, says racist words or does racist things. I include tolerating racism here, because not doing the right thing is doing the wrong thing. One racist act or thought makes a person a racist. But if we acknowledge our racism, and confess it as sin, God is faithful and righteous, forgiving us our racism and cleansing us from all racism. Maybe, just maybe we can forgive each other, too.

I vividly remember the last racist joke I told.

I would love to be able to tell this story without making myself look bad. But there is no way to do so. Telling that joke and the process through which God brought me to repentance afterward is one of the times in my life that still grieves me.

I was a graduate student at LSU. My world had enlarged, and I was growing in my understanding of racism. I still could not really say that I had a close friend of another race, but I had at least come to realize that a racist joke was not the same thing as an Aggie joke. I really didn’t tell them or laugh at them anymore.

But I wasn’t as enlightened as I thought I was, because something came over me on this day that I remember, and some stupid joke that I can’t even remember now came out of my mouth. One of the other students in the group walked away as I told the joke. I regretted it immediately. I had recently discovered that this fellow student was a believer – one of the only others in our program. I liked her, and wanted to be friends. I respected her, and knew that I had lost her respect by telling that joke.

Fast-forward a few weeks – maybe even a few months.  My colleague had been gracious, and we were becoming friends. One day, she shared that her grandmother had died. I responded with awkward words of comfort. She then shared the horrific details of her grandmother’s murder during a home invasion. There was absolutely nothing to say, so I shut my mouth and just hugged her tightly while she cried.

When I got home that night, I told my husband about it, and he showed me the story about the murder in the paper. It was a horrible story, but the murder itself faded to the background of my self-centered thinking when I noticed a small detail that cut me to the heart.

The woman who had been murdered was a black woman.

My colleague was very light skinned and had freckles – I had never realized that she was African-American.  Shake your head all you want. How I could have been so dumb is not the issue here. Once I realized it, it was pretty obvious – but maybe I was blinded to her race because I needed to learn a hard lesson.

When this colleague who became a friend walked away from my racism that day, it wasn’t as one white Christian woman disappointed in another like I thought. She walked away because her Christian sister had belittled her and her family in the midst of a crowd of unbelievers.

I had told a racist joke in mixed company.

Suddenly, racism was not just white people hating on black people – or vice a versa. It was me saying I thought I was better than my friend. It was me hurting someone who I liked and respected. It was me belittling a sister in Christ.

It was no longer theoretical. It was real. And it was terrible.

I never said anything about it. I mean, let’s face it, she was dealing with something much bigger than my “aha!” moment. I don’t know whether I would have anyway. I mean, really, what would I have said? “I didn’t know you were black.” Do you see how that makes my racism even worse?

The “aha!” moment was not that my friend was of another race. The “aha!” moment was that the race of the people in the group had any bearing on what I said or didn’t say.  The “aha!” moment was that I somehow thought that a racist joke was any more appropriate when told to white people than it was when told to a black woman. It’s not. A racial slur is never appropriate - in any company. The “n-word” is never appropriate – no matter how it is used.

For the believer, racist thoughts, words, and behavior are bitter water produced by a fountain that is supposed to be clean and fresh. They are indications of something fouling the heart that needs to be rooted out and tossed away.

The issue with Paula Deen is not what she did 30 years ago. The issue is the way she excused it in her apology just a few days ago. She doesn’t get it. The issue with me is not what Paula Deen does, or thinks, or says. The issue is what I do, or think, or say. They are signs of what is in my heart. They are signs that I don’t get it.

I hope that I don't lose any friends over this confessional. Please believe me when I say I’m not that person who told that joke 24 years ago any more. I’m also not the person I hope to be 24 years from now. I hope if I've offended anyone with this blog or with any other racist behavior, we can have a conversation about it. Maybe from conversation will come conviction, confession, forgiveness and cleansing.

I shared this story because I really would like to shift the conversation from Paula Deen, George Zimmerman, and the racist slurs associated with recent events. I’d like to talk about you and me. How are we treating each other? How are we thinking about each other? Are we sharing life? Are we loving? Are we seeking to understand first, and then to be understood?

That’s the conversation I want to have. And I hope to have it in mixed company. Maybe over lunch?

a multi-sensory lesson on love

I am a multi-sensory learner. I know this because whenever I take one of those online tests on how you learn, I end up right smack dab in the middle. According to one of those tests, I also operate from the middle of my brain. I'm not sure what that means, except that I am neither in my right mind or my left mind.

I wish this meant that I could learn in ANY way. I'd be a genius. Alas, it does not.

What it does seem to mean is that I learn best when ALL of my senses are engaged. Do you know how seldom anyone gets all of their senses engaged? Sometimes I work really hard to add my own touch, sight, taste, smell, and movement to what I'm hearing in a learning situation. I can be a distraction to anyone who sits with me.

God must have really wanted me to get the pastor's sermon on 1 Corinthians 13 this morning. Because not only did every single song we sang in worship resound with the teaching, and not only was I smack dab in the middle of a church family that I love, love, love --- but he plopped a beautifully multi-sensory lesson right down in front of me.

The pastor said that love is a choice.

I wrote, "Choose to love" at the top of the page in my Bible by 1 Corinthians 13.  I was doing what I could to get the important points to my other senses. The pastor had a tomato, and that really helped (a story for another day) -- but God had something even better than either of our feeble attempts at being multi-sensory.

A family of three was on the pew in front of me. I'll call them "the three bears." Mama Bear and Papa Bear had chosen to love the Baby they had with them. I didn't know his story -- but I can suppose that it hadn't been the happiest of tales lately. That's why he was with The Bears. He wasn't feeling well, so he was a bit clingy. I caught a faint whiff of children's Tylenol on his breath, so I knew Mama and Papa Bear were caring for him the way that mamas and papas do.

It soon became obvious that Baby Bear understood that these two were "all in" on this love thing. And he was eager to soak up every bit of it that he could.

It was as if there was this chocolate fountain flowing out of Mama and Papa Bear (I know it should be porridge - but doesn't chocolate sound so much yummier?)  Baby Bear just couldn't get enough of it.

He kept switching back and forth from one set of arms to the other. It wasn't that Mama Bear's love was too soft or too cold -- or that Papa Bear's love was too hard or too hot. Both of them were full of a love that was so very "just right" that Baby seemed to want to be wrapped up in it. He'd be in one bear hug and would look over and see the empty arms of the other bear -- and he'd make the jump.

Back and forth he went, with Mama and Papa Bear never failing to welcome him with open arms. At one point I just had to laugh out loud. Mama and Papa Bear both grinned at me. I like to think they were sort of glad to know that someone else was seeing this and loving it as much as they were. I hope they didn't just think I was being nosy. I was. But I hope they didn't think it.

The preaching started stepping on my toes when the pastor got to all those great characteristics of love.

You know the ones I'm talking about, don't you? They're those verses your mom made you and your sister memorize when you were being especially mean to each other. They're those verses that give lie to your half-hearted, "Love? Sure, I love" -- because when measured by God's standards your love doesn't half measure up. Those verses.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

I found myself thinking of a few people that I just don't love all that well -- and I started making excuses in my head.

"God, you know I could love others better if only they just weren't so... OTHER."

Baby drew my attention again. He had really straight and thin hair. But Mama and Papa Bear both had lots and lots of curly hair. Papa Bear even had it all over his face.

Did Baby let the otherness of the Bears bother him? Absolutely not.

He was fascinated. He played with Papa Bear's beard, letting the curls spring between his fingers. He even buried his face in it -- then, as it tickled his neck, he raised his head and backed away a little so that he could just gaze at all those curls with utter delight.

This Baby loved the otherness of Papa and Mama Bear. He basked in it. He basked in them.

Somehow or other, those curls seemed to be a quintessential part of the love story Baby was experiencing with Mama and Papa Bear -- these two bears who had chosen to love him. Their otherness seemed only to magnify their love.

So, then I started thinking about God (about time, right?).

He's really, really, really OTHER. It's actually sort of what holiness is -- the otherness of God.

But he loves me. Even though I'm an other to him. I'm made in his image, but I'm flawed. I'm other.

And it's precisely because of his otherness that I am compelled by his love to love him in return.

That's something worth basking in.

And maybe when I bask in his love for me and mine for him,  I'll get better at loving others. Maybe the love will make the words and the service that come pretty easily into something worthwhile.

I think it will. Because love never fails.

It may not fix everything. But it will not fail.

The Three Bears showed me that.

Your Story Matters

My friend Sally has written a book. I read it Saturday, and I can't stop thinking about it.

Sally tells her story beautifully and with characteristic humor. There are several places where I can picture her eyes twinkling and her lips twitching as she tries to hold back her signature grin. I can just hear her understated drawl saying some of the lines in such a way that you don't at first realize just how funny that was. Sally has not lost one bit of her wit. But she's quite serious  about her message.

She talks about growing up in a Christian home with secrets. She talks about the lies she believed about herself, her family, men, and even about God.

Sally believed the lies because of the secrets.

I don't like secrets. I grew up with them, too. There is much that we just don't talk about in my family.

I'll confess that I don't naturally keep secrets well. I had to learn the hard way that someone else's story is just that -- their story. They have the right to tell it. I do not. The "share" button in social media is more tempting than any drug to me. I recently wanted to share a picture I had received via text of a newborn baby. A friend said, "Shouldn't you let the parents share it first?" Of course I should. And I did. But I sure didn't think of that on my own!

I love people's stories - happy, sad, tragic, or heroic. I love to share them - especially when I think they will encourage someone, delight someone, or even serve as a cautionary tale. I have finally learned to ask before telling. I've learned a lot about confidentiality.

That's why I'm glad that Sally has written a book. Because her story is published. That means I can share it!

A lot of people will miss out on Sally's story because of the title of the book. They won't think they need to read it. Or they might be embarrassed to be seen reading it. I don't think it's all that uncommon a story -- I just think it's largely an untold story. It is usually shrouded in secrecy -- especially in the church.

And it's a shame. Not the story. The not telling of it.

That's why I'm so proud of my friend Sally. She tells her story with great courage but no pride. There is not a smidgen of self-pity or recrimination in it. At least not that I can find. I'm also proud of Sally's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Gary (that's how I know them). They have fully supported her in the telling. I cried when I reached the picture of the three of them in the book and again when her dad "liked" my comment about the book on Sally's facebook page. What a man! It couldn't have been easy for him or for Sally's mom to have this story told. But I think maybe they see what I see. The shame is in the not telling of the story, not in the story itself.

I read Sally's story closely -- in part because I was looking for myself in it. I was there in the class of 1979. I voted for Sally for Class Clown, and was not surprised when she won it. I experienced the Gary hospitality. I ate her mother's cooking, felt the family's love, and I'm pretty sure that once or twice I may have gotten the you-hurt-my-baby's-feelings-snub that Sally mentions in the book. I loved that house, and every moment we had there. The one party I didn't enjoy was the one that I was on my way to when I totaled my car. But that is a story for another day.

My favorite Sally Gary party was the cast party for the senior play that never was. It's a long story, but a tornado blew away our school auditorium and half of our town. The play had been cast, and we'd had a couple of rehearsals, and we were more than a little disappointed that it had to be cancelled. Sally found a way to make even that fun. We partied Sally style -- and Steve Fairfield even got to say, "There is an insufficiency of chairs!"

I digress into all of that, because I want you to realize that Sally was a star to me. She shone brightly. She was so confident. So funny. Everyone loved her. I loved her -- and in many ways, I envied her. She was just so comfortable in who she was, and she didn't seem to need any of us. Whereas I always thought I had to go to everything because I felt like I'd be outside the loop if I missed anything, Sally always had the confidence to say "no" and stay home. At least that's what I, in my limited teenage perception, always thought.

I believed the lie because of the secrets. I know that now -- because Sally is telling her story.

Sally was hurting and no one knew it. She felt alone. She felt unworthy. She felt unloved. And the whole time, she was hiding behind the funny, confident, quirky girl that we thought we knew.

Does any of this sound familiar? Is there a part of you that resonates with anything that I'm saying about my friend? Then I would like to encourage you to do two things.

(1) Read Sally's book.

Read it in spite of the title. Or read it because of the title. I don't care. Just read it. I really don't think you'll regret it.

I'm guessing that the courage to write this book came from the work and the ministry God has called Sally to. She founded and heads up CenterPeace, a "place to belong" which has a two-fold mission: to provide a safe place for people who experience same sex attraction and to help churches, schools and families have conversations about homosexuality.

If you or anyone you love struggles with same-sex attraction, you should definitely read this book.

If you or anyone you love struggles with who God created you to be, or who you are in Jesus Christ, or how you were shaped by your family dynamics, or simply with believing that you are loved -- you should definitely read this book.

Spoiler Alert: Sally is very clear and to the point about sharing that she is not "fixed." Her story is one of redemption and forgiveness, but she does not provide a definitive answer on the right or wrong of homosexuality. She neither defends nor condemns. She simply and humbly takes out her heart and shares it. She cares enough about the rest of us that she was willing to take that risk.

(2) Share your story.

I won't pretend to you that it will be easy. But there is someone out there who is going through what you are going through -- or something that is similar. That someone needs to know that he or she is not alone. Someone shared with me just the other day that he had shared his story publicly for the first time.  He was surprised at how quickly he learned of someone who was moved, comforted, and glad to realize that not everyone around her had it all together. I think he will share his story again.

Do be careful and prayerful about sharing. Not everyone will receive your story gladly. Jesus warned us about this.

Right after he preached about removing the log from your own eye before trying to deal with the speck in your brothers, he gave this counsel, "Do not give dogs what is holy, and do not throw your pearls before pigs, lest they trample them underfoot and turn to attack you" (Mt 7:6). There is something sacred about my friend Sally's story, as if she has invited us into a holy moment between herself and her Creator. I hope and pray that the dogs and pigs stay far away from this book, because I would hate to see Sally's pearls -- her treasure, her story -- trampled on. I pray the same thing about your story. You and Sally and I and our stories are simply too valuable for that.

By the way, the book is Loves God, Likes Girls. The author is Sally Gary. I bought my copy on Amazon.com. I'd loan it to you, but I already have a waiting list.

Click here to buy Sally's book on Amazon.com

The Wisdom of a Three Year Old

I raised two children, so I didn't think baby-sitting a 3-year-old in my home for a few days would be a huge revelation. But my children are in their twenties, and my memories of them at three are somewhat blurred by my memories of them at four, five, six, and so on. It's been a while.

Ariel was only here for three sleepovers, but I learned a lot in that short time. 

1. "Why?" is the best question ever. 

I'm sure I'm not the first person to realize that three-year-olds ask "Why?" a lot ... A lot, a lot, a lot, a lot. "Why?" really is a good question -- because it usually gets you the who, what, where, when, and even how of it as well.

     "Why you have that necklace?"
               "Because it was my grandmother's." 
     "Why you have your grandmother's necklace?"
               "Because I loved her, and it helps me remember her now that she's not here."
     "But why your grandmother have that necklace?"
               "Because it was pretty, and my grandfather gave it to her. She wore it all the time."
     "Where's Mr. Johnny?"

I found that most of the why trails ended in a totally unconnected question from Ariel (indicating that she was bored), or in a just because from me (indicating that I was worn out or had run out of answers). I always felt like I had won the game when she gave up before I did. Yes. I competed with a 3-year-old. My kids will tell you that this is nothing new.

I think we grown ups waste a lot of time coming up with just the right questions to ask God, when a simple why would do the trick. The truth is, we don't always understand his ways -- so we ask and ask and ask. Sometimes he answers patiently, teaching us the what, where, when, and how of it. But he never competes with us, and many times he just says, "Because." His because is a lot more powerful than mine. His because usually provides us with the who of it. His because is "I am." When we get to his because, we rest. Because his because is sufficient.

2. Brave girls leap, but sometimes they just need to be carried.

Ariel and I walked to school on Thursday. It's only a few blocks, but there is much to see and discuss

Step on one of these and you'll never forget it.

along the way. It is the season of buck moth caterpillars, and it's always important to warn the little ones about the sting associated with these pervasive creatures.

I warned. Ariel was scared.

We talked about how much bigger and faster than the caterpillars she is.

She said she was scared anyway.

I said that brave girls just leap when they're afraid.

We had fun leaping over caterpillars for a long stretch of sidewalk -- then we turned the corner and she saw another long block of sidewalk before her. I'm sure she was thinking about all the caterpillars yet to be leapt over when she stopped in her tracks and held up her arms. I knew that the time for brave girls leaping had come to an end.

We grown-ups tend to think we have to keep on being brave and leaping forever. But sometimes the sidewalk seems to stretch on forever and the caterpillars seem to outnumber us a million to one. There is no shame in holding up our arms and saying, "Pick me up." Take it from a 3-year-old.

3. Sweet is smart, grumpy isn't.

We have two cats. One is somewhat cantankerous, and it was important to teach Ariel not to mess with her. She learned fast. "Chloe is sweet. Elsie is grumpy."

After testing the truth of my words and learning for herself, she started saying, "Elsie is really, really, really grumpy. Chloe is smart."

I tried to correct her. I said that both cats were smart, but Chloe was sweet-smart and Elsie was grumpy- smart. Ariel just looked at me like I wasn't very smart at all, and went off to look for Chloe.

I realized she had a point. A grumpy cat does not get patted and played with and doesn't get to eat crumbs from a little girl's plate. It sounds to me like being sweet is much smarter than being grumpy.

Anger, bitterness, touchiness, grumpiness -- these things accomplish little that is worth having. We think we will teach someone a lesson with our grumpiness, but it never works out that way. "The anger of man does not achieve the righteousness of God" (James 1:20) -- nor does it achieve the happiness of cats.

4. Love draws near.

Ariel loves a lot of things.

Among them...

Books. Miss Mary's church. Pink and Purple straws. Ellie, Caroline, and Suzie. Tea parties. Cinnamon biscuits. Yo-grit (but not the kind of yogurt I buy). Her bear. Chloe-the-cat.

After we read three or four or six books each night, Ariel asked to keep all of them in bed with her. "I love that book!" she declared. The next morning, when I asked her what she dreamed about, she said, "Books!" I don't know if she really dreamed about books. They were at the foot of her bed, so they were the first thing she saw and the first thing she thought about when she woke up.

Ariel declares her love enthusiastically. It seems to be her way of asking for what she loves.  Saying, "I love fruit snacks," may just get her some fruit snacks. It's always worth a try.

Ariel also assumes that those who keep close to her love her. She was thrilled when Chloe-the-cat followed her and circled around her. "She loves me!" she delighted.

Because Ariel loved Chloe, she wanted to be sure that Chloe had what Chloe loved at all times. She enjoyed gathering all of the cat toys and putting them near the cat. "Chloe loves her balls," she would explain. NOTE: no amount of explaining could convince Ariel that the catnip balls were Elsie's as well. Apparently sweet cats do not have to share with grumpy cats. See lesson #3. 

Ariel's mom had drawn a chart to count the days. We crossed off school, sleeps, and things like church and tea parties. In the last square of the chart was the day her parents would come back. She's three, so naturally she asked why they were coming back. By the third sleep, she was answering this one herself, "Because they love me."

Ariel knows that laps are the best place to sit. "Why you sitting over there?" she asked at breakfast. Great logic. Why in the world would anyone want to waste time eating breakfast in her own chair when there is an empty lap nearby?

Love dreams. Love declares. Love follows. Love provides. Love comes back. Love draws near. I love love!

Having a three-year-old in the house for a few days was eye-opening in many ways. It reminded me of what it means to come to Jesus as a little child. Seeking. Asking. Accepting. Loving.

The Numerology of Birthdays

Today I made 52 years. I like the New Orleans way of referring to birthdays, because it seems accurate. I have completed fifty-two years of living. And I am pressing on to the fifty-third.

I told a friend that this wasn't a special birthday -- and she immediately disagreed. All birthdays are special. My Bible study group is closer to my age than she, and they understood. Most of them said they've stopped acknowledging birthdays altogether. I fall somewhere in between.

I do think all birthdays are special. I just meant that the number 52 is a non-special number. There is nothing significant about it. I was wrong. It occurs to me that there are fifty-two cards in a deck -- so maybe that means that I am now playing with a full deck for the first time in my life! It also occurs to me that there are 52 weeks in a year.

"Don’t overlook the obvious here, friends. With God, one day is as good as a thousand years, a thousand years as a day. God isn’t late with his promise as some measure lateness. He is restraining himself on account of you, holding back the End because he doesn’t want anyone lost. He’s giving everyone space and time to change" (2 Peter 2:8-9, The Message). 

I like that. I think I'll claim it for today. Fifty-two years is as good as Fifty-two weeks. What I've done over the past 52 years isn't nearly as important as what I do this year.

I guess birthdays always remind me that it is important to number our days. I'm glad I've made 52 years -- but it's what I'm going to make of the next 52 weeks that matters.

I want to be a good steward of God's colorful grace in my life. The precious people he's put in it. A family and a church that I love. A giving husband. Unlimited opportunities and resources. 

Thank you, Father, for giving me 52 years. Teach me to number the days in this next one, that I may get a heart of wisdom (Psalm 90:12).