1. Looking at the Past: The Gift of Honest Reckoning

Our retreat leader Gareth Higgins shared activist Joanna Macy’s spiral framework for processing grief constructively: Coming from Gratitude, Honoring Our Pain for the World, Seeing with New Eyes, and Going Forth to act with hope and resilience. Rather than rushing past difficult histories, she advocated leaning into grief as a pathway to transformation.

For congregations: Too often, churches avoid difficult conversations about their past—failed initiatives, painful conflicts, demographic changes. What if we created sacred space to grieve what’s been lost while discovering the love that still remains? Sometimes the path forward requires going through the hard stories, not around them.

2. Dealing with Disruption and Conflict: Small Moves Matter

Facilitator Paul Hutchinson, former Centre Director of Corrymeela, Northern Ireland’s oldest community of peace and reconciliation, challenged our assumptions about reconciliation. He says that sometimes, reconciliation is not embodied by a dramatic handshake—sometimes it’s “a slight move towards the other.” Do we have eyes to see those small gestures? He also offered a profound insight about forgiveness: “Don’t forgive too soon.” Forgiveness is a process with chapters, like stages of grief.

At Clonard Monastery, we met Leslie, a Protestant minister who participated in secret peace talks during the Troubles. Her willingness to stay at the table despite enormous personal cost made reconciliation possible.

For congregations: When conflict emerges, Hutchinson asked us to consider: “What’s the nature and quality of the relationship? Are we rushing toward false reconciliation, or are we patient enough to do the deeper and more costly work of transformation?”

3. Celtic Spirituality: Rhythm Over Rush

On the third day of the retreat, June Mitchell, one of the retreat staff, presented on Celtic spirituality, highlighting themes like creation care, hospitality, rhythm of living, and pilgrimage. Celtic spirituality wasn’t heavy on theology but rich in practices that honored the sacred in everyday life.

The directional Celtic prayer June led us on an ancient mound was particularly moving—acknowledging our place in the larger web of creation rather than rushing into our days with anxiety.

For congregations: What if churches prioritized rhythm over productivity? What if we measured success not by programs offered, but by how well we help people connect with the sacred in ordinary moments?

4. Stories That Transform: The Power of Shared Narrative

Throughout the retreat, we learned that stories carried deep meaning, and what we tell and how we tell stories – to others and to ourselves, matter. Brian Ammons, another retreat leader, invited us to consider how our attachment to a single story contributes to our conflictual relationships with others and with ourselves. What would it look like for us to reframe our stories and include other stories to weave a shared narrative?

For congregations: Every church has multiple stories running simultaneously. What stories are shaping your community’s identity? Sometimes the most powerful pastoral work is simply helping people tell their stories and feel heard.

5. What I’m Taking Away: Time Is for Love

“If God is love, and God made time, then time is for love.” Paul Hutchinson’s statement continues to marinate in my soul and my work as it challenges everything about how I typically approach ministry. Too often, we get our affirmation from doing, not being. But what if our primary calling isn’t to fill time with activities, but to create spacious, gracious time for love to emerge?

For congregations: This might be the most countercultural message churches could offer our rushed world. What would it look like to structure congregational life around this “Time is for Love” principle?

Moving Forward: The Learner’s Plate

In Ireland, student drivers must display plates with red a “L” at the front and rear of their vehicle to indicate that they are learning to drive. Ed, a Catholic peacemaker at Clonard Monastery, offered an image that has stayed with me: we should all consider ourselves wearing a “learner’s plate”—we’re all learning how to be human.

The peace process in Northern Ireland reminds us that transformation is possible, even after decades of conflict. But it requires what our guides called “a slight move towards the other”—and the eyes to see when that movement is happening.

What slight moves might your congregation be ready to make?

Schedule a free 30-minute Discovery Call.

With hope and solidarity,

Michael K. Cheuk
Coach | Consultant | Companion
www.michaelkcheuk.com

At first, I was ambivalent.

On the one hand, I had no interest in valorizing Confederate heroes like Robert E. Lee and Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson in our parks, or the “Johnny Reb” statue that stood guard in front of the Albemarle county courthouse.

On the other hand, I couldn’t see how removing those Confederate symbols would make a tangible difference in the fight for racial justice and equity.

While I noticed them in our public square, their impact on me was minimal.

However, hard conversations within the Charlottesville Clergy Collective opened my eyes and my heart to better see and understand the destructive nature of these statues and monuments.

During those conversations, I grappled with these questions:

What is the meaning of a public statue?

According to art historian Erin L. Thompson, a statue is “a bid for immortality” and “a way of solidifying an idea and making it present to other people.” Statues in public places present a specific point of view and claim that “this version of history is the public version of history.”

What version of history is advanced by these Confederate monuments?

I learned how the majority of these statues advance the “Lost Cause of the Confederacy” narrative to perpetuate racism and advance white supremacist power structures.  

The majority of these statues were erected not right after the Civil War as memorials in cemeteries, but between 1900-1920 during the Jim Crow era, and in the 50’s and 60’s during the modern civil rights era to suppress the gains made by African Americans.

How did these Confederate monuments affect African Americans?

My black pastor friends recall how those statues were erected in public spaces where they were forbidden to enter. Those Confederate symbols were painful reminders of not just the enslavement of their ancestors in the past, but also the continuing discrimination, hatred, and bigotry they experience in the present.

That hatred and bigotry were on full display on August 11 and 12 by the white nationalists and neo-Nazis who violently protested the proposed removal of the Lee statue while shouting racist and anti-Semitic chants, and killing counter protester Heather Heyer and injuring dozens others.

As a result of that traumatic experience, it is now clear to me that these Confederate statues physically bolster the idea and legitimacy of white supremacy in American society that serves to remind blacks, Jews, Muslims, and other minorities that “You will not replace us.”

Removing these symbols and plausibility structures of white supremacy is a necessary step toward a more just and equitable society.

I disagree with those who contend that removing these Confederate monuments and statues in public spaces is “erasing history.”

I contend that the history of “our heritage” has always been present and visible for those who have eyes to see.

A more complete history

We don’t need monuments of steel and stone to remind us that:  

The heritage of slavery is present in the bodies of American Descendants of Slavery (ADOS) who carry within them generational trauma and pain. They are the living memorials to this history.

The heritage of white supremacy is still exerting its oppression on African Americans in the form of denigrating stereotypes, belittling micro-aggressions, discriminatory hiring and housing practices, inferior physical and mental health outcomes, among others.

This heritage of white domination is still alive when white people call the police on black people who are just trying to live their lives and do their jobs.

This heritage of violence against black bodies is still tragically embedded in our law enforcement, legal, and criminal justice systems.

This heritage of exclusion is still present in our segregated neighborhoods, in our schools, our governments, the governing boards of our institutions, and the C-Suites of our corporations.

I cannot erase this history.

I am not erasing history when I advocate for the removal of Confederate monuments.

I only want to dismantle ONE telling of history that only celebrates the stories of those who fought against the United States for the sake of enslaving others for their own gain.

I want to tell a more INCLUSIVE history so that the untold stories and ignored experiences of black, brown, and native peoples may also see the light of day.

I am advocating a COMMON history to highlight the fact that our present lives and our future flourishing are linked together.

I want to recover a more TRUTHFUL history that frees us from whitewashing, from selective memory, and from the enslavement of our spirits to shame, fear, and hatred.

Jesus said, “For you shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.”

May it be so for us all.

So says one of my coaching clients in a recent call.

In this chaotic new world of the COVID-19 pandemic, we’re all scrambling to respond to radical changes in how we work, in how we connect, and in all areas of our life.

Am I Enough?

In the midst of this disruption, I hear many pastors asking this question: “Am I enough?”

“Am I enough as a spouse and as a parent?”

“Am I enough as a pastor to earn my paycheck in the midst of dwindling contributions?”

“Am I enough of a leader to my staff and our congregation?”

“Are we doing enough in offering online services and Bible studies?”

During these anxious times, it is especially challenging to keep up with ministry demands while learning new skills and overcoming new barriers.

Ministering in a pandemic is like re-learning to ride a bike with one hand tied behind your back and a bandana covering one eye.

Let’s face it, most of us are not equipped to lead in a pandemic. We never took a seminary course on “Pastoral Care in the Age of Social Distancing.” Most of us are not experts in video production, live streaming, and Zoom meetings, although many pastors are acquiring proficiency in all three!

In times like these, we are challenged to prove our worth to our congregants and our peers, but perhaps most of all, to ourselves.

Jesus Is Enough

This challenge reminds me of Jesus’ time in the wilderness immediately after his baptism. In that barren and isolating place, Jesus was tempted to prove his identity based on what he could do (by turning stone into bread), on what he could have (all the kingdoms of the world), and on what other people thought of him (by successfully throwing himself off the temple and allowing the angels to catch him in front of the crowds).  

Jesus refused all three temptations.

Instead, Jesus based his identity and worth on the baptismal affirmation from God: “You are my Son, whom I love. With you I am well pleased.”

I believe that these same baptismal words also affirm our identity and worth even in this pandemic. God continues to tell us, if we have the ears to hear:

“You are my Child, whom I love. There’s nothing you need to do, nothing you need to have in comparison to others in order to earn my affection. And I hope you’ll put more stock in what I think of you, than what you imagine others might think of you.”

If you believe that you are a beloved child of God, then … You. Are. Enough.

Signs that I Am Enough

During moments and seasons of “being enough,” I experience these things:

I am clear about what I’m called to do and what I need to stop doing.

I am less afraid to risk and to fail.

I reframe failures as learning opportunities for growth.

I am more compassionate to others, and to myself.

I gladly share credit for my successes.

I celebrate others’ achievements without becoming jealous.

I am grateful for what I do have, and less anxious about what I don’t have.

I work to combat systemic injustice so that more people can have what I have.

I am more generous, not out of obligation but from a place of abundance.

I am more connected to God, to myself, to others, and to creation.

I feel joy.

Self-Assessment Questions

Jesus’ time in the wilderness prepared him for his public ministry. What if we treat this pandemic as preparation for future ministry in a radically changed world?

During this season, here are some questions to ask yourself:

What does it look like for me to be enough in God’s eyes?

What does it feel like to be enough in my own eyes?

What is at stake if I continue to believe the voices that tell me that I’m not enough?

For what purpose am I striving and working?

What would have to change in order for me to stop comparing myself to others?

What spiritual and emotional muscles would I have to strengthen in order to remain in God’s approval, even if that means incurring the disapproval and disappointment of others?

How would my identity change or remain the same if I shifted my leadership style from being the “chief expert” to being the “chief learner” or “chief experimenter”?

During these past weeks, many pastors are already wondering how “doing church” will have to change and what church will look like when the pandemic is over.

I believe that if we also spend time answering the why and the who questions, we will be in a better position to address any of the how and what questions that will come our way.

The good news is that we don’t have to tackle these questions alone.

A big part of “being enough” is being in relationship with God and with others. We are all in this together, and we can learn and support one another as we go forward.

Contact me if you would like a thinking partner in addressing these questions on your journey.

In the coming weeks and months, may we be encouraged by the words of our Lord as recorded by the Apostle Paul: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9a).      

May Grace abound in you and yours in the days ahead.

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It is important because racial injustice is not just “the flavor of the month” on a menu of issues that the church could address.

As Jim Wallis has argued, racism and white privilege is America’s “original sin” whose legacy continues to devastate society today.

As Ibram X. Kendi has shown, American Christians have contributed and propagated anti-Black ideas in order to defend the nation’s discriminatory policies and rationalize the inequities separating white and black citizens.

As Jemar Tisby has shown, the majority of the American church historically has been complicit with racism from slavery and segregation up to the present day.

Racial Justice Education Is Hard

As a result, Christian education about racial justice is hard because it forces us to turn a critical lens on ourselves — our history, our teachings, and our practices — both in the past and present. 

Some pastors have told me that conversations about race were more contentious and difficult in their mostly white congregations than conversations about gender identity and sexual orientation.

I know of one faith leader whose recent resignation was in part precipitated by their insistence on talking about and supporting the Black Lives Matter movement.

A common question posed by faith leaders is this: “How can I address racism honestly without my congregants thinking that I’m accusing them of being racists?”

The question I hear behind that question is this: “How can faith leaders address racism honestly when most congregants desperately want to see themselves as not racist?”

Being “Not Racist” is Not Enough

Today, the word “racist” has become an epithet weaponized toward people deemed ignorant, bigoted, and hateful.

In this usage, racists are bad. They are tiki torch-wielding, hate-spouting, hood-wearing bigots terrorizing people of color. Surely, we are NOT them!

“Not-racists” like us are basically good. We are educated, open-minded, and loving.

However, in his new book How to be an Antiracist, Ibram X. Kendi argues that it is not enough to be “not racist.”

“What’s the problem with being “not racist”? asks Kendi. “It is a claim that signifies neutrality: “I am not a racist, but neither am I aggressively against racism.” But there is no neutrality in the racism struggle. The opposite of “racist” isn’t “not racist.” It is “antiracist” (p. 9).

In our society, there are wide gaps separating white and black (and other people of color) in income and accumulated wealth, health outcomes, incarceration rates, school achievement, maternal and infant mortality, etc. — even after researchers control for income and education.

There is a wealth of scholarship and reporting that demonstrate how our government and institutional policies have created and upheld these disparities. In light of this, the claim of “not racist”  is simply a mask for continuing racism.

For Kendi, to be racist is to adopt views that espouse a racial hierarchy — with white at the top of the hierarchy, and to be an antiracist is to believe the races are equal.  Furthermore, when one sees these racial inequities, the racist mindset blames the people groups who are suffering as inferior and broken, and the antiracist explores the roots of problems in power and policies. Kendi concludes: “One either allows racial inequities to persevere, as a racist, or confronts racial inequities, as an antiracist” (p. 9).

The Term “Racist” is an Adjective and Not an Identity

But doesn’t Kendi’s stark framework make pastors and Christian educators more vulnerable to the charge that they are accusing their congregants of being racists?

Yes, but there are two moves that pastors and educators can make.

The first move is to follow Kendi’s lead in rejecting the popular contention that the word “racist” is a pejorative slur.

Unlike the brands that slave masters used to stamp kidnapped Africans into perpetual servitude, the term “racist” is not a brand that permanently stamps one’s identity. It is an adjective that describes the ideas, actions, and policies that promote white supremacy and/or racial inequities.

Kendi writes: “The Good News is that racist and antiracist are not fixed identities. We can be a racist one minute and an antiracist the next. What we say about race, what we do about race, in each moment, determines what — not who — we are” (p. 10).

The Life-Long Work of Becoming an “Antiracist”

The second move is to follow our own Christian theological understanding of sanctification to guide and frame our education on race. 

Christians believe that, in Jesus, we are made right in our relationship with God (justification).

God also continues the life-long work of sanctification to renew and transform our whole selves, so that we fully die to sin and fully grow into the image of God.

While we believe that our permanent identity is a beloved child of God, we confess that we are still sinners, having fallen short of the glory of God in our thoughts, in our words, in our actions, in our non-actions. We pray and pledge to repent, to turn around and reverse course.

Similarly, what would it look like for faith leaders, congregations and congregants to confess the sins of specific racist beliefs, actions, and societal policies that we still hold and support?

What would it look like for faith leaders, congregations and congregants then to repent and dismantle those racist beliefs, actions and societal policies?

What would it look like for faith leaders, congregations and congregants to embrace and enact antiracist beliefs and actions, and advocate for societal policies that reduce inequities and promote the common good?

May God give us all courage and faith to be led down this path of sanctification!

I was born in Hong Kong, and my family moved to the U.S. in 1973 in anticipation of Hong Kong reverting back to the Republic of China in 1997.

In my desire to assimilate, I neglected my own language and culture in order to be accepted in white society. I still remember being taunted in elementary school…”Chinese, Japanese, dirty knees, look at these…”

In Shreveport, we lived in a declining middle-class, integrated neighborhood…my parents sold their house in that neighborhood in 2001 for $10,000. We never had any problems with our black neighbors. Yet, one summer evening, we heard a knock on our front door, a black man whose had broken down and just needed a phone to call for help. Yet we pretended we weren’t home…and waited quietly until he left for another house.

Looking back, it is so clear to me that even as a 12 year-old first-generation immigrant, I was already fully conditioned by whiteness, sharing the same thought patterns of fear and distrust of black men who were literally our neighbors. I might not have hateful thoughts toward blacks, but I harbored implicit bias against people of color. Years afterwards, I wrote a devotion on the Parable of the Good Samaritan, comparing my family to the Levites and the Priests, who encountered a neighbor in need and intentionally ignored him, and walked on our way on the other side of the road.

Growing up, I willingly allowed the white culture to mold me into its preferred image of the model Asian immigrant…smart, hardworking, always smiling, and not making waves. When you hear me speak, you probably won’t hear a Chinese accent, and that confuses people sometimes. When I told an acquaintance that I grew up in Shreveport, Louisiana, his eyes lit up with recognition and said: “Oh, so you’re Cajun!”

I am not a Cajun…but am I an Asian? It was in college that I first encountered big groups of Chinese peers. They invited me to their clubs, but I didn’t join. I identified more with whites.

Looking back, I have benefitted by assimilating into white culture. I have a BA from Rice University, a Masters of Divinity from Southwestern Seminary, and a doctorate from UVA. I haven’t been discriminated from housing or jobs. I distinctly remember asking the Farmville Baptist search committee whether they thought it would be a problem for them to call a Chinese pastor. They assured me it wouldn’t be a problem, and for the most part, they were right. However, I do remember a church member telling me that he had a hard time understanding my sermons because of my Chinese accent. So I guess there’s always one in every crowd! 🙂

Farmville is the seat of Prince Edward County, the county that closed its public schools for five years (1959-1964) and diverted tax money to establish a white academy. Some Farmville Baptist members supported that move. Another church member serving on city council opposed it, and he paid a big social price. Later, the church erected an informal policy of not allowing blacks to be on the property. And in 1969, it led to the arrest of Civil Right protestors, including the Rev. J. Samuel Williams Jr., an activist and pastor of Levi Baptist Church in Farmville.

In my time in Farmville, I befriended Rev. Williams and offered a public apology to him at a Symposium on the Prince Edward School Closing. I was able to do that and not get fired because I had several church members who had my back. Even so, I did not have the courage to lead Farmville Baptist to officially examine our own history, to have congregational conversations around our racist policies, and to reveal stories that we had spent decades hiding and denying from our communities and from ourselves..

During my time at Farmville Baptist, the church partnered with several black churches in town for meals, for pulpit exchanges, for Easter services, and even joint Vacation Bible Schools. We were anxious to show the community just how much we’ve changed. We told people how we now had a black couple as members, how we now welcomed black people into our space, to eat our food, to sing our hymns, and to read our liturgies. We were happy that these exchanges took place at Farmville Baptist.

But if we’re honest with ourselves, we should have also admitted that we were much less open to attend events at black churches as guests. My members told me that black worship services were too long, too loud, too different than what we were used to. But at least we could tell ourselves that we’re welcoming, that we have black friends, that we weren’t racist. And yet, I’m deeply grateful for the members of Farmville Baptist for helping me learn and grow as a pastor — not only in my church, but also in my community. And I know they — like me — have continued their journey of growth.

It was only after coming back to Charlottesville, that I began to learn that undoing racism it’s not just about being nice to one another. It is also about dismantling the racial power dynamics in our systems, institutions and culture that privilege white people.

Through conversations with other faith leaders within the Clergy Collective, I’m learning that “church integration” isn’t the goal of our work. We can have congregations “integrated” with diverse races, but once worshippers leave our buildings, black people still experience the disparities of worse education and health outcomes, of lower employment rates and salary incomes, of higher rates of arrests and incarceration. In fact, in our dangerous and oppressive white supremacist society, black churches may be the only place where black people feel safe to cry out their sorrow, to sing their joy, to dance with the movement of the Spirit, to be free from the shackles of an European understanding of time or propriety. It is with this understanding that I say, “Thank God more white people aren’t worshipping in black churches. Because if we did, we might very well ruin a good thing for black people!” Sunday mornings will remain the most segregated hour of the week as long as our society is unjust and oppressive for blacks and people of color.

Having said that, during these past years, my wife and I have had the privilege of worshipping in black churches, of going into their space, eating their food, singing their songs and NOT reading any liturgies! We have been welcomed with open arms and with gracious hospitality. I’m learning that instead of asking black people to come to our churches, or even to events like this so that they can “teach” or “perform” for us, we should, with their invitation, simply show up humbly to their places, where they have the power, where they have control of whether or not they want to speak about their experiences. In the meantime, we have the responsibility for teaching ourselves about the “black experience,” learning about our own racial history through books, internet resources, podcasts, workshops, and so much more. Black people are NOT at our beck and call to teach us about what we could and should learn for ourselves.

And I still have so much to learn, so much to grow. I’m grateful for the patience and good humor of my black brothers and sisters who have allowed me to show up again and again in their lives to experience their strength, their wisdom, their resourcefulness and their resiliency. My journey of learning and growing  is not over, and I’m grateful for the company of any other pilgrims along this path.

Thank you for listening to my story.

I want to reflect on that event and highlight what the faith leaders in the Charlottesville area are doing since then to address racism in our community.

The events of August 11 and 12 traumatized us. We are still feeling the aftermath of those two days of violence that terrorized town citizens and students at the University of Virginia.

Who Are We after August 12?

For many long-time residents, it was hard to see the name “Charlottesville” linked to white supremacy and violence.

“This is not our city,” many say, as they blame racist and hate-filled outsiders for invading and disturbing the peace in this idyllic college town.

For other residents, many of them black and minority, they say that it was time that others finally saw the oppressive reality they have been living under for generations.

“Welcome to our world,” they say, “where we struggle against gentrification, racial profiling, micro-aggressions, and disparity in wages under the shadow of a world-class university founded by slaveowner and white supremacist Thomas Jefferson.”

As tempting as it is to blame August 12 on “outsiders,” we are reminded that the organizer the “Unite the Right” rally was born and raised in Charlottesville and a graduate of UVA.

August 11 and 12 forced many of us to face the uncomfortable fact that we are a community still steeped in systemic racism.

Can We Talk?

I am a part of the Charlottesville Clergy Collective, a group of interfaith leaders formed in 2015 in the aftermath of the deadly shooting at Mother Immanuel Church in Charleston, South Carolina.

Headed by Alvin Edwards, pastor of Mt. Zion First African Baptist Church, we meet monthly to deepen our relationship and trust in order to address racism in Charlottesville.

We have realized that we still have much to learn about each other and from each other. The white faith leaders among us expressed a desire to learn from our black colleagues.

Some of the black pastors responded by saying that they are “white weary,” tired of educating well-intentioned white people about the black experience and the oppression of blacks.

“It is not a black person’s responsibility to teach white people about racism,” they say. “It is white people’s responsibility to educate themselves about the history of racism in America.”

“And yet,” they continued, “whites cannot do this totally alone without us.”

Whites need blacks as guides, teachers, and truth-tellers.

However, sometimes it is hard to hear the pain, frustration, and anger of our black brothers and sisters.

Sometimes it is embarrassing to be called out for our false assumptions, our ignorance, and our savior complex.

This work requires that we lay own our egos, that we risk showing our ignorance, that we lean into the discomfort of giving up our privilege and hearing hard truths.

This work is too important for us to worry about being nice at the expense of being real to each other.

Educating Ourselves

With those insights in mind, many members of the collective are committed to doing the work of raising our awareness about white privilege, and of learning the history of systemic racism in America and in Charlottesville.

We’ve made use of many fine resources, including:

• Screenings and discussions of the documentary I’m Not Racist, Am I? organized by Beloved Community Charlottesville.
• Ibram X. Kendi’s Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America.
• Michelle Alexander’s The New Jim Crow: Mass Incarceration in the Age of Colorblindness.
• Richard Rothstein’s The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America.
• Scene on Radio’s podcast’s “Seeing White” series.
• James Robert Saunders and Renae Nadine Shackelford’s Urban Renewal and the End of Black Culture in Charlottesville, Virginia: An Oral History of Vinegar Hill.

In addition to these resources, a small group from the collective is meeting several times a month to read and discuss Debby Irving’s “Waking Up White: And Finding Myself in the Story of Race.”

Rabbi Tom Gutherz of Congregation Beth Israel will lead another group of collective members to read and discuss Simon Wiesenthal’s “The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness.”

Around twenty members of the collective will gather tomorrow to spend an afternoon in a facilitated dialogue on race.

The desired outcomes of these educational opportunities and conversations are not merely greater knowledge and mutual understanding of each other.

We hope to come away with concrete actions that leverage the unique resources of our faith traditions to support Charlottesville and advocate for racial and social justice.

A Call to Action

“We’re tired of all this talk and no action!” That is the sentiment of many of the black pastors in the Charlottesville area.

In response, we are clarifying what “taking action” means, and in the process, we are learning that “action” may mean different things to different congregations and faith traditions.

For some traditions, just having a conversation about race is a challenging activity that requires courage and persistence from congregational leaders.

For other traditions, action may involve a non-violent, prayerful presence during white supremacist rallies, participating in inter-racial worship services, or collecting school supplies for students.

Still, for others, action may include using their white privilege to call out racist actions and policies, to advocate for affordable housing and a living wage, or to challenge our elected officials and lobby for specific legislation so that blacks and other minorities can also enjoy the same privileges whites enjoy.

As we attempt to clarify our actions, we are learning that there are different – and sometimes conflicting – strategies toward the goal of racial justice.

We’re also realizing that each house of worship is at a different place in their understanding of the role of social activism.

Therefore, we are learning to acknowledge the diverse actions of congregations while lovingly challenging each other to go beyond our comfort zones to dismantle racist structures in our society.

Responding Out of Our Faith

In the end, we are a clergy collective and we must offer our unique strength: the spiritual resources of our faith traditions.

Therefore, for the week leading up to the first anniversary of August 12, a subcommittee of the Charlottesville Clergy Collective is organizing an interfaith community service that highlights how our faith communities can make our way together for greater unity.

Finally, another group within the collective is organizing a “Charlottesville to Jamestown” pilgrimage on October 6 to 20.

This pilgrimage will acknowledge the history of oppression and injustice toward indigenous peoples and enslaved Africans, in anticipation of the 400^th anniversary of the landing of the first slave ship to Jamestown, Virginia, in 1619.

During those two weeks, there will be educational and worship opportunities in Charlottesville, Monticello, Richmond, and Jamestown/Fort Monroe.

We pray that pilgrims will experience personal transformation that leads to the transformation of our community.

Our hope is that several years from now, the name “Charlottesville” will no longer be linked to white supremacy and violence.

Our prayer and work are aimed toward a day when the name “Charlottesville” will serve as an example of how one city is transforming itself into a beloved community where its faith leaders and citizens continue the difficult work toward racial justice and equity.

Recently, my heart was cut to the quick when I reread Martin Luther King Jr.’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.”

Particularly convicting was the first of two confessions by King:

“First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen’s Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice . . .”

I identify as one of those “moderates” that King described.

In response to King’s confession, I make my own confessions:

I confess that I too have been more devoted to “order” than to justice, not realizing that “order” is often just a thin veneer that masks and perpetuates systemic injustice.

I confess that I have preferred a negative peace which maintained my privilege and ease over a positive peace which draws me into the tension, pain, and struggle that is the work of justice.

I confess that I have been more worried about what some people might say about me if they saw me working alongside members of “Black Lives Matter,” “Standing Up for Racial Justice,” and other more “radical” groups in the cause of resisting white supremacy, than what my conscience would tell me if I did not.

I confess that I have been more concerned about the profanity used by some counter protestors on that day than the profane oppression that my black brothers and sisters and other minorities have faced for years.

I confess that I was too scared to participate in the non-violent, direct action organized by my ministerial colleagues like Seth Wispelwey and Brittany Caine-Conley. They led a group of faith leaders, including Dr. Cornel West, Rev. Tracy Blackmon and Lisa Sharon Harper, to Emancipation Park. This small group stood and linked arms in front of the park. They were willing to risk arrest, to be physically harmed and even killed in order to offer a peaceful, non-violent witness to the love of Christ even as hate, invectives and violence swirled around them. They were among the first responders to assist victims when James Alex Fields drove his car into the crowd, killing Heather Heyer and injuring many others.

I confess that my heart was relieved to hear that my ministerial colleagues specifically stated that there was no judgment regarding those members who chose NOT to engage in direct action. All roles of witness and support were needed and valued.

I confess that I what little courage I had was bolstered by my CBF colleagues, the Reverends Will Brown, Nick Deere, Kenny and Laura Davis, Matt Tennant (and others I might have missed), who showed up and contributed in their unique ways to witness and minister in the name of Christ.

I confess that as I worked at First United Methodist Church to coordinate media and social media communications for the Charlottesville Clergy Collective, I was inspired by all the volunteers who served as medical dispatchers, medics, legal observers, jail and hospital liaisons, mental health counselors, and so many other roles.

I confess that during those crazy, tense hours, I didn’t care if those volunteers were Christian, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, atheists, lesbians, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, socialists, anti-fascists, or whatever. All I saw and cared about was that they were human beings willing to put their lives on the line to make sure others were safe.

I confess that I was moved to tears when some of them returned pepper sprayed, tear gassed, and bloodied, seeking medical care. Many of them then returned to the mayhem to continue their work.

I confess that I was slightly taken aback when the men’s restroom at First United Methodist was converted to a uni-sex restroom so that more people could use it regardless of gender.

I also confess that the uni-sex restroom quickly became a non-issue for me and for everyone else in that building.

I confess that my understanding of cooperation expanded exponentially that day. I’m reminded of Jesus’ words to his disciples in Mark 9:40 and Luke 9:60: “Whoever is not against us is for us.”

They say that confession is good for the soul.

I pray that my confession may lead to my repentance and to a deeper commitment to God’s work of justice for all human beings.

In the past, I intellectually understood why we need to set aside time to remember, acknowledge and celebrate the achievements of black people and culture in the United States.

However, for most of my life, I thought Black History Month was really more for black people and their history.

Attitude change toward Black History Month

That attitude began to change as I started to volunteer for the Charlottesville Clergy Collective. We’re an interfaith and interracial group of religious leaders committed to addressing racism in our community.

We’ve gathered for monthly for breakfast in the last three years. Over food and conversation, we’re beginning to break down the walls that divide black and white faith leaders.

We’re beginning to build bridges of trust as we listen and learn each others’ stories and experiences over lunch, pulpit exchanges and book study groups.

Through organizing community events, interfaith services, and public witness demonstrations, we’re beginning to learn how to work together to achieve common goals.

Building friendships

In time, we’re building friendships that can withstand the messiness of diversity, the challenges of racial work, and our own struggles and blind spots.

I’m grateful for the friendship of Dr. Alvin Edwards, pastor of Mt. Zion First African Baptist Church, for founding the Collective and for his openness to work with people across many divides.

I’m grateful for the friendship of Rev. Brenda Brown-Grooms, co-pastor of New Beginnings Christian Community. She’s teaching me that life is too short for beating around the bush and not speaking the truth in love.

I’m grateful for the friendship of Apostle Sarah A. Kelley, pastor of Faith, Hope and Love International Healing and Deliverance Center. She’s teaching me the power of persistence in the midst of systemic injustice.

I’m grateful for the friendship of Dr. Lehman Bates, pastor of Ebenezer Baptist Church. He challenges us with questions regarding the purpose of our activities in order to identify the cause, the condition, and the cure for systemic racism.

From “their” Black history to “our” common history

These and other faith leaders in the Collective have become my sisters and brothers in this work. Their lives and their congregations’ lives are becoming interwoven with mine.

I feel a connection with them as we become “one body,” so that when one part of the body suffers, the whole body suffers (1 Corinthians 12:26).

Through these deepening relationships and the sharing of our common humanity, I’m beginning to understand experientially that “black history” is really our history.

So when Sarah Kelley talks about her family being displaced from their home when white city residents voted to raze the African-American Vinegar Hill neighborhood, that’s no longer just black history, that is our history. And it informs how we respond to the gentrifying proliferation of luxury housing along the West Main corridor in Charlottesville.

During our Cville2Jtown Pilgrimage last October, when Gayle Jessup White talked about her enslaved ancestors as we read aloud the 360 names of enslaved Africans at Monticello, that’s no longer just black history, that is our history. And it informs how we respond to the use of “black face” by our politicians and the fight for a living wage at the University of Virginia.

When Dr. Karenne Wood reminded us that the land on which we’re living, working, and playing was once inhabited and sustained by the Monacan tribe for 15,000 years, that’s no longer just  “their” history, that is our history. And it informs how we respond to the proposed Atlantic Coast Pipeline and compressor station built on Monacan tribal settlements and in the historic African-American community of Union Hill in Buckingham County.

When Mark Charles presented the history of Christianity’s contribution to white supremacy and the oppression of native and black peoples, that’s no longer “their” history, it is our history. And it should inform how Christian pastors address their congregations’ complicity in establishing or perpetuating racist structures or attitudes.

Creating a common memory

Georges Erasmus, an Aboriginal leader from Canada, is cited by Mark Charles: “Where common memory is lacking, where people do not share in the same past, there can be no real community. Where community is to be formed, common memory must be created.”

So how can we create a common memory?

Even if we live in integrated neighborhoods, we often live within the segregated silos of our memories and our histories apart from the memories and histories of our neighbors of color.

Several weeks ago, the Charlottesville Clergy Collective organized a dinner gathering called “Conversations toward Reconciliation” in which over 200 people from 31 different faith communities gathered to share a meal and begin conversations around history and racial justice.

Our hope for that event (and subsequent events this year) is that it will help participants to engage with their own congregations in conversations about race. We hope to encourage them to learn and record stories of the role their congregations played in the history of race in Charlottesville.

In the process, may they will build relationships with members of other faith communities to support, encourage, and learn from one another as we all do this work.

I see this as one way that we can begin to create a common memory, a common history among some of the faith communities in town.

I anticipate that this will be challenging work, and some participants will face resistance from within their own faith communities.

But I also pray that those participants in this journey will experience a deeper connection with one another, a connection that embraces our shared humanity and forges a common history.

When February comes around next year, I’ll still be glad to celebrate Black History Month.

Yet I long for the day when every month will be Black History Month in our hearts, minds, and spirits!