It is now more important than ever to have conversations about racial justice. Having spent the last five years in conversation and in community as a member of the Charlottesville Clergy Collective, here are seven things that pastors, friends, and coaches have taught me about having a coach approach to conversations with someone in the African American community about race.

Before talking about race, do your own homework first.

Do not expect your Black friends to teach you things that you can learn yourself. You can Google resources online to identify articles, books, podcasts, videos, shows, etc., that explain the concepts of race, outline the history of racial injustice, and reveal the experience of racism suffered by African Americans. Take responsibility for one’s own learning before asking someone else to teach you. If you do ask someone in the Black community to teach you about race, find a tangible, mutually agreeable way to express your appreciation!

It is tiring and retraumatizing to share one’s “black experience” repeatedly.

Imagine suffering through a traumatic experience — an accident, a divorce, a firing, a miscarriage — and then having friends, co-workers, and strangers asking you again and again to share that experience so that they can understand “what that’s like.” That’s how many African American people often feel when asked to share their experiences of racial discrimination, injustice, and prejudice. Such requests for “sharing” benefit the questioner while not taking into account the emotional toll on the sharer. That’s why it is so important to do one’s homework prior to having a conversation.

Before talking about race, prepare to be uncomfortable.

If a person of color is willing to be uncomfortable and recount their traumatic experiences of racism, we also need to be willing to be uncomfortable. One of the major barriers in “racial dialogues” is the tendency for many white people to expect Black Americans to speak their traumatic truth in a way that might upset their white conversation partner. When African Americans share their experience, they are often met with responses like: “Why are you such an angry back woman?” “I didn’t ask to feel guilty.” “Why can’t you all just get over the past?” Sometimes, white people just get up and walk out in the middle of these conversations.

These kinds of responses are manifestations of what Robin DiAngelo describes as “white fragility,” an inability of many white people to soothe their own emotional discomfort while expecting people of color to “twist themselves into knots trying to navigate us [white people] as painlessly as possible.” This white fragility adds to the trauma that Black people face when having conversations about race.

Coaches trained in active listening and embodying an empathetic stance will do well to lean heavily into these skills while engaging with others in these conversations.

Prepare to be curious . . . about ourselves

Curiosity is also an important mindset for coaches, and in conversations about race, we can direct our curiosity less on our Black conversational partners, and more on ourselves.

When we experience discomfort, we can ask ourselves what’s behind our discomfort.

Possible questions include:

What’s behind my resistance to evidence that I have societal privileges that people of color do not have?

What are my racial biases and blind spots?

Why do I accept that I’m a sinner, but reject that possibility that I’ve committed the sin of racism?

Which spiritual identity am I more committed to: “I’m a disciple still in need of repentance and grace” or “I’m basically a good, moral person”?

It’s both individual AND systemic.

The best coaches I’ve had were not simply interested in improving my relationship with my staff and congregants. They challenged me to think about the culture, the policies, and the metrics that encouraged and rewarded certain behaviors, functions, and outcomes in my church.

Similarly, a conversation about race cannot just focus on individual relationships and how we can be “less hateful” to one another. A conversation is also needed about how our societal institutions and power structures contribute to behaviors, functions, and outcomes among the races.

Historically speaking, “race relations” have been relatively “better” (think antebellum South) when those in power retained their power while those oppressed or enslaved remained in their societal place and didn’t “buck the system.” “Race relations” often become “worse” when Black communities begin to publicly speak and work for a more equitable society.

Therefore, “having Black friends” is not an excuse to avoid confronting one’s own complicity in systemic racism. Indeed, what does true friendship look like in response to a Black friend’s experience of unjust hiring and housing policies, of inequitable law enforcement practices, and in receiving inferior education, wages, and health outcomes?

This vein of conversation will touch on politics. But let’s remember that Jesus’ language of the “Kingdom of God” is inherently political by challenging the secular and religious power systems of his day. Recent books by scholars such as Jemar Tisby and Robert P. Jones have reminded us that most traditions of American Christianity were not only complicit in, but actively contributed to the systemic oppression of African Americans. This historical fact challenges us to ask ourselves: “Which politics do I have a greater allegiance to: the politics of Jesus, or the partisan politics of my political party and/or my Christian tradition?”

Fewer “drive-by conversations” and more “live-in community.”

Most coaches believe that clients experience greater transformation when engaged in a longer-termed coaching relationship. The same is true when it comes to talking about race. “One off” conversations have less transformational potential than conversations that take place organically arising out of a sustained, mutually trusting relationship.

Many times, African Americans are unwilling to engage in conversations with us because they don’t really know us. Conversely, we have not shown that we have the ability to hear them without getting defensive, nor have we earned their trust. Sometimes, the best strategy to learn about the “Black experience” is to join (by their invitation) their community (without taking over) and experience their joys and struggles, hopes and obstacles, celebrations and defeats.

It’s about goal-oriented tangible action.

Just as the best coaching conversations involve a call to action, so too should conversations about race. Unfortunately, in too many of these conversations, whites basically tell African Americans: “Teach me about racism, but don’t hold me accountable to how it has damaged the African American community.” Even less helpful, whites are often tempted to ask African Americans to offer them understanding, absolution, or even reconciliation as their call to action after one conversation.

Robert P. Jones, author of White Too Long, offered sage advice when he said in an interview with me (around 34:00 minute mark): “If whites forget about reconciliation, and just work for justice and repair, our African American brothers and sisters are going to tell us when we are reconciled. . . . But it is not something that we should be asking for, and certainly not very quickly.”

Before having conversations about race, ask yourself: “What tangible actions am I willing to commit and be accountable for racial justice?”

Conclusion

Coaching at its best is always fully client-centered and not coach-centered. That skill is also a super-power when it comes to fighting systemic racism.

I believe one of the main characteristics of racism is the insistence of centering the experiences, perspectives, beliefs, privileges, and power of (male) white people over people of color in our society. To the extent that we non-Black coaches can apply this coaching competency of decentering ourselves and centering on African Americans, I believe we will have much more productive conversations about racial justice.

Indeed, if we find ways to decenter ourselves and center African Americans in our work in racial and social justice, I believe we can make a great contribution to the well-being and flourishing of all in our society.

So here are my seven things to know before talking about race with African Americans. How might you apply these lessons before your next conversation about race?

There are many things that I still do not know about conversations around racial justice.

What would you add to this list?

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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.

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!