#CharlestonShooting and the War on Christianity

It is late in the evening, and I am bone tired. This has been my third evening out late. Last night, while I was at Church for prayer and a vestry meeting, nine of my brothers and sisters were killed in a church in South Carolina. When I learned about the shooting, I wept and prayed.

It was a busy day for me at work today, as the health center I worked at held its tenth annual Weitzman Symposium. During brief breaks, I found moments to glance and the news and offer up more prayers.

In the evening, I went to the commencement of the 2015 class of Health Leadership Fellows from the CT Health Foundation. This is a program aimed at address racial and ethnic health disparities. Some of my closest friends from the fellowship were not there and I wondered if they were at prayer vigils.

Now, I’m finally home, and trying to wrap my head around what has happened. I read stories about people trying to avoid talking about racism in the shooting by a white supremacist of nine brothers and sisters at a church. They prefer to call it an attack on Christianity. They are half right. The White Supremacist movement is an attack on Christianity.

Rachel Dolezal Rorschach

I’ve been struck by the reactions to Rachel Dolezal I’m coming across online. Just a few of them include things like

I think she is a narcissistic asshole.
She is a liar, a fraud.
She is raising important issues about the definition of race.
She is racing important issues about identity
She is the result of a messed up childhood.

I remember years ago when I worked for a large international bank. I hired a management consultant to help navigate the tricky waters. In one meeting, she suggested being aware of how people react to you, is, at least in part, a result of who they are, instead of who I am.

“Imagine yourself surrounded by a big silver ball”, she suggested. “What is coming at you is often a reflection of the others. Just let it reflect back.”

So, I thought about Rachel Dolezal. Is she a giant Rorschach test? Are the people calling her a “narcissistic asshole” really making a comment about themselves? What about those calling her a liar or fraud?

To me, I like exploring issues around identity or the definition of race and I see that aspect of her. I don’t tend to think of my childhood as being as messed up as it seems hers was, but I ran into my share of dysfunction during my childhood.

As I try to make sense of all of this, let me offer this poem:

For Rachel

“You’re not really black.
Your biological father was white.
You haven’t suffered like black people have.”

She put down her copy
of the National Committee of Negro Churchmen’s
“Black Power Statement”

“My Father is Black”, she replied
“His Son suffered more than any of us can imagine
so that we could be brothers and sisters.”

Mind Dump

It is late and I’ve only recently gotten home, wolfed down some food at sat down to read and write. There so much to write about, yet it’s late.

Today was Bloomsday. I shared a few tweets about the day, but didn’t get to focus on it as much as I would like. I am busy preparing for the (Virtual)Weitzman Symposium that will take place at work this Thursday. I’m really looking forward to it, but I’m also really looking forward to it being over.

This evening, I had a commission meeting about Government Access Television. Tomorrow evening, I’ll have a Vestry meeting. Thursday, after the symposium, I will head to the commencement for this year’s CT Health Foundation Health Leadership Fellow. Then, Friday evening, will be an end of the school year party.

Somewhere in all of this, I will try to keep my discussions online vibrant, write my blog posts, spend time in contemplation, and of course go through the daily tasks.

There is so much to write about. Now, I’ll head off to bed late and rise up early for another very busy day.

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The Mist on the Hills

It was still dark when I awoke. I glanced at the alarm clock. 5:15. I could sleep, or at least rest and meditate for a while before I had to get up. I turned over, closed my eyes allowing those early morning thoughts and feelings to return. When I next looked at the alarm clock, the familiar blue lights were off. The power was out. I checked my watch. 5:30. I set the alarm on my watch to go off in thirty minutes and returned to my meditations.

When the alarm on my watch went off, I looked again at the alarm clock. It was still without power. Outside, I could hear the rain, and in the distance a neighbor’s generator. I knew that it would be a busy day at work, so I packed a gym bag with a towel and a change of clothes. I could shower at the office.

Yet as I prepared to leave, the power came back on, so I reverted to my normal routine, just a little bit off.

On the drive to work, I looked at the low flying clouds. I had never been all that good at weather observation, but it appeared as if the clouds were about 200 feet off the ground and moving around 15 miles an hour. It was peaceful. It was beautiful.

Sure enough, it was a busy day at the office. Before I knew it, I had put in a very long day and was heading home. The rain had stopped, but mist clung to the hills. There was something primitive about the view. I could imagine living out in nature, struggling against the elements, but still finding time to stop and enjoy the beauty of the mist on the hills.

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The Politics of Adopted Identity

For the past few days, I’ve been very focused on the story of Rachel Dolezal, the woman in Washington who has passed for a black woman for many years. You can see this in my recent blog posts. Why are we, as a country, so interested in this? Some suggest that it is because she lied. However, politicians lie all the time. So much so that there is the old joke:

How do you know if a politician is lying?
His lips are moving.

So, I don’t buy that it is because she is lying. Some of this may be because it is manufactured by conservative bloggers, who seem to dislike anyone who works for civil rights. Conservative blogs appear to be really enjoying this. Some of this may be because of issues of cultural appropriation. Although, when you look at it, it appears as if her she has appropriated much less and is much more friendly to the culture she is adopting from than so much cultural appropriation we see today.

For me, perhaps the biggest issue is one of identity. How do we identify ourselves? Black? White? Male? Female? Straight? Gay? There are many labels we can use on ourselves. There are many labels we can use on others and others can use on us. Yet these labels may not always feel right. We may feel that our real gender is different than our biological gender. We may feel that our sexual orientation is different from what is dominant in the culture. Perhaps, we may feel that our race or ethnicity is different from the race or ethnicity we were born into.

As an aside, it is curious to think about how social media is feeding this. As I write this, my youngest daughter says, “Can you guess what decade I belong in?” She had just completed one of those many quizzes that suggest our identity might be different from how we were born. Social media is telling us about the fluidity of identity.

Add to this, advertising. If we want an identity that will be accepted by others, all we have to do is buy the right products to look darker, lighter, have straighter or curlier hair, wear the right clothes, etc.

Recently, I’ve had some experiences that have gotten me thinking about my identity. Who am I, really? What do I desire? How does this relate to how people see me? How does this relate to how God sees me? How does what I desire relate to what God desires for me?

In one book I’m currently reading, “The Wounding and Healing of Desire” has a great line, “It is the wisdom of Christianity to understand that we are so wounded we do not know who we are.”

Now some people will suggest that at least we know who someone’s parents are. To go back to Rachel Dolezal, her biological parents are both white and say she is white. Yet this comes back to another idea from Christianity.

In Mark 3:33-35 Jesus says, ""Who are my mother and my brothers?" And looking at those who sat around him, he said, "Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.""

I would imagine that for her, and for many of us, doing the will of God means, at least in part, fighting for civil rights. Who is Rachel's father? Whoever fights for civil rights. Yes, Rachel perhaps has many black fathers.

Here, I will go to another verse. In 1 Corinthians 9:22 Paul says, “To the weak I became weak in order to win the weak. I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some of them.”

So, by becoming black, Rachel is standing in the tradition of the Apostle Paul.

Then, there is the artist angle. Rachel received her Masters of Fine Arts from Howard University as a white woman married to a black man. One aspect of art is to get people to look at the world around them in a different way. As a piece of performance art, intentional or unintentional, Rachel has excelled in this, propelling the discussion about the social construction of race into the limelight. This is an area I’m especially hopeful about. By getting more people to think about racial identity, she may do more than all the handwringing Facebook posts about police brutality.

This gets to why what she has done is so radical. It joins with a great Christian and artistic tradition of challenging the way we see the world, in the way we understand our identity, and ultimately, in the way we live.

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