Something Lurking in the Gym

Last Saturday I almost came to blows with an African American dad while I watched my white grandson play pick-up basketball. I have written before about how race sometimes “lurks” in our interactions. This race-laden incident threatened to steal the joy and spirit of our regular Saturday mornings at the gym.

Some context: Every Saturday morning when my white wife, Laura; my white grandson, Damon; and I walk into Coleman Community Center, I am reminded of the history told to me by Doug Williams. Doug is a white administrator at a local state university. Years ago when I was out of work he agreed to meet with me for an informational interview. He ended up granting me way more than the 20 minutes I asked for.

Doug talked about growing up in the 1960s. He had graduated from Glencliff High School the year before the all-white school was forced to integrate. Doug told me about the time in his high school years that he received a phone call at home. His mother answered the call and hailed him to the corded phone in the kitchen. When Doug arrived in the kitchen, Mom, with her hand over the phone, whispered, “He says it’s Leroy.”

“Okay,” Doug said.

“Who’s Leroy?”

“I’ve told you about Leroy. We play basketball together.”

“Is he… a Negro?”

“Yes.”

“You never told me he was a Negro.”

“I didn’t know it mattered.”

Doug told me that during the segregated Glencliff/Coleman community of youth, the only place black teens and white teens interacted was in the gym at Coleman Community Center. The center was the place that Doug regularly played basketball with black guys.

The Glencliff/Coleman community has grown much more multicultural in more recent years. Glencliff High is an international center. Coleman Community Center also reflects that diversity…except in the gym.

When Laura, Damon and I arrive at the center on Saturday mornings, we observe a predictable scene in the gym. There are often single players each claiming one of the six goals, while being trained by a dad or a personal trainer. Players and trainers are all black.

Damon and I usually find an open goal and play one-on-one before others arrive, especially if Akam, the Kurdish eighth grader, hasn’t arrived yet. We might get in a game of two-on-two or three-on-three before the high schoolers and young men arrive. It varies week to week, most Saturdays, except for Damon and Akam, all of the gym-dwellers are African American.

Damon has earned the respect of all of the players. The boys have fun. There are the usual disputes about who knocked the ball out or whether someone was fouled. Most of the time the offender knows he is wrong, and sometimes laughter ensues. Disputes are resolved quickly; everyone just wants to get back to playing. And when the games are over, there are fist-bumps and high-fives all around and promises of “See you next week.”

Last week I was watching the boys play five-on-five. I looked up and saw a familiar African American dad, who had been coming with his son the past three weeks. In those weeks I had struck up conversations with him. We had recognized each other because I had taught his eighth grade son when the boy was a sweet first grader.

On this day I tapped the dad on the shoulder and said, “Hey.” He barely looked at me and grunted. A few minutes later he turned to me and started badmouthing Damon under the guise of “coaching.” The smirk on his face betrayed his real meaning. While his son strutted and taunted on the court, I decided to return (grand)parental fire (because I am such a calm and gracious guy). I commented on his son’s “attitude” on the court.

So it was ON. This dad is a big guy, and he thought (I assume) that if he abruptly moved closer to me while spewing, I would be intimidated. He didn’t know that I am both too old and too young to be intimidated. After a heated exchange of words, I eventually walked out of the gym.

When I came back with a calmer demeanor, the dad just started talking smack every time his son came up with a good play or Damon missed a shot. I was sitting behind and away from said dad, so he had to turn around to keep making his comments. I finally asked him to stop talking to me. He asserted his right to say whatever he wanted to. My loving wife encouraged me several times to not engage him at all.

The game ended, and his victorious son unleashed this lengthy angry taunt into the gym. It was unlike anything we’ve seen in the weeks we have been playing light-hearted Saturday morning pick-up basketball. Ignoring my wise wife, I turned to the dad and said, “That’s the attitude I’m talking about.” I honestly don’t remember what else transpired before we were up in each other’s faces, but a shouting match ensued.  And management came. I took another walk.

While outside I spoke to another African American dad, whom we had befriended in earlier weeks. One week he had asked Damon to play one-on-one offense so that his son could work on his defense. On this Saturday, I asked this dad if he had witnessed the scene I had just caused. He hadn’t. I apologized for it anyway. Then he said, “You know, in days like these it is disappointing when we start at EACH OTHER like this. It’s enough to have to deal with that treatment in general society. You would think that at least WE could keep it together.” He meant, of course “we black folk.” It was lament, not criticism.

The rest of the of the conversation was typical. We talked more about our boys and their basketball experiences. Then, newly calm, I returned to the gym.

The “my boy/your boy” conversation is one I have had with dozens of parents. Three weeks ago I launched into that conversation with Dad #1.  But whenever I complimented his kid, he criticized Damon.

So why was this dad all focused on Damon? He made no comments about any other kid out there. And in three weeks he and his son had become increasingly anti-social, and the son had become increasingly angry on the court. Aside from Damon’s obvious talent, I can think of only one reason he was singled out for this constant criticism. It was something lurking.

By the middle of the first five-on-five game last week, Damon didn’t want to play anymore, but, as he told his Meemaw, “I wasn’t gonna go out like that.”  He finished the game, and his team handily won the next game. Still Damon was disturbed.

I own my part in the drama. The following week the whole scenario occupied a lot of my thought life. I first apologized to Damon and then tried to encourage him, “We can’t let them steal the joy of our Saturday mornings. We do this for fun. Don’t let them take this from us.” But I had no idea how I could instruct my own emotions before the next Saturday. I did pray. I did consider whether we should show up at all. I did think of what I wanted to say to reconcile with this dad, but it would all be built on how wrong HE was. And I had already committed to a wise woman that I would not speak to the man at all.

I did go over the past three weeks in my mind trying to figure out what went wrong before I had decided to “return fire.” And why was I so inconsolable after the incident?

I think the discomfort was based in something more than immediate. It drew on the historical romance I had been told about Coleman/Glencliff. It was the sense that this place of peace, this place of community against the cultural odds, was being turned into a place of conflict. And the battle was engaged against me and my grandson for no respectable reason.

By week’s end, my emotional energy had dissipated and I had pictured for myself how I would act. First, I would get back out on the court myself. No-one can take the game too seriously when I am on the court.

-->

As it turned out dad and son didn’t show. I don’t think anyone spoke of them or of our incident. But there was a palpable relief hanging in the air. The boys were lighter than usual. They played hard, but they laughed as hard as they played. And there were fist-bumps and high-fives.

The Way It's Supposed to Be: Reflections on Sandy Hook

I finally remembered the unicorn. It had been in our car since Sunday when our granddaughters, five-year-old Chelsea and 18-month-old Zoey, went to church with us. We took the girls home after Sunday lunch, but Chelsea left the little stuffed toy in our car.

That Friday morning, December 14, 2012, we drove to their house to take Chelsea and eight-year-old Damon to school as we do many schooldays. All week I had kept forgetting to return the unicorn. Until that day.

We arrived at their house and found Chelsea as we do every schoolday, dressed and sitting in her little girl chair in the middle of the living room, watching “Charlie and Lola” on TV. Damon was nowhere to be found. We knew he was in the house somewhere, and older people were around but asleep. I finally spotted two legs sticking out from under the Christmas tree like the Wicked Witch of the East under Dorothy's fallen house. After we pulled him out, we laughed a little and gathered up the children and their things.

Before we left the house, Chelsea grabbed a pink box that opens at the top and has two opening drawers in the front. She gave it to me and said “You take this home and put stuff in it.” When we got to the car, she elaborated to Meemaw, “ You put stuff in it, and Peepaw puts stuff in it. Then you can bring it back to me tomorrow or Sunday.” We took in our instructions obediently. I’m pretty sure she just wanted us to have something else of hers since we returned the unicorn.

 Whitsitt Elementary School is only about four blocks from the house, but as the weather is getting colder we prefer driving the kids to school. Once we pulled out of the driveway, Meemaw   started the prayer.  “God we thank you for this day. And we ask that you be with Damon and Chelsea at school today. We ask for their protection. And we pray that they will be obedient to their teachers and kind to their classmates. We pray that everyone will be kind to them. We pray that they will know that You are with them. In Jesus’ Name.  Amen.”  

“Amen.” 

“Amen.”

“Amen.”  

As we approached the drive up to the school, Meemaw said, as usual, “Wave to Mommy.” Chelsea and Damon’s mom, Chrissy, is a crossing guard at their school. We always wave to her as we drive up to the school.

We parked and headed into the building and walked the short entry hallway. From there, the second through fourth graders turn right and the pre-K through first graders turn left to get to their respective classrooms. At this point we typically wait for Damon’s decision. He might want to go to breakfast, might want to walk alone to class, or might want to have company walking to his second- grade class. “Company” usually means Meemaw, since I am designated to walk with Chelsea, who always just wants to get to class as soon as possible and would be just as happy to walk all by herself.  

Chelsea and I both love the walk, but we are really in different worlds, I think. I am an observer, amazed and delighted to see how the children at Whitsitt respond to one another every day. The school exudes kindness, friendliness, and safety. And yes I have to mention the racial make-up of the student body. It’s perhaps 80% Latino with a handful of black students and white students. That make-up matters to me, mainly because it doesn’t seem to matter to the children. Brown, black, and white pre-K through fourth grade boys and girls walk hand in hand or arm and arm. They are not supposed to speak, because it’s Zone Zero in the halls, but they smile and wave and sneak in a “Hi Chelsea” whenever they can. Chelsea is obediently silent, but also smiles and waves. And she soaks it in.

On this day Damon decided to walk to class on his own, so Meemaw hugged him and said goodbye before joining me and Chelsea. As usual Chelsea’s mood grew more quietly excited as she walked down the hall. We finally got her to her class, where she stopped to hug Meemaw, and I kneeled down so that she could half-hug me. She doesn’t like this moment because she’s already in school mode, but she always accommodates us. By then she was beaming. Mrs. Williams greeted her at the door, and Chelsea entered her kindergarten classroom, her second home, safe and sound.

After the events at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, Connecticut, that day, we made a point of going to Damon and Chelsea's house after school. We just wanted to see their little faces. When we walked in, Chelsea wanted to know if I had brought back her pink box. I reminded her that I have until Sunday. She giggled, “That’s right. I’ll see you Sunday!”

Fear of a Baseball Cap

It was July 4, 1996. I was with my wife, our four children and our dear friends in the Kroger grocery store parking lot in Franklin, Tennessee. Lots of other patriots had gathered with us anticipating sundown so that we could enjoy the Independence Day celebration. While the sun still shone, we were all just killing time. Cars were lined up in their parking places while the erstwhile occupants lounged on truckbeds or wandered the aisles laughing and taking in the last moments of sun.

 

Our younger kids were getting restless, so to occupy them I volunteered to accompany them to get drinks and candy in the store. We walked toward the store—this slightly built black man and a gaggle of young white children. All the people we passed were also white, and as we walked I could feel the eyes on me. The kids were innocently oblivious. Not one to shy away, I looked up to greet or at least make eye contact with anyone who dared to keep up the stare. Several young men obliged with scowls that showed me they weren’t in a greeting mood. They wore a standard uniform each punctuated by a baseball cap with a brim curled just a certain way. No-one said anything to me. They didn’t have to. They seemed to know innately that the stare communicated their message.

 

I felt the message deep in my bones; it was visceral. And not unfamiliar. In earlier months only blocks from that parking lot, young white men sent more explicit messages. On one occasion a carload of baseball-capped young men cruised by hanging out of a car and yelling racial insults at my wife and me. And on another occasion similarly dressed young white men drove by pointing gun-shooting gestures at me.

The intimidation is real, although its effectiveness on me varies according to my mood. Most times it is unsettling but not enough to alter any actions I already had in mind. These guys INTEND to be threatening to me. And I identify them ahead of time by that baseball cap they wear and by the area of town I happen to be in. For me, they are trouble-makers, marked by a number of factors topped off with the baseball cap.

Actually I bear no animosity toward the humble baseball cap. My white son sports a baseball cap with a Dr. Pepper logo. And some of my best friends wear baseball caps; some of those people are white young men from Franklin, Tennessee. People wear baseball caps for various reasons: Some as a fashion statement, some to show team or brand loyalty, some to keep the sun out of their eyes, some to cover up an embarrassing head or hair situation, and some because they play baseball. Folks wear their caps in various ways: Close to the head, sitting atop, backwards, side ways, or slightly askance. Baseball cap wearers come in varied sizes, shapes, ages, colors, and genders. It would be wrong for me to assume that every baseball cap wearing person is somehow dangerous to me.

Despite my history, it would be ridiculous for me to believe that their baseball caps MAKE people trouble-makers or that those caps are symbolic of trouble or even that I should somehow be confused about whether their baseball cap makes them dangerous. A focus on the skin color of the cap-wearer or on a particular area of town does nothing to change the picture. Objectively these guys are no more dangerous to me because they are young white guys wearing baseball caps in this area of Franklin. But as an isolated black man on this turf while groups of baseball-capped guys stare me down, I have reason to feel threatened.

Now what if one of those guys was walking in my multicultural neighborhood with a curled rim baseball cap? I’d feel no twinge of threat. My bones don’t recognize a generic baseball-capped young white guy as someone to fear, someone to pursue. If I did feel threatened by a random baseball-capped young white man in my neighborhood, and if I were a neighborhood watch captain, I would call the police. I would follow their advice.

And if that baseball cap-donned young white man came from behind me and attacked me and I knew I was carrying a semi-automatic weapon, he’d probably still be alive. 

A Father's Blessing

I know this plays like a commercial, but it's really just another excuse to talk about the grandkids. The occasion is the release of the updated version of The Blessing, John Trent and Gary’s Smalley’s popular family-oriented, Christian “self-help” book, originally published in 1986.

I read the book back then, and as a Christian with a fairly recent psychology degree and a strong desire to raise a family, it punched all my buttons. Problem was I didn’t have a family of my own. I wasn’t married; I wasn’t even dating. So it was a bit like reading escapist fiction for me.  But now, of course, my world is different. I'm married and occasionally dating (my WIFE, silly people!); I count six kids and seven grandkids.

My grandson Damon had a tough time last school year. He is now in 1^st grade for the second time. This year, he’s doing well academically, but it’s taken a while for him to deal with this thing emotionally. It seems that repeating a grade and trying to fit into a new school are not easy realities to get used to.

Laura, my wife, and I get to see him every morning. Before we pick up his cousin Elliott for the day, we travel to Damon’s house to drive him to school. When we get to Damon’s house each schoolday morning, his mom, Chrissy, has already taken his brothers Christian and Dylan to their schools on her way to work.  Brother Michael is also at work. Damon is at home with his daddy, Thomas, who is there after having worked into the evening. Damon's little sisters, Chelsea and Zoey, are usually sleeping.

Before leaving the house with Damon, we ask him, “Did you do you homework? Did you get your folder signed? Are you all set?” It’s the ritual. The last part of the ritual is when he goes to his daddy. Thomas hugs him, holds him close, and whispers a prayer for the day. He challenges Damon to do his best, to obey his teachers, to be kind to his classmates. He says “I love you,” and kisses him. Damon is then ready to face his day.

That moment lasts less than a minute each day, but it makes all the difference in the world for how Damon navigates that day. Thomas bestows a blessing on Damon.

That’s The Blessing John Trent and Gary Smalley describe in their book. Their contention is that The Blessing bestowed upon our children (our grandchildren, spouses, other family members and friends) can make a difference in how they navigate, not just one day, but their entire lives. For the authors there are five elements to The Blessing:

1. Use meaningful and appropriate touch.

2. Use a spoken message of encouragement.

3. Attach high value. Communicate that person’s value.

4. Help them picture a special future.

5. Actively commit to helping them succeed.

I’d like to say that I taught Thomas everything he knows in this regard, but it wouldn’t be true. Thomas is one of those rare people gifted by God as a natural nurturer, a natural encourager. Most of us are not like that. Most of us need help learning how to bestow that blessing. For us, the book, The Blessing, can help.

Why We Ignored Jesus

And when you fast, do not look miserable as the actors and hypocrites do when they are fasting--they walk around town putting on airs about their suffering and weakness, complaining about how hungry they are. So everyone will know they are fasting, they don't  wash or anoint themselves with oil, pink their cheeks, or wear comfortable shoes. Those  who show off their piety, they have already received their  reward. When you fast, wash your face and beautify yourself with oil, so no one who looks at you will know about your discipline. Matthew 5:16-18a, The Voice

If you know me on FB or IRL, you have probably heard about the fast that Laura I undertook for 5 days. It was a vegetable and fruit fast, which means we could eat and drink only those foods. If you've heard about it, it's because we haven’t exactly been quiet about it, even though Jesus said what you read above. To be fair, my transgression has been way more egregious than Laura’s, but she’s not exactly been closemouthed (except toward meat and bread and all grains and legumes and dairy and anything else you would ingest that isn't fruit or vegetable) either.

So how do we justify our total disregard for Jesus’ words?

Well, looking righteous wasn't our reason for advertising the fast. And if you're tempted to think we're wonderful for undertaking this fast, you are very generous (thank you), but you should know that we quit a meal short of our goal (unfortunately that one meal wasn't very satisfying). So we are at best one meal shy of wonderful.

We also did not publicize our venture to gain pity, although I sometimes live like a disciple of Seinfeld’s George Constanza who once said, "Pity's very underrated. I like pity. It's good." Any pity I solicited (one person called me "grumpy") or mock guilt I inflicted was just for entertainment, pretending that we were actually suffering. The truth is we burdened ourselves with eating and drinking only all the fruits and vegetables we could--no real burden.

Ours was not a true commitment; it was an experiment. It all started when Kimberly texted her mother to recommend a movie about fat. I didn't care to see it, but with only end-of-the-summer TV to relax with, I agreed to give it a shot. The movie was Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead, and 30 minutes in, we stopped it and went out to buy a juicer. 

People fast for any number or reasons. Our fast was for physical health reasons, not for spiritual purification or growth or for political or spiritual leverage, although we are well aware of the connections between our spiritual, mental, and physical health. And we are aware that Jesus is an equal opportunity physician--healing body, mind, spirit, and even the social order.

In sum, I don’t believe our fast has anything to do with what Jesus was talking about.  The attitudes and actions Jesus warns against were about self-congratulating and solicitation of pity. We had neither of those intentions. 

We did, however, want people to know about our fast. Did I mention that we couldn't eat meat, bread, grains, legumes, or dairy? They even frowned upon potatoes. Potatoes!

Stuff I Learned from a 15-Month Unplanned Sabbatical

 Labor Day Thoughts from  a Guy Who is Recently Re-employed:

1. I love job security!

2. It is good and satisfying to work for a living.

3. Contrary to the human nature beliefs of some of my friends, most humans (even most Americans) believe, live by, and are motivated by no. 2.

4. There are hardworking people who can’t find a job and hard-working people who can’t provide for their families (OK, I already knew this one).

5. There are more important things than job security.

6. Looking for work is work. Looking for work during a recession takes patience, persistence and ingenuity. And the Patience and Persistence Award goes to: My wife, Laura.

7. Networking works, even if it takes 15 months (or longer) to work. 

8. Contrary to some rantings from defenders of hard-working, successful people, there is no such thing as independence. No-one gets there purely by their own actions and abilities (See no.7).

9. There is no such thing as job security.

10. blah blahblah GRANDKIDS blah blah blah (See no.5)

Equally Yoked, Part 2

We lived at 3939-C Montague Street at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, when I was in fifth grade in 1969. Another black family, the Davises, lived next door at 3939-D, and for a few months their household included Sgt. and Mrs. Davis’s four-year-old granddaughter. She was the first person to say to me with resignation, “You’ll probably marry a white woman.” The second person was my black girlfriend when I was a teenager.

Popular opinion on interracial relationships has certainly shifted in the past few decades since 1967, when the federal Loving case struck down state laws against interracial marriage. Still there is no universal consensus; in fact everyone seems to have an opinion about the issue.

In the late 1970s at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon, whenever my friends and I discussed interracial marriage, the most common comment was, “I think it’s okay except for one thing: what about the children?” The concern always amused me. My thinking was that (and I hope my biracial friends will set me straight), while biracial children would certainly have an upbringing different from other people, it is not likely that it would be more difficult than the experience of most black people.

Before Laura, I had only two “official” girlfriends—one black and one white. And, while in 18 years of single adulthood I had dated only black or white women, my “interests” came in many hues and ethnicities. That’s why the question of why some black men “prefer” white women always seemed strange to me.

In 1992, when Laura and I were dating, Ebony Man magazine published the article, “Interracial Dating: What Black Men Say About It.” They didn’t ask me, but I responded with this letter to the editor, dated March 24, 1992:

“Dear EM,

I was glad to see that someone is finally asking black men about interracial relationships. But if you had asked this black man, you would have gotten an answer that was not covered in your article. I am involved with a white woman because I love that woman. I did not search for a white woman. I did not

choose white WOMEN over black WOMEN. I chose this woman over all other women of any race. My involvement with this woman does not diminish my love and respect for my black mother, my black grandmothers or black sisters everywhere. The woman I love is strong, has come through hard times, is loving and selfless—just like my mother.

At the same time that you say Ebony Man does not endorse or condemn the choices black men make in women, you state that black men should “hurry home.” You are missing the point of relationships. I do not choose a mate to make a political statement. My home is with a woman I can love and who loves me. My home is with a woman whom I can love for a lifetime. There are women of every race who might fit that description. The woman in my life is white—not because I prefer white women but because I prefer THIS woman.

I am proud to be a black man. But if building up black people means that I cannot love people of other races, then I’ll settle for just building up the human race. And I won’t be counting on Ebony Man or popular opinion to tell me whom I should love.

So thanks for running the article; but as far as my interracial relationship is concerned, Ebony Man, like most everyone in the media, has missed the point.”

Years later in 2005 I expressed similar sentiments in a blog post, saying,

"Let me make clear that Laura and I did not marry to make a point. It was (and is) pure love, but it was a hard-fought decision, trying to anticipate possible problems for us and our children. In the end, hard-fought (not mushy) love won out. The hard-fighting hasn’t ended, though I think we’d both say it is mostly internal, along the lines of the theological tension mentioned above. The love of God and one another, and the shared mission to follow Jesus have sustained us."

A commenter graciously replied with a series of provocative questions. The beginning of his comment:

    “Grace2U, and Peace.

    You obviously made a decision, and I assume that you grew up during the 60's, that you had some wrestlings with. I do have a question or two, though, and I hope that you don't mind...

    I grew up in Gary, IN AKA Choklit City. My wife grew up in Pomona, CA and Leavenworth, KS. We are both African Americans. Because of the complex issues relating to romantic relationships between blacks and whites, particularly the issue of the desirability of white women, I have always said that I would not disrespect a sista by rejecting her for a white woman.

    My wife was formerly married to a black man who left her and her (at that time) 1 year old for a white woman. As you can well imagine, she views mixed race relationships somewhat differently than you and your wife do.

    I believe you when you say that you married her out of love, but was there ever an element of “I married up” for you?”

When I read the comment to Laura, she laughed out loud. If we’re going to take seriously all of those ridiculous on-paper measures (race, income, education, family of origin, life experiences) of “marrying up” or “marrying down,” Laura’s assessment is that I got the short end of the stick. She does suffer from runaway humility, but the commenter’s question demonstrates why we have no business looking from the outside at someone else’s relationship and trying to determine how it happened or what it means.

Like I said: everyone has an opinion. Only a few weeks ago, Laura was having one of her regular breakfasts with Miss Emma, a seventy-something white woman. A mixed-race couple walked into the restaurant. Miss Emma leaned over and said sweetly to Laura, “I don’t know how you feel about this, Dear, I just don’t think that, you know, that people should mix like that.” Laura leaned over and whispered just as sweetly, “Miss Emma, I don’t have a problem with it. I’m married to a black man.”

Equally Yoked, Part 1

March 24, 1992

Dear Grandpa,

I hope this gets to you in time for your birthday. And I hope that you have a nice day.


I’ve had a busy year. I suppose Mom and Dad have told you about Laura McBride and her kids—the people I spend most of my non-working time with. They are a family I have known for the seven years I’ve been in Nashville. I’ve spent most of my holidays with them, and I’ve been there for all kids’ birthdays and celebrations…

…I don’t mean to take up you birthday note talking about my life, but I do have a couple questions for you about this situation. I do love Laura and the kids and I am dating Laura now. I remember Grandma saying at one point that it was okay to associate with white people, but that “we should not be unequally yoked” (2 Corinthians 6:14). I don’t think that’s what that verse is about. I think it has to do with people who believe differently than we do.

Anyway, Laura is white (I guess that’s obvious now). I want to know what you think about this issue. If our relationship comes to that, I don’t have any illusions about the marriage being easy. But I still consider it because I love Laura, I love the kids, they love me, and I think we could be a family together. Obviously, I’m a grown man and I will make my own decisions, but I would appreciate hearing what you think.

I still hope to see you sometime soon. I hope to hear from you sooner. Again, I hope your birthday is special. I’ll be praying for you.

Much Love, Your Grandson,

Tony

The question I asked Grandpa Peterson was prompted by a conversation I had had with Grandma Peterson back in 1977. The bus tour of the US that I took that year included a visit to Grandpa and Grandma’s little farm in Grove City, Ohio. It was my first trip to the farm as an adult and my first trip to see Grandma and Grandpa without either of my parents.

We kids had grown up with great affection for our grandparents, even though we didn’t see much of them. With all of our moving around, we lived nearby in Columbus, Ohio, only two years, when I was in 2nd and 3rd grade. In those days Mom and Dad took us out to “the country” as often as possible. I remember strawberries, blackberries, and gooseberries, Concord grape vines, apple and walnut trees, and cornfields. We explored the old barn and walked along the railroad track at the edge of the property. We drank from the handpump. I can’t forget the smell of the cellar, which housed all of Grandma’s canned fruits. We always ate well.

We loved it out there, even though there wasn’t that much for kids to do. We always hoped our cousin Jeffrey would be there. Sometimes our other cousins from Mom’s side of the family would come out with us.

There was a lot of serious talking, but it usually didn’t involve us kids much. Dad and Grandpa spent a lot of time together; I gather Dad was trying to soak up Grandpa’s wisdom. Dad revered his father until the day Grandpa died in 1996, maybe even until Dad’s own death only four years later.

On this trip I had Grandma and Grandpa to myself. I was a little nervous. What would I talk about? How could I sound impressive or at least not stupid. All I knew to do was talk about my life. I was in the middle of my sophomore year at Willamette University in Salem, Oregon, so I talked about school—mostly about friends and activities. This particular conversation was just Grandma and me. She asked me if there were other “colored” students at the school. I replied that there were a few, but that most of my closest friends were white. “That’s okay for friendship” she said, “but just remember what the Scriptures say about being unequally yoked.” I wanted to correct her theological interpretation, but I remembered my manners and kept my objection to myself.

Grandma was, of course, a product of her generation. She was also a product of her scriptural teaching, the backing for what some thought to be a self-evident reality: Races should not mix.

I have never agreed with Grandma on this issue, but her words stayed with me until the days when I was contemplating marriage in 1992. I don’t know if her sentiments had changed by then. She died in 1990. I still didn’t know what Grandpa thought, and although I disagreed with Grandma’s comment, I did not want to disrespect my grandparents, so it was important to me to hear what they thought.

I have lost Grandpa’s response letter. But it must have encouraged me since I’ve found later correspondence from him on the matter. In one letter from September of that same year, he recounts all the mixed race couples he knows of in our family. And he goes on to talk about their love for one another and when appropriate, their shared Christian ministry.

Grandpa was not well enough to come to our wedding. Shortly after our wedding, my cousin Jeffrey bought the farm (No, people, I mean he literally bought Grandpa’s farm). Laura finally made it to the farm in 2000 for Dad’s burial, when Grandpa was already gone.

If Grandpa’s approval is based on the love between me and Laura and on our shared ministry, Grandpa would be thrilled with Laura. And she with him.

How Deep Is Your Love?

We were late visitors to the worship service on Easter morning 1992. Laura and I had just started dating, and we were both without a church home. My friend and co-worker, Karen Williams, had invited us to her church, Braden United Methodist, for the Easter service.

We arrived at the entrance to the church, the back of the sanctuary, to find a full house. The usher greeted us and asked us to wait. He walked up to the second row and ushered out all of those men, the deacons. He signaled for us to come down the aisle and fill the row. So I walked with my white girlfriend and her four white children into this otherwise black assembly. Although I had prepared myself for this, I still felt self-conscious, especially for the children. As we were hurrying out at the end of the service, a few people greeted us. But the obligatory acknowledgement of our presence was not enough to erase the discomfort. I don’t know if the kids remember that church visit. I know Laura does.

After fifteen years worshiping and serving in another congregation, Laura and I started searching again for a church home in January 2009. We had visited around for a few months when we decided to save the actual decision for the end of the year. We wanted to be free simply to explore and enjoy the ways Christians worship in Nashville. We were six months into the worship tour when one Sunday as we were heading home, I said, “You realize that we have not visited a predominantly black church.”

There were a few moments of silence. And then some verbal wrestling. First Laura said, “I’ve been to black churches before.” In the early 1980s, Laura lived in a predominantly black New Jersey neighborhood working with black children (while I was living in a predominantly white Washington State community working with suburban white teens). For five years she interacted with children and their families and she occasionally attended black churches with white friends. “Although we were obviously visitors” she said about the church visits, “it seemed to me, that it didn’t really matter that we were there.”

Then she reminded me of our Braden visit. Of course the Braden experience was fraught with discomfort potential. And to be fair, the Braden people, who were not expecting this intrusion on Easter Sunday, took it in stride and acted with as much Christian hospitality as they could muster on short notice. But I don’t blame Laura for not wanting to repeat the experience.

Still there had to be something else. In our 2009 tour we visited many churches that treated us as if we didn’t matter. Finally Laura said, “There’s another reason I’m not excited about us going together to a black church. I would go WITHOUT you. I just don’t want to be the white woman who walks into the black church with her black husband, as if to say to black women ‘Look, I have him; you can’t have him.’”

I couldn’t let that go, “Well, Honey, they CAN'T have me. I don’t belong to black women. I belong to you.”

“I know,” she said, “but I don’t want to stir up that feeling in them.”

If you know Laura, you know she was speaking from her heart. And just like that, she demonstrated how complicated these issues are. This was not as simple as, “I feel fine in your church, why don’t you feel fine in mine?” No, the issues are myriad and interconnected. No wonder that individuals, racial groups, and churches don’t venture into them. This is not easy stuff.

The conversation that Laura and I had on the way home from church was eased by our love for each other. But we are still a man and a woman, a black person and a white person with drastically different backgrounds. If this husband and wife have to rely on our deep love for one another to get toward the core of these issues, why would anyone else bother to have these conversations? There is too much involved and too much at stake, and seemingly there is more to lose than there is to gain.

But Laura and I should not have needed to have this conversation at all. The travesty behind our predicament is the simple fact that the overwhelming majority of Christian churches are heavily single ethnicity gatherings (I hear your exception, people in Hawaii!). It’s as if we Christians believe that the first rule when establishing a church is “Gather a bunch of people who look like you.”

I know that historically there are some very good reasons for some single ethnicity churches. There are also some very bad reasons. And many of the original good reasons are now obsolete. It is time to examine them and to examine our own hearts. Don’t be mistaken; worship with people who do not look like us is not simply for the benefit of this interracial couple. I believe it is essential to the movement of God’s Good News.

So I am asking Christian people to accept no excuses. I am asking Christian people to look at their congregations and ask, “Is this single-ethnic gathering what God is up to? Is this what the Gospel is about?” If you agree with me that it is not, are you willing to have the conversations that move us forward? Are you willing to experience the discomfort that can lead to something better?

And whether or not you agree with me, are you willing to chase down anything in your congregation that would make a visitor feel unwelcome in your church?

Despite the potential landmines, we can exercise the Good News. It took the fierce, dedicated, patient love of a husband and wife to get Laura and me to a deeper level of understanding on this issue. But we Christians claim a love that is even deeper, broader, and more powerful.