A few days ago I had a conversation with my friend Willie that I've been pondering ever since. We met for breakfast and as I sat down, Willie opened the conversation by asking if I had thought about going to Charleston to attend services for the nine black people murdered by a young man whom I will not memorialize by using his name. Willie and I regularly have race-themed conversations that often keep me thinking for days. For the benefit of those who may not know, Willie is black and I am not. Willie is also my cousin by marriage, and my window into a world of experience completely foreign to me. I grew up in a white suburb, never even exposed to other races and cultures until college days, so Willie helps me see life through his eyes, a gift I treasure.
My response to his question about attending the services was that as a white man, I would feel like an intruder. His response floored me. "Why would you feel that way? You are a Christian. Isn't our unity in Christ more central to who we are than the color of our skin?" Racial tensions in our society that are too often stirred up by professional race-baiters had done their job. Without even realizing it, I had bought into their distorted narrative that our color is the most important thing about us, and that if mine and yours are different, that difference is more significant than our commonality as human beings and in this case, as Christians.
I've often said that no one has the right to tell you who you are except God, and yet here I was, letting the likes of Al Sharpton tell me that who I am in Christ is less significant than the color of my skin. Willie's single, pointed question was like an arrow to the heart, a necessary wound that revealed the shallowness of my faith as it touches on this area of my life. I am grateful that he was willing to speak the truth, and that I was able to hear it. Either we are brothers in Christ or not. We are, and for that I am thankful tonight.
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