To Black pastors, leaders, and members of white churches:

I see you. I’ve been you.

They’re in your comments right now telling you how eloquent your words. How powerful! How “articluate.” They’ve thanked you for “challenging me,” saying they know they must do better. Did they send you the pic of their #RunWithAhmaud, or tag you in their post about what they’re going to do with their privilege? Is it the the same thing they said they would do after Trayvon and Mike and Korryn and Tamir and Sandra and…

Did they use that privilege to tell your story? Without your name, for your protection. But also without your permission. Mis-telling your pain, while enjoying the “likes” and the adulation from other newly awakened White people for being “so courageous for naming such hard truths.”

And did they text you to make sure you saw it?

You’re continually amazed that they are continually amazed. Even those who grew up during segregation claim to have never known these things happen. “We’re better than this.” Except we aren’t. But we should be. We can be.

They have passing grades in Vocabulary: privilege, white fragility, racial violence, systemic, anti-blackness, etc…

But they’re skipping the History lessons about slave patrols, Black codes, lynchings, red-lining, voter suppression, profiling, stop and frisk, gentrification, etc…lessons that would deepen their understanding of those words they’re throwing around.

Have they asked how you’re feeling? Wanting to know how you’re so calm and gracious right now, followed by a five paragraph soliloquy about how they’re a mess. Their pain, their outrage at what they’ve witnessed vs. what you’ve experienced. And why are there so many “mean” people in the world?

Yes, they have feelings. Yes, they’re entitled to feel them. We need them to feel them. But do you have to comfort them right now? Do you really have to be the voice of reason right now? You’re left to wonder if they’re empathetic, or if they just needed to vent…to you. Or are they trying to convince you that they’re “not like them,” Black pastor?

And they looked personally hurt when you declined to tell them. Never mind the fact that you honestly don’t know how you’re feeling right now. (Besides this particular member has shown that they can’t be trusted.) And it’s not that you don’t want them to ask. Some of them are your closest friends. They’ve been there for you in your hardest moments. And you’ve been there for them. What you’re taking exception to right now is the almost voyeuristic sense of entitlement to be in your space, your mind, your feelings. These protests are about the history of manipulation and control of black bodies (a lesson they also skipped), which is what this feels like.

This is a moment to use your right to remain silent. And if you choose to answer, you have the right to discretion. If they truly care, they’ll give the space and the time you need to name what you don’t know to name, and endure the silence if you can’t.

Because sometimes they don’t ask.

I’m thinking of you, the Black president of a White seminary, who crafted thoughtful words on how White Christians should respond to the latest murder of a Black man, like you, at the hands of the police. You crafted them “if…White Christians should ask me”…because they hadn’t yet. And they shared that statement widely, calling you “my good friend.” I bet they want you to preach this week. I bet they want to teach this week. To hold their hand and guide them, when they can’t be present for you. They’re used to you being so even-handed and level-headed that they forget that even you can bend under the weight of this grief.

I’m speaking to you, the Black pastor of the underfunded church. The pastor the denomination has challenged because of your community organizing, which they don’t consider ministry. Until now. Now the wealthy church downtown—the church that refers to itself as “predominately Anglo,” because they can’t say “White”—wants you to pray at their vigil. And when they can’t get you there, they parade out one of their handful of Black members, whose name they don’t know, but whom they’ve suddenly identified as “a leader whose voice needs to be heard,” while handing them a scripted prayer to recite. A prayer that they wrote, so as to control the tone and the narrative.

In fairness, they did name the “sin of racism” in their public statement. According to the minutes:

The council agreed that the statement should not be politicized, since the death of a black woman sleeping in her own home at the hands of a police officer paid by your taxes, overseen by a city council that YOU elected, in a state where body cam footage can only be viewed by a judge’s order, according to state law, enacted by a legislature that came to power through gerrymandering and the suppression of Black votes…is NOT political.

After agreeing to this, they unanimously decided to include all eight syllables of “racial reconciliation,” then debated whether the two in “jus-tice” and the three in “eq-ui-ty” were needed. Those sound political, and the Church does not do politics. Still, the council agreed to add them by a vote of 6-5, with one abstention.

Discussion was held about whether to name “White supremacy,” specifically. Some said they couldn’t endorse it if those words were added because some members would get upset and leave the church. (And in no way is this statement political.)

So the “sin of racism” it is, a phrase that holds so long as no one or no-thing, in particular, is called racist.

And now they want you to sign it.

For years, years, years…you’ve tried to tell them. For years they’ve refused to listen.

Because “we don’t discuss social issues” and “change doesn’t happen overnight” and “all lives matter.” But now, four months after Ahmaud, three months after Breonna (which they pronounce “Bri-ANNA”), one month after George, and two weeks after mass protests around the world, which has left some of their property damaged, “We see you. We hear you. We want to understand.”

And they’ve entered a season of study. Correction: another season of study.

“8 Weeks of Reflection and Healing.” “A Month of Conversations on Race and the Church.” “24 Hours for Repentance.” Time-bound days to “reflect” on a centuries-long problem that you’ve, personally, known for 40 years, and your mother for 70, and your father for 80+. I sometimes wonder if there would even be white Christians if Jesus had taken longer than three days to rise from the dead. I wonder because their capacity to sit with the discomfort, the pain, the trauma, the conviction, the work necessary to undo a system of violence seems time sensitive. Yet they have plenty of time to appropriate, learn, practice, and perform our ancestors’ song in a worship service—where they don’t speak of social issues. Were You There When They Crucified My Lord? A song we wrote. A song about a lynching. A performance of which once lasted 8 minutes and 46 seconds.

Of course, we need them to study. Whatever steps they take next need to be informed because they are not entering this work in a vacuum. But we need them to actually take those steps—which is what we’re skeptical about.

Still, they say they’re now ready to listen. And they’ve invited you to tell your story—on their terms, for their study—until they decide if they have enough information to produce a report and action plan in 90 days. If you tell them, share the hurt. Share the fear. Share the frustration. The mistrust. But leave out the anger, because some have “different views than you”—views that endanger your life—and they will be threatened by your tone. If you must use a movie reference, use The Help and not Just Mercy. Otherwise, they will feel alienated because they aren’t centered in that one. And there is no one there to assure them that they are smart, kind, and important. You’ll likely be asked for a list of things they can read, for further study. Show them this so they can read about themselves.

______________________

I hope I am wrong about the things that I have just said.

I hope these are not your experiences. I hope you lead and worship alongside people who are truly about doing this work, even though it comes at a cost to their worldview and, if done right, their way of life. I hope that they believe and honor what you have seen and experienced, without having to read it in a book.

But if you have experienced these things, then you know that these words are not coming from a place of hatred or malice. They arise from deep disappointment and frustration and, yes, anger because you expected better. And you feel betrayed. Because you keep seeing this story play out exactly the same way every time. It’s exhausting. Especially in moments like these, when they are looking to you for the leadership they refused before, and they have no clue how much you massage your words, temper your own feelings, for their comfort.

But if you keep that up, you will lose yourself.

They’re fragile. You’re wounded, and your wounds have been mistreated. So I hope you have some safe spaces to heal and “come to yourself” after eating the slop they feed you. That safe place may not be your church. I hope there are people in your life who will allow you to be your whole self, unapologetically. Because you can’t even begin to show them what wholeness looks like, if you haven’t experienced it.

When you challenge them, they will remind you of all the things they’ve done for you. Many of those things may even be true. Be grateful for it. Especially if you’re like me, and this is the church that nurtured you for most of your faith. But remember that you have done some things for them, as well. Don’t let them convince you otherwise. Try as they might, they do not own you. You may be their pastor, their colleague, their member, their friend. But as James Baldwin reminds, you are not their Negro.