This piece was originally published here.
Germantown Mennonite church is the oldest Mennonite church in North America, founded in 1683 in Philadelphia. These early Mennonites did not come to seek safety from persecution, in contrast to the typical early Mennonite narrative in this country. They came to build business opportunities on the Native American trade route now known as Germantown Avenue. They used Lenape land and the Wissahickon River to build and power their paper and linen industries in a burgeoning colony.
These early entrepreneurs participating in William Penn’s religious experiment knew their experience in their German homeland was relatively peaceful, and their immigration experience was unusual; however, their Mennonite siblings in the German countryside were less fortunate. They were being persecuted economically and physically. So, when the Mennonite farmers from rural Germany began to arrive by the boatloads in Philadelphia, the Germantown Mennonites offered them hospitality before they headed out to the Native American lands we now know as Skippack, Franconia and Lancaster. Some of these families would winter with the Mennonites of Germantown, and at the first sign of spring, they would continue their journey toward a permanent home.
This was always a little disappointing to the Mennonites of Germantown. They would have loved for their farming friends to stay with them in Germantown and build their Philadelphia Mennonite community. But this is not what the Mennonite farmers had in mind. They wanted an opportunity to build their own community and farm new land in peace.
There was also the matter that the urban and rural Mennonites did not see eye to eye theologically. The Germantown Mennonites were not ones to wear plain clothes. In fact, some of the the urban Mennonites were downright garish in their dress. There are stories of one particular silk maker in the Germantown congregation that would wear a beautiful, colorful silk coat down the muddy street, an affront to rural Mennonite sensibilities.
So while Germantown’s hospitality was appreciated, it was not a place where the next wave of Mennonites wanted to make a home. They were not made for city living. They wanted their freedom and independence expressed in a quieter rural life.
In 21st century-Philadelphia, the Mennonites of Germantown continue to live in freedom and security, but a new wave of Mennonites have moved here from Indonesia and Latin America. They have come to this country seeking safety, like the waves of 17th century-Mennonites headed to quiet land to farm. This time they are staying, and making their homes in South Philadelphia.
I met Pastor Aldo Siahaan of Philadelphia Praise Center in 2010, when Indonesians and Latinexs were moving to this country in waves, because their lives were in danger back home. It was immediately clear to me that the story of Germantown and of this new Mennonite congregation were connected.
Siahaan leads a community of immigrants (documented and undocumentsed) from Indonesia who were escaping religious persecution, and he shared his worship space with a community of undocumented folks from Mexico and Central America who were escaping extreme violence and poverty. These new Mennonites are no less deserving of Germantown’s hospitality than that first wave settlers from Germany and Switzerland who were looking to worship, work, raise their family and be a part of a community in this new-to-them place.
At Pastor Siahaan’s urging, Germantown Mennonite Church joined New Sanctuary Movement, an immigrant-led organization working to make sure undocumented folks in Philadelphia are safe. The work with New Sanctuary Movement means that when a family is taken into sanctuary in a congregation, Germantown Mennonite Church shows up to welcome them and bless them.
In December, Carmela and her four children were taken into sanctuary in a North Philadelphia church, and people of faith from all over the city came to cheer for Carmela, to commit to pray for her and her family, and to bless her with our prayers and love. And when Carmela made the brave decision to allow her children to go to school – even though they faced deportation – we showed up with balloons, signs of support, prayers and songs to welcome those children back into some sort of normalcy.
Christian hospitality for immigrants now means that when Elias and Brady, teenage immigrants from Honduras, go to court to petition for asylum, Germantown Mennonite folks show up to offer prayer and presence. My Spanish is terrible, and Elias and Brady are still learning English, but they know who I am, and we greet each other at every court date with hugs and smiles. And when they come over for lunch, even though we have to communicate with a translator, we manage to find a shared language in our love of World Cup football.
Christian hospitality means that when we Mennonites of Philadelphia get together to plan our yearly joint Pentecost service, we work hard to make sure that immigrant voices and stories are shared and heard widely. Just because Germantown was the first Mennonite church in Philadelphia doesn’t mean we have a monopoly on Mennonite theology or identity. The newest wave of Mennonites in Philadelphia have so much to teach us about what it means to follow Jesus.
There are clear difference in what welcoming the stranger looks like now versus 300 years ago. Immigrants have many more hurdles, and face much more difficulty living and surviving in this rich nation. They know the persecution the early Mennonites faced. Like the early Mennonites, they know that if they stayed in their homeland they could be next to die. Why else would folks risk their lives and endure the indignities of the immigration system, if they could find safety in their country of origin? In the words of poet and immigrant Warson Shire, “No one leaves home, unless home is the mouth of a shark.”
While the first Mennonites to settle in Philadelphia weren’t seeking safety from persecution, we were connected to our 17th-century Anabaptist siblings, and knew that those who came after us were living in fear. We knew their persecution was ours too. In the 21st century, it’s no different. There is a sizable immigrant community in Philadelphia; our 21st-century response should be no different than it was 334 years ago. Their persecution is ours, and their liberation is ours too.
Cross Posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/09/15/emerging/
The ground beneath us shifted in 2017, and to be honest, it really messed me up. I’ve been in a haze of sadness, anger, and most of all, uncertainty. How do we live when the world is like this? What do we do? How do we respond?
I’ve had no words. Everything I’ve said has felt hollow, or wrong, or disingenuous. (Hey, even pastors go through this.)
Some good spiritual direction, good friends, and hard conversations have helped me to see the world through the eyes of a God at work, present and full of love for all of us.
During the last several months, I’ve noticed that my response to this ever-changing world has been to withdraw. I’ve spent more time at home. I’ve comforted myself with food, with distractions, with anything that will fill the emptiness and sadness I’ve felt this year.
I know that these withdraws have been to protect my tender heart. I see that now. But, what we need in times like this is community. Even though it has felt difficult to reach out, I’m always glad that I do. I need community to remind me that I’m not alone, that we are strong and powerful, and that we have resources in each other.
I sense that I am not the only one that has been in hiding this year. Last Sunday, as we sang together, I sensed in the room that we were relieved to be together, that we needed to sing together, we needed to see each other and share communion together. For the first time in a while, I felt us breathe together, and it felt good. Really good. And I wanted more of it.
As we begin the fall season, and the weather changes along with the trees, I invite you to reach out to your community. Share a meal together. Invite each other into your imperfect homes and lives. And tell the truth about your lives. Because I don’t know what things will look like in the future, but I know that I want to walk with you. I know that I need you to survive. I know that we were built for community. So let’s be community to each other.
Cross0Posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/10/05/sing-a-new-song-into-being/
Since the Church retreat a few weeks ago, I’ve been thinking about the “Hymn-Off” we did that Sunday morning. I had a song in mind to win, and it did not win. My Life Flows On came in a close second to Wade in the Water.
I’ve been trying to figure out why. My LIfe Flows On has been the anthem for this church for many years. When I think about being voted out of Franconia Conference (20 years ago this month), I think about singing and weeping together–”No storm can shake my inmost calm, while to that rock I’m clinging. Since love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?” I also think about singing this song to my children in their cribs, weeping over what storms they may one day face.
It’s the song of my heart. And it’s the heart song of many others here. But, that hymn off demonstrated a new song brewing in people’s hearts.
Last week, I met with the folks that are working on a new Mennonite Hymnal. One of the songs that’s coming out of this hymnal process is called, “Sing a New World into Being.” As we met together, we pondered what world the current hymnal is singing into being, and we wondered what world the new hymnal would sing into being.
And I thought about this weekend at retreat, where the young folks sang Wade in the Water with gusto, while the out of tune piano grooved along. I thought about the enthusiasm of our kid’s singing, and how heartfelt it was.
Wade in the Water may have been a fluke in the Hymn-off. It may not be our heart song, but it did point to a new direction. We may be moving from the image of clinging to God our rock in hard times, to counting on God to stir things up. It’s holding on for dear life vs. confidence that God’s going to stir things up.
I still sing My Life Flows On, but maybe I need to recognize that this is a song from a certain time in my life. Maybe there’s a new song stirring–one of confidence in God among us, stirring up the water in our troubled world.
Cross posted at http://germantownmennonite.org/2017/10/10/twenty-years-ago/
This week marks 20 years since Franconia c
onference voted to expel Germantown Mennonite Church from its body. Germantown won’t celebrate it, and most won’t mourn it. At this point, twenty years later, it’s just a fact. We were removed from the conference because our baptism and welcome of folk who are queer was just too much for that conference to handle.
I’ve been part of the Germantown congregation since 1996–in fact, I joined the church just a week before Franconia’s decision (I was 23). So, exclusion from the denomination is all I’ve known about church life in my adulthood.
I remember the pain of those early years after being removed. There were a lot of Sundays where sharing time was tearful or angry. Visitors would remark that we seemed to sing hymns in minor keys. But more recently, I notice the creative energy, the freedom, and the joy we have felt being together. We’ve seen the power of the local church community to care for each other, and to support our neighbors. We’ve seen the joy of watching a large group of kids grow from babies to teens, and supported them on their faith journeys. We’ve embodied the Anabaptist vision without a denomination, and developed language to help us understand our theology as outsiders to the denomination, but insiders in many other respects. We’ve welcomed queer folks into our body–and we’re learning to do more than just welcome. We’re celebrating and blessing our queer participants as people created in God’s image.
Maybe you’ll mark the 20 years outside of Franconia conference with grief. Maybe you’ll mark it with joy. I remember it as a time when I saw the church come together in protective, loving, fierce ways. While we felt the death of separation and broken relationships at the time, the death has given way to new life, new energy, and deeper love. That death marked us, and it created fertile soil for all that we are today.
My first experience with foot washing was not at a foot washing service. It was when my friend, Karla, gave me a pedicure.
I didn’t ask her to–she really wanted to do this for me. And I didn’t know how to say no.
Karla was newly married, and new to Philadelphia. Her family was from Honduras, and while her English was proficient, it wasn’t her heart language. Philadelphia was lonely and unfamiliar. And she was pregnant with her first child, a fact that took her by surprise. She was seven months pregnant, stooping over my dusty summer feet, and I was so embarrassed.
When I first met Karla, she became like a sister to me almost immediately. I had just had my first child, and after 2 years of full time work, I was quitting, to stay home with my energetic son, while I incubated the hope of another child soon to come.
I didn’t love staying at home with my son. Some parents are cut out for playgrounds, sippy cups, stroller walks, and nap time, but I found it isolating and lonely. Mustering up enthusiasm for legos and Sponge Bob Squarepants was not something I could fake. I longed to feel more useful to the wider world, even while understanding intellectually that my son needed me.
Karla was easy to talk to. She also knew loneliness. She was trying to find her way in this new world, just was I was in a new season of my life.
So one day, she bought a foot bath and told me she was going to give me a pedicure. The details are hazy, but I remember that she took a lot of time on her knees in front of me–her body growing hope, as she began to enter that uncomfortable third trimester. She washed my feet, trimmed my unkempt nails, and scrubbed my rough feet until they were soft again. Then she applied a festive color–a color of that didn’t reflect our inner lives, but one that seemed to point towards something new.
Sometimes, when we look back on that moment together, Karla expresses such gratitude for our friendship, and I feel a wave of discomfort thinking about that beautiful gesture of love. It’s the same feeling I get at our annual Maundy Thursday foot washing service. As a pastor, I’m comfortable to serve whoever comes to me, but to have someone help me stirs up feelings of exposure and vulnerability. I don’t want anyone’s help, and I certainly don’t want anyone to see my weakness or vulnerability. And that’s when control and anger take charge within me. If I control this Maundy Thursday service, it can’t penetrate me. If I am angry (at something, anything), I don’t have to think about feeling vulnerable.
This morning, I went for my first spring pedicure. I want my toes to look great with the Easter dress and peep toe heels on Sunday–at least that’s what I tell myself every year when I go. But, honestly, that’s control talking. The truth is I don’t want my feet to look bad at the foot washing service. I don’t want anyone to touch my scaly winter skin, or run their hands over my stiff, cracked heels, or see that I still have remnants of last summer’s color on my toenails. I don’t want anyone to see the true me. I don’t want anyone to see me as anything but strong and self sufficient. I fear any sign of vulnerability. And the Maundy Thursday service rips the bandage off my festering fears every year.
Yesterday in church we sang Will you let me be your Servant, a song that was a very important part of my wedding ceremony with Charlie twenty-two years ago. The first verse filled me again with fear and joy–
Will you let me be your servant
Let me be as Christ to you
Pray that I may have the grace to
Let you be my servant too.
The intention of this verse is my own. But the practice of it is another thing. And yet, I’m grateful for friends and partners that welcome my vulnerability, and that insist on it as a prerequisite for relationship. I’m grateful for this vulnerable practice every Holy week, a reminder of the lengths we must be willing to go to for each other as we follow Jesus to death and resurrection.
On Sunday I baptized two young people in my congregation–one was thirteen, and one was thirty. Both talked–f
rom their own developmental place–about the importance of faith and the church in their lives. The teenager talked about the church as a place where–unlike other parts of his life–he’s not bullied, but loved for who his is.” He said, “Jesus was bullied, so I think he understands how I feel, but Jesus was also surrounded by people that loved him, and that’s how church feels to me.”
The thirty year old is someone I’ve know for much of his life. He was unsure about baptism for many years–he’s the kind of person that needed to talk it through, to think it through–he needed to be absolutely sure. He described baptism as “coming home.” It’s coming to a faith that has meaning and makes sense, and coming into a community that loves and cares for each other.
After they confessed their faith, I baptized them with water from the same river that our spiritual ancestors had baptized their own for the last 300 years, and I welcomed them officially into the body of Christ (even though we all knew they’d been part of the body for some time). I prayed that the holy spirit would be present to these two young men, just as the dove descended on Jesus at his baptism.
And just as I said “Amen,” a dog appeared out of nowhere, fully immersed himself in the water beside me, emerged and shook loose his coat, baptizing me and everyone gathering around me. To me, I saw this dog not as an unexpected intruder, but as a sign of the Holy Spirit at work.
After the Holy Spirit showed up in kanine form, I had this twinge of sadness that my kids haven’t yet chosen baptism. In the Mennonite tradition, baptism is about an “adult confession of faith”, and both kids are at the age where baptism would be an option for them.
I will not be that parent–especially as a pastor–that forces their child to make a confession of faith. I counsel anxious parents to let their child make their own decisions, and trust that they will follow in the way of Jesus.
But we ultimately don’t know if our kids will do that. We don’t know that they will choose Christianity. Maybe they’ll choose nothing. Maybe they will choose a brand of Christianity that we don’t like. Or maybe they will choose another religion altogether.
Someone recently reminded me that parenting is about providing our kids with roots and wings. Our roots are the Christian faith–the stories, the example of Jesus, and the values we instill. The wings are the freedom to ask the 
questions, to be their own person, to be fully the people they were made by God to be.
I feel pretty good about the roots, but some days–like the days I baptize teenagers that aren’t my children–I feel a little sad that my kids have the freedom to choose not to be baptized, not to follow in the way of Jesus.
This is the most challenging part of parenting–the letting go part. I can’t make my kids love Jesus as much as I do. In fact, trying to make them will have negative consequences, I’m sure. But, I have to trust that they will make good choices and surround themselves with good people, seeking God’s spirit as they go.
Whether my children choose baptism at thirteen or thirty–or maybe never–I have to trust that God’s Spirit will be at work in them and on them, in whatever form the Spirit takes–a dove, a still small voice, a sigh too deep for words, or maybe a wet dog.
This piece has also been published at Practicing Families and Mennoworld blog.
I hate Mother’s day. Passionately.
When most moms I know are appreciating cards from their kids, breakfast in bed, and general doting, I usually beg my family to leave me alone for Mother’s day. After a morning of pastoral duties, I crawl into bed, put the covers over my head, and wait for the day to end.
I wish I wasn’t so damned dramatic about the whole thing.
My mom was diagnosed with cancer on my 18th birthday, and my first several years of adulthood were spent in and out of hospitals with her, learning more about cancer, adhesions, chemotherapy and radiation than any young adult should ever know. She died when I was 22–the age when I was just beginning to like my mom, as my adolescent eye-rolling and snarkiness was ebbing.
After my mom’s death, Mother’s day came to represent the unfinished business of my relationship with my own mother. I needed to do something to remember my mother and mark her end of suffering and my ongoing pain, so, I turned Mother’s day into this awful day of tribute to what never was. I walked with my sister in law (whose mother also died of cancer) and my friends at the Mother’s Day Race for the Cure in Philadelphia. I wore my mom’s name on my back “In memory of Reba”, and my friends wore her name on their backs too. We walked together, in what felt like a death march, even though we were surrounded by thousands of perky, pink wearing people all around us.
When my kids were stroller-aged, I would bring them with me to the walk. But as they got older, they wanted to do things to celebrate me, not remember their grandmother, who lived only in their memories, through stories I’d tell about her.
Two year ago, my husband came to me the week before Mother’s day, and asked the perennial question, “What can we do for you on Mother’s day?” I prepared my annual speech in return, “Just leave me alone, and let me sleep.” Before I could really finish it, he stopped me, “Amy, the kids and I want to celebrate you. We know this is a hard day for you, but can you let us celebrate what you mean to us?”
I had to say yes. But I didn’t want to. And I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Before Mother’s day that year, I talked to my friend, Jennifer, from college, who lost her mother to cancer a few years before I did. She shared my dislike for Mother’s day, but she also realized that her kids needed an opportunity to celebrate their mother. Our issues around our own mothers were not our children’s issues, and we should not impose it on them. We needed to find a way to be celebrated by our children.
Jennifer suggested that I make a Mother’s day practice of taking a selfie with each of my kids. Jennifer and I didn’t have nearly enough pictures with our mothers, and we wanted our kids to have many more pictures with us.
So, after a Mother’s day nap, my family took me to the park. We sat on a blanket in the sunshine with sandwiches from our favorite deli. We played frisbee. We watched the dogs run and play nearby. And, I made sure to take pictures with each of the kids. I took pictures for them to have later, and to share with their own children. I took pictures for me, to remember that moment when I put my anger at the unfinished business aside, to make room for celebration. And, I took the pictures for my mom, because she’d be mad if I passed my baggage onto my kids.
As Mother’s day approaches, I still hate the idea of it. It forces all my issues to the surface of my deep pool of loss. It still makes me want to hide under the covers and wait for the day to end.
But this day is not about me and my unfinished business with my mother. It’s about celebrating the love my family has for me, and receiving that for the beautiful gift that it is. So, every year, I try to open myself a little wider to the love my family has for me, and every year I try to release more of that unfinished business with my mom. It doesn’t make the day easier, but it gives the day a focus. And that’s the best I can hope for on this day that I still really, really hate.
Cross posted at practicingfamilies.com
I’d like to think that my kids (age 11 and 14 now) would come to me and tell me anything. I would like to believe that there is no problem too big, too difficult or too painful for us to discuss. We’ve talked about a lot of things together–conflicts with friends, changing bodies, our values and boundaries around sex–I’d like to think that if we can talk together about sex without too much squirming or funny faces, then we can talk about anything.
But, I can never assume it.
Last week, a family in a neighboring town looked frantically for their thirteen year old son who left their home on a cold night, right before a big snowstorm. He was missing for four days and nights. In those terrible long days and nights, the parents learned that he left home after receiving an email from school about a homework assignment that was late.
This story was difficult for me as a parent for a few reasons. First, this child is around the same age as my kids, and second, he was in the struggle that I face too often with my own kids–the relationship between homework and self-esteem.
My kids put a lot of stock in their grades. So if they forget or avoid an assignment and get an unsatisfying grade, in their eyes they have failed. I work really hard not to put the pressure on them around grades, because they do that without my help. They need me to tell them that they are loved. They need me to set good, safe boundaries for them.
Monday morning, after this child was missing for almost five days, he was found in a neighbor’s back yard. He took a gun from his family home–a gun that was fitted with a trigger lock–and he took his life. At thirteen.
Last night at dinner, I told the kids the story of this child–a child that could have been their friend. And I reminded them that there was nothing they couldn’t tell me. They never had to worry about me not loving them in the difficult times.
Sometimes it’s hard for kids to remember that. I remember as a kid being worried that my parent’s love was conditional. I remember the terrible fear that I would disappoint or embarrass them. Looking back on that now, it seems a little silly. I don’t think my parents would have been disappointed in me or angry with the little things I saw as a failure then. But, these are the things our kids worry about. These things can paralyze our children, and lead them to think and do some unimaginable things.
Suicide is a very complicated thing. To be honest, I hesitate to write about it it here–it’s tempting to be judgemental about gun safety or homework or parenting in the case of the child that took his life. And I refuse to go there–the story of this child’s death is probably far more complicated than we can ever imagine. What I do know is that my children and your children need to hear that they are loved regardless of grades, performance or ability.
An article cross posted at https://adventhealingandhope.wordpress.com/2014/12/01/tear-open-heaven/
O that you would tear open the heavens and come down,
so that the mountains would quake at your presence—
as when fire kindles brushwood
and the fire causes water to boil—
to make your name known to your adversaries,
so that the nations might tremble at your presence!
When you did awesome deeds that we did not expect,
you came down, the mountains quaked at your presence.
Isaiah 64:1-3
There’s been a lot going on in my beloved city of Philadelphia, and so much of is is heartbreaking.
On election day, a few weeks ago, there was a shooting at the gas station across the street from my church. I was in the church at the time, as were the polling volunteers, and several voters. School was out, so there lots of people–young and old–moving up and down the street.
After I watched part of the shooting from the window of my church office, and saw the victim get into his car, and race away, I called 911. I ran downstairs to check on the rest of the folks in the building, and found them huddled together in fear. I was filled with anger. Why is this happening in my neighborhood? What were these guys thinking, settling their disputes about family issues with guns and in such a public place?
How I wish that God would tear open the heavens and fix this mess!
On Monday, we heard the news from Furgeson, that there would be no indictment for Darren Wilson, the police officer that shot and killed Michael Brown. I gathered with other Philadelphia clergy to hear the decision, and we grieved and marched in the streets of Philadelphia. We offered a peaceful presence in the march as young people of color expressed their rage at the injustice as they screamed, “Hands up, don’t shoot!” and “No justice, no peace!”
That night, I wanted the sky to open, and for God’s justice to rain down on this terrible system we have in place. Instead police helicopters watched the protests from the sky, and officers on bikes and on foot surrounded the protest.
“Tear open the heavens!” This was the cry of the people of Israel in the diaspora. “Tear open the heavens, God! Fix this mess, just as you have in times before!” They too had enough of their enslavement, of a system that was not in place to protect them. They cried out to God to rescue them, to save them from this mess.
This passage from Isaiah introduces Advent this season with our communal cry for help and salvation. “Help us! Save us, God!” And what we later learn from the incarnation, is that God is already here; the reign of God is among us. We don’t have to beg God to rip open the sky because God is present among us. This is what my friend, Bishop Duane Royster, reminded the angry crowds in Philadelphia on Monday night, “God is here with us, sharing in our pain.”
There’s been a lot going on in my city, and so much of is is heartbreaking. But there is still hope.
While I’ve been angry about the violence that threatens the neighborhood I live in and love, I’ve been encouraged too. The week of the shooting across from the church, I drove by another neighborhood church and found a memorial to the victims of gun violence in their front yard. I’m not alone in feeling this anger and pain. Others hold it with me. And we’re trying to do something about it.
My heart has broken for the family of Michael Brown, for Furgeson, and for all the places in our world where the laws and systems in place to protect are skewed against people of color. But, while marching in the streets of Philadelphia on Monday night, I received a series of texts from my thirteen year old son–he wanted to know the verdict, and how people were doing. His heart was breaking too. Living in a multi-racial city, and going to one of the most diverse schools in the state, he understood what this verdict meant. He and all the young folks marching in Philadelphia gave me hope that maybe the next generation could do this better, and that perhaps we may learn from this death.
This is what the incarnation looks like. We cry for God to save us, yet God is already here, embodied in human flesh, and walking with us.
The violence in my city feels unbearable some days. The events of Furguson makes me question our humanity. But God is here among us, feeling the pain with us, weeping and mourning with us. We look up, we cry out for God to tear open the heavens, but God is here–the incarnate one, God with us.
Cross posted at Practicing Families, and Mennonite World Review
I know, I know. The news cycle on this is over, and thoughts are elsewhere. But, Ferguson’s story happens in some form every day in our country. The sad truth is that too many folks consider brown bodies to be less important than others.
In the height of the Ferguson crisis in August, I attended a prayer service, remembering Mike Brown and all the other unnamed Mikes and Trayvons out there. A friend publicly shared her experience of parenting her brown-skinned son, how she is constantly worried that he will be stopped by the police, or worse, shot and killed. She shared the painful reality that so many families of color have to give “the talk” to their children, a talk about the ways they should present themselves in public, and how they should act if they are stopped by the police.
Those are conversations that I have never even dreamed of having with my blond-haired, blue-eyed, teenaged son.
My friend, whose conversations with her son is a fact of life, called on her white friends at that prayer service to make a pledge to do something about Ferguson. What would I do with my white privilege to influence this world positively?
This challenge has been on my mind for weeks. It’s why we still need to be talking about Ferguson and thinking about racism, and praying to see another way to live in this world. The Mike Browns and Trayvon Martins show us the sad reality of this country — that racism is alive and well, and that have so much to teach our children.
My pledge to my friends who parent brown-skinned boys and girls is that I will teach my own children to recognize their privilege. I’ve taught my teenaged son to stay with his brown-skinned friends if they are stopped by the police, and to never, ever leave them alone in times when they feel threatened. I’ve been teaching him to notice the different ways that people are treated, to be mindful of his own behavior. I’ve been talking to my daughter about the ways that different life experiences impact how people treat each other.
This is hard work, but I know it’s the work that Jesus engaged in, and the work to which we are called. Just because Ferguson isn’t on the front page doesn’t mean we stop thinking about it, talking about it with our kids, and working to make our world better and safer for all God’s children.
