I’m posting this at 2:30pm, even if it doesn’t come out perfect.
Today I sat in a church for the first time in over a year. I’ve been attending Zoom church with two different churches since then: first my brother-in-law’s church in Southern California and then my partner’s church from college in Ann Arbor.
My partner rode past Redemption City Church on his bike and suggested that we try it.
I had extremely low expectations walking into the church, as I’ve allowed my expectations of churches to plummet over the past few years — especially since the pandemic started.
I can’t recognize myself in a church crowd anymore. I hardly feel like I can relate to other Christians anymore with their lifestyles, beliefs and personalities.
I’ve fought more with relatives, family friends, and random acquaintances over the past year about the pandemic and police brutality than all the arguments I’ve had before 2020, combined.
Sometimes it feels like we’ve literally chosen to live in different worlds; like we both think we live on Earth but we’re actually living separate realities on Jupiter and Saturn.
I cannot possibly understand how someone would think racism doesn’t need to still be dismantled in the United States. I cannot possibly imagine rejecting the reality of white supremacy. But I could a few years ago, and I have to remember that — and to keep my own mind open as well, as I certainly don’t even begin to know everything.
Last week, my childhood best friend’s father commented on my post against Derek Chauvin’s 4-week trial. He is the one person on this Earth that comes closest to a second father in my life. To my understanding, he is very much a supporter of cops, amendment rights, and the intersection of faith and American freedom.
He used to drive us kids in his big white truck as we rolled down the window for a “freeze out”, screaming “Yeah” by Usher (bold move for a dad). He has probably paid like $2–3k of meals and movies and ice cream and alcohol for me over my lifetime. He always has the most joyful smile when he sees me and says, “JACK JACK! How are you, girl?” hugging me tight and kissing my head. He has always wanted the best for me.
We stood next to his daughter together as he cursed the day of August 4, bawling our eyes out and holding the hands of Emma’s now breathless body.
We have had very honest conversations about how cruel and unusual the lives are that God has given us.
And yet, when he commented that Derek Chauvin’s 4-week trial was what made our country great instead of broken, a wall erected between him and me in my heart.
I received that Instagram message on the road in the Upper Peninsula and said aloud to myself, “I can’t do this with Brian.”
And I thought to myself in church today — what is the “this” I’ve been doing this whole past year? What was it that I did not want to do with Brian?
I didn’t want to explain to Brian that I was right and he was wrong. I didn’t want to provide articles and research and narratives from Black folx to prove how broken this country still is.
As angry as I was in the moment about our alternate universes we seemed to be living in, I just desperately wanted to be on the same planet as Brian. I wanted us to agree. I wanted to agree with his daughter, my best friend, again. I wanted to be on the same page. I wanted to agree about the things that matter the absolute most to me. And I know they feel the same way with me. And I imagine we all have tension about that not quite being the case.
But what I want isn’t actually agreement. It’s unity.
But how can we be united and also agree to disagree about what is and isn’t racist? How can we live peacefully knowing we disagree about what is and isn’t just for minorities in this country? How can we say we’re on the same team when we’re fighting for opposing changes? That’s what I’ve gotten stuck on the past year. I don’t know how to be in relationship anymore with some of the people who have matter most to me in the world.
This morning, for the first time in months, I considered how Jesus might handle this cluster-f*ck of a time in American history. It’s hard to imagine someone handling it well, but what I do know is that Jesus repeatedly chose to spend time with people he probably didn’t have much common ground with. He loved them where they were at, and they felt loved and affirmed by him.
We’re so desperate to be at peace, but we’re trying to achieve that peace by dragging each other to our side. Nobody likes being dragged. I hate being dragged. And everyone I’ve tried to drag to my side has proven to me that they also don’t like it.
One thing I have learned (through trial and error) is there’s a massive difference between calling someone in, and calling someone out. I’ve been doing a whole lot of calling out the past year. I even told someone who posted a photo of a white wall on “Blackout Tuesday” that I would tell my children and grandchildren about his racism. Could I have dug a deeper chasm in the ground between us?
When I replied to Brian’s comment, I told him how I felt, and he told me how he felt based on his experiences. I said I understood and appreciated him sharing, and I truly meant it. I said I missed him, and he said “I miss you too, sweet girl.”
And the relationship that we have was brought to light again. Our true relationship: that of a second-father and his third-daughter. Two people who have lived very different lives and very different perspectives, but have a ton of love for one another.
Today, Pastor Kyle told us that we have to give ourselves to the people we’re talking to — not just give our resources. I have to humble myself to give my heart, mind, eyes and ears to people, especially if I’d want them to do the same for me. I have to present them with my whole self instead of throwing articles and research over the fence, telling them to hop the fence over to me when they’ve decided they agree with me.
How do I do that? I don’t know. Truly. I have no idea. I’ve learned a few things about effective communication over the past year, but I’m still figuring out how to be a white person advocating for the rights and protections of people of color, specifically Black folx. I guess I just need to take it one interaction — one human being offering herself to another, on our shared planet— at a time.
Lord, help me.
