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At my wonderful, small liberal arts college, I've had the opportunity to hear from individuals with a plethora of different ideals. Some speakers have spoken about the trips they made around the world while others talk about the impact they have had on their own community. Part of the reason I came to Luther College was because of the intellectual conversations I've had in my diverse community.
February was no different in terms of my excitement. I was especially excited because Black History Month + the 50th anniversary of the founding of my college's Black Student Union = a full month of stories. Although I knew at the beginning of the month I couldn't come to any of the chapel talks (I work during that time), I made sure that I could go to the speakers in the evenings. I even got to hear an overwhelming story of compassion and empathy from the teacher of whom the movie "Freedom Writers" was based.
Last Sunday, I volunteered two weeks ahead of time to read on Gospel Sunday. Before the service, I thought to myself "This is great! A choir of Luther students and alumni, a diverse crowd, a black alumna preacher: my college knows what's up."
Here's where my inner conflict began:
The preacher was a lovely pastor from a college in Wisconsin. Her love for God was tangible when she sang in the gospel choir, and she was incredibly kind. So last Sunday, after I read the lessons and the choir sang the gospel acclamation, she spoke the gospel: "Love your enemies, pray for those who persecute you..." I waited to hear what good news she was going to bring.
Then, her spoke her sermon's opening sentence: "This Sunday is hard." Now, I was nodded my head in agreement, as the text had to do with turning the other cheek. But her message was beyond non-conformity. The pastor, as I mentioned before, was an alumna and, like me, the daughter of two alumni–now I was really excited. I kept imagining:
Was her experience like mine? Maybe she found a group of friends that were activists in their own respect, people she could sing songs with and talk about how it was here when her parents were here. Maybe this message is how college was a safe space to explore yourself...
Unlike me, she was a black daughter of two white alumni. Coming into her first year, her class had the largest population of people of color in the school's history. When she graduated, she was the only one left. Wow.
The message of reconciliation was difficult for her. While she was in school, there was no place for her voice to be heard. It wasn't that she wasn't used to being the only person of color in a room–she had that experience growing up. But in a new place, the white students didn't think of her as apart of their community, and the black students didn't think she was "black enough." Other than her loyal cousin, college people weren't her family. College wasn't a home, and unless it was for her parents, she didn't have intentions of returning. She came back with hope in her heart that maybe the few students of color listening to her understood that they weren't alone in their struggle to find a home at school.
The good news, as she mentioned, didn't come in the sermon, but in the music. We were all connected through this soulful prayer of intercession:
I need you, you need me.
We're all a part of God's body.
Stand with me, agree with me.
We're all a part of God's body.
It is his will, that every need be supplied.
You are important to me, I need you to survive.
You are important to me, I need you to survive.
Each individual prayer was followed by this verse:
I pray for you, You pray for me.
I love you, I need you to survive.
I won't harm you with words from my mouth.
I love you, I need you to survive.
It is his will, that every need be supplied.
You are important to me, I need you to survive.
My eyes, blurred with tears, looked at the congregation, looked at the pastor, looked at the choir. That's the moment where my heart was being stirred with a rotation for every beat in my body. I felt a rainbow of different emotions.
I'll be honest–this was my "a-ha" moment: up until this point, I didn't understand the pain of my brothers and sisters of color. I often thought of my school as a place of inclusion, just not a whole lot of people to include. Now, I realized that security is not in the hands of an individual: it's in the hands of the community. No one should go to school afraid that they will be ignored. Afraid that they will be targeted. Afraid of not being normal.
After a long time of sitting still in the name of oppression, a light was shone on what I had left undone. I felt the urge to hold everyone I knew in my arms and tell them "You always have a home with me. Let me know if you need that right now."
I don't often use my blog, and when I do, I don't often use it as a pedestal for me to preach on. I know some people on my Facebook feed aren't going to agree with what I'm typing. If that's the case, I want to say that I care. I want to know how you feel. Right now, I feel more strongly than ever about this, and if you don't, message me. I'll get a cup of coffee with you and talk it out in person or on the phone, not in the comments.
Right now, I want to apologize to my friends and family of color: I'm sorry I have not stood up for you when you needed it. I'm sorry I sat back and watch you mourn a brutal act of crime or oppressive speech without believing it was a problem of your concern. I'm sorry that I took advantage of the privilege of watching destruction happen.
From now on, call me out if I say something inaccurate to the struggle of your community. I am an open advocate for all. I love you, I need you to survive.
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