#connectionqc

Our theme for 2019 has been “Finding Your Voice.” I was introduced to this poem a few months into 2019--certainly one of those “god-things” or stars-aligning coincidences. It was after the passing of Mary Oliver and a friend and I were talking poetry. He shared with me this poem and it it perfectly encapsulates our theme.

Love After Love by Derek Walcott:

The time will come

when, with elation

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror,

and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

Quite often in life we come up against various forces---friends, family, teachers, marketing agencies, etc---that one way or another, tell us to not trust ourselves. Many of our early life structures are intentionally built to eliminate decision making and they serve us well for a season. In our classrooms, our home life, our piano teachers and coaches… all are better served by group think and “falling in line” with those around us.

As we get older, many of us turn to coping mechanisms that are designed to remove ourselves from ourselves. When life gets difficult we often try to numb ourselves, and as a result we disconnect from inner voice.

To make matters worse, the church and its well meaning church leaders often tell us that our intuition--that which is deepest within us--cannot be trusted. Our emotions, our physical bodies, and our “flesh,” are all things that are evil and do not deserve our attention.

It’s no wonder then, considering all of this early programming to not trust ourselves, that many of us get well into adulthood feeling incapable of tuning into our inner voice. We become strangers to ourselves.

The good news is that our inner voice is in there somewhere, waiting to greet us. We just need to work on our ability to listen. A task easier said than done, no doubt. That is a large part of the focus of our group this year: to exercise the muscles that are required to listen to ourselves. Hopefully, at some point this year:

“You will love again the stranger who was your self. At your own door in your own mirror, you are right there, it doesn’t take much work to find you.”

Peter Rollins’ tells a story about this in his book The Orthodox Heretic called “Being the Resurrection.” Here it is.

“Late that evening a group of unknown disciples packed their few belongings and left for a distant shore, for they could not bear to stay another moment in the place where their Messiah had just been crucified. Weighed down with sorrow, they left that place, never to return. Instead they traveled a great distance in search of a land that they could call home.

After months of difficult travel, they finally happened upon an isolated area that was ideal for setting up a new community. Here they found fertile ground, clean water, and a nearby forest from which to harvest material needed to build shelter. So they settled there, founding a community far from Jerusalem, a community where they vowed to keep the memory of Christ alive and live in simplicity, love, and forgiveness, just as he had taught them. The members of this community lived in great solitude for over a hundred years, spending their days reflecting on the life of Jesus and attempting to remain faithful to his ways. And they did all this despite the overwhelming sorrow in their heart.

But their isolation was eventually broken when, early one morning, a small band of missionaries reached the settlement. These missionaries were amazed at the community they found. What was most startling to them was that these people had no knowledge of the resurrection…of Christ, for they had left Jerusalem before his return from the dead on the third day. Without hesitation, the missionaries gathered together all the community members and recounted what had occurred after the imprisonment and bloody crucifixion of their Lord.

That evening there was a great celebration in the camp as people celebrated the news of the missionaries. Yet, as the night progressed, one of the missionaries noticed that the leader of the community was absent. This bothered the young man, so he set out to look for this respected elder. Eventually he found the community’s leader crouched low in a small hut on the fringe of the village, praying and weeping. “Why are you in such sorrow?” asked the missionary in amazement. “Today is a time for great celebration.”

“It may indeed be a day for great celebration, but this is also a day of sorrow,” replied the elder, who remained crouched on the floor. “Since the founding of this community we have followed the ways taught to us by Christ. We pursued his ways faithfully even though it cost us dearly, and we remained resolute despite the belief that death had defeated him and would one day defeat us also.”

The elder slowly got to his feet and looked the missionary compassionately in the eyes. “Each day we have forsaken our very lives for him because we judged him wholly worthy of the sacrifice, wholly worthy of our being. But now, following your news, I am concerned that my children and my children’s children may follow him, not because of his radical life and supreme sacrifice, but selfishly, because his sacrifice will ensure their personal salvation and eternal life.” With this the elder turned and left the hut, making his way to the celebrations that could be heard dimly in the distance, leaving the missionary crouched on the floor.”

 Living Its Meaning

For many of us, Easter has become similar to Christmas is in that what the day means isn’t what the day means. Christmas is a season of consumerism and stress instead of what it’s really about: peace, presence, and humility. Christmas has become what it’s not. It’s the same with Easter.

Rollins’ story about the island community and the missionaries illustrates this well. The community had never heard of the resurrection yet were living its meaning.

As the story says, the island community was living in “simplicity, love, and forgiveness.” They were also “spending their days reflecting on the life of Jesus and attempting to remain faithful to his ways.”

Why were they living their life this way? Because it’s how Jesus lived. It’s what he taught and it’s what he lived. They were inspired by and committed to this way of living.

I believe they also lived this way because it made them healthier people. Living in simplicity, love, and forgiveness makes us more compassionate, just, peaceful, content, kind, gracious, wise, trusting, and empathetic. It also makes you less judgmental, manipulative, controlling, violent, and resentful.

 Universal Trauma

Their lives weren’t pain free. The story says they were “overwhelmed with sorrow.” This means they were grieving the loss of Jesus, but it was more than that. I believe the bigger idea of “overwhelmed with sorrow” means their lives included plenty of sorrow, pain, disappointment, and trauma—to the point that it overwhelmed them at times. The individuals that made up this community had experienced both the particular trauma of watching their friend and teacher die but also the universal experience of the trauma of life overall.

People were surely grieving the death of people besides Jesus, right? I mean, their community was 100 years old, which is plenty of time for children to grieve the loss of their parents, for parents to grieve the loss of their children, for the community as a whole to grieve the loss of friends, family members, and neighbors. Maybe some of the children born on the island were born with life-threatening birth defects? Maybe some experienced painful separation from their romantic partners? Maybe some had mental health issues that made life unbearable at times?

We all have unique and specific traumas that can overwhelm us with sorrow. We’re also all doing this thing called “life” that, at a basic level, is traumatic in a way that’s universal to everyone. Our individual stories may differ in certain ways, but the bigger picture is we’re all walking a path that includes plenty of good but also plenty sorrow, pain, disappointment, and trauma.

Good Friday says sorrow and trauma are very much a part of lives. We must not pretend it’s not true by denying its reality or repressing its pain, because if we do, we may feel better initially, but in the long run, we’ll feel worse. In other words, at some point we’ll feel the pain—just not in a way that heals us.

Denying trauma’s reality and repressing its pain doesn’t make it go away; it just makes it come out in maladaptive and unhealthy ways. In ways like addiction, chronic-distraction, violence, materialism, workaholism, bitterness, and surface-level living, etc.

Unless we embrace our pain and grieve or sorrows, we’ll tend to use and abuse others as away to distract ourselves from our inner turmoil. When we make “the other” the main reason for our troubles, it’s often time to look inside ourselves to see what pain we’re repressing.

This is one of the lessons of Good Friday. People made Jesus the scapegoat for their personal and societal traumas. In other words, instead of looking within themselves to see how they might grieve their losses and heal their pain—instead of looking within themselves to see how they might love themselves and others better—they projected their inner angst onto someone they deemed threatening. “If we kill him, we’ll be good; we’ll be at peace.” And yet after his death, they were in the same place they were before—only worse (they’d crucified someone).

Wounded Healers

That’s what the elder of the island community was afraid of. He wasn’t afraid of the reality of the resurrection itself; he was afraid that the resurrection would come to mean what it doesn’t mean.

What resurrection means for so many is the denial of trauma—that somehow the hope of new life defeats suffering rather than embraces it. That somehow the hope of new life overcomes suffering rather than gives it new meaning.

Sorrow, pain, disappointment, loss, and trauma: these aren’t meant to be “defeated” or “overcome.” They’re meant to be grieved—which is painful. They’re meant to be healed—which is a long road. They’re meant to make us more honest and soft-hearted and tolerant and uncertain and needful of others.

That’s new life. That’s resurrection.

The elder worried his people would celebrate the resurrection as a way to defeat trauma instead of embrace it. That they’d stop living as “wounded healers” in need of each other and, instead, as over-comers destined for success above all else.

As I announced a couple of weeks ago at our Sunday Gathering, Kelsey and I are leaving Connection to move to Memphis, TN.

Dream Job

This was an extremely difficult decision. I’ve absolutely loved my time at Connection. I’ve said often it’s truly been my “dream job.” By that I’m not referring to a detached sense of professional achievement. What I mean is that I’ve been able to be a pastor and friend to all of you. It’s what’s going to make leaving Connection so hard: you.

What I also mean by “dream job” is that I’ve been able to be a pastor to a church that embodies so much of what I believe in and aspire to live for:

spiritual growth (not behavior modification);

dynamic trust, including asking authentic questions (not static and dogmatic certainty);

compassion and social justice (not power and self-preservation); and

vulnerable community that heals (not building a religious business to “win”).

I say goodbye with sadness. Leaving you and leaving what I see as deeply meaningful and sacred work at Connection is really hard for me to do.

But I also say goodbye with thankfulness. Connection has been profoundly healing for me. When I came to Connection in 2010, I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue pastoring. My professional philosophy and personal theology didn’t have much of a place for weakness, including the anxiety, depression, and uncertainty I had at the time. I was full questions when I came that October, and these questions threatened my faith instead of inspired it.

I’m thankful that Matt Temple, who invited me to help start Connection, showed me a better way. He showed me the opposite of faith isn’t doubt but certainty. He showed me that mental and emotional health is intimately connected to spiritual health. He showed me that wearing a mask to “fit in” is simply perpetuating a brokenness in our society that says we’re valued for our talents or achievements rather than for who we actually are.

I’m thankful for all of you—for befriending me and for walking this journey together as we sought to understand who God is and what it means to live God’s ways.

A Unique Church

If there’s one thing I can say about Connection, it’s this: we’ve been willing to let go of paradigms and aspirations we discovered weren’t “us”; we’ve also been willing to let go of our old understandings of Christ’s way in order to pursue what we’ve come to be believe is a better and more healthier understanding. We’ve been willing to see anew and pursue anew what we trust is genuine spiritually. The level we’ve done that is unique. Connection isn’t a perfect church, but it is unique—in a very good way.

Kelsey’s family lives just outside of Memphis, which will be nice because they’ll help us raise Henry. It’s the main reason we’re leaving: to be close to her family. The potential to move was something Kelsey and I talked about even before we got married. We knew there was a chance we’d eventually move closer to her family, but we didn’t expect it to happen this soon. As hard as it is leaving Connection and the Quad Cities, it’s the right decision for our family.

Brandon Taking Over

So I leave sad but also thankful. I also leave excited that Brandon will be taking over as the Lead Pastor. The transition to Brandon has been intentional for some time now. Since the beginning of this year, our co-leadership at Connection has been increasingly evident at our Sunday Gatherings: if I gave the main message, Brandon led Gathering; if he gave the main message, I led the Gathering. We’ve done this most weeks in 2018. Even since 2016, Brandon increasingly became a partner in envisioning and planning what we do and why we do it. He’s been instrumental in shaping what Connection has become.

One thing I appreciate about Brandon is how he breathes life into what’s become old and tired. He’s done this in countless ways at Connection. One example is how our Gatherings have become more community-based and discussion-oriented. It’s something I wanted to do for some time—make our Gatherings more communal where we learn from each other—but I was hesitant to veer too far from convention. Brandon encouraged me to pursue it, mostly through his example. Brandon has also been the visionary behind a lot of what we do today: Laundry Love QC, Give & Grub, and the Sojourners Prayer, to name a few.

With Brandon becoming the Lead Pastor, most of what we currently do will continue. That’s the beauty of Brandon taking over: it’s such a natural step for him and for Connection. His heart is our heart; his vision of what it means to be a church is ours. Some things will change, though. One change we’re making is that Laundry Love QC will happen less—from every month to four times a year. We’re also skipping our fall Give & Grub to lessen Brandon’s load—but he has every intention on resuming Give & Grub next spring.

My last day as the Lead Pastor is September 30th. I’ll receive my last pay check on October 1st. After that, Brandon will be the Lead Pastor and will receive his first pay check on November 1st. Our budget moving forward will be exactly the same through 2018; after that, Brandon and the Church Council will create a new budget for 2019. I’m sure there will be some budgetary changes (there always are) from 2018 to 2019, but I can confidently say Connection will still emphasize spending our resources on showing compassion and working for social justice.

The Community’s Church

The leader of a spiritual community is important but they’re not everything. When Matt handed me the baton in 2014, I wrote a letter to Connection. In that letter I wrote (in essence):

Connection isn’t “Jason’s church.” It’s the community’s church. It’s your church. It’s the church of anyone and everyone who wants to make it theirs. What do you want your church to be about? Make it what you want, make it what you will.

Connection isn’t my church, it’s not Brandon’s church. It’s your church, it’s our church. Brandon, as the leader, has an obviously important role. But it’s not up to him to live this thing called “Connection.” It’s up to all of you—together.

I’ll miss you a lot! I hope to see you at a Connection gathering or event this month before I leave.

Jason

P.S. Join Brandon and me at a “transition lunch” to share your thoughts on the transition. We’ll meet at Front Street (of course) at noon after our Sunday Gatherings on September 16th and 23rd. Come to one or both of them. Come to talk, ask questions, listen, or just hang out.

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A Note From Brandon

These types of transition letters often are used an opportunity for the new Lead Pastor to cast vision and to calm any fears that might be stirring. I’d like to take this time to not do that. I think I can speak for many of us when I say this transition will be hard. It won’t be hard because Connection will change, but because we are all losing a close friend. (Of course our friendship won’t end entirely, but it will no doubt be different.) Personally, words can’t express how meaningful, how integral, Jason’s friendship has been in my life.

It’s impossible to untangle all the different ways Jason has woven himself into our various lives. As with any season, when it ends it can be painful. So I’d like to create as much space as possible for us all to process our grief. Luckily it’s 2018 and technology will help us miss Jason a little less. He will visit in person, but he also will be blogging, podcasting, and even giving sermons on Facebook live.

It’s easy for me to let my mind wander down the path of what this next season will look like for Connection, but I think would only be a coping mechanism; allowing me to bury the sadness of having a close friend move eight hours away. So I’m refusing to be distracted by the future and I hope you can do the same. When the time is right, we will talk more about what the future might look like for Connection. I’m resisting the temptation to put a nice little bow on this letter to make everyone feel at ease, for now my hope is we can sit in this present moment.

A cash mob, from a distance, doesn't look like that big of a deal. I mean, it's only one meal or shopping trip. And it's not like a group of 10, 20, or 30 will make that big of a difference in the long run.

Close up, though, a cash mob can make all the difference.

It can be immensely lonely starting and running your own small business. For many owners, their financial life is on the line. For many staff, they'll lose their job if enough people keep choosing national chains over local options.

What makes a city unique (and meaningful) isn't when it's full of places that every other city has but when it's full of places that reflect it's people and culture. The Quad Cities is what it is not because of Pizza Hut or Starbucks but because of Harris Pizza and Redband. (Not hating on Pizza Hut or Starbucks!)

And the opportunity to build relationships with the owner and staff is often more natural and meaningful at locally-owned places. That's often because those who run them are so thankful they're being supported.

Cash mobs are fun because, hey, what's not fun about grabbing a bite with friends while showing some love to a local spot. But cash mobs are also important. They support those who've taken the risk to invest in our city; they also spread the word about their actual existence. Nearly every time we've done a cash mob I've had people say they didn't know the place existed!

Cash mobs are about loving our city. They're about loving our neighbor.

Join us at PeeWee's in Rock Island for our Spring Rhythm cash mob on April 21st. 11:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. Learn more and RSVP here.

This is a parable written by @brandonecarleton. It was read and discussed at our Sunday Gathering on April 8, 2018.

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There was once a group of four friends who set out on a day long hike. Shortly into their hike, something caught the eye of one of the hikers. He gestured to his friends for them to look off to one side of the path. They looked over and saw what seemed to be the faint outline of an older path. One that had been abandoned years ago and was now overgrown. The friend who initially saw this abandoned path said to his friends, “I’m going to this way. I’ll meet you three back in the parking lot!”

The first of the friends said, “I don’t think I’ll join you, but have fun! And whatever you do, stay safe!”

The second friend said, “There is a path here for a reason. You’d be stupid to take that path! If you get lost, we aren’t going to come find you.

The third friend found the other path exciting and almost said, “I’ll join you!” but ended up saying nothing.

The lone hiker took off into the woods, leaving his friends to their already planned hike.

It didn’t take long for the overgrown path to seem like a bad idea. Ten minutes in, the hiker found himself tangled underfoot and stuck by thorns. The further he went into the woods, the woods only seemed to get thicker. As he was fighting through some particularly thick brush, the hiker lost his balance and slid down a steep bank, landing in mud.

He recalled how, during various points along the overgrown path, he had heard the voice of his friends talking, although he could never see them through all the thick brush. He knew their path had to be close by, so he called out to see if his friends could hear him and direct him back to their path.

The group was walking, enjoying their hike, when the first friend said, “Hold on I think I heard someone calling out to us.” He then called back, but the lost hiker could not hear him.

The second friend said, “This is his own fault! I told him it was a bad idea, I’m not going to help.”

The third friend thought, “Maybe I should go after him, but maybe then two of us would be lost.” So he said nothing.

The group decided to keep hiking towards the parking lot, to meet the lost hiker just as planned.

A few hours passed and it was getting darker now. The group was sitting in the parking lot and they were starting to getting worried. Just as the group was about to phone for help, the fourth hiker came tumbling out of the thick woods. Covered in mud and thorns.

The first friend said, “I’m so glad you’re safe and haven’t hurt yourself!”

The second friend said, “You could’ve died! You’re an idiot! You should’ve listened, our hike was problem free!”

The third friend finally spoke up and said, “Our hike was kind of boring. Your hike seemed like it was an adventure! You’ll have to tell me all about it!”

The four friends climbed back in the car to head home.

May this day be less about believing in the resurrection and more about living it. Less about proving what happened then, more about engaging what’s happening now. Less about static religion, more about a living spirituality—that’s courageous, risky, and full of wonder.

The resurrection coupled with the cross is paradox, is tension. The cross is death, loss, pain. The resurrection is life, welcome, healing.

The invitation isn’t to live one or the other, it’s to live both. The invitation isn’t to pretend death doesn’t exist, it’s to simply trust life has the last word.

Today is Sunday not Friday, so we embrace “the now” of new life. As we do, may we remember the resurrection includes the scars and the wounds.

This is the resurrection body we know: Jesus, with the scars in his hands, feet, and side. New life doesn’t hide the scars, new life doesn’t deny the wounds. There’s no shame in the pain and struggle of Jesus’ journey to new life.

May there be no shame in ours.

May we trust his example—by not hiding our scars or denying our wounds, but rather, trusting new life comes from them. Trusting new life needs them, includes them.

May our resurrected life, full of it’s scars and wounds, be about what Jesus’ resurrected life was about: not a source of shame but of healing.

May we be wounded healers, too.

This post is taken from a talk I gave in October 2017 at Diffrint—a quarterly event where Quad Cities’ artists and storytellers explore various topics. The goal is to create a sense of community around issues that tend to isolate us. The theme was systemic racism. Diffrint is led by Brandon Carleton.

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I’m Jason. I’m a pastor of Connection Quad Cities, a church in Davenport. Since I’m a pastor you might think I grew up around religion. But I didn’t. It wasn’t until my senior year of high school that I started participating in a local church. It was at that church I became good friends with James.

James and I became close because he was the first guy I could talk about God with. At the time, I didn’t have any other friends I could talk about God with. James and I bonded over God, video games, and sports.

Why am I telling you about James? Because there’s a couple of stories about him that are important to my gradual awakening to racial inequality and White Privilege.

The One-Drop Rule

James had a Black dad and a White mom—so of course he was my “light-skinned Black friend” instead of my “dark-skinned White friend,” because, well, of the “one-drop rule.” I’d never heard of this rule until recently. This rule is a social construct that was established back-in-the-day that said anyone who was 7/8ths White but 1/8th Black would be considered Black. So your skin pigmentation can be 88% White and only 12% Black, but because of the one-drop rule, you’re Black.

Why was this social construct constructed? So White slave owners could have as many slaves as possible; so Americans could prevent as many interracial couples from marrying as possible; so the White race could maintain it’s supposed purity. And by “purity” they really mean “power.”

James was multi-racial. But socially—experientially, existentially—he was Black.

You Must Have Done Something

One time, during high school, when James was driving through our town, something happened. I wasn’t there; James told me this happened. As James was driving through town, some White guys followed him to his house—and after James parked his car and went inside, they began to yell nasty racial epithets at him.

I remember James telling me this story; I also remember what I was thinking as he told it. I was thinking, “He must have done something to provoke these guys. These guys wouldn’t do what they did just because you’re Black. You must have pulled out in front of them on the road or went around them because they were driving slow—and when you did, they gave you a mean look so you gave one back.”

He must have done something to cause this.

Later that year, James and I (along with some other friends) were at a Christian music festival in Ohio. We were walking through the acres and acres of campers, tents, and lawn chairs to reach one of the stages when James suddenly asked “Did you see the look those folks gave me back there?” I hadn’t seen it. “What happened?” I asked. “They gave me a dirty look. It’s because I’m Black.” “James,” I quickly responded. “They didn’t look at you that way because you’re Black. It’s in your head.” I was sure James was projecting. James was confident he had it right. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he said.

He’s right: I didn’t know what it was like. I was sure James had done something to provoke the dirty look. Maybe he’d stepped on their blanket and got it muddy? “Christians don’t give dirty looks because of skin color,” I thought.

He must have done something to cause this.

From One Neighborhood to the Next

Fast-forward fifteen years. I’m in Chicago at the funeral of my friend Edward Ellis. Ed grew up on the south-side of Chicago. At some point he moved to Muscatine, and pastored a church there—which is where I met him. Ed was a great guy—besides the fact that he liked the White Sox. I miss Ed.

Ed was the real deal: He worked with underprivileged kids in the Muscatine school system, was a community college professor, and a tender-hearted pastor. A year or so before he suddenly passed away, he moved his family back to Chicago, back to his roots.

Ed was Black and his funeral was at a Black church—which gave him a Black funeral. I’d never been to a Black funeral before. White funerals last, what, an hour—tops? Ed’s funeral was nearly three hours. Beautiful music; memorable, inspiring, and hope-filled words from the pastor, family members, and friends.

I remember a lot about that day. One thing I remember is the area of Chicago where Ed’s funeral was. It was a poor part of the city: boarded-up houses, empty and run-down businesses, green spaces with broken fences and scattered litter. I don’t mean to make a caricature of a poor, predominantly Black neighborhood. I’m just trying to paint a picture of what I saw.

I’m also trying to communicate the shock I felt when the car I was riding in crossed over from the predominately Black neighborhood to the predominately White neighborhood. I’m not from Chicago so I don’t know the details of the city's neighborhoods. I just know how quickly things changed from my car window.

On one side of the stop light were broken curbs and homes with tape on the widows to keep cold air from getting in; on the other side were well manicured lawns, garages with room for work benches—let alone 2-3 cars—and, this is what I’ll never forget, people walking their dogs on the sidewalk.

It’s all about context, right? Because in many contexts I wouldn’t think twice about someone walking their dog on a cool March afternoon. But when you suddenly shift contexts, from one—where it seems like a lot of people are struggling to feed their families and keep their children warm and safe at night—to another—where people have enough money (and time and energy) to take their dogs on afternoon walks, to book their mid-week appointment at the dog groomer with high Yelp ratings, and to send their children to the nationally ranked private school that’ll surely get them into a good college one day.

I know it’s weird to bring up dog-walking when talking about systemic racism. I’m just trying to capture what I felt when I went from the poor neighborhood to the rich one, when I crossed over from the overwhelmingly Black part of the city to the White part.

I was shocked. Confused. Speechless. Bothered.

This isn’t about having dogs. I have one—and yes, I take her on walks and get her groomed on occasion. This isn’t about predominantly affluent White neighborhoods not having problems, too. People with every skin color and every economic level have challenges and stresses in life.

What I’m talking about is my experience that March afternoon, of the dramatic change from one part of town to the next: that it speaks to the reality that not everyone starts from the same place.

The Lie of Meritocracy

There’s this idea in our country that everyone has an equal chance, that everyone has the same opportunity, that everyone experiences the same challenges.

The word is “meritocracy.” It’s a word people often use to talk about our country: that our country is a place where people are chosen and advanced purely on the basis of their hard work, talent, and achievement. Meritocracy means:

Women don’t make as much as men for the same job because, well, they’re not working as hard, aren’t as talented, aren’t achieving as much as men.

Black people are pulled over by the police more than Whites because they’re obviously breaking more traffic laws than Whites.

An Iraqi refugee named Aziz has just as good of a chance to achieve the glories of an upper-middle class American life as a sixth generation, European-American citizen named Michael.

President Obama was questioned for months and years about where he was born because people were so passionate about the truth. That, of course, includes Present Trump—who led the “birther movement.”

White Americans would be just as angry at NFL players if the players kneeling were mostly White—and if these White players were kneeling because they were protesting the low pay firefighters are making fighting the horrific forest fires in California. “This isn’t about the flag,” so many White Americans would say. "This is about justice or being fair to those brave firefighters.”

The original intent of the Declaration of Independence, when it says “All men are created equal,” meant women too—and Black people, and Indigenous people. That what they didn’t mean, at the time, were just White men who owned property.

When the US Census Bureau releases shocking numbers of income inequality between races, they’re just kidding. The latest numbers say the median net worth by race/ethnicity per household: White ($132,483), Hispanic ($12,460), and Black household ($9,211).

A Gradual Awakening

I’m far from an expert on racial inequality and systemic racism. I was nervous to speak tonight because I didn’t want to say too much because, well, I really don’t know that much.

I’m just a lower-middle class White guy who’s learning that meritocracy, while a nice idea and maybe something to strive for, isn’t real. It’s a lie.

I’m learning that slavery hasn’t ended—it’s simply evolved.

I’m learning that while we’ve come a long way as a country in terms of treating people with compassion and justice, we have so far to go.

I’m learning, that simply because I’m a While male, I’ve had advantages and opportunities, and quite frankly, power that everyone else hasn’t had. I don’t know the full extent of that power. I just know I have it.

I also know that my primary place, especially at an event like this, is to do a lot more listening than speaking.

It’s been a gradual awakening for me. My friendship with James was important. As was that Fresh Prince of Bel-Air episode I watched when I was in middle school where Will gets pulled over by driving a nice car in the wrong neighborhood. I learned a lot from President Obama’s presidency—how such a seemingly good man was treated so terribly by so many simply because his dad was Black and his name sounded funny. When Trayvon was killed—that was really uncomfortable. When Philando Castile was murdered, I started to get angry—because it seemed so obvious that the only thing he did “wrong” was have the “wrong” skin color. And when Kaepernick took a knee, it seemed like he was drawing attention to some real and important issues.

I applaud Kaepernick’s courage, and yet, so many, it seems, misjudge his intention and blame him for “disrespecting the flag,” when all he’s doing is calling our nation to be who we say we are: a land where all people are created equal.

Omar’s Vulnerability

A year ago at this, I was walking through a Halloween store with my friend Omar. I met Omar four years ago when he came to the Quad Cities as an Iraqi refugee. One of the costumes at the store was a Donald Trump mask. Omar looked at the mask and said “I hope Donald Trump doesn’t get elected.” “Why?” I asked. “Because I don’t want to get sent back to Iraq” Omar said.

When Omar said that, it pissed me off. It was infuriating not because Omar and his family would actually get sent back to Iraq (since Omar was already settled in America, he was safe to stay) but because he really thought he might. That’s stress a middle schooler doesn’t need to feel—a middle schooler who already was getting bullied for his religion, broken English, and hand-me-down wardrobe. The last thing Omar needed, a vulnerable resettled refugee, was to feel even less secure.

I was anxious about Donald Trump being elected, but my anxiety didn’t compare to Omar’s. I’m a White male. The way our society is constructed gives me way more power, opportunity, and security than someone like Omar.

That’s not meritocracy. That’s White Privilege. That’s Male White Privilege.

Lean In

My response to (Male) White Privilege isn’t to live immobilized in shame, but rather, to mobilize, first, by leaning in and listening, and second, to work to create a better world. To help create a more compassionate and just world where systemic racism is no more.

The tendency, whenever those with Privilege realize they have it, is to deny or blame. It’s one reason so many are bothered by Kaepernick taking a knee. A common response is to either say his peaceful protest isn’t valid or that he’s “he’s disrespecting the flag.” Instead of turning a blind eye or making him the enemy, why won’t we, instead, lean in and listen to Kaepernick?

If taking a knee bothers you, lean in.

If you’re ever been startled like I was in Chicago that March afternoon, lean in. If you’re shocked like I am at the median household income numbers from the US Census Bureau, lean in.

Those of us with White Privilege have moments in our life when we’re confronted with our Privilege. For example, we say we’re not racist—but then our White daughter starts dating her Black classmate and, for “some reason,” it bothers us. We say our country is the “greatest country in the world” but then we watch that Netflix documentary about our country’s history: we (re)learn the stories about how often Africans, Asians, and Indigenous people were enslaved, imprisoned, or flat out eradicated because they weren’t White. We believe oppression is a thing of the past, but then Trayvon Martin dies, and then Eric Garner, and then Philando Castile, and then… We believe our country was founded on the highest ideals and practices, but then we realize which men were created equal…and which ones were not.

Researches say the easiest and most common thing to do, when faced with the pain of our own racism or faced with the reality that we’re participating in systems that perpetuate inequality, is to deny or blame. Let’s commit tonight to stop doing that. May we, instead, lean into the pain—so we might learn from it.

If any of us feel like we have racial privilege, this is our sacred call: to lean into the struggle, to listen and pay attention to the stories of those who oppressed.

To those of us being oppressed, may you continue to fight for equality. To those of us playing some part in perpetuating a system of oppression, may we, first, listen to to our brothers and sisters being oppressed, and second, join with our brothers and sisters in building a world where systemic racism is no more.

I recently read a pastor’s response to the most recent mass shooting that took place in Texas. I have to say, I was kind of shook up by what I read and it really got me thinking about how we should respond to such events. Here were a few of his points and a few of my reactions:

“Remember: God is powerful and in control.”

Man.. that’s messed up! While I’m not sure I believe this to be true, if it were to be true, that is a super sad thing to think about. That god was in control and allowed this to happen. 

What a missed opportunity to acknowledge the validity of the tough questions and uncertainty we all experience.

When events like this happen, it’s easy to question god, or if there even is one. If you’ve ever asked, “How could god let this happen?!” you are not alone. This is a normal response during the grieving process.

“We are made for a different place. This world is not our home”

Again, I’m not sure I believe this to be true, but if it is... that’s kinda sad. What a defeatist and escapist mentality. 

What a missed opportunity to bring the community together to better our surroundings and make the world a better place. 

If you feel like it’s a cop out to treat our world poorly because a religion tells you that you might get sucked into the sky one day: you are not alone.

Get yourself ready. This could happen anywhere. Are you ready to meet Jesus?

I’m not very much into fire and brimstone or using the fear of hell to convince people to become a christian. This felt so manipulative and gave me the heeby jeebies. 

What a missed opportunity to model a healthy way to handle grief, process pain together, and support one another.

If you feel like supporting those around you as they process pain, instead of trying to scare them further and capitalize on their fear: you are not alone.