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The racial slur slid off the pastor’s
tongue as he announced the Sunday school fundraiser. When he stumbled over the fourth typo in the church bulletin, he observed,
“This must have been written by an illiterate Italian who can’t speak English.”
I’d been daydreaming, until his attempt at humor jolted me to attention. I didn’t believe what I’d heard.
The minister can’t be prejudiced, I told myself. There might be a logical explanation, a context
that I don’t know about. Anger competed with the desire to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, it was only
my second visit to this church.
I attended the 9:00 A.M. service, the first of three each Sunday.
Only a few couples and families assembled to worship. Most wore jeans or khakis and there wasn’t a necktie in sight.
An attractive forty-something African American couple - she in a Sunday dress, he in elegant slacks - stood out in the casually
dressed gathering. Other than mine, theirs were the only black faces in the church.
Before the service,
musicians led the congregation in praising the Lord. They projected lyrics onto a screen that hung above the stage. With the
help of a sound system worthy of a rock concert, the booming rhythms of drums, guitar, piano, and vocals filled the modern
airy space. After they created a celebratory mood, the band left the stage.
And then the pastor read
the announcements. I gasped when he made the bigoted comment. I stiffened. I stared straight ahead to avoid eye contact with
my seatmates. I couldn’t tell how many agreed with his sentiment and their silence left me on edge.
My thundering heart drowned out the words of the sermon. Under the still surface of my skin, my insides vibrated with rage.
I felt like a duck gliding placidly across a pond, while its webbed feet paddle like crazy under the water.
I wanted to stand up and shout, “Excuse me! Pardon me! Didn’t anybody else hear that racist joke?”
Instead, I sat. Every muscle strained to keep me in that pew. I constructed an entire sermon of my own, filled with outrage
and moral superiority. Then I surrendered to the inevitability of intolerance as part of the human condition. Fear breeds
prejudice and fear is universal.
I decided to confront the pastor. After the service, I walked from
my seat near the back, down the long aisle towards the front, where he greeted parishioners. He smiled warmly when I shook
his hand and introduced myself. I pushed my dreadlocks off my face and took a deep breath.
“I
felt welcome last Sunday. And again today, until I heard that joke. Then I didn’t feel welcome any more.” His
smile dissolved.
He began to clarify the remark. I wanted to let him off the hook. But I couldn’t.
“I’m not here to accuse you of anything, or to make assumptions about your motives. I wanted to tell you how I
feel. When I heard the joke I wondered when it would be my turn to be laughed at.”
“That won’t ever happen.”
He listed his diversity accomplishments, which were numerous
and impressive. Civic committees, outreach to immigrants, programs for inner city youth.
“I’m
new to your church. I didn’t know you when I heard the joke.”
In the end he apologized,
and thanked me for my courage and honesty. We parted as we had met, two strangers exchanging distant smiles.
Later, still annoyed, I described the conversation to a friend. “It’s good people,” I complained, “who
are aggravating.”
“Good people are so sure about not being prejudiced – they can’t
learn, because they won’t listen.”
I convinced myself the preacher did something I would
never do. My anger was refueling itself, when a memory interrupted my rant mid-sentence.
Months earlier
I attended a nephew’s football game. As I crossed the urban schoolyard, three African American students approached.
Dressed in baggy pants and shirts that hung to their knees, they filled the air with their bantering and laughter. When they
drew close, I asked for directions. To my surprise, they responded with the well-spoken courtliness of college professors.
“If you continue down the walkway, ma’am, you’ll find the football field directly on
your left. Have a nice day.”
I was astonished that these young black men spoke politely in perfect
English. I recalled this scene to my friend, and laughed in recognition. When I looked
that minister in the eye, I came face to face with myself.
Like his, my self-assurance obscured a layer of prejudice.
Years earlier I worked as a counselor to raise expectations for inner city teens. Like the pastor, I took pride in my achievements
… and preferred talking to listening.
Hearing his indiscretion, I dismissed his good intention.
When both are acknowledged, the one can be praised and the other forgiven. In passionate monologues I clamor for change. But
progress begins when I lay down the megaphone and pick up a mirror.
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