Church in a Time of Quarantine

Trying to think outside the box–that big box on the corner we call the “church,” that is.

Church just happened

“Greet one another with a holy kiss,” Paul wrote.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but not in a time of global pandemic, when we are being asked to practice “social distancing” as a way of “flattening the curve.” So how do you “do” church when you can’t get together, when you can’t hug or shake hands or share a holy kiss? Church leaders are having to figure this out, and they’re having to do it quickly.

Many of my colleagues in ministry called off church as usual last Sunday and some tried preaching in empty sanctuaries while an associate held an iPhone and streamed the sermon through Facebook Live (with more or less success).

It wasn’t church, but it was something.

My pet project, A Sermon for Every Sunday, was not created with a global pandemic in mind, but it could have been. One of…

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Why Is It So Hard?

I spent a lot of time on last Monday night’s panel discussion. Along with my friend David Bailey I challenged the city to read the book White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism. I had read the book and loved it. I thought, “If we could learn to talk about racism we might actually be able to do something about it.” So David and I challenged the city to read it and then come to a panel discussion on Monday, March 2.

I put the panel together, and I must say: I got lucky. The people I invited said yes, and the people I invited were the best and most knowledgeable people I could find.[i] My opening question was this: “Why is it so hard for white people to talk about racism?”  The answer came in a lot of different forms, but it might best be summed up like this: White people have learned (mostly through the Civil Rights Movement) that racism is a bad thing and racists are bad people. If you suggest to white people that their words or deeds might be perceived as racist, they often become very defensive, because they assume that you are accusing them of being racists. They know racists are bad people, and they do not believe themselves to be bad people.

In other words, white people are “fragile” when it comes to this subject.

The problem with racism, however, is that it is more than an individual thing. It is systemic. It is built into the structures of our society. To use just one example: a white high-school dropout typically earns more money than an African-American with a college degree.[ii] That person might say, “I don’t care how racist you are, personally; just pay me as much as you pay white college graduates.” So, we white people fret about how we are perceived in the black community while the black community struggles with inequity, segregation, substandard education, and crushing poverty.

I’ve been trying to write from my heart lately, and not my head, and I know I’ve just written a lot of things that sound “heady,” but I want to assure you: this is a heart issue for me. It’s not because I “have a lot of black friends” or because my father “marched in the Civil Rights movement.” It’s because I believe—with all my heart—that every human being is made in the image of God. We’ve got to see that image in others. We’ve got to celebrate it. And we’ve got to speak up when we see or hear someone putting others down. This short video, above, makes that as clear as anything I’ve seen, and if you’ve read this far maybe you’ll take another three minutes and forty-eight seconds to watch it. If you don’t have time, I hope you will remember that I see the image of God in you,

And I celebrate it.

Jim.

 

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[i] David Bailey was there, who runs Arrabon, a non-profit devoted to racial reconciliation; Sheryl Johnson was there, who co-chairs the “Pledge to End Racism” campaign in Richmond; Tiffany Jana was there, who runs a consulting firm specializing in workplace diversity; Rabbi Michael Knopf was there, an outspoken champion for social justice; and Corey Walker was there, an academic who has taught at some of the finest schools in the country.

 

[ii] “Education is not the Great Equalizer” (https://rollingout.com/2017/08/13/average-white-high-school-dropout-earns-more-than-black-college-grad/).

Puppy Love

I got the text message at 8:58 on Tuesday morning.

It was from the woman who cuts my hair, because, you know, when you sit in someone’s chair for an hour each month you talk, and we both talk a lot. One of the things she talks about is her two little dogs, and on Tuesday she texted to let me know that she’d had to put one of her little dogs “down.”  She wrote:

“The last few weeks she had been in a lot of pain, not eating and very anxious. It was so difficult to say goodbye to her. I love her so very much…”

I can’t tell you how many times in my work as a pastor someone has told me about losing a pet. They make it clear that their pet was not an animal, but a member of the family. They are grieving, and their grief is as real as any grief there is. Tuesday’s text reminded me of the first time I experienced that kind of grief personally. I talked about it in my Thanksgiving sermon in 2012:

“[My parents must have felt a little guilty about taking me away from the only home I had ever known when we moved to West Virginia, so] on my seventh birthday they took me to a kennel and bought me a puppy.  I wanted a Cocker Spaniel; I had seen one in a book. But the closest thing we could find was a Brittany Spaniel. Instead of golden curls it had brown and white curls, but it was still beautiful. ‘I want that one,’ I said, pointing, and my parents (who must have been feeling more than a little guilty) paid a small fortune so we could take that puppy home.

“I thought a Brittany Spaniel deserved a sophisticated name, so I named her “Constance,” but ended up calling her “Connie.”  That first night we brought her home I wanted her to sleep with me, but since she wasn’t housebroken yet my mom thought it would be a good idea if we kept her shut up for the night in our big pantry.  She put down newspapers all over the floor, and then I came down the stairs dragging my sleeping bag and put it down on top of the newspapers.  I slept right there that night, in the pantry with my puppy, and when I woke up the next morning there were little puppy piles all around me and wet spots on the paper but that’s not what woke me: it was Connie, licking my face with her little pink tongue.

“I was the happiest seven-year-old in the world.”

She learned to follow me wherever I went around the house, out into the back yard, down the street. In fact, I couldn’t get her to stop following me. When she got a little older and a little bigger she would chase the family station wagon down the road as long as she could keep up, with me yelling at her out the window, telling her to go home.  She did that for months, and even when I shut her up inside the back yard fence she seemed to find a way out. One day she chased us all the way down to the highway, swung wide when we turned right, and got hit by a car coming the other way.

She never felt a thing.

Dad scooped up her broken body, loaded it into the back of the station wagon where I was sitting, and as we turned around and headed back toward home to lay that dog to rest I ran my fingers through her soft fur and wiped my tears and my nose on my sleeve.

I was the saddest seven-year-old in the world.

You know how we sometimes say about a relationship that it’s “only puppy love,” because the children who are feeling it are not old enough to experience “real” love? My father-in-law used to say, “Don’t call it puppy love. It’s the most love they’ve ever known.”  So, don’t call it “puppy grief” when someone loses a pet. It may not be the most grief they have ever known, but it is as real as it gets.

I’m saying prayers today for my friend who lost her dog, and for you if you have ever known that particular loss.

It’s as real as it gets.

A Challenge to Our City

For the third year in a row David Bailey and I would like to challenge the people of Richmond to read a book together during February, and the book we have chosen is White Fragility by Robin DiAngelo.

I (Jim) am the pastor of Richmond’s historic First Baptist Church, founded in 1780.  I (David) am the founder of Arrabon, a non-profit devoted to the work of reconciliation. 

You are probably asking the question, “Why should we read White Fragility, a book written by a white person for white people during Black History Month?”

Because of the subtitle: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk about Racism. 

Both of us have found that it can be easier for white people to talk about the progress of black people during Black History Month, but often find it difficult to talk about racism. That’s what drew me (Jim) to the book in the first place.  I had preached three sermons in a row that touched on the subject of racism when one of my parishioners said, “Dr. Somerville, I’ve been really hurt by what you said in those sermons. I’m not a racist!”  

I know this man, and he’s right: he’s not a racist.  But his response to the subject of racism is typical among white people: we take it personally.  I explained that I wasn’t talking about individual racism; I was talking about systemic racism. I said, “You are one of the good guys!  You are one of those people who can help to dismantle the structures of racism that exist in our society and make Richmond a better place!”

But not if we can’t talk about the problem.  

Katy Waldman of The New Yorker writes: “In 2011, Robin DiAngelo coined the term ‘white fragility’ to describe the disbelieving defensiveness that white people exhibit when their ideas about race and racism are challenged— and particularly when they feel implicated in white supremacy. Why, she wondered, did her feedback prompt such resistance, as if the mention of racism were more offensive than the fact or practice of it?  In White Fragility she argues that our largely segregated society is set up to insulate whites from racial discomfort, so that they fall to pieces at the first application of stress—such as, for instance, when someone suggests that ‘flesh-toned’ may not be an appropriate name for a beige crayon.”[1]

You might ask the question, why would a person of color want to read White Fragility? 

In my work (David), every week a person of color comes to me saying, “I’m exhausted… why don’t [white] people get it? I don’t understand.” Whenever I encourage a person of color to read White Fragility it is empowering to them because light is turned on in a way they can see clearly the depth of the problem. 

“If your definition of a racist is someone who holds conscious dislike of people because of race,” DiAngelo writes, “then I agree that it is offensive for me to suggest that you are racist when I don’t know you,” she writes. “I also agree that if this is your definition of racism, and you are against racism, then you are not racist. Now breathe. I am not using this definition of racism, and I am not saying that you are immoral. If you can remain open as I lay out my argument, it should soon begin to make sense.”[2]

We hope that every Richmonder will accept our challenge to read White Fragility during the month of February.  We believe that if we can all remain open then Robin DiAngelo’s argument will “soon begin to make sense.”  And if it makes sense, we should all be better able to talk about racism in ways that help and heal our beloved city.

White Fragility is available online and at bookstores everywhere.  A limited number of free copies will be available at Richmond’s First Baptist Church (2709 Monument Avenue) beginning February 1.  A panel discussion will be held at the church on Monday, March 2, at 7:00 pm. The event is free and open to the public.  

—Jim Somerville & David M. Bailey

 

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[1] Katy Waldman, The New Yorker, July 23, 2018.
[2] Robin DiAngelo, White Fragility, p. 13.

 

Close Enough to Walk

 

This week I moved to the suburbs.

It’s only temporary. My daughter and her husband are away and Christy and I are house sitting and dog sitting in the West End. But I am gaining a whole new appreciation for commuters.

I thought about it while I was stuck in traffic on Wednesday.

At my first church Christy and I lived in the parsonage. It was in the “suburbs” of New Castle, Kentucky, which means that it was still less than a mile from the church, directly across the street from the courthouse in that sleepy, county seat town.

When we moved to Wingate, North Carolina, we also lived in the parsonage, but this time we were practically in the church’s backyard. On Sunday mornings (and almost every day) I could walk to work in less than a minute. But it was there I learned how important it is to live close to the church.

There was one snowy Sunday morning when any pastor in his right mind would have called things off. We weren’t used to snow that far south, and there was a lot of it. It was still coming down thick and fast when I walked over around 9:00 and opened the doors. I found a snow shovel and cleared off the front steps but still nobody came for Sunday school. Around 10:30 the first person showed up for worship, and by 11:00 there were seven of us—total. Our organist wasn’t there. I ended up playing the three hymns I know how to play on the piano so we sang, “Amazing Grace,” and “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” and “In the Sweet By and By.”

I preached the sermon I had prepared and as those six hardy parishioners were leaving the service one of them said, “I needed this more than you know.” He said it with tears in his eyes, which may have led to my conviction that worship is important, and that the doors of the church should be open every Sunday morning, no matter how bad the weather is outside.

So when we moved to Washington, DC, it was important to me to live in the city, not the suburbs. I wanted to be close enough to the church to walk if I had to, just so I could open the doors on Sunday mornings. The closest house we could find was four miles from the church, but I thought “I can do that.”

One Sunday morning I did. A blizzard was dumping two feet of snow onto the city and when I left home I could hardly find my way to the street. I got onto Military Road and walked through Rock Creek Park to 16^th Street. There I was able to catch a bus that dropped me off right in front of the church. I opened the doors and shoveled the snow and at 11:00 there were 25 people in the small side chapel of that huge sanctuary. I didn’t play the hymns, but we had church, and when I gave the invitation three people came forward—an astonishing percentage of the total congregation.

So, when we moved to Richmond we were looking for a house within walking distance, and found one in the Museum District that is an eight-minute walk from church. On every Sunday morning since then (with the exception of two), that’s what I’ve done: I’ve walked to church. And on every Sunday morning since I’ve been here we’ve had church, no matter what the weather was like outside.

I always tell people: “On those snowy days look out your front door, and if it looks like you might slip and fall going down the steps then stay home. I trust you to use your own good judgment.” But I will put on my hiking boots, and grab my trekking poles, and make my way carefully to church. I will open the doors and shovel off the steps. And if absolutely necessary I will play the three hymns I know during worship. But we will have church, because it’s important,

And you never know who might need it.