THE CHURCH????

THE CHURCH????

            Over the years I’ve come to believe that the purpose of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth was to create the church as the primary locus of the mercies and justice of God.  Given the history and the current state of the church, this sounds like one of the most ridiculous statements that I could make.   My experience in the church as a boy, however, bears out some of this purpose and power of the church.  First Presbyterian Church in Helena, Arkansas, was a place of refuge and love for me in a world where my heart was hurting.  Besides my immediate family, friends, and baseball, it was the main place where I began to hear that I was loved, that I could find the meaning of my life in the God who was at the center of the church.

            I left home and went to college and had other experiences where my worldview would be broadened and deepened, and it was in these places where I began to encounter difficulties with the church.  I discovered that the white people in my segregated home church worshipped the power of race as much as they worshipped God.  I learned that God intended women to be partners of men, not property of men, and I knew that the church had taught me this idea of women as property.  In my childhood, I had not even considered that God created people who were attracted to people of the same gender, so that was not even on my radar.  In my conversion on these and many other issues, I discovered that the church had often tied its identity to the social and political beliefs of its members and culture, instead of allowing God to be at the center of its life.  The church where Caroline and I served so long as pastors, Oakhurst Presbyterian, had a huge crisis of faith when its white members had to confront the idea that they worshipped race more than God.  Oakhurst lost 90% of its membership when white folks fled the church and the neighborhood when African-American families started moving in.  So the idea that the purpose of Jesus of Nazareth was to create the church seemed silly and laughable – if this were the case, God must have been playing a joke on the universe!

            Over my many years as a pastor in the church, I began to shift a bit.  Part of that shift was obviously self-serving – I was a pastor in the church!  Yet I also had to admit that there was something about this institution, an institution that retains great potential even as our relevance fades in a post-modern world.   So, over the next month, I want to look at four areas of vital importance to human life that the church - in our best moments and even sometimes in our worst moments – is uniquely qualified to provide in the 21^st century world:  meaning, love, justice, community. 

            We live in a world of super-humanly empowered individuals with our technology, but we still need and long for a sense of meaning that is greater and deeper than ourselves.  It is at the very nature of our existence, in that gap between biology and chemistry and consciousness.  We long to hear that we are loved; we long to experience that we belong to others; we long to believe that the arc of the universe bends toward love and justice.   Because we live in this longing, we are easy prey for false meaning, as we see in today’s world – tribalism and clannishness seems to be everywhere.  In these crazy and difficult times, this longing is especially deep.  This is where the heart of the church comes in – our very essence is to proclaim through ritual and action and life together that life has authentic meaning, especially in times like these, at the same time admitting that we often trade that birthright for a political bowl of porridge. Yet this connectedness in love remains our calling.

            In this 21^st century when the individual is so powerful and is asked to bear so much meaning, we point out that individuals are not capable of carrying such a heavy load by ourselves.  The fading world of the Enlightenment still hears this proclamation as having a low regard for human beings, but in actuality, we have a high regard for humanity.  We simply want to remind everyone that we are not able to be heroic individuals, and if we believe that we are, we open ourselves to all sorts of demonic powers.  It is not coincidental that as our scientific and technological power grows, so does fundamentalism in Christianity, Judaism and Islam.  This is not to slam science – it is rather to note that “facts” can’t give meaning by themselves.   That meaning must come from a different source, and the religious community has a long history in doing this.  We often bring a meaning that is sordid and mean and repressive, but that is not the meaning that Jesus brought.  How do we know if we are bringing authentic, life-giving meaning?  We’ll turn to that next, as we look at the markers of love, justice, and community.

DREAMS OF MY FATHER -- PART TWO

DREAMS OF MY FATHER – PART TWO

            Caroline and I were blessed to be with our children David and Susan over Father’s Day weekend.  I was reminded of the gifts of parenting and grandparenting – thank you!  As I noted in last week’s blog, I did not know my father except in his absence and neglect, so as I celebrate Father’s Day, I am aware that not all of us are fathers and not all of us had great relationships to our fathers.  My father died over 30 years ago, but I still carry his neglect in my heart and soul.  So, the father with whom I wrestle is not my biological father, but the one I carry in my heart.

            Father’s Day (and Mother’s Day) is a time that calls us back to our origins and to the meaning of our lives.  Biology is fate, but it is not destiny.  We have certain limits within which we must live our lives, but not all is determined for us.  Not all of us are fathers or mothers, but all of us had fathers and mothers.  Whatever our relationship is to our parents, we are called to live our lives in a way that we bring mothering and fathering to those we engage.  This is certainly what happened in my life, as recently as last week.  After reading last week’s blog, one of my older colleagues and friends, Gayraud Wilmore, mailed me to say that he wanted to be my substitute father, and I said “yes!”  In that great image from Isaiah 58:12, many men (and women) have stepped into the breech of my absent father for me, and I am truly grateful to them.  I have tried to do that also in my ministry, with some success and some failures, but I have tried to be there for those who have not known their fathers or have had terrible relationships with their fathers. 

            I have counseled many people in my ministry, and although I try not to project too much of my story onto theirs, I have noticed that an overwhelming number of people are dominated by anxiety and feel unworthy of being loved.  I know that story!  I have sought to be a vessel of God’s love to them.  I hope that I have helped them to hear that God wants our passion, not our perfection.  I have certainly heard this from those who have shared the power of God’s love for me.  I recently assisted the Open Door Community in moving from Atlanta to Baltimore.  As I was driving in the moving van with my good and longtime friend Ed Loring on the way to Baltimore, we talked of theology, politics, compassion and other subjects.  As we got to the question of whether our personal identity would survive death, I indicated that one reason that I hoped for it was that I wanted to know, finally, that I was loved and not abandoned.  In the middle of my sharing, Ed blurted out:  “Nibs, your father’s not coming for you!  He’s dead!  But, you are loved!  I love you, and many others love you.  Live out of love, right now – don’t live out of anxiety and abandonment.” 

            And, that hit home.  It will take awhile to sink down into the lower depths of my soul, but I am grateful to Gay and Ed and many others who have demonstrated and shared their love and God’s love for me.  As I reflect on Father’s Day and the  opportunity it provides to think about the power of love and pain in our lives, I return to President Barack Obama’s first book “Dreams From My Father,” where he wrestled with his absent father.  In his newer (2004) introduction to that book, President Obama (don’t we miss him now!) wrote that if he had to write that book again, it would be “less a meditation on the absent father and more a celebration of the one who was the single constant in my life.”   I know that part of the journey.  For most of my childhood, I was dominated by the absence of my father, and I rarely ever consciously considered the loving presence of my mother.  I remember one of my great therapists asking me:  “You know, Nibs, I’m wondering why you choose to center on the absent father in your life.  Why not center on your mother, who stayed with you and loved you and nurtured you.  Why live out of absence and anxiety rather than out of presence and love?”  I am grateful to Robby Carroll for sharing this insight with me years ago, giving me time to begin to turn the ship around – and to let my mother know it too before she died. 

            So, to close out these Father’s Day blogs, I’ll paraphrase Carl Sandburg’s poem “let joy kill you – there are enough little deaths.”  I give thanks for those who have loved me and fathered me in joy and who have taught me joy, even as I have longed to live in fear and anxiety.

DREAMS OF MY FATHER

DREAMS OF MY FATHER

            Borrowing from President Barack Obama and his meditation on his father and his father’s absence  in his book “Dreams From My Father,” I approach Father’s Day with trepidation and ambivalence.  I never knew my father – he left my mother and me when I was an infant, and I never heard from him or saw him again until I met him when I was 23.   I never really dreamed of him – it was more a deep longing for him to come see me, to acknowledge me, to tell me that I was loved.  I was always hoping, hoping, hoping, but he was never coming  - painful, painful, painful!

            I did have a dream about my father’s family last week, the first dream that I can remember that related directly to my father.  My father was not in the dream, but I met my half-brother in a convenience store, and the first thing that I noticed was that I was taller than him!  In my one actual encounter with my father, I rejoiced that I was taller than him also!   That rejoicing barely mitigated my enduring sense of loss and anxiety that it was my fault that my father was absent, that my father left me because I was not worthy of his staying.  On one level, it is deep but silly that  I blame myself (as a six-month-old) for driving away my father.   Yet it has been an enduring, core belief in my soul, a belief with which I have wrestled many times.  I wasn’t worthy as a son – that’s why my father left and never came back.

            After we got married in 1974, Caroline and I waited awhile to seek to have children.  Part of it was the work of ministry, but the main part was my hesitancy to have children.  Since I did not experience fatherhood in my childhood, I was terrified at the thought of being a father.   I did not think that I could do a good job at being a father, and I did not want to re-open those old, “absent father” wounds.  When we finally had David and Susan, I discovered that I could receive some fathering for myself, in my fathering of them.  Although I made plenty of mistakes - and I’m sure that they can enumerate them! - I found an immense joy and satisfaction in being a father.  If I am honest, part of that joy came not only from the wonderful development of David and Susan (they are great children and now adults!), but from the fathering that I received being their father. 

            So, I am feeling a bit better about my father’s being absent and unaccounted for in my life, but my ambivalence about Father’s Day remains.  He died in 1983, and I never took the opportunity to talk with him about these kinds of things.  I still don’t know what to think about my absent and unacknowledging father.   I received many gifts from many people who helped me to hear that my primary definition is not child of an absent father but rather child of a loving Father (and Mother) God, the God we know in the Black Jesus.  My mother (as I have written previously for Mother’s Day) and Gran (my great-great aunt with whom we lived), my church, pastors, youth leaders, teachers and coaches, friends and mentors, counselors and therapists, and of course, Caroline – all these folk and more have helped me to hear that I am loved and valued.  For their investment in me, to paraphrase Wendell Berry’s poem “Meditation in the Spring Rain,” I send up my praises at dawn each day.

            I wrestle often with my absent father. I feel like I continually re-live Genesis 32 where Jacob wrestles with the angel! I have discerned one powerful gift that I did receive from him: I have always had a compassionate heart.  I did not will this or really work to develop it – it was simply there for my use or for my repression.  Part of that gift came from my mother and Gran, from being raised primarily by women, who I believe are culturally and maybe biologically trained to value community and the necessity of compassion to build and sustain community.  Part of it, however, came from my absent father.  While my situation was far superior to many in the world, I felt marginalized by being the son of an absent father.  His absence did not derive from being killed in World War II, but from having consciously chosen to abandon me (and oh, yes, my mother).  So, I internalized the definition of one who is not worthy, and because of that, my heart has usually tended to move to those at the margins, who are told that they are not worthy.  It is not an act of my will – it is gravitas – the gravity of my soul pulls me that way.  It has complicated my life, and I have not always used it wisely, but it is a gift from my absent father.  More on this next week, but for now, I do have dreams from my father, though not in the way either of us intended. 

PENTECOST!!!!!

PENTECOST!!!!!!

            As we enter the liturgical season of Pentecost, we must note that the modern Western church has always felt uneasy about this church holiday.  Those of us who are Presbyterians are especially uncomfortable with Pentecost, especially the idea of the Holy Spirit who might not be so decent and orderly, as we see in the Acts account of Pentecost in Chapter 2.  One of our major founding documents, the Westminster Confession of Faith of 1648, did not even have a chapter on the Holy Spirit.  We didn’t add one until 1942, almost 300 years later.  Yet, it’s not just us Presbys who feel uneasy.   A few years back, the common liturgical calendar dropped the long season of Pentecost and replaced it with “Ordinary Time.”  After many protests, we all now have the option of keeping the season of Pentecost.

            Why such dis-ease with such an important church holiday (perhaps the most important)?  There at least three reasons for our uneasiness:  the messiness of the Holy Spirit (God is beyond our control), the birth of the church in a multicultural and equitable way, and the church itself being cast as a boundary-breaking, many-cultured, possession-sharing, joy-filled locus of God.  The first reason for our discomfort is that in our age-of-reason church, we are quite uncomfortable with the idea that God might break some of the laws of physics or at least of psychology.  In my modern mind, I’m finding myself feeling uneasy with the idea that God might break the laws of physics – how could God be so unreasonable!  I do not want to align myself with the anti-science, climate-change-denying folk, but I do understand the underbelly of the opposition – is this all there is?  Is God at work in the world or not?  Pentecost answers with a resounding “Yes, She is!!!”  In our quantum physics, cybernetic, brain as computer world, this is difficult to accept. 

            Second, we often forget that the church is born in a multicultural setting, far beyond the imagination of those first disciples – those who hear the Good News will not be stopped by the boundaries of culture or language.  This is not to obliterate cultural norms and differences – many of them are specifically named in the Acts 2 text.  It is to affirm that there is a deeper connection, a broader boundary that does not end cultures but rather encourages us to seek to hear our common humanity across cultural and economic lines.  In America today, we elected a president who wants to take us back to cultural hegemony, to a “Mad Men” world where white men ruled the world, and everybody accepted it.   Pentecost tells a different story, and even those who told it on that day had no idea that God would still be moving – Gentiles would soon be welcomed!  How could that be?  Surely God does not understand how the world works!

            Third, the church is supposed to be a place where we can work out our salvation and our spiritual issues, work out our relation to the world, and get ready for life after death.  Pentecost, though, brings an explosion of the spiritual issues, challenges us to confront our worship of materialism, and reminds us that God is interested in us finding life in this life.  No staid liturgy here, standing forever, people knowing their places, women stepping back, money giving us status.  The story that we see in the first 4 chapters of Acts, the Pentecost church, is a stunning reversal of the world’s order.  This small group of women and men disciples, afraid and confused, waiting to be arrested by Rome, this small group stuns the world – the immediate world and the larger world.  In our rambunctious, depressing, dangerous days, let us remember the first Pentecost and the Spirit of God who drove them out of themselves and their categories, who drove them out into a world that they knew could not and would not understand the message. 

            For these three reasons and more, the modern church is uneasy with Pentecost.  We don’t understand it, and we don’t seem to want it.  We prefer that God stay within our boundaries and within our understanding.  Multicultural and intercultural?  No, too much white domination!  Sharing possessions?  No, too naïve, no pension plan.  Breaking down barriers?  No, that’s for poor people and those at the margins – let us keep our worship liturgy and ways of doing things intact! 

            Yet, in many ways, we are like those first group of followers of Jesus of Nazareth.  We are fearful and shrinking and wondering.  In these days, maybe Pentecost is a way to life.  In our waiting and wondering, in these fearful days, may we seek that Pentecost Spirit also.

THE POWERS

THE POWERS

            In the middle of the 6^th chapter of the Letter to the Ephesians (6:10-20),  the author begins a description of a Roman soldier putting on his battle armor.   He uses this process as a description of the Christian life, and in a history that is soaked in the blood of people killed in the name of Jesus, such a description is hard to take.  It seems primitive and violent, and coming on the heels of telling people held as slaves to obey their masters as if they were obeying Christ, it seems to have been written by slaveholders for slaveholders.  Yet, thanks to people like Walter Wink and Dorothee Soelle and James Cone and Jacqueline Grant, I have to come to appreciate this “battle” metaphor in a different way.

            The author (likely not Paul) uses the battle metaphor as a description of the Christian life, urging us not to be the conquering slaveholder, but rather reminding us that our journeys, both individually and collectively, will be ones of struggle, if we seek to live a life of love and justice.  He reminds us that our struggles are not just with an individual like Donald Trump but with what Trump represents and with the powers that have captured our hearts to such an extent that we would vote for someone like Trump.  He describes these as the powers, as the rulers. The Greek words here speak not of particular rulers but rather of the constellations of power that take over our collective and individual hearts.  Once I began to hear this passage in this way, I began to understand how good people could support and could even do terrible things.  Male domination, white supremacy, exploitation of those who are poor, the belief in redemptive violence, homophobia – all of these and more began to make sense in this context of “the powers.” 

            We all have received these configurations of power from those whom we love and trust, and thus they are not only external to us in our institutions, but we have also internalized them.  We have believed that these configurations represent the theological and scientific realities of our lives, and it will be a difficult struggle to begin to loosen their hold on our hearts and on our communities.  The answer is not so much a powerful will that enables us to stand against the powers – the answer is rather a vivid imagination that helps us begin to see ourselves and others in a whole new way.  To use the metaphor in Ephesians 6, seeing the world in a different way is a powerful weapon to use to loosen the hold of the powers.

            When Caroline and I visited our daughter Susan in Baltimore at the beginning of April, we had the privilege of touring the new National Harriet Tubman Center on the eastern shore of Maryland.  As a short guy, I was amazed to see that she was even shorter than me, and yet she was such a giant!  One of the things that has always impressed me about her was that she had the imagination to see and dream a different world than slaves and masters.  She imagined a life for herself and for others as a free woman, not as property of masters or men.   She believed that the vision was a gift from God, and then she acted on that vision.  Her life was one of many struggles, but she was led by her imagination to a vision of a different configuration of power.  Life was not necessarily a hierarchy of masters and slaves – there was a different vision:  sisters and brothers, the self-evident truth that we are all created with equal dignity in the image of God.     

            In these days of the struggle with the powers of domination and money and racism and patriarchy and homophobia and militarism, let us recall these words from Ephesians 6, with their acknowledgment that freedom is a constant struggle.  We are asked to recognize the depth of our captivity and to dedicate ourselves to seeing a new vision, a vision that will enable us to find love and justice at the center of life rather that domination and injustice.  The powers will laugh at our first attempts to begin to break free, but if we persevere in this part of the journey, we will find that we may be like Harriet Tubman – our new vision will drive us back again and again to share the good news that there is a different way of life for us as individuals and for us as community. 

CONVERSION

CONVERSION

            I grew up in the slavery-and-racism drenched delta of the Mississippi River on the Arkansas side.  I learned that slavery and racism and Christianity could go well together, because all God really cared about was my conversion to claim Jesus Christ as my Lord and Savior in order to go to heaven when I died.  I wanted so much to find that conversion, and even though I was a believer in that tapestry of race and the white Christ, I could never get the feeling – there was always something nagging at me.  As I look back now, I’d like to think that it was the ragged black Jesus, lurking behind the trees, to borrow from Flannery O’Connor’s powerful metaphor in “Wise Blood.” 

            I’ve come to believe that I have had many conversions and will yet have more.  For me, that term describes where I am opened up to a new reality that I had previously missed – missed because of my captivity or anxiety or inattentiveness.  I want to describe one of those conversions in this week’s blog.  I had begun to be converted on race and gender, but I was still feeling unsettled on sexual orientation.  As I began to move away from the individualistic, repressive Christianity of my youth, I had adopted a “don’t ask, don’t tell” approach to sexual orientation – just leave the bedroom as a private issue.   But, then I went on the road to Damascus, even though I did not know I was on the journey.

            In 1975, Caroline and I were the first clergy couple to serve as pastors of a local church in the former southern Presbyterian church (PCUS), and our church, St. Columba Presbyterian, was in Norfolk, Virginia.  It was a 12 member church in a low-income apartment complex and was a mission project of Norfolk Presbytery.  We began to build the congregation and the community ministry, and we had new folks show up for worship and work.  One of those was an impressive woman who embodied Christian leadership and love and a commitment to justice and mercy.  After a couple of years of her being a member of the church, the Nominating Committee decided to ask her to serve as an elder in the church.  I called her up to ask her to allow her name to be brought to the congregation, and she responded by asking to come talk to me about being an elder.   One of her great qualities was humility, so I assumed that I would only need to convince her to say “yes.” 

            She came in to my office to give me a shock:  “Nibs, I can’t be ordained as an elder because I am a lesbian, and I know that is not approved in the Presbyterian Church. I don’t even think that God approves of me.”  All my stereotypes flew before me – she was married to a man and had two children;  she looked like a regular “housewife,” and she did not fit my idea of lesbians at all.  I asked her when she first decided to be attracted to women, and with her usual sense of humor, she replied: “About the same age as you did.”  I replied to her, “Well, I didn’t decide to be attracted to women – it just came over me...."  and I caught myself in mid-sentence.  She was wired that way, and so was I.  And, like the apostle Paul, the scales fell from my eyes.  I thought to myself:  “if God would reject someone like Amy, who is one of the few saints that I have ever met, then I have the wrong idea of God and the wrong orientation on this issue.”  So, I changed in my heart, right then and there, and I then replied:  “Amy, we’d be glad to have you as a leader of this congregation, if you will say “yes.”  She said “yes,” and the Session ordained her in 1978, and we’ve been doing it ever since then.   No second-class church membership allowed.

            I still don’t understand same gender attraction, but I don’t understand electricity either, or my opposite gender attraction.   That is to say that Amy’s witness made it clear to me that God had created her to be attracted to the same gender, and if that was the case, who was I to say “no?”  This idea has become much more complicated with LGBTQ issues, but I am glad to be in the middle of those also, and I am glad that we have been supportive of those seeking to affirm that they are children of God when the church and so many others have told them that they are an abomination.

            As the popular phrase now goes, this is what conversion looks like, and I’m still on the road, but I’m glad to be on it. 

MAY 18 -- CELEBRATION AND LAMENT

MAY 18 – CELEBRATION AND LAMENT

            On May 18 in 1974, Caroline Leach and I got married 43 years ago in Ed Loring’s back yard on Kirk Road near Columbia Seminary in Decatur.  He and Sandy Winter, a long time friend of Caroline’s from Chattanooga, officiated at the ceremony.   It was a hot day, and the ceremony was supposed to begin about 2 PM.  Our reception took place before the ceremony – we ate lunch first! We were dressed in “hippie” fashion – Caroline in a dress that her mother had made (that Caroline embroidered), and I was wearing a blue shirt that my mother had made, along with pink bell bottom pants.  Both of us had hair down to our shoulders.  We had no money, so we improvised.  The place was free, and Ed and Sandy did not charge anything for the wedding.  Rather than seeking wedding presents, our invitations asked people to make donations in our names to one of four non-profits.  Or, if they could not support those, we asked them to make a donation to a charity of their choice.  A friend of ours from New Orleans made our wedding rings.  Music was provided by friends who brought their instruments and played them – Carole Etzler even wrote a song for us. 

            For our reception, we asked people to bring covered dishes, which they did, and like the Biblical feeding of the 5,000, we had more than enough.  We noticed that the guests had not obeyed our wishes at this point – most of them did not take their covered dishes home, and we are still using some of those dishes to this day.  Caroline’s parents did not like the consumption of alcohol, so we asked Dan Hamby to buy the beer for us, and we would reimburse him.  If anyone objected to having alcohol at the wedding, we would cite Jesus, of course, and say that the alcohol was a gift from a friend, so we couldn’t refuse it!  It was a great day, and the total cost to us was $400.   These forty-three years have seen a lot of ups and downs (mostly ups), and it continues to be a great trip.

            We got married in May in the middle of my final exams at Columbia Seminary because Caroline did not want to be a June bride.  We had a short, two day honeymoon at the Montreat home of Erskine and Nan Clarke – thank you!  Then, it was back to exams and papers.  We chose May 18 because it was a Saturday, and it was only later that we discovered that May 18 is not only our wedding anniversary.  It is also the anniversary of the Plessy v. Ferguson decision by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1896, which instituted legal segregation in the United States.  No split decision there – 8-1, with Justice John Harlan being the only dissenter.  This decision came 31 years after Robert E. Lee had surrendered the Confederate Army to Ulysses S. Grant and the Union Army at Appomattox, Virginia.  Over 600,000 people died in the Civil War, and 31 years later, the Supreme Court legalized what had already happened in the South and in other parts of the country:  a return to legalized slavery, no longer called that, since slavery had been abolished (except in prison).  It was now called “segregation,” and is sometimes called “Jim Crow,” but I prefer Doug Blackmon’s more accurate term for it: “neo-slavery.”  In his fine book “Slavery by Another Name,” Doug makes a strong case that slavery, especially in the South, continued until 1945.   Having grown up in the South, as Doug did, I prefer to stretch that projection out until 1965 – we had legalized slavery until the Voting Rights Act passed in 1965. 

            Why?  Why did slavery return after at least 600,000 people had been killed in the Civil War?  The simple but complex answer is the power of racism that is woven into our national character.  Not even the deaths of so many people in that great war could eradicate racism (or even slavery), and indeed the power of race began to reassert itself almost immediately after the Civil War.  The Plessy decision in 1896 only affirmed what was already codified in the South and in many other states.   The power of race is deeply embedded in our individual and collective and institutional consciousness, and it is always a battle for our lives and for justice and equity.  The election of Donald Trump as president is a reminder of that deadly power of race – he is the quintessential white man.

            So, May 18 always brings celebration and lament to my heart.  Celebration because of all the great gifts that I have received through my marriage to Caroline – so much to name, but most especially our two children David and Susan, who have grown into such fine adults.  Lament because it is a reminder of the power of racism in my life and in our life together.   Though racism is always in face of brown and dark people, it is now out front and center in all of our faces in the Trump administration.   May we join the great cloud of witnesses who have fought and who continue to fight for racial justice and equity.

For further reading, there are many good books.  I’d suggest these:  “Deep Denial” by my long-time friend David Billings;   “The New Jim Crow” by Michelle Alexander; “White Rage” by Carol Anderson;  “Simple Justice,” by Richard Kluger;  and “Slavery By Another Name” by Douglas Blackmon.