On Church

My husband Randy and I grew up in the same denomination, one that is traditionally conservative, sometimes quite rigid. As we've gotten older we both have grown uncomfortable with many of the practices and beliefs of the churches of our childhoods. Yet this denomination is our heritage. It is much of who we are. Leaving it is not an option.

Thankfully, there are a wide variety of practices within this denomination of ours. Some groups hold to the old ways, but many churches are progressive, more inclusive, more focused on the inner life, the heart, less on the outward trappings of traditional religious practice.

It is to one of these more progressive groups we belong -- an hour from our house, but worth the drive. The minister's messages are deep, meaningful, and most Sundays move me to tears. The music is awesome. The people are friendly. The leadership, in every way, has presented itself as servants, ready to wash feet. Every week, it is made plain to me that this is a church that welcomes imperfect people, those with problems, those whose lives are messes.

I'm glad we are here.

Except for one thing. This church, one where hundreds of worshippers gather every Sunday, is white, white, white. Its pews appear to be filled with mostly affluent, educated folks. Now I've nothing against rich white people. Randy and I are Caucasian. We've been to college. No one would call us poor. But the membership of the church doesn't reflect the multicultural, financially diverse community where it is located.

A few weeks ago,at the end of the service a gentleman stood up to make final announcements before we were dismissed. He was happy to announce the birth of a new baby to a young couple in the church. They'd had a healthy boy. The man gave the names of the new parents. If only he had stopped there and gone and sat down. But he didn't. He proceeded to helpfully explain to those who didn't know, exactly who the new daddy was. He was "a Hispanic boy, one who came up through our youth group."

I am positive this good man did not mean his words to be unkind or divisive. But they were. His meaning was clear. No matter how welcome the young father was, all who heard him left that day clearly informed that the young man was not one of "us." Rather one of "them."

I wish I could say I wouldn't have made the same hurtful statement had I been the one announcing the birth. But the truth is I can't be sure. It is far easier to hear racial slights when spoken by someone else than it is to recognize them when they come our of our own mouths.

So what do we do? We look, we listen, we examine our hearts. We say we're sorry when we are. We try to be more sensitive, more loving, more careful with our tongues.

We remind ourselves again and again that there is no "us. " No "them."

Rather there is only "we." Imperfect people, children of God. The same in His sight.