On the Value of Entering into Other People's Stories

After my paternal grandmother died in 1991, her remaining goods were sold at an estate auction. For various reasons, my family and I arrived after the auction had started. I saw a box of books being sold as I approached the auction line and quickly grabbed my mother's number so I could bid on it.  I didn't know exactly what was in the box, however, and let it go to a higher bidder. Later, I discovered my grandparents' copy of Uncle Tom's Cabin was included. It's a book I read from their shelves and would have loved to add to my collection. Like my grandparents, the author Harriet Beecher Stowe was a Quaker, which might explain the presence of that title in their modest library.

It is reported that when Abraham Lincoln met Harriet Beecher Stowe, he fondly commented that she was "the little woman who wrote the book that started this great war." It has some problematic areas by today's standards, but brought the plight of slaves into the consciousness of its readers in the years leading up to the Civil War.

According to Wikipedia, the report on Lincoln may be anecdotal, perhaps created "to affirm the role of literature as an agent of social change."

I don't know what, if anything, Lincoln said to Harriet Beecher Stowe, but I know reading Uncle Tom's Cabin at my grandparents house changed me, as it had so many people before me. Like many other books, it shifted my viewpoint by allowing me to get inside the head of someone not like me and see the world through their eyes. Movies and other dramatic presentations can also do that, but books are my preferred transportation for such experiences.

One of the things I notice when people express negative opinions about Blacks, Muslims, immigrants, women choosing to end a pregnancy, people living in poverty, addicted to various substances, or of varying gender and sexual identities is the lack of empathy involved. They have never walked even a few feet in the moccasins of those "others," let alone a mile, and it shows. They have easy solutions for the problems others struggle to overcome. They make a negative assessment of the motives and values of people they have never met. It's frustrating to me, but I'm never sure how to respond when someone puts negative labels on people not like them.

What I wish I could do is give such people some reading material that would allow them to see the world from a different point of view. One of the most profound examples of that for me was the first book I read by author Jodi Picoult, Picture Perfect. I had often wondered why an abused wife/girlfriend would stick around after it became obvious her abuser would never change. When I found myself thinking maybe the protagonist in Picoult's novel should give her abusive husband one more chance rather than leaving him, I was astounded. What was I thinking?! No! She needed to leave! This was never going to get better! And yet, he was so very charming and kind in between his fits of rage. And so remorseful about them. 

What a powerful story! It changed me. I finally understood some of the dynamics driving such situations.

In the past year or so, I have been reading books that allow me to catch glimpses of the Black experience in America. I created a new ‘shelf’ for my Goodreads a few weeks ago called "racial-awareness." After a quick review of the 78 books I read in 2020, seven went on the new shelf. I'm currently reading two more. A significant portion of the Twitter accounts I follow are those of African Americans. I need to hear their voices and allow their stories to change me.

I live in an area where we can generally identify by name the few local residents who don't classify themselves as white. There's comfort in homogeneity. There's also discomfort in it. Why are we in a place with so little diversity? One of the things I notice is that when I do interact with African Americans I struggle to understand their speech. It makes me feel so very "white" and out of touch with my world. I need to be intentional about exposing myself to such speech patterns more often. The internet offers opportunities, I need to take them.

What a privilege it is to be offered an opportunity to see the world through the eyes of people not like us and hear their voices. Whether through fiction or memoirs or Twitter accounts or podcasts or movies or whatever means we find, I hope we can value such opportunities and let those viewpoints change us into more empathetic people.

On White Privilege

 In the past few years, I have made two trips from Bloomington, Indiana, to Kansas City, Missouri by
Greyhound. In both cases, my husband drove to our daughter's house east of Kansas City as the start for a mission trip, continuing on to his destination in Arizona by Amtrak. I didn't want to be gone from home as long as he was so I went later by bus to visit the grandkids for a few days and then drive back with him when he returned.

Riding Greyhound was a whole new experience for me. I later described the crowd I was riding with as a bunch of respectable looking people of color and a few scruffy white folks. That's perhaps not very generous to my fellow Caucasian riders, but how many of you white folks reading this have ridden Greyhound in the past decade? If you have not, then you're obviously not the sort of person I'm talking about.

Anyway, many years ago my grandfather shared the adage with me that says, "when in Rome, do as the Romans do." I looked around at my fellow passengers and realized, among other things, that there wasn't a lot of fear among them. People occasionally left their luggage unattended in the bus stations. (I spent five hours sitting in Indianapolis waiting for an 11pm bus and an hour or so in the St. Louis station in the middle of the night.) Likewise, some left their phones charging without standing right by the charging station. I wasn't comfortable enough to let much distance get between me and my stuff, but I did consciously absorb some of the relaxed atmosphere. I didn't see a lot of strangers chatting, but they seemed comfortable with each other.

I was amused to see the effects of my "whiteness." Twice during those trips, one of the few other white people in the stations asked me to watch their luggage while they took care of something. It made me want to laugh. I was a total stranger to them. How did they know I wouldn't go through their stuff looking for valuables the minute they were out of sight? How was leaving their stuff by a strange white woman safer than simply leaving it on a random seat or by any other passenger? Was I going to stop someone else from taking it? Might I possibly turn it over to authorities to check for a bomb?

And yet, leaving stuff by the white woman was probably a pretty good bet. I stayed where I was until they came back, didn't look in their bags or turn them in for a bomb check, and no one tried to take them. People mostly left me alone.

Well, except one gentleman. I had been in a bus seat where the electrical outlet didn't work from Indy to St. Louis and was determined to get a working outlet on the next leg of the trip to keep my poor old cell battery from going flat. What I neglected to notice was that the seat I chose had an overhead light with a broken switch. When the driver lowered the lights so we could all sleep as we headed out at 3 a.m., my light stayed on. The Black gentleman across the aisle had the nerve to politely ask if I would turn it off. I said, "I sure would if I could!" and suggested he try. He did, with no more success. He then offered to put duct tape over it. I was thrilled by that suggestion! After he put one piece on, it wasn't quite so bright, but I asked if he would mind adding another piece to dim it even more, which he did. I was impressed and amused that he was carrying duct tape on a bus and asked him if he also had WD-40 with him.** He chuckled and said something I didn't quite catch as we both settled back into our seats to try to get some sleep.

Later, during my two-hour wait in the Kansas City station for my final bus to rural Missouri, a Black gentleman carrying his breakfast sat down noticeably close to me. Not alarmingly close, just noticeably close. He chuckled a little and told me he liked my joke about the WD-40. Oh! It was my neighbor from earlier. I hadn't really seen him clearly in the dark of the bus and didn't recognize him. (And, yes, there might be some lack of attention to non-white faces involved there.) By asking a couple of questions, I found out he was riding the bus to pick up an RV in Iowa to drive to Florida and had a small bag of tools with him. Ah, the duct tape made sense now. As he moved elsewhere with his breakfast, I felt like I had made a friend. How pleasant to share a few moments of companionship and humor with a stranger during a long ride alone! My heart was warmed.

After an hour or so in Kansas City, my poor old cell phone battery was again threatening to give out before I reached my final destination so I hunted down the phone charging station and plugged it in, settling down in the closest seat, which was still farther away than I would have liked. I was now closer to the ticketing area. A couple of people came in looking to buy a ticket, but for some reason were not able to purchase one in time to get on the bus they wanted. Something about their proposed payment method was a problem. Tempers flared and the poor ladies standing behind the counter were being verbally abused by these customers who were outraged by the unfairness of it all and let the entire bus station know about it.

As this was going on (and on and on), a bus arrived and passengers started streaming into the waiting area. I glanced up from my magazine as a young Black man walked past my phone and then me. His eyes met mine and he said, "Somebody needs to DO something! To call the manager." He then continued into the waiting area and I went back to my reading. I had no clue how to call the manager and, anyway, I don't think he meant that I should be the one to do something. He just had an opinion concerning the situation and I happened to be available to hear it.

It wasn't until later that I realized the power I had in that moment. I don't know if there was anything that young man could have done to diffuse the situation at the counter, but I had an enormous opening. I could have made my way to the counter and asked where my next bus would be loading. The answer to that question wasn't at all obvious from the signs; people surely ask about it. Everyone involved in the exchange at the ticket counter was African American. If I, a white woman confident of being served, had approached, it would have been obvious to everyone there that I needed attention, that I deserved service! I don't know that the frustrated customer would have given up her cause, but there was certainly a much better chance of that happening if I interrupted her rant than if a young Black man had tried it. If nothing else, I could have temporarily disrupted the flow of profanity and given everyone a chance to catch their breath and maybe change course with virtually zero risk to my own safety. Society doesn't tolerate attacks on people like me in public places.

People question the use of the word "privilege" to describe the status our society gives us based on the color of our skin. It's not the best word because some people feel like they haven't had any breaks at all in life, that their white skin hasn't helped them. They aren't privileged! They may even feel like breaks that might have come their way were intentionally redirected to minorities. And yet, the scene at the Kansas City bus station illustrates how real "white privilege" is. If someone's luggage had been stolen, I would have been the last to be suspected of taking it. I could have interrupted the angry scene at the ticket counter with no fear of being physically attacked. My white skin not only set me apart from the crowd, it gave me a level of respectability among strangers I had done nothing to earn. A woman of color my age would have had to dress far, far nicer than my jeans, hoodie, and ratty sneakers to come close to getting the same respect.

That, my friends, is white privilege. It isn't earned. It has nothing to do with one's actual status in life. It just is. And it's not fair. I wish I had had the presence of mind to use it for good that morning in Kansas City. It might have helped if I had listened more closely to the words of the young man who suggested there was something someone (like me?) could do to make a difference. I wish I had been less focused on the battery and security level of my cell phone and more on being a blessing to those around me.

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**It's an old joke, but in case you haven't heard it . . . A person needs only two tools to fix anything: Duct tape for when it moves and shouldn't, WD-40 for when it should move and doesn't.

Radical Christianity

 I have a confession to make. It’s time. I have put it off long enough. I just need to do it. Deep breath, and here it goes:

I am radically committed to following a radical spiritual leader named Jesus of Nazareth, or, later, Jesus Christ. I am a citizen of a kingdom not of this world. I do not pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. I have said that pledge many times over my 63 years, but have become more and more uncomfortable doing so. That’s not where my allegiance lies. It’s time to admit it. I am less patriotic every year. My concern for people and their well-being extends well beyond the borders of the U.S.A. and includes people who don't look like me or act or speak like I do.

I have a Bible reading plan that divides the Gospels relating the story and teachings of Jesus into 300 bite-sized pieces, six a week for 50 weeks a year. For decades, I have consumed a piece of that story almost every day. For the first half of my life I believed what the voices around me told me about the story said and meant, even though I was troubled by some of the contrast between what I read and what those voices taught me. Then I discovered new voices that opened doors for me to truly dive into what I was reading.

Sometime around 1995, back in the pioneer days of the Internet, long before Facebook or even MySpace, I ran across a cozy little corner online where I could share my spiritual journey. I found perspectives beyond what I had previously encountered and spiritual community like I had never known. It was life-changing! New wine in a new wineskin! That’s the sort of thing Jesus talked about. Jesus was not a conservative, preserving traditions and observing the old ways. His was cutting-edge teaching, new truths to absorb! No one ever taught like he did! He was a radical!

About the time the 21st century got going, I decided to take another step in and “bet the farm” on the teachings of Jesus’ “Sermon on the Mount” in Matthew chapters 5 to 7. That sermon includes the Beatitudes: “Blessed are the meek . . .,” “Blessed are the peacemakers . . .,” “Blessed are the poor in spirit . . .” (Or as Luke’s parallel “Sermon on the Plain” puts it, “Blessed are the poor . . .” — not spiritually poor, but actually poor.) It talks about going the second mile and loving one’s enemies. I decided those who said one couldn’t literally follow those teachings had a point and I should probably keep my options open, so I signed on for just fifty years. After that, I decided, if it wasn’t working out I would quit.

As it turns out, second-mile living is difficult. I’m not sure I’ve done it successfully for even a year’s worth of moments during twenty years of trying. But having committed to always veering in the second-mile direction when I clearly see the choice and am able to do so has changed me in fundamental ways. I’m certainly not ready to give up yet!

What I have found over the years is that the Gospels, and even a poorly executed commitment to second-mile living, have led me in a different direction than American evangelicalism has taken. The Gospel according to Luke is especially radical. The insiders are out and the outsiders are in. The high are brought down and the low lifted up. The way to win is by losing. (Did you catch that? The way to WIN is to LOSE! Who even believes that?) The path to life is through death. The poor are blessed and the rich are not. Sinners are closer to God than those who count themselves as righteous. The kingdom of God is upside-down!

As part of the conservative church, I have tried to keep my more radical thoughts to myself. At one point, fifteen or twenty years ago, I was leading an adult Sunday School discussion and the subject of homosexuality came up. Someone about to make a killer point started by saying, “Ok, so homosexuality is a sin, right?” With deer-in-the-headlights panic I tried to avoid answering, but he needed that premise to support the nugget of wisdom he was about to drop and, completely unaware of my discomfort, insisted on a response. When I quietly said, “I don’t know,” a shocked silence fell over the group. I don’t think any of them had ever encountered doubt on that topic before. I certainly hadn’t meant to voice any hint as to my evolving views. It just came out. And then stayed there, in that group. Over the next few weeks, we discussed it at length in various settings, but none of them “outed” me to authorities who might have felt obliged to correct or discipline me.

In the years since that admission, the church has dug in its heels on the topic of homosexuality while I have continued to move forward in my thinking, guided by the Gospels and the many stories I have encountered from those for whom the topic is more than a Sunday School discussion. The gap is significantly wider now than it was then.

As I said earlier, being a disciple of Jesus Christ has led me away from the path the evangelical church has taken. As my conservative friends became more vocal and confident about their views, I found myself in the strange position of getting along fine in the church as long as we never discussed politics or religion.

Never discuss religion! Never talk about my faith journey! Scroll past Facebook posts from my Christian friends and relatives that offend me deeply and keep my mouth shut and my fingers away from the keyboard to avoid losing friends.

Then it all fell apart. It turns out religious views drive actions. A theology of exclusion leads to actual exclusion. Eventually, I could no longer be part of it. With the help of several disruptions to the status quo, including COVID-19, I found a new church home and vowed to stay on the margins, to keep my head down and my mouth shut. No talk of religion or politics. Just quietly love God, love others, and be pleasant.

Here’s the problem with that approach. I have no “real life” spiritual community outside my husband and adult children. Family is great and online relationships are genuine relationships, but there’s something not right about being part of a congregation but never discussing spiritual matters with anyone in person beyond family. Maybe I’m still a square peg in a round hole and would simply be an irritation to anyone attempting to discuss spiritual issues with me. Or maybe people assume they already know what I think. If that is the case, maybe it’s time to be more vocal about my thoughts here on my blog where people can drop in and maybe find something we can talk about when our paths next cross. 

I don’t know how much time and energy I can invest here. The big decision for the moment is to quit hiding my faith journey from those who are on a more conservative path. I’m not skilled at diffusing the natural tension created by pushing back against what people post on Facebook. That’s not a good setting for real conversations. But if you didn’t already know and have made it this far, I want you to know I LOVE thinking and talking about faith issues and how they affect our daily living.