In the fall of 2015, students at Yale held rallies across campus to protest white supremacy (in various forms) at the institution. As a woman of color, I attended as many events as I could in order to offer support--even though I'm not black or brown/a primary victim of systemic racism in America.
At the Divinity School, Dean Sterling held a town hall, attended mostly by students of color, a smattering of faculty, and a contingent of mainline Protestant white liberal students. A group of us helped plan a special chapel service to stand in solidarity with the student movements at Yale.
Meanwhile, certain parts of my community--my local church, respected professors, and white Evangelical friends--were reluctant or unable to join the conversation. I found the silence--of both ignorance and ignoring--to be exhausting and isolating.
At the time, there were 4 white Jonathans in my life. Mr. Hinely, a progressive Mennonite, was totally on board with social justice that took place in the form of student movements and Black Lives Matter. Layvin also showed up at all the important events and meetings. Sanchez attended the town hall--but criticized some of the logic used by students of color.
Jonathan Seitz seemed quite oblivious, which frustrated and pained me immensely. Only when a person he respected--white, male, New Testament scholar, church pastor--mentioned the town hall meeting did it seem to occur to him that something of note was going on. Some of his favorite people at Yale, myself included, were people of color and heavily invested in what was taking place on campus. But somehow our presence in his life seemed to do nothing to alter his tunnel vision, self-justified/God-given calling to "dive into the Gospel for the sake of the Church." This white boy from Arizona--where undocumented immigrants were being deported--and Missouri--where Ferguson had happened--seemed content to keep his gospel tied up in a box whose borders were the walls of the institution of the church. I couldn't help but think that pre-Hitler Germany was filled with pastors who were content to preach on Sunday rather than act on social conscience--and by the time Holocaust happened, it was too late. We had several long conversations on the topic of social justice and its relationship with the so-called Kingdom of God, but I didn't want to press too hard.
And then, in the fall of 2016, Trump won the presidency, and our nation was roused to a conscience-stricken awareness that something was wrong. Along with many other white male Evangelicals, 80% of whom had voted for Trump, my friend Jonathan woke up to the America of 2016--a pulsing, throbbing, colorful, queer, and immigrant society that threatened to undo the very scaffolding that had been holding up American conservative Christianity. In the month of November, he read the news, posted about the election on Facebook, and attended a student rally at Yale.
Progress--and better late than never.
Hillary Clinton preached about the parable of the workers at the vineyard in her concession speech. I took it to heart. When friends join the fight, we must welcome them with open arms, no matter how long it's taken. We all come to realizations in our own timing--and for those of us who got there first, we must acknowledge and recognize the frustrations and impatience that come with our own prophetic giftings and be willing to wait for those who come behind.
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