My Behind the Scenes Hero

In 2005, I prepared to move my family yet again as I tried to find a fit in church ministry, a place that would allow me to resolve all the issues I felt inside at being a pastor, a place where I could settle in and stay long-term for my family’s sake and even for my own. Our conference superintendent at the time was convinced that the issue was “calling” but location; that I had been in more rural settings when I was obviously better wired for city and suburban work. There may have been an iota of wisdom in that final part, but it became clear that my unsettledness was far deeper than geography. But that’s a story for another day.

Because our group (conference) was pretty small, it was impossible not to have some sort of encounter with folks from other churches at some point, even though there was a fair amount of physical distance between us. As such, I had created a list of sorts in my mind of the people who were not going to like me, with whom I would simply not get along. I realize this is stupid and not very Christ-like, but it is who I was in that moment. On that list was Dorothy. It seemed we were on opposite sides of every issue that ever came up in our conference and I figured Dorothy was going to hate me. And I was absolutely…WRONG.

What I found in Dorothy, a woman in the same general age range as me, was a life full of childlike wonder, of faith that was tested frequently and not found lacking, of grace and hope and joy and love. If I had a new idea, Dorothy would get on board and lead the charge. It may have been something she hadn’t done or even thought of doing before, but she was always willing to try, to put the idea in front of others in the most positive light possible, and to give it everything she had, whether it was an amazing success or a complete failure. Dorothy was one of my biggest cheerleaders, a compassionate friend who made life bearable on the bad days and beautiful on the good. I’m not sure why I was so worried and why I chose to so badly misjudge her but I can say this without equivocation: Everyone could use a Dorothy Anderson in their lives.

Over the past few years, and particularly this past year, Dorothy has had some tremendous health issues. Much of what she has known as her life up to this point has had to change. The Dorothy who loves people and is always ready to head out for the next great adventure has been slowed, even stopped in some ways. She posted on social media this week that she was going in to have her foot amputated. My heart broke. My inner being screamed, “WHY? Why Dorothy? How is this in any way just or right?” And I think it is fair to have those questions. But here’s the thing about Dorothy. Her post wasn’t self-pitying or complaining; it wasn’t a statement of anger or resentment. Dorothy approached this as yet another adventure, a chance to learn something new about herself, her God, and her world. She has demonstrated grace and humor in what has to be a deeply difficult season. And while I’m not entirely surprised, I am in complete awe. Dorothy will overcome. She just will.

Why do I write this in this space? Because I know Dorothy reads my blog posts. She is one of the very few to ever comment here. She encourages me, even (or especially) when I write things that are difficult. She loves me unconditionally. So, here in my little corner of the blogosphere, my most public forum, let me say clearly: Dorothy, you’re my hero! I’m inspired by your spirit, moved by your grace, and touched by your love. You have given so freely to so many people like me and you continue to grow through all these experiences…grow not to hoard new knowledge to yourself but to share your life and journey with others to encourage them along the way. I love you and I’m thankful for you. You are in my prayers as you move onto the next season, the next leg on your journey. Grace and peace to you, my friend.

Confession

In the first week of June I wrote about the murder of George Floyd and what I could feel in that moment as someone who has never been so much as inconvenienced by racism. I don’t say “not impacted,” because I believe we’re all negatively impacted when our society allows, and even embraces, systemic racism AND discrete acts of racism. Ultimately though, as a white male, racism didn’t prevent me from living whatever life I chose to live. Since then, I’ve consciously chosen not to write but rather to listen and process. The world doesn’t always require my voice. Today, with the passing of John Lewis, I feel compelled to write. I write to confess and to repent, to commit to continuing the journey I began several years ago but attempted just to enter via an on-ramp without ever really owning who I had been and what had shaped me to that moment.

I came into the world in that strange cusp of Baby Boom and Gen X. Most social scientist say the Baby Boom ended in 1964. I was born in December of 1964. The two most important events in American history of that era, the Civil Rights Movement and the Vietnam War, were fully engaged when I was born. JFK had been assassinated a year and a week before my birth. Robert Kennedy and Dr. King would both be gone before I started school. Richard Nixon resigned the presidency when I was I was going into fourth grade. These events that so clearly altered the social landscape were not written in our Social Studies textbooks so pretty much all of our information and context for these essential milestones was anecdotal.

As if the timing of my birth and childhood weren’t enough, the places I grew up add another layer. I was born in Missouri. Missouri may or may not have been an official Confederate state – officially in the Union but the governor set up a shadow Confederate government and the 13 star Confederate flag includes Missouri – but the values of this state very much reflected the values of the American/Confederate South. There was a clear sense of “them” in our communities and in our families. And while there were individual friendships with people of color, Black people in general were held in low regard. I heard members of my extended family use terms like “good n…/bad n…,” “a credit to his race,” with some regularity. To be fair, I never heard these expressions pass through the lips of my own parents. For that I’m eternally grateful.

My middle school and high school years were spent in a small mining and ranching town in northwest Colorado. While people were coming from all over the country to build the power plant or work in coal mines, racial diversity was never really a thing. In fact, there was a sense of pride in the town that the few Black families who attempted to move in and work and live there never stayed very long. As an awkward, short and skinny outsider who was moving into the community at 11 and whose dad was a pastor for the first time, I craved belonging. One way to belong was to accept and endorse the underlying racism that coursed through the community. Not overt, rarely directed at a person. Even then, my heart would be checked if I crossed that line. However, the racist humor and demeaning racial comments. The caricatures we would create when we would travel to Denver for track meets and compete against Black athletes. The use of denigrating racial stereotypes employed to insult people of my own race who drew my ire at a given moment. It was then, and remains today, shameful. The N word rarely came out aloud, as my mom would have slapped the snot out of me for using that term, but the thoughts and attitudes behind that evil word were at work in my mind and my actions.

Somewhere in adulthood, through the grace of God and the wisdom and patience of friends, I came to realize just how vile this mentality is. I began to cringe when I heard others say things, always reminded that there was a time I was comfortable saying the very same things. And so, I began to actively attempt to atone for my sins. Over the years, I’ve sought out opportunities to work toward racial reconciliation. I’ve actively attempted to become a voice and an advocate for the rights of my brothers and sisters of color. I learned, especially while living and working in the Minneapolis area, how urgent it is for whites to submit to the knowledge and authorities of our Black friends when trying to create working relationships and pathways to reconciliation. And ultimately, my life has changed. But one thing has nagged me along the way. You see, penance without confession is somehow empty. I don’t know that I’ve ever sat down with anyone and confessed the ugliness that soiled my soul and shaped my behavior. And so, today for me is about going back to that place where I first sensed I was wrong and needed change and simply admitting, “This is who I am, or at least who I was.” I own my sinful arrogance and the hurt I caused. And I plead for forgiveness, both of God and of my fellow humans, especially my Black neighbors and those who were influenced by me to act in similar manners. It was wrong, it was vile, and it was unforgivable. So it’s a big ask, to ask your forgiveness. And I certainly understand if there are those who can’t give that forgiveness. My commitment is to put the person I was further in my rearview mirror each moment of each day, to continue to seek reconciliation, to be a voice for Black people in our community, our country, our world. I’ve tried to live the message for years, but to be clear, I want to say without equivocation that I wholeheartedly believe that BLACK LIVES MATTER and I grieve the years I spent contributing to a culture that didn’t support that very basic, very human statement.

What does all this have to do with John Lewis? Well, not knowing much about the Civil Rights Movement while growing up and then joining the legion of idiots that bought wholeheartedly into Rush Limbaugh back in the 90s, I somehow believed that John Lewis was on the wrong side of things and defined him as an enemy. I’m grateful for friends like Dr. Efrem Smith who opened my eyes to the stories of men and women like John Lewis, who showed me the passionate heart for God and for the oppressed that really is the crux of the gospel of Jesus. While saddened that I spent far too many years believing the worst about a man like John Lewis, I’m thankful that the opportunity to change that view and appreciate his life and his work came well before he died. John Lewis, who put flesh to his faith and absorbed the worst that humanity has to offer, who nearly died from a beating while simply marching peacefully for basic human rights for his Black brothers and sisters, was a giant. And when people like Rush Limbaugh deny that, it really only shows how small someone like Rush really is. Godspeed, Mr. Lewis. If God is merciful, I’ll get the opportunity when all is made new to sit at your feet and hear your story from your own lips. Until then, with God’s grace, I will continue to seek to live out the heart of your convictions until I draw my last breath.