In observance of Arab American Heritage Month, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Dr. Ryan LaHurd to share his thoughts on this topic with our readers.

April is Arab American Heritage Month. As an Arab American, I might be expected to write about all the great things Arab Americans have contributed to our culture. But as I think about anti-Arab attitudes in the United States and the massive destruction of innocent lives in the Middle East, I must focus on something more substantial.

We used to hear that Inuit people have hundreds of words for snow. The later correction is that they have dozens. But the principle remains: people have words for things that are important to them. In the U.S., we have no useful word for prejudice against Arabs. Some people speak of “anti-Arab racism.” But Arabs are not a race. Arabs are a cultural group from many different countries whose primary language is Arabic. Others describe such prejudice as “orientalism.” But that term denotes anti-Arab stereotypes from early colonialism: the belly dancer, the “camel jockey.” People uneducated, uncultured and unclean.  Since 9/11, we have heard about “Islamophobia.” This word refers not to Arabs but to the religion of most Arabs. Unhelpfully, using it reinforces a common misunderstanding that all Arabs are Muslims and that all Muslims are Arabs. In fact, an estimated two-thirds of Arab Americans are Christian.

So what’s the problem with our having no word for such prejudice? Back to linguistics. We have words for things that are important to us. No word = not something we care about. Furthermore, studies have demonstrated that we notice the things for which we have names. For example, study participants who spoke Russian — which has separate words for blue, light blue and dark blue — were much more likely than English speakers to distinguish lighter or darker hues on blue-colored paint chips.

Prejudice against Arabs and Arab Americans tends to be ignored — except, of course, by its victims. But it exists, and, like all ethnic and racial prejudice, it matters. In the U.S., such prejudice goes back to the earliest Arab immigrants, considered nonwhite and from “inferior” cultures. For example, my family name is transliterated from the Arabic as “Lahoud” (rhymes with “the food”). It means “the one who stands alone” and refers to Jesus, identifying our family’s roots in early Christianity. My grandfather had so much trouble getting jobs because of anti-Arab prejudice that he changed our name to “LaHurd” to make it look and sound French.  He got jobs but lost our history.

People whose lives we do not see, attend to or care about are much less likely to be considered the neighbors Jesus commands us to love and are much more easily dehumanized.  We have seen the tragic effects of such dehumanization recently in Israel, Lebanon and Palestine, where tens of thousands of innocent people, mostly children and women, have died and where millions more lives have been disrupted. Israel encouraged such dehumanization when it built walls and passed laws that eliminated contact between Jews and Arabs. Studies have unfailingly shown that having even a single personal connection with someone of another religion, race or ethnic group significantly reduces one’s prejudice against that group. Social psychologists call this the “contact theory.”

So I urge you to meet an Arab American, preferably a recent immigrant, and to hear their story. If that’s not possible, read such a story. Just be sure it’s a story written by an Arab. In his book The Message, U.S. writer Ta-Nehisi Coates argues, “If Palestinians are to be truly seen, it will be through stories woven by their own hands — not by their plunderers, not even by their comrades.”

As the great 12th-century Muslim philosopher Ibn Rushd wrote: “Ignorance leads to fear, fear leads to hatred, and hatred leads to violence. That is the equation.” That word “equation” reminds me of one last thing — Arabs invented algebra! We’re awesome.

Ryan LaHurd is president of the ELCA’s Association of Lutherans of Arab and Middle Eastern Heritage (ALAMEH). He retired as president of the James S. Kemper Foundation in Chicago. Previously he was president of the Near East Foundation, an operational foundation doing development work in the Middle East and Africa.  From 1994 to 2002 he served as president of Lenoir-Rhyne University in Hickory, N.C.

For more information: please visit Arab & Middle Eastern Ministries in the ELCA

In honor of International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (March 21), ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited the Dr. Robin Lauermann, Ph.D. to share some thoughts about the annual board retreat held in Montgomery, AL of the ELCA Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice and their work to end racism and dismantle white supremacy.

Front exterior of The Legacy Museum, a civil rights museum, explaining the civil rights movement in the US, in Montgomery Alabama, United States. Photo: Equal Justice Initiative

One of the first exhibits in the Legacy Museum. Photo: Equal Justice Initiative/Human Pictures

The National Memorial for Peace and Justice. Photo by Equal Justice Initiative https://legacysites.eji.org/about/memorial/

In late January, as part of the annual board retreat of the ELCA Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice, I moved attentively through the Legacy Museum, established in Montgomery, Ala., by the Equal Justice Initiative (EJI). With my mind spinning from its stark and stimulating exhibits, which present the history of white supremacy from slavery to segregation to mass incarceration, I entered the final exhibit hall to see a familiar face: that of Anthony Ray Hinton. My heart leaped in instant recognition, with a mix of lament and joy.

I had learned about Hinton when I first visited Montgomery in 2016 as part of a multistate civil rights tour, meeting with veterans of the movement and visiting such important sites as the EJI offices. Staff members there explained the initiative’s work challenging injustice in the legal system, through both legal representation and policy advocacy. Their remarks expanded what I had learned from the book Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, whose author, Bryan Stevenson, is founder and executive director of the EJI.

Due to mistaken identity, Anthony Ray Hinton was wrongly convicted of two murders and spent 30 years on death row. Ultimately EJI secured his release. Most poignant to me was a video that covered Hinton’s reentry into society: the scope of the years taken from him was shown by his learning to use technology unavailable before he was incarcerated — not a cell phone, not satellite radio, but an ATM. An ATM! As soon as Hinton’s book, The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life, Freedom, and Justice, was published in 2019, I read it and reflected anew on the challenges his story revealed about the criminal justice system.

When I saw Hinton’s face in a museum display, he gazed at me from a row of visitation carrels. He wore prison scrubs and sat in a stark room. I approached the display, lifted a phone handset from the wall and listened as Hinton briefly recounted his story, his gaze never breaking from mine. His visual state contrasted with my knowledge of his freedom, and I thought again of him learning to use the ATM.

I continued around the room, stopping to hear from others. I listened intently to Kuntrell Jackson, who shared how his sentencing to life in prison at age 14; EJI would later represent him before the Supreme Court in a case that would overturn mandatory life sentences for children. Monica Washington told me about her sexual assault by a prison guard; EJI’s complaint would lead to a federal investigation of widespread abuse and to prosecutions of corrections staff. Hinton, Jackson and Washington were just three of the people whose stories were shared in the exhibit and for whom EJI has advocated.

The retreat weekend was both intense and inspiring. In addition to the museum, we visited EJI’s National Memorial for Peace and Justice, which commemorates of racial terror lynchings that began in the South at the end Reconstruction. These visits renewed my lament at the way white supremacy has dehumanized others, disregarding their creation in the image of God. However, the visit also inspired hope, even amid backsliding government policies designed to protect the rights of marginalized communities.  Encounters with history provide us with models of courage and strategy by leaders. The work of EJI shows the possibility of contemporary nonprofit and other collective efforts to promote change. Hinton’s story likewise stands at the crossroads of two legacies: one of disregard and violence, the other of advocacy and hope.

Robin Lauermann holds a Ph.D. in political science and is currently completing a certificate in theological studies at United Lutheran Seminary. She teaches and researches political behavior, institutions and change in U.S. and comparative politics. Robin currently serves as a board member of the ELCA Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice.

To honor Transgender Day of Remembrance which is observed on November 20 each year, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Vicar Vica-Etta Henrietta Steel to share some thoughts with our readers.

Editor’s note: Our author intentionally capitalizes the word queer throughout. While this capitalization may not be congruent with style guidelines, ELCA RJ Ministries supports this style decision.

Each year, on Nov. 20, the Transgender Day of Remembrance is observed across the nation. Each year, the vast majority of the transgender people who are murdered are Black and brown transgender women. People gather to mourn, to light candles, to say the names of those who have been murdered. 

Each year we gather. Each year.

The Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day to call for justice for transgender people. The day of remembrance is a day to call for racial justice. The harm done to our transgender family in this nation, and across the world, is a racial justice issue. 

The transgender community is under constant and growing attack. Over half the states in the nation have enacted or are considering laws that take medical care, safety and opportunities from our transgender family (for more details, see Erin Reed’s “Anti-Trans Legislative Risk Assessment Map: September 2024 Edition”). According to Nature Human Behavior, rates of attempted suicide by youth and young adults have skyrocketed, up to 72%, in states where anti-transgender legislation has been enacted. These laws harm all of us, but the greatest harm is done to those who face multiple marginalizations, specifically BIPOC, disabled or neurodivergent people. Too often, people in America have become injured to the reality of murder and harm. Complacency becomes complicity and the horror of murder being normalized in the broader society is magnified in our marginalized communities. 

I cannot speak here of all the harm done to transgender people. It would be too much for you to read. It is too much for my heart to take. All I can do is share some of what I experience as a Queer woman who is transgender and lesbian. I am white. I tell you this because when I came out to the world, when I lost access to the privilege afforded me as one who had presented as if I were a white man, I learned how much privilege I hold, still. 

When I tell you that I have learned to be wary of police and cautious of men, do you understand that as privilege? My wariness grows from a fear that, if I am arrested, a person who carries authority in a gun will place me in a holding cell with men. I do everything I can to avoid that harm. When I travel alone, I drive the speed limit and obey all traffic laws. If I see police officers at a roadside gas station, I get back on the road and continue driving. I take precautions to make certain it is safe for me to use the same bathroom other women use. (I always travel with a change of clothes and other materials so I can avoid a stop if it isn’t safe.) Do you understand the danger we who are transgender face in this world where our right to exist is open to debate? Where we are not allowed to be present when cis people legislate or argue our fates? Where fear of our existence is sold across the nation for the political gain of those who prosper from harm? Where even people and organizations that claim to be our allies choose silence in the face of open expressions of transphobia? The need to be safe is a real concern. Also, I do not fear being shot by those same police for simply existing. It is my privilege to fear rather than experience the unjust incarcerations that are the reality for far too many Black and brown transgender women (for a more detailed analysis, see the Movement Advancement Project report “Unjust: How the Broken Criminal Justice System Fails Transgender People”). 

I write here to share that it is long past time for us all to speak with and lift the voices of our transgender family, especially the Black and brown women in our circles. The Transgender Day of Remembrance is a day of racial justice. Trans joy and trans uplift are racial justice issues. I hope that we all integrate the work toward justice for and with Queer communities, especially transgender communities, into the work toward racial justice. 

As core work toward racial justice, I urge you to follow the writing of Black transgender women who help everyone understand transgender people’s stories of pain and joy. If you don’t know where to start, I offer the leadership of Imara Jones and her work at TransLash.org. Seek out Transgender Day of Remembrance services in your communities or online. Find and say the names of those murdered each year. I pray that we all begin.

Vica-Etta Henrietta Steel is in ministry at St. John’s Lutheran Church in Madison, Wis. She is also the developer of JustBe Ministry, an inclusive ministry in the public square, rooted in Queer community with a focus toward centering BIPOC Queer voices and the voices of all who have been historically and are currently excluded. She works to lift trans joy in a world that gives us so much pain.

In honor of International Day for People of African Descent, which is observed internationally on August 31 each year, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited ELCA Director for Innovation and Ideas to share some thoughts about being a person of African descent. For more information on International Day for People of African Descent, visit International Day for People of African Descent – EN | United Nations.

Names carry immense significance. They are a marker of identity, heritage and personal history. Because I am of African descent, my name is a reflection of and connection to my ancestral roots and cultural identity. However, in a world shaped by patriarchy and systemic biases, the journey of owning and explaining one’s name can be a challenging experience. One wants to maintain one’s culture and hold it dear to one’s heart, but this can be difficult because not everything about one’s culture is worth maintaining and, like many other things, culture evolves over time.

In many African cultures names are not merely labels but encapsulate stories, values and histories. A name might signify a particular event, convey hopes for the future or reflect familial lineage. For example, my name is Rahel Mwitula Williams; however, I was born Rahel Norbert Mwitula. Yes, my father’s first name is my middle name because, in our culture, this is a way to trace one’s lineage. So I am Rahel, daughter of Norbert, of the Mwitula clan. I can trace my lineage back through many generations: Rahel Norbert Yoram Mtemibala Mwitula. Here is the breakdown:

• Rahel, daughter of Norbert.
• Granddaughter of Yoram.
• Great-granddaughter Mtemibala.
• of the Mwitula clan.

When I got married, maintaining my African heritage was important to me, so I made my clan name my middle name, which is not traditional in our culture. In theory I was supposed to be Rahel Jason Williams (yes, you read that right), taking my husband’s full name as per patriarchal custom. However, I went against these cultural norms and decided to go with Rahel Mwitula Williams. Hence, I personally want people to respect and acknowledge my full name as I choose to identify.

Unfortunately I constantly must fight people and institutions to ensure that they say and acknowledge my full, complete name as I identify myself. (And don’t get me started on the difference between Rachel and Rahel.) For example, I found out that I have two email addresses at work, Rahel.Williams@elca.org and Rahel.Mwitula-Williams@elca.org, because it was considered a “good idea” to give people options. However, there is no option with my name. It is what it is — Rahel Mwitula Williams. I decide what I want to identify as, just like any other group fighting for their identity.

Choosing to own and proudly use one’s given name in such an environment is a powerful act of resistance. It is a declaration of my self-worth and an affirmation of my cultural identity. At the same time, society is more patient with those from the global north than with those from the global south. People from the global south are repeatedly asked to come up with a global-north name or nickname but not the other way around.

• My name is an affirmation of my identity, connecting me to my heritage and personal history. It is a daily reminder of where I come from and the stories of my ancestors.
• My name gives me the opportunity to educate others about my culture, promote diversity and foster greater understanding and respect.
• My name breaks stereotypes and challenges the notion that non-Western names are inferior or inconvenient. It confronts the biases ingrained in patriarchal and colonial mindsets.
• My name empowers me to refuse to conform when I am pressured to change and fit in. It is a statement that I value my identity and heritage, regardless of societal expectations.

I am Rahel Mwitula Williams.

Rahel Mwitula Williams is director for innovation and ideas with the ELCA, having previously served as director of Global Mission funding. Born and raised in Tanzania, East Africa, she migrated to the United States with her family at age 12. Rahel is a member of Shekinah Chapel, a Lutheran church in Riverdale, Ill., where her husband, the Rev. Jason Williams, serves as pastor.

She holds a B.S. in psychology from Loyola University, a Master of Science degree in international public service from DePaul University and an executive scholar certificate in nonprofit management from Kellogg School of Management at Northwestern University.

She is a founder and the creative director of ILAVA, a social enterprise that uses fashion to inspire and implement change around the world

In addition to her roles at the ELCA and ILAVA, Rahel is a nonprofit development executive who specializes in working with major donors, both in the United States and internationally. Rahel achieved a significant personal milestone in 2023 by climbing to the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, one of her proudest moments.

For more from Rahel Mwitula Williams: 

• www.myilava.com
• Blog | RMW Corporation (rahelmwitulawilliams.com)
• Chasing Uhuru Peak: Mt Kilimanjaro Experience by Rahel Mwitula Williams (youtube.com)
• Redefining Philanthropy: Faces of Change Makers | Rahel Mwitula Williams | TEDxNorthwesternU (youtube.com)

In observance of Arab American Heritage Month, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Rev. Dr. Niveen Ibrahim Sarras to share her thoughts on this topic with our readers.

People in the West often assume that Arab Christians were converted from Islam to Christianity by Western missionaries. However, Arab Christians have always existed in the Middle East and have enjoyed significant influence in the Arabian Peninsula.

To understand Arab Christians, it helps to know the geography of the peninsula. Arabia, known as Jazīrat Al-ʿArab (“Island of the Arabs”) in Arabic, extends beyond present-day Saudi Arabia, encompassing the Arabian Peninsula (bordered by the Red Sea to the west), the Gulf of Aden to the south, the Arabian Sea to the southeast, and the Gulf of Oman and Persian Gulf (also known as the Arabian Gulf) to the east.

Arabia was inhabited by nomadic bedouins who survived through hunting, mercenary work, trade and raids on other tribes. As noted in Acts 2:11, Arab merchants traveled to Palestine for business. Christian tribes such as the Ghassanids, Lakhmids, Banu Taghlib, Banu Tamim and Nabataeans were spread across the peninsula, originating from Yemen and migrating to the Levant after the destruction of the Marib Dam in the sixth century BCE. By the fifth century CE most of these tribes had converted to Christianity. Arab Christians in the peninsula spoke and prayed in Arabic, yet their liturgical and confessional writings were in Syriac.[1]

In 732 CE, Arab forces influenced by Islam conquered the Levant, a Greco-Roman region that had previously been part of the Byzantine Empire. Muslims spread their Arabic language with each conquest. The Levant was predominantly inhabited by non-Arab Christians, possibly descendants of various ancient civilizations. Christian communities in the conquered territories spoke Greek, Syriac, Coptic, Armenian and Ethiopian languages.[2] Communities in Damascus and Baghdad were predominantly Arameans, using Aramaic for theology and liturgy, whereas those in Palestine, Jordan and Sinai utilized Greek ecclesiastically but Aramaic/Syriac locally. Over time Christians in the Levant and Egypt became Arabized through the imposition of the Arabic language. The Melkite Church was the first to adopt Arabic for worship.[3]

In the eighth century CE, Arabized Christian families in the Levant were drawn to Muslim power, leading them to convert to Islam. Christians held high positions and contributed to intellectual life under Muslim rule but faced pressure to convert. Muslim authorities imposed a poll tax on Arab Christians who refused to convert,[4] so they translated their religious texts into Arabic and developed apologetics to defend their faith. After the Crusades, Muslims imposed harsh policies on Christians, prompting resentment. Arabization accelerated through translation efforts and Islamic influences.

The Ottoman Empire’s occupation of the Middle East, which lasted from 1516 to 1917. led to “Turkification” efforts, and this cultural oppression provoked an Arab nationalist movement. Arab Christians revived the Arabic language and culture, but tribalism frustrated their efforts to form a unified Arab identity. Despite these differing identities, Islam’s influence remains strong among Arab Christians.

In sum, Christians in the conquered territories became Arabized when the Arabic language was imposed upon them. In other words, they are not Arabs by ethnic or race bound but by the Arabic language.

The Rev. Niveen Ibrahim Sarras was born and raised in Bethlehem, Palestine. She is the first Palestinian woman ordained to the ministry of Word and Sacrament in the ELCA. Her passion for the Bible started through attending Sunday school at the Lutheran Church of the Reformation and attending Lutheran school in Bethlehem.

Hungry for a deeper knowledge of Scripture and eager to answer God’s call to ministry, Rev. Sarras earned her Master of Divinity degree from Pacific Lutheran Theological Seminary in Berkeley, Calif., laying the foundation for her ministry of Word and Sacrament. Her academic pursuits led her to the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, where she earned a Doctor of Philosophy degree in Old Testament.

Rev. Sarras loves to teach Scripture and theology. She shared her knowledge through programs such as the Lay School of the ELCA East-Central Synod of Wisconsin, where she taught feminist, womanist and mujerista theology. She expanded her horizons by teaching courses such as “Introduction to Feminist Theology” and “An Introduction to Judaism, Christianity, and Islam” in Marathon County, Wis., through the Extension program at University of Wisconsin-Madison.

Rev. Sarras’ scholarly contributions challenge traditional biblical commentaries and offer fresh perspectives on matters of faith and society. Notable among her publications is “Jesus Was a Palestinian Jew — Not White,” which challenges traditional misconceptions about Jesus’ identity and roots. Her scholarly article “Refuting the Violent Image of God in the Book of Joshua 6-12” was anthologized in The (De)legitimization of Violence in Sacred and Human Contexts (Palgrace Macmillan, 2021), offering fresh insights into the violence depicted in the book.

Beyond academia, Rev. Sarras finds pleasure in hiking, biking, baking and immersing herself in books on politics, faith and Scripture, as well as watching documentary movies. In her roles as a pastor and as a scholar, Sarras advocates for critical thinking and encourages others to deepen their understanding of faith.

[1] Sidney H. Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque: Christians and Muslims in the World of Islam (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012), 9.

[2] Griffith, The Church in the Shadow of the Mosque, 8

[3] Ibid., 49

[4] Kenneth Cragg, The Arab Christian: A History in the Middle East (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1991), 54.

In honor of International Day for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited the Rev. Aimée Appell, MDiv DMin to share some thoughts about the Triennial Assembly of the European Descent Lutheran Association for Racial Justice and their work to end racism and dismantle white supremacy.

The Triennial Assembly of EDLARJ (the European Descent Lutheran Association for Racial Justice, newly changed to White Lutherans for Racial Justice) was held in Minneapolis, Minn., March 1-3. A large part of our time together was spent in a pilgrimage to George Floyd Square. What I saw and experienced there changed my understanding of love and pushed my thinking about fear, as I witnessed what it means to say that “perfect love casts out fear” (1 John 4:18).

I don’t need to tell you how often our cultural conversation limits love to an emotion. You’ve heard the songs and seen the shows and bought the cards. It is so difficult to find pop culture examples of love beyond romance that when Anna and Elsa’s sister love was the focus of Frozen, it was worthy of commentary. But repeatedly during our pilgrimage and our resulting conversations, we witnessed love as an action.

The community in George Floyd Square has been meeting daily for over a thousand days now to love one another through action. They have brought their individual gifts together to become love for their neighbors. Jennie Leenay used her fashion background to create The People’s Closet, where clothing of all kinds is available for free to those who need it. Similar projects have created a library and a garden center, each tended by volunteers. Marquise Bowie greets visitors and urges them to do the difficult work of love-in-action in their home communities, standing with victims of injustice and educating their neighbors. Community members offer their time and their stories so that pilgrims to the square leave educated about what happened there. And every day, morning and evening, the community gathers, lights a fire in the firepit and checks in, offering mutual support, listening for what is needed and loving one another. With action.

This is the kind of love that casts out fear. As our preacher, the Rev. Dr. Jia Starr Brown, reminded us at the end of our pilgrimage day, action love is the prerequisite for the emotional, sentimental kind of love that we usually talk about. “I do not enter into … relationship with anyone who does not actively work for my overall good: defending my character and advocating for my justice when it is questioned, compromised or stolen. And neither should you.”

This action-love draws us toward one another, even toward those we might not actually like. I don’t have to particularly like someone to provide them with clothing, food, shelter, safety. I just have to love them. And in loving them, I find that I fear them less. I am drawn into their community, and we become family, because family take care of one another. Family love one another, even if they don’t like one another.

1 John (and Martin Luther) remind us that we often give a lot more energy to fear than to love. The power of fear drives our economy — everything from deodorant sales to car sales to the military industrial complex is based in fear. Our political system has become so bogged down by fear that it barely functions anymore. Fear of neighbor, fear of embarrassment, fear of poverty, fear of death, fear of immigrants, fear of “those people.” We give our attention, our time, our money to fear.

This is why we are to fear and love God above all else. If we fear God above death, poverty, embarrassment or (most especially) other people, our neighbors, then we will give our attention, time, money, even our whole selves, to God, who is Love — Love as Action. God is love so deep, so radical, so active, that God could not sit still waiting for us to come to God. God’s active love came to us and showed us just how powerful Love as Action can be. Powerful enough to overcome death and to cast out fear, giving us the strength, courage and love to stand in solidarity with marginalized people throughout our community, and throughout the world.

Rev. Aimée Frye Appell holds an M.Div. degree from Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minn, and her Doctor of Ministry from Columbia Theological Seminary in Decatur, Ga. She has served as solo pastor at Peace Lutheran Church in Washington, Mo., since 2010. Since January 2021 she has served half-time at Peace and half-time as director for evangelical mission in the Central States Synod of the ELCA. She has also lived and worked in Washington, D.C.; Seattle, Wash.; Anchorage, Alaska; St. Paul, Minn.; and Provo, Utah.

Pastor Aimée was ordained in 2010. In her time at Peace Lutheran she has helped the congregation grow into community leaders as a congregation “Bound by Christ, to Break Boundaries.” Together they have spearheaded several initiatives to build inclusion and dialogue in their community, including Vacation Culture School, Stories Matter, a local Juneteenth celebration and a series of community book discussions. In 2017 she received the Humanitarian Award from Church Women United of Franklin County Missouri. In 2018 she and her congregation received the Clergy Renewal grant from the Lilly Foundation.

After sabbatical with her family in South Africa and France, Pastor Aimée began working on a Doctor of Ministry degree, focused on anti-racism in the ELCA. In addition she has worked with the City of Washington to develop its Community Relations Committee, with the goal of building and nurturing inclusive community as their regional demographics change. She serves on the Central States Synod’s Racial Justice Team and on the board of the Association of White Lutherans for Racial Justice.

When not focusing on her call, she can be found spending time with family, knitting, crocheting, reading or gardening. She is mother to four wonderful children – Elinor, Holden, Grace and Abby (as well as three dogs, one cat, a snake, a gecko, a bearded dragon, a bullfrog and a pet rat). She and husband Nelson, who is director of the Washington Public Library, have been married since March 2000.

In honor of Black History Month, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited Seminarian Clair Minson to share some thoughts about this topic with our readers.

What began as “Negro History Week” in 1926 — created by historian Dr. Carter G. Woodson out of his concern that young African Americans lacked an education about their own heritage and ancestors — has since expanded to what we now know and observe as “Black History Month.”[1] Woodson, a life-long educator, understood the power of knowing one’s history and one’s ancestral heritage. Knowing that you are part of a long legacy of people who have the capacity to create whole societies can ground you in the belief that you too can do anything. Not knowing this history can become a seeding ground for internalized oppression.[2]

As Nikole Hannah-Jones writes in her book The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story, “The vision of the past I absorbed from school textbooks, television, and the local history museum depicted a world, perhaps a wishful one, where Black people did not really exist. This history rendered Black Americans, Black people on all the earth, inconsequential at best, invisible at worst.”[3] I suspect that this erasure of Black his- and her-story is what Woodson was confronting through the development of Negro History Week.

As people of faith, steeped in the tradition of remembering and honoring our ancestors, we know the power of hearing, repeating and internalizing the miraculous stories of Moses, Joshua, Mary and Paul. Despite thousands of years of separation, we rely on these stories to help us cling to our faith and to a God who can at times feel very distant, despite always being with us. Understanding this, we perhaps also understand that recalling the stories of our Black ancestors is equally as powerful and necessary.

In preparation for this blog, I sat with the question “What does Black History Month mean to me?” and after some time an answer surfaced. To me, Black History Month is not just an obligatory nod to African American people; it’s a reminder of the strength and resilience of a people who, despite being erased from history and relegated to the margins of society, continue to contribute to the flourishing of our society. It’s a reminder of who we are and whose we are. It’s a reminder from “whence we came” and a vision for where we can go. It’s a clarion call to those who feel lost and need a reminder that their stories and their lives matter.

Black History Month is an opportunity for us as Christians to live into our call to be countercultural and share histories that many in society want to censure. It is an opportunity to live into the commitments we have made as a denomination to honor, protect and value the lives of people of African descent. I ask you, as people of faith, steeped in the tradition of remembering and honoring our ancestors, the same question: What does Black History Month mean to you?

Clair Minson, founder and principal consultant of Sandra Grace LLC, is a nonprofit leader, racial equity consultant, and theologian who leverages her decade-plus experience in workforce development and mental health counseling to maximize the impact of forward-thinking institutions across the United States.

Anchored in her faith in the human capacity for change and propelled by a critical analysis of systemic and institutional racism, Clair works with clients in the public and private sectors to develop and implement sound strategies that address the root causes of social inequity. She first entered the field as a counselor, directly supporting formerly incarcerated people in identifying and developing their skills and passions upon reentry into their communities, and later transitioned into the role of philanthropic strategist, in which she was charged with positioning workforce development as a catalyst for economic justice.

In 2019, Clair founded Sandra Grace, a change-management firm that provides training, consulting and thought-partnership to nonprofit, for-profit and public organizations in embedding racial equity practices in their policies, operations and programs. Sandra Grace serves clients in Baltimore, Boston, Chicago, New Orleans and San Francisco, among other cities.

Clair completed her B.A. in psychology at Clark Atlanta University and her master’s degree in community counseling from Argosy University; she is currently pursuing a Master of Divinity degree at Lutheran Theological Southern Seminary at Lenoir-Rhyne University. She is a nationally certified counselor (NCC) and a licensed clinical professional counselor (LCPC) in the state of Maryland.

Clair is from the Bahamas and currently lives in Colorado with her two daughters.

[1] www.history.com/news/the-man-behind-black-history-month

[2] www.forbes.com/sites/janicegassam/2022/01/28/exploring-the-ways-internalized-oppression-shows-up-in-the-workplace/?sh=56abf6755f09

[3] Nikole Hannah-Jones, The 1619 Project: A New Origin Story (New York: Random House, 2021), xvii.

In honor of National Day of Racial Healing, ELCA Racial Justice Ministries invited The Reverend Jennifer Thomas to share some thoughts about this topic with our readers.

As a person of faith, I am called to love God and my neighbor as myself. Because of this, I’m committed to learning how white supremacy culture and my own complicity in it cause harm to my global neighbors near and far — and when I know better, to do better. As a seminarian, I attended anti-racism training in the late ’90s. But my journey didn’t stop there. Even last month I learned a new term: “global majority,” a collective term for non-white people of African, Asian and Latin American descent, who constitute approximately 85% of the global population. It has been used as an alternative to terms that are seen as racialized, such as “ethnic minority” and “person of color,” or more regional terms across the globe. It roughly corresponds to people whose heritage can be traced back to nations of the Global South.  

I’m a board member of the European Descent Lutheran Association for Racial Justice and a member of the Central States Synod Racial Justice Team. As a member of both organizations, I’m interested in building a network of racial justice advocates and organizers across the ELCA. I also participate in #Reformation2022, a movement to reform the ELCA. Most of the work I do as a board and team member is amplifying the voices of the global majority community, whether it be an individual or an association within our church. 

When I was invited to blog this month for the “National Day of Racial Healing,” I had to look it up because it was new to me. The National Day of Racial Healing is a call to action for racial healing for all people. It is a time for contemplating our shared values and engaging together on #HowWeHeal from the effects of racism. It’s a day to come together in a shared commitment to building relationships. Launched on Jan. 17, 2017, it is an opportunity to bring people together in their common humanity and inspire collective action to create a more equitable world. The day is observed every year on the Tuesday following Martin Luther King Jr. Day. 

You can’t change what you don’t know. So how much do you know about the impact of colonization on the global majority community?  

When we know the truth and embrace it, we begin the process of building and strengthening right relationships with our global majority neighbors. In 2023 the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA) launched the Truth and Healing Movement. Many resources are available to assist you and your congregation as you work on your responsibilities. 

The ELCA also has ethnic associations for Ethnic Specific and Multicultural Ministries. For even more resources, visit the ELCA Anti-Racism Pledge page. 

If you are of European descent within the ELCA and passionate about anti-racism and dismantling white supremacy, we invite you to join our partner list. 

And plan to attend the European Descent Lutheran Association for Racial Justice Triennial Assembly, March 1-3, in Minneapolis. The registration deadline is Jan. 15.  

The Rev. Jennifer Thomas is an ELCA pastor, ordained in 1998. She’s served congregations in Wisconsin, Missouri and Kansas. Her current call is as associate director for Mission Funding in the ELCA Office of the Presiding Bishop. She resides in Kansas with her husband Vance, their almost adult children, Peder and Solveig, and two adorable rescue dogs, Rose and Dumplin’. In addition to organizing, advocacy, fundraising and proclamation of the good news, Jen enjoys cooking, baking, swimming, reading and binge–watching her favorite TV shows. 

In honor of International Migrants Day, Racial Justice invited guest writer Rev. Menzi Nkambule to share some thoughts on being a migrant in the United States.

What is your response when someone asks, “Where are you from?” Mine is a joke and reality. I often reply with my Eswatini accent, “I am from Decorah, Iowa.” I was raised in Eswatini, attended Luther College in Decorah and Luther Seminary in St. Paul, Minn., and am now a Lutheran pastor in Jersey City, N.J. For most people in America, “Where are you from?” is a tricky question. We need a different question if we are to be hospitable to one another.

When you ask people where they are from, you receive complex answers. Many Americans have lived in several parts of the country and, in some cases, the world. For example, some grew up in military families, moving from one base to another. Others grew up in a pastor’s family, moving from one church location to another. Like a plant, they were dug out of the ground and transplanted to a new place. Therefore, whether you were born in the United States or Eswatini, the question “Where are you from?” is, at best, challenging. At worst, it feels invasive and presumptuous, especially if asked of those born outside the U.S.

But do not worry; with generosity of spirit, there is nothing we cannot get past. Humor and genuine curiosity can generate a good conversation and help us connect in our similarities and differences. However, I find that, instead of “Where are you from?,” the question “Where is home for you?” embodies the generosity needed to spark instant connection.

In my experience, this alternative question reflects the kind of generosity that Leviticus 19:33-34 asks of us when it says, “When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the native-born among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.” Ask someone “Where are you from?” or “Where are you really from?,” and that person may hear you saying that they don’t belong. But ask someone where home is, and you will have treated them as if they belong. You will have given them the joy and ease they need to put down roots in your community.

When I first came to the United States, I was 22, had never seen the doors of a Lutheran church and never in my life thought I wanted to be a pastor. Understandably, I was feeling out of place. But then the question “Where is home for you?” transformed me. My campus pastors were the first to ask me this question. It brought a much-needed shift in perspective, from home as a data point to home as the people with whom I feel safe attaching roots and exploring.

As time passed, I began to see Decorah as a community of belonging. By my senior year in college I had explored Lutheranism and gotten baptized at Good Shepherd Lutheran Church in town. I spent so much time with the pastors that I began to think I, too, could be a pastor. I studied management and made a leap to seminary and ordained ministry. Because I felt at home in Decorah, I belonged, planted roots and thrived.

Ultimately I am from Decorah and other places because I feel at home there. I believe that those transplanted across the globe or from one state to another need nothing more than for us to be their home. They need us to be what God calls us to be — the soil where the immigrants among us can take root and be at home in our communities.

The Rev. Menzi Nkambule is an ELCA Fund for Leaders alum serving as pastor of St. Matthew’s Lutheran Church, Jersey City, N.J. He enjoys cooking and cycling.