My name is Joan Daye and I am a member of Grace Lutheran Church in Evanston, IL.  I am sixteen years old, and I was one of sixteen high school students to go on the Interfaith Youth Justice Trip over spring break, youth from Grace, Beth Emet Synagogue and Second Baptist Church, all located in Evanston, IL, March 27-31, 2019. The trip was an amazing whirlwind! We went to many wonderful places; each has a unique way of impacting our society. I made a lot of new friends along the way. We started in Evanston and then branched out to Englewood, Bridgeport, Marquette Park, and Lawndale. We saw many powerful people who use that power for good. On the fourth day of the trip, our group partook in a nonviolence training at the Institute for Nonviolence Chicago. During this training, we learned about Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s principles and steps for nonviolence. The trainers had us do many fun activities, including making short skits that showed the principles and steps. Nonviolence is proactive, not reactive. This training really stretched my thinking about how I need to engage in more proactive social justice initiatives. I find that my voice has strengthened in my coursework discussions at school since this trip. I feel more confident sharing my thoughts about the many trials and tribulations that people are facing in our current climate in America. I believe I am helping to move these discussions towards engaging in proactive action dialogue rather than complaining and feeling hopeless.

One moment in particular that I found quite powerful was at Beth Shalom B’nai Zaken Ethiopian Jewish Synagogue in Marquette Park. We arrived just in time for their Shabbat dinner and service. I met 3 sweet little girls named Daja, Morgan, and McKaya. They all had vibrant personalities, and they warmly welcomed us. The girls eagerly told me all about their toys, their schools, their synagogue services, and their favorite things in life; they held my hands as we walked around. I just felt so fulfilled. Nowadays the news has many horrifying stories of hate and hurt, and in this moment I felt nothing but love and possibilities.

Each organization we visited has a mission and they’re all helping many people along the way. The group showed me that there are other teens out there who want to make an impact just as we do. The different communities were all seeking justice and unity for everyone, and that is super important to me.

The sixteen of us who went on this trip stay connected via a group chat. Most of us go to ETHS, and we have a fun game where we take a picture together when we see each other and earn a point on the group chat. I love it! It’s a whole new community in my life.  We have already had two get-togethers since the trip, and another is being planned. Thank you to all of the leaders and congregation members who made the trip possible; it was a life changing experience and I feel lucky to have been a part of it.

The sixteen of us who went on this trip stay connected via a group chat. Most of us go to Evanston Township High School, and we have a fun game where we take a picture together when we see each other and earn a point on the group chat. I love it! It’s a whole new community in my life.  We have already had two get-togethers since the trip, and another is being planned. Thank you to all of the leaders and congregation members who made the trip possible; it was a life changing experience and I feel lucky to have been a part of it.

The first annual Evanston Interfaith Civil Rights trip was organized by Rabbi Andrea London of Beth Emet Synagogue, Pastor Michael Nabors of Second Baptist, and Pastor Daniel Ruen of Grace Lutheran, Evanston. It was organized out of a shared value of teaching our youth about courage, love, and justice. 

“We had expectations that not only would our youth and adults learn more about MLK’s ‘Beloved Community,’ but that they might embody it as an interfaith coalition. They did so in profound ways, and we’re planning for next year’s trip this summer!”  Pastor Daniel Ruen, Grace Lutheran, Evanston, IL. 

 

Two important anniversary dates occurred last week. On June 19th there was the observance of Juneteenth, the date on which African descent slaves in Texas received the good news that they had been set free from their bondage. Two days earlier marked the fourth anniversary of the slaying of nine African descent Christians at a Bible Study in their church in Charleston, South Carolina, by a young man hoping to start a race war. On both of those dates last week, there was a nationwide showing of the documentary “Emanuel.”  Director Brian Ivie is a Christian filmmaker interested in stories about the impact that the Christian witness can have on those outside of the church. The spontaneous expressions of forgiveness from some of the surviving family members in that tragedy were certainly compelling and made headlines around the world. And that witness had the effect of lessening the racial tension in the days that followed in the city of Charleston–which one of the film’s commentators described as “Confederate Disneyland,” for its glorification of its antebellum past.

The challenge for me in commentating on this documentary is that we white people have a tendency to make everything about us. Part of our privilege is assuming that everything is about us, after all. Indeed, in the aftermath of the shooting, we white Lutherans in South Carolina kept mentioning how two of the clergymen that had been shot in that church had graduated from our Lutheran seminary in Columbia. Somehow that seemed to ease how distressing it was to learn that the shooter came from a family that was active in one of our Lutheran churches. It fit into our theology that even our community is connected to both saint and sinner. 

I was one of only a handful of white persons in a theater filled with people of color at the showing of the documentary that I attended. And I felt somewhat of a voyeur watching the intense expressions of grief by the sons and daughters and spouses and mothers of the slain martyrs. But my presence was graciously acknowledged by this community of color, just as the shooter had been welcomed into the Bible study on the night of his crime.

The theme that Ivie focused on in his film was the radical forgiveness expressed following the event. That’s what made the headlines and the impact on those outside of the church. As the Director explored it in depth, he revealed that forgiveness was not something glib. We heard from family members that were still struggling with coming to that place of forgiveness. Those who had so vividly expressed their forgiveness said that forgiveness did not matter if the young man showed remorse or not, or came to the full realization of the pain he had caused. And that was when I realized that I, too, have been the recipient of much forgiveness and grace from people of color, even as I have been unaware of the cost to them. Yes, I am a progressive white clergyman who has engaged in the battle for racial justice. And yet, I am too tempted when I become war weary, I have the privilege to disengage and take a break from it. As he sat in a Birmingham jail cell, the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. wrote a letter calling out the progressive white clergymen of the city for wanting to work for change more slowly and cautiously. His frustration was that progressives who want to do just enough to make themselves feel good that they are not like our more visibly racist neighbors can be an even greater stumbling block than hardcore white supremacists. 

The most impactful part of the documentary for me was the contrast shown by the news footage of the arrest of the perpetrator. As one of the police officers approached the getaway car, he put his gun back in his holster, in stark contrast to the plentiful news reports we’ve heard about the way people of color are approached when stopped. Indeed, just prior to this church shooting in Charleston, a black man had been gunned down by a police officer in the same community. As one of the voices in the documentary expressed it, we’ve seen too many images of black bodies lying in the street “like road kill.” It is that contrast between the way people are treated by the color of their skin that we white people have long been oblivious to.

When I participated in my first racial reconciliation training, I remembered hearing one of the black participants describe how, in the grocery store, the clerks would place change directly in the hands of white customers, but when it came her turn, the clerk placed the change on the counter for her to pick up, rather than risking skin to skin contact. I had simply never noticed that before. Soon after participating in that event, I attended a movie theater. The perky young white ticket taker greeted me very warmly as she handed me the torn stub. But her tone and demeanor changed remarkably when she disdainfully tore the ticket of the black woman who came in after me. I would not have noticed that before the training, despite how stark the contrast was. For our obliviousness to that distinction in treatment, we white people are in need of forgiveness. For our cowardice in not saying anything when we do observe it, we are in need of forgiveness. Just as Christ died for us while we were still sinners, people of color have been patient and forgiving of us. And just as with Christ, that witness has come at a great cost. The documentary “Emanuel” shows that forgiveness does not come without great pain and suffering.

When I try to discuss these thoughts with my white peers, I am often accused of wallowing in “white guilt.” “I don’t want to be made to feel guilty for being white,” they say. It is part of the backlash that swept the current administration into power. But it is not about being made guilty about the past. Even discussions about reparations are not meant to be punishment for previous bad behavior on the part of our white ancestors, but are an effort to restore balance in opportunity. We have the chance to reboot the way we interact with one another in the present. We can wake up and be grateful for the patience and forgiveness from those who have been wronged. And we can learn from the witness to extend grace and forgiveness as well, rather than responding with defensiveness. I confess that I am still tempted to be intermittent in my work for this goal. Confession is a start.

~Pastor Mark Cerniglia

Mark Cerniglia is a retired Lutheran Pastor with 37 years of ordained ministry. He currently lives in Columbia, SC, with his racially mixed family of three generations, and serves as an Interim Pastor. He is on the board of the European Descent Lutheran Association for Racial Justice (EDLARJ) and chairs the Immigration Task Force for the South Carolina Synod.

A Reflection on Reading The Cross and the Lynching Tree

I am a preacher. Like so many others I have been long convinced that Christ crucified is at the heart of authentic Christian preaching. So, when I first learned of The Cross and the Lynching Tree by James Cone, I was interested. I remembered the ominous words I had heard in graduate school about Cone’s “radical” critique of traditional Christian teaching (or rather, as I have since learned, what it was thought to be from a certain privileged perspective). Nonetheless I still thought I would learn something new about Christ crucified from a perspective that is not my own. So, I put it on my mental list of books to read … where it remained for several years.

Ironically what revived my intention last spring was news of death. A new memorial and museum of lynching and its legacy in the United States — the National Memorial for Peace and Justice — opened in Montgomery, Alabama. And then, just days later, I saw a report of Cone’s death.

Cone wrote that his book was a continuation of his earlier writing, all of it “motivated by a central question: how to reconcile the gospel message of liberation with the reality of black oppression.”  I’m not qualified to judge whether he was successful in that effort, and I don’t know that I gained the kind of insight into Christ’s crucifixion that I anticipated.

As is often the case, something else happened.  As I read, I began to realize how little I knew about lynching beyond what I had allowed myself to acknowledge — the bare facts of its existence and its brutality. I began to learn about the circumstances of actual lynchings, the real people killed, and the real people who protested at the risk of being lynched themselves. I learned about the horrific lynching of Henry Smith in Paris, Texas, and the courageous public advocacy of Ida Wells. When I discovered the county-by-county data about lynchings in the United States collected by the Equal Justice Initiative, I investigated what had happened in the counties where I grew up, starting with Anderson County, Texas, where I was born.

And then I learned about the Slocum Massacre. It was an appalling event. Over the course of two days in July, 1910, mobs of white people in Anderson County hunted and killed African-Americans. Newspapers initially reported 8 to 22 African-American victims, but later investigations discovered numerous bodies in swamps and other remote areas of the county. Estimates range up to 200 victims, all of them African-American. As happened later in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and Rosewood, Florida, a thriving community of small businesses was destroyed and hundreds of African Americans who survived fled the area, abandoning their property and businesses, which were then claimed by white people.

Learning about the Slocum Massacre helped me to realize the result of the way I held the knowledge I had of these and far too many similar incidents of violence against African Americans in the United States. I thought of them as isolated incidents, horrific and inexplicable in their horror except as outbreaks of demonic evil. How can such inexplicable outbreaks be anticipated and prevented?

But I already knew that in Jesus’ day crucifixion was not inexplicable. Far from it. It had a very deliberate purpose. Occasionally I hear that if Jesus had been executed in our day, the symbol of our faith would be an electric chair or syringe, not a cross, and I know there are racial inequities in the administration of capital punishment in the United States. But the public spectacle, the false pretense of avenging some fabricated wrong, the obscenely brutal torture, and the deliberate humiliation of a targeted victim as a way of intimidating and keeping an entire community in a subjugated place — what lynching did to African-Americans and other persons of color is everything that I knew crucifixion was intended to do two millennia ago.

Paying attention to the full reality of lynching, both in detail and in broad scope, helped me to begin to recognize how lynching was not so mysteriously inexplicable. And I began to recognize how it fits with other realities I was aware of but held as isolated pieces of information. I see more clearly now how lynching is part of a seamless history of violence against African Americans in the United States that continues today. After the massive crime of slavery was outlawed, lynching was used to enforce the Jim Crow regime that kept African Americans in subjection. In turn the illegal practice of lynching was replaced by abusive practices with a thin veneer of legality but still powerfully oppressive and violent — a racially targeted “war on drugs,” the racial bias in our criminal justice system most evident in mass incarceration of persons of color, and legalized practices of predatory lending that systematically rob economically vulnerable descendants of slaves from what little wealth they have been able to accumulate. Today restrictive voting laws target the African Americans who were promised full and equal voting rights. It is all one interwoven fabric.

Two decades ago, when I was watching the last episode of “The Civil War” by Ken Burns on PBS, historian Barbara Fields caught my attention with these words: “You can say there’s no such thing as slavery anymore, we’re all citizens. But if we’re all citizens, then we have a task to do to make sure that that, too, is not a joke. If some citizens live in houses and others live on the street, the Civil War is still going on. It’s still to be fought, and regrettably, it can still be lost.”

I am a preacher, and I’ve promised to tell the truth about Jesus, who was crucified and raised from the dead. One part of the truth is that while we may think the Civil War is over, that lynching is a thing of the past, it is not. The same hateful violence that crucified Jesus is still at work among us today. The other part of the truth is that those who have been joined to Jesus Christ in his cross and resurrection have a new life of freedom and the Spirit’s power. In that life, in Jesus’ name, there is healing, reconciling, liberating, life-giving work to do in service of our neighbors, especially those who continue to experience the regime of violent hatred that crucified Jesus.

To learn more about the work of the Equal Justice Iniative, visit eji.org.

Marcus Kunz is an ELCA pastor who serves part-time with the churchwide organization as Executive for Discernment of Contextual and Theological Issues and part-time in interim ministries, currently at Grue and Peace Lutheran Churches of Ashby, Minnesota.  He lives in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, with his spouse, Pastor Martha Halls.  They are the parents of two adult sons

Black historian, Carter G. Woodson, established the celebration of black history in 1926. Originally observed as a week-long event uplifting the contributions of Black Americans, for Black Americans–it was the hope of Dr. Woodson that one day all Americans would recognize the contributions of black people as an integral part of U.S. history.

As a kid I didn’t celebrate Black history month in my predominantly white elementary school. Nor did I learn an awful lot about the accomplishments of Black Americans. My earliest recollection of the mention of black people in history, came from my 2^nd grade teacher. She was a young, white educator that I really liked.  I remember sitting up in my seat as she opened a book about Abraham Lincoln. As she began to tell the children’s version of honest Abe’s legacy, she looked directly at me with a smile saying,  “Lincoln freed the slaves.”  The end.   Mind you, I was the only black child in the class and one of the few black children in the entire school. I, along with all my white schoolmates were reminded of my black skin difference. As all eyes turned towards me, I felt ashamed to have been singled out for my blackness.  This version of the story of slavery minimized, devalued and dehumanized my black identity and the truth of slavery– while centering whiteness as powerful and the norm.  That is what racism does—it sustains a racial hierarchy that privileges those with white skin, while simultaneously denying the inherent worth, power and dignity of people of color.

Today, the adult version of me does not blame the lack of knowledge of a young, white educator so many years ago, but the damage caused in that moment plagued me for years. In my spirit, I knew she was wrong, but I did not know how to respond it hat moment.   I had no rebuttal to her nonexistent narrative of the civilizations, history, and gifts of people from the continent of Africa; or the true horrors of the transatlantic slave trade; or the courage of  freedom fighter Harriett Tubman that sought freedom from bondage for her people.  Slavery was just a footnote in history.

To counter what I didn’t learn at school, my parents and grandparents taught me my history around the dinner table, at family gatherings and in the black church. Raised under Jim Crow segregation, my parents were not ashamed of who they were; nor where they came from. Works of black artist were proudly displayed in our home. We listened to the soulful sounds of WKND AM radio station that  provided a platform for black artists, musicians and producers—when white radio would not. We traveled south each summer from Connecticut to Mississippi and Alabama visiting the childhood homes of our parents.  We learned the National Negro anthem, “Lift Every Voice and Sing” and sang the lyrics to “We Shall Overcome” at my grandparents’ church.   Black publications, Ebony, Jet  and Black Enterprise magazine littered our coffee table with images of black athletes, beauty queens of the Historic Black Colleges and Universities, celebrities, scientist, political figures and entrepreneurs. We attended theater performances of all black play productions.  Dolls of every shade and hue filled my bedroom bookcase.  We watched Alex Haley’s Roots as a family and purchased the album soundtrack produced by composer Quincy Jones. For me, Black history wasn’t only an event during the shortest month of the year—it was our way of life.  The power of celebrating Black history (and all history of People of Color) contradicts the racial stereotypes, prejudice and discrimination imposed on People of Color by a white dominant culture.  Valuing one’s own racial identity, ancestry and history is part of the necessary healing work of ending racism.

Reclaiming history…

On August 23-25, 2019 people around the world will remember the arrival of the first enslaved Africans  in North America. This  event will mark the Quad-Centennial of the forced transatlantic voyage of enslaved African peoples to Virginia.   On August 25, 1619,  a pirated ship carrying stolen human cargo from Africa arrived in the English colony in North America.  Taken from the Angola region of Africa, these men and women were known for their agricultural, metal working and farming skills. These skills would prove to be invaluable and profitable for the survival of English colonist.  The arrival of this first slave ship set in motion the transatlantic slave trade. From the 16th to the 19th century between 10 million and 12 million African people were kidnapped, enslaved and scattered throughout the Americas.   Slavery and the Middle Passage was an event of monumental proportion that not just affected North America but changed Africa forever.  The legacy of racism and fear of people of African descent are rooted in the policies, practices, beliefs and actions that legalized slavery, legitimized the slave trade and colonialism.  Four hundred years later, the descendants of the transatlantic slave trade still face racial  barriers in affordable housing, voting, employment, education and health care. “History, despite its wrenching pain, cannot be unlived, but if faced with courage, need not be lived again.”– Maya Angelou Connecting the dots of the transatlantic slave trade, the forced removal and assimilation of Native American Indians; the denial of citizenship of Chinese workers and the exploitation of migrant Mexican farm workers are all crimes against humanity in American history. We cannot change history or its impact on past generations, but it is important to know and teach the truth of this history.

The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America is partner of the organization Bread for the World’s  “Lament and Hope”: A Pan-African Devotional Guide Commemorating the 2019 Quad-Centennial of the Forced Transatlantic Voyage of Enslaved African Peoples to Jamestown, Virginia (USA). The devotional makes the connections between Bread for the World’s mission to end hunger and the history of the enslavement of African descent people; the creation of racialized policies within the U.S and the colonization on the continent of Africa. As a collective Christian voice, Bread for the World further recognizes and acknowledges the role many churches have played in supporting and perpetuating these horrific practices and policies. In 2019 at the Churchwide Assembly, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America will issue an apology for slavery to People of African Descent.

The downloadable devotional resource is available at bread.org

Sculpture featured at the National Memorial For Peace and Justice, Montgomery, Alabama.

Judith E.B. Roberts, serves as Program Director for Racial Justice.

The third Monday in January is observed in honor of the birthday and legacy of Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.  Efforts to designate a day to honor Dr. King began shortly after his  assassination on April 4, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee. It took an act of Congress to pass the measure– with former President Ronald Reagan signing the bill into law in 1983. Institutions such as banks, schools, post offices and non-essential government offices close in observance of the holiday. Many of us will attend worship services, community events or volunteer in acts of service. However, if you live in Alabama or Mississippi, Dr. King and Confederate general Robert E. Lee’s birthday are combined in observance of the day. Dr. King was born on January 15, 1929 and Lee was born on January 19, 1807.  Dr. King gave his life to bring this country together against racial divides. Lee fought to divide this nation by preserving the enslavement of blacks in southern states. Just to be clear celebrating the birthday of Robert E. Lee as a hero is about maintaining a legacy of white supremacy.   Organized efforts are underway in Mississippi to separate the two days. However, no such actions are currently planned in Alabama.

“But let justice roll down like waters,
    and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.” Amos 5:24 (NRSV)

Dr. King along with the collective power of grassroots leaders and national organizations like the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC), National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), the  Congress of Racial Equality (CORE) and the interracial Freedom Riders, challenged the legal system of racial segregation. Their campaigns of non-violent action, voter registration drives, teach-ins and sit-ins–challenged racial attitudes; broke down racial barriers in employment, housing, education; public accommodations, travel and voting. Activist of the movement placed their lives and limbs on the line to do what they had to do for justice. Their bodies in action became a spiritual meditation, born out of a love for God’s people on a quest for justice. Selma to Montgomery marcher and activist, Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel was quoted as saying that civil rights marchers “prayed with their feet.”  Rabbi Heschel

marched with Dr. King from Selma to Montgomery in 1965 in support of black voters’ rights.  The physical sacrifices and spiritual efforts of these movement workers were not in vain.  The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 signaled major progress in ending overt racist segregation politics and polices. Yet, Dr. King believed the fight for freedom rested on building an intersectional, multiracial coalition of African Americans, white Americans, Asian Americans, Hispanic Americans, and Native Americans that worked towards bending the arc of the universe towards racial and economic justice for all people.

Concerned for the living and working conditions of poor people in the United States, Dr. King and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC)  began to organize a campaign led by people impacted by poverty. The dream for the Poor People’s Campaign was born. The campaign was designed to take on the social structures that produced the oppression and suffering of people.  Dr. King said: ‘The dispossessed of this nation—the poor, both white and Negro—live in a cruelly unjust society. They must organize a revolution against that injustice, not against the lives of their fellow citizens, but against the structures through which the society is refusing to deal with the issues of injustice.’ Dr. King’s intersectional approach towards systems of oppression launched the vision for the Poor People’s Campaign.  Although Dr. King’s life was cut short by an assassin on April 4, 1968 — his vision for the campaign lived on. In May of 1968, the Poor People’s March was launched in Washington, D.C.

The days of racial segregation under Jim Crow laws may be over but the ills of  systemic racism and poverty are alive and well.  Racial profiling; extrajudicial killing of unarmed black and brown bodies by law enforcement; the disproportionate number of poor, people of color trapped within the criminal unjust system;  voter suppression laws and tactics that diffuse the political power of poor communities of color; the resegregation of school districts that shuttle poor Black, Latino and Native American children to under performing schools; and the gravity of nearly 41 million people in the U.S. living below the federal poverty line. A poverty line that cuts across race, gender, age, sexual orientation, religious affiliation, ability and geography.

Building on the dream of Dr. King and the movement makers of the 1968 Poor People’s Campaign; fifty years later the vision was resurrected. The Poor People’s Campaign: A National Call for a Moral Revival co-chaired by and Rev. Dr. Liz Theoharris and Rev. Dr. William Barber II, is a multifaith, multiracial  nonviolent coalition of our time. The campaign seeks to hold this nation accountable to  the democratic values of liberty, equality and justice. Grassroots activist of the Poor People’s Campaign have picked up the mantel of the Civil Right era. Across this  country, community leaders are showing up, speaking out, marching together by “praying with their feet” against the evils of systemic racism, poverty, the war economy, ecological devastation and the nation’s distorted morality.

The Evangelical Lutheran Church in America’s social statement, The Church in Society: A Lutheran Perspective,  proclaims that “this church is committed to defend human dignity, to stand with poor and powerless people, to advocate justice, to work for peace, and to care for the earth in the processes and structures of contemporary society. Lutherans teach that we are freed in Christ to love and serve our neighbor.

Disrupting and resisting the systems that dehumanize and oppress the most vulnerable within society is the work of followers of Christ. Systemic racism and poverty undermine the basic tenets of our democracy and human rights. As we remember the legacy of Dr. King, let us follow  the example of Jesus Christ by walking with our neighbors for justice and  “praying with our feet.”

Judith Roberts serves as the ELCA Program Director for Racial Justice. 

I don’t know the whole story, but I do know what I saw and heard through my kindergarten eyes and ears. I know what I learned from adults that day. And I know that it left an indelible mark and questions without satisfying answers. I can without a doubt remember the day in kindergarten when I realized that race was a thing that mattered and that I had one.

A class mate of mine was carried out of the classroom by his hands and his feet. He had been throwing a tantrum on the dark blue rug that had the numbers of a clock around the outer edge. (I loved that rug) He was sent to the principal’s office. He never came back to class that day or any day afterwards. I don’t remember his name. I do remember that his skin was darker than the other black kids in my class. I remember thinking that I would never be subject to the same kind of discipline. I remember feeling very uncomfortable.

I was white.

I didn’t have the language of privilege at that age, but that’s what I was learning about.

I am not always good at paying attention to discomfort or heading into situations that might make me encounter it. But it’s worth the attention. It’s worth noticing. Like I told a kid who had just run his first mile before coming to church for Wednesday evening programing, “if it hurts, you have to stretch or it will hurt more.” You have to pay attention to what your body is telling you. Discomfort offers and opportunity for growth. Avoiding it does no such thing.

“This life therefore is not righteousness, but growth in righteousness. Not health but healing. Not being, becoming. Not rest, but exercise. We are not what we shall be, but we are moving toward it. The process is not yet finished, but it is moving on. This is not the end, but this is the road. All does not yet gleam in the glory of God but all is being purified.” -Martin Luther

In my ministry as a parish deaconess, friends with young children and congregation members regularly ask me if I know of or have good resources for talking with their children about race. They share stories of struggling with how to raise their children to recognize and celebrate human diversity as a gift without relying on the language of “color blindness” that they, more often than not, were raised with. Mostly I listen to their stories and celebrate with them the good things they’re already doing. Their questions keep me wondering about what ways the church can partner with parents as they strive in this arena. I know we can meet communities, families, congregations, and children where they’re at and encourage healthy conversations around race where faith and grace are at the center of the conversation. I also know it’s hard to know where to start.

Younger Children & Elementary Children

·       Consider doing a resource audit and see what you notice. This is not meant to make you feel guilty, but to help provide a mirror. I recently had middle schoolers go through the children’s books on my shelf at church and put them into 2 piles: books that had persons of color in them at all and books that had mostly white characters. It was informative. We had great conversations as a result.

·       If your congregation is in the habit of celebrating the saints (or even if it’s not), consider using a children’s sermon to highlight MLK Day, the birthday of Archbishop Desmond Tutu, or Saint Augustine. These leaders in the church were persons of color. There’s a great children’s book by Archbishop Desmond Tutu called “God’s Dream” that you could read on his birthday each year. There’s even a board book version that you could give out as a baptismal birthday gift.

·       Children love to dance and bang on drums. There are great global music songs in the ELW that you can break the ice with by inviting the little ones to dance in the aisles. Setting 7 has a great “Glory” that even a congregation unfamiliar with Latin music can get into. We can celebrate the gift of the gospel with our whole bodies.

Middle Schoolers

·       Middle schoolers are capable of deeper conversations than we sometimes give them credit for. Three days of confirmation class could be spent on race, culture, and class. ELCA World Hunger has downloadable resources on Hunger and the Catechism.

·       Middle Schoolers are busy struggling to broaden their worldview beyond their own “bubbles.” Give them the tools to be courageous by setting an example. The ELCA also has missionaries across the globe. Maybe your congregation could consider sponsoring one and your middle school Sunday School could write them letters.

·       Middle Schoolers LOVE to inform adults about things they “know more” about. What if your middle schoolers were to do a poster series on “You Could Be a Lutheran If . . . ” that explored Lutheranism in America and the world. For example, one poster could be “You Could be Lutheran if you live in Tanzania” because there are more Lutherans in Tanzania than the United States.

High Schoolers

·       ELCA Racial Justice Ministries has a number of downloadable resources that are created for adults, that I think you could adjust for conversations with high schoolers in youth group.

·       Equipping leaders and mentors to engage in conversations around identity, race, culture, class and how we attend to those conversations as persons of faith is perhaps one of the harder things to do. However, youth will want to talk about identity – it’s edgy. Maybe prep your leadership with ELCA Racial Justice Ministries resources like “One Body, Many Members.”

·       In some places Lutherans are reclaiming the practice of sharing personal faith stories and giving testimony. What might it look like to have a testimony series that intentionally asked questions around the intersection of identity, race, culture, and class? What if adults and youth shared stories that were truly vulnerable and didn’t always tie up in a neat bow?

Bio: Claire Schoepp (she/her/hers) is a parish Deaconess at two congregations in Chicago serving as Director of Child and Family Ministries at Luther Memorial Church of Chicago and Administrative Assistant at St. Luke’s Lutheran Church of Logan Square. Claire is grateful to First Immanuel Lutheran Church and Rev. Harry Therwanger for everything. Claire and her spouse, Isaac Schoepp, love living in Chicago where they take in as much theatre as possible.