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BEYOND THESE WALLS:
ALL TRIBES, PEOPLES, AND LANGUAGES
Like so many of you, I am deeply saddened that in 2016 our society is still
dealing with racism on a national scale. Those of us alive in the 1950’s and ‘60’s
believed that we had put a shameful history behind us, one that we and our
children would never again confront. Although the nation was not free of racial
prejudice, in the ensuing decades we slowly awakened to Martin Luther King’s
dream. We truly made great strides! We still have great strides to make on this
road.
I grew up in an all-white, blue-collar, lower-middle class suburb of
Reading, Pa. The head of the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan lived about 400
yards from my house, across the street from the schoolyard where I played daily.
I never encountered a black student in school until high school, where the 10th
through 12th grades comprised 1200 students with one young black man.1 His
name was also Gary. There was one other student whom most persons thought
was black, but George was Indian, a very dark-skinned teenager without any
traces of an accent. With Gary being the only other person of color among the
student body, I understand why George was confused for an African-American.
In 1st grade, there was a Puerto Rican boy, Miguel, with whom I played and learned some
Spanish.
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The home in which I was raised was free of racial prejudice. Dad was
proud of the stand he took as one of the high school’s class officers, who during
a senior trip to our nation’s capital in 1955, led a walk-out of the restaurant
which refused to serve a black student in his class. (Restaurants figure
prominently in our lives when it comes to race.) Mom, too, for years had a
friend, Sylvia, a black woman she met while taking adult swimming classes.
The “N” word and other epithets, racial jokes, and comments were not
spoken at home and were not tolerated. Extended family members and
neighbors were challenged, and gently admonished, when they brought such
unkindness into the home. Any racial jokes I knew, I learned from friends and
one particular relative, who, prior to his personal reformation, was a chainsmoking, hard-drinking, card-carrying member of the KKK.
I think the other item worth noting is my years in the volunteer fire service.
While firefighters are not free of prejudice, they put aside such bias to save lives
and protect property. Their love of the craft is such that nothing – race, color, or
creed – gets in the way of “putting the wet stuff on the red stuff.” Firefighters are
single-mindedly true to their mission!
Today’s sermon is a piece of my story as an adoptive parent of “two
brown girls” from India. Years ago, like George, they would have been lumped
with African-Americans and referred to as “colored.” Today, “people of color”
is preferred, and arguably, more inclusive. I intentionally stick to incidents from
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the past in order to spare Kira and Krista too much embarrassment, as well as
allow them to relate their own experiences –free of Dad’s narration - now that
they’re teenagers. We have a fund of tales.
Reality hit Deb and me shortly after being matched with Kira.2 Six months
before she would be in our home, we visited Norman Rockwell’s studio in Stockbridge, Mass. It was a profoundly moving experience, standing before those
iconic images of an America that was no longer. The nation had changed.
In the neighboring town of Lee, Mass. was an Indian restaurant where we
dined one evening. In those days, white persons didn’t frequent Indian
establishments. Our mere presence sparked surprise among the wait staff.
During dinner we talked with our server, the owner’s wife. In the course of the
conversation, Deb asked about the meaning of Kira’s middle name, Vishalakshi.
The woman was unsure what it meant, but would check with her husband in the
kitchen.
Returning to the table a few minutes later, she inquired why we wanted to
know. Did we have an Indian friend with that name, perhaps? Deb reached
into her purse and proudly handed a picture of Kira to the woman, explaining
that we were adopting. A look of disgust and offense came over the waitress as
she dropped the snapshot and left, never to return to the table. Her husband
completed all remaining transactions with a coolness befitting the fact that we
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Being matched is a bureaucratic selection process which may result in the child’s adoption.
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had not yet paid for our dinner. If our situation would have been known before
we ordered…. I wonder.
It was later explained to us by an Indian friend that Hindus consider
adopted children to be Dalits or “untouchables.”3 A photo and commerce with
us were bad karma, a threat to a Hindu’s eternal aspirations.
It’s not only white Americans who are prejudiced.
Three times the Apostle St. Paul wrote, in similar form, that “there is neither
Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female for all are one in Christ Jesus.”4
When persons of a certain egalitarian mindset blithely suggest that “at heart, all
religions are the same,” I beg to differ with their ignorance/naiveté.
Asian, black, or white, there’s something nearly universal about breaking
bread together after worship, whether the event is in the church hall, a favorite
eatery, or at home. It wasn’t every Sunday, but it surely was many of them,
when my paternal grandparents would take Mom, Dad, Sharon, and me out to
eat during my early elementary school years. There was one particular
restaurant we frequented a few miles north of our church on the same street.
(Proximity helped as it was absolutely essential to get to the restaurant ASAP
after the postlude in order to beat the folks going out to eat from other
churches!)
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In the Hindu caste system, Dalits are not even one of the four castes, but below them.
Romans 10:12-13, Galatians 3:23-29, and Colossians 3:10-11.
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In her final years, my grandmother was able to relive those fond memories
with Deb, the girls, and me. She was living alone and we’d make the Friday
drive to Reading, to go out to eat at that same dining establishment she knew
from decades ago.
During the 1960’s, the restaurant’s back room was used for small
banquets, Rotary Club meetings, and Sunday’s noontime overflow from area
churches. Years later, when Kira and Krista were little, it was the room where the
hostess regularly seated us, even for an evening meal when the business was far
from full. No matter, the place held so many pleasant memories for Grandmom,
plus there was this joyous new aspect of her being with the two youngest
members of her family.
The food was good, inexpensive, and lots of it – three solid requirements
for anyone of Pennsylvania German extraction!
The wait staff always fawned over the girls, too, darling little Indian
children that they were. Then again, I once remarked to Deb, the waitresses
treated well all of their customers in that back room – the special needs kids and
adults, the black families and Reading’s swelling Latino population dining there.
It was when those words came out of my mouth that I realized what I said, what
was going on.
“It couldn’t be,” I thought to myself. “This is America in the 21st century.
We don’t relegate ‘minorities’ to the rear!”
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The very idea gnawed at me, so the next time we visited, I asked for a
table in the front section of the restaurant. Surely, that would put my unfounded
fears to rest. The hostess proffered some benign reason about keeping all of the
waitresses busy, a flimsy excuse which only added to my suspicions. I mentioned
it to Deb. She, too, was initially incredulous and reassuringly dismissed my
concern. Every visit, however, we were led past the largely empty front dining
room and ushered to the rear. Coincidence?
Some weeks later, Deb’s parents’ wedding anniversary was nearing. We
offered to celebrate the event with them, take them out to dinner, and inquired
where they wanted to go. They chose my grandmother’s favorite restaurant.
As was typical for the Hills, they arrived early for the occasion and were
offered a table … in the front of the establishment.
Once the four of us entered a short time later, I didn’t mention to the
hostess that we were meeting someone for dinner. She immediately began
escorting us to our customary place. Making our way to the back, the girls, of
course (!), spied their grandparents and ran to their table, where we took our
seats … up front.
The hostess was wide-eyed and noticeably upset. Imagine!
“You didn’t tell me that you were meeting someone here,” she remarked,
with a not-so-subtle trace of indignation in her quivering voice.
“But I did,” Deb’s dad interjected, unaware of the reason for her concern.
“Well, let me find you a bigger table,” she implored.
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“No, these six seats are just fine,” I knowingly smiled in response.
Sadly, we have too many episodes like this, as do my white friends with
foster children, bi-racial families, and so many black friends who have far worse
stories. These things have happened to my family at places as varied as school,
a popular amusement park, places of employment, even among leadership of
our Eastern Pa. Conference of the UMC during Annual Conference in years past.
They’re not “just coincidence,” as I so want to believe. And while much of it can
be chocked up to the blissful ignorance of some individuals, some of it is outright
prejudice and hurtful.
Growing up with this privileged status of being white (something I never
considered a privilege, but a reality I took for granted), I understand the disbelief
of my white peers, their unwillingness to accept such a negative reality here in
the “good ole’ U. S. of A.” If such incidents hadn’t happened, and continued
to happen to us, I don’t know if I were the average person, if I’d believe them,
either. I don’t want to believe them, even now! Denial is not just a river in Egypt.
No one likes being found guilty when they are. If only such prejudice was
confined to systemically corrupt institutions and other people, but it’s in our daily
midst, irrespective of one’s level of education, political affiliation, or ideological
leanings, often among good, well-meaning folks.
The fact that Kira’s first teacher here at Inglewood Elementary was a
black Christian woman made a huge positive difference. The fact that my
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immediate superiors here, the District Superintendents, have uniformly been men
and women of color is of tremendous importance. The fact that we’re
welcomed to worship at Midtown and other black UM churches in the city is a
blessing. And the fact that this congregation has not only been so welcoming
to us, but continues to welcome “the other,” is what God’s family is supposed to
be. You’re a bright, shining star – a blessing!
Last year, 40% of the youth choir was comprised of voices that reflected a
diversity beyond even our community’s demographics. And when those and
other individuals and families here get together outside church, the relationships
are sincere, not just for Sunday show. Black and Asian persons here have
gratefully remarked to Deb and me how welcoming you are.
Such hospitality is not always the case in churches – black and white
churches, alike. Here, we’re different, not perfect, but going on to that
perfection. I thank God for you. We do look at the content of one’s character,
as the Rev. King preached on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, when he shared
his dream 53 summers ago. We do our best to honor the Apostle Paul’s words
about all being one in Christ Jesus. And we do so because we genuinely
believe, as St. John writes in Revelation (7:9-10), that on the other side of the kingdom there will be “a great multitude that no one can count, from every nation,
from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and the
Lamb” of God, Jesus the Christ. We impatiently long for that great kingdom
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day, not only in heaven, but here. Let us earnestly strive for it beyond these
walls.
In the Name….
Copyright 2016 by G.D. Knerr at Lansdale, Pa. All rights reserved.
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