We were supposed to simply go over some chapters on a book I am writing—part of which covers the topic of racism. I met with a black friend of mine. He is a most impressive, tall college professor—a specialist on the civil rights movement—and he pastors a small inner-city church. We had talked about my material for about an hour when suddenly, everything changed.
Out of him came a “torrent of pain.” I could see that he felt that I did not really understand his community, his pain, his struggle, his history. Although he did not say it this way, he was saying, in effect, that my nicely arranged chapters were thoroughly “sanitized,” loaded with statistics and information—all of it accurate—but that I failed to really understand the raw pain of the streets. For one hour and 45 minutes he talked—with intensity—highly animated—sometimes looking at me—more often staring ahead at nothing as he spoke. I did not say one word for the entire one hour and 45 minutes. I was the student. He was the teacher. I knew it. I was learning. In fact, I was getting a crash course on reality.
Although the moment was too sacred to record, I so wish I had a recording of it. I wish I could play it for every white. May I have permission to be blunt? Most of us (whites) just don’t get it. Before you dismiss this, please hold on. For the sake of the nation. For the sake of our black brothers and sisters.
Allow me to give a little background. I have felt profoundly convicted by the Holy Spirit during the last three years to conduct a “listening tour” regarding what racial healing might look like. By that, I simply get with one or more black leaders at a time and say, “Please teach me about this topic. What do I need to know? What do I not understand? Talk to me.” And they do. And I always come away convicted—legitimately so—and determined to make a difference.
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