I have been an unlikely “diversity guy” in many ministry contexts. This is entirely because in 1999, as a 21-year-old college graduate, I found myself at a seminary (Eastern Baptist then, now re-named Palmer Seminary) that was about 45% black students, 45% white students, and 10% other students of color. This was not my idea. I had other seminaries in mind, but it seemed like the best option for my fiancée Jill was nearby Bryn Mawr College, so I enrolled at Palmer.
I had never experienced a context like this before. I bumped up against questions I had never asked before. I saw a sign for a Black Seminarians’ Fellowship, and I wondered why there was no White Seminarians’ Fellowship. I tried to understand why my black friends had such different politics than I had generally experienced in the white evangelical spaces I grew up in; I also tried to understand how they had developed such different theology than the white liberals with whom they shared political affiliations. I enrolled in a class where I was a racial minority for the first time, experiencing that uncomfortable wondering if I should ask a question about Dr. King, worried that the asking would reveal my ignorance and make others conclude things about me, afraid to share my opinion because of what others might think of me.
In all of this, I learned so much. It was not my idea to go to Palmer; it was God’s idea. I needed to learn about how culturally conditioned my own ideas about Christianity really were, and I could only learn this in dialogue with Christians who were from a different culture. I owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to my fellow students and professors from that era, who listened with patience and saw the best in me even when I did not always know how to act or what not to say. I often say that the black church certainly saved my ministry and probably saved my faith, because I discovered new possibilities for church leadership and for a faith that was at once deeply Christian and engaged with the big problems of the world.
Part of my discovery, though, was not just about a world out there; it was about a healthier understanding of my own identity. As I met classmates, I realized that I had grown up with opportunities that not everyone had. Through many quirks of history, none of which I chose but most of which I benefited from, I had a leg up on other people. Because my grandfather was white, he had opportunities that my classmates’ grandfathers didn’t have. These opportunities allowed my grandfather to work really hard to make a different life possible for my dad. For instance, he could borrow money and buy that house in a better school district. My friends’ grandfathers may have worked similarly hard, but perhaps banks wouldn’t lend them money to buy that new house in a better school district, or perhaps neighbors would have protested their presence and made their lives unlivable. So they stayed in an underperforming school district and couldn’t get ahead. Later generations lived out the consequences of previous generations’ decisions. My dad seized his opportunities and built a better life for me. So I had opportunities that many of my black classmates didn’t really have.
Realizing this and naming it is not “DEI.” It’s not Marxist. It’s not capitulating to a class-or color-dominated view of the world that presumes that black people are essentially one thing and white people essentially another. It’s simply naming what is obviously true—that different people have different opportunities in life, and that our race is part of that. Not because race is an inborn determinant of who we are, but because race has been an incredibly important social fiction in shaping the world we have all inherited today. Yes, of course there are exceptions. Not all white people have had the same opportunities I have had. Some black people have had more opportunities than I have had. I get this. But it is simple history to say that even if we control for present-day bias, the reality of the color line in America has shaped so much of how we got to where we are today. Understanding this history is really important to avoid repeating it. As Americans, this ought to be our goal.
As Christians, though, our responsibility goes much deeper than national self-preservation. If we truly want to follow Jesus and build His Kingdom here, then we need to be able to name those things that are not His Kingdom. We need to be able to say how sin has created the world we live in today. We need to remember that Christians were a dominant force in creating the social fiction of race and historically have been a primary force in extending its reach into the world; realizing this makes us humble about our capacity for self-deception. This is not Marxist. This is about naming the reality of human sin. This is Christian.
If we discover that we have consciously or subconsciously perpetuated a system based on this social fiction, or perpetuated these patterns of life together, we should apologize. Even when we haven’t perpetuated these patterns, though, we need to learn to acknowledge how we have benefited from them—not because I want to be some self-flagellating white guy who hates being white, but simply because it’s good to have an accurate knowledge of who I really am and how I got to where I am. This also is not Marxist. This is being a good neighbor. This is Christian.
We know this intuitively from interpersonal relationships: if I have managed to achieve all I have achieved professionally because my wife has graciously worked behind the scenes to make my achievement possible, we know it is good for me to say, “Thank you,” and to look for ways to support her personal development too. This helps her to feel seen and honored as a partner. We know that any person who would not acknowledge the reality that their success is built upon would suffer from a deep insecurity about the reality of their spouse’s sacrifice, and a narcissistic need to keep the spotlight on them instead of on their spouse. This insecurity keeps them from ever enjoying their spouse as a partner. If this was me, every sane marriage counselor would tell me to really see what my wife has done and to acknowledge her privately and publicly for it; and if there were ways that I took her for granted in doing it, I should apologize. Likewise, when we cannot acknowledge the complicated racial reality that has created our current inequities, we forestall the possibility of real partnership across racial lines to address the problems that affect us all.
I grieve our national discourse about diversity right now. I grieve that many Christians seem willing to throw out the diversity baby with the DEI bath water—and I regret that many Christians are not looking honestly and closely at what DEI initiatives really are, instead of focusing on their worst excesses. (And yes, there have been mistakes.) I grieve that it is less likely today than it was in 1999 for a 21-year-old white Christian to go into these conversations with the curiosity and security that makes an honest exchange of ideas possible. I grieve that many white Christians now view it as an act of moral virtue to not have these conversations at all, because they believe these conversations will pollute them instead of help them to grow.
I grieve, I grieve, I grieve. But because all this is the work of God, I do not grieve as those who have no hope. Jesus yearns for a united bride, one Lord, one faith, one baptism, mutuality where we live in love and present ourselves to God with joy and confidence. To that end God’s Spirit will be working, and even when the work is uphill, I joy in what might come next.
Thanks for this, Mike. I didn't have time to read it when you published it, but knew I wanted to. So, so good.
"The little boy disagreed with Ali, and said: 'No, Muhammad. I’m going to meet God, and I’m gonna tell Him that I know you.'" A story about Ali's heart, and how he put it to use. https://thegoldenmean2040.substack.com/p/the-heart-of-muhammad-ali