Prodigal Magazine

It hit me, somewhat literally, a few years back.I was in a training class, learning strategies on how to deal with teenage girls in a Christian setting. As usual, the trainer led us through pre-class worship, a cappella. Today, as promised, he was taking our pre-conference staple to a new level. He brought a tape deck.

After we finished, still caught up in the alternative tunes still playing, he asked me what I thought of the music. I replied that it was okay, which was true; I liked it. He was dismayed by my answer.

“Cool? How about Dy-No-Mite!!!! You cannot tell me that you don’t love this band. I don’t believe that you don’t have their CD.”

Somewhat fearfully, I intimated that I did not know the band at all, much less own any of their material. Big mistake.

In a fit of panic, our instructor jumped up, flailing his hand, and his pen flew out and clunked me in the head. Amid his apology, I made a mental note to clone his CD collection for private study to protect my health.

“You have to be kidding me… you have not worshipped to this?! What about Sonicflood?” He proceeded to rattle off the names of several Christian rock and alternative bands. To each, I had to reluctantly admit to not being a fan. He was beside himself.

After an awkward pause, I found the courage to ask him a question.

“You ever listened to Trin-i-tee 5:7?”

“No. Who is he?”

“They are a female gospel trio. Huge following,” I supplied.

“Oh… no… never heard of them.” He became thoughtful. “Touché.”

Believe it or not, I was not on a crusade that very moment. While I did feel smug, I honestly was not trying to go for a civil rights victory. I do believe that despite all the time we had spent together, this was the first time he noticed me. Yeah, he knew I was black; I am sure that he knew that I would never be able to give candid advice on which sun tan lotion to use. However, I think it finally occurred to him that culturally, I was a little different, and I am not sure he knew what to do with that.

Since I have lived in mostly huge metro regions in the south, I am familiar with the oft-recounted tales of Sunday Morning, the so-called Most Segregated Day in America. Being the son of immigrants, an exposure to cultural diversity was a priority. Thus, we attended mixed congregations, but almost always defaulted to predominately white churches. Going to college in Chapel Hill reinforced this norm.

Of course, when I started working in the church, I gravitated to the same; mixed membership churches where I could fit in but not disappear. I prided myself with the ability to learn how to adapt to any environment without losing my own personality. I was able to retain my love for gospel music and urban mannerisms even while worshipping with the suburban folks. However, my first few forays into youth ministry left me feeling like a poorly-cast understudy of Sidney Poitier in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.

One time, when I arrived for an interview, the confused church secretary had me wait in the foyer for a half hour while she held what must have been an emergency conference with the senior pastor. Seeing an African American show up in a suit and tie was just too much for the sweet lady’s sensibilities.

She came out of the office, and asked again, “Are you Tre?”

“Yes, Ma’am” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

Strangely, I did get an offer from that church, so I guess it could have been worse, particularly since I never thought to double check my identity.

At one church at which I served, I got to meet the parent of one of my more active teens. He did not regularly attend church, but had heard about me a great deal, he said via email, and had been browbeaten into attending our Fall social event. When I walked up to him, he actually shook my hand and walked by me and introduced himself to our senior pastor, thinking that it was me.

No sweat… I figured he’d come back eventually. He did.

It was easy to justify the resentment that built up. During a job hunt, one pastor was honest enough to tell me that I was perfect for a position, but that due to recent issues, the appointment of a black person could potentially split the church.

Honesty hurts sometimes.

See, I just refuse to see things as black and white (pardon the pun). Humbly, I have seen way more than most people will see in terms of pain. I spent time being tortured because of my faith when I was a teen, and most of the physical and mental pain was inflicted by people who outwardly looked like me. At the end of the day, there is a simple choice to be made: I can either use differences as a crutch, or I can roll with it. In fact, allowing people into my soul allows me to accept them, and hopefully be a good reflection of the One we serve.

Race will be a hot button topic for years to come. Globalization has ensured that we have had to get closer and more tolerant, maybe faster than we were comfortable with. Tough.
There has always been an unspoken rule… things that black guys shouldn’t do. Like skiing. Or whitewater rafting and skydiving. Some would add swimming competitively to the mix. In any case, to keep my Urban Card active, there were activities I could not enjoy.

I have been the black youth guy, the token staff mixer, the lone injection of culture and the beacon of integration. I used to resent being the standard bearer. Now, I think it is somewhat of an opportunity: an opportunity to broaden my own horizons. Learning that it is not my mission to integrate the races was a humbling, but necessary step in my own spiritual journey.

The answer is not throwing in the towel and choosing to return to secular work; it isn’t becoming a race martyr in my own mind. It is simply acknowledging the good, forgiving the bad and remembering that people will be people.

Standards today are different than they were decades ago. I am less of an anomaly, and that is a good thing. We minister to people with varied backgrounds. The lines that separate the races are blurring, and some mores of old are fading to obscurity. My job is to make sure that I don’t settle for being the diversity quota; I can be an agent of change

So, I did go skiing. Most of the trip was spent reflecting on how something so seemingly pure and beautiful could inflict so much pain. My ego will forever be scarred by the little kids who pointed and giggled at my predicament on the zero-degree bunny slopes. Years of playing soccer could not prepare me for the sore shins I obtained. God may have intended for minorities to ski, but I am thankful He did not make it a requirement to get to heaven. Even watching snowboarding on TV makes me break out into sweats.

When I think about it, through the years, I have felt most accepted by the teens themselves. I have been blessed to mentor teens that see me through colorblind eyes. And at the end of the day, that is what it’s all about right?

Recently, after an especially strenuous game session that preceded our Saturday youth meeting, my hope that I would be given a few minutes to lick my wounds and catch my breath were thwarted by Stephen, one of my newer young people. We had talked about haircuts a while back, and he had wondered about the texture of my hair. He vocally wondered why I had my hair cut so often, he asked.

“Well, we black dudes tend to do that.” I answered, without really thinking.

He looked at me, and in complete astonishment, said, “That’s right! You aren’t white!”

Stephen looked down at me and told me he thought I was great. I figure he must not have seen me just play snatch-the-bacon.

Perplexed and humbled, I looked at him wordlessly.

“When I grow up, I wanna be cool like you. I want to love God and work with the difficult kids like me.” And with that, he walked away.

While I do admit I have seriously considered adding quote that to my email signature in bright orange with a link to audio attached, in my more lucid moments, I am unashamed to say that in that instant, I am quite sure I got more from him than he did for me. Forget culture. I want to learn from people like him, and I thank God for showing me how important that is.

White water rafting is on hold for the time being. Hey, we all have our limits…