Ozzie and Harriet in the 'Hood: Some of my best friends are...

I've never been any good at discomfort. Suffering for Jesus always sounds good in a sermon, but being a good red-blood-celled American, I believe somehow that being part of the Christian World  makes me a special commodity that should warrant a good job (because I work hard!), security (because I'm careful!) and lots of friends (because I'm so doggone nice!).

Not my church.

And I certainly don't take to social discomfort. That's why I avoid any event that entails more than 2 forks at the dinner table. I have no idea how to correctly critique a piece of modern art while holding a martini.


And please don't ask me to go clubbing...my idea of dancing is limited to "Put your right foot in..." while in roller skates.

Even going to a different church can be a pressure cooker for me--I know, we are all "the body of Christ," and "we are one in the Spirit" and "blessed be the tie that binds," etc. But face it...a church is also a social institution, and holds a microcosm of a world that doesn't always welcome outsiders. It mostly is inadvertent, I know (coming from a proud line of Baptists who knew how to "welcome our visitors today with a handshake!"). But we just can't help it--when we become a group, we see our little circle as the way things should be done; and we do an awful lot of talking to ourselves, if you know what I mean.

North Minneapolis is a host to a number of churches; many of which are historically African American. The Black church has a proud history of involvement in not only spiritual matters, but in political and neighborhood activism. We, as Euro-Americans, could appreciate that history, and enjoyed talking with our black friends about their church experiences.

So, after coming back to Minneapolis from our Dallas Seminary time (and after being members of a black church for a couple years), we wanted to visit a few of the larger churches in our area to get a sense of what was happening in our neighborhood. On Father's Day Sunday, we dressed ourselves up and headed for one of the largest and most historical congregations in the city to sample a service. My husband, ever the calm and unruffled person, didn't mind being the only "white dad" among probably 600 people. A few stares, but the ushers seated us politely toward the back (we were late, of course...something about having little kids?).

The preacher was a highly-known personage in not only church circles, but local political ones, as well. His oratory style was classic and bombastic...he launched right into his Father's Day exhortation.

"Black man...why are you SO STRONG??"

"The Man?"

The sermon was an hour-long admonishment to black men and fathers about their importance to their community and children despite challenges...especially from The Man. The code word. I looked over at my "Man," and he seemed ok with this. Rolling with the punches. It was rousing, to be sure, but I wasn't quite sure of how I should feel or respond. I glanced nervously around me...no one seemed to notice that I was fidgety.



At the end of the preaching, it was time for the altar call. And this call was..."All you fathers out there...I want you to come forward for a prayer of dedication and challenge."

So--up front "The Man" marched.

After the prayer, the pastor went down the line, shaking each father's hand and greeting them...my husband stood obediently waiting for his turn.  The dignified minister walked up to him, took his hand, pulled him in close enough to say quietly and apologetically in his ear...

"I didn't mean you."

We have laughed over this story for years--it has passed into our Family Mythos, as it were. Shades of "some of my best friends are black!" and "I had a black nanny as a child--she was like part of the family!"  The role reversal was priceless. And we have mused--how did the pastor KNOW it wasn't him? Maybe he was "The Man?" Maybe he was a slum landlord! How did he know?

It brought home the insidious ease with which we can judge individuals by the behavior or appearance of a group they supposedly belong to. When we make broad statements about the "other" at work or online, could it be that standing there near us (or online with us) we have a friend that we have hurt? Do we need to be telling them all the time "I wasn't talking about YOU...you understand, right?"

And I'm not talking about just being "politically correct." I'm talking about being Christian in our attitudes about people we really don't know. Political correctness is just a smoke screen for covering our real feelings about "the Other." Loving the stranger and "the Other" cuts both ways--or all ways (racial, social, educational, man, woman, Jews, Greeks, slaves, free, etc., etc.).  If we, as Christians, can't honestly challenge each other in this area, I don't know where else to go. We've got to get past the "handshake in the vestibule" and get downright open about connecting with each other.

This entails a lot of discomfort. Oh, bother. I hate discomfort.

But--I profess to loving God. Admittedly, not always enough to go out of my way to try to understand "the Other." I sure like myself and my ways a whole lot. I do find that I at times deeply believe that I am the pinnacle of Creation, and that everything and everyone would be OK if they just did what I told them they should do.

And then the Good Lord throws stuff in my path (wrenches, people, rejection), and suddenly I am reminded that I am one of 7 billion (or so)  humans running around this world, and I have no higher standing than any of them in the eyes of my Creator. Humbling. Did I mention I hate being humbled? Almost as much as I hate discomfort.

Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be. (Thomas a Kempis)