In America, I'm the stock of "good" genetic and cultural fortune. I'm heterosexual and was raised in a middle class family; I'm the WASP we learned about in high school history (white, anglo saxon, and protestant), known for their wealth, cultural power, and societal dominance in America over the last 250 years. Other than the whole "being a woman" thing, I kind of hit the jackpot in terms of the "minority" vs "majority" status I have acquired. And for the most part, I'm usually surrounded by those like me: The Majority.
However, some of the most profound lessons I have learned have been when I have allowed myself (or sometimes been forced) into the uncomfortable position of being a minority. I have become far more aware of my own stereotypes, lack of empathy, and immaturity. I thought that I understood- but did I?
When I moved to New Orleans, it was the first time that I became a part of the racial minority in my own city (Orleans Parish is about 65% African American.) I embarrasingly admit that until I moved to NOLA, black people were few and far between in my life. I was blessed by the opportunity to live on military bases with an assortment of cultures all blending together into one mode-podge of community, but I didn't tend to do life with "black people". I just, "didn't have the same interests". However, even while a "minority" in New Orleans, I still did not have to deal with stereotypes that were unfairly poured upon me about my own culture. While there were fewer white people present in NOLA, the white minority in the city still lived in better neighborhoods, went to better performing schools, and were leaders in the city; far from the unfair stereotypes lavished on the black community: the substandard housing their families could not pull themselves out of after years of unjust wages and fear; the older schools falling apart before our very eyes.
My first job inside the school system in New Orleans was eye opening. I was privelged to get a job at one of the best performing elementary schools in the city. It was 98% African American and I was one of a handful of white staff members. I stuck out, for the first time in my life. I looked as though I did not belong. I, for the first time, became a "minority". Not in terms of status or the way that I was treated, but in the simplest way- I was one of the few, and I was outside of their cultural understanding. However, I still was blessed with a wonderful staff that treated me with dignity and respect (which is less than I can say for true minority groups inside our society). The second graders understood that I didn't know how to fix the braid in their hair. They laughed at me and shrugged off my ignorance. I had to swallow my pride and tell them when I didn't understand a cultural reference or a word I wasn't familiar with. It was uncomfortable, but I was able to leave that place and still had an heir of "doing a greater thing". In honesty, I did little to change that school, but it changed me profoundly. Maybe my ways weren't always "correct". Maybe I was more ignorant than I would like to think. Did I truly care for all people equally? My head was spinning.
This past August, I accepted a position at an Orthodox Jewish school in the community. I had not considered that I would once again be a minority, this time in a way that would be more uncomfortable, more tense, and certainly more challenging. At my interview, when I accepted the position at the school, I sat in Rabbi F.'s office, answering all of the typical interview questions. He then began to make small talk (do you have any children?, do you live in the area?, etc.) and then came the clincher: "What does your husband do?" I paused. Would this keep me from being able to work there? I smile and say, "He's a pastor". He then asked me if he is going to allow me to work at the school. I begin to explain that we love Jewish people and I am quickly cut off, as he says, "Okay, I get it, but we have no intention for you to share your beliefs here. We are a Jewish school and that is what we teach". I nod and say, "Of course". Deep down, I desire for these families to know Jesus Christ, but I have now clearly understood that any sharing of this grace is going to be difficult.
Everyday, I walk into a school of 200 children who love God, but know nothing of Jesus Christ. In fact, they will not even refer to Jesus as a person, but instead, refer to him as "J.- the object of Christian worship". The person of Jesus Christ, who loves them and wants nothing else than to see them to turn to him, is repulsive to them. To their parents and the Jewish staff around me, my Lord, who loves them dearly, is an imposter, a liar, a false teacher. I cannot use the word "church" in any context with them. I am the only Christian on staff, in a school of 200 children, most of them have never even heard the name of Jesus. I am a minority that has been vilified. It is one of the hardest lessons I have ever had to learn. But you know what? It is the best lesson I have had to learn. I have learned what it is to be truly misunderstood. I have learned what it is to have unfair stereotypes put upon me. I have learned what it is to feel the sting of persecution (ever so slight as it is in comparison to others).
I write this for two reasons:
1. To challenge you to allow yourself to become a minority if you have never been one. It is eye opening. It will cause you to think beyond yourself. It will allow you to empathize with those around you, even if you are not one of "them" yourself. It will help you to see it is not "us" and "them", but rather it is "we", unifying to make our world around us better. In America, for those like me, this can be a difficult task. I pray that you would begin to seek the opportunity. I do not think we can learn to love our neighbor as ourself until we can feel, even if it be slight, what it is to not be part of a minority. I understand that being white in America will never give me a true sense of what it is to be a racial minority here, but I feel like I can at least begin to understand.
2. I am in desperate need of prayer. I believe that I have been strategically placed to bring the freedom of Jesus Christ to the Jewish community of Phoenix. I am buying time right now. I am building relationships and looking for a person of peace who I can share the gospel with. I need prayer to love the Jewish people, as they are God's chosen people. I need prayer to find ways to integrate Christ into Jewish culture: one of which I find to be beautiful and challenging. They have so much right.
However, some of the most profound lessons I have learned have been when I have allowed myself (or sometimes been forced) into the uncomfortable position of being a minority. I have become far more aware of my own stereotypes, lack of empathy, and immaturity. I thought that I understood- but did I?
When I moved to New Orleans, it was the first time that I became a part of the racial minority in my own city (Orleans Parish is about 65% African American.) I embarrasingly admit that until I moved to NOLA, black people were few and far between in my life. I was blessed by the opportunity to live on military bases with an assortment of cultures all blending together into one mode-podge of community, but I didn't tend to do life with "black people". I just, "didn't have the same interests". However, even while a "minority" in New Orleans, I still did not have to deal with stereotypes that were unfairly poured upon me about my own culture. While there were fewer white people present in NOLA, the white minority in the city still lived in better neighborhoods, went to better performing schools, and were leaders in the city; far from the unfair stereotypes lavished on the black community: the substandard housing their families could not pull themselves out of after years of unjust wages and fear; the older schools falling apart before our very eyes.
My first job inside the school system in New Orleans was eye opening. I was privelged to get a job at one of the best performing elementary schools in the city. It was 98% African American and I was one of a handful of white staff members. I stuck out, for the first time in my life. I looked as though I did not belong. I, for the first time, became a "minority". Not in terms of status or the way that I was treated, but in the simplest way- I was one of the few, and I was outside of their cultural understanding. However, I still was blessed with a wonderful staff that treated me with dignity and respect (which is less than I can say for true minority groups inside our society). The second graders understood that I didn't know how to fix the braid in their hair. They laughed at me and shrugged off my ignorance. I had to swallow my pride and tell them when I didn't understand a cultural reference or a word I wasn't familiar with. It was uncomfortable, but I was able to leave that place and still had an heir of "doing a greater thing". In honesty, I did little to change that school, but it changed me profoundly. Maybe my ways weren't always "correct". Maybe I was more ignorant than I would like to think. Did I truly care for all people equally? My head was spinning.
This past August, I accepted a position at an Orthodox Jewish school in the community. I had not considered that I would once again be a minority, this time in a way that would be more uncomfortable, more tense, and certainly more challenging. At my interview, when I accepted the position at the school, I sat in Rabbi F.'s office, answering all of the typical interview questions. He then began to make small talk (do you have any children?, do you live in the area?, etc.) and then came the clincher: "What does your husband do?" I paused. Would this keep me from being able to work there? I smile and say, "He's a pastor". He then asked me if he is going to allow me to work at the school. I begin to explain that we love Jewish people and I am quickly cut off, as he says, "Okay, I get it, but we have no intention for you to share your beliefs here. We are a Jewish school and that is what we teach". I nod and say, "Of course". Deep down, I desire for these families to know Jesus Christ, but I have now clearly understood that any sharing of this grace is going to be difficult.
Everyday, I walk into a school of 200 children who love God, but know nothing of Jesus Christ. In fact, they will not even refer to Jesus as a person, but instead, refer to him as "J.- the object of Christian worship". The person of Jesus Christ, who loves them and wants nothing else than to see them to turn to him, is repulsive to them. To their parents and the Jewish staff around me, my Lord, who loves them dearly, is an imposter, a liar, a false teacher. I cannot use the word "church" in any context with them. I am the only Christian on staff, in a school of 200 children, most of them have never even heard the name of Jesus. I am a minority that has been vilified. It is one of the hardest lessons I have ever had to learn. But you know what? It is the best lesson I have had to learn. I have learned what it is to be truly misunderstood. I have learned what it is to have unfair stereotypes put upon me. I have learned what it is to feel the sting of persecution (ever so slight as it is in comparison to others).
I write this for two reasons:
1. To challenge you to allow yourself to become a minority if you have never been one. It is eye opening. It will cause you to think beyond yourself. It will allow you to empathize with those around you, even if you are not one of "them" yourself. It will help you to see it is not "us" and "them", but rather it is "we", unifying to make our world around us better. In America, for those like me, this can be a difficult task. I pray that you would begin to seek the opportunity. I do not think we can learn to love our neighbor as ourself until we can feel, even if it be slight, what it is to not be part of a minority. I understand that being white in America will never give me a true sense of what it is to be a racial minority here, but I feel like I can at least begin to understand.
2. I am in desperate need of prayer. I believe that I have been strategically placed to bring the freedom of Jesus Christ to the Jewish community of Phoenix. I am buying time right now. I am building relationships and looking for a person of peace who I can share the gospel with. I need prayer to love the Jewish people, as they are God's chosen people. I need prayer to find ways to integrate Christ into Jewish culture: one of which I find to be beautiful and challenging. They have so much right.