I clearly remember the day I learned about the “n” word. My father’s parents had done a motor trip to the West and came home through Texas. My grandfather related that he admired how white people in a West Texas city had “kept them in their place.” He used the “n” word and it wasn’t long before my mother gathered up her five children and left.
As soon as the car doors were closed, she announced to us all that what had been said in the house was unacceptable, that if she ever heard any of us speak that word she would wash out our mouths with soap multiple times, and that the reason was we all bled the same color blood no matter the color of our skin and were all God’s creation. My mother rarely pontificated at such length. The ride home was quiet.
Columbus, Ohio was a segregated city then. Only a few students of color attended my high school. The lines were drawn by neighborhoods. At that age, you had no idea what “red-lining” by banks and mortgage companies meant.
My university was a different story. Even then, The Ohio State University was ethnically and nationally diverse; John Brockington was everyone’s favorite football player as he and Rex Kern had led Ohio State to a consensus national championship in 1968. My freshman year was completed in 1970, the year of the Kent State tragedies, and the landscape never looked the same. Awareness of the divide between races in my city grew. I was a town student and commuted by city bus. My favorite driver happened to be a 30-something year-old black man. We had many good conversations on the way downtown before I changed buses for my North High Street ride to campus.
Recently, I was challenged by a sermon to read Miles McPherson’s “The Third Option: Hope for a Racially Divided Nation.” I bought it that day and read it slowly. It was eye opening for me. I had no idea how deeply racism in this country affects the outlook of people of color. My mother’s attitude about race had been passed on and I was blind to the ramifications of other family member’s perspectives.
Serving on a crisis pregnancy center board of directors made me a vocal advocate for the right to life for the unborn. I realized after reading McPherson’s book that I needed to be as vocal for others when their voices are not heard. If you follow me on social media, you know I have begun to actively post concerns about what happens in this country, not just for the unborn. My next-door neighbor is a tall black man. He is a great husband and father and always kind to me. The idea of him being misidentified as a threat and not returning to his wife and children is frightening.
In seeking God’s word about the unborn, I gleaned an understanding of what it is to speak for those whose voices cannot be heard. The recent tragic death in Minneapolis resonates in my soul as an example of one who can no longer speak for himself.
Hebrews 13:3 Identify with those who are in prison as though you were there suffering with them, and those who are mistreated as if you could feel their pain. The Passion Translation (TPT) The Passion Translation®. Copyright © 2017 by BroadStreet Publishing® Group, LLC. Used by permission. All rights reserved. thePassionTranslation.com
You must be logged in to post a comment.