Tag: Race

One night we talked with our kids about the Roman Colosseum and the Christians who were ripped to shreds by wild animals in front of thousands of blood-thirsty fans.

“People still are entertained by violence,” we said. “Like with video games or Extreme Fighting.”

Thankfully, I thought, we’ve moved past that brutal time in ancient history when people were entertained by actual killing.

And then I read about John Hartfield.

On June 26, 1919, John Hartfield was lynched in Ellisville, Mississippi.

I’d known about lynchings, and was duly horrified by them, but I always just assumed that lynchings were done by small groups of wicked, racist white men.

And they were. But what I didn’t know was that lynchings often were public spectacles. John Hartfield was one of them.

John Hartfield had the unfortunate crime of falling in love with a white woman. It didn’t matter that it was mutual. And for that, the people of Ellisville, Mississippi decided he should die.

But this was no spontaneous outburst of violent anger. No, this lynching was planned in advance. This article from New York Times says, “The front page of The Jackson Daily News announced that Mr. Hartfield would be lynched at 5 p.m. ‘Governor Bilbo Says He Is Powerless to Prevent It,’ the headline read. ‘Thousands of People Are Flocking Into Ellisville to Attend the Event.'”

Only 1700 people lived in the town of Ellisville. However, there were at least ten thousand people who swarmed to Ellisville for the lynching. Men, women, and children. It was a party atmosphere. There were food vendors and photo postcards. 

John was strung up and then shot until his body fell apart. Some people took body parts as souvenirs.

In horrified fascination, I did a little searching to see if this was an isolated event. But no, actually, it wasn’t. One source says, “Lynchings were popular and public events, attracting thousands of celebratory, grinning onlookers. White children even “played” lynching in a game called “Salisbury.”

“Parents brought their children like they were coming to a picnic,” said Korea Strowder, now 94.“It was a big to-do, all right.” “It was very much like a spectator sport,” Angela Sims said. “Children were even dismissed from school.”

And lynchings didn’t just happen in Mississippi and Alabama, but even as far north as Missouri and Kansas.

This is our country, Americans. This is our history, from only one hundred years ago. This was sanctioned behavior in our Christian nation, founded on Christian principles. The land of the free and the home of the brave. The nation founded on the premise that all men are created equal and entitled to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. 

I’m still very grateful to be an American, as I’ve seen and experienced first-hand the privilege that it is to be a part of my nation. But maybe this story will help you understand why I’m apprehensive about the possibility of relocating my dark-skinned children to the land of my birth. Maybe it will help all of us to listen a little more carefully to our black friends and acquaintances. And maybe it will help us all to consider a little more deeply the depravity that dwells in all of our hearts.

Just a few months ago, Grace asked me what I was reading on my Kindle.  It was If You Can Keep Itby Eric Metaxas.  “A book about American history,” I told her.

She replied, “The history of white people in America or the history of black people?”

I was totally taken aback.  “Uhhh….both,” I stammered.  “It’s about about the Founding Fathers.”

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  My perceptive daughter was right.  The American history of white people, and the American history of black people are not the same.

I grew up on U.S. history books celebrating my country’s foundations.  Freedom, liberty, justice, equality for all.  A city on a hill.  Using money with my Founding Fathers’ pictures on it.  Seeing their names on bridges and roads and monuments.

And yet…yet…yet….America granted freedom and equality only to some.  For hundreds of years.

While us white folks celebrate the roots of our equality and freedom, our black neighbors and friends look back at an entirely different history.  One of chains and oppression.  For hundreds of years.  In fact, in our “Christian” nation, their oppression was government and church sanctioned up until as recently as 50 years ago.

I’ve followed the rules of good trans-racial parenting and read my kids the books with black children and by black authors, and I’ve taught them African-American history.  I remember the day when Grace said something to me about her “ancestors who were slaves.”

I corrected her, “Oh Honey, you are not African-American; you are just African…with an American passport.  Your ancestors were not slaves.”

There was genuine relief on her face. “PHEW!” she said with typical childhood drama.

And for the first time, I thought about what it must be like to know that your ancestors were slaves.  It was a relief to Grace to know that hers were not….so what about all those who were?  As a white American, I can find a comfortable place in my country’s heritage of freedom and equality.  But what about those who were given no part in that?  Those whose ancestors were put into chains by my ancestors?  Those who often still feel those effects?

I’ve learned that in building a friendship, often the conversation that shifts an acquaintance to a friend is a discussion of each person’s history.  You can go for weeks–years even–of conversations about the present, about kids and weather and politics, and never really know a person.  It’s not until you start asking How do you feel about your childhood?  What were your parents like?  How did you meet your husband? that a friendship really starts going to another level.  To really know a person, history matters.

So when we think about the racial divide in America, why do us white folks want to keep the past in the past?  It’s very possible that many of us may be legitimately non-racist, open to friends and co-workers and neighbors of all races and ethnicities.  But yet we as a society keep hitting against this towering wall between black and white.  Could it partially be because we white folks fail to acknowledge our very different histories?  That our black friends don’t just want to be valued as people, but to be valued as black people?  That they want to contribute to society, contribute to our lives, because their histories have something important to add to our own?

We white Christians wax eloquent about racial reconciliation, and yet the Christian Church remains the most segregated institution in America.  What are we doing wrong?  Could it be that we are neglecting to listen, to learn, from our black brothers and sisters?  Could we be missing out on something remarkable because we are unwilling to ask them, What does the gospel look like to someone with your history?  How has it shaped your theology and your faith?

In his book Black and Reformed, Anthony Carter writes, “If the predominantly white church in America desires to know the reality of a providential relationship with God in the midst of oppression as repeatedly demonstrated with ancient Israel, she need only plumb the depths of the rich spiritual heritage of her darker brothers and sisters.”***

Seems like we’re the ones who are missing out.  And in the meantime, alienating our brothers and sisters in Christ who long to be heard and understood.

It’s Black History month.  Do we pay attention?  Do we acknowledge that many of those who share the same citizenship and neighborhoods as us have a very different history?  And therefore, a very different perspective that we can learn from?  And do we consider how perhaps we need to not just learn about Black History in general, but Black History in the Church?  

Many say America was, and is, a Christian nation.  And though I will readily agree that much of America’s success came from our foundation on Christian principles, would a black Christian agree that America was a Christian nation?  What are we communicating if we insist we are a Christian nation, but neglect to acknowledge that the enslavement and oppression of black people was decidedly un-Christian?  

By adopting four black African children, I am giving them my American citizenship.  Simply because of the color of their skin, someday my children will take on the burden that all African-Americans have shouldered for generations.  I’m hoping, for their sake, that the future of America will look better than it does now.  But more importantly, I hope that they won’t have to look far and wide for a racially integrated church.  I hope that white folks will value their perspective not just because they are American, but because they are black and they are African.  I hope people will seek out my children’s perspective.  I know I’ve already learned so much by being their mom.  I hope the rest of the world wants to learn from them too.

***Anthony Carter’s book is a great place to start increasing your understanding of the Black American Christian perspective.  Black and Reformed:  Seeing God’s Sovereignty in the African-American Christian Experience.