Guest commentary by Beth Buckingham-Brown
Language matters. More than we realize. The language we hear and the language we use shapes us, shapes our sense of social location and shapes the way we see and experience the world.
During Chicago Ideas Week this year, hundreds of talks and workshops and labs are offered on a variety of topics. I attended a conversation on race. There were five people on the panel; one began the conversation and then just let it happen.
The only “white” person on the panel was a straight white man in his 40s. I realized as I was sitting there that every time he opened his mouth, I felt nervous, my heart rate increased, I held my breath a little, and then when he contributed positively to the conversation, I felt myself exhale. Turns out, I had good reason to feel nervous. He said something two-thirds of the way through the conversation that lit the room on fire. He told the other panelists, all of whom would identify as non-white, that he believed the word “privilege” is an ineffective word to use in the conversation about race. He suggested we use the word “advantage” instead. All of a sudden the tension in the room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The other panelists pulled no punches in pointing out that a white man with full privilege is not the guy who gets to suggest we call it something other than privilege. Remarkably, despite the anger and tension, the panel did manage to eventually model for the audience how it’s possible to have a deeper conversation even if it results in tension and discomfort.
Watching them have a difficult conversation together (as strangers not known to each other) has emboldened me to want to also engage in this difficult conversation within the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). In the conversations I have been able to participate in (or at least overhear) regarding race, there seems to be one crucial element missing. No one is talking about how historical, embedded and exceptionalist faith narratives have impacted our lived out realities regarding white privilege and racism. This means no one has offered a way to re-frame our faith narratives in such a way that we begin to end the lived experience of racism. Laura Mariko Cheifetz stated the problem succinctly in her recent article “Equal Opportunity White Supremacy and the Race for the Presidency.” She wrote, “The problem is that some American Christian theologies continue to reinforce the false ideology of meritocracy (if you are oppressed it’s because you didn’t pull yourself up by your bootstraps) and white supremacy (white people are, in fact, more created by God than any other people).”
As a pastor who preaches every Sunday, I am aware of the language I use. Over time I have become increasingly uncomfortable with the following claims: “We are the people of God.” “As God’s chosen people, holy and beloved …” “God chooses us and sends us.” In addition, some Reformed concepts like “God’s elect” or “God’s predestined” or “God’s holy ones” or “the saved” are equally troubling. How did we get from the Israelites (a concept that is at best confusing based on timing and definition) being God’s chosen people and the inheritors of God’s promise and blessing, to the church in the United States, Presbyterian in particular, becoming God’s chosen – which has meant, in part, that we mount a militant defense of the land which we have taken by force and the democracy which only applies to some? We are not Israelites. And yet we (some of us) claim the favor of God and the chosen status by inserting ourselves into the narrative. While that is a good question, it’s not the most relevant to this conversation. The more relevant question for those of us who are white is: Why don’t we ever talk about the fact that our white forefathers who escaped religious persecution and poverty in Europe came to the U.S. and claimed chosen and favored status? In fact, the faith narrative of the chosen (including the promise of land and prosperity) was so strong that it justified the genocide of native peoples and then justified the enslavement of black people. Walter Brueggemann has written about such exceptionalist claims. When speaking of the prophets reasserting Yahweh’s sovereignty in contrast to the people who wanted Yahweh to be a patron God of economics and politics, he wrote, “the prophets characteristically resist the exceptionalism of election faith.”
The terrible irony and tragedy is that as a white person I have not only participated in claiming this faith narrative for me and the various congregations I have served, I have also spent years ignoring the fact that my brothers and sisters of color have seen me through the lens of the Pharaoh – the oppressor. Never once in my 50-plus years have I ever thought to identify with the Pharaoh or the Romans or the Babylonians in any of the stories. Instead, I have unthinkingly identified with the chosen ones, the ones to whom God has promised faithfulness and presence. When I came out as queer more than 15 years ago, I finally began to understand there was a different lived narrative. All of a sudden I went from being “chosen” in so many ways to no longer fitting into the majority narrative of the church. Instead of easily moving from one call to another, I found it difficult to find churches who would be willing to call me. People accused me of trying to split the church. Colleagues promised to pray for me since I was clearly in the grips of the devil. Still, I experienced a great deal more privilege than queer colleagues of color. My privileged theology, that of a chosen person, was deeply challenged. The lens through which I saw and experienced the PC(USA) changed. At times I felt split between the experience of the marginalized and the experience of the oppressor. That continues to be my experience.
Until we are all willing to be honest about the faith narratives that have shaped us, in ways that have helped us and harmed us, I am not sure we will be able to move into living faith narratives that we can all claim. Part of being honest is admitting that in the U.S., our faith narratives were used to build systemic oppression into our democracy. What I hope is the promise, though, is that if we can once and for all separate church and state (and not let the state determine theology), we will be able to re-envision a theology that is centered on Jesus. In Jesus’ world, either we are all chosen or none of us are chosen (which really means none of us are!). Either way, we are in it together and we are invited to create a promised land here and now where there is equality and justice and hospitality and enough for all. It will never be as simple as all of us just getting along. The work is way more difficult than that and it begins with paying attention, all of us, to our language and stories and where we see ourselves and others in those stories.
BETH BUCKINGHAM-BROWN has been ordained for almost 25 years and has specialized in transitional ministry, mediation and spiritual direction. Beth is currently serving as pastor for Lincoln Park Presbyterian Church in Chicago. She has two young adult daughters, Emily and Anna.
