Chicago was an interesting place to land after leaving life in the Air Force with my parents. My siblings and I were born in places like Kittery, Maine, and Omaha, Nebraska. Our parents, both from Mississippi, spelled out things like “white” and “Japanese” when telling stories to their friends about situations in which race played prominently. They did that long after we were old enough to spell for ourselves. I think they were trying not to have us think in categories that might promote racism or prejudice in us.

Chicago was an interesting place to land after leaving life in the sheltered, regulated, and enforced acceptance of Air Force base culture. When we were enlisted, one time a girl named Lisa called me the “n” word. It was a traumatic experience for all of the children in my kindergarten class and that behavior was stamped out. No more of that, at least not there and then.

But it was 1964. I had watched my mother cry while she watched the funeral of President Kennedy. I had seen images that made no sense to a five year old, but which came into focus in the rerunning of news footage. The images of water hoses and dogs and crying children and running adults and swinging batons and the unmistakable look of anger, and hatred on the faces of policemen will never truly fade from my mind of the collective memory of Americans. Like the strange fruit hanging from southern trees, those images haunt a nation built on the backs of enslaved Africans and on the fault lines of racial prejudice.

I must confess that it still stuns me that Black skin was emotionally and physically brutalized in this country by so many. I can analyze the projections involved; weak people target seemingly weaker people to oppress. Self-hatred seeks a partner to hate. Fear makes us create enemies. History is rife with examples of this phenomenon, even among people who look just like one another. But I am still stunned by how it continues to crystallize with such ferocity in American life. I am appalled at the slippery slope of race relations.

Nooses hung, legislation rolled back, higher rates of incarceration, the correlation between race and poverty and disease—we have not overcome— not yet.

I am stunned and shocked and appalled at race crimes. I am mortified at bias in the courts and in our schools against Black children. I am appalled at the way Black young men are feared and the ways Black young women are objectified. And I am so sick of the way objectified people objectify others.

We have not overcome, not yet.

As our culture slips subtly but surely into a kind of malaise in which the hanging of nooses, the burning of crosses and the loathing of Black skin are once again on the rise, I am thinking that Black History Month comes right on time. Why? Because Black people have to be subjects more often in order not to be objects. Black skin loved, black artists acknowledged, black accomplishments celebrated, objects become subjects. Because we sing “We Shall Overcome” and we have not yet done so. Because history has something to teach America about the gifts, power, creativity and contributions of Americans from the African Diaspora and we need to know those lessons. Because we might sow even more of what we are reaping if we do not get aware, get conscious and do something about where America is vis a vis race and ethnicity.

Middle is this amazing well-working experiment in which we can be lulled into believing that race doesn’t matter in America. I am thrilled to be your pastor, thrilled at all we are doing and I do not forget what my people have endured. We do not want any more of that. Our church and others like it give us the chance to rehearse the reign of God now, as it will be in heaven. And that means more than just hugging and loving each other. We have to have the hard conversations. We have to confess when we fall down and get up and struggle for freedom. We need to read, pray and act for justice. We need to confront the evils of racism when we see them, everywhere, all the time.

We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes. So this year, Lent comes early, in February. On our Lenten journey, let’s continue to march for justice for all.

I love you,
Jacqui