I grew up on the south side of San Antonio in a blue-collar community of white folks, with Mexican-Americans on the periphery. My first personal encounter with a Black person came at a national Methodist youth conference in Kansas City. One of my roommates was a Black girl, and as we unpacked our suitcases, I saw that we used the same brand of deodorant. In that moment I saw that she was just a girl like me. I felt a little bit embarrassed at this realization. At the end of the conference I was invited to go off-campus for lunch with conference leaders, including the Reverend Julius Scott, who was Black. We found a nearby diner, and seated ourselves. A grim-faced waitress marched our way, but before she could speak, Julius gave her a big smile and asked, “Do you serve people from Georgia in here?” Taken by surprise, she muttered, “I guess,” and reluctantly took our orders. I was shocked and embarrassed. Why had I not been shocked and embarrassed by the overt discrimination on San Antonio buses? It was the Methodist Church that began to open my eyes to what racial discrimination looked like, and how it might feel. I left the conference full of idealism with no plan for action. Then I was off to my all-white Methodist college, preparing for a
career in the church I loved
.
On graduation, I accepted the position of Director of Youth Ministries at First Methodist, Austin. Our youth curriculum featured programs on brotherhood (as we called it in those pre-feminist days), but the subject was not mentioned anywhere else in the church. Again, I was shocked and embarrassed. I began to see that the pastor and leaders were fearful of the civil rights movement that was spreading from the University campus into the city. By 1960, that fearful pastor, prompted by church leaders, had instructed the ushers that if a Black person entered the church, they were to signal him, whereupon he would immediately pronounce the benediction, ending the service.
That changed when a new pastor, Dr. Bob Tate, came in 1963. His arrival was preceded by rumors that the bishop was sending him “to integrate this church.” If that was, indeed, his mission, he failed miserably. Although he would have welcomed them, it seemed there were no Black Methodists at our door. Nevertheless, many nervous people left our church, including most of the long-term leaders. That left the pastor free to call a cadre of young people into leadership, some of whom are still here. I was no longer embarrassed.
Those young leaders, inspired by the Holy Spirit and LBJ’s Great Society, began to change us, and in a few years we were a War on Poverty Day Care Center, populated by Black students and staff. Next came a Black ministry
intern
, Sylvester Chase, now pastor of Wesley UMC, here in Austin, and in the next decade a few African-American members joined the church.
Through the years we shared a few worship services and studies with African-American churches, and more recently have offered book studies and conversations on racism. A more dramatic acknowledgment of our history of racism came when a large group marched from our church to the First Baptist Church, where Wesley UMC began as an all-Black congregation, comprised of former slaves who had been asked to leave First Church in 1868. We joined Wesley UMC members in a worship service of repentance and reconciliation.
Now, in this season of Lent, we are asked to continue that march toward
wholeness as we look within ourselves to confront what lies within us. That is not always easy, but I believe the Holy Spirit (this time without government aid, but still with trusted young leaders) is moving among us, calling us to repentance and renewal, empowering us to make a difference in this world.
The church is far from perfect, but it is the place where I learned to be shocked and embarrassed about racism, and where I can still join with others to confront the sin of racism and find wisdom and courage to give feet to my faith in the World.
