Reverend Thomas Disrud

First Unitarian Church
Portland, Oregon

January 14, 1996

I am given to talking about dreams because dreaming separates us from other animals, other life forms. I have a favorite line from a play I read years ago, a drama by Chaucer. The line goes: "In dreams begins responsibility." And indeed it's true. When you dream of something, you can begin to take it upon yourself , make it yours, change it. But you have to dream it first.

Do you remember where you were when the verdict came down in the O.J. Simpson trial?

I was in our church office with the rest of the staff watching on a small black and white TV set with poor reception. When the special reports came on, we all huddled around to hear. The commentators filled up the time with unmemorable chatter as the jurors filed into the courtroom. When the not guilty verdicts were read, the response was a combination of surprise and shock and anger and rolling of eyes. Simpson got off the hook.

The responses seemed to be like those from much of white America. When the scenes of celebration from some African American communities were televised, white American looked on surprise. How could this be? Could the police really have planted evidence? Was there really reasonable doubt about Simpson's guilt? What is going on here - blacks really don't have reason to be that suspicious of the police. Why couldn't the jury see this?

In the days following the verdict we heard story after story about the racial divide in America. Suddenly the issue of race relations was in front of the faces of white America. It was said over and over that Simpson's defense team had played the race card.

For many white Americans the race card seemed to be a last ditch trick to get Simpson off. For many black Americans it was telling it like it is. Two very different views.

With the focus on race relations in America, many of us white folks got a whole lot more exposure to the issue than we are used to. Much of white America got a glimpse of how much of Black America sees things. The curtain was pulled back to offer a snapshot of race relations.

In the months that have followed, my sense is that the curtain has again been pulled down so that we don't have to see the divisions. The story has quickly disappeared from the headlines. We don't hear much about it.

One reason is certainly the constant barrage of coverage during the trail that made most people sick of the issue. I'm content not to hear any more about O.J. Simpson. But I suspect it may be that the reaction to the Simpson verdict exposed the nerve of race relations and the awareness of how raw that nerve is. I believe our society really couldn't face it and wanted to cover it back up as quickly as possible.

Racism goes back to the founding days of our country. The United States was founded on the backs of those with darker skins. The anger and wounds that come from the legacy go very deep, very deep. So deep, in fact, that even finding words for it is difficult. So deep that even knowing where to start a conversation about it is difficult.

Tomorrow is the birthday of Martin Luther King. The words of his "I Have a Dream" speech stand against the current state of race relations. In his most famous speech, King invoked dreams of the day when white children and black children would be together as equals.

I'm struck with the hopefulness of his words and how that compares to a hopelessness I sometimes feel today. Times have changed and the issues now seem more complex. I need to remind myself that King's words came from much experience of oppression. They were delivered in the midst of great struggle. There are many examples of the oppression that King experienced. I would like to share just one.

When King was in college, he spent summers working up North in Connecticut and found a real sense of freedom for being able to go and do as he pleased. One summer he was riding on a train home to Atlanta when the reality of segregation hit him. When he went to the dining car of the train to eat, he expected to be able to sit down where ever he wanted as he had done up North. Being in the south, the waiter led him to the back of the car and pulled a curtain down to shield white passengers from his presence. King is quoted as saying "I felt as though the curtain had dropped on my selfhood."

Since 1963 when King delivered his speech, the curtain on black despair has been lifted up for white Americans during times of violence between the races. It has been a time when whites have moved to the suburbs and many inner cities have been left to decay. Since the speech we've debated bussing and quotas, Before the Simpson trial in Los Angeles, the city, along with the country, saw the beating of Rodney King on videotape.

In our own Unitarian Universalist movement, we've seen attempts to look at the racism in our own institutions and those attempts haven't met with much success. We talk of wanting more blacks in our churches but don't seem to get very far.

The strides of the 1960s have given way to hopelessness in 1996. In realizing that the dreams King spoke of are not going to be achieved easily, it is easy to despair. It is difficult to realize that we must settle in for the long haul.

I have to acknowledge that in preparing for this sermon I was aware of my own desire to deal with the issue on this day when we celebrate Martin Luther King and then not look at it for another year. I've done my part, so we can forget about it for another year. Acknowledging that this is a long process and a daily process perhaps is the first step to changing it.

I told the story of King riding the train and having the curtain pulled down on him because I've come to realize that in my own life I've been on the other side of that curtain. Like most European Americans, my world really hasn't intersected much with African Americans. The curtain has been there through most of my life.

Growing up in rural Wisconsin, my small town had one resident who was black. He lived in a shack and my memory of him is that he went about his business and didn't have many, if any, close associations with people. I don't remember my Mother telling me not to associate with him. The message I remember, and I don't know if it was spoken or not, was to treat him kindly but also not to have much to do with him.

I went to college in the center of Milwaukee. I was at a predominately white, private university in the middle of the poorest area of the city. There were more African Americans living outside the boundaries of the campus than African Americans inside the school. The separation was pretty obvious but my awareness of it was minimal. I was in my world and they were in theirs. I remember an underlying fear of violence when I was not on the campus, but that is my main memory. I certainly was not aware of the privilege I had.

After college I worked at a newspaper in Duluth, Minnesota, a very white place. I assumed this was so because the city was so far north. But one day when I was designing a Sunday feature section I learned part of why Duluth is so white. In the 1920s Duluth had a large Black population. Many blacks came up from the south to work in the shipping and iron ore industries. During this time a carnival was in town and three black men were accused of raping a white woman. The three men were arrested and awaiting charges in jail when a mob broke in and lynched the three men. It was later proved that the men were innocent. But at the time the other blacks in town were given the message that they better leave of face the same consequences. A photo of the lynched men surrounded by the mob, some of whom are smiling still haunts me. That story and photo opened up my eyes to the legacy of injustice that is still there today.

The common thread in my experiences as I've come to see them, is that I could pretty much ignore racism. I didn't have to face it. I've been pretty able to pull a curtain around myself and stay in my world. At times when the curtain has been pulled up, it was easy to turn my head and let it fall back down. I was personally angered by what I saw in Duluth, but it was also something that was outside of myself, I had had nothing to do with it. I certainly didn't have a problem with racism.

During my time in seminary I had an experience that helped me start to unpack my own racism. I was on a panel charged with looking at applicants and selecting them for a position. In the process of evaluating people I realized how I bring my own assumptions and value judgments into the process. With an African American applicant I was looking more skeptically on his experience and putting a different value judgment on his life experience. Since I had gone to a good school and had had opportunities, I was expecting him to have done the same and was not willing to give equal value to his experiences that, at least on paper didn't seem as strong. I learned how I see through a certain set of glasses, as we all do, and how I was not open to seeing that others look through different glasses.

A wise friend helped me unpack my assumptions and also helped me see how a well-meaning group of white folks making this decision made a bad call. I was not alone in the decision, and I started to see how our good intentions were actually destructive. As we were able to process the decision and see what had happened, we were also able to rectify the situation. This was an important piece of the situation - having to take responsibility for our decision and make amends. That was an important lesson.

That was, perhaps, my first experience of getting it. At least starting to get it. It helped me scratch the surface of my own racism. It was a small step but an important one. I now try to pay a little more attention.

The film The Color of Fear gives a vivid example of a person starting to get it. The film is a conversation between nine men. They gather for a weekend and talk about who they are in relation to race. There are African Americans, Latinos, Asian Americans and European Americans.

They talk of their view of the world. One of the white men speaks of the black friends he has and how he doesn't understand why the blacks are so unhappy and have a problem. He clearly doesn't see himself as racist. He is confronted with his attitude that essentially expects people of color to turn white, and therefore succeed in the world. He wants blacks to improve themselves, not seeing the obstacles to that possibility. He doesn't see oppression as whites having power over blacks but as the unwillingness of black people to better themselves.

The film The Color of Fear shows one man starting to get it - starting to get the effects of racism and starting to look at his own life and his role in the problem. It is important that the man in the film is not a member of a white supremacist group or someone you would see wearing a hood. He is someone who would probably fit in with many people here in this church. And that is why seeing him in conversation with people of color who are willing to share their story and challenge him is so important.

The turning point comes when he is able to see how he fits into racism, and how he can also become part of the solution.

This is a fundamental step for each of us. Before we can do anything else we must look at our own lives, the places we live, the people we know. I was once in a conversation at another church when a man asked. "How can we get more blacks to come to our church." The underlying expectation behind that question is that blacks can come in as long as they are just like us. We're not going to change, so they better.

When we are able to look at our own lives, the process of bridge building begins. In The Color of Fear, this happens to the same man in the film when he starts to take responsibility for racism. Acknowledging that I as a white person have gotten where I am on the backs of people of color is a difficult and painful acknowledgment. But that is an important starting point.

But it is also important not to oversimplify things. Acknowledging our own stuff is only a starting point. We must always be aware of the many facets of racism. The expectation that blacks basically have to become like whites to solve the problem can take many forms, including societal and cultural expectations.

In an essay in Harper's Magazine last September entitled Put on a Happy Face, Benjamin DeMott argues there's a trend in our culture to mask the differences between blacks and whites by celebrating black and white friendship. Now, friendship is certainly not a bad thing. It seems like it would break down barriers. But DeMott argues that this oversimplifies the issue. Essentially, if blacks and whites are friends, all is OK and the problem is solved.

DeMott points to movies including Pulp Fiction and Die Hard with a Vengeance, which have lead black and white characters who are presented as loving, caring teams with no problems. When blacks and whites are friends, all is forgotten and the world is good. What happens in the process is that the black characters essentially become white and lose their identity. We are able to deny the injustice that has been done and continues to be done. We don't have to work to end systemic racism because blacks and whites are friends and therefore the problem is solved.

In right relationship, both parties are open to being changed in the process of learning and growing together. As we are open to others we leave some of our ideas behind and welcome new things into our lives. This process can be painful because many things we carry with us have been with us for a long time and letting go of them can be difficult. But the openness to new things and change can also be deeply rewarding. We are able to see the world in new ways when we are in relationship with others.

And this is the starting point to action. As liberals, we must be careful not to become paralyzed by guilt. Yes, great injustice has been done, and we must acknowledge it, but we also must move on and do this important work so that our children don't inherit the injustice we have.

The Color of Fear also models something else that is important: It is OK to stumble. It is OK to ask stupid questions. It is in the ability to be candid and open with each other that the men in the film are able to grow. They stumble and the get back up again. Sometimes I'm afraid that I'm going to say or do the wrong thing and therefore bottle it up. When we are open to learning a lesson we are therefore able to grow.

As Unitarian Universalists we are bridge builders, we believe revelation is not sealed but ongoing, that the world is not a static place but always evolving. We can use this foundation to build on, to overcome the isms around us. We have made progress on some of the many isms we face, from sexism to homophobia to ableism and we must let those strides give us hope against racism.

The Color of Fear lifts curtains of awareness and also offers rays of hope. When people sit down and talk and share stories, the bridges start to be built. This is where responsibility starts to happen.

And there are areas of hope around us. In our own community, the Racial Justice Action Group is doing important work in our own community. And in our Unitarian Universalist Association we are making progress, albeit a little slowly and stumbling at times.

And it also gives us the grounding to look at the larger issues of systemic racism that exist around us. Looking at the media, government, business and how they all contribute to oppression is a difficult task. It is often hard to recognize and hard to take apart. Issues of economic justice are closely linked and addressing those is a necessary step in getting at the racism.

And it will happen. It has to happen. And we as religious liberals are called to build bridges. It is important to dream, to keep our sights high. But it is also important to be awake, to pay attention. To learn and to see.

Words from Maya Angelou's poem "On the Pulse of Morning":

Lift up your eyes

Upon this day breaking for you.

Give birth again

To the dream.

Women, children, men,

Take it into the palms of your hands,

Mold it into the shape of your most

Private need. Sculpt it into

The image of your most public self.

Lift up your hearts.

Each new hour holds new chances

For a new beginning.

Do not be wedded forever

To fear, yoked eternally

To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,

Offering you space

To place new steps of change.

Here, on the pulse of this fine day,

You may have the courage

To look up and out and upon me,

The Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here, on the pulse of this new day,

You may have the grace to look up and out

And into your sister's eyes,

And into your brother's face,

Your country,

And say simply

Very simply

With hope -

Good morning.

Copyright © 2000, Reverend Thomas Disrud. All rights reserved.