To My Fellow White Lutherans: Periodic Reflections on Black Christians: The Untold Lutheran Story

“What brought together Lutherans from Europe and blacks from Africa…was the need for labor, that is, slaves. For almost two and a half centuries, from 1623 to 1865, slavery and colonialism were the primary context for contact, conversion, and Christian brotherhood, if indeed those labels can be used.” – Black Christians: The Untold Lutheran Story, page 22

As a white man with a Germanic Lutheran background who checks every box of privilege, I knew nothing of black Lutherans. One could easy argue that I still know next to nothing. People of origins other than Scandinavian and German were not taught or discussed in my home churches. The only humor I learned was rooted in white midwestern food choices and how Lutherans are known for eating certain dishes. In seminary, I only heard about black Lutheranism from the black Lutheran theologians.

This short reflection series is not going to fix much of that, though I hope that in lifting up this book, Black Christians: The Untold Lutheran Story by Dr Jeff G. Johnson, some of us of paler, northern European heritage who claim the Lutheran tradition as “ours” might come to realize that the church does not belong to us. Though there may be historical connections to the Scandilands and Germanic hills, the Church belongs to Christ and is formed by a multitude of peoples longing for Christ’s liberating promise of grace.

I also want to offer this profound book to my fellow white people of the Lutheran tradition to demonstrate that there are very clear, very racist reasons for why most of us have no experience or understanding of Lutheran churches outside of our own white models. We (collectively, historically) created our churches, synods, and national church bodies to reflect our own image. We were intentional, direct, and clear in our want to keep the Lutheran church white and homogenous. This profound book by Dr Johnson is plain in exposing our systemic racism.

Black Christians spans a robust history from 1623, when the first recorded Lutherans landed in New Netherlands (now New York/New Jersey) to 1991 when it was published. To put this timeline in context, Black history reminds us that the first enslaved Africans arrived on the shores of the New World in 1619. As Dr Johnson notes on page 231, there have been three myths of Black Lutheranism: “(1) the myth of no contact (ie, Lutherans have had little contact with black people), (2) the Johnny-Come-Lately myth (ie, that black people are essentially newcomers to the Lutheran Church), and (3) the myth of the unbridgeable chasm (ie, that the difference between Lutheranism and the black heritage is so great as to be unbridgeable).”   

Further on page 231 he writes, “On the average, once every eight years beginning in 1669, Lutherans have launched a new and/or additional effort to work with black people somewhere in the New World.” Like a broken record, we white folk have conjured a plan to interact with black and brown people on our terms, by our rules, and with our prescriptions roughly every eight years.

We see this pattern of stumbling, self-centered intentionality in my churchwide presence, the ELCA. In 1993 we wrote a social statement reflecting a goal to increase our cultural and ethnic representation to 10%, and a Pew Research study released in 2014 reveals that the ELCA is still 96% white. In 2016, the ELCA churchwide assembly called for the organization of a Task Force for Strategic Authentic Diversity and in 2019 they offered an Executive Summary calling for clear steps toward a “change of heart and mind” in the whole church. These steps were forged by a task force made up of non-white voices from within our church and many of these clear, achievable actions continue to remain on a shelf, ignored. Maybe we are waiting for another 8-10 year cycle to give these words from our non-white leaders another passing glance.

Thirty years after Dr Johnson’s book was published, the pattern still holds. Another reason for us white Lutherans to read his work, recognize our role in our self-perpetuated history, seek confession and, as our baptismal promise states, “strive for justice and peace in all the earth” (“Affirmation of Baptism,” Evangelical Lutheran Worship, page 236).

I will continue to lift up passages from Black Christians throughout the coming month and I ask you to hold me accountable to this task, as well as hold me accountable for seeking meaningful reconciliation through confession, forgiveness, and works of justice. This history of white American Lutheranism we share will be difficult for some of us to read, and we will resist it. I have resisted it, and no doubt continue to, in my own subconscious, defensive ways.

To my fellow white Lutherans: will you join me in reading and reflecting on this book with me? Can we see ourselves in these historic movements of intentional racism? Might we acknowledge, confess, check our biases, hear our embedded language, notice the art on our walls, and be moved toward transformation? I pray these reflections will break us open and break our long held patterns through Christ.

link to purchase book: Black Christians: The Untold Lutheran Story, Jeff G Johnson, Concordia Publishing House: St Louis, 1991.

No Good Reasons: A Sermon in Lent

A sermon on Luke 13.1-9 given on the Third Sunday in Lent March 24, 2019 at Trinity Lutheran Church in Mt Morris, IL

There has to be a reason.

That’s what we tell ourselves.

There has to be a reason. When we turn on the news and learn about another heinous terrorist attack leveled against our Muslim brothers and sisters in New Zealand.

There has to be a reason. And of course, the news reports have given us a few. A man bent on hatred who brought his white supremacy and his weapons to two mosques. He intended to kill and was able to bring about an act of violence that resonated across the planet. So yes, there are reasons.

But still, there’s got to be a reason. Or just this week as we heard about the cyclone that devastated Mozambique and the southern coast of the African continent, destroying thousands of lives. And again, we know some of the reasons. Climate change bringing more violent stories, we don’t what kind of warning the people received or the rate of the storm surge. Maybe the homes along the coast were not designed to withstand the force of this kind of storm.

We have reasons. We always have a few when we encounter these tragic events that seem to come almost weekly across our news and our feeds. School shootings, flooding in the Midwest, fires out West.

Except, these aren’t enough. Because what we really need, what our minds are trying to accomplish, is to get behind or around these events to discover what is really going on. To try to figure it out. Mainly so that we might be able to protect ourselves. Care for ourselves. Keep all of this as far from us as possible. And if we could come up with a reason, the reason, then we would know what to do. And how to keep ourselves safe.

So our minds keep looking for the reason. And we don’t like where our minds go. We don’t like these thoughts and we dare not confess them out loud and we try all that we can to silence them or push them out.

But still, for all of these tragedies, our mind wants some resolution. And before we can stop ourselves, we quickly think to ourselves, maybe.

Maybe…they deserved it.

And that’s the thought that lingers around our gospel for today from Luke. Jesus is strolling along with his followers, because Jesus always has followers, and they’re talking about the Galileans. Ya know, those Galileans. And the people are trying to figure it out. They’re trying to wrap their minds around this violent event. And while doing that, they are trying to understand, find the reason and secretly wondering how to avoid it.

Because some part of our brain wants to believe in cause and effect. That nothing happens without a reason. That there is no such thing as bad things happening to good people. That suffering is not random. And no one likes to have these ideas, even when they creep up in our minds.

So the crowds around Jesus, who are no different from us, are trying to hash out this scene they all just read about. A group of Galileans were killed by Pilate’s army. Though there’s no clear evidence, in the story it is said that their blood was mixed with the sacrifices. Which implies that at least a few of them had animals that they intended to give to God. They were probably on the road, headed to the Temple in Jerusalem, when they were confronted by the soldiers.

And we know it was a heinous act, Jesus. It was violent. Evil. Unthinkable. It never should have happened. And yet, and we’re just saying because its worth noting, they were Galileans. We know you’re a Galilean, Jesus, but we don’t see you that way. They way we know Jesus is human but he’s not really human. Not like us. We don’t want him to actually be like us.

He’s Galilean, but a good Galilean. And its not that these folk were bad in any way and they didn’t deserve this to happen to them. With that said, well, we know what Galileans are like. They dress kind of funny and they’ve got that accent that, no matter where we are in Israel, we know when we’re talking to one of them. And, well, this is purely historical record, Jesus. Many of the rebel leaders who have risen up in protest against the Roman government, which some want to call the Roman oppressors, many of them have come from the Galilean region.

Again, not an excuse for what Pilate’s soldiers did to them. It was evil full stop. Though, maybe they should not have been travelling in such a large group. It probably attracted attention. And those soldiers were wrong, Jesus, we know that. But still, we don’t know who said what or who did what. And besides, it’s hard to believe that bad things happen to good, honest people.

And as the people around Jesus try to hash out the story, Jesus gives his response. The Galileans who were killed were no worse humans than anyone else. They were no different from his disciples. They were no less faithful or more faulty than all of the families following him that day. None of them were more accused than any of us in worship today.

It was violence brought on by violence. It was an act of evil and hate and suffering brought on in this world by powers brought to life by laws and sins and hateful thoughts so deeply embedded into our humanity that we can never fully parse them out.

The people around Jesus are asking the same question we ask every time we experience bad news. Tragic national news. Devastating news. Even the kind of dreadful news that creeps into our homes and lives. There has to be a reason for it.

And if there is, we and Jesus crowds want to know that we are safe. Because we’ve got Jesus. We want to know that our prayer, our worship, our time, our giving, our energy, our faith will somehow put us on the right track or keep us closer to God. And farther away from suffering.

We want distance between ourselves and any visual sign of sin. So, we create the distance. We cast out criminals by assuming that their sin is greater than ours. We ignore the cries of suffering and lament because maybe they had it coming. We convince ourselves that any death due to violence, war, or natural disasters is an acceptable result. We do all we can to stay healthy and clean and strong in order to avoid any diagnosis. And when the doctor gives us the outcome, we immediately ask ourselves, what have we done to deserve this?

And Jesus responds to fears and our hope to preserve ourselves by telling us that there are no easy answers. There is nothing we can do to avoid suffering. It is part of human existence. Or to put it another way, we cannot save ourselves.

With that being named, Jesus does tell us what we can do. Put our hope in Christ. Christ alone, who stays by our side and will not let us God. The same Christ who stands with us in the doctor’s offering is the one cradling in his arms the victims of another terrorist attack. The same Christ who pours Grace upon Grace upon our lives is with the felon locked away in prison. The same Christ who cares for us cares for our neighbor who is consumed by addiction. Because it is the same Christ who assures us every single day that we are made new. There is nothing in our past that will mark our future with God.

Jesus doesn’t offer us any easy answers and there is never one clear reason. Yet Jesus responds to our anxiety and our need for preservation by leading us to the cross. Where we are not safe. And where there is no logic, no clarity, no reason for suffering beyond the suffering brought on by this world.

There is nothing we can do to save ourselves. Of course, there are things we can do in response to sin. We can rise up and speak up against white supremacy and acts of hate designed to silence and destroy. We can strive for justice for anyone being silenced. We can demand peace when words of war are proclaimed. We can work toward health care that is accessible to any person. We can expect action that attempts to reverse climate change across our planet.

We can do these things. All of these things in God’s name. And at the same time know that we cannot save ourselves from suffering.

Jesus knows our fears and he hears our longing to protect ourselves and he offers us a promise that we are never alone. He responds to our self-preservation by leading us to a dead tree in the middle of a garden were all life ends and through which we will live.

Jesus reveals that he was among the Galileans killed simply because of where they came from. Jesus was among the ones who were crushed by a poorly engineered tower in Siloam. He was in the mosques in New Zealand as he as on the coast in Mozambique. He has been consumed by rising waters in Nebraska, Missouri and throughout the Midwest. He is in the jail cell. He is in the hospital room. He is in the bed under hospice care. He is at the bottom of a bottle or in the back room struggling with an overdose.

Christ is where there is suffering in this world. This community. Our homes. For him to confront the power of death that comes for all of us, Jesus goes straight for it. He dies because we die. We live because he lives for us. Through us. Beyond us.

Death will try and do its worst. Sin will try to break our hope. Violence will rage, the earth will shutter, waters will continue to flow, and weapons will ring out.

And none of it, not one sin, not one act of hate, not one crime, not one random act or violence or suprsie diagnosis, nothing in this world can separate us from Christ’ love. Jeuss will not stop standing with us, caring for us, and being with us. He will not stop pouring Grace upon us. Or our neighbors. Or any child of God who is suffering.

There is no reason. And there is no separation between us and God. And there is no reason to stop loving God’s people as much as God loves us. There is nothing to stop us from extending our hearts and hands. There is nothing keeping us from striving for an end to the countless ways we destroy each other.

Because there is no one who deserves to suffer.

Which means, wherever there is suffering, wherever there is disappointment, where there is brokenness trying to consume life, Jesus is already there, in the midst, giving life. And giving it away abundantly. Freely. Joyously. For all.

Amen.