I remember the interview very well, even though it happened more than 30 years ago.
It was an excellent job and I really wanted it. I had some of the necessary qualifications, but certainly not all.
And yet, at the conclusion of the interview I was rewarded with a smile, a firm handshake and that truly delightful question, “So, Russell… when can you start?”
I also remember that time a few years later when I stopped to fill my gas tank. This was back in the dark ages before the invention of credit card scanners on gas pumps… if you can imagine such a medieval thing.
I pulled up to the bank of pumps furthest from the cashier’s office. There I saw a hand-lettered cardboard sign that read, “Please pay before pumping.” I shrugged and began walking toward the main building. No biggie.
Right at that moment, the cashier – a white man about my age – turned and saw me through the window. He immediately offered a dismissive wave of the hand as if to say, “Hey, buddy… that’s OK. Go ahead and pump your gas.”
I finished filling my tank and went inside to pay. “Hey, thanks for letting me go ahead and pump my gas first,” I said to the man as I fished out my wallet.
“Yeah, sure,” he replied. “We’ve had a bunch of ‘drive-offs’ here lately, so we had to start asking people to pre-pay.”
And then he added, “But you looked OK.”
What he really meant to say was, “You looked white.”
These are two of the more glaring examples of times in my life when I have been on the receiving end of white privilege.
They are troubling, to say the least. What should be even more troubling are the countless times I have received unmerited privilege and been utterly oblivious.
For example…
… all the times I have not been pulled over by the police because I “fit a description.”
… all the times I have not been closely watched as I browsed among the clothes in a suburban department store.
… all the times I have not seen another person cross the street or clutch their purse tightly when I approach them.
… all the times I have been able to make a major purchase with nothing more than a cursory credit and employment check.
… all the times I have not been amazed and delighted to finally see someone on TV who looked like me.
… all the times I have been in a classroom led by a teacher and surrounded by classmates who looked like me.
… all the history lessons I have learned that were filled with people who share my skin tone.
… the multiple talks my father did not have to give me about the extreme caution I must exercise when driving in a different part of town.
… all the stories I have not heard about how people who look like me are more inclined toward criminal behavior.
… the tendencies toward diabetes and high blood pressure and other ailments that I did not inherit simply because of my race.
The list literally goes on and on.
I will readily confess: turning down an offer of unmerited favor is hard. In fact, I am not sure I have ever done it. If someone wants to grant ME a privilege they might withhold from someone else, my inclination is to receive it, say, “Thank you very much,” and walk on.
In the same way, folks like me who compete on a playing field tilted wildly in our favor rarely speak up to challenge the justice of that field.
But we should. Especially if we take the sentiments of Dr. King seriously in his letter from the Birmingham jail. Seeking to incite the consciences of well-meaning, well-mannered white clergymen, King wrote, “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.”
The Good News of Jesus Christ was never intended to function strictly as a tool of individual sanctification. Yes, it begins its work deep in the heart of one person, but it was always our Savior’s intention that that individual spark of saving grace would spread a flame of mercy and justice and peace over the face of the earth.
Now is the time.
We are the people.
Let the hard work commence.
So be it.
By my not-totally-rigorous estimate, I have officiated at close to 100 funerals during my career as a pastor. This total was boosted significantly by one memorable week in 2014 when there were three.
Earlier today, I was busy in the kitchen, whipping up a new batch of my famous homemade granola. Before you get too excited about my domestic skills, it is literally one of four things I know how to make… and then only by carefully following directions.
My husband is 31 years old. My husband can proofread a paper to perfection! He makes the best pork chops and neckbones. My husband was raised in an extremely wholesome home where they were not even allowed to watch Harry Potter. My husband has never tried any drugs, not even weed. He has never stolen from anyone, not even a corner store. My husband treats me and our sons like royalty. He serves at our local church faithfully and helps anyone he can. 
“Am I safe here?”
Three doors down from the house I grew up in lived a family named the Thompsons.
When it first happened, I felt kind of righteous and empowered.
My wife and I had some fun over the weekend. We were part of a local musical revue that featured songs and dances from several well-known Broadway shows.
Russellings of the Spirit 