Standing On Unknown Shoulders: Why Black Kids at PWIs Need To Support and Appreciate HBCUs

When NPHC decided to name their greek week, "A Different World," after the famed Cosby Show spin-off about the HBCU experience that ultimately inspired millions of Black children to attend college, it was no surprise that the Mary Lou Williams Center (MLWC) saw a golden opportunity to inspire, educate and reflect.  NPHC week takes place on the same week Duke faces Durham's only historically Black University, North Carolina Central University (NCCU), in football.  While there has always been a strong connection and history between Duke and NCCU, particularly in the sports, NPHC's programming ultimately opens the door for other considerations beyond this mighty sports tradition.  We know for sure that NCCU's NPHC community helped to jumpstart Duke's Black greek community.  Too, quite a few of NCCU's students have studied at Duke, like Rev. Dr. William Barber...and quite a few Dukies have studied at NCCU, including our beloved Dean Sue Wasiolek.  But what more do Duke students, and Black Duke students in particular know about the HBCU experience?  

For members of NPHC, all roads lead to Howard University, as it is a critical place in the development of the Black Greek Letter Organization Movement.  However, for most Duke Black students, HBCUs are often seen as a caveat in the landscape of higher education.  And given class, race and prestige politics, some Black students (and administrators/faculty) might even see these schools as lesser than their own Duke experience, choosing only to engage (minimally) socially, and instead remain aloof to the critical intellectual, historical, and institutional legacies of HBCUs.

For the MLWC, we recognize the validity, magnitude, and beauty of an HBCU education...and its indelible fingerprint on the Higher Education landscape.  For us, invariably as a cultural center, we see HBCUs as having a rich and vibrant cultural tradition that seeks to be one of the mechanisms for educating their constituent communities.  Historically, HBCUs gave us students, who were the first to integrate places like Duke.  Educationally, most Black teachers (of a certain age) trained in the US were developed at HBCUs...so in our life times, if we have been taught by Black teachers, they were probably trained at HBCUs.  In our families, HBCU alums represent, in the main,  our personal advocates of excellence in education.  Lastly, the HBCU model of education, informs other culturally Black models of education around the world where indigenous populations have faced inequity in systems of apartheid.

So why should students at Duke have a thoughtful understanding of HBCUs even as they race to professions in Law, Medicine and Business?  Well, for one, without them, we could not be beneficiaries of a Duke education!  Too many of their fingerprints create the space we now inhabit.  At Duke, many HBCU alumni serve as resources and leaders.  From the esteemed Dr. Karla Holloway to the daring Dr. Paula McClain to the beloved Linda Capers, HBCU alumni make an indelible impact upon the Duke brand. Secondly, we continue to be in a place where many Black PWI alumni are leading (and have led) HBCUs.  Our very own Michael J. Sorrell, leads Paul Quinn College currently!  Thirdly, and probably most importantly, HBCUs continue to provide educational opportunity for a wider array of students (than most prestigious PWIs are willing to accommodate).  It is this point that the MLWC would emphasize as an ongoing social justice effort by HBCUs. And, as we embark on a journey to examine Black philanthropy, we believe that supporting HBCUs could be one easy way to ensure that the doors of education will always be available to anyone who seeks to access it.  

Moreover, this week's programming in the MLWC seeks to examine how "A Different World" poignantly addresses intra-racial conflicts.  And while we will be helping students consider how Hillman (the ficticious school of "A Different World") and Duke are both alike and different, we ultimately seek to help our students engage the HBCU experience even though they did not choose it.  We recognize that a current Duke student could be the next HBCU college president, philanthropist, and/or graduate/professional alumni.  At the same time, maybe a grandmother, father, friend, boss or future coworker is an alumnus of one of those institutions.  In this case, we seek to remind our students that an HBCU education is a beautiful stepping stone to success!

Join us all week long for programming around the HBCU through screenings and conversations about "A Different World."

Playing Dead In Order To Live: A Reflection on The Terrorist Act at Mother Emanuel

At 110 Calhoun Street, in Charleston, South Carolina, a little girl played dead, after a white male terrorist shot no less than five clips of ammunition piercing at least 9 brown bodies during what was a prayer service.  The gunman, now identified as Dylann Roof, sat through an hour of prayer service, at Mother Emanuel church before offering a cringe worthy diatribe on why Black people in the US had to go; and after offering it, he followed his words as he executed black preachers, teachers, elders, mothers, fathers, politicians, and ushers.  However, a little child survived this incident by playing dead.

The thought of what that child endured in that time period has made me cringe, cry, pray, and curse.  As I sat at a conference more than 700 miles away, I thought about that little girl, and the many who were directly involved in and victimized by the incident.  And, I thought about the many ways my story laid on the floor of that church bleeding out in agony.  You see, I am from South Carolina, and I am a graduate of Lexington County schools where Dylann Roof attended school.  I was raised in the AME church, and a preacher.  I am an Alpha, like brother Pinkney.  I attended CAU, like sister Cynthia Hurd.  And my family has been in the process of designing a family reunion in Charleston, where we had hoped to visit the famed Mother Emanuel AME Church.  For me, there are too many touch points that connect my life to those who went to church to seek Jesus' abundant life, and unfortunately found themselves dying after prayers that surely spoke of hope.

Meanwhile, in Indianapolis, I'd been seeking to make sense of my training institute where I had been putting difficult questions of race and culture on the table for Fraternity and Sorority professionals.  At the conference, I'd been pressing my colleagues to think about how conceptual frameworks of race work in our organizations, as we sat on the grounds of a Republican affiliated country club and hotel.  As many Black colleagues found themselves having taboo conversations about race, Black greek life experiences, and the challenges of working in predominantly white institutions, we began to form a small circle sitting next to each other as our facial expressions often indicated when we felt we were being fed political rhetoric, or outright lies about some southern fraternity/sorority traditions.  There were many times, we asked questions, but there were also quite a few times we set silent, seeking to not jeopardize burgeoning relationships and careers.

While we could have never imagined that the day before the close of the conference someone would walk into a Black church and shoot up the place, that was exactly what happened, pushing us to consider both the merits of our time at the conference, and how we might navigate the conversations that would later ensue.  It was a sobering and saddening moment.  While I found out late Wednesday night about what had happened, I really began my reading of the event on Thursday afternoon as I sat waiting in the hotel lobby.  Immediately, the stories of AME congregants sitting in the church caused uncontrollable tears to roll down my eyes.  I would periodically put down my phone because I couldn't take much more, but I would undoubtedly pick it up, seeking to know more, as my phone beeped with updates from friends around the country who wanted to touch base with me about the incident.

As I read the story of the young girl who played dead, I thought about the meaning of that - that a child would play dead in order to preserve her life.  What a heavy thought when we consider our lives.  This revelation manifested: it's funny how many of us play dead every day, trying to preserve our own livelihoods.  Now think about that for just a moment.  What does this really mean, you ask?  I'm wondering how many black people in places of leadership remain silent, IE dead, as black people wait for our advocacy.  How many black business professionals remain silent even as they note the depth of inequity in the economy? How many black education professionals stand silent in meetings where their ability to understand and advocate are necessary for student access?  I'm wondering right now, how many black pastors will overlook the nuances of race on this coming sunday morning, choosing to play it safe in the pulpit?  

Too many of us are playing dead every day that we live, work, and play in spaces of privilege.  Our respectability politics, our lack of cultural competency, and our lack of race consciousness, as well as a eurocentric, white supremacist system (along with its many actors) that leaves children lying on the floor playing dead as gunshots ring out.  Over the course of the past year, I continue to learn that while it may be unpopular, I have a responsibility to speak life and advocate for communities in peril.  The seminal question of the early 20th century asked in the Black Women's Club movement continues to be important:  "How will you move the race forward?"  Positions of advocacy are important in Republican Country Clubs, in meetings with Vice Presidents, at our Fraternity gatherings, and in our churches.  To sit in silence about racism and domestic terrorism, even as we advocate for better compensation packages for ourselves, is to stand outside of the traditions that make it possible for us to have access.  

Tonight, I don't just grieve the people who died, I also grieve a president who can't say race in a lame duck period of his tenure.  I grieve black pastors who talk about destiny and prosperity, but not about race, responsibility and community.  I grieve professionals who mumble under their breaths about things that should be voiced aloud.  I grieve students who collect opportunities for themselves, without asking themselves how they will use what they've been given to empower the world.  I grieve black people willing to say ain't that a shame, but nothing else.  I grieve. I grieve. I grieve.

Though Denmark Vesey's church is invoked in this passage, I am reminded of something that another radical black voice said.  Meet Nat Turner, who once said before his own death:"…I reverted in my mind to the remarks made of me in childhood, and the things that had been shown me – and as it had been said of me in my childhood by those by whom I had been taught to pray, both white and black, and in whom I had the greatest confidence, that I had too much sense to be raised, and if I was, I would never be of any use to any one as a slave."  As such, I have decided not to play dead in times of convenience, because no child should ever have to lay down in pulpits meant for hope playing dead as gunshots ring out...hoping to live to see another day.

There's Another Level Beyond The One Where You Gave Up...

So, I've been a little busy trying to put my own advice to good use, which has me not writing as much.  I'm doing a bunch of other things though...Family Reunion Committee (think convention).  I officially started an Event planning business (I've been writing a blog through the website...check me out www.beautieplanners.wix.com/dream).  I have a newborn, and he's up every three hours (love that kid Zack).  And, I have a really busy job that keeps me in high demand as a Student Affairs administrator.  With all of these things, I honestly have not had time to really write what is in my head.  However, if you stop by my office, I will gladly give you an ear full!

So let me get right down to what I'm thinking about as February comes to a close.  While I've been doing a whole lot of executing, I've been dreaming.  I've been wondering what it would be like to pastor.  What would it be like to sing on Broadway?  What would it be like to write a book?  What would be like to have a six pack?  What would it be like to run a multi-million dollar company, jet setting around the world?

These musings have re-emerged because I'm thinking about the scope of my life as I watch so many around me follow their dreams.  In many ways, it has me thinking about the choices that I've made, and reflecting on the choices I wish I had made.  I'm not saying it is all over; however, I am saying that their have been things that I have given up that I'm not so sure I should have.

When I was in college, I loved to sing, and I still do.  Every once in a while, I wonder what I could have done with that gift, if I kept singing.  I haven't sung rigorously in about two years, and I miss it.  Too, I've always wanted to be really in shape, but I've never managed to keep going to the gym because of schedule and because I lack the sincere will power to do so.  I don't really enjoy the gym or working out...it feels too much like a chore for somebody who didn't play sports for any point in my life.  Every once in a while, I flirt with the idea of getting a PhD and writing books.  I just can't bear to think about the thought of going back to school, and a solitary life with pen and pad.

Now I've given you a laundry list of all of my loves and passions and desires...and a list of all the regrets, I probably should really tell you what happened. If I'm really, really honest, I gave up.  I lost steam.  I got frustrated, and I had other things I could do.  I GAVE UP.  In life, the things we sometimes call choices aren't really choices at all.  Sometimes we just give up.  The reasons can seem really logical and make all the sense in the world.    But we must start by saying this, "I gave up!"  We've got to own that.

Giving up is understandable when the goal seems insurmountable, and it seems like the things you want are out of reach.  Giving up can be easy when people don't support you on the dream or affirm the gift.  Giving up can be really easy when opportunity seems to never be on the horizon.  Sometimes, the mundane life can be much more easy to live out, than the dynamic life.

And it can be really, really, really easy to live out safe dreams and safe realities.  At the same time, if you are like me, every time you see someone living out a dream that has been brewing in your head, it will remind you of the possibilities of life.  It will make you a little bit restless.  It will have you think, "is this it?"  I imagine that quite a few people who are depressed or who have hit a spiritual, career, or personal goal wall get here and wonder what's next.

I really don't have any answers, and the Black mother wit, "of keep on livin baby" seems incomplete for explaining the how and the why of giving up.  Maybe what we need is not answers but examples to remind us that we are all living testimonies to the very dreams that find us and haunt us.  Right now, I'm thinking of biblical Hannah in 1 Samuel who found herself with a husband and no child...while those around her seemed to have more than enough children, as they sought to be mean-spirited pointing out her barreness. 

I'm reminded of Hannah's radical prayer and worship life, partitioning God to bless her with a son, whom she decided to dedicate right back to God.   This can seem like an easy fix until you are knee deep into a year and a half of radical prayer and worship...and still no magical answer from God.  And what if it happens, and we are required unlike others to turn it over to God.  There are definitely some challenges to persevering...giving up can be a whole lot less painful.

I'm convinced that each of us has a Hannah story dancing in our hearts...and if we can be perserverant long enough, we might find out that we have a blessing inside of us too.  And, sometimes the things we desperately want, things that we told ourselves that we can't have, start by taking one step in the direction of just one of those dreams.  For me, lately, that's been starting my own business.  Striking out in this one area, has helped me deal with my issues of confidence.  And while I'm scared of failure, I'm excited to try.  In fact, starting this business has made me emotionally more eager to open my heart to the possibility of other dreams that I had put up in my spiritual and emotional "parking lot."  Starting the business has made me reflect on my life's work, as I've had to put together a portfolio. 

One day, a few weeks ago, I began to marvel at many of the things that I had counted insignificant.  Looking back made me realize that I had indeed made an impact.  It was in that moment that I realized the truth in a critique given to me a few months prior.  A colleague who I adore had asked me, "Sean, why didn't you apply for that?"  I fumbled with an answer, but she said something that resonated with the truth that I didn't want to hear.  She said, "I know why...you don't believe in yourself no matter how 'butter' you are?"  As we sat talking, I knew she was speaking truth to me...and when I began to put together my portfolio I had to sit with another truth: I was indeed "butter." 

What I'm saying here is less confusing than my example.  Sometimes we must look back at the work we have done, the training we have received, and the successes we've had...to see ourselves clearly, often overlooking the negative words that are sometimes corrupting our hearts and minds.  What I'm saying is that we must KNOW deeply that our value is larger than one moment of failure, one moment of brokeness, one moment of misplaced vulnerability...one moment of hopelessness.  What I do know...is that if you don't try...if you don't risk...you will always be stagnant and scared, and probably a little envious of others who are seeking to live out their dreams.

My one real admonishment is this:  fight the urge to become one on those people.

Let's get to our next level.  I know that we've given up before...but let's try again!

Leftovers in the New Year: Deal with It!

After cooking through the holidays, you can find yourself with a lot of leftovers in your refrigerators. Half-eaten casseroles, pieces of pie, un-eaten filets, and crusted-over potatoes probably sit in your refrigerator waiting to be either re-heated or to be tossed into the garbage.  It's the new year, and still they sit hoping to be eaten for lunch or re-constituted in some new kind of meal.  However, they aren't the only thing lingering from last year.

Every year most of us make amends to start afresh with the start of January with new resolution.  We will lose weight!  We will clear out the closet!  We will start on a new journey.  Unfortunately, like the day old vegetables sitting in the fridge, there is much from last year that is leftover stinking up our lives like moldy stuffing or dried up turkey.

Things like unfulfilled dreams, good advice we haven't taken, calls we haven't made, and people we haven't forgiven are still lingering from last year waiting for our time and consideration.  Rather than focusing on those things, we would all rather sling slogans around, like "New Year, New Me" or "My Season Is This Season" or "Leaving It All Behind."  All of that is fine, but some of what is holding us back is in our past.  And we get so much bad advice from pulpits at Watch Night services, that sometimes we only hear this: "Jesus will fix the mess we made...because I have a Destiny."

But it's just not that simple. It can be hard to put down Ice Cream, Pies and Cakes...if you haven't ever done it...once.  It can be hard to say no to Ms. Wrong, when every time she comes over, ya'll find yourselves in a compromising position.  It can just be absolutely difficult to go to the gym, if you don't have a pair of gym shoes waiting.  All that I'm trying to say is that maybe we shouldn't overlook the small steps in life.

One of my friends used to recite a very well-known quote every time I was nervous about a new journey.  She would say, "Palmer, the journey of a thousand miles begins with one step."  It would annoy me every time she said it, but ultimately she was (is) right.  In this case, we sometimes must look back at the past and make sense of our dysfunction in order to move forward.  That's a very nice way of saying that you can't move forward without really identifying the problem.

For me it begins with esteem...and believing that I'm worth more than scraps.  For me, it begins with taking a long hard look at spending habits and health.  It does not begin with starting something new.  It begins with looking at what is old.  In some cases, I'm gonna have to throw out some junk.  In other places, I'm gonna have to ask for forgiveness.  And in many places, I'm gonna have to be more consistent...picking up where I left off.  I'm ultimately gonna have to deal with my leftovers in the New Year.

That's not so bad when we consider that sin was leftover in creation...and God decided that sin could not be the final word on the corruption of creation.  So God sent God's self in the form of Jesus to do a work which we could not do.  And since I'm meandering right where a Baptist preacher would begin "tuning up," might I remind you that you and me are created to do a work that can't be done by just waiting or trying to run away from it.

This year, let's deal with the leftovers!

Ferguson on our Doorsteps for the Holidays...

I have a Black son, that's the scary part about all of this.  Because in looking at Mike Brown or Trayvon Martin or Tamir Rice, all I can see is Zachary Palmer, my son.  And, I know I live in a world where other's don't care about my child.  But, I care about my child.  And so I worry...I worry about the world in which my child must live.  I worry about what he will endure.  How many times will he be called a Nigger? What happens if teachers or police see him as threat?  How will he rebound when he discovers that others will see his race as a problem?  How will I provide support, counsel, and understanding to him and the people he will come to love?  These are the questions that keep me up at night, and are making it hard for me to sleep.

I know I'm not the only one up at night (and early in the wee hours of the morning) thinking through the nagging question, "what if my child was Rekia Boyd or Dianna Showman?"  Millions of Black Parents are asking these kinds of questions, in the middle of trying to fix turkeys and make Christmas lists.  It's enough to make you forgo the Holidays, and turn into one of those people who stockpiles guns, water, and canned food.  

And, what's worse, is that any of us, any Black person in this country, could be killed by anyone at anytime for anyone reason by any other race, and there would never be any justice.  Now, some will say, "Oh, Sean, you are exaggerating."  But, in my mind, it certainly feels like I have no right to life...as I watch child after child, man after man, woman after woman be shot, while their killers participate in kangaroo trials with absurd verdicts.  And, it seems like no level of our response (or of our responsibility) provides for us a measure of humanity.  What I'm saying is that me nor my child can't pull our pants up high enough or speak in perfect American diction (enough) to shield us from both bullets and the lack of access to justice.  Black people KNOW this, and white people know this too...so why the charade about responsibility and let's just follow the law...obey the process.

History doesn't show African-Americans getting the change, justice, equity they need without a good extended fight.  And that fight isn't always pretty or legal or dignified in the eyes of others (or in step with America's jurisprudence).  And why should Black people fight without force, violence, or a dash of anger/rage?  No one else is.  When cops, supported by local and national government, and a legal system that is interested in property (and not people), throw tear gas into crowds of American citizens, shoot unarmed Black people (and say they would do it again), or fail to indict the real perpetrators of crime, why should we not use whatever necessary to address the problem?  Why should Black people walk down the street clad in our Sunday's Best with signs in our hands in a single file line singing, "we shall overcome?"  Why should we be "once upon a time when we were colored?" Why should we look like we are walking out of a 1960s church rally, when American institutions are almost prepared to use drones on African American citizens...in America?  Black people have never won anything when we've operated in support of those who govern, waiting on systems of politics to support us or work for us.

No matter who we've voted for en masse, no matter A "Black" President, no matter our commitment to participation in the Military, no matter our commitment to community and social organizations, we still get the crumbs from an abundant table (and told to wait our turn).  Nothing has seemed to work...and everybody knows this.

However, too many Americans would rather the peace of a pragmatic inequity and inequality, than the brilliant beauty of justice, restoration, and access.   And, I for one, am tired of being told that it is okay for Black people to be poor.  I am tired of being told that we should blame ourselves for the prison industrial complex. I am tired of being told that this President who was voted on by FAR TOO many trusting African Americans, is indeed, NOT the president of Black America.  I am tired of educational inequity, employment disparity, cultural misappropriation, and wealth and income gaps!  I am tired of all of this...and then you want us to sit idly by as folk shoot Black kids down on the pavement of Main Street America.

A major problem is that people like Darren Wilson, George Zimmerman, and Robert McCulloch don't value my children in the same way they see themselves or their families.  That's a real problem!  But its not just them, white people in general can't fathom loving Black people collectively, for real.  It is that problem that produces the kind of injustices and inequities that we see creating nightmare scenarios for far too many Black people.  My good friend who passed a few years ago, always said, "White people like and love us individually, but they despise us collectively."  I'd like to hope that his statement isn't true, as I know this movement is broad in complexion. But, if there was love, more of my white brothers and sisters would be outraged by what they see too.  I'm just not so sure they are.

But while I have your attention, and since we are in the season that commemorates Jesus' birth, let me head over to a book that might illumine what I'm thinking in terms of a radical departure from what we have here.  I'm pushing right past Jesus' birth to go straight to Jesus on a cross.  It's at John 19: 26-27 that I bring your attention.  Jesus is about to die...and he looks out at his mom, and over at a disciple.  He proclaims something both strange and wonderful: "Ya'll be family!"  It's in this moment that we see the first Foster Care experience.  It is Jesus, near death, that radically changes his own family to help us understand how we should live in the world.  Two unlikely people, both witnessing and grieving Jesus' death are proclaimed by God to be family.  I don't know why Jesus did it, but I just believe that if we who love Christ, could just look across the street, down the block, over in the other county...and proclaim (and live into) that we are all family (even as we follow Christ), we might be witnesses to fewer Black children's deaths.  I'm not trying to go all Hallmark channel on you...what I'm trying to say is that my brothers and sisters...the radical thing is to imagine yourself as me, or as your own child, or my son as your own son.  And, then, imagine the world that you would want that child to inhabit.

If it is this...well, I guess, you probably stopped reading a while ago.  If its something dramatically different...then you might need to have sympathy for people who destroy property in an effort to radically change a world that sees them (and me) as the enemy of the state...even though we'd all like to go out and buy Christmas presents, rather than wrestling internally and with our families about how the ills of Ferguson could show up on our doorsteps.

On Church Sabbatical Until Further Notice: A Musing About Sunday Morning Obligation

My really "churchy" classmates from seminary tease me all the time about my current state of affairs with the church.  Snootily they say with a condescending and smug tone, "Sean, where are you worshipping?"  The tone implies that I'm somehow in a backslidden state suffering with an addiction in the worst corner of the world.  It also implies that I somehow, don't understand my role/calling as a minister of the Gospel.

Both of these assessments would be dead wrong!  And, I imagine I'm not the only church-boy-gone-rogue, who has had a set of friends who make you feel guilty for things that they don't understand.  It's a good thing that I have lots of friends...and some who really get me.

Where do I start...I don't know.  I could start with what it's like to be in church leadership before and after seminary, before and after moving to no less than three new cities.  I could start with my time as a minister serving on a pastoral search committee, and directing choirs and youth art programs...as programs came to a screeching halt because of ministerial transition.  Or, I could tell you about serving in a church that changed pastor's and direction while I was on an internship and decided that they couldn't keep me on staff.  Or, I could tell you about the church that gave a pastor one week to vacate the premises because of a good "church fight," as I prepared the choir for Sunday worship.  Or, I could share with you how I once served a church that used the impoverished to exploit grant opportunities.  Or, I could tell you about the church where I sat like an ornament in a pew, hoping to do something other than sing back-up.  I'm not saying that these church environments shouldn't exist.  Sure, they each had something special about them (none of which I've named).  But, as an unpaid bi-vocational minister, hoping to see and hear God when I attended church, I just became...well...tired.

I was tired of the unchecked dysfunctional behavior of senior leadership.  I was tired of ego.  I was tired of leading things that didn't also rejuvenate my spirit.  I was tired of mean-spirited directors.  I was tired of foregoing weekend plans to be at one more service with "pastor."  I was tired of trying to lead a congregation into worship, who really just wanted "worship-tainment." I was tired of really bad sermons that lacked either intellectual integrity, cultural significance, or a serious sense of Godliness.  I was tired of driving to and fro to preach for what amounted to "gas money", after (leaving my professional work) studying on end to prepare sermons.  I was tired of working in ministries that required my tithe, but I never saw the tithe work in its building of youth, college students, or young adults.  I was tired of participating in ministries where people weren't committed to community beyond the numbers of people they could get into their pews.  I was tired of going to church and getting "nothin" out of it.  I am tired just thinking about it!

And, it happened slowly over time that I noticed that things were not right.  I'd spend time in the company of my peers, over dinner or lunch, and realize that God was meandering in our conversation, in a way that wasn't apparent in the "hi's and bye's" of my polite corporate worship life.  I'd watch a sermon from a church far away, and realize that I had just learned something from that message that I hadn't heard in months from the church where I was worshiping.  I'd be at another church visiting and feel the presence of God washing over me as the choir/praise team sang with such conviction.  I would read something, or something would happen in the world, and I would realize that I and the church I was attending were having two different conversations.  They were talking about corporate worship, favor, tithes, and offering, and I was talking about social/political change, community healing/restoration, personal worship, and trying to see God in all things.  I wasn't the only one struggling with this.  One afternoon while at a service, my wife looked at me, and said, "is this working for you...cause it's not working for me."

And as ministers we didn't want to see what we were seeing...that we weren't a good fit for the place where we were.  We hadn't outgrown it per se, it just wasn't a good fit.  So we decided to take a sabbatical, and visit other churches, and travel, and go on retreats with friends, and worship in other spaces, and question, and read, and think, and laugh...and have a baby too.  We decided to do something that is typical of our generation, but atypical of church folk in general.  We decided to take a break so that we could really move beyond the perfunctory motion of local church life, with its never ending obligation.  

It's not that we don't want to be in our church, its that we want more from our church...well, any church where we are obligated both by calling and by commitment to serve the local body.  We want to leave service, meetings, and bible studies filled with inspiration for the world we face, rather than poking hole's in faulty theology because of our theological education.   We want to adore and be adored by people as Christ would have us, rather than go months on end before meaningful experiences with sisters and brothers in the body of Christ.  We want to be honest, vulnerable, and safe, instead of enduring church fight after church fight...cuss out after cuss out.  We want to be in a space that values culture, history, knowledge, and legacy, while also seeking to appreciate the beauty of diversity and nuance.  We need a church that helps us make sense of a world filled with examples of Ferguson, Rekia Boyd, and Trayvon...I need that kind of church to help keep my righteous mind in tact.  Anything less isn't worth the time and energy I'm going to devote: unfortunately, I've learned that the hard way.

I imagine that many in my generation and below struggle with a sustained commitment to the local church body...trying to move beyond church hurt, toxic sermons, uninspired worship experiences, and cultish group ritual.  I offer this simple advice before taking your own church sabbatical.  Listen to God's voice above the voice of those around you.  Give yourself grace to grow.  And, remember that in Moses' living, in Paul's living, and in Jesus' living that they sometimes had to leave the general body to be able to minister effectively.   This is important because some church folk will make you feel like if you don't come to the church Tea or Fish Fry that you aren't really saved.  That's not true...and those people have forgotten one very important thing.  A relationship with God isn't indicative of the parts that they see.  It isn't indicative of their gauge of how good of a Christian they think that you are...or that I am.

Your relationship...my relationship with God is about what I do in the world, and how I point towards Him in my daily interactions.  My relationship with God is about standing with those in grief, praying over any entrusted to my support, loving the loveable and the not-so-loveable, inspiring others when they spend time with me, giving to others when they need me, and serving the world in a way that indicates Jesus' work in my own life.  

So yes, I'm on church sabbatical because I want to be more than an inauthentic pew sitter.  Yes, I'm on church sabbatical because I want as much from the church as it wants from me.  Yes, I'm on church sabbatical, and while on sabbatical, I'll still proclaim God...I'll still preach and sing...I'll still worship and serve.  Yes, I'm on church sabbatical so that I can heal, grow, and meander in the areas that I'm told are grey.  And one day hopefully soon, I'll be back in a consistent sunday morning worship experience...but until then I'll be in "revival."  In fact, I'm headed to revival tonight!

Koch Money, School Daze and Orange Glow: Why "The Give Back The Money" Campaign is an Insufficient Response to the Plight of HBCUs

Its funny how one moment can remind you of something you’ve seen or heard before.  That’s how I’m feeling about the Koch brothers giving such a grand amount of money to support UNCF colleges.  In this moment I’m remembering the iconic School Daze’s depiction of an HBCU caught up in the divestment protests that were a part of the Black College environment of the late 70s-early 80’s.  I’m thinking about the fictitious Mission College discourse between President McPherson (played by Joe Seneca) and Cedar Cloud (played by Art Evans) in which the seminal question was asked: “why don’t black people give to black schools?” 

And in this moment, I’m irritated that HBCUs don’t have the luxury to turn down a 25 million dollar donation in an economy that has left many “would-be” students unable to attend college.  But that’s not all, many overworked professor, administrator, and/or college executive is asking the question in this “furlough” season, “where do we go from here?”  So when an unexpected 25 million dollars shows up on your doorstep, it can be hard to turn down “a gift horse.”

Let me paint the picture for you.  The reality is that HBCUs aren’t schools that are simply teeming with overeducated, incompetent, money-grubbing loons.  In the main, most of them haven’t had two nickels to rub together almost since inception.  Most people, most presidents even, don’t have the lucrative packages that their counterparts at PWIs receive, even though they are carrying out tasks that require them to do triple duty.  Most HBCUs are filled with people doing two and three jobs for the price of one, and executive leadership is left trying to figure out how to stretch the dollar as far as it can go.  And, in my time, I have seen faculty, staff, and executive leadership pay for books, food, clothes, lodging, and tuition for students if they could pull the money from their own personal accounts.  In my firsthand experiences as an eager administrator, I taught two classes, mentored several students, worked with all of the NPHC organizations, ran Student Activities and Residence Life, served on the judicial committee, and planned Orientation.  In other spaces, one of these duties would have been the mission of just an office of two or three…as it is here at Duke.    And while it was an exhilarating experience, it was also overwhelming to make magic happen on a little salary at a little college filled with people who cared but who were definitely doing too much.

I say all of this to explain the conditions that precipitate the kind of gratitude one might feel in this moment as others "type around" facebook and twitter, providing trendy protest rhetoric that ends with: “give back the money before you become a puppet.”  I think that’s a beautiful response for the idealist who sits in Ivy settings or even well regarded prestigious settings like I do…where we have the privilege of saying no to money.  But, many HBCUs do not have that privilege.  I wish they did, but I realize that such a perspective isn’t helpful in this moment when students and staff need the resources to keep moving forward.

I think it is challenging for us to expect institutions to be more righteous than we are personally, or collectively.  While Kim on “A Different World” was able to turn down the fictitious Orange Glow’s apartheid-laden money, most of us have not.  In fact, many of us talking about giving up money ought to take a long hard look in the mirror.  We ought to think about how we jumped for joy upon entrance into schools who disenfranchised black communities, or accepted fellowships that were built out of exploitation, or graciously thanked benefactors whose scholarships had been born out of guilt.  Maybe we ought to ask even harder questions since we are being so righteous.  Should we be going to schools, like Tuskegee, designed by Booker T. Washington, who took money from folk that never wanted him (or any other black person) to have the right to vote? Should we attend schools like Spelman, which is rumored to be a school that benefited from mixed-race illegitimate children of the turn-of-the-century elite?  Should we be proud of Clark Atlanta University, which has been held together by Coca-Cola money?  I wish the questions were easier.  I wish the sordid histories and narratives were easy, but they simply aren’t!  The perniciousness of systemic institutional racism has had Black institutions crawling on their bellies eating the scraps of others…and somehow making it all work!

Therefore, while I wished that UNCF or HBCUs could be pickier about whom they accepted money from, I realize that this moment is tricky and there are consequences for turning down much needed resources.  But I don’t just wish that for HBCUs, I wish I could have turned down the scholarship from Macalester, when I was told over a dinner with the benefactor that he couldn’t believe he was supporting “the help.”  I wish I could have turned down the loan money from Sallie Mae that continues to be a shackle, when I made the decision to attend an HBCU for graduate school (in a non-STEM field).  I wish that the world was less complicated, but like Dr. Walter Kimbrough said almost year ago in an open letter to Dr. Dre when he (Dr. Dre) gave a $70 million to a PWI…“I wish you had given that money to HBCUs.”

In this moment, we must put our money where our mouths are…or shut up with the strategic complaining.  The lack of support from Black people, who too often forget that HBCUs have played a vital role in helping Black folk have access, is more challenging to me than Koch brothers money.  Their 24 Million dollar gift pales in comparison to our wholesale abandonment.