Several years ago I stood before the Ministerial Fellowship Committee of the Unitarian Universalist Association. This is the body within the UUA that is responsible for accepting or rejecting candidates for the UU ministry. It's usually a time of high anxiety for the candidates facing the MFC; it was no different for me. There's a lot on the line.

During the course of the interview one of the panelists, a sweet and elderly Black woman, asked me how I dealt with the issue of racism. I breathed a sigh of relief; I could relax, at least for this part of the interview. Racism was not a dilemma for me! I had already dealt with it in my life. After all, I'd worked as a Social Worker for years in Uptown Chicago–the melting pot of the world. I had co-workers and friends of every race. "Racism?" I said. "Not a problem."

"But what are you doing about it?" The woman asked.

"Doing?" I said. "I've already done what I need to do. I Love people–all people. I'm not some kind of a racist person."

"Oh," she said rather despairingly. "Then you don't need to do anything about racism!?"

"Right," I said. But I couldn't have been more wrong. In retrospect, this interchange was probably the poorest moment of my MFC interview. It wasn't for another couple of years that I would come to have a better understanding of the issues of racism–that it's not possible for any one person to have handled it; that racism is an intricate and insidious cultural structure that calls out for social deconstruction; and that there are more apparent and less apparent victims of racism.

James Baldwin wrote: "... let people not forget the effects of racism on both victim and perpetrator: it is a terrible and inexorable, law, that one cannot deny the humanity of another without diminishing one's own: in the face of one's victim, one sees oneself."

We don’t often spend much time looking at the toll racism takes on the White culture. If we are going to be serious about undoing racism, we need to be honest about the privilege that it bestows upon the dominant culture, and we need to be prepared to forfeit that unfair privilege. But we’re not really going to go anywhere with this unless we take an account of its costs.

Dr. Janet Helms, a white professor of psychology at the University of Maryland–College Park, writes in her book, A Race Is a Nice Thing to Have, "For racism to disappear in the United States, White people must take the responsibility for ending it. For them to assume that responsibility, they must become aware of how racism hurts White people and consequently, how ending it serves White people's best interest. Moreover, this awareness not only must be accompanied by enhanced abilities to recognize the many faces of racism, but also by the discovery of options to replace it."

This congregation has a long history in the crusade against racism. Under the leadership of both Dr. Edgar Wiers and Dr. Norman Fletcher, a time span of 65 years, the Unitarian Church was at the forefront of the fight against segregation in this town. We played a major role in the integration of schools, lunch counters, movie houses and other venues in Montclair. We did what we saw that had to be done in order to take the next step toward racial justice.

In more recent years we’ve come to find that the battleground looks different. We’re no longer fighting clearly outmoded laws that separate. We’re now fighting subtle social structures that maintain separate racial relegations in areas of education, economics, criminal justice, and public safety to name just a few.

Under the leadership of former minister, Lee Barker and our Undoing Racism Committee, this congregation began to look within to determine our own roles in promoting and maintaining these structures of racism. Today we take our journey in another step toward wholeness, as again members of the Undoing Racism Committee in partnership with this minister come before you to begin the exploration of the costs to Whites–personal and otherwise–of racism.

With me this morning are James Shillaber, Jean Scott and Maggie Joralemon. Our hope this morning is that perhaps through the stories of loss that you are about to hear, you (who are white) might begin, or begin anew, to recognize your own story, and your own losses. And you (who are of color) might appreciate the earnest, religious effort that continues to be a major focus of this congregation’s life.

An opportunity that worship makes available is the invitation to be transformed through engagement with the issues of life. No one else can direct that transformation. But others can help us to engage. The transformation is left to our own minds, and hearts and spirits.

"Lost and Found on the Journey Toward Wholeness"

By James Shillaber

I have a short excerpt from the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s "I have a dream" speech, given in Washington on August 28, 1963. You, like me, learned these words years ago — I wonder what they mean to you. Their meaning to me has changed significantly over time.

Now informally I’ve thought of my journey as "lies and layers" or "layers of lies", but that makes it sound so overt, much more of an active process than I think it really is. In truth, I always thought I missed something. One of the great things about growing up in rural New Hampshire was that because there’s no race there, it seemed like there could be no racism. I was never exposed to blatant bigotry about race — it simply never came up. Everyone I knew was White and it’s embarrassing to admit that the only diversity I actually noticed was whether you wore Lee or Levi jeans to school.

I learned of Dr. King’s speech in school and was sympathetic. Why should one group of people be treated differently than another? The "created equal" part of Dr. King’s words had meaning to me. At that point I could see how racism hurt Black people… but I couldn’t see how Whites were hurt by it. All the focus on equal rights makes it easy for White people to think that, besides bigotry, that’s what racism is about. So I was comfortable knowing that I wasn’t part of racism, I wasn’t perpetuating anything.

I have no recollection of when I first noticed "race", or that some people didn’t look like me, but I know the first time I met and spoke with a Black person was in college in Ohio. "What’s the big deal," I thought. Joe Butcher was just like many other 18-year-old college freshmen — similar background, similar interests, just trying to fit in. It was then that I thought I understood Dr. King’s speech on another level — not only should Black Americans have the same rights as Whites, but they just want to be treated the same — they don’t want to be seen as "Black". One people - Americans, college students - "judged not by the color of their skin" Dr. King said… And I thought I understood on another level how racism hurt Blacks — they’re all running around trying not to look Black. I guess I thought if you’re throwing out the judgment you have to throw out the color with it.

Somewhere here in the chronology I started to get it that maybe racism was hurting me. For a long time I saw "Black and White" as something to be bridged, some gap to close, and one day I realized that I seemed to be spending more time trying not to make Black people feel uncomfortable about being Black than I was in genuine relationship. Who’s uncomfortable here, and where did that come from?

Noticing that discomfort, noticing that energy was drifting in this direction, was the door opening for me to look more at myself and what I was both investing and losing in this system?

And this part of the journey has definitely been the most eye opening. I’m here to tell you there’s a cost to White people of racism.

• Investing energy in trying not to make Black people notice they’re Black robbed me of knowing them, and sharing my real self. As we passed on the street or in our lives, how many times have Blacks made sure they didn’t share their real selves with me, justifiably?
• As a White person I’ve never actually had any experience of my own color and race. When I think about what’s good about being White, it’s access and privilege that I come up with. Ironically I’ve been the one trying to blend in, trying not to be noticed, so I can quietly take advantage of what my race offers. The truth is now I don’t know what my race is, or what it really offers.
• And whether you think so or not, being White has left me with the legacy of White people’s hatred, bigotry, and unfairness. This is a burden I carry — a wound that I feel deeply.

I’m just becoming aware of what racism in our society has cost me, and I’m both angry and sad. It’s so subtle, White people, and there’s a lot at stake. I used to think the last part of Dr. King’s speech was just like the first — it applied to Black people. Now I have a very different stake in his words… these words were written for me too. He said:

"It Makes a Difference to Me"

By Jean Scott

My reading is from, Dismantling Racism: The Continuing Challenge to White America, by Joseph Brandt.

The personal incident I want to tell you about occurred about a year and a half ago. I had for quite a few years been actively involved in a volunteer organization which provided assistance of all kinds to battered women and their children. The founder of the group was a woman who had an understanding of the dynamics of domestic violence and was willing to devote inordinate hours of her time to working tirelessly with these women. We members of the board of trustees of the organization had a great deal of respect for her efforts.

Our goal was to raise the funds in order to purchase a house that would provide shelter for those who were able to leave their place of abuse. After about 8 years and much hard work, we had the required funds and found a suitable house. Another board member and I were given the task of interviewing candidates to staff the shelter. Needed were a director and several lesser positions. We selected two equally excellent candidates for the director’s position, one white and one black and referred them to the founder for the final choice. Her first choice was the white candidate, who having been offered the position, refused because of a personal problem that had arisen. The next obvious action was to offer the position to the other person. The next day, I received a telephone call from the founder, during which she said "I won’t have a black director in my shelter and they are calling me a bigot" My response was, I felt, quite obvious. We talked a few minutes during which I tried to reason with her about the issue but her mind was firmly set. The incident become known to the other board members and amazingly I thought there was no significant reaction. Shortly after, I and several others resigned, with some regrets; we had worked with the group for many years but felt we couldn’t continue in that kind of racist environment.

I felt a great sense of loss over the incident. During my tenure with the organization, I had spent many hours with our clients and had come to know them very well. I had provided moral support in court and in attorney’s offices and was a patient listener on the telephone during the most unexpected hours. No matter how many stories I heard of the abuse they suffered, the next story was equally shocking. In many cases a certain level of bonding occurred with these women. I looked forward eagerly to opening the shelter and providing even more help to our clients. The racist statement that the founder made to me, and the lack of reaction by other board members made it very clear that this was a group that I had no longer had interest in working with. I have learned that the shelter is up and running and I’m glad, although I have also learned that women are accepted primarily from "suburban’ communities which is a code word for white. My loss is that I no longer am able to feel the sense of significantly helping women who are in dire need in rebuilding their lives. There are other causes to which I can offer help, but I still feel regret about the earlier one having devoted so much time to it.

"What Racism Has Done to Me/What Anti-Racism Has Done for Me"

By Maggie Joralemon

This is a passage from the book "Killers of the Dream". Lillian Smith, a Southern white writer, educator and activist, wrote it in 1949.

In 1964, when I was 14 years old, living in segregation in the suburbs, I entered a public speaking contest in my junior high school. I was so moved by an article in Reader's Digest about the first African-American to be admitted to the University of Alabama, and the indignities that he suffered, that I felt compelled to share his story. Given the urgency of the topic, in my view, and the importance of education, I was sure that I would win. I didn't even place. My feedback was zero, (other than one "Niger-lover") and I suspect that it was then that my formal disillusionment began. The racial and class segregation in which I lived, combined with the media, allowed us, particularly young people, to imagine people of color as issues, or problems rather than fully human. Our lives of acquisition and correctness were upheld as a standard; any deviations from that standard were seen as ironies of life or unfortunate accidents of history. Whites who didn't make it could be easily explained away as "white trash". My instincts told me that something was fundamentally wrong. I questioned how our spacious homes and new schools could be right for us, but not right for others who didn't look like us.

I made the conscious effort to redefine, reeducate, and release myself from the limitations of racial, cultural and class segregation. I entered YMCA exchanges that allowed me to be welcomed into the hoes and churches of African Americans. Later, I attended Essex County College, and later Livingston College, which was an experiment in integrated higher education. I married someone from a different racial, cultural, class and language group, and had two beautiful daughters.

My earlier life experiences served to move me from vertical, social thinking that places us above and below each other in dominance and subordination, to a more horizontal plane that gives us the opportunity and privilege of being nest to each other. I learned many lessons in humility. Cultural sharing was everywhere. Yet while all this was happening, my frustration and alienation with being white, and my disconnectedness from other whites became troublesome. I felt myself disassociated from "my people," who I felt–despite the good intentions of some–were indifferent, silent, misled or uninformed about racism. I could not bond with other whites around our inherited entitlement and still be true to my ideals. In my view, our humanity was at stake.

The term "white liberal" was given to those who could decry racism, yet live very comfortably with its benefits. These were the people who would back down in the boardroom, and profess to be colorblind. They were easily offended when challenged, unnecessarily paternalistic, and couldn't admit that whiteness held unearned privilege. They were fixated on the victims of racism, and did not see their own role in its perpetuation. I didn't want to be one of them. I knew that something more could be done, and that with the right tools and mindset, it could be done.

In 1990 I became a UU. It was here in this church that I was introduced to anti-racism. For us, seeders of justice, it was the next logical step, and our covenant provides the safe place for self-reflection, reeducation and transformation. Anti-racism provided me with a power analysis of racism that I knew about in my heart and soul, but could not articulate. Anti-racism has provided me with a community of whites that I secretly craved, one I now value so deeply. It has truly brought me home Anti-racism has replaced the sense of frustration and rage around racism with the comfort of clarity and the inner calmness of personal empowerment. My compassion and support extend farther now to myself and other whites, in our efforts to "take on" racism, knowing that we, too, are victims - - fully human victims, I might add.

The term anti-racism does not have to stick in our throats. Anti-racism is standing up against racism, like anti-war, anti-poverty, and anti-nuclear. The Journey Toward Wholeness is an opening for us, a journey of movement and growth. It can be a lonely journey and a difficult journey both inside and outside this congregation. It would be nice to have some more company.

Charles Blustein Ortman

Closing Comment

We all come into this conversation from different points of entry. The religious challenge for each of us to be honest about who we are, and where we are on the journey. The religious invitation is to be on the journey, to engage in the questions, and to seek and promote the transformation that awaits each of us, and the world around us.

Malcolm X argued that for racism to disappear, white people had to be, "re-educated to understand how racism works in their hearts." Dr. Janet Helms indicates that so far, "virtually no major educational efforts aimed at this goal have appeared." I would want her and everyone else to know that in Montclair, NJ there is a religious effort, an effort with no less a goal than to fulfill the dreams of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcolm X and to free all of humankind from the unnecessary and evil burdens of racism. Here in Montclair, NJ such a religious effort is at hand. And we should, "Never doubt," said Margaret Mead, "Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed it's the only thing that ever has."