I did not grow up Presbyterian, and I can’t identify as a ‘cradle’ or ‘prenatal’ Presbyterian, or any of the ways that
Keep ReadingA Theological Reflection Why can’t white folks in general – and white Christians in particular – be rid of the problems of white privilege and racism? Why can’t a board, a vestry, a session, or pastors and Christian Educators simply
Keep Reading
Taking a Stand for Racial Justice in the South Video used with permission from the Presbyterian Historical Society, part of the Living History film project. Vernon Broyles wrestled with leadership choices in a congregation fractured over racial tension in the mid-20th century. Edited Transcript: My name is Vernon S. Broyles, III.
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Dismantling White Privilege in Institutions of Theological Education I have grown weary of liberal racism. I have grown especially weary of Christian liberal racism. White supremacy is insidious. It enables, sheds tears, and delays to deny. This sin is so exhausting. Much time is wasted explaining, returning to the scene
MoreA Theological Reflection Why can’t white folks in general – and white Christians in particular – be rid of the problems of white privilege and racism? Why can’t a board, a vestry, a session, or pastors and Christian Educators simply do the things necessary to solve the problem of ‘race
MoreIn Zora Neale Hurston’s 1928 essay, “,” she writes about her lived experience as a black woman in the South. She talks about her racial awakening, describing it as “the day I become colored.” She uses many metaphors to talk about race, including calling herself a “brown paper bag” alongside other bags
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An Opening Editorial Yes, you read the title right. I am racist, and so is the majority-white denomination I serve, the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.). I’m not particularly happy to admit this about myself or my Church. True, I have never engaged in explicitly hateful actions based on a person’s race
MoreGrowing up Asian-American and Adopted in a Southern White Church I was born halfway around the world from the place I now consider home. My life story does not begin in a hospital, like many people’s, but in the Greenville-Spartanburg International airport, where I first met my adoptive parents (or
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A poem, born in post-apartheid South Africa, revived for the global Joining Hands Initiative; a spoken word reflection about white and Global North privilege, driven by Peggy McIntosh’s invisible knapsack metaphor. By Abbi Heimach Sometimes it takes a journey, a journey that shakes-up your worldview so much that there
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