Make Me an Instrument of Thy Peace: My Struggle with Race

Editorial note: I wrote and delivered this message at a service honoring the life of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on January 15, 2017.

The Prayer of St. Francis

“Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;
For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.”

Opening remarks

These words were from the prayer attributed to St. Francis of Assisi.

Now I suspect these words don’t have quite as much resonance today.

We’ve seen what’s happened the last few years socially, politically, and institutionally, and for some of us, we can’t help but be angry. We can’t help but be impatient. We can’t help but be afraid and confused.

Where’s the hope and change that was promised us? Has the dream, in the words of Dr. Martin Luther King “turned into a nightmare”?

King uttered these words in speaking out against the Vietnam War and rampant poverty in the African American community, but he could very well have spoken these words today.

And I for one empathize with the sentiment because I too am angry, frustrated, and afraid.

But I want the words of the prayer of St. Francis to challenge us. I want this prayer to challenge the notion that there can be no place for peace, that there can be no place for forgiveness, that there can be no place for love.

Because once we start going down this road, we’re headed toward cynicism. In an environment such as the one we’re living in today, it’s very tempting to become cynical. We do this to protect ourselves from emotional and spiritual harm.

But without a willingness to engage in the difficult questions of our time, we become spiritually dry inside. We lose all hope and motivation to keep fighting the good fight.

Since his death, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. has been lionized throughout the world, and rightfully so. His achievements in the struggle for civil rights are universally recognized, his courage unequalled, and his oratory bar none.

However, like the prophets of old, Martin Luther King did not choose to become the leader of the Civil Rights Movement. The movement chose him. King knew that in accepting this role, that he was, in fact, accepting a heavy cross that he would faithfully carry the rest of his life.

Time and time again, he had to overcome his own doubts, fears, and lack of self-confidence. He had to confront his own contradictions, weaknesses, and disappointments.

And there were certainly disappoints, especially in the years following the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 when discrimination did not diminish as quickly as he had hoped.

But somehow he kept fighting the good fight. Through rain or shine, high praise or fierce criticism, Dr. King got out of his bed to fight another day for justice, equality, and peace.

Dr. King’s willingness to battle his own inner demons tells us something very important about the continuing struggle for equality. The struggle lies primarily within the heart of each and every one of us. Because we too have doubts, fears, and contradictions. Because we too feel debilitating disappointment when things don’t go quite the way we wanted or expected.

We’re afraid to confront these inner challenges because it’s painful to do so. We are hostile to the idea that, even as we see ourselves as part of the solution to our social ills, there are ways that we are also part of the problem—often in ways totally invisible to us unless we’re willing to undergo serious self-examination and reflection.

Sometimes it’s just easier to rail against the world and blame others for the state of our society, especially when they don’t look like us, talk like us, or live in our neighborhoods. It’s so much easier to point fingers. It’s so much easier to demonize others rather than face our own inner demons.

Throughout 2016, as race relations declined to the lowest levels in recent memory, I kept asking myself:

What is my contribution to the current state of my neighborhood, my country, and the world?

This question led me on a journey of inward reflection where I was confronted with my own inner struggles with race. Tonight, I want to share a bit of what I learned about myself during this inner exploration.

My prayer is that, in sharing my story, you may be inspired to embark on your own exploration. I pray that together, we may have to courage to step outside our comfort zones. I pray that we will begin to work together to find common ground and creative solutions to the many social, political, and economic challenges we face today.

I will use the words of St. Francis to aid us on this inner exploration.

My Story

But first, I have a confession to make.

I was not born and raised in the United States.

I was born and raised on the twin island nation of Trinidad and Tobago, a mere sixteen years after the end of British rule. I grew up learning about our local heroes, like Dr. Eric Williams, our first prime minister and father of the nation and Sir Ellis Clarke, the first President of Trinidad and Tobago.

I grew up learning about my own local black leaders and heroes in politics, academia, sports, and entertainment.

I grew up in a land of wealth and prosperity. I grew up well educated. And though my family was not wealthy, I wanted for nothing.

I did not grow up in the Jim Crow south.

I did not grow up being afraid of the police. Never did it occur to me that I could be stopped and questioned solely because of the color of my skin.

I did not fear that I would be discriminated against because of my race.

Because, unlike in the United States, when our slavery ended, oppressor and oppressed parted ways. Our history of slavery was just that—history. Growing up, I’d never heard anyone talking about being a child or grandchild of a former slave.

I did not grow up being part of a racial minority, but a powerful racial majority.

Forever enshrined in the national anthem of Trinidad and Tobago are the words:

“Here every creed and race find an equal place, and may God bless our nation.”

These were the words I sang growing up in T & T. And I believed every word of it.

But lest I leave you with the impression that we were some kind of racial utopia, I’ll now put that idea to rest.

Despite being known as the “rainbow country” we have our fair share of racial tensions, primarily between the two dominant racial groups, blacks, descendants of African slaves, and east Indians, descendants of indentured laborers who came to our shores after slavery ended in the mid-nineteenth century.

I remember that as children we would compare the color of our skin with others. We noticed difference in shades barely perceptible to the naked eye. Why? Because every shade mattered and the lighter you were, the more positive attention you got.

I remember the women and men who used bleaching creams to lighten their skin. I remember people who put dangerous chemicals in their hair in order to straighten out the kinks.

I remember the racial jokes made at the expense of darker skinned people.

I remember how whites were treated with awe and reverence.

Ironically, even as I grew up in a nation that affirmed blackness, somehow I learned that black was in fact, not beautiful—despite the campaign to the contrary.

The darker you were, the worse off you were—and every shade and feature that tended toward whiteness mattered.

Any of this sounds familiar?

Coming to America

By the time I came to America in 2000, I was well aware of the historical racial tensions between blacks and whites. Though I was no expert in the Civil Rights Movement, I was aware of Dr. Martin Luther King. I knew he had his own holiday and that he’d done great things to help move American society towards racial equality and justice.

But I also held to the notion that America was somehow post-racial. I remember learning about racists and hate groups like the Klu Klux Klan. The impression I got was that these were fringe ideologies. I don’t know where I got that notion, but I was happy to accept any suggestion, no matter how faint because the alternative was simply too much to bear.

In college, I quickly realized that blacks and whites often did not eat together in the dining hall. They seemed to have very separate cultures. As I tried to find my place in this new country, I found myself caught between these two worlds.

I was dismayed when I realized that having a circle of white friends and a circle of black friends seemed mutually exclusive. Over time, I felt strangely alienated from both groups. To my black friend, I simply was not “black” enough. How do I know this? Because one of them admitted to me that they would call me “Oreo cookie” behind my back.

I felt like my white friends, though friendly, seemed superficial and insincere. In conversations, I would regularly encounter deeply embedded stereotypes of people from so-called “Third World” countries. I would often encounter genuine surprise because I “spoke so well” or excelled in the classroom. I had to, on one occasion, assure someone that I did not grow up in a tree house.

The only group I felt comfortable with was my fellow international students. We found camaraderie in the fact that we were all trying to wrap our heads around American society and culture.

And yet, as I made my way through college and beyond, I clung to the belief that racism was something that existed only on fringes of society. Besides, I never felt discriminated against.

I began to wonder whether this racism thing had to do with the way we black people behaved. I wondered about my estranged black college friends. Why did they isolate themselves in the part of the dining hall known as the “fishbowl”? Why did they have to talk and laugh so loudly? Why didn’t they study more so they could demonstrate to their white peers that they were just a capable academically? Why couldn’t they exchange the hoodie for a polo shirt?

It was only years later in hindsight, that I could even begin to see my own bias. Even though I never used bleaching cream or hair relaxers, I was applying that bleaching cream internally in order to be accepted by the white majority—no wonder I was being called “Oreo.”

In a culture where, for the first time in my life I felt vulnerable, I wanted to be accepted. I wanted to be safe. I even wanted to be loved. But it wasn’t enough just to be loved. I needed to be loved by the people who mattered, by the people who had the power to ensure my safety and success.

So I dressed “properly,” spoke softly, and buried my head in my books. Yes, I was already a naturally shy and quiet person, but used it to my advantage, or so I thought.

The Politics of Respectability

I didn’t know at that time that what I was doing unconsciously had a name, until I heard Dr. Michael Eric Dyson of Georgetown University call this type of thinking the “Politics of Respectability.” The essence of this theory is that the way out of discrimination is simply to behave “better” and that if you did experience racism, it was somehow your fault.

As I explored the logic of the “Politics of Respectability”, I slowly came to the realization that I was, in no small way, a part of the problem, not a part of the solution. I realized that I, in fact, did not transcend racism as I once believed, but that I was internalizing racism in a way that caused me to turn against my African American brothers and sisters.

As video after video of police shootings of unarmed black men surfaced, I had to face the hard truth that the “Politics of Respectability” was bankrupt.

And even then, try as I may, I could not avoid thinking to myself, “What crimes did they commit?” or “Did they resist arrest?” I just could not fathom that someone could be shot and for no reason other than being black.

In his book Between the World and Me, Ta-Nehisi Coates shattered that myth in writing about the tragic death of his friend Prince Jones. Jones was educated, ambitious, and well liked. Jones did not grow up in the streets nor led a life of crime. But Prince Jones was still shot and killed by the police.

The message was clear—this can happen to you too.

But the real breaking point for me came when I learned about the mass shooting at Emanuel A.M.E. church in Charleston. Before that day, I hadn’t cried for years. That evening, I wept. I finally understood.

America is not post-racial.

What now? All my defense mechanisms were stripped away that night. How would I protect my body, mind, and soul from the evil of racism? How would I protect my children or my grandchildren?

I understood that the battle against racism and bigotry was not primarily one against flesh and blood, but in the word of St. Paul to the Ephesians “against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places” (Eph. 6:12).

We cannot fight this battle if we deny that there is a battle in the first place. We cannot effectively confront racism if we deny that racism is woven into the very fabric of our society. We cannot win the battle if we’re unwilling to acknowledge that the battle is being waged in our hearts and minds.

I suspect I’m hardly alone in my struggles with race and racism. The insidious evil of racism touches us all.

And the problem is so big and so multifaceted that laying the blame for where we are today on any one group or person is morally and intellectually dishonest.

In just a few days, Donald Trump will be sworn in as the forty-fifth President of the United States. In the view of many, Trump’s victory was fuelled by a toxic mix of dissatisfaction, anger, fear, and hatred. It feels like the cause of civil rights has taken more than a few steps backwards.

I believe all this is true.

But I also believe that the election of Trump happened, in large part, because of our collective inability to listen to rural America, and to the plight of the white working class who felt ignored and left behind in this new economy.

Until we can narrow the gap between urban and rural America, we will continue to fall behind in our march toward racial and economic justice. We must find away to cut through the stereotypes that define these communities and keep pushing us further and further apart from each other.

The great spiritual evil of systemic racism that has plagued this great nation since its founding cannot be fought through protests and marches alone. We must, in the words of St. Paul, “clothe ourselves with the whole armor of God” (Eph. 6:13).

At the same time, we must dismantle the armor we’ve placed around our own hearts, because no outward armor can protect us from the battles waging within.

So may we begin this dismantling by way of the prayer of St. Francis

Dismantling the armor

“Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;”

Where do you see hatred in the world today?

It’s clear that our minority communities confront hatred on a daily basis. If you find yourself in the minority due to your race, religion, nationality, education, gender, sexuality, or socio economic status, you’ve either experienced hatred or lived in fear of such hatred.

When confronted with hate, there’s often a temptation to return hate for hate. In this regard, we must hold fast to Dr. King’s commitment to nonviolent resistance.

Dr. King once said:

“You can murder a murderer but you can’t murder hate.”

Hatred will destroy the soul of the person who wields it. Our internalized and externalized hatreds can only vanquished with love.

Many of us resist this message of love because of the images that naturally come to mind when we hear the world “love” – things like sentimentality, affection, or attraction.

But I think the best definition of love that applies here is one given by the late Jesuit priest Anthony De Mello. He wrote:

“Love is a sensitivity to every portion of reality within you and without, together with a wholehearted response to that reality.”

Love is not easy because love requires that we stay engaged, showing up, and standing tall when good sense and logic suggest we do otherwise. It means facing reality rather than falling for illusions. It means learning to live in our discomfort zones.

And living in the discomfort zone means not just confronting the hatred we see in the world, but the hatreds in our own hearts—hatred toward ourselves, the hidden biases we hold, the conscious and unconscious ways we perpetuate hate in the world.

Because the urgent task of sowing love must begin in your own heart.
How do we begin to sow the seeds of love?

“Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light;
Where there is sadness, joy.”

Will I continue to burn with resentment and bitterness or will I learn to forgive? Will I choose to live in despair or hope? Will I choose to live in sadness or joy?

We may think that external circumstances dictate our choices, but only I have the power to choose how I will react or respond to any given situation. This is the source of my power and your power. Do not hand this power over to other people or to external circumstances.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
To be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
To be loved as to love;

Am I willing to selflessly seek the good of others? Am I willing to truly listen to others, so I can understand where they are coming from? Can I make the commitment to listen even when I disagree?

Can I work with people from across the aisle to find creative solutions to our problems?

Can I live with the possibility of being misunderstood? Can I choose to love even when I feel unloved?

For it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
It is in dying to self that we are born to eternal life.

Can I trust that, even as I focus on giving, that I already have all I need? Can I treat myself with love and compassion when my own shortcomings become apparent? For what am I willing to die?

That last question may be the toughest of all. We fear death and do all we can to avoid the topic. Dr. King was also afraid, but he courageously identified and fought for the causes that he eventually died for.

Do not be afraid to identify the causes you’re willing to die for, because it is these very causes that will strengthen you with the courage to live. They’ll get you out of bed when you don’t feel like getting up. They’ll free you from the jaws of cynicism and apathy. They’ll make sure you show up to fight another day.

Becoming instruments of peace

So be not afraid.

Go deep within so you can be chastened and strengthened to continue the work of Dr. King and those who came before him and after him.

Our social, political, and economic challenges are too great to be fought alone or in exclusive silos. We all need to show up, wholeheartedly engaged ready to continue in the struggle for justice and peace.

May we have the courage to come together despite our differences.

May God continue to shine his face on us despite our weaknesses and struggles.

May we one day realize the powerful dream that inspired the work and legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

And may we all join in the fight, not to wage war, but to become instruments of peace.