It was a relief to know that this was a statistical falsehood—many thanks to Jack and Jill Politics for posting the Daily Kos link that gives the lie to this propaganda!  Nonetheless, I have been through this before, a long time ago, when one group of marginalized people (the LGBT community) felt marginalized by another group of marginalized people (African Americans).  The first time someone presented the issue to me then, I drank the Kool-Aid, and was willing to imagine the extreme homophobia of the Black community.  But I’ve lived a long time since then, seen firsthand the homophobia in white communities of the so-called “enlightened,” learned how many of my own family members were gay or lesbian, realized how committed I am to this issue, and discovered how easily the white LGBT community is willing  to overlook its own racism and condescension for a chance to scapegoat an entire community.

Some of the conversation we are having right now is based in reality:  in many quarters, the opposition to same sex marriage in the (not-at-all monolithic) Black community is theologically based.  It takes a literal reading of Leviticus to get there, and I’m a totally non-literal lover of Scripture.  But I also imagine several things:  first, that there is what’s in the Good Book, versus what’s going on in real life–thus the persistent reality of African-American congregations populated with a host of gay and lesbian people who neither ask nor tell.  Second, there is the legacy of racism, expressed via a horror among African Americans about any kind of sexuality that would even hint of our “abnormality,” and thus our non-humanity.  Remember that, for centuries, we were the people who were the object of sexual fantasy and nightmare.  We were exotic and unusual and dirty and bad and other.  So many of us have, for a very long time, overreacted by being totally “straight-life” when it came to issues of sexuality. (Any black woman who’s been present for a  late-night conversation about the boundaries around oral sex will know what I mean!)

Those of us who have learned to let go of the public relations version of black sexuality, however, and be our true selves, whatever our sexual preferences, nonetheless partially recognize the drill.  Ours is also a recognition of the breadth and depth of sexuality and love, combined with real-life exposure to men who have loved men and women who have loved women longer than some of us have been in the world. And some of us continue to understand that nothing—least of all, sexuality—absolutely nothing, can separate us from the love of God.  As a minister, it is this nuanced understanding I am working and praying for!

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So let’s add one more reason to the pile: his stunning speech on race in America. I couldn’t see it live, and spent most of yesterday trying to find a site that hadn’t crashed from all the traffic. But I finally got to see it last night; what a brave, brilliant moment. It was a speech of such courage and compassion, such honesty and respect. I felt he articulated on my behalf the wound of slavery in a way no contemporary public person has in a generation. And in articulating it so clearly, and in its full context, he invited me and other African-Americans, to risk putting aside its memory for the sake of something more important: the future of my country. The brilliance of his speech was that he did not simply do the same old thing and ask black people to get over it. He asked us to own the truth of our experiences, to acknowledge the truth of the experiences of whites, and to recognize that some of what troubles us is our collective ignorance about race , about history and about one another. I know that he will have disappointed some Latino/Latina and Asian people by seeming to focus on the black/white aspect of the racial divide. But I believe that such focus is entirely appropriate, because I believe slavery and its legacy in the United States is our country’s primary, deepest festering wound.

To me, the least interesting thing about the speech was the ostensible reason for giving it: an opportunity for Obama to reject/denounce/decry the words of his pastor, the Rev. Jeremiah Wright. Watching the news coverage of Rev. Wright over the past several days has been a textbook example of religious illiteracy in the American media. It would be hilarious if it weren’t so sad. It’s perfectly obvious that most reporters and commentators don’t go to church/synagogue/mosque, so they don’t have any idea of what a relationship with your pastor/rabbi/iman can be like. It’s just as obvious that none of them have a clue about the black church in general or black theology in particular. Mad props to Chris Walton for his brilliant Philocrites post of a few days ago on this very subject; you go, Chris!

Most telling of all, for me anyway, is the complete lack of cultural understanding about this “rejecting/denouncing” business that seems to have such currency in the public arena. At the risk of making too broad a statement about African-American values, and with the full knowledge that I don’t speak for all black people, let me say that we don’t do the “rejecting/denouncing” things with family. We just don’t do it. Nearly every black person I know has family members and close friends who have said and done all kinds of uncool things, even criminal things. Every one of us that I know of have been clear about disapproving of the offending party’s behavior. But all those folks are still part of our respective circles, even amid all their imperfections and failures.

When I was growing up, I was taught that you don’t turn your back on family, no matter what they’ve done. (Sociologists have long documented the incorporation of good friends and mentors into the structures of black family life. In studies, such people are referred to as “fictive kin.” When I was growing up, we just called such people our “play sisters/brothers/cousins/uncles/aunts.”) So when Obama talked about Wright being like an uncle to him, it made complete sense to me, especially considering that Wright performed the Obamas’ wedding and baptized their children. You don’t stop going to your family’s house for Thanksgiving because your family members start acting out, do you? (In my house, the only question on Thanksgiving is: who’s turn is it to act out this year?) Your people are your people. Period. You can hate what they say and do, but at their core, you belong to them and they belong to you. This posture is, among other things, Universalist theology 101.

As always, nobody wanted to talk about anything else but that speech today. The only trouble is, today is the fifth anniversary of the start of the Iraq war, and so many of us seemed resigned to it. I like to think it’s because we are waiting for November to remedy this tragedy. It would be nice to think that Americans could carry on more than one serious national debate at a time, wouldn’t it?

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The part of me that is feeling pastoral at this moment may be willing to cut Gerry some slack because she may be too old to know any better. As a white woman of a certain age, Ferraro’s political and personal awareness on issues of race preceded the work of women like Peggy MacIntosh, the uber-white-ally whose landmark work on white privilege laid the foundation for genuine anti-racist work a generation ago. Ferraro, on the other hand, is one of those women who is stuck in the monolithic view of white feminist privilege, a woman who may very well believe that being a woman is such a singular disadvantage and burden that all others pale (you’ll pardon the inadvertent pun) beside it.

I remember standing more than 20 years ago in the newsroom of the Wall Street Journal, where I worked as a copy editor, on the day that Ferraro was named Walter Mondale’s vice presidential candidate. I stood there as a black woman and cried, imagining then that I had been privileged to live at a time when a white woman would be seen as a creditable vice presidential candidate, and imagining that my day might one day come. I remember Election Day, when I voted for her, even though it turned out that she would lose. I even remember telling others not to blame her, years later, because her husband was involved in less than transparent financial dealings. All those moments were a long time ago.

Now I am so ashamed that I ever allowed myself to be seduced into believing that she and I could make common cause; for white women like Ferraro and Clinton, common cause means men and women of color playing adoring handmaidens to them while they take the lead–even when they don’t deserve it. I am reminded of nothing so much as an old movie (by my sons’ standards) called “The Competition,” with Richard Dreyfuss and Amy Irving. Dreyfuss and Irving, concert pianists, fall in love during a cut-throat piano competition, which Irving wins. But winning the competition has a drastic effect on Dreyfuss, who suddenly finds himself faced with an unthinkable reality that threatens their relationship. Even though they had made plans to be together before the competition was decided, everything threatened to change once the Amy Irving character won. As Dreyfuss said in the movie’s most arresting scene, “It never crossed my mind that you were better than me.”

Ferraro/Clinton have worked hard for what they have, just as Dreyfuss did in this sleeper film. But it is obvious that a subtle combination of entitlement and racism has fueled their every cynical move, especially as Obama’s delegate lead grows ever larger. (Anyone who’s driven Routes 80 or 81 in Pennsylvania can testify to how well Ferraro’s rank innuendo–and Clinton’s tepid denials–will play among certain folks there.) Obama’s skills, timing, and (perhaps too much) grace under pressure have had a synergistic effect which neither the two of them, nor any of their supporters, had counted on when this long race began. Under other circumstances (before they started showing their collective a@#??, perhaps) I would have found a way to affirm Clinton’s historic and cynically pragmatic campaign. But it is far too unattractive for me to cooperate with a group of people who are so amazed that a black man can accomplish what they, so far, have not been able to manage, that they have resorted to slander, innuendo, condescension and the cheesiest kind of racism.

One day, I will turn on my television, and a black woman will be running for President of the United States. I used to think I would never live to see such a day. But I have been blessed enough to see several things I was sure would never happen in my lifetime: Nelson Mandela walking out of prison; Geraldine Ferraro being named as a vice presidential candidate; Barack Obama and Hilary Clinton being the last two people standing in a Democratic presidential nomination process. I am only 52 years old, and I believe in God, so I think Time and The Holy are on my side. In the meantime, I am left speechless by the horrific spectacle of the Clinton campaign revealing their racist underbelly. I only wish I could tell you how surprised I am by it all.

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One night as they were talking, the man asked A. what religion he was. A. responded by saying he was an animist, a traditional, earth-centered religion with variations throughout Africa. But he was planning to give up his beliefs, A told the man, because people thought he was the devil; he was trying hard to become a Christian. But the laughing white man from America said, “No.”

“There is some place where you can be what you are,” the man told A. He kept saying that, again and again.

The next day, as the man was leaving the hotel, he found A., and gave him a slip of paper, with these words written on it: UUA, 25 Beacon St., Boston, Massachusetts. For months, A looked at the paper, then wrote a letter, asking for information, daring to hope.

The answer took a long time, but when it came, it was in French–from Jean-Claude Barbier, leader of the French Unitarian group. A. and Jean-Claude corresponded; A. learned more about Unitarian Universalism. Finally, in 2004, A. gathered his family members and friends, and started a fellowship in his living room.

Today, there are 33 members of that fellowship in Congo-Brazzeville, along with many more “sympathizers. I know they will join us someday,” A. says.

My heart is full.

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Take this outline from one of the lay-led fellowship groups in Nairobi: “We light the chalice, and one of us says a short prayer. Next, there is a reading from the Bible. We focus on issues pertinent to the time; now that our country in turmoil, our reading is on reconciliation and healing. Next, there is a song; if you feeel edified enough, you can dance. Depending on how prepared we are, one of us may choose to give a short sermon based on the reading, though it doesn’t have to be from the Bible. Then we end with a short prayer and extinguish the chalice.

In the outlying Nairobi areas of Tena and Ruira, things are different. Church members arrive at 9 a.m for a service that begins at 10:30. They visit with one another, then receive introductory words from the minister. Members introduce themselves, speak of the congregation’s programs and projects, as well as any joys or concerns among them. Finally, the chalice is lit, followed by a reading, a song, and a story. Then the congregation’s children leave, while preaching and discussions continue, along with hymns. By the time the chalice is extinguished, it’s 12:30 p.m.

In Burundi, the leaders explained that “we dress formally to respect each other; we make a circle, light the chalice, read from the Bible. Then we exchange commentaries on what we have read, then meditate. There is an ending prayer.” The delegation assured us that they practice solidarity among their members, and that any one of the members is capable of conducting the service.

The constant, it seems, is the chalice. All other elements are in flux. But what a wealth of information and ideas we have covered on this Saturday afternoon.

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Then he asked us each to say the Prayer of Jesus, each in our own language–English and Kisii; French and Yoruba, Swahili and a host of other dialects. The air was filled with the murmur of our shared voices (“Give us this day, our daily bread…”), floating across the veranda on a Kenyan afternoon filled with sun.

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