Reflections on Confronting My Color Blindness

Stacy Patty

      

             Sometime around 1986 while in ministry in New York, I was attending Union Theological Seminary.  In a class on Theology of Culture, I was assigned the task of presenting and defending the black theology of James Cone, widely regarded as the founder of black liberation theology.  This was not a task I relished.  I read his God of the Oppressed carefully and repeatedly to try and understand.  But it was very offensive; Cone seemed to say that Jesus was black and that only those who had experienced blackness could comprehend the liberating Jesus.  But I had to complete the assignment, so I dutifully summarized what I took to be the book’s thesis and main points and then proceeded to explain that Cone was too offensive.  If black theologians want us to understand what they are saying, they must tone it down, seek common points of reference with normative theology, and go more slowly with their radical (even if perhaps good) proposals, I argued.  And then I took the barrage of strong, inflamed responses.  “You have not suffered!  You cannot understand!  You must repent!” seemed to be the sentiment, literally pointed at me, that day.  I don’t remember the exact words that day, but I will never forget one scene:  The young black minister in his fancy three-piece suit standing over me with anger and calling me out.  The professor – a white Methodist male of Southern heritage – remained silent.  I felt humiliated and defeated (“I was trying to help Cone and his followers!”).  I left angry (after all, I had been fired from one church by then; I had suffered!) and confused. 

            Over the coming weeks and months, I met with that professor, and two others – also coincidentally white Methodist males of Southern heritage).  They listened to my anger and confusion and whining and questions.  They offered encouragement, and over time, words of advice, but they never justified my thoughts that day in class.  I don’t know how long I remained angry and confused, and self-righteous.

            But one day along the way, it hit me.  The initial offense was necessary to wake me from my slumber, to begin restoring sight from my blindness.  As a white person growing up in West Texas, I always enjoyed excellent public schools within easy walking distance from home.  I only even know that there was another side of the tracks – literally – when my blue-collar parents brought Mandy in once a week to clean the house.  Occasionally I would hear the n-word, but it never really seemed anything other than an identifier; even so, I sometimes joined others in fixing things by “n-rigging” them, but that phrase “meant no harm.”  I never worried about getting into a college, or paying for it, really.  And I never gave a thought to any real concern of one day getting a job and raising a family in peace and prosperity.  I realized that my family legacy was one of hard work and strong faith, and thereby life successes, but I never gave any consideration to the many others whose hard work and strong faith left them hungry, homeless, or in extreme poverty.  And in adult life, I have been fired – twice so far, and nearly three times – but I’ve never lost the safety net of family and savings and the ability to borrow money at reasonable rates.  I’ve never been stopped by the police and feared for my life.  I’ve never been followed around a store as if I might steal something.  I’ve never been turned down for a job because of my color, or my inferior educational past, or my prison record due to a lack of legal funds for adequate defense.  I’ve never been told that my ancestors did not have a soul.  I’ve never had to realize that I don’t know my original last name.  I’ve never had to sit on the back of the bus.  For that matter, like most of my contemporary friends, I’ve rarely had to even ride a bus – they’re much too slow and dirty.  I’d never realized that mid-20^th century laws regulated housing developments and distorted regional voting districts at the disadvantage of black families.  I’d never realized that the colleges and universities associated with the Churches of Christ were some of the last higher education institutions to integrate.

            And I’ve not really understood the Jesus of the Bible – a darker-skinned Jew who challenged religion and fought for social justice and dependence on God alone, with an end of all idolatries.  I’d never considered well, before my encounter with liberation theology, that the oppressed can teach me more about God than many European theological giants.  I’d never really understood suffering as a place close to God.  I’d never really listened to the words of spirituals.  I had not really known the Gospel.

            I still struggle with my own subtle racisms and/or attitudes susceptible to festering racism in me.  If I enter a restaurant and find only a few seats at the bar, I will likely avoid the one next to a black man.  I can easily make judgements about my black academic colleagues and their “over-the-top” cadences and rhetoric.  I walk through a D.C. neighborhood at dusk and avoid the black people on the side of the subway.  I enjoy a good black spiritual because of its “unique” style.  I’d rather not sit through a long and emotional worship service at a black church.  I admit that I remain complicit, even sometimes perhaps subconsciously, in structures of oppression and injustice that my own lifestyle supports or fails to confront.

            I am thankful for that class assignment, those professors -- Tom Driver, Christopher Morse, and Larry Rasmussen -- for Jim Cone, and for the many mentors, friends, and people of color who continue to help me see.

slp

11 June 2019

           

Why I Go to Christ in the Desert Monastery

Stacy L. Patty

So I did it again.  I left wife and job, packed basics and books, and headed up to the monastery for about two weeks.  When people learn that I am going, they always wonder why.  And for two weeks?  Here’s why:

The Location.  Christ in the Desert Monastery is described as “the most remote monastery in the Western Hemisphere.”  There are numerous monasteries in New Mexico, but none so far off the map, literally.  Drive an hour north of Santa Fe to Abiqui, then drive 14 more miles, past Ghost Ranch, to a turn-off, one-lane dirt and gravel road.  You have 13 more miles, so give yourself at least 45 minutes.  The road winds up the Chama River canyon, alternating between gentle curves and steep, hairpin turns among stunning mesa views with a kaleidoscope of colors.  The drive ends at the monastery, with guest rooms for 15 people.  The first thing one notices is the stark silence, only to be broken by a church bell marking the hours of prayer during the day.  And the deep blue sky.  And the midday clouds casting shadows on the cliffs all around.   And the afternoon shower, and the occasional rainbow.  The location makes it difficult to get to, but if you really want to have separation from the busyness and noise, there are likely few better places in the world.  If you just have to have a restaurant dinner, see that special ball game, or check up on the latest from Washington, you can certainly make the drive, but there’s that gnarly road and those lost three hours.  So settle in, and begin the adjustment to the life of the desert.

The Rhythm.  Before my first visit in 2011, a friend encouraged me to take the daily schedule seriously, and I am grateful to him.  These Benedictines follow the Opus Dei, the Divine Office, a series of seven “hours” of prayer appropriately placed throughout the day.  The prayers are largely chanting of the Psalms, punctuated with frequent doxologies, a simple hymn, and prayer.
On this visit, I did not arise for the first hour, Vigils, at 4:00 a.m.  I started at 5:00 with orange juice, two boiled eggs, and a slice of toast, followed by Lauds at 5:30.  By 6:15, I was back at my room, reading with the dawn, or walking.  At 8:45, Terce began, followed at 9:00 by work assignments (this year, I pulled weeds and oiled exterior doors).  Sext was at 1:00, followed by the main meal, with the monks serving a bounty of salad, beans, and white meat.  The meal began with hymns and prayers, and closed likewise.  The hour of None followed at 2:00, after which I enjoyed an afternoon of quiet, reading, writing, and walking.  At 5:45 I would go to Vespers, then share leftovers with the community at a light meal.  After more quiet time, Compline began at 7:30, followed by the Great Silence.  I usually sat at my door watching dusk and then dark arrive.  Over time, I find that my mind is more and more full of the day’s phrases – psalms, hymns, and prayers.

Often first-time guests come for only a couple of nights, which is sad.  It takes several days to adjust to the quiet, the stark beauty, and the day’s pattern.  But then comes something indescribable:  There is a kind of gentle inward peace and physical relaxation.  The rhythm of the hours, the walking to and from the chapel, the calls of the bell to prayer, the time to just “be,” invoke a certain kind of calm I rarely enjoy elsewhere.  I sense the presence of God, and it is as if nothing else matters – not the latest news, nor the work projects left unfinished, nor the bills still waiting to be paid, nor even rightful family concerns and responsibilities.  For now, in this sacred geography, I rest and renew.

The Limitations.  Until two years ago, the monastery did not have electricity or wi-fi.  Alas, both are available now, although the latter irregularly.  The rooms are quite simple, with concrete floors and an occasional spider web.  The climate can be cool at night and very hot in the afternoon; there are no air conditioners.   The food is basic, but given in generous supply.  Coffee is limited to instant mixes.  Adapting to these changes from normal life is at times a bit jarring but more so refreshing.  On my third day, I made the mistake of checking my email – a common computer in the breakfast room is provided for that purpose – only to find an alert about a supposedly very low bank account balance.  Immediately stress returned, until I found a way to actually verify the phish.  We typically live attached to our cell phones, going about our busyness among the noise and excess and exhaustion.  Experiencing limitations helps me to recover a sense of what matters and what does not.  It restores in me a desire to live more purposeful toward good living and being when I return from the monastery.

The Reading.  Rarely, and sadly, in the academic world do I focus on personal spiritual growth, and when not preparing for a lecture, I am drawn to contemporary issues in politics, science, and religion.  Somehow, the setting at the monastery seems not best suited for the mundane.  I brought enough theology and philosophy books to keep me going for a month, but I found myself drawn to Merton, Benedict, and the Desert Fathers instead.  How refreshing!

The Health.  At the monastery, one is not so quickly drawn to the kitchen for a late-night snack, or to the couch for an evening of numbing television.  You certainly can just sit and sleep, both of which are good and healthy.  But I found the desire to walk – at a good pace – each day.  I even went about five miles one morning.  And with only the ginger snaps made by Sharie to parcel out each day, I found the monastery fruit to actually taste good.  I only lost five pounds on this visit, but both mentally and physically I feel better.

The Encounters.  The monastery is supposed to be quiet.  One does not talk to a monk, nor do monks generally talk to each other.  All meals are eaten without conversation, though a reader does share from a designated book.  The guesthouse policy is silence, except for a common room.  But along the way, there are whispered hellos, after-meal exchanges, and short inquiries and answers.  And every time I have visited here, there have been unexpected but special meetings.  A young man appeared very unfriendly and sad until I realized he was there grieving the loss of his father in the previous week.  A woman knew Lubbock because she had played in an all-girl rock band at the air force base there in the early 1970s.  Once I ran into an old college friend there with his wife.  This time I paused to realize that a neighboring guest and I had once served on a spirituality and health committee in Lubbock.  And then there is Paul, a lanky, intelligent, octogenarian who works here each summer slathering shingle oil on exterior doors and exposed wood.  A Catholic theology teacher entering his 50^th year at a Philadelphia prep school, he invites me for coffee once or twice each year; I ask him about the rituals, and he updates me on the brothers (monasteries have their own drama).  This year, on a final day at None, Leander – the oldest monk -- shuffled over to me after prayers, leaned in, expressed hope that my visit had been a blessing, and added that he knew I had been a blessing to Paul.  These kind of moments of grace coming through chance encounters are serendipities that even this introvert treasures.

The Takeaway.  While I am learning to be simply grateful, I do come back home with a bit of guilt that I get this rare pleasure in the summers.  My hope is that I come back different – less stressed, more resolute toward kindness, renewed in spirit and body, less caring about the urgent, and more committed to developing and maintaining habits of attentiveness to the presence of God in all of life.  In time, I have learned, I do not succeed.  But with each visit and return, perhaps I become a little more consistent over the long haul.

So why not just become a monk?  Oh, goodness, no!  I like beef too much.  Seriously, I cannot imagine being distant from my wife and family, nor from the life of the university, nor the engagement with social justice in the public arena.  But I am grateful that there are monks in the desert, and I am thankful for the blessing they give.