Jesus, JEDI, and the power of a Sunday Dinner.
Public service warning: This is not a typical rant about the current state of our nation. Nor is it my typical attempt to convince you, the reader, that empathy is the end all to be all solution. Even though I think it is fairly close. What it is is my attempt at vulnerability and storytelling - this time my own. And while I am weary and tired, and overwhelmed to the point of near exhaustion by the ugly and hateful discourse and rhetoric that fills our minds and daily news feeds, like you, I have watched families, friendships, communities, and sadly, an entire nation break apart over things like whether Black lives really do matter, whether a fetus is a human being, or if it has more value than the human carrying it. Since then, I have watched and witnessed countless debates and arguments online about whether Q Anon is the public’s version of Deep Throat or if the Center for Disease Control is trying to control us via implanted trackers.
To be honest, I have been a part of my own fair share of online debates and even downright digital shouting matches on topics ranging from racial justice and “COVID was a fake” to Christian Nationalism and wokeness as a handicap of the young, and even some of the old. So rather than stand on my high horse and talk about what tonic you should take so you can assume your rightful place in solving the myriad of problems we are bombarded with daily, I thought it was high time I offered a peek into my world and how, without any of my own doing, I was fortunate enough to be born into a family who emulated — albeit messily and imperfectly — how to engage diversity and difference with empathy. So, I guess you could say I was offered and unknowingly took the red pill.
I guess what I am trying to say is I know what it is like to feel self-righteous in these debates. To feel like it is my job to convince the rest of the world that what I believe to be true actually is. Not only that, but that people who do not see things as I do are somehow deeply flawed or in need of redemption. I even know what it feels like to damage and even lose relationships with people I care about. All because I was conditioned to believe that in the midst of battles over cultural norms and identity politics, my God-given role is to lead my side into victory. And in the pursuit of that victory, I have lost far more than I have gained.
Some of these losses are tangible: loss of friends, colleagues, and even family members. What is more tragic, I think, are the intangible ones: loss of trust, credibility, and even faithfulness. As a follower of Christ, I have been indoctrinated in a battle of contrasting ideas. First, that I should love my neighbor, and even, strangely, my enemy. Second, it is my job to defend the faith, to convert the lost, to stand for biblical truth, and vote for the side that supposedly will protect my right to do so. My entire Christian identity was so immersed and entangled in these dissonant contexts, that it was hard to reconcile my call to love my neighbor and enemy, all while being conditioned to throw (metaphorical?) grenades and stink bombs at them. My nature – my flesh – reveled in the latter. In the end, my need to be right, to feel superior, smarter, more holy, overwhelmed my need to love others.
I guess what I am trying to say is I know what it is like to feel self-righteous in these debates. To feel like it is my job to convince the rest of the world that what I believe to be true actually is.
It took my own awakening to see how wrong my position was. How hurtful it was to those who knew me as both Christy and a Christian, and who, themselves, were trying to reconcile the little that they knew about my faith and the person I had become. It was even worse for the people who knew me before I became a Christian, aka the Christy pre-Christ. For some, the Christy of yore was much more likable, loving, understanding, easier to be around. Pre-Christ Christy was, I think, more like the Jesus I was supposed to emulate as a Christian.
Now, this isn’t to say that Pre-Christ Christy was perfect. Far from it. My acceptance of Christ transformed my life in ways I can barely describe. In most ways, becoming a follower of Christ changed me for the better. But it brought with it an ugliness that I can only explain as one part self-righteousness and the other part fear. Self-righteousness in that by becoming a Christian I was somehow better, more holy, more sanctified than the unconverted. I was “saved.” Fear, in that by holding fast to the idea that what I knew to be right actually was, and conditioning myself to refrain from doubt that what I had come to believe (or had been taught) was infallible, I was somehow denying Christ himself. I imagine you might be able to relate.
The author with her grandmother and maternal cousins.
So what changed? Well, thankfully, I did. Shifts in my personal life began to reveal the old Christy; the part that was less fearful about diversity of ideas and opinions. The one who loved learning and being challenged by others; who was intellectually and culturally curious; who loved people and all that came with them. You see, I was raised in one of the most diverse familial environments possible. On my father’s side was a direct link to the atrocities of slavery, a lineage that came from the rape of slave by slavemaster. The result was a father with skin nearly as pale as most caucasians, hazel green eyes, and sandy blond hair. Raised in the deep South, my father and his 12 siblings were the victims of nearly every racial dysfunction one can imagine. Too light to have friends with those darker than a paper bag (for those unfamiliar with the history of the paper bag test, you might want to stop and do a quick Google search now), and too dark to befriend white children, my father depended almost solely on his siblings for his early friendships.
My mother’s background was the exact opposite. One of 5 children born to immigrant parents, my mother would experience a different kind of dissonance. Her mother, my grandmother, was an immigrant from Ireland. Like millions of Irish at the time, my grandmother arrived as a stranger in a foreign land. In fact, we think she sailed alone at the age of 18 to escape unspeakable horrors at home and in her country. My grandfather came to the U.S. as a merchant marine from Cape Verde, an island off the west coast of Africa. Similarly, he found kinship among the thousands of Cape Verdeans living in New England – Massachusetts and Rhode Island specifically.
Shifts in my personal life began to reveal the old Christy; the part that was less fearful about diversity of ideas and opinions. The one who loved learning and being challenged by others; who was intellectually and culturally curious; who loved people and all that came with them.
My grandparents made an unlikely, and largely unliked, pair. Unmistakably Irish, my grandmother was a blond haired, blue eyed Catholic. My grandfather, who very much represented the influence of Portuguese colonization of West Africa, reminded me of a dark Ricky Ricardo. Navigating the prejudices of both white and black communities, as well as the race-based norms and expectations of most parts of the U.S. at that time, my grandparents would flee New England in search of a place to call home as a racially mixed couple, and find few places where they and their mixed children could be accepted. Though they eventually put down roots in Los Angeles, I am never sure either found the kind of home or community they longed for. Ever.
Image of the author’s grandparents, John and Margaret, at their home in Yucaipa, CA.
Because of my family’s proximity to my maternal grandparents, their influence weighed heavily on my formation – as a person and as an American. I attended Catholic church and Catholic school, where I was one of few mixed-race students. Like my father’s childhood, I found friendship mostly among my large network of extended family, many who lived in our neighborhood and attended the same church and school.
Despite living in a diverse area of Los Angeles, my father’s history was never that far away. I recognized early the challenges of his childhood, and how that translated to his adulthood and parenting. Belonging was everything to him. His friend group was about as diverse as one can imagine. Being an avid fisherman and hunter brought with it friends of all colors and backgrounds. Working his entire life for the Southern California Gas Company also brought lots of diversity into my formative experiences, as his colleagues were often invited to parties and picnics my family hosted.
However, one of the most profound and formative rhythms of my growing up was Sunday dinners spent at my maternal grandparents home. You see, unlike most people, I grew up surrounded by aunts and uncles of all different hues, experiences, histories, backgrounds, and perspectives. This showed up every Sunday at my grandparent’s dinner table where we all convened after Sunday mass. While a homemade meal was served up without fail, so was debates and lively discussions on everything from race, to politics, to religion. No topic was off the table (literally).
I learned a lot from those Sunday debates and discussions, more than I am sure I realize. For example, I have no idea what it is like to live under the banner of “no politics or religion in polite company.” In fact, it remains — at least to my mind — one of the strangest norms we have as a society. What good is living in a diverse nation, with tribes and ethnicities and histories of all kinds, and not talk about their stories and experiences? What good is it to refrain from tackling the hard issues in the company of those you love and trust? No wonder we struggle to engage the hard issues with the people who are more like strangers.
More important than amazing meals and loads of laughter, is what I learned during those Sunday dinners. I watched in real time my aunts, uncles, and cousins practice what it means to truly reconcile differences; to disagree and debate and then come back to the table the next Sunday to do it all over again. What I witnessed was the people I looked up to most treat and value one another as only we humans can. And while not always perfectly or without hurt or pain, the ping ponging of my family’s divergent ideas and opinions meant that the lens I developed can now see diversity, difference, and disagreement as a natural part of life and relationship. To know that to disagree with grace and care is central to our ability to love and be loved, even in the midst of the messiness and chaos that is the lived experience of being in relationship with people different than us.
I have no idea what it is like to live under the banner of “no politics or religion in polite company.” In fact, it remains —at least to my mind — one of the strangest norms we have as a society.
As a self-titled “empathy expert”, I owe my professional career to those experiences, to my family who demonstrated what it means to live and love across lines of difference and embrace diversity of race, perspective, and experience. To those who didn’t see a divergence of views as a threat, but rather a gift. You see, while the term empathy gets thrown around a lot in our cultural lexicon, it shares little in common with the well-known definitions most hold today. Rather, real empathy – the kind that makes us more human, more like Christ, and more reconciler than divider – comes from leaning into diversity, seeing it as the design by a God who is intentional in His creation. The God who created difference and diversity in the church body the same way He did the human body; with the realization that every part of the body brings a unique gift to the whole. And, that no one part of the body functions or experiences life the way the other parts do.
The foot knows little of what it is to be an ear. Or the ear what it is to be a foot. But without both recognizing the other's value (e.g., the ear that it needs the foot to move it closer to beautiful music, and the foot that it needs the ear to know whether it is safe to step into traffic, and leaning on their different experiences to function effectively, neither can accomplish its purpose). That is the value and purpose of diversity. It is why we are called “the body” of Christ. Every part of the body needs and relies on the other parts, recognizing that each part plays a unique role in the functioning of the whole. Each part needs the others like we need each other, even the others we don’t understand, with whom we find it difficult to relate, and even those we disagree with. The sharing and melding of those ideas, experiences, histories, and beliefs is what makes us relatable. And it is what gives us our ability to connect with people, to share the Jesus within us with people we have absolutely no ability to relate to.
The moral of the story is, we need each other. Even with all our differences and disagreements, we desperately need what others have to share with us. To do this, we have to be open to listening and disagreeing. But we must remain open. Open to inviting others in. Open to their stories. To their experiences. To their opinions and perspectives, even when we disagree with them. This is how we find comfort in the midst of difference. This is how we help people belong.
I hope my story inspires you to begin your own journey of empathy; to learn how this way of living can help us individually and collectively navigate the big issues, debates, and challenges of our time. Maybe even solve some of them. More importantly, how it can help us live more people-centered, rather than us-centered lives, and how it can help to inculcate a culture of belonging – not artificially or in response to the pressures of wokeness, but because it is the essence of who we are in Christ, and who God calls us to be. This is the foundation of our calling to love our neighbors, and is essential if we are ever to get to the point of loving our enemies. For, to authentically love our enemies we cannot be at war with them. We must be at peace with them, knowing that the only change that matters is the change of the heart. This kind of change cannot come by way of coercion or legislation. It must come via the changed hearts of people. And isn’t that the essence of our call as Christians?
The moral of the story is, we need each other. Even with all our differences and disagreements, we desperately need what others have to share with us.
In Philippians 2, verses 1-4, while in prison, Paul encourages the early Christians in Philippi to be “like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind.” To do “nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. But rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.” What Philippians 2 is calling us to is the “how” of knowing and, thereby, valuing others as the foundation for loving both neighbor and enemy alike; for this is the true way of empathy.
My hope is that my story will encourage and inspire you to engage in the challenging issues and conversations that are in desperate need of Christ’s healing - our healing. Issues like racial injustice, poverty and homelessness, immigration, abortion, debates over gender and sexuality, and even identity politics. While I have neither the space nor knowledge to venture into these issues directly, my hope is that by sharing my story, your view on these issues – and more importantly, the people at the center of them – that cause you to fall prey to the machinations of the enemy, might be influenced as well.
There is one caveat, though, that I feel compelled to state up front. While this is my attempt to advance a new, or perhaps less developed, concept of empathy and its connection to human flourishing and sacrificial living, one thing it is not intended to do is lessen your own experiences, beliefs, and perspectives. They are important and necessary, and are a formative part of who you are. Empathy is not agreement nor approval, but it is a helpful tool when it comes to navigating diversity and difference. It is what helps us bring our authentic self into diverse and challenging spaces in a manner that does not dehumanize or dismiss the experiences, beliefs, and perspectives of others. And it is an important ingredient when it comes to your ability to love your family members, friends, neighbors and strangers; those who hold ideas and beliefs, and even advocate for changes that run counter to your own. These are the neighbors (and enemies) God calls us to love. And empathy is a necessary part of that transformational process.
My hope, and prayer, is that each of us might begin to see others – those across tribal, cultural and ideological lines – as Christ does; as image bearers who are not only deserving of our love, grace, and sacrifice, but as necessary pieces of the puzzle that is the solution to some of our greatest challenges. To do this well means getting up close and personal to the people with whom we do not agree, do not appreciate, do not understand, or perhaps, do not like. Then, and only then, can we begin to love them as we are called to love them; the human frailty God saw fit to address in the first, and greatest commandment. And perhaps, as evidenced by the reality we are all living through today, the most challenging part of living the redemptive life.
