Cathedral Connection

I have heard the mafia references more than I care. Probably once was more than I needed. Now I want to say up front, as a white, straight male living in North America it will be a long, long time before my name shows up on any list of the oppressed. I don’t hear the dago and wop jokes much anymore, yet the reference still has some sting. The fact that I learned to say, “When your people were running through the woods with clubs and torches, mine were busy connecting Europe with roads and viaducts that still stand to this day. Oh, and the Renaissance? You’re welcome.” The fact that this runs off my tongue so quickly is merely a coincidence—right.

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Again, I cannot say I know what it is to be a gay or lesbian person, I cannot say I know what it is like to be a Muslim in America, I cannot say I know what it is like to be a female (though I watched my mother work to get respect as a woman in the professional world—she will kill me for saying this) and I don’t know what it is like to be black in America. What I can remember is the jokes, the subtle comments from some fathers of girls I dated, and those who asked me if I had any family members in the mafia. I know what these moments did for me. And they were moments, not the day to day reality of those I have mentioned above.

By this point in my life if I hear comments like these I know to say internally ‘this says nothing about me’, to take a deep breath and move on with my life. And it would not slay me to hear an apology for those moments. Do I need an apology to live my life? No. Do I feel anyone owes me anything? No. Would it seem irrelevant or pointless? Not so sure. Might it change my experience of these moments?

In the Service of Reconciliation and Repentance which we will offer Saturday, April 9 with the Presiding Bishop, there will be a time where we name and offer apology for the things perpetrated on African slaves brought to this country. My family never owned slaves and in fact my immigrant ancestors were likely paid what some would call slave wages when they came to this country in the mid 1800’s to work on the railroads. Yet I can understand that which was perpetrated on African slaves and have a compassion that allows me to voice an apology on behalf of those who were the perpetrators. I can recall the times I have made jokes about ethnic groups including African-American people. I remember the day I apologized to one of my best friends Rick for making a Jewish joke, to Rick in whose Bar Mitzvah I had participated.

I will attend this service and make apology not because I as a white person am a horrible person. I will attend and make apology not because I have some latent white guilt. I am not sure if I had lived in Charleston in the 1800’s, and was of means, whether or not I would have chosen to own a slave. I would like to think not. I cannot say with certainty I would have or would not have.

I will attend and voice apology because as one who works with words for a living, I know the power of words. I know the power of naming things and how the very naming begins to loosen the destructive power of those things. I know the power of hearing certain words even when you don’t expect them or believe you need them. I also know some of the attitudes I have carried, attitudes that have surprised me at times.

I remember the look of surprise on Rick’s face when I apologized. We were at our 20th high school reunion. I had made the Jewish reference 22 years before. He said, “Really? You said that?” He said, “I guess I was used to hearing that from folks from time to time.” While his affect in that statement was generous and sincere, the notion he had gotten used to those comments was not consoling for me. He then looked me in the eyes and said, “Thanks.”

Blessed Lent,

Todd