Where do I begin?  I’m not sure.  First off, I usually steer away from things on this blog that could be controversial.  Things like politics and religion are usually taboo for me here.  But today I just felt the need to put these words out there.  Like it, hate it, I feel better for sharing it.  This past week I have been made aware that I know very little about the civil rights movement in this country.  How could that be you ask?

I grew up in an average size town in southern Oklahoma.  The only child of two loving parents.  My mother worked outside of the home when I started school in 1966 and my dad was the manager of our local bowling alley.  I spent a lot of time in that bowling alley.  It was a great place to grow up.  My dad put a bowling ball in my hand when I was about 4, which would have been 1964.  Apparently there were serious issues of civil rights going on across the country.

Not only was I unaware of this injustice, I never saw the injustice.  I did not see any water fountains that said “white” or “colored”.  I cannot recall ever going to a restaurant and seeing a “colored” seating area and a “white” seating area.  I had never ridden on a bus so I was unaware that an entire group of people were made to sit in the back of buses.  My parents didn’t discuss race relations in my home and I never saw anything on television.  When I would go to the bowling alley with my dad, all people were the same.  There were white people, American Indians, and blacks all bowling together in league.  If you wanted a snack, you could go into the restaurant, sit where you wanted and order a burger and coke.

In 1977 during my sophomore year of high school, I can remember when we got to the chapters on slavery in my American History class.  That was the same year the mini-series Roots came out and our American History teacher encouraged us to watch.  I can remember crying at various times and just feeling ashamed that people could be treated so cruelly just because of the color of their skin.

A couple of months ago, my son and I were having a very serious conversation about things going on in 2015 around the world and in our country.  It seemed a little odd for my 27 year old son to have such an insight.  We had a very thought-provoking evening.  The conversation got around to the young black men who have been killed by police officers.  As a mother of a young white man, I thought how different it would be if I was a black mother with a 27 year old black son.  Would I be fearful every time he left the house?  Would I have to tell him how he should act if he gets pulled over by a policeman?  I just can’t imagine.  Then my son reminded me that our African American friends and neighbors have only had their freedom for 50 years.  Oh my gosh, he’s right.

Realizing that I just don’t know enough about what transpired during the Civil Rights Movement, I decided I needed to know more.  My husband and son went with me to attend the screening of a documentary film telling the story about a group of Oklahoma City kids who conducted sit-ins at restaurants in downtown Oklahoma City for six years.  It never got violent, never really made the national news, but these kids turned around every restaurant except one before the 1964 Civil Right Act was made into law.  There was actual footage of these kids, along with interviews of many of them, who of course are all grown up now.  Listening to their experiences was powerful and again, I just could not believe what I saw.  The film also discussed some of the other sit-ins taking place around the country, all started from that group of kids in Oklahoma City.

Today I plopped down in front of the TV and I was scrolling through Netflix when I came across Lee Daniel’s, The Butler.  I didn’t see this one in the theater and since I’m a big Oprah fan, I wanted to watch it.  I was not prepared for what the movie actually was.  Here I thought it was going to be about a butler in the White House, and it was, but it also walked us through this family’s experience with the Civil Rights movement and beyond.  Many of the things outlined in this film, were a part of the documentary I had seen just days ago.  By the time I had journeyed with this family from 1960 until President Obama was elected, I cried off and on for over two hours.  My eye makeup was all gone and I was exhausted.  But I think I have a little better insight into the struggles of our African American friends and neighbors.  I also know fully, that the things I have seen cannot compare with what actually happened to the people who lived it or died for it.  My heart hurts just thinking about it.

Throughout my life I have had bosses that are of color, co-workers of color, classmates of color, family of color and very dear friends of color.  When I think about them, I can’t help but wonder what those times were like for them.  They never speak of it.  For these people I love and cherish, it is unbearable to think they may have been treated as those depicted in The Butler and in the documentary.  I hope with every fiber of my being, that had I been old enough to witness the travesty, that I would have been brave enough to make a difference. To take my fellow American’s hand and say to those hateful people, ENOUGH.

I guess where I am trying to go with this is to say that as a Christian, I really only have one charge in this life, to love my neighbor.   Do I do that every day? Nope.  Do I try every day?  You bet.  Do I succeed every day? Nope.   Are there days that are harder than others?  Yep.  But when I struggle with loving my neighbor, it is not because their skin color is different than mine or they belong to a religious denomination different than mine.  It usually has to do with their actions or their words.  So I continue to work on it every day.  That is my task as a follower of Jesus.

I am a proud member of the Episcopal Church.  I love my church for many reasons; its beautiful liturgy, its traditions, its generosity around the world and its inclusivity for all people.    Our new Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry was recently quoted as saying, “Our commitment to be an inclusive church is not based on a social theory or capitulation to the ways of the culture, but on our belief that the outstretched arms of Jesus on the cross are a sign of the very love of God reaching out to us all.  Did you catch those last three words?  TO US ALL.  In the words of the Apostle Paul:  There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female, for all are one in Christ.

So I ask you.  What does it really mean for you to love your neighbor?