When I was two years old, my family moved to a new town in New Jersey. My parents opened up the Yellow Pages in search of a church to attend and decided on the Baptist church. I imagine they dressed me in my Sunday best, including patent-leather shoes and white tights or ankle socks, backed the car out of the driveway, and bravely made their way to the church with the white steeple.
When my parents found themselves at the back of the sanctuary, with the center aisle stretching out before them, they noticed something that gave them pause. Everyone in the church was white. The organist. The choir members. The ushers. The people in the pews on either side of the aisle. Not a brown face in sight. All white. Except for my father, my mother, and me.
Read the rest today at TheHighCalling.org.