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Lessons from a Black Man

I was proud to call E.J my friend. Gentle and soft-spoken, he was a wide-faced bear of a man. He wasn't tall, but the first time we shook hands mine disappeared in his. Some said that EJ had been angry and rebellious as a young black man. I only knew the gentle spirit with a slight hint of gray around the edges.

It would be hard not to like EJ. In all the times I heard him sing Amazing Grace, I don't remember ever seeing him finish without tears coming to his eyes. He had an easy way with words when he prayed, and he reminded me of a little boy talking to his daddy. When EJ prayed you just knew the Lord was listening. But it was his way of addressing God that first amused, and then later, as I came to know the man, made me question my own view of God. It humbled me a little. EJ always addressed God as "Master."

Over the years I knew of several incidences where race played a role in EJ's life. He and his wife came home to their mostly white neighborhood one night and found their dog lying dead in the yard, a gunshot wound to its torso. Another time someone at their mostly white church asked EJ and his wife why he didn't go to church with "their own kind." EJ responded softly, "My kind is Christian."

I remember once EJ and I were talking about race and how the divisions of race have no place in Christ's kingdom. I told him about my grandfather, a staunch Southerner who grew up in post Civil War Louisiana. When I was a little boy my Grandfather told me fascinating stories of being chased by alligators and catching water moccasins with his bare hands. His stories always included the almost prideful acknowledgment that as a boy he had known ex-slaves. But he always followed it with the caveat, a reflection of the times, that "I have nothing against blacks as long as they stay in their place." I'll never forget EJ's response. His eyes met the floor as he said, softly, "I'm still trying to figure out what my place is." I was sorry I told him that story. I wouldn't have hurt him for the world, but his dark expression told me I had.

EJ died a few years ago, his wife, family and a host of friends, white and black, around him. He was loved because he was kind and good. With his last breath he praised God for all He had done for him. Worship was EJ's passion right to the end, and I sometimes wonder if, at that moment in time when he left this earth, he even noticed the change.

Today, Western culture has been seduced by narcisism, a vice that has no place in the church. Pep-talk messages and self-help programs are replacing Biblical exposition, on-your-knees repentance and humble worship.What the new century holds for the church only God knows. But I do know this. EJ was wrong about himself. He did know his place. He knew it better than most. In this age of pop-culture services and self-help preaching it could be that those of us who don't think of Jesus as "Master" don't know our place.