c. 1998 Religion news Service

(Tom Ehrich is the author of”On a Journey,”daily meditations available through Journey Publishing Co. If you have feedback or want to suggest a question for a future column, e-mail him at journey(AT)interpath.com.)

UNDATED _ Our last gig of the season takes us across U.S. 52, the line that once separated black from white in Winston-Salem, N.C.

Members of Metropolitan United Missionary Baptist Church remember how the water came up in one pipe, then split in two: one spigot for colored, one for white. They remember the indignities of everyday life: marginalized schools and public services, places off-limits, careers inaccessible, a myriad of subtle but rigid lines that dictated behavior.

Technically, those barriers are gone. But life still looks different across U.S. 52. There it’s not as prosperous, and they more worry about crime. When they look west toward downtown, the people of East Winston see the backside of our tobacco factories. Executive offices are on the other side.

Our motives for coming here are mixed. For a singing group that loves to perform, this is one more stage. For a group that is all white, this is a small stab at racial reconciliation.

But there’s more. Two recent performances at the county jail have shown us that faith means more than pleasant gatherings with the like-minded. What we have means little until we give it away. What we believe is shallow until we share it. We aren’t complete without the other.

Personally, I’m surprised they invited us. Blacks must get tired of providing conscience-soothing experiences for whites, and then watching us go home to easier lives. How generous and forgiving they are to allow us into that institution which has been their rock and their comfort.

I hear the minister’s careful phrasing when he introduces us.”This isn’t `Crossing 52,'”he says, referring to a feeble effort by white churches to bridge the racial chasm. In other words, we haven’t come as do-gooders, but as fellow believers.

We sing music that seeks common ground. One song mixes Swahili and English. Another came to us from an integrated church in Brooklyn. But the heart of this performance isn’t our preparation; it’s their response. Their clapping and enthusiasm take us to higher ground, beyond restraint. Our voices soar on their gift of freedom.

I have no idea how racial reconciliation will occur in America. It won’t come from white singers standing on black stages. I know that. It won’t come from forums and committee meetings, or from improved lending policies at downtown banks, or from busing children from one side of town to another.

Those corrections, and many others, need to happen. But reconciliation _ engaging each other deeply and respectfully _ comes from the heart, not the policy session. America has moved beyond the daily acts of racial rage tearing other nations apart.

We have succeeded in institutionalizing a higher level of tolerance. Residential patterns and employment opportunities are more open. We aren’t perpetuating the public meanness of former generations. Political bigots who once chased votes by racial epithets are now chanting a mantra called”family values.” But our skin colors are different, and our eyes always see it. Mistrust, wounds and bitter memories run deep. Public apologies seem naive and self-serving.

In this Sunday morning trip across the divide, however, I sense one requirement for reconciliation.

Years ago, a black man told me,”Whites never want anything that belongs to blacks, except maybe our women.”Once a neighborhood has”gone black,”he said, it has fallen over the edge. A house owned by blacks is of no further interest to whites.

Today, however, I sense our need. We need their approval and their acceptance. Even more, we need their kindness. Those who have little to forgive can’t know the full meaning of grace. Those who choose to embrace despite centuries of abuse have something to teach those whose petulance and sour moods spring from shallower annoyance.

If my family was the one being shunted off to the side roads in a prosperous town, would I be as sturdy and gracious? If I had seen my father stoop to the colored spigot, would I welcome one more white group venturing temporarily onto exotic ground?

Luck doesn’t make one strong. Faith and forgiveness are the soil of strength.

Being white and open-minded seems easy. Being black and gracious seems a tall mountain to have climbed.

DEA END EHRICH