KKK–In my Blood, Not my Heart

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I walked into the bedroom as my mom was cleaning out my grandmother’s dresser and spotted a strange white bathrobe lying on the bed. “What’s this?” I asked, grabbing the unfamiliar garment and impulsively pulling it over my shoulders and slipping my arms in the sleeves.

My mom’s eyes widened a little as she turned around and saw me wearing it. “Do you know what that is?” She had an odd look on her face. “That’s your great-grandfather’s KKK robe.”

A chill went through me as I stared at her in disbelief. She was serious! I looked down at the robe, then touched it gingerly.

An unfamiliar insignia was sewn on the breast of the robe. A stiff cone-shaped piece of the same cloth lay nearby on the bed, with odd flaps extending from the back. As the astonishment wore off, I picked it up and turned it around slowly, recognizing the hat shape from a Little House on the Prairie KKK program I had seen years before.

It’s hard to describe the sensation of looking at a symbol of cold bigotry and knowing it belongs in your family. Anger? Shame? Grief? What exactly is a person supposed to feel when they see hard evidence that someone whose blood runs in their veins embraced something so evil? It’s almost like finding out that your ancestor was a serial killer.

And yet, I felt a numb curiosity—an urge to connect with this man I never knew, to plug into his mind and comprehend the mystery of what drove him to think in unfathomable ways. On impulse, I went into the bathroom to look in the mirror. There was a long, strange cape sewn on the back of the neck of the robe, with two small holes cut in it. Eye-holes? Apparently the cape was supposed to go over my head. I hesitated, then unfastened the neck and pulled the cloth over my head, positioning my eyes so they could see through the holes. My neck is longer than his was, I thought absently, a little grateful to know there was at least one tangible physical difference between us. I tucked the cape into the neck under my chin, then buttoned the neck again and fitted the cone-shaped hat over my head with the flaps going down the back behind my neck.

On impulse, I turned out the light and then lifted my eyes to look in the mirror.

I gasped and shuddered in involuntary shock at the image looking back from the glass. There was no trace of me in the mirror anymore. Instead, an ancient Klansman glowered back at me.

This was my heritage—a legacy of cowardice, of hiding behind a cloak, of threatening others from a vantage point of of supposed security and conscious supremacy. The flesh inside the robe now was related to the flesh that used to flaunt this garment with pride. There’s not that much difference between him and me—only years. Years and mindsets.

I recall my grandmother speaking reluctantly, softly, once or twice about her childhood memories of going to the KKK picnics. They were not unlike any typical Sunday School picnic, with her gleefully scampering around playing with other children for hours. But in the evening, she remembered soberly watching a burning cross silhouetted against the black sky.

But as she grew up, Grandma rejected the philosophy that her father had embraced so passionately, refusing even to bury him in his KKK robe as he had requested. She came to believe that every person was of equal value in God’s sight, without regard to race, ethnic background or religion. Thankfully, she passed on that heritage to me.

Had I been raised as she was, perhaps I would have shown less courage than Grandma. I’ll never know. However, I am thankful that I can stand on her shoulders, and that my children can stand on mine. I married a man who not only believes as passionately as I do in racial reconciliation, but even did his doctorate on the topic, and fought tirelessly to bring the races together in South Africa and Zimbabwe, long before I met him. Together we work, in our own small circle, to spread the gospel truth that every human being—no matter their size, shape or color—is priceless in the eyes of God.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t struggle with the same urges that drove my great-grandfather, though. On the contrary, they are written into my DNA as a sinner. How often have I felt like I am somehow higher than someone else? Do weight problems, intellectual limitations, fashion choices or any of a million other factors tempt me to look down on others because they are not like me? I can even easily congratulate myself on the fact that I’m not a racist like he was—thus giving in to the same self-exalting impulse.

Sinners love bigotry. It is the core of sin—the carnal craving to exalt self above others. Everything in us rebels against trusting what God says—that we are created in His image and redeemed by His blood, and this is the measure of how valued and loved we are. For some reason, we turn away from the one Fountain that would quench our insecurity. Incomprehensibly, we don’t want to believe that we are priceless—just like everyone else.

 So instead of quietly rooting secure identity in quality time with God every day, we huddle in mini-tribes with others like ourselves, scoffing at the lesser beings and congratulating ourselves on whatever makes us like each another and unlike those lesser people. We trample one another, vainly clambering on the rotting ladder of human rank and respect. We exalt leaders who build their very campaigns on disparaging people groups with whom we do not personally identify. We even want to make God over in our image, a neatly ordered Deity whose community is dependent on everyone keeping Their place in the holy hierarchy, instead of seeking the lowest place even with One Another. We ignore the very law of God that governs the universe—love. Love—the character of a God who came down to earth and, from the manger to the cross, voluntarily took the lowest place, in order to lift us up. We forget so easily that, because of Jesus, “There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free, there is neither male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Gal 3:28).

This week, I have been distressed to see stark evidences online that racism is alive and well in my neighborhood. Perhaps there is no more shameful way to demonstrate our disgraceful sense of superiority than to cloak ourselves in anonymity and scorn others without risking exposure or opposition. Instead of a white cloth with eyeholes, modern cowards may hide behind the anonymity of a veil of the Internet, confident they can spew disrespect without risking a loss of respect to themselves.

There will come a day that the scraps of cloth with eye-holes will be stripped away. Someday those who considered themselves above others—because of body shape, skin color, facial features, intellectual abilities, or any of a million other human measures of worth—will be rebuked by the One Who declared all equally priceless in the light of Creation and redemption.

The blistering contempt of other fallible humans is nothing to fear compared to the dreadful words that some will hear on the Judgment Day. “I never knew you; depart from Me, you who work iniquity.”

May we all repent of our bigotry before that day.



387961_10151189420875204_236355998_nNicole Parker was once a zealot intent on changing the world, but is now an astonishingly domesticated homeschooling mom living in quite possibly the tamest town on earth–Collegedale, Tennessee. While engaged in her mundane tasks of chopping veggies and sweeping floors, she enjoys lofty theological ponderings, a pursuit also enjoyed by her husband Alan, a professor at Southern Adventist University. This penchant has led her to inch her way through a master’s degree in biblical counseling, and now has her devouring a master’s degree in pastoral ministry from Andrews University. However, she has zero intention, and even less desire, to become a pastor. Check out her website at www.heartthirst.com

My Story: My Experience With Race and Racism as an Adventist

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In the past, I have shared my perspective on the racial divide we face as a church.

However, one aspect of this issue that I haven’t discussed yet is my own experience with race and racism within my own life and the Adventist church. I’ve been sitting on this post for over a year but, today I want to do that and share why, despite the challenges, I believe in a better future.

To begin with: I’m mixed, both ethnically and racially (that’s my family and I in the picture above at my brothers wedding last year). My father is an Afro-Caribbean from the Dominican Republic, with some Haitian decent. My mother is from the Central American country of El Salvador. Although many people may think all Hispanic countries are the same (no, we don’t all eat tortillas), these two cultures are vastly different.  Here is where my struggle with cultural, ethic, and racial identity begins.


I’ve never felt fully a part of the racial or ethnic categories that I belong to. Let’s take a high-profile example: President Barack Obama. Although he’s biracial, many people tend to see him as one race or the other. Being half and half myself, I never felt like someone who belongs fully to one culture.

Case in point: I’ve never been to the Dominican Republic (this is sacrilege when I say this around my Dominican friends). I mainly know the generalities or stereotypes of the culture (mangu and plantains), but most of my knowledge comes second-hand. I don’t even know how to cook like them (although I wish I did).

I know about bits and pieces about DR’s culture and history.  I have heard many great things about the country, and though I physically resemble the people there, I have never felt culturally connected to what it means to be a true Dominican.

The same goes with my Salvadorian side.  I’ve been there twice, both times as a child, and I remember being stared at because I clearly didn’t look Salvadorian. My friend Anissa has gone through similar experiences. I loved her thoughts on this.

All of this isn’t even getting into the confusing fact that Caribbean and Central American cultures are worlds apart in music, food, and even vernacular. In short, my world was (and still is) confusing.

Another way in which I’ve never felt like I belonged is my less-than-stellar Spanish. As a 2nd generation Hispanic, my Spanish is imperfect. Although I’m a fluent speaker, I grew up here in the United States. We spoke Spanish at home, but to this day, I feel like I’m not fully able to express myself as well in Spanish as I do in English. This is, in part, one of the reasons why I rarely write posts in Spanish.

With this background in mind, you can imagine the challenge it is to answer the usually simple question, “Where are you from?”

The best answer I can give is, “I’m from Miami. My parents are Dominican and Salvadorian.”


Although I was born in Miami Beach, we moved to Overtown, Miami and lived there for several years after my younger brother was born.  (Overtown is a historically Black neighborhood, which was originally called Colored Town during the Jim Crow era).  I didn’t see color then because I thought I looked just like everyone else.

My first hint of racial differences came in Kindergarten. I attended Miami Union Academy, a Regional Conference day school. When my parents weren’t able to afford it anymore, I then attended first and second grade at Phillis Wheatley Elementary, a public school in Overtown.

I couldn’t understand why, even though I looked like everyone else in the class, I was referred to as “the little Spanish boy” in both schools. I noticed shortly thereafter that my brother was much more lighter-skinned than I was, and I remember asking my mom why my brother was lighter than me. From that point on I felt different, like I wasn’t part of the Black community.

At around age 7-8 my parents moved to Miami Lakes, a suburb north of Miami. I transitioned from an all-Black neighborhood into an all-White neighborhood (by White, I’m referring to the Irish, Jewish, and light-skinned Hispanic neighbors we had). I was now part of the small group of Black students in the whole school. Now, instead of “the little the Spanish boy,” some kids referred to me as “the Black kid.” It was a different context, but I was still out of place. I was still the minority… even among the Hispanics.

I was not Black, I was not White, and I was apparently not fully Hispanic. What was I?

I committed myself to becoming a blend of everything in order to fit somewhere. This was really crystalized in my mind in 3rd grade, when I wanted to do the morning news in elementary school.  To audition, I was asked to read a small script for the teacher in charge of it.

I was told that “because of my accent,” I would not be fully understood. I remember being incredibly sad. From that point on, I worked on my pronunciation and dedicated myself to having as flat of an accent as possible in both English and Spanish. To this day, I throw people off.

A few weeks ago, someone called asking to speak with me. I told them who I was, and after a few minutes the person remarked, “You don’t sound like a Nelson Fernandez.” I get this with both English and Spanish speakers. I guess training paid off.

From the hood to the suburbs… I was the fresh prince of Miami Lakes.


Until the age of 8, I grew up attending Regional Conference Hispanic churches.   When we moved to the suburbs, we also switched churches and were now attending a Spanish-speaking church in the State Conference. To the Hispanic community, the Regional-State conference divide creates a huge mess.

You can read how here.

My earliest memories were spent being mostly confused regarding why another Hispanic church a few miles away wouldn’t be in the same conference as us, even though we were all Hispanic. All that we knew was that they were part of the “other conference.”

That still didn’t stop us. We attended churches from both conferences. We attended Youth Federations, campouts, camp meetings and interacted regularly with people from both conferences. My impression was that the pastors were the ones who had the chip on their shoulder about the division, because to me, as a kid, it didn’t affect me. It wasn’t until I got to college that I would be convicted that this divide was an issue that needed to be addressed at the larger levels of the church.


I honestly had no idea that the Adventist church even had its own entire system of education until about 10th grade, when I had my conversion experience. Long story short, I decided to attend Greater Miami Academy, a State Conference day school, for 11th and 12th grades and settled on going to Southern for Theology after sensing the call to ministry.

While I was at Southern, my dad accepted a call to serve as an associate pastor in Fort Worth, Texas at a large Regional Conference church. I visited them during vacations and frequently got the opportunity to speak at this church, and other churches, in the area. Over the years, I was able to learn a lot of the backstory behind the regional-state conference divide, and why it existed from the Regional Conference perspective, from the conference administrators, pastors, and members of the churches. I was extremely disappointed and angry at the reality of our church’s racial divide.

I was angry not at the Regional Conferences, not at the State Conferences, but at the racism that had infiltrated the church and hid itself under the mantle of bureaucracy.

I realized that just like I had been rejected as a kid, the entire Black community had been rejected by their White “brothers in Christ.” The church had failed them.  Even after many attempts at trying to rectify the situation, the Adventist church marginalized, discriminated against, and ignored the needs of their community. The only feasible option that was left at that time in the 1940s was to divide the conferences based on race so that the Black community could finally have a voice.

It made perfect sense.


Between my junior and senior year in college, I started becoming convicted that something needed to change in the church structure. Near the end of my time in college, I had two week of prayer series in different churches in the greater Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex area. One was at a State Conference church, the other was at a Regional Conference church. Administrators from both conferences attended the respective weeks of prayer and, after hearing that I would be graduating soon, each encouraged me to send them my resume.

Speaking candidly, one of the Regional Conference Administrators told me the following:

“Don’t bother sending your resume to any State Conferences. They won’t hire you because you’re Black and Hispanic. They won’t know what to do with you.”

I put on my best poker face ever. In my mind, I’ve never believed that my skin should define how I lived my life. I grew up hearing and admiring the leaders in the Black community who fought against prejudice, not only within the White community but also within their own. One of them said something that came to my mind at that moment:

“I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”

Being a student at Southern, I decided to interview with the Southern Union conferences first.  I decided if that didn’t go well, I’d try the Southwest Union next. I had already amassed a pretty decent resume despite the fact that I went to a “White school.” I said, “Let God decide where I go.”

If you want to read some amusing anecdotes about how my first interviews went, you can read that journey here.

So I now work in a “White conference” but still push for racial reconciliation, not because it’s the easy thing to do, but because it’s the right thing to do.

The process of change started right from the beginning of my career here in the Carolina Conference. The first time I was introduced to my colleagues after Seminary at workers meetings, I was speaking with someone in the lunchline, when an onlooker then remarked, “Wow, I’m so impressed. Your English is so good!” I replied tongue-in-cheek:

“Thanks! I’m from Florida. We speak English pretty well down there.”

Conversations about race, how we each relate to it, and how we respond to racism need to happen. Andrews University had a fantastic discussion on the topic last week that I want to encourage everyone to check out.


We still have not arrived at Dr. King’s dream, where people are judged strictly by the content of their character.  Yet, I remain optimistic and believe that a solution is within our grasp.  Why?  Because Jesus is still on the throne. The power that united a divided group of disciples is still available to us today.  We must be willing to step forth and claim that power ourselves.

But it’s not enough to simply pray about it.  Here are a few ideas that could be practical steps in reaching a solution to this problem.

In my case, I ended up marrying someone who understood my situation because she is also the product of an interracial marriage (and tomorrow is her birthday as a St. Patrick’s baby!). However, some family members didn’t attend our wedding because of my skin color.  In our marriage, we have experienced racism, too.

At the end of the day, the core issue in the State-Regional Conference debate is not primarily a policy problem, it is a people problem. Racism is a people problem.

We also have to start learning how to talk to each other in this situation. When people say, “Let’s do away with Regional Conferences,” It sounds like we’re saying that the problem is with Regional Conferences themselves (as if the problem originally came from the constituents of Regional Conferences). Historically speaking, this is not true; the Black community was left with little choice other than accepting the reality we face today.

On this note, I’m sorry if my posts come across like I’m only singling out the existence of Regional Conferences themselves. I’m not. I’m in favor of exploring a totally new system that brings in all people groups and where each individual culture is valued, respected, and included.  I long for a church that is no longer just Black and White, but one that can have a place for the in-betweens like me. Blogging is great, but we also have to be willing to act and make hard choices, even when they may not be popular.

If you’ve read until this point, consider yourself part of the discussion towards the solution.  Have thoughts?  Leave them below!


#Black Lives Matter – 5 Things NOT to do or say

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I, like you, have been paying attention to the news of Ferguson, New York, Cleveland, among others. The last few weeks have been exceptionally difficult in the area of race relations, particularly for African Americans. Here are five things I believe we should NOT to do or say when we go through an experience like this.

  1. Our job is to preach the gospel, not to talk about race or justice.

I hear that consistently, although it’s seldom from the affected parties. We have, as a church, not been good AT ALL (yes I meant it in capital letters) regarding justice and equality. There are numerous examples of the church staying silent and worse yet, seeking to maintain the separation that the gospel broke down by building imaginary and selective partitions. If MLK had followed that advice… (see letter to MLK below) where would we be? The gospel involves more than just platitudes on Sabbath morning. It addresses every area of our lives, including race.

  1. Let’s pray.

Should we pray? Yes! Should we just pray? Absolutely not! Prayer is supposed to provide comfort, not become a copout.

  1. Get upset only about things that affect you directly.

I have never been followed in a store. My son, who is not African American has never been stopped by the police because of his color. I don’t worry when he goes out that an encounter with authorities will put him in danger. Yet I can listen to the pain and concern of a community I am not a member of. I saw plenty of righteous indignation for the Noah movie but very little from some for the events in the last weeks. How many more have to die? How many more tragic events need to happen for us to understand we are all part of ONE humanity?

  1. Stay silent.

This is similar to #1, but goes a step further. There is a significant group, which is just silent. Observing. Reading. Hearing. Thinking. But silent. Silence delays justice. Justice will come. That we can be sure of. I understand the desire to not jump to conclusions and say something inappropriate, but we are past the lets be silent phase. If you are going to err, err on the side of speaking out.

  1. Shift the conversation.

Instead of saying “well, he should not have resisted” listen to the pain. Instead of retorting about the riots, acknowledge that there is a problem. Sit down with a person of color and have a conversation. Or three.

Will you join me in prayer and action so that the world we live in will see us living out the gospel, not just talking about it?