Five Favorite Books of 2017

A thoroughly subjective list of what I enjoyed reading this year.

One way I know that it’s been a great reading year is by how hard it was to narrow the list of the books I’ve read in 2017 down to just these five. And I’ve left off some fantastic stuff, including The Color of Law which I’ve probably recommended more than any other this year but which I’ve already reviewed. Others worth your attention include The Pietist Option (review forthcoming at The Englewood Review of Books), Eight Years We Were in Power (a collection of, mostly, already published essays by Ta-Nehisi Coates but worth the read for the new introductions to each chapter and how it charts a particular experience of the Obama years), and The Tech-Wise Family by Andy Crouch (Maggie and I read it together and it’s provided loads of good conversation fodder for how we’d like our family to engage “easy everywhere” technology.). I’ve been reading deeply on housing segregation and policy (again, The Color of Law) and have learned a lot from Making the Second Ghetto by Arnold R. Hirsch and, particular to our church’s community, Jim Crow Nostalgia by Michelle R. Boyd. Gentrifiers by John Joe Schlichtman, Jason Patch, and Marc Lamont Hill is the best I’ve read on that impossibly complicated topic.

As always, not much fiction in my reading though one novel makes this list. There were some good memoirs – The Shepherd’s Life and H is for Hawk – and I’ve included the excellent new Dorothy Day biography here. I reread Day’s beautiful memoir during Lent and found it just as remarkable the second time.

The books on this thoroughly subjective list represent some of my more satisfying and eye-opening reading experiences this year. I hope one or two of them can provide you with similar moments.


Dorothy Day: The World Will Be Saved by Beauty by Kate Kennessy (2017)

Dorothy Day The World Will Be Saved By Beauty

Kate Hennessy is Dorthy Day’s granddaughter, the daughter of Day’s only child, Tamar. The biography she’s written capitalizes on her grandmother’s name to draw us in but ends up being much more than a portrait of the woman who founded the Catholic Worker Movement and wrote a still-popular spiritual biography. While the author covers this ground, her real interest lies in the relationship between the larger-than-life Day and the quiet daughter who grew up amid the chaos of her mother’s work and the eclectic social networks that formed around her. In many ways Tamar is Dorothy’s opposite and we sense how the affection they shared was also fragile, how the woman who communicated to the eager and idealistic masses found it a struggle to connect with her own daughter. For all of Day’s exceptional traits and experiences, she ends up being a pretty average parent.

I’m drawn to biographies, like this one, that manage to honor their subject without deifying them. Even better when the person’s faith is taken seriously and not explained away. Hennessy does both and much more and the result serves as a beautiful introduction to a woman many of us thought we already knew.

Shalom and the Community of Creation by Randy Woodley (2012)

Shalom and the Community of Creation

Earlier this year a new friend recommended that I begin reading Randy Woodley, a Keetoowah Cherokee and professor of faith and culture. In Shalom Woodley offers a theology of creation and peace through an indigenous lens and his vision is fresh, compelling, and regularly convicting. While the book covers a lot of ground, the themes circle back to the pervasive significance of creation. Christian people, the author wants us to remember, cannot think about who we are apart from the world where God has placed us. He reminds us that, “Jesus, like so many in his day, was comfortable in a constant conversation with natural creation. He was not estranged from the creation in the way most of us in the western world our today.” In contrast, “the Euro-western mind” usually doesn’t see the creation as the start of “a continuous conversation with the Creator. The western view of creation has proven to be pitifully anthropocentric and utilitarian. Christianity has simply followed suit.” I’m afraid our current political moment has provided a large segment of American Christianity to confirm Woodley’s assessment which makes a book like this one even more essential.

We Gon’ Be Alright by Jeff Chang (2016)

We Gon Be Alright

In this short collection of essays Chang has written a sharp critique of our times. He proves to be an especially astute observer to – and participant in – some of the more painful and culturally divisive moments of the past few years, including the protests in Ferguson. In that essay he avoids large-scale cultural criticism, instead choosing to hold our attention on Mike Brown’s lived experience in that Missouri suburb.

In “The In-Betweens” Chang writes about his experience of being Asian-American: “You went days and weeks feeling like you had never been seen. You were conspicuous and invisible at the same time.” From his lived reality in a country that reduces its racial insight to a blunt black-white binary, the author stakes out his own ground, and what he claims is essential to our times. In the same essay he writes about immigration: “‘Migration’ centers bodies. ‘Immigration’ centers bodies of law. The immigrant is therefore always troubled by questions of status: ‘legal’ or ‘illegal.’ When the immigrant is between the migrant and the citizen, their freedom – and others’ freedom, in turn – depends on the answer.”

Death Comes for the Archbishop by Willa Cather (1927)

Death Comes for the Archbishop

This quiet novel is a sort of historical fiction. It’s two main characters, the first Roman Catholic archbishop of New Mexico and his close friend and vicar, are based on real men and other figures from history make occasional appearances. Cather imagined their lives through a series of roughly chronological vignettes; the narratives are generally contained to a chapter. Both men are generally portrayed sympathetically, including their expressions of faith. They’re imperfect and their humanity shows, but generally it seems the author wanted her readers to respect these two men of the cloth. And maybe it’s that I’m accustomed to literature in which the clergy is ignored, portrayed as out-of-touch, or assumed to have some devious motives or maybe its just that I’m a pastor looking for some role models, but it’s always satisfying to find a member of the clergy written as, you know, a person. (See also Marilynne Robinson’s GileadHome, and Lila.) But even if you’re not a pastor or don’t care much for pastors, Death Comes is worth the read, the perfect antidote to our loud and demeaning times.

The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism by Edward E. Baptist (2014)

The Half Has Never Been Told

One of the many strange things that surfaced this year was the many American citizens who hold romanticized views of the Civil War and the antebellum South. White nationalists have rallied around Confederate monuments, those same monuments have provoked fierce debate, and a candidate for the Senate suggested that life was better for everyone during slavery. This on top of the perennial argument that the Civil War was never actually about slavery but about states’ rights.

Though Baptist’s book was published a few years ago, reading it feels as though he anticipated this moment and replied with a devastating response. His thesis is simple: The financial rewards of American capitalism (in the south and the north) never would have been possible without the free labor extracted from kidnapped and enslaved Africans. Slavery, the author claims, was not on an inevitable decline in the face of northern industrialism; it was the foundation of industry and the appetite for more agricultural land and enslaved bodies showed no signs of abetting before the war.

The books does many things well, but two are worth highlighting. First, the author blends loads of data about the spread of slavery and its economic benefits to the nation with intimate narratives about those whose terrorized labor remains this nation’s great shame. Second, Baptist always focuses on the experience of those who were enslaved. His stories include names and histories as well as the visceral sense of survival under the harshest circumstances. The resilience and resistance of the women and men who are centered in Baptist’s narrative deserve to be told of again and again.

Book Review: The Color of Law

The Color of LawA new $23 million bicycle bridge is being built in our church’s neighborhood of Bronzeville in Chicago two blocks from an elementary school. The bridge will be beautiful, and when it is completed cyclists will cruise past the school on their way to the bike path. Maybe some of them will notice the crumbling entryway to the elementary school and wonder how our city can find money for a pedestrian bridge while our schools are asked to do more with less. Maybe they’ll notice the empty lots where public housing high-rises used to stand or the low-rise mixed income developments that are slowly replacing them. Maybe they’ll wonder why this neighborhood is mostly African American and why the neighborhood to the west has historically been white.

Richard Rothstein asks these kinds of questions in his meticulously researched and well-written book, The Color of Law: A Forgotten History of How Our Government Segregated America. A research associate at the Economic Policy Institute, Rothstein points out that most Americans tend to talk about segregation as being de facto, something that simply happened as the result of individual choices and preferences. Important decisions by the Supreme Court have shared these assumptions and have thus been reticent to address the destructive implications of segregation in our nation’s neighborhoods and schools. But Rothstein convincingly demonstrates that segregation in America has never been de facto; the segregation that the cyclist pedaling through our neighborhood observes is in fact de jure, a social reality constructed by our laws and public policies.

Through the middle of the twentieth century racial discrimination was federal policy. African Americans were unable to apply for federally insured mortgages, and the Federal Housing Administration would not insure any housing development that planned to admit black families. These policies extended to the first public housing developments which were first constructed for working-class European immigrants. As the need for black labor increased in northern cities, the demand for housing grew and these developments slowly opened to black residents, but they remained segregated. As European immigrants made their way in white America, they were able to move out of the housing developments, leaving behind racially concentrated pockets of poverty which were then exacerbated by new federal policies that capped the income level of the residents while simultaneously underfunding them.

Read the rest at the Covenant Companion

When God Lingers

A sermon for the third Sunday in Advent.

Then the Lord replied: “Write down the revelation and make it plain on tablets so that a herald may run with it. For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay. [Habakkuk 2:2-3]

Habakkuk, a prophet in Judah, begins his book by complaining to God about the violence and injustice that was rampant among his fellow-Israelites. God replies that he will raise up the nation of Babylon to punish Judah’s unfaithfulness. This is not quite the response that Habakkuk was looking for; it seems far too harsh, one form of injustice in place of another: “Why then do you tolerate the treacherous? Why are you silent while the wicked swallow up those more righteous than themselves? “(2:13)

I think we can relate to Habakkuk’s complaint. We too grieve over the violence and injustice around us. With him we can say that in our nation “there is strife, and conflict abounds.” (1:3) But we can also relate to his reaction to God’s plan: Wait, you’re going to use Babylon? That’s not what I had in mind! If I’d had known that was going to be your plan, I’d have never brought this up in the first place!

Like Habakkuk, we want God to act. We need him to intervene in our troubled lives. But we also presume to know how God should act. Our ideas for how God should rescue us usually involve a miraculous intervention from heaven, a divine mediation where the break with violence and injustice is absolute. We want the before and after shot, the dramatically told testimony of the ugly we were trapped in before and the beauty of our lives now.

But then God speaks up: “I am going to do something in your days that you would not believe, even if you were told.  I am raising up the Babylonians, that ruthless and impetuous people, who sweep across the whole earth to seize dwellings not their own.” (1:5-6) We’re looking for legions of heavenly angels to rescue us and God counters with… Babylon.

Habakkuk will eventually come to embrace God’s unexpected plan: “Lord, I have heard of your fame; I stand in awe of your deeds, Lord. Repeat them in our day, in our time make them known; in wrath remember mercy.” (3:2) The prophet comes to see that God’s merciful rescue will advance even through Babylonian captivity. And so despite the knowledge that conquest and occupation are around the corner, Habakkuk chooses to welcome God’s sovereign response to injustice and violence.  The reason his response to God’s Babylon-plan changes is what I want us to see on this third Sunday in Advent. What changed between Habakkuk’s first and second response to God’s Babylon-plan?

God says to his prophet: “For the revelation awaits an appointed time; it speaks of the end and will not prove false. Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.” The revelation God speaks of is this: Though Babylon will conquer God’s wayward and sinful people; the Babylonians too sit under God’s judgment. Habakkuk learns that the foreign nation’s victory over Israel will be temporary, as violent victories always are. Though God will use Babylon’s power to chasten his people, his judgment will extend to them as well. Their destruction of both human and animal life as well as their desecration of the land will all come back to haunt them.

And through it all, God assures Habakkuk, “The earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.” (2:14) The revelation that changes Habakkuk’s perspective is that there is no sin, injustice, or violence that is so great as to obscure the glory of the Lord. Whatever Babylon-shadow seems to be creeping over Judah, God’s glory – the brilliance of his perfect character – will not be overcome. And so, by implication, Judah’s future does not lay in Babylon’s hands, but the Lord’s. And despite what they see around them, there is a good future for God’s faithful people, a future that gives them meaning and purpose as they await their liberation. So rather than resisting God’s response to his people’s sins, Habakkuk can sing: “The Sovereign Lord is my strength; he makes my feet like the feet of a deer, he enables me to tread on the heights.” (3:19)

Even now, surrounded by Judah’s wickedness and with Babylon’s violence knocking on the door, Habakkuk can sing of God’s strength and faithfulness. His hope has been reestablished; he is rooted in the unchanging God whose glory is beyond the reach of any conquering empire. He will wait on the Lord.

Generations later, a young woman would find herself at the fulfillment of Habakkuk’s faithful waiting. After Mary learns that she would give birth to the Son of the Most High, she responded in a joyful song about the God who keeps his promises.

The Mighty One has done great things for me—  holy is his name. His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation. He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts. He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble. He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful to Abraham and his descendants forever, just as he promised our ancestors.” (Luke 1:49-55)

God had kept his promises to Mary’s ancestors, ancestors like Habakkuk. The revelation that the prophet could only hint at was now fully expressed in Jesus. The glory of the Lord that Habakkuk so longed for would be born in a Bethlehem barn.  God’s answer to the treachery, conflict, injustice, and violence of our hearts and our world would be found in Judah’s unlikely descendent. And one day Habakkuk’s hope and Mary’s son would stand before his countrymen and in the words of Isaiah, another prophet of exile, would proclaim:

“The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free.  to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” [Luke 4:18-19] 

Peter wrote to the early church about the return of Mary’s son in a way that reminds us of God’s words to Habakkuk. These Christians found themselves, like Habakkuk, wondering about their future. Wondering when God would act with finality at the ultimate revelation, the return of their King Jesus.

 With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.  But the day of the Lord will come like a thief. (2 Peter 3:8-10) 

“Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.” While we await the final revelation – the day of the Lord that will hearken the renewal of all things – while we wait we remember that though he may linger, God never delays. We remember that though God is patient, he is not slow.

In one week we will celebrate the fulfillment of God’s revelation to Habakkuk, Mary’s son born into circumstances that the prophet would have recognized from his own time: oppressive rulers, dominating empires, wickedness disguised as piety. This Advent, as we have fasted and prayed, we have remembered that we are a waiting people. We have experienced, I hope, the joy of knowing that our Lord’s glory cannot be overwhelmed by abusive men, deceptive presidents, or racist politicians. Neither can the glory of the Lord be obscured by our own wandering hearts; our sins, rebellions, and addictions pale when confronted with God’s all-encompassing glory, as waters cover the sea.

Even in seasons of wilderness we will find, like so many who’ve gone before us, that the Sovereign Lord is our strength; he makes our feet like the feet of a deer, he enables us to tread on the heights. The end of our waiting is our Lord’s return, so we wait with joy. And we are sustained in our waiting by the glory of the Lord, so we wait with joy.

So often it feels to me that God is delayed, that something has slowed him down. Sickness steals those we love. Inertia exerts its pull on our visions and dreams. Relationships spin wildly out of control.  We need to hear again and again what Habakkuk first heard so long ago: Though it linger, wait for it; it will certainly come and will not delay.

Babylon will lose. Sickness will die. Sons and daughters will prophesy, young men will see visions, old men will dream dreams. And the earth will be filled with the knowledge of the glory of the Lord as the waters cover the sea.

So wait on the Lord. Wait in the depression. Wait in the sickness. Wait in the unemployment. Though God may linger, he will not delay! Wait through the political turmoil. Wait through the racial inequity. Wait through the crass consumption that defines our days. Though God may linger, he will not delay!

Wait on the Lord. But let our waiting be courageous. The Psalmist exhorts us to “Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart, and wait for the Lord.” [Psalm 27:14] As God lingers, as he is patient with his rebellious people, we wait with courage.

Our waiting is not passive and it is not weak. Waiting for the on-time God looks like resistance to Babylon’s violence and lies. Waiting for the on-time God looks like solidarity with those who’ve been exploited by Babylon’s arrogance and greed. Waiting for the lingering-but-not-delayed-God looks like spending our lives on behalf of abused land and divested communities.

Wait for the Lord, but do not be passive. Wait for the Lord, but do not retreat. Wait for the Lord, but do not despair. Wait for the Lord. Be strong. Take heart. Though God lingers in patience he will never delay.

Photo credit: Eden Brackstone.

Exposing White Lies

We’re right to be appalled by the constant revelations of sexual abuse and assault. But what, exactly, are we shocked about?

Recently it seems hardly a day can pass without credible new allegations of sexual assault or abuse leveled against another powerful white man. It’s not that only white men abuse and assault women, but there is something important about women who are believed when standing against powerful white men. I think this moment – when a woman’s word is trusted over that of political or entertainment mogul –  is unique in the history of the United States. We are grappling with something new and I wonder whether it can be sustained.

lynch lawIn 1892, in the aftermath of the Civil War, the abandonment of reconstruction, and her own expulsion from Memphis under the threat of mob violence, journalist Ida B. Wells wrote Lynch Law, an investigation into the lynchings then rampant throughout the American South. She also looked into the purported causes of these murdered black citizens. She found one cause to be more common than any other: “[The Negro] is now charged with assaulting or attempting to assault white women. This charge, as false as it is foul, robs us of the sympathy of the world and is blasting the race’s good name.”

In this and later investigations Wells documented case after case of black men standing accused of sexual assault by white women and summarily executed (often after being tortured) by white men.  The public history of white men, particularly powerful white men, and sexual assault is one in which we are judge, jury, and executioner. This makes the recent tendency to believe the women who have come forward so surprising. We are used to the deceitful lore of the violent and sexualized black man and the equally fantastical legend of the universally virtuous white man. Seeing so many white men assumed guilty of their crimes is exceptional, utterly counter to the widely accepted narrative that Wells exposed so plainly.

But our surprise should run even deeper. I’m thinking about a horrifying passage in Edward E. Baptist’s masterful The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism. Here Baptist writes about two enslaved women, Rachel and Mary, as they stood before gazing eyes in New Orleans, their bodies offered to the highest bidder.

Rachel watched. She had been leered at, too – when she came through the door, all the way back to the point of her sale in Baltimore. It had been going on ever since she reached puberty, but sale time was when the forced sexualization of enslaved women’s bodies was most explicit. Before the 1830’s, and sometimes after, whites usually forced women to strip…

For white people, seeing Mary up on the bench was one of the rewards of membership in the fraternity of entrepreneurs. Men asked questions of a woman that they did not put to John or Willam, questions that attempted to force her to acknowledge everything that was being bought and sold. Women who refused to play along could expect white anger, as one observer noted: “When answers were demanded to the questions usually put by the bidders to slaves on the block, the tears rolled down her cheeks, and her refusal to answer those most disgusting questions met with blood-curling oaths.” Of course, not all white bidders minded resistance. Some relished overcoming it. It was all part of the game.

The American instinct to impute sexual violence to black men is, as Baptist points out, deeply at odds with our actual history. Rachel, Mary, and countless other enslaved women of African descent experienced this terrorizing history. They lived before the gaze of white men who believed it to be within their power to take land and bodies at will, their right to arrange plundering hierarchies built upon others’ blood and toil. What is today being exposed as sexual predation was for them a birthright so deeply assumed as to remain unquestioned.

The demonic genius of the white gaze was to deflect its own sexual violence, this one terrible representation of its pilfering nature, onto other, darker bodies. Wells saw through the lie. “Nobody in this section of the country believes the old thread bare lie that Negro men rape white women. If Southern white men are not careful, they will over-reach themselves and public sentiment will have a reaction.” It seems that more of us are finally beginning to see what was never obscure to Wells or to Rachel or to Mary. Have the powerful white men finally over-reached themselves?

Many of us have been astonished by how frequently these abusing men have been exposed. Our shock, though, shouldn’t begin with the revelation that many powerful white men are also sexual predators, but that it’s taken so long to reckon with this foundational aspect of our troubled history.

 

“You know you’ve entered a temple when disagreement is treated as sacrilege. “

You know you’ve entered a temple when disagreement is treated as sacrilege. The animosity directed toward NFL players kneeling at the anthem, protesting police brutality and structural racism, is the sort of acrimony we reserve for infidels.

Many professedly “religious” believers will be among those most incensed by resistance to this secular liturgy — a sign that even believers in God are not immune to being captivated by secular rituals, confusing what is holy.

This response to the kneeling controversy tells us something about the state of American civil religion and the way it accommodates — and then deforms — traditional religious communities.

– James K. A. Smith, “The NFL’s Thanksgiving games are a spectacular display of America’s ‘God and country’ obsession” in The Washington Post.

“Can My Children Be Friends With White People?”

This op-ed in the Times, “Can My Children Be Friends With White People?” is really something. I can’t remember the last time I read something that made me feel so strongly. It begins with these two paragraphs:

My oldest son, wrestling with a 4-year-old’s happy struggles, is trying to clarify how many people can be his best friend. “My best friends are you and Mama and my brother and …” But even a child’s joy is not immune to this ominous political period. This summer’s images of violence in Charlottesville, Va., prompted an array of questions. “Some people hate others because they are different,” I offer, lamely. A childish but distinct panic enters his voice. “But I’m not different.”

It is impossible to convey the mixture of heartbreak and fear I feel for him. Donald Trump’s election has made it clear that I will teach my boys the lesson generations old, one that I for the most part nearly escaped. I will teach them to be cautious, I will teach them suspicion, and I will teach them distrust. Much sooner than I thought I would, I will have to discuss with my boys whether they can truly be friends with white people.

I’ve not had the guts to put my anxiety since the election quite so bluntly, but the author’s question is mine too. I have no doubt that the white people I know and love who voted for our president and who continue to support his decisions and policies and who also say they love my sons – my brown and black sons – really mean it. They really love them. But the fact that they cannot see how their support for this administration threatens my sons makes the question of friendship – of safety – hard to answer. I waver.

As against our gauzy national hopes, I will teach my boys to have profound doubts that friendship with white people is possible. When they ask, I will teach my sons that their beautiful hue is a fault line. Spare me platitudes of how we are all the same on the inside. I first have to keep my boys safe, and so I will teach them before the world shows them this particular brand of rending, violent, often fatal betrayal.

Blunt facts require that we teach our sons similar lessons. And I thank God for the white friends who understand this and who, like me, are on the journey to understanding with more clarity why we must teach ugly things to beautiful children. There’s hope there, and friendship too.

A new white burden?

Does Ta-Nehisi Coates fetishize race? No, but Thomas Chatterton Williams thinks he does.

Thomas Chatterton Williams has written an alarming  piece in the Times about Ta-Nehesi Coates, specifically his leading role in pushing the idea that white supremacy “explains everything.” Because Coates has been an important guide for my own thinking about white supremacy, I want to consider his arguments seriously.

“We Were Eight Years in Power” can leave a reader with the distinct impression that its author is glad, relieved even, that Donald Trump was elected president. It is exhibits A through Z of Mr. Coates’s national indictment, proof that the foundations of the United States are anti-black and that the past is not dead — it’s not even past, to echo William Faulkner.

This one is puzzling. Eight Years can be read as one person’s slowly grasping that things aren’t what they seemed, that the election of the country’s first black president didn’t mean the kind of racial progress that so many of us had hoped for. Rather than seeming glad about Donald Trump confirming his existing theory, Coates is repeatedly self-reflective about how he was wrong, about what he missed.

Such logic extends a disturbing trend in left-of-center public thinking: identity epistemology, or knowing-through-being, somewhere along the line became identity ethics, or morality-through-being. Accordingly, whiteness and wrongness have become interchangeable — the high ground is now accessible only by way of “allyship,” which is to say silence and total repentance. The upside to this new white burden, of course, is that whichever way they may choose, those deemed white remain this nation’s primary actors.

Two things about this paragraph. First, the notion that the only thing white people can do productively is to sit in silence is one I’ve read about occasionally but have never – not a single time – experienced personally. It should be obvious that white people will choose repentant and humble postures in the work of racial justice, but the notion that everyone agrees that this requires complete silence from white people sounds like more like a Fox News scare tactic than a realistic description of reality.

The second point to note here is the notion that Coates’ perspective about whiteness (not his alone, it seems to be necessary to point out; would Williams have similar issues with James Baldwin who foreshadows so much of what Coates argues?) only solidifies that “those deemed white remain this nation’s primary actors.” How, I wonder, is this any different than the myriads of white people who refuse to talk or think about race? Williams seems to believe that it is in the talking about whiteness that white people derive our power, yet I’d suggest that is in our very reticence to speak our race which betrays the power it holds over us. Williams reads Coates to say that one’s morality is attached permanently to racial identity; I hear the exact opposite, that morality in America’s historical context requires speaking truthfully about what has so long been intentionally buried.

This, more than anything, is what is so unsettling about Mr. Coates’s recent writing and the tenor of the leftist “woke” discourse he epitomizes. Though it is not at all morally equivalent, it is nonetheless in sync with the toxic premises of white supremacism. Both sides eagerly reduce people to abstract color categories, all the while feeding off of and legitimizing each other, while those of us searching for gray areas and common ground get devoured twice. Both sides mystify racial identity, interpreting it as something fixed, determinative and almost supernatural. For Mr. Coates, whiteness is a “talisman,” an “amulet” of “eldritch energies” that explains all injustice; for the abysmal early-20th-century Italian fascist and racist icon Julius Evola, it was a “meta-biological force,” a collective mind-spirit that justifies all inequality. In either case, whites are preordained to walk that special path. It is a dangerous vision of life we should refuse no matter who is doing the conjuring.

This is a particularly serious charge. I think it’s wrong-headed for a bunch of reasons, but mostly because I think about these things as a Christian. What I mean is that rather than mystifying racial identity – something that was long-ago accomplished in this country – Coates works to define it, to help us to see the myriad of imminently tangible ways that race plays itself out among us. His “Case for Reparations” does this exceptionally well about housing segregation. Christians are interested in confession and repentance; we are not afraid of the specificity of our sins as the confession of them become the means of grace and embodied reconciliation. Engaging racial discourse in this manner does not preordain any of us to a special path – or any other kind of path. Rather, it allows for truth to be spoken and heard. Justice is not then inevitable, but the possibility for it is far more likely.

However far-fetched that may sound, what identitarians like Mr. Spencer [the white nationalist] have grasped, and what ostensibly anti-racist thinkers like Mr. Coates have lost sight of, is the fact that so long as we fetishize race, we ensure that we will never be rid of the hierarchies it imposes. We will all be doomed to stalk our separate paths.

I’m not sure what to say about this except that calling Coates an “identitarian” and summing up his work as fetishizing race seems to admit a significant misreading. I’m not sure that Williams is all that different from those who think that we can only talk so much about race before we grant it a power it does not deserve. Coates, I think, would argue that this nation has never even approached such a line. The obscene power we’ve granted race is betrayed not by how much a few people talk about it, but by how little it’s even acknowledged by most of the nation’s racially privileged. Maybe the academic and media worlds inhabited by Williams are different but for most of us, the words of Ta-Nehisi Coates (and Baldwin, Ida B. Wells, Frederick Douglass, and so many more) remain voices in the wilderness.