During
my first year at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, I was stopped on
my way to the library by a group of retired alumni who were visiting the
seminary. They were being shown around by a professor of mine, and they seemed
friendly enough. That is, until I introduced myself, prompting one of the older
pastors to remark, “McKenna? How does someone with a last name like McKenna end
up at a Lutheran school?”
I
don’t remember exactly how I responded to such an asinine question. Most
likely, I walked away after making some brief comment about how I didn’t grow
up in this denomination but chose to be part of it as an adult. Looking back, I
wish I had come up with a more snarky response. I had only identified as a
Lutheran for about five years. The history class that covers Lutherans in
America wasn’t for another two semesters, but this exchange was my first
lesson. This was the moment I realized how ethnically entrenched our
denomination can be. If a white guy like me can be made to feel othered in this
church, imagine what people of color endure. If my All-American last name can
seem out of place, what chance is there for people whose names signify
Hispanic, Asian, or African heritage? And while we’re on the subject, what in
the world does lutefisk have to do with the Lutheran doctrine of justification
by grace through faith?
Despite
that interaction outside the library, my heritage is a privilege. I know this,
because it’s not something I have to think about on a daily basis. I get to
choose how much I identify as an Irish-American, which is why when March 17th
rolls around, I wear green like anyone else. That’s about it. Of course, when
I’m feeling nostalgic I can always dig into my ancestry like it’s an
extra-curricular research project or a fun puzzle to solve. But, such endeavors
have little impact on the way I live my life.
Folks
like me, whose families came to this country willingly before anyone had heard
of the automobile, experience heritage as little more than traditions,
celebrations, and food. We never have to worry about how our ethnic backgrounds
might disrupt our future. Those who have come here more recently, though, worry
about it every day.
Right
now, a Lutheran pastor in our own Northern Illinois Synod is in that sort of
daily struggle with his heritage. For him and his parishioners, their ethnicity
is like a target on their backs. Worship attendance is down at the church
because people are scared of being profiled in the streets and being taken by
masked men in unmarked vans. Recent precedence reveals that the government
could take away this pastor’s refugee status without cause and force him to
return to a country where his life was in danger. They cannot hide their
identities or forget where they came from. They can only hope that their chosen
neighbors live with mercy and welcoming hospitality.
As
Christians, our scriptures call us to be inspired by our heritage to open our
lives up to others. This past Sunday, we heard from Deuteronomy 24, where it is
written, “You shall not deprive a resident alien or an orphan of justice; you
shall not take a widow’s garment in pledge. Remember that you were a slave in
Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you from there; therefore I command you to
do this.”
In
our church and in our community, we are called to welcome all people with
thoughtfulness and grace because we were once in need of that same kind of
welcome. So, let us recognize that the thing that makes us Lutherans more than
anything else is our trust in grace that is freely given by God, not because of
who we are or what we have done, but because God loves us. And, let us share
that same loving grace with all of our neighbors, as we work for a world where
all are welcome.
Peace,
Pastor Chad McKenna
