"Continuing the work of Jesus. Peacefully. Simply. Together," is our denomination's new identity tag. If I recall correctly, Jesus never rebuilt any churches, but he did spend a considerable amount of time encouraging relationships and fostering understanding between people with different cultures and histories. This is the more important work of the Church of the Brethren Emergency Response program. We use repairing and re-building as a means to empower those recovering from the destructive touch of nature and as an opportunity to build relationships and cultivate understanding. Never have I seen this work more fruitful than in Orangeburg, South Carolina.

I departed for South Carolina and the Butler Chapel African Methodist Episcopal Church rebuilding project with some trepidation. Lacking construction experience, I questioned my ability to direct the rebuilding. In addition, I was charged to instigate and facilitate discussion among the volunteers on the topic of racism as well as to build and nurture a relationship with the Butler Chapel congregation. Having only minor exposure to black culture, I felt unqualified to facilitate real work on racism and feared offending the volunteers and the congregation with which I would be working. What I had not foreseen was the power of love shown through volunteering.

I arrived in Orangeburg with several misconceptions and a good deal of bias. I felt that I would be held responsible for the hundreds of years of subjugation and crimes that persist today. I foresaw tepid welcomes, guarded looks, and begrudging cooperation from the members of the church, and I was a little scared of the response I would get from those who were pleased by the burning. I also assumed I would be working with people ignorant of the world outside South Carolina and unskilled in all but menial labor. I didn't know how to begin a relationship with people of such a different intellectual and cultural background. In the end, I was too scared to reach out first. Fortunately, the Butler Chapel members were not at all intimidated by our differences. They welcomed me with warm smiles and open arms, though they too were nervous and dubious about me.

During the two weeks before any Emergency Response volunteers arrived in Orangeburg, I worked with several members of Butler Chapel and the surrounding community. Together, we filled the foundation and poured the concrete floor of the church. At noon, we sat together for lunch and conversation, and as I began to understand the local dialect, I found that I was among interesting people. Each day, I learned more about my colleagues and discovered that we shared many commonalities to offset our differences. I was surprised to discover that many Butler Chapel folk were well educated, quite cosmopolitan, highly skilled, and quite open about racial issues. As that knowledge set in, I became aware of my assumptions and felt ashamed that I held the same stereotypes I despise in others.

Throughout the summer, I dutifully managed the rebuilding project and developed a program to introduce and discuss the vague, confusing subject of white privilege (systemic racism). All of those discussions helped me to recognize white privilege and enabled me to work against it in my daily interactions. Still, as I grew to know, accept, and love the members of Butler Chapel, my feelings of guilt increased, and I began to skirt conversations about the evolution of racism in the area. My new friends picked that up on some level, and we began to pull away from each other while our conversations began to confine themselves to work.

Thankfully, Pastor Patrick Mellerson realized what was happening and confronted me. He and I share a friendship unique in my experience. It found its seed in our common curiosity and grew as we shared all of our ignorance and questions about each other's culture. It provided a safe place for us to learn about our differences without fear of giving offense. In this vein, Patrick came to me and asked what was wrong. I began to express my shame and guilt. I explained that I had cherished, in the back of my mind, the thought that I was innately superior to any black. As I elaborated, speaking of my assumptions about the education, skills, and provincial nature of blacks, Patrick listened silently. His response, "Let me ask you this: Do you still feel that way now?" was more powerful for coming from that silence. I answered him, "No. The more I talk with you all, the more I realize that we all share the same love, needs, and worries... the same feelings." He told me then that he had shared some of my assumptions. He described a childhood where everyone wanted to be white, where "get down with your black self" was an insult. He explained that he had often held stereotypes and had wondered about our real motives for helping rebuild the church. In the end, he told me that talking to me and the volunteers had convinced him that we were helping out of love. He said he could not have imagined that there were so many white folks who would take their vacations, come all the way to South Carolina, and work for a week to help rebuild the church. "That's love," he said, "and you can't be racist if you love your brothers and sisters."

As I thought about his words, I realized that we all have biases and stereotypes based on experience and familiarity. There is no shame in that. What we should feel guilt about is refusing to see the truth about someone because of the some superfluous characteristic. We need to reach past the restrictive nature of such assumptions if we wish to build relationships and learn.

Patrick often says, "If you want to talk about color, let's talk about red. That's the color of all our blood." I am humbled that he can say that with the authority of love and belief while I still struggle to free myself of fear and prejudice.