Click here to hear Emy Kamihara reading this essay.
“Your ways, O God, are holy. What god is so great as our God? You are the God who performs miracles; you display your power among the peoples.” (Psalm 77: 13–14 NIV)
Racism is sin. When we see any person as inferior because of race, and by word or action, mistreat a human being created by God in His image, we do not honor God. Racism violates His commandments to “Love God with all our heart, mind, and strength” and to “Love our neighbor as ourselves.” We know in our minds what God has commanded, yet how easy it is for us to break these commandments by overt commission or by omission.
Like a virus, widespread racism has infected us and our society. Unlike the COVID-19 coronavirus, which is a novel, relatively unknown virus, racism has been around for hundreds of years. Many of us appear asymptomatic. We do not think we have the usual outward symptoms. We do not go around in public carrying tiki torches or shouting racist slogans. But racism has so deeply permeated our attitudes that we have become content to cast a blind eye to those marginalized and struggling in inequality, while we live as beneficiaries of the systemic racism in our institutions of education, housing, religion, and work.
When we sin, we often do not want to confess it, out of shame and fear. We try to ignore it, denying its existence and blaming others in our self-defense. However, without confession, sin grows in its power to enslave us. Clothed in dark secrecy, sin never leaves us, no matter how we try to suppress it or live with it.
More than five decades have passed since I graduated from high school in New York City, and I had often wondered what has happened to many of my classmates. Ten years ago, out of curiosity, I registered on the Classmates.com website to see if I could find old classmates. To my great surprise and delight, there was someone I knew from my homeroom class. Her name was Lynda, and in senior year she became the President of the General Organization, or G.O., the student government. Seeing her name, I knew almost instinctively that God’s hand was in this opportunity to reconnect.
Thinking back about Lynda, I had two clear memories. Once, Lynda stood up in front of the entire homeroom class and sang the hymn, “How Great Thou Art,” in her clear and pure soprano voice. In those days, one could sing a hymn in a public school without the fear of offending people of other religions or breaking a law. No one thought about political correctness. It was also the time of the civil rights movement and a heightened sensitivity of the need for racial equality. I did not know Lynda’s racial background but thought she was a very light skinned African American. She showed great courage to be such a powerful vocal witness to her faith and I very much admired her for it.
We started emailing and updating about our lives since high school, but after the second email, I knew that God was prompting me to take care of a past matter. This was my second memory, and for so many years, that memory was kept locked away in darkness while my guilt continued to burrow itself deeper. I thought I could almost forget it; however, my guilt and shame reawakened.
I remember only too well what happened that day. We were in biology class one morning learning about Mendel’s laws of heredity and genetics. Lynda was sitting in the row in front of me. Another classmate, Mildred, sitting next to Lynda, turned to her, and said loudly and almost gleefully, “You’re a hybrid!” Lynda’s face blanched. I overheard Mildred’s words and immediately, my soul recoiled in horror. I felt the stinging insult to Lynda, but did not say anything. I did not speak up protesting Mildred’s hurtful, and unacceptable remark. By the time class ended, I still had not said anything. When I should have spoken out in righteous anger, I was paralyzed by fear. By not confronting Mildred, my silence was signaling a support of racism. Mildred hadn’t used the “N_” word, but her label of Lynda was just as derogatory and demeaning.
That single incident got buried, along with deep feelings of inadequacy for my lack of courage in not taking a strong stand against racism. So when Lynda’s name appeared on the alumna list, I knew I had come to a crossroads. There were two possible paths: continue communicating as if nothing had happened, or take the risk of dredging up that past incident. Dared I mention it after so much time had elapsed? Would it really matter? I prayed before sending the email to Lynda. I confessed my sin of silence, my shame and remorse that I did not defend her, and humbly asked her forgiveness.
God’s small miracle happened. Not only did Lynda write back the three most important words, “I forgive you,” but she herself acknowledged her own anger, pain, and conflict, which she had also buried. My confession led to her confession with God, and asking His forgiveness for her rage against Mildred. She was able to pray for Mildred, to forgive her, and to praise God for allowing our paths to cross again. Lynda wrote, “Forgiveness is a gift not only to the one who needs forgiving, but also to the one who is doing the forgiving. When the Lord forgives us, you know that He casts our sin into the sea of forgetfulness and He doesn’t keep bringing it up to us. But, you know who is always around to accuse us of our inadequacies. So, with the Lord’s help, be done with that guilt.”
God had already forgiven me long ago, but I needed to hear the words of forgiveness from Lynda. In one email, forty years of self-recrimination were blotted out and both of us found merciful reconciliation, freedom, and peace. Who of us, by our own strength and power, could have brought this about? No one! Only God could have worked this miracle in His own time and way!
“Then sings my soul, my Savior God to thee, How great Thou art!”
Elder Emy Kamihara, September 2020