BLACK AND WHITE, NO?

No matter how many Februaries my son Gavin navigates in public school with the monthlong focus on Black History, he cannot grasp the concept of racism. His only exposure to the world has been his multiracial school of many colors. No amount of instruction has made any sense to him. In first grade, he came home chattering about "Martin," and deep discussion ensued. When I asked why Martin was so mistreated, Gavin could offer absolutely no explanation. So when I gently suggested that it was because of his black skin color, Gavin rolled his eyes and retorted, "Jeez, Mom. He wasn't black. He was brown." Indeed.

In February of second grade, he came home with fresh indignation. "Mom, thank goodness we didn't live in Martin's time, because me and Dad couldn't be together!" Recalling the previous year's confusion, I asked why they'd be forced apart. "Duh! Because Dad has black hair!" The term black obviously applied to any old body part; the civil-rights crisis seemed fairly broad in his estimation.

When he was in fourth grade—and surely the world had ruined his innocence on this matter—I anticipated a new understanding come February. But instead, I received this weird statement: "Whew! Good thing we live in the new millennium, Mom. If we lived back in the olden days, me and Noah"—his very white, blond, blue-eyed friend up the street—"would've had to go to different schools!" I asked why he thought they'd be separated, and his answer was, "I have no idea, but for some reason no one got to go to school together back then. They just split everybody up! It was a crazy time, Mom."

Half of me is thrilled my son is so utterly naive about racism, and the other half is wondering why he cannot grasp the simple concept of skin color after six years of instruction on the issue. (This lingering confusion comes from a boy who held the E for "equal rights" on the Martin Luther King Jr. acrostic during the class poem. Touché.) Then it occurs to me that he hears these terms and studies historical events without discerning the underlying cause because he has no personal exposure to the central issue.

The facts have nothing to stick to because he misunderstands the main point.

Likewise, I still can't believe it, but I managed to attend church three times a week as a fetus, fulfill the pastor's kid role, observe every form and function of church, get swallowed whole by Christian subculture, graduate from a Baptist college, wed a pastor, serve in full-time ministry for twelve years, become a Christian author and speaker—and misunderstand the main point. I am still stunned by my capacity to spin Scripture, see what I wanted, ignore what I didn't, and use the Word to defend my life rather than define it. I now reread treasured, even memorized Scriptures and realize I never understood what they really meant. I'm a lot like my son who interpreted the civil-rights movement as a spitting contest over black hair and arbitrary school-attendance policies.

Let's back up a bit. Until two years ago, my life resembled the basic pursuit of the American dream; it just occurred in a church setting. I subscribed to the commonly agreed-upon life route: Go to college, get married, have kids, make good money, progress up the neighborhood ladder, amass beautiful things, keep our life safe and protected, raise smart children who will be wildly successful and never move back home, serve at church more than makes sense, and eventually retire in comfort. This kept me relatively safe and prosperous, just the way I liked it. Outside of tithing, we spent our money how we wanted (on ourselves), and I could live an "obedient life" without sacrificing the lifestyle I craved.

And to enlarge the church portion of that philosophy, I basically considered the church campus—Sunday morning the entry level—as the location and means to transform the average seeker into a believer. In other words, if you need something spiritual, some help, guidance, understanding, then come to us. We'll build it, and you come. Once you do, we will pour out our lives attempting to disciple you and build spiritual health into your life. My husband, Brandon, and I spent every waking moment with Christians.

We were servants of the weekend attendees.

That point of view alone kept us so busy doing church. There was a season when Brandon was gone five nights a week, leading various Bible studies and programs by his own design. We assumed this was part and parcel of the sacrifices of ministry. Still wobbly on the concept of grace, preferring to earn God's favor, we figured the pace alone meant we were on the right track. While we sincerely believe it takes all kinds, it never occurred to us to rethink, reimagine, or reconsider how we did this Christian life thing. I would have answered confidently that, yes, I was handling the gospel obediently, and I planned on continuing in this manner pretty much forever.

Looking backward, I can better identify the tension that lurked at the edges. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but there was ... something off for me. That something was fueled by several particulars challenging my concept of success, beginning with the nagging sensation that Brandon and I were far too consumed with worthless things. We spent an unhealthy amount of time dreaming about our next house, our next financial increase, our next level of living. Next. We were the...