What’s a conservative Christian to do when a friend suddenly announces that they are gay and getting married?

Here’s my commentary on what I did when faced with that situation.

http://www.wbhm.org/News/2009/gaymarriage.html

Check out my commentary in response to Attorney General Eric Holder’s “Coward” speech.

http://www.wbhm.org/News/2009/sutton-on-race.html

Posted on AL.com February 20, 2009 2:00 AM

A panel of journalists will take audience questions and discuss tips on how to get stories in their various news organizations. Our goal is to help attendees increase their public awareness by 100 percent! 

CONFIRMED PANELISTS:

• Tracy Haynes, Alabama’s ABC 33/40
• Corrine Alcazar, NBC-13
• Sherrel Stewart, The Birmingham News
• Jennifer Rash, The Alabama Baptist 
• Julie Moore, Birmingham Christian Family
• Bob Friedman, WJLD 

 WHEN: Saturday, January 31, 2009

WHERE: Homewood Public Library, 1721 Oxmoor Road (Round Auditorium)  

TIME: 10:00 a.m.-12:00 noon

COST: $35 (includes materials and box lunch)  

Here’s my take on being a Christian in a secular society. This ran on Birmingham’s National Public Radio (WBHM) in December 2008.

http://www.wbhm.org/News/2008/faithsutton.html

Here’s the transcript:

No, Thank You

Recently, my co-workers and I sat down to lunch at a local Mexican restaurant. In between crunching on the complimentary tortilla chips, we chatted about gas prices, the game, and the boss.

Then, one of them asked me what Santa was going to bring my two young children for Christmas. “Well…” I told them. “We don’t teach them about Santa Claus. You know, it’s a religious thing.” A few of them rolled their eyes and one said, “I hate people like you. You take all the fun out of Christmas.”

I wanted to sink down in my chair and disappear. I didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that my husband and I don’t believe in making Christmastime about a big dude in a red suit.  Instead, we like to focus on the birth of Jesus. It’s our personal preference.

When asked about Santa, my one-year-old daughter and three-month-old son will one day say, “Jesus blesses my parents with the money to get our Christmas presents, not Santa Claus.”

They didn’t say it, but I know my co-workers thought I was nuts.

That’s not the first time I felt like the odd man out. As a Born Again Christian living in a secular society, I’ve had to say no in many situations…

No, I don’t drink.

No thank you, I don’t smoke.

No, I don’t have Beyonce’s latest CD.

No, I won’t be attending the Halloween party.

No, no, no, no, no….

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some pristine saint holed up in a cathedral sipping on holy water and reading the Scriptures 24 hours a day. It’s just that certain things don’t feel right for me in my Christian walk and those things may or may be an issue for others, Christians included.

Most of the things I opt out of doing aren’t heaven or hell issues. I don’t believe that if you have a glass of wine you’re going to bust hell wide open. For me, drinking that glass of wine could open me up to an addictive behavior that will ultimately dull my desire to be led by the voice of God.

And, I don’t celebrate Halloween because I don’t like the thought of dressing up like ghosts and goblins and President Bush. Instead, my family celebrates Hallelujah Night where the kids dress up like Bible characters, play games, and sing songs.

During that time of year, we usually turn off our porch light and pray no one rings the doorbell. But, it never fails, despite our lack of decorations and such, some wide-eyed seven-year-old will come to the door in hopes of getting a sugary treat. Then, either my husband or I will have to dash their dreams by saying, “Sorry, we don’t celebrate Halloween.” The kid looks perplexed, and then walks away.

I’m sure we have a reputation in the neighborhood. The kids probably all say, “You don’t want to go to that house. Those folks are no fun.”

I’m certainly not some religious martyr who, because I don’t celebrate Halloween, deserves to be canonized for my great religious stance. There are a number of things I do that I shouldn’t, like overeat, watch way too much television, not read my Bible everyday, and the list goes on. If you looked up “flawed Christian” in the dictionary, there would surely be a big ole picture of me right there.

I’m also not one of those Christians who look down my nose on others because they don’t believe the way I do. As Believers, we’re supposed to be a light in this world – not a flashlight shining in people’s faces and pointing out their flaws, but a candlelight, breaking through the darkness and helping others find their way to God.

Christians are supposed to be set apart, “peculiar people,” the Bible says. So, maybe my stand on certain issues will do more than inspire a crazy look, but perhaps spark a conversation that’ll allow me to share my faith.

Here’s a link to my political commentary that ran on WBHM, Birmingham’s NPR station.

http://www.wbhm.org/News/2008/crossingthedivide.html

Or, if you can’t open it, here’s the transcript:

Crossing Over

Growing up on the east side of Birmingham, most of the folks in my all-black neighborhood only went to church on Christmas and Easter Sunday. For them, religion was that dusty Mahalia Jackson album tucked away in the hall closet.

My family, on the other hand, was ultra conservative Christian, or in other words, “the odd balls.” We answered the phone by saying, “Praise the Lord…,” owned stacks of books and cassette tapes from those charismatic TV ministers, and by 6 p.m. on Sundays were gearing up for our third church service of the day.

When I turned 18, I proudly brought my conservative beliefs with me as I marched into the neighborhood elementary school to cast my very first vote. Since it was a primary, the pollster asked in an obligatory tone, “Democrat or Republican?”

When I said, “Republican,” she and others within earshot bucked their eyes as I signed a sheet that listed the only two other Republicans in my voting area — mom and dad. I cast my vote, and when I left, I felt a slew of eyes cover me as I walked out the door. That didn’t sway me, though. They were all lost, I thought. 

We were the only black Evangelicals I knew. And to our family and friends, we may as well have been traitors to our race. It was ironic, though — typically blacks and evangelicals believe along the same lines when it comes to abortion and gay rights. But there is also a perception in many African American communities that evangelicals only care about their two plum issues and could care less if other Americans can put food on their tables, have proper healthcare, and are able to send their children to college; effectively making them Christians who lack the charity of Christ.

As a Christian and a black woman, I have been conflicted about voting with the evangelicals during this election. After years of sitting under a Republican regime that has brought about war, the threat of recession and soaring gas prices, my allegiance has begun to soften. So today, nearly 16 years since I cast my first Republican vote, I am considering siding with a democrat.

I’m no longer sure Jesus is necessarily a Republican and I don’t like the pattern I’ve seen emerge among my fellow Christian Republicans. When an election comes, they preach against abortion and gay marriage, vote for conservatives and then return to their world of towering churches, white picket fences and shiny SUVs. They don’t reappear again until another election. All the while, the world around us is crumbling.

When I drive through my non-Evangelical neighborhood in Ensley, the reality of this nation’s brokenness slaps me in the face. I am pained to see men and women wandering the streets after losing their homes. I tear up when I see bright-eyed kids unsuspectingly march into local schools that are near the bottom in national ranking. And, I get weak when I look into the eyes of person after person so consumed by poverty that they can’t even muster up enough hope of something better.

I am beginning to question how I can continue to vote with a block of people who narrow the problems of this nation down to two or three issues. Why aren’t Evangelical Christians protesting in the streets on behalf of America’s poor and disenfranchised? Why aren’t they just as verbal about issues affecting the lives of babies who weren’t aborted?

So, after much contemplation and deep prayer, I won’t be voting with the Evangelicals this election. I won’t be voting as a “black woman” either. I am shedding all my labels. I’m still a Christian and no doubt, I’m still black. But, as an American, I am going to the polls and voting for issues that will bring about what’s best for the children, the elderly, and all people of this nation whether they are black, white, Christian, Buddhist or none of the above.

Now, I’m not signing up to be a lifelong member of the Democratic Party and I don’t believe Barack Obama is America’s Messiah. I do believe, however, the issues he and his party are trumpeting have ignited a hope in people all across this country.

So, on that great day — the election, not the Second Coming — I am going to walk into my local poll place, say a prayer and make a change. I pray I’m making the right decision.

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Published in The Birmingham News

MARIE SUTTON 

Nowadays, if you say the name “the Rev. Jeremiah Wright,” you are likely to get a few eyes to rolling or a couple heads to shaking. Some people believe the fiery Chicago pastor, who called for the damnation of America, has given the “black church” a bad rap.

He’s got folks wondering what exactly goes on inside the walls of the black church. Is it a bunch of disgruntled African-Americans plotting an attack on white folks, all in the name of Jesus? Hardly.

In actuality, the black church is, and has long been, a haven for the African-American community. It has been a sacred place, where blacks who had lacked a voice in mainstream society could be accepted and given an identity like teacher, nurse, preacher, deacon and singer.

The black church began to sprout up secretly on slave plantations, as African-Americans weren’t allowed inside white churches. It continued to take form after slavery ended, but when segregation and dehumanization had not. Although free, African-Americans felt as if their country did not love them and retreated to church, where they knew, at least, Jesus cared.

Inside, they were able to relish in and preserve the heritage of their music, style of dress, speech, worship, food, politics and more. Where a mature African-American male could shed the title “boy” and take on the label “distinguished deacon.” Where a woman, who had to keep her mouth shut during the day while cleaning toilets and making beds, could stand before a packed church and belt out a heavenly tune that left the hearers covered with goose bumps.

Like a miracle from heaven, the black church has had the power to transform a person. It takes those who are considered invisible and gives them the confidence and freedom to make an indelible mark on their community.

I’ve seen a man who sweeps floors for a living transform his daily humble slouch into a CEO-type swagger when he walks inside the doors of his church. There, he is a leader, the head of the men’s ministry and a Bible scholar.

I know a woman who works at a dry cleaner during the week, standing on her feet until they ache and swell. On Sundays, however, she proudly slips into a pair of apple-green snakeskin heels that perfectly match her dress and hat of the same color. Her duty is to give the church announcements, and when she speaks, her eloquence is on the same caliber as a head of state.

Growing up, Donald Stoves of Trussville loved to read, and aspired to one day be a teacher. Life, however, with its twists and turns, led the 58-year-old along another path. He found himself working as a shipping and receiving clerk instead.

Once he joined Rebirth Christian Fellowship in Roebuck seven years ago, however, he became just that: reborn. In church, he found his purpose, he says. Now, as the Sunday school superintendent, he’s the head teacher. He coordinates classes and makes sure Sunday school runs like a well-oiled machine.

Each Sunday, he gets up at 5 a.m. to joyfully prepare for his work in the church. He prides himself in wearing dapper suits, especially the blue, four-button one with gold pinstripes. He is usually one of the first to arrive and makes sure everything is in place. Then he prepares his heart for praise and worship, thanking God for allowing him to use his gifts.

For many African-Americans, Sunday is their time to use their gifts.

Inside the black church, the pastors are treated like rock stars. Many use rhymes and catchphrases to make Bible stories come alive. Their members hang on to every word, signifying by saying, “Amen” and “Preach! Preacher!” The older women, or “mothers of the church,” reward the “Man of God” handsomely with a Sunday dinner fit for a king, usually piled high and consisting of two meats, hot cornbread and greens of some sort.

Inside the black church, the pastor and minister wives are considered royalty. They don the latest fashions and sit pretty on the front pew while others admire them for their grace and beauty.

Inside the black church, fashion shows parade beauties who sashay and strut instead of prance. It’s where unconventional beauty – rounded hips and Coca-Cola-bottle-shaped silhouettes – are appreciated.

The black church is where gospel songs stretch out for several minutes, seasoned with jazzy repetitions and musical acrobatics. It’s where people clap loud, rock their hips, shout out “hallelujah” and cry like babies.

The black church is also a place that embraces people of all races and cultures. I’ve seen African-Americans clap, stand up and welcome with open arms their white, Asian or Hispanic “sisters” and “brothers.”

The beauty of the black church is that it is not a monolith. There are those who are afrocentric, conservative evangelicals, prudes, radicals and the like. There are churches that are run so well it would make even the largest corporation envious. Many in Birmingham have multimillion-dollar budgets, award-winning television ministries and well-financed mission trips to Third World countries.

Also, let’s not forget that nearly 50 years ago, it was inside the black church where Birmingham’s civil rights movement was born. People would fill the edifices to get their marching orders and hear stories about Moses and the Children of Israel to give them the courage to face a Bull Connor.

The black church is much more than what has been portrayed in recent 60-second TV sound bites. It’s where blacks – and anyone for that matter – can go be refilled, refreshed and reminded that, although there are times when you feel forgotten or forsaken, you’re still a treasured child of God.

Can I get a witness?

Marie A. Sutton, a former reporter at The News, is a free-lance writer in Birmingham.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t get a bit jealous each time I drive by Birmingham-Southern College. The west Birmingham campus, on Arkadelphia Road, sits on 192 acres of endless rows of neatly manicured lawns and buildings made with what look like newly minted bricks.

Twenty-something-year-olds with wind-tossed hair sport backpacks and a smile. They stroll along the campus as if their only care is whether they’ll be late for class. Their world of “Panther pride” seems almost like a mirage in a desert to me.

Outside Southern’s tall, iron gates, and just past the traffic light at the corner, my reality hits. A mile of candy-colored cars sits at the drive-through window of Hong Kong Express (deep-fried food cheap) and spills into traffic, slowing the pace. The street corners are littered with empty fast-food restaurant bags, and police cars whiz by in hot pursuit.

I drive along Graymont Avenue and pass several staggering men. Old vehicles sit parked on the grass in front of various homes, leaving the yards with only patches of green. And, inching by at a snail’s pace is a car riding on shiny rims the size of wagon wheels, its body emblazoned with the bright yellow-and-green logo for the chocolate-covered candy M&Ms.

I pull in front of my home. Sigh. Then, go inside.

* * *

Recently, I read that Reader’s Digest named Birmingham-Southern one of the safest colleges in the nation. I was happy, truly happy for the college. But, at the same time, I couldn’t help but think about how ironic that was when at night, just a few streets away, I hear gunshots.

Not long ago, I was feeding my daughter in the middle of the night and heard two men talking within earshot of my front window. One said to the other, “I’m not scared.” Then, a round of bullets filled the air. I dropped to my knees and crawled to the back of my home, where my husband had to convince me to breathe.

It all makes me wonder if the kids in Ensley sleep as soundly as those at BSC. Don’t get me wrong, those students deserve to live in a place where they do not have to be afraid. But, what about my child?

I would love to be able to boast that my Ensley neighborhood is the safest in the nation. I would love for my 11-month-old daughter (and the one on the way) to sleep soundly at night and not have to worry about the string of break-ins that took place one street over.

Lt. Henry Irby, spokesman for the Birmingham Police Department, commends Birmingham-Southern’s work, but also cautions not to compare its success against crime with that of the surrounding communities. “It’s like comparing apples to oranges,” he says.

The folks at ’Southern are dealing with a smaller, more contained community, Irby says. Outside its walls, the criminals Birmingham Police face are more mobile.

Still, the folks at ’Southern are doing something right. Randy Youngblood, chief of campus police, says criminal activity on his campus is practically nonexistent. He’s a cheery man with a passion for keeping the campus safe. He says it’s a calling.

Youngblood credits his 18-man staff and a supportive administration for allowing him to do what it takes to keep the campus secure. There is strong police presence there, he says. Someone is on watch 24 hours a days, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Cameras scan many areas on campus, including every car that drives onto and off campus.

Youngblood also prides himself in never leaving a ’Southern student in the cold. He will pick up a student no matter where she is. He has even driven to gather students stranded in Nashville and Atlanta. And, all incoming freshmen must meet with him to learn about campus safety.

It’s not as if he keeps non-’Southern folks out, either, he says. “I work hard to try to avoid that perception.” The campus is open to community kids wanting to use the computer lab and library. And, each year, the residence halls are decorated for Halloween, and local families are invited to trick-or-treat up and down the hallways. Youngblood has also been active in past Bush Hills and College Hills neighborhood association meetings.

The way Youngblood’s campus is run, it sounds like — and at 34, I’m not too young to say this — “the good old days.” I remember when neighborhoods were like that — when “neighborhood watch” signs were proudly hung in windows; when neighbors called to check on you; when community folks could chastise your children when they were out of line; and whenever a stranger entered the community, men and women alike would stand on their front porches as if to say, “Somebody’s watching you.”

Now, we look the other way when our neighbor has a problem and say, “That’s not my business.”

Irby says the lesson we can learn from¤’Southern is we can come together and demand that our communities be safe. “We all need to buy into the belief that we can get rid of crime,” he says. “We should say, ‘Not in my neighborhood.’”

There are people like that in Ensley. In fact, it’s not all bad in my community, but a lot of good. I just wish it were more widespread. I wish we were being featured in Reader’s Digest.

There are areas in Ensley where the homes are so beautiful and the streets are so pristine, it will make your jaws drop open. Driving along Bush Boulevard, for example, fills me with pride when I see the historic homes sitting tall and on display. Neighbors wave as you pass by, and the blooming dogwood trees sway gracefully in the breeze as if they are performing a dance.

One man on my street even takes it upon himself to keep the nearby yards neatly cut. He starts out in his yard, then runs his mower across the grass at houses that aren’t occupied and also the occupied ones where the grass has gotten a little too high. He’ll work his way up and down the street, sometimes taking all day.

Then, there is the young, energetic couple who live one street over. They’re new to the community but are filled with ideas of how to reclaim our neighborhood and plan to do so, one house at a time.

We need more of that. We need young men and old men keeping watch on our neighborhoods. We need the criminals to think twice before coming into our community, just like they do before they set foot on ’Southern’s campus.

I am going to challenge myself to do something. I am going to start by attending a neighborhood association meeting. Then, I’m going to break out of my box, get out of my house and introduce myself to the neighbors. After all, it’s been three years.

And, the next time I pass Birmingham-Southern, I am going to let all that envy fly out the window. They are my neighbors, and that small liberal arts college on the hill can surely teach us all a lot.

Marie A. Sutton is a free-lance writer in Birmingham.

E-mail: marieasutton@yahoo.com.

An essay as it ran in The Birmingham News on Sunday, July 08, 2007.

MARIE A. SUTTON

Recently, I pulled into the parking lot of my neighborhood grocery store and got really frustrated. A dirty diaper sat near my front tire and a sea of strewn paper and empty fast-food restaurant bags littered the lot.

Candy-colored cars coasted along the area’s perimeter, blasting songs with profane lyrics, one of which rang out, “Girl, I’ll rape you.” A few men stood near the store entrance. Their pants hung past their butts and they made hissing noises to women who walked by.

As I headed inside, I stood behind a woman who looked as if she was in her late teens or early 20s. Three young children followed her, and to one she showered a mouth full of cuss words. The child didn’t bat an eye. The words weren’t foreign to her.

As I strolled from the produce section to the frozen foods aisle, I looked into the faces of many of the customers. Their eyes were dead. They were angry, tired and beat down by life. I wanted to scream out: Pull up your pants. Raise your children. Get an education. Love yourself. Don’t you know who you are?

I love black people, my people, but some of us are lost. It’s as if we are sleepwalking, traveling through life without a compass. And I am convinced it is because we don’t know who we are.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t think I am any better than the people I saw that day. And they, by no means, represent all black people. They are, however, a segment of our community that deserves our attention and care because they are sick, suffering from spiritual amnesia and totally clueless about the greatness that lies within them.

I wish they could realize that they are a race of strong people, beautifully kissed by the sun in a rainbow of shades from creamy cafe au lait to a robust ebony. I wish they knew that black people are creative, filled with music, creators of gospel and jazz. We are strong, with hands cracked from toiling this nation’s soil and backs wide from carrying the weight of injustice.

And Birmingham blacks are a special kind. We are the descendants of some of history’s greatest Americans. We are of the stock of the Rev. Fred Shuttlesworth, a fiery preacher who braved death for equality; A.G. Gaston, a business tycoon who became Birmingham’s first black millionaire. More recently, we can boast Condoleezza Rice, the first black woman to be Secretary of State and a product of the Birmingham City Schools. And, let’s not forget the man who cleans up the office buildings downtown by day and helps his children with their homework by night. Or, the female executive who makes power decisions during the week, but then volunteers to help little girls with their self esteem on weekends.

These people, my people, make me stand taller. And, they should make us all stand with pride. What I saw that day in the grocery store, however, was a far cry from who we are. What I’ve seen lately are a people unfamiliar with their greatness.

I’m tired of seeing black faces on the news: The suspect was a black male … Two black men were gunned down yesterday … Be on the look out for a black male … Some of our people have run amuck and we, from the elders to the youth, have become too passive with the state of our community. We have become the very antithesis of the generation that walked these streets only four decades ago.

How is it that, today, more than 70 percent of the city’s population is black, but we own only 1 percent of the wealth? Why is it that our schools, the majority black schools, are in trouble? Tell me why is crime in the black communities out of control? We should be mad as hell at ourselves. Mad enough to do something.

Where are the descendants of the Birmingham blacks who in 1962 launched a selective buying campaign and did not patronize businesses that didn’t treat them like human beings? Imagine if we did that today. Blacks spend millions and millions of dollars each year. What if we said we aren’t going to buy another pair of sneakers until these companies put money into our communities?

Where are the grandchildren of the Birmingham youths who in 1963 banned together by the thousands, filling Birmingham jails in the name of freedom and because they had the courage that many of their parents did not. Imagine if our youths joined together for a cause today. It could, just as it did years ago, change the face of our nation.

It’s time for us to wake up and teach our brothers and sisters about our stories. Let’s demand our schools teach lessons about heroes who look like us and not just the obvious ones like Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., but also James Armstrong, a courageous war veteran who fought through Alabama courts to desegregate Birmingham City Schools. Not only that, let’s purpose in our hearts to begin our own personal quests for greater knowledge about our people and the greatness that we are descendants of. Let’s also take the time to talk to our children and speak power into their souls so they can grow up feeling empowered irregardless of their circumstances.

If we do this, I am hopeful we will become a people who will change the tide of our destiny. I am hopeful that that scene from the grocery store will one day be different. Instead of cars aimlessly circling parking lots, maybe one day those drivers will be patrolling our neighborhoods, keeping watch of our children and protecting the sanctity of our community. Instead of those men standing outside, making cat calls to women, maybe they will some day use their voices to speak a word of encouragement to our black women. And instead of the young mother snapping at her children, maybe she will take on her role as the educator of the home and raise up a generation of children who love themselves and defy odds.

If we learn who we are and get a revelation that we are a great people, I believe we can awake from our slumber. For the sake of our future generation, I sure hope we do.

Marie A. Sutton, a former reporter at The News, is a freelance writer in Birmingham. E-mail: marieasutton@yahoo.com.