Who is a racist?

He was, in the Dutch Reformed tradition, old school, the kind of believer who, strange as it may seem today, found a perverse pleasure in talking openly about the depths of his own sinful condition. Back then in his community, that kind of behavior was not peculiar; some, in fact, considered such confessions truly orthodox. 

Sometimes there were even tears. Sometimes the piety seemed almost desperate: so heavy was the weight of his sin, so deep and dark, and just so divine was the grace of a loving God. 

He came by such revelations honestly. I never knew his parents, or theirs; but once upon a time getting together for coffee and a cookie almost inevitably meant spending a little confession time, "talking spiritual," my mother used to call it. She practiced a lighter version herself. 

What I'm saying is that my Grandpa Dirkse used to claim--passionately--that he knew his sin: he was not un-righteous. He was an elder in the church and the village clerk, not a madman but a church man given to believe that scripture taught him exactly where to locate and follow the paths of righteousness. 

I didn't know him well. I don't remember him. He died when I was nine. What I know of him comes mostly from what I've been told, and, I'll admit, what's in me. For a decade or so I've been keeping this blog, hundreds of posts--for the record, this is number 3633. The vast majority contain some element of faith. Grandpa is in me, too.

He never told me as much, but I did know he wasn't a fan of the Milwaukee Braves, who, in the 1950s, had only recently moved from Boston to the beer capital. He held his old loyalties and kept following the Phillies, from "the city of brotherly love." The Braves were good too--Henry Aaron, Warren Spahn, Johnny Logan, Billy Bruton--you couldn't tear me away from the radio. But Grandpa always knew the score of last night's Phillies game.

It took several years after his death before his great love for the Phillies simply came up in conversation. My mother was the one who told me, and, with her, it wasn't a guarded thing. I don't know that she thought it peculiar, just an ordinary fact: Grandpa followed the Phillies because they were the last team in professional baseball to integrate. The Milwaukee Braves had Aaron, Bruton, Covington, maybe more. The Phillies were white, all white. 

In righteousness, Grandpa could match almost anyone in town. He knew his sin, most of it anyway, and he'd be happy, literally, to tell you about it--as well as the massive grace it required to bring him, a sinner, home to glory. Hallelujah! What a Savior!

Was Grandpa a racist? Yes. But it may be more accurate to say it this way: my Bible-believing grandpa was a bigot. He judged people not like him to be somehow less than him. 

It's impossible not to believe, by any measure, that the President of the United States isn't a bigot. The really fearful question is just exactly how many others in the neighborhood, in the silence of the voting booth, share his bigotry. 

My white, Dutch Reformed grandpa had a score of commendable virtues, but he was a racist and a bigot. 

And he's in me, too.  

Yup, Grandpa. You weren't wrong. Grace is amazing.