A Day at the Church of White Guilt

Close up of hands sitting around a table
Photograph from Shutterstock

A large crowd files into the cathedral. The parking lot is so full that people have to park on the grass. The cars have bumper stickers that say “White Racism=Not Cool.” There’s a sign outside that identifies the place as the Holy Church of White Guilt. The announcement section reads “I AM COMPLICIT.”

Anxious-looking white people stand in a line that stretches out the door and over the hills. It’s so long, you can’t see the end—they’re awaiting their turn for confession. Inside the booth, they can seek absolution for their microaggressions. Instead of a priest, there’s a phone with which they can call their only black friend to apologize:

“Hello? It’s me, Eric. I’m sorry I asked if that was your real hair. I shouldn’t have said that in the board meeting.”

“Ummm, O.K. . . . I forgive you? I’m eating breakfast right now.”

Somehow, they always call during breakfast.

The parishioners finish confession and are baptized in their holy water—the tears of white people who cried watching “The Blind Side” and “The Help.”

Once cleansed, they sit in the pews. They sing the only hymn they know: “Imagine,” by John Lennon, led by their choir director, Gal Gadot. They sing it over and over for thirty minutes straight.

Afterward, it’s time for communion. They partake of His blood (the mimosa) and His body (the avocado toast) in a holy eucharist of brunch. All of which is just an excuse to eat brunch.

The sermon commences. The priest is some white guy wearing a kente-cloth dashiki whose qualifications include exactly one African-American Studies class as an undergrad and a 23andMe result saying he’s two-per-cent West African. He’s not the smartest, but he does have the most Twitter followers, so he gets to speak. Nothing he’s saying is necessarily wrong, but it feels weird coming from him.

“Let the guilt be with you,” he intones.

And the people answer: “And also with you.”

He reads to them passages from their holy book, “White Fragility,” by Robin DiAngelo.

After the service, as the congregation begins to disperse, a hush falls over the crowd. A black person enters. They weren’t expecting this. She speaks.

“Did you really just spend all that time in this big-ass church just to make yourselves feel worse? Why not just spend that time helping black people, instead? It’ll make you feel better.”

The people look at one another, considering what she has said.

One man speaks up: “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

In unison, the congregation echoes his sentiment: “We are so sorry.”

The congregation humbly accepts their own apology.