Ebony and Ivory
Ebony and Ivory
By Mark Morrison-Reed
Mark Morrison-Reed was caught in a tortuous shift in America. Born on the South Side of
Chicago in 1949 in a twilight zone between races, he was raised on the cusp of what was to
come. Raised in a predominately white Unitarian congregation he became a black hippie who
tried to reconcile the “make love not war” ethos of the white counter-culture with the demands of
awakening black consciousness. He went on to marry an Anglo-Canadian and raise two
multiracial children while serving the First Universalist Church of Rochester, NY. In Between tells
his story of being among the first to bring racial diversity to his neighborhood, school, church
and ministry.
Mark is also the author of Black Pioneers in a White Denomination and co-editor of Been in the
Storm So Long. All three books are available at uua.org/bookstore or 1-800-215-9076.
The following is an excerpt from the book that focuses on the trials and triumphs of ministry in an
interracial context:
Sometimes my race means everything, and sometimes it means nothing. And sometimes I
delude myself.
I believe that when one soul encounters another, race is a tissue, a thin rather than substantive
barrier. The dying don’t care about the color of my skin when I hold their hand. The suicidal
don’t reject my counsel because I am black. My bleary-eyed jogging partners couldn’t care less
as we groan about our aches and pains, our children and spouses. Days go by when the
thought I am a black man never crosses my mind. Sometimes I am allowed to be simply me -
beyond categories and characterization. Still, serving in the ministry, I never knew when one of
my white parishioners, someone I had known for years, would surprise me. Suddenly something
hidden would grab me by the collar yet again.
One evening, having skipped dinner, I was lying in bed with a fever when a call came from a
church member. “Mark? Please come. There’s been a fight. Peter’s in his room and won’t
come out. Hurry, please!”
Five minutes later I was in my car, ten minutes after that at their front door. I knocked. It
opened. There was a fist-sized hole in the stairwell wall.
I talked to the parents. I talked to Peter. I comforted his sobbing sister. I coaxed him
downstairs. We all talked. I got them to listen to one another. We worked out a plan of action. I
forgot I was burning up.
When it was time to go I hugged the wife and she confessed, “I could never have imagined being
held by a black man before.”
Suddenly I was not there; I had shifted out of my body. I was looking down on this white woman
and black man standing in the middle of the living room. What the hell is going on? I had not
thought of my skin color or theirs for one instant. What does my being black have to do with
anything?
I half heard her explain something about her childhood, some story about her father’s extreme
prejudice, a story she needed to tell. But at that moment, I was unable to listen. Why now?
What is she really saying?
She had broken through some barrier, some barrier I hadn’t realized existed. She called me,
trusted me, and the emotional dissonance had educated her—and me.
I mouthed a quiet thank-you, offered a sad smile, said an awkward farewell, and stepped out the
door. Settling into my car, I shook my head more at the absurdity of it all than in bitterness. As I
backed down the driveway, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Abruptly aware that I
was in a white suburb, I kept an eye out for the police as I drove home.
By Mark Morrison-Reed
Mark Morrison-Reed was caught in a tortuous shift in America. Born on the South Side of
Chicago in 1949 in a twilight zone between races, he was raised on the cusp of what was to
come. Raised in a predominately white Unitarian congregation he became a black hippie who
tried to reconcile the “make love not war” ethos of the white counter-culture with the demands of
awakening black consciousness. He went on to marry an Anglo-Canadian and raise two
multiracial children while serving the First Universalist Church of Rochester, NY. In Between tells
his story of being among the first to bring racial diversity to his neighborhood, school, church
and ministry.
Mark is also the author of Black Pioneers in a White Denomination and co-editor of Been in the
Storm So Long. All three books are available at uua.org/bookstore or 1-800-215-9076.
The following is an excerpt from the book that focuses on the trials and triumphs of ministry in an
interracial context:
Sometimes my race means everything, and sometimes it means nothing. And sometimes I
delude myself.
I believe that when one soul encounters another, race is a tissue, a thin rather than substantive
barrier. The dying don’t care about the color of my skin when I hold their hand. The suicidal
don’t reject my counsel because I am black. My bleary-eyed jogging partners couldn’t care less
as we groan about our aches and pains, our children and spouses. Days go by when the
thought I am a black man never crosses my mind. Sometimes I am allowed to be simply me -
beyond categories and characterization. Still, serving in the ministry, I never knew when one of
my white parishioners, someone I had known for years, would surprise me. Suddenly something
hidden would grab me by the collar yet again.
One evening, having skipped dinner, I was lying in bed with a fever when a call came from a
church member. “Mark? Please come. There’s been a fight. Peter’s in his room and won’t
come out. Hurry, please!”
Five minutes later I was in my car, ten minutes after that at their front door. I knocked. It
opened. There was a fist-sized hole in the stairwell wall.
I talked to the parents. I talked to Peter. I comforted his sobbing sister. I coaxed him
downstairs. We all talked. I got them to listen to one another. We worked out a plan of action. I
forgot I was burning up.
When it was time to go I hugged the wife and she confessed, “I could never have imagined being
held by a black man before.”
Suddenly I was not there; I had shifted out of my body. I was looking down on this white woman
and black man standing in the middle of the living room. What the hell is going on? I had not
thought of my skin color or theirs for one instant. What does my being black have to do with
anything?
I half heard her explain something about her childhood, some story about her father’s extreme
prejudice, a story she needed to tell. But at that moment, I was unable to listen. Why now?
What is she really saying?
She had broken through some barrier, some barrier I hadn’t realized existed. She called me,
trusted me, and the emotional dissonance had educated her—and me.
I mouthed a quiet thank-you, offered a sad smile, said an awkward farewell, and stepped out the
door. Settling into my car, I shook my head more at the absurdity of it all than in bitterness. As I
backed down the driveway, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. Abruptly aware that I
was in a white suburb, I kept an eye out for the police as I drove home.
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