Vol.10 No.6

Reconciled
Until I allowed God’s love to penetrate my heart, I was consumed with hatred and revenge toward Whites.
By Andre Wilson As told to Doneta Wrate

I’ve had it with that Don Philpot!” I seethed with rage.

I pulled out my gun and brandished it about the college dorm room in front of my friends. “If he ever crosses me again, I’ll kill him!” Just then, there was a knock on the door, and who should come in but Don Philpot! Of all people, why was he here? I scowled at him, “Get out of here! Get out of here!” Don apparently didn’t feel like taking on a whole room full of Blacks. He immediately turned and left.

Don seemed to be tolerable when I first met him in 1971 at the Christian college we attended, until I gave my talk on racism in speech class. I wore my black, green, and red headband—the colors of the Black Nationalists—to emphasize where I stood. I was supposed to defend my speech against questions asked by the other students. But Don asked pointed questions just to put me on the spot and get me a bad grade. I determined to take revenge on him. What I did not understand at the time was that Don’s questions were not from prejudice, but ignorance from lack of exposure to Black people.

After speech class, I walked down the middle of the narrow dorm hall to my room. Two White fellows, walking side by side, approached me. Vaunting my Black pride, I held my head high and stared them in the eye. I didn’t budge an inch to the left or right; they parted and went around me.

Back in my room, one of my friends filled me in on some rumors he heard about Don. “I hear Don feels bad about you being so angry with him,” he said. “Don wants to make peace. He is supposed to be praying for you.”

“Fat chance!” I retorted. “I know Whites. I’ve been watching them all my life. All Whites consider the Black man inferior. You saw the movie, “The Liberation of L.B. Jones.” A White man will hold Blacks under his foot any time he can. And you saw that racist graffiti scribbled on the wall when Martin Luther King was killed. So do you really believe this rumor about Don Philpot praying for peace with me?”

Later that week a retreat was announced for students from several Christian colleges throughout the United States. Many of my classmates were excited and begged me to go. I wasn’t interested. I thought of God as a “White man’s God.”

I just couldn’t relate to Him. To me, so many Christians seemed to be two-faced, holier-than-thou hypocrites. Very few lived what they talked. My bitter feelings would not allow me to accept the invitation.

“I know what will happen,” I told my friends as they left. “All you holy people will get together and talk about how righteous your beliefs are and how wrong everyone else is.

I want nothing to do with it.”

That weekend, with so many people gone, I decided to do something different. I had promised a friend I would not smoke marijuana any more, but I decided to now.

I stayed in my room, buried my nose in some militant racist literature, and got high. As usual, the anger grew inside me, lessening my response to the Holy Spirit and putting the causes of racism before the call of Jesus.

When everyone returned from the retreat, all they talked about was what a great time they had. They told me how much they had learned and how their commitment to Jesus had grown. Then a bunch of them decided to give their testimonies at prayer meeting. That was the last thing I wanted to hear! I decided not to go.

As prayer meeting approached, I lay on my bed studying. But this nagging thought kept hitting me: “Go to prayer meeting! Go to prayer meeting!” Finally, even though I knew I was going to be late, and the doors would be locked, I grabbed my books and ran across campus to the chapel. As I approached the chapel, I noticed the doors were closed. I reached for the handle anyway and pulled. It opened! I slipped into the back row. The student next to me commented, “Boy, you just barely made it.”

As usual, I had brought a book to study, but this time the speaker’s words grabbed my attention.

The student giving his testimony was a tough man on campus, yet he was telling how Christ had touched his heart at the retreat. He talked about surrendering to Christ! I had heard testimonies before, but none had moved me like this. Another student gave his testimony and then another. I noticed the students were of all different races.

After the testimonies were over, prayer bands formed. I asked the girl next to me to pray. Being a good talker, I wasn’t afraid of praying in front of others. Of course, my heart wasn’t in it, but I could pray impressive prayers.

The girl and I went to the front of the chapel. But before we even started, the girls’ dean asked to join us. Just a couple of weeks earlier she and I had an argument about racism, but I decided this was not the time to make a scene, so I said okay. Then who else should come up but Don Philpot! He also asked to join us, and again I agreed.

The girls’ dean prayed first.

She said she loved me as a brother and asked forgiveness for the argument. She wanted peace between us. Her prayer did not move me at all. Next Don prayed. He said that he loved me also! He mentioned that he often prayed for me, asking for the anger between us to be dissolved. He wanted to be friends. Don said he did not want to be a White man to me and for me to be a Black man to him, but that the two of us might truly be brothers. For some reason Don’s prayer touched me. I began to shake and tremble all over.

Then it was my turn to pray.

My usual eloquence left me. Trembling uncontrollably, I broke down into tears. “Dear God,”

I prayed, “tell my White brother I love him.” Don and I stood and hugged each other.

“Don,” I said. “God has taken the sword out of my hand and placed the Bible in it.” That moment, my focus in life changed from Black racism to the cross of Jesus Christ. I no longer prepared to die in a race war between Blacks and Whites, but to surrender my life to whatever work my Lord and Master gave me.

Looking around the chapel I saw many groups of praying students.

As I sat trembling in my seat, dozens of students came to me, saying, “Andre, I have been praying for you.” I didn’t know so many students cared about me! I can only credit my conversion to the power of prayer, revival, and God’s love. His unconditional love changed my heart of hate, and I have never been the same since.

Nearly 30 years later, I can only thank God that He intervened in my life through these sincere brothers and sisters in Christ. Without this crucial change, the real purpose for my life would have been thwarted, and

I would have lived my life consumed with revenge and racism.

* Doneta Wrate is a freelance writer who lives in Oklahoma. Andre Wilson currently resides in Pegram, Tennessee, where he manages the Country Life Vegetarian Buying Club. His wife, Heather, is actively involved in midwifery.