[Episcoapl Diocese of Indianapolis] Dear Ones,

In days like these I can’t help but think of my grandparents. My paternal grandfather grew up on the Shinnecock Indian reservation—a place awash with poverty surrounded by a sea of wealth in the Hamptons of Long Island—land they once owned. My paternal grandmother and maternal grandparents hailed from the Jim Crow south and eventually made their way north in one of the urban migrations to New York City. None of them lived to see the election of a black U.S. president. The hatred and violence of this past weekend in Charlottesville, VA was all too familiar to them. The stories of run-ins my paternal grandparents had with the KKK were told in hushed tones so that the children would not hear—but we did. And there were places my Grandma Anne, would not visit because of those incidents. Grandma Anne was tougher than nails—ask anyone who knew her—but fear of the Klan would keep her from visiting me when I lived outside of Binghamton, NY. I would tell her, my faith in God as revealed in Jesus Christ compelled me not to fear. It is perhaps both irony and destiny that as bishop of the Diocese of Indianapolis, I now visit churches in places where confederate flags fly on the houses next door. I wonder all the time what Grandma Anne would make of it.