Context is a huge part of preaching. We must always examine a biblical text within its context. What is the point of the larger section where our text is found? What is the overall message of the book? Where does this book fit historically in the unfolding of redemption? But there is another context in preaching: the congregation. On Sunday morning, March 26, 2006, I preached the same sermon before two different congregations, "The Sacrifice of Praise" from Hebrews 13:15, 16.

At 8:00 o'clock, I preached this sermon at the Good Hope Missionary Baptist Church, an African-American congregation located not far from Alexandria, in Boyce. Then I preached the same sermon at the 10:30 service at Grace Presbyterian, where I have been pastor for over thirty years.

At the 8:00 o'clock service, I preached with an all male choir sitting behind me. Roughly twenty men, dressed in their prison uniforms, had come to church. Their choir director was one of their guards. Even though it was early in the morning for a church service, everybody was really glad to be there, almost as if they had come to a long awaited family reunion. The atmosphere was overwhelmingly celebratory. After a long and joyful time of prayer, Scripture reading and hymn singing, the moment came for the sermon, and I preached for thirty-three minutes. I was blessed.

Afterward, I drove the twenty or so miles to my church, walking into the sanctuary just after I heard the Doxology being played. Our service, too, was celebratory, and truly I felt part of the family of the people of Grace Presbyterian. But I didn't get nearly the amount of congregational feedback, and, curiously, without those interruptions, I actually preached sixteen minutes longer.

A Black pastor friend of mine once preached in our church and said at the outset, "Saying 'Amen' to a Black preacher is like saying 'Sic 'em' to a dog." I think that he is right, not only for Black preachers but for White ones, too. This afternoon, I said to my wife that I thought I was a better Black preacher than a White one. She agreed, but then she added, "White people don't want you to preach that way." Her comment reminded me of the significant racial divide that still exists in twenty-first century America, a divide that while not in and of itself sinful, is, nevertheless, the fruit of sin.

Back in the nineteen-sixties, I attended two colleges in South Carolina: Presbyterian College and Bob Jones University. Segregation was still very much the way of life in South Carolina during that time. Back in 1966, Bob Jones Junior spoke about race in chapel. With my own ears I heard him say the following:

"Blacks have never had a successful civilization."

"Blacks were designed by God to be servants."

"Blacks are only happy when they are in the role of a servant."

Dr. Jones' thinking was very much like that of my political science professor at Presbyterian College. He was an Episcopalian, in the tradition of the old Plantation South. He told us: "I can accept a Black on equal terms in an impersonal relationship, or I can accept a Black in a personal relationship as long as he is not my equal, but I cannot accept a Black on equal terms in a personal relationship."

In so many ways I find that remark still characterizes human relations in America today. I grew up in a strangely contradictory society. I had regular contact with African-Americans, but never in an equal relationship. My Black nursemaid took good care of me, and I loved Amy. Later we moved to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and Mattie entered my life. These were kind and loving women who were gentle and knew how to raise children.

As I recall, my aunts and uncles had Black servants who were treated as part of the family, but never with equality. When I visited my father's sister on her ninetieth birthday, I noticed her servant James. His eyes looked funny, the way that they do when people need surgery, so I said to my aunt: "Inez, James' eyes look like he may have cataracts."

"I don't know, Robert, I was always taught never to look a Niggrah in the eyes," she responded.

Her response startled me. I had known James all my life. He had gone to work for my aunt's husband as a little boy, and he was now around seventy, having worked for her most of his life. Even though most of that time it was part time, not a day went by that he didn't check on her. He even telephoned my aunt when he was away visiting relatives in New York. He obviously loved her and she obviously loved him, but she had never looked him in the eye.

She was always "Miss Inez," while he was always simply James. Her husband, my father's brother-in-law, was born roughly five years after the end of Reconstruction, and he held to the values of the old South. He was a kind and paternalistic man. He did not hate African-Americans. Their presence did not make him uncomfortable. When a Black friend needed something, "Mr. Henry" would take care of it. It was his duty, and he never begrudged this expense.

Before daylight, their Black cook would arrive. How I remember those wonderful breakfasts: hot hominy grits, eggs, sausage and Viola's homemade biscuits, served with real butter. Her midday dinners were even better: fried chicken, butter beans, rice and gravy, macaroni and cheese, and more biscuits. Nobody could cook as well as Viola. I still savor the memory of her meals.

This was the world into which I was born. These were the African-Americans that I knew. They all seemed happy and kind. I was "Mr. Robert" when I went back into the kitchen to chat with Viola or James. She never seemed to mind the intrusion of a curious little boy watching her cook on the old, black iron stove. I was always treated as an honored guest.

Over the years, whenever I would go to South Carolina and visit my aunt, I would always visit with James. Sometimes that meant that I would travel down to where he lived and visit him in his home on the way out of town, but I always went to see him -- he was part of my family. Viola died many years ago, but I last saw James in the late summer of 1998. I was in South Carolina and took my family to see my aunt. It was just short of her 102nd birthday. After visiting with her for a while, I went out in the yard, where James was working. He still called me "Mr. Robert." But we hugged each other and spoke affectionately. He had a stroke less than a month later and died shortly thereafter.

That was one side of race relations in the South in which I was born -- it was warm and personal but terribly unequal and demanded a measure of deceit from the African Americans who successfully navigated the intricacies of that paternalistic world. But I did not understand that for years.

When I was a junior in high school, I worked as a desk clerk in a small hotel; the bellhop was a middle-aged Black man. He was introduced to me by his first name, Charles. He educated me more than anyone else about the Black experience. "Do you think I like acting like a fool -- smiling and laughing at White folks making fun of me? I got to feed my kids, and the more I act like a fool, the more food I can put on the table."

Charles got me to think. He was the first Black who was really honest with me. It had never dawned on me that the kindly African-Americans of my childhood had had to keep us in the dark about their true feelings. Their very survival depended on it. Under Charles' tutelage the contradictions of my upbringing began to register.

Continued on in Part 2.