When I went to Ferguson I thought I had something to offer. I was wrong. There was nothing for me to offer. When I was immersed in hundreds of voices chanting “Hands Up Don’t Shoot” I raised my white hands. I raised my white voice. But all the while I knew that the pain and betrayal in this chant is not mine. I have not ever had to carry the weight of racial inequality in the way that the people of Ferguson do.

Does the fact that I, as a white clergywoman, have access to privilege mean that I am not needed in the fight for racial equality? At first glance it would appear so. After all, racially oppressed people have been transforming pockets of hell into pockets of beloved community for generations. They certainly don’t need me to ‘rescue them’ or ‘lift them up’.

During my time in Ferguson I went to a Town Hall meeting at a black urban congregation. On the panel were members of the Department of Justice, NAACP, local aldermen and city council members. The church elders masterfully moderated the conversation and I imagined that this church probably has a long tradition of being a safe place for non-privileged voices to be heard, a place for community members (and not just church members) to speak truth, to mourn, to celebrate, to organize and to collectively discern a vision for the future.

Days later I met with a colleague who serves a largely white affluent congregation in the distant suburbs of St. Louis. She wondered how she and her congregation could be of use in Ferguson when they are so far from the trenches.

How could these two congregations (and the thousands like them all around the country) strengthen one another? I wonder what would happen if the pastors of these two congregations (and, again, the thousands like them all around the country) could meet as religious colleagues and get to know one another. What if the white suburban pastor let the black urban pastor know that she would like to be of service, to offer the support of her white suburban congregation in hopes of furthering the progress of racial and economic equality in their town.

The key piece here is that the privileged congregation is not setting the agenda. The white pastor is asking for direction from the leadership within the black church, bringing this message back to her congregation to find ways to share their time/talent/treasure. And, most importantly, she does all this work only at the invitation of the black church leaders.

It seems a disturbing truth that caring people of privilege like to save non-privileged people. We like the feeling of doing good in the world. We like to be the hero. There could be worse flaws. But here’s what we need to learn: when we put on our shiny superhero costume, we can do real harm. We can disempower people and do so sadly in the name of empowerment.

We need to humbly stay on the sidelines this time, but that does not mean that we need to be ashamed of our privilege and our ignorance and disappear. There is a role for those of us who are privileged, but it is not a starring role. We work hard behind the scenes, not on the stage. We remain in the wings so that those voices with far more wisdom and far less power can be heard loud and clear.