A little while ago when I was rereading Barack Obama's speech, shouts and sirens drew me to my office window. Nine stories below, Capitol police pushed a cluster of maybe 100 Code Pink protesters out of the intersection of Vermont Ave. and L St.

Together, Obama's words and the sounds of protest took me back five years, when the war began.

That Sunday, I sat in a conservative white evangelical church in the impoverished Mississippi Delta -- the corner of the South that most resembles its pre-Civil Rights Movement self. As an aside during that morning's sermon, the pastor thanked the troops defending our freedom in Iraq. Many heads nodded; mine was not one. After the service I made a point of discussing it with the pastor. He was good-natured, but sincerely convicted that America's freedom was at stake. I swallowed my discomfort, mindful of and thankful for my spiritual growth under his guidance.

Unlike my church, suspicion of the motivation for war pervaded the black community in which I lived. My white churchmates seemed to think "America is good, and our government tells us the truth, and if they tell us we need to fight for our freedom, that's fine." Black neighbors and colleagues I talked to thought it was about oil and Bush was lying. Given the persistence of segregation in town, there was little interracial dialogue on the matter (as was true of anything controversial). Although we did not often share a house of worship, my black neighbors and I shared a suspicion of our government and a presumption against war.

On a Sunday soon after Shock and Awe, the sermon included a well-received, racially undertoned joke which unintentionally revealed what looked to me like a consensus of racism in the congregation. On the ride home, I told my girlfriend I had to leave the church, but at her urging I agreed to talk with the pastor before severing ties.

The following week, we visited the pastor's office and argued with him for more than an hour about race, racism and "reverse racism" in the Delta. At conversation's end we did not see eye to eye, but I sensed that he had an open heart and a desire to grow. To quote Barack Obama, "He contain[ed] within him the contradictions - the good and the bad - of the community that he has served diligently for so many years." I chose to stay in his fold.

Still, teaching in a segregated black school all week and going to a subtlely prejudiced white church on Sundays made for great discomfort. I could have left, but as William Faulkner said, "you dont love because: you love despite; not for the virtues, but despite the faults."

Church continued to nourish me, but disagreements recurred. An intentional fellowship program with a black church in town warmed my soul, but occasional expressions of prejudice burned me. Although I didn't change many minds, I firmly believed that my focus on God's call for beloved community was an important part of the body of the church.

So I read Obama's words yesterday about race, church and politics with keen empathy and great admiration. Living astride the color line (as we all do to one degree or another) brings tension, misunderstanding and bitterness alongside enlightenment, growth and community. Those of us who are intentionally attuned to the problems and possibilities that come with integrated community deal with this reality on a daily basis. Obama expressed it with a thoroughness and eloquence I can envy but not approach.

I look down on the protest-induced traffic jam downtown this evening and recall what life was like on the eve of the war, then turn my gaze uptown toward the uncongested black and brown neighborhood I call home. Between the present and the past, war and peace, uptown and downtown, the white church and the black school, I see crevices created by our original sin of racism. But in rousing speeches of unity, intentional acts of community, and the faith that we can overcome, I see bridges of love that can hold all the traffic we can push across them.