I was speaking to a colleague and friend on the telephone the other night about a particularly appealing set of career choices he was facing. He had called me for advice, in part because he was contemplating a switch I had made — from print to broadcast journalism — only three years ago.
It was one of those conversations we all have in this business. We weighed the relative merits of the type of journalism he would be practicing, the potential benefit of leaving the newspaper for which he worked and the lucrative financial possibilities of television.
Then, quite naturally, our conversation shifted gears. We talked about what God had in mind for his career. He said that he had been praying about the decision and that he kept returning to the notion that he would just have to “step out on faith” to make this job change. He said he was convinced that, in the words of a popular James Cleveland gospel tune, the Lord “hadn’t brought him this far to leave him.”
We talked in this manner for some time, easily slipping Biblical references into our conversation and ending the conversation with promises to pray for each other. This was not an unusual conversation for me, but I suspect many would be shocked at the notion that two successful journalists might talk with each other in this fashion. More importantly, I’d guess that many of those in my profession and those who watch my profession for signs of evil liberal bias would be surprised to discover that any of us believe in anything at all.
But I do. I consider myself a committed Christian who believes that Jesus Christ is my Savior. And that conviction affects the way I do my job in the same way that everything else that I am does.
That doesn’t mean that I consider it my role to proselytize through my work or to insert my religious views into my coverage. But it does mean that I bring a different sensibility to my job than many of my colleagues do.
I knew in a way that some other political journalist colleagues did not, for example, that it was a sign of respect to dress up and behave conservatively in the churches that we often visited while covering the Rev. Jesse Jackson’s 1988 presidential campaign. Having grown up in the church as the daughter of an African Methodist Episcopal minister, I knew the liturgy and the hymns. I found the traditions of the black church neither alien nor limiting.
And when I switched over to cover the Rev. Pat Robertson’s campaign that same year, I instantly saw the similarities between the two preachers who were running for President, while others saw only the political contrasts. Both men were bringing moral messages to voters who were hungry for them. Robertson and Jackson may have defined themselves as conservatives and liberals, but the people who came to see them largely did not. Robertson’s followers were mostly white; Jackson’s mostly black. But their politics were more alike than different.
As it happens, I am a black woman working in a profession that does not have many people like me working in visible positions. The word “diversity” seems to have acquired a sour taste for many managers, but I still believe in its importance. Perhaps I just define it more broadly. I believe that everybody brings their own life’s experience to the job. If I were a white male, I might have less appreciation for the arguments favoring affirmative action. If I had been raised in a cocoon of privilege, I might not be able to grasp how people end up relying on welfare.
That is why it is important for newsrooms to have people working there who represent a mix of beliefs and backgrounds. Our responsibility is not necessarily to be objective; it is to be fair.
When I covered the Department of Housing and Urban Development for The Washington Post, I daresay I was the only reporter on the beat who had ever lived in public housing. When I covered the 25th anniversary of the passage of Title 9, which was enacted to ensure gender equity, I saw the glass as half-empty. My male colleagues tended to see it as half-full.
My religious convictions affect my work in much the same way. I notice that we don’t do enough to capture the contribution that churches are making to keep the frayed public social service safety net from collapsing completely. I am capable of hearing the appeal that many find in the words of Minister Louis Farrakhan, when others cannot get past his inflammatory assessments of whites and Jews.
Bringing a set of beliefs to the job should enhance our work, not complicate it. When I cover abortion, I am more likely to see the shades of gray than the extremes on either side. When I listen to politicians talk about “family values,” I am more likely to evaluate what they are saying in broader terms that transcend the politics of the moment.
But many of my colleagues bring the same sensibility to their work as I do. We often believe in different things. But in the newsrooms we inhabit, we are by and large not particularly overbearing or preachy about our beliefs. Yet, they are our undergirding.
What we believe and how we practice those beliefs allows us to do what so many journalists got into this business to do: make a confusing and confused world understandable. And then to take our own stab at exposing what’s wrong and fixing it.