A Pilgrimage Journal
Spring 2004 —Brian C. Taylor
Thomas Merton: Contemplation and Social Action, and Civil Rights History
April 26 — Leaving Albuquerque
After years in the monastery, during which Thomas Merton had been developing his life of silent contemplation and solitude, he began to turn again to the world around him. A sign of that was an epiphany at Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, March 18, 1958 (from Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander, also in his journals).
In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness, of spurious self-isolation in a special world, the world of renunciation and supposed holiness. The whole illusion of a separate holy existence is a dream. Not that I question the reality of my vocation, or of my monastic life: but the conception of “separation from the world” that we have in the monastery too easily presents itself as a complete illusion: the illusion that by making vows we become a different species of being, pseudo-angels, “spiritual men,” men of interior life, what have you.
This sense of liberation from an illusory difference was such a relief and such a joy to me that I almost laughed out loud. And I suppose my happiness could have taken form in the words “Thank God, thank God that I am like other men, that I am only a man among others.” To think that for sixteen or seventeen years I have been taking seriously this pure illusion that is implicit in so much of our monastic thinking.
I wouldn’t say that I have ever lived in an illusory separation from the world, but a couple of years ago something in me shifted along these lines. After many years of intense focus on spirituality, writing books and starting up the Contemplative Center, I was compelled to turn my attention away from spirituality as a thing apart - as a discipline and as a way of carrying oneself through the day - and towards life itself. I found myself much more interested in ordinary life than in the history, practices, study, language, and entire subculture of spirituality. One evening with Susanna at the Ranchers’ Club, I raised my glass and announced to the room that I hereby resigned my job as The Spiritual Guy. While this epiphany may not have had the depth of Merton’s moment on the corner of Fourth and Walnut, a remembrance of it, crafted by my friend Eileen, still hangs on my wall: a large tin milagro of a male torso, festooned with a sash across the chest that reads
I Am Not A Guru.
More elegantly put, by Merton:
My first obligation is to be myself and follow God’s grace and not allow myself to be the captive of some idiot idea, whether of hermit life or anything else. What matters is not spirituality, not religion, not perfection, not success or failure at this or that, but simply God, and freedom in His Spirit.
Out of this shift of focus came an increased interest in other things. I began to emphasize social concerns more in my preaching and ministry. Jeff Olivet’s hiring and the eventual development of the Justice Project came out of this. So here I am, heading to the Merton Center with Jeff, then to Merton’s Abbey of Gethsemene, and on by myself to various civil rights sites in Alabama.
Out of his contemplative experience, Merton found a way of moving into the world, into social concerns, and also into friendships with men and women outside the monastery. He still prayed, of course, as do I. But he was no longer interested in a contemplative life that was something different from ordinary life. This lead him to write and dialogue with others about the Vietnam War, the atom bomb, segregation, American materialism, and poverty. A contemplative life for him was at this point simply the many personal, relational, and social implications of the essential fact of our true unity with God, all people, and all of creation. A similar movement in my own life draws me to this study and pilgrimage to Merton’s time and place.
In parallel to this movement has been my involvement in the current conflict about sexuality in the Episcopal Church. When General Convention approved Gene Robinson as bishop of New Hampshire last summer (and when I declared myself in support of this action) a reaction was unleashed whose depth and fury was overwhelming. Never have I been so exposed to such irrational bigotry, emotionalism, and fear.
For I have committed the unpardonable sin of saying that this development was, in my view, a step forward – out of biblical literalism and into a more enlightened way of doing biblical interpretation and religious morality. I have dared to suggest that we should remain Episcopal, shun talk about schism, be obedient to the canons of our church, and respectfully acknowledge one another’s differences of opinion as we continue together as a family of faith. For these sins my motives have been maligned, my faith ridiculed, and my actions condemned as “reprehensible.”
Of course this is nothing like living in fear of being hated, beaten or discriminated against every day of one’s life simply because one is gay or lesbian or a member of a minority. But standing in support of the outcast can still be a dangerous place to be, even for a privileged white male. To use a hateful racist term that came out of the South a generation ago, in this place one becomes a nigger lover, a traitor to one’s own kind.
And so I found myself some months ago in Birmingham, Alabama for a conference, drawn away from the heated arguments about sexuality, into the park that commemorates the courageous children and adults of marches and boycotts, set upon by dogs, fire-hosed and imprisoned for the crime of saying that we shouldn’t discriminate against any child of God. I was deeply inspired by the clarity of their faith as I found myself in a similar situation.
For as these Christians were surrounded by irrational bigotry and hatred, their response was to rise above ugly arguments and witness to the transcendent power of love, forgiveness, and truth. They found strength and took action without lowering themselves into the gutter of hatred that others attempted to drag them into. They did not back down from demanding justice, but they also did not become bitter as they were abused. How did they do that? This question will take me beyond Louisville to Memphis, Montgomery, and Selma.
April 26–28 — Louisville
Jeff and I have been buried in books, CD audio recordings of Merton, original handwritten journals, dissertations, articles, and videotapes. Studying for two and a half short days at the Thomas Merton Center at Bellarmine College is like standing in a waterfall trying to get a drink of water with a paper cup. Amazing hospitality: two full-time research librarians at our beck and call, retrieving things they thought we would be interested in. In one room, the shrine to TM – his cowl, work shirt and boots, books, and enormous, dorky reading glasses. At night I stayed with Jack Knight’s friends Tommie and Frank O’Callaghan. They were old pals of TM’s, a normal family in Louisville (if 7 kids - 6 girls and one boy - can be considered normal) with whom TM regularly hung out when he went to town.
The sense I got from this immersion was TM’s brilliance, creativity, curiosity, and breadth of mind. He must have been reading and writing all the time. The sheer volume and intense diversity of handwritten journals, typed articles, books, a mountain of correspondence with people all over the world – all of this suggesting a man driven intellectually and creatively, non-stop. Whatever contemplative silence he found was probably an hour here and there in between the offices, masses, and long hours of study and writing. Frank tells me that he was the smartest person he ever met, and in his speaking or writing whatever he was talking about just gushed out in one take, no editing, no going back. On to the next thing. Poetry, Camus, drawing, the Desert Fathers, Zen, jazz, psychology, photography, Sufism, Ginsburg, Tertullian, whatever.
Of course, Merton was a monk and an intellectual. He wrote and talked about the spiritual life and about social issues, and was criticized for not “doing” more in the way of direct action on behalf of peace and those living in poverty and oppression. But at least he inspired others to do so, and the fact is he had to live as an intellectual monk. That is who he was.
The other thing that strikes me in the reading I did was how over the years TM seemed to move gradually from an indepth immersion in the spiritual and theological classics to more secular and wide-ranging topics. His writings and talks to the novices in the early years were all about Bernard of Clairvaux and the Conferences of John Cassian. Later he’s talking about ecology, Vietnam, race riots, modern alienation, psychology, poetry, physics, Buddhism. His biographers bear this out, saying that his spirituality developed past the traditional historical and technical minutiae of monastic spirituality, out into life itself.
God inhabits all of life, and therefore life is where we should look for God, not just in religious words and actions. This shift seems to have taken place for TM to such an extent that eventually there was nothing left for him to say about God at all. What was left was silence, worship, liturgical symbolic language and actions; the beauty of land, animals, weather, sky; and all the wonders and problems and complexity of human experience, love, thought and art. Knowing God so truly, he could just then live as an authentic human being.
Tommie O’Callaghan gets this mischievous look on her face and says Oh yes, Tom was quite human, not a pious saint. She hosted parties, picnics, all sorts of gatherings for him and other monks. He appointed her and a few other friends as the guardians of his effects as the Merton Legacy Foundation, which later developed the Thomas Merton Center. Tommie relished TM’s humor and intelligence and all his interesting friends. She delighted in sneaking him goodies or doing secret favors for him under the abbot’s nose. She liked to see how TM both enjoyed and was embarrassed by his celebrity status. She also knew that ultimately Merton accepted his fame not for any personal ego reasons but because he was willing to be used. He was well aware of the wide impact his writing was having on seekers even during his lifetime, and the much wider impact that would come after his death. In his will, TM indicated that Tommie was to come to the monastery and get his papers (which she did the day after he died), since he knew she would care for them properly and the monastery might not. She obviously loved and respected him very much, and she grieved the loss of his friendship And yet as a way of continuing to shield TM from fan worship, she still makes a little show of knocking him down. About some of his drawings in her living room, she said I never liked ‘em, but Tom did, so I hung ‘em up. Right. Or about some talk she gave somewhere: It was a conference about You-Know-Who.
Frank and Tommie are very generous souls who love naturally, the kind of people who put you at ease and give you space to be yourself (because they are so much themselves). They make you feel instantly as if you’ve known them as extended family forever. I can see why Merton gravitated into their orbit. They had a dinner party for us last night, really sweet. Nova Scotia lobster, 12 people (including 3 Episcopalians), lots of intense conversation, roses, and of course, Maker’s Mark Kentucky bourbon. After all, tomorrow is the Derby.
April 29–30 —Gethsemane Abbey
Tommie really set us up. The abbey guest quarters were full, so she called one of the monks and arranged for Jeff and I to spend a night in Thomas Merton’s own famed hermitage, where he lived the last three years of his life. Only monks get to stay here, once in awhile. On rare occasions, guests are brought up in groups to take photographs.
Prior to its being built, this little house filled Merton’s imagination for years, as he longed for greater solitude, more connection with nature, and deeper silence. Finally he convinced the abbot that it should be built, that God was calling him out of the monastic dormitory and into a hermitage. Merton gushed with joy as he helped dig the foundations, and later moved in. He said that in the monastery below, he was seldom in his right mind. Watching the monks, thinking of Merton’s writing, I can imagine why. A square peg in a round hole, as he himself put it.
Here in the hermitage he had come home; he could be himself, and be at peace. It was here that Thich Nhat Hanh came to visit, Joan Baez, Dan Berrigan, and countless intellectuals, monks, poets, artists, and peace activists. It was here that Merton wrote his later books on Zen, Gandhi, Chuang Tzu, poetry, contemplation in a world of action, non-violence and peace.
The hermitage is a small cinderblock house with a large front porch, looking out over a large open meadow and the rolling hills beyond. Right now it is so green and lush that my desert eyes almost hurt. All is silent, but not really: birds chirp and wasps buzz, breezes rush through the forest, and light playfully bounces off the bright new spring foliage. The house is surrounded by big old trees (sweet gum?). Inside, there is a small kitchen, bathroom (added later, after an outhouse), tiny bedroom, and chapel for saying Mass. The fireplace was originally his only source of heat in the winter – no insulation, it must have been freezing. He would light a fire in the darkness when he arose, spending the first few hours in prayer, meditation, and reading. All these little details now come alive for me, having previously lived in my imagination for years, from Merton’s writings and photographs.
We sat on the porch all day. Late in the afternoon I celebrated Eucharist with Jeff in Merton’s private chapel in the house. We then went to Vespers and dinner, after which Fr. Matthew Kelty spoke to the guests. Back to the hermitage, fire in the fireplace, reading, conversation, then bed. Up early, Mass with the monks, then breakfast. Jeff caught a ride to the airport, and I had a morning alone at the hermitage. A gentle, steady rain. Forest birds sing to each other, squirrels squawk, deer and foxes bound through the meadow. A pretty lively place. Sitting here, I know that I want in my daily life what Merton wanted, and found here. From his 1965 journal, just after he moved in to this place:
I sit in my house, where words cease to resound, where all meanings are absorbed in the consonantia of heat, fragrant pine, quiet wind, bird song and one central tonic note that is unheard and unuttered. Not the meditation of books, or of pieties, or of systematic trifles. In the silence of the afternoon all is present and all is inscrutable. One central tonic note to which every other sound ascends or descends, to which every other meaning aspires, in order to find its true fulfillment. To ask when the note will sound is to lose the afternoon: it has sounded and all things now hum with resonance of its humming.
Now I’m on to Memphis. I listen to CD’s of Merton, who, having walked the 1/2 mile down the hill to the monastery, talked to the novices. It was 1968, the year of his death. He was my age, 53.
May 1 — Memphis
This weekend is the annual Music Fest. Mostly just a hassle, with huge crowds of drunken 20-something people glutting Beale St. at night. But there is a great blues or R&B band in the bars that sit on every corner. The most memorable thing for me, however, was a 100-member evangelical parade through the middle of this Mardi-Gras-like atmosphere at 9pm one night. Like something out of Flannery O’Connor’s South. They marched in formation right into the drunken crowd of revelers, led by a guy running around waving a big Bible, followed by a big bass drum and a trumpet. The young women wore neck-to-ankle calico dresses and looked straight ahead. The men held huge banners showing the promises of salvation through faith in Christ and warnings of hell. Above the flames were words dropping like the damned into the lake of fire: Sodomites; Drunks; Fornicators; Catholics (yes, “Catholics”); Liars; Thieves; Atheists; Abortionists…An old preacher mounted a crate and seized the bullhorn. I couldn’t hear his message, but I knew exactly what he said. They sang Are you washed, are you washed in the Blood of the Lamb? I said to a cop standing next to me I think if Jesus were here he’d be in the bar dancing to the blues band.
Speaking of music, my hosts tell me that when people come to Memphis, they tend to either go to Graceland (Elvis’ mansion, of course) or to the National Civil Rights Museum, but not to both. It would be interesting to see how those numbers break down around race. Trying to be ever-inclusive, of course, I went to both. And to Sun Studios (first recordings of Elvis, Johnny Cash, Jerry Lee Lewis, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins) and to Stax Records Museum (Otis Redding, Sam and Dave, Booker T. and the MG’s, Isaac Hayes).
It’s a cliché, but Memphis really is an amazing musical crossroads, where country and gospel and blues came together in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s, and rock n’ roll and soul and R&B were born. And in all the genres, there was an edge, a raw funky quality that you just didn’t find in Motown or other places at the time. The Memphis sound was very American, very black and white together. Until MLK’s assassination, said Steve Cropper, the white guitarist for Booker T., there wasn’t any such thing as race when you walked in the door of the studio. After that event, he said with tears in his eyes, something wonderful came to an end and everything changed.
May 2 — Memphis
I went to the National Civil Rights Museum, built on as a large addition to the old Lorraine Hotel, where MLK was assassinated. It was a very good exhibit, beginning with the obligatory museum introductory film, leading one through reconstructed environments, exhibits, interactive monitors, and other museum stuff du jour that is now so pervasive.
But nothing could have prepared me for the emotional impact of the ending, even though I knew it was coming: the room where MLK stayed when he was killed, the bed, the open Bible, the door leading out on to the balcony, which we have all seen in so many photographs: Jesse Jackson and Ralph Abernathy and the others pointing up across the street to the source of the shots, with King lying on the ground at their feet. Although it was feared that things would end this way, and although there were many threats and unsuccessful attempts before, it was no doubt a horrible shock and surprise when it happened. So seemingly random, sudden, violent, and final. And yet it was so simple, really: one shot, sounding like a car backfiring, and that was that. A very lucky or skillful shot, and a very exposed target. One almost wonders why it hadn’t happened before that. You can just picture it – King stepping out of this room with his associates, on to that balcony, right there, Bang! from across the street, King crumpling down, voices, confusion, blood seeping out, a call for an ambulance, the terrible long wait, and the awful reality settling in.
This simple and very concrete moment in a small place and time then exploded outwards into the whole world, gaining speed and words and momentum and tears and rage as it flew outwards faster and faster. Eventually thousands walked slowly with the casket-bearing mule-cart, the speeches, the television coverage, the marches, then the riots, the burning cities, the alienation, the sense that nonviolence doesn’t work; the Dream becomes a nightmare; this is what they always will do to us; that “violence is as American as cherry pie” (H. Rap Brown, Black Panther).
Then as if that weren’t enough, you walk across the street to the new part of the museum, the boarding house from where James Earl Ray (or “Raoul,” or whomever it was) shot. In the room itself, you see the bed, the window, and then the bathroom where the shot was fired. A slightly-raised window, kneeling in the bathtub for stability, the gun barrel resting on the sill, a clear view through the scope to the Lorraine balcony. It was a horrible place, and yet, again, so simple, so ordinary. I began to feel very dizzy, out of breath, completely overwhelmed. Had to sit down, but felt worse. I kind of lurched through the end of the exhibit, outdoors, quickly to a park where I thought I was going to be sick, having to lie down, tears, asking forgiveness for what we do to one another, what we do to goodness and truth. Slowly I regained enough strength to make the drive out to Gerry and Janice Vanderhaar’s, the in-laws of Nancy Searle, a parishioner, who are graciously hosting my stay here.
May 3 — Memphis
The Gandhi Institute for Nonviolence is located in a basement at the Christian Brothers University in Memphis. The Vanderhaars started this institute, together with Arun Gandhi, Mohandas K. Gandhi’s grandson. It houses a library, where I studied for a day, it hosts workshops and conferences, and it organizes Arun’s nearly weekly travel schedule for speaking engagements. It seems that corporate executives, government agencies, universities, everyone wants to hear stories of what Arun learned from his grandfather. He was with him for a long visit to India in 1946 when he was 12, and otherwise grew up in South Africa. I had a long talk with Arun, and also with the current director, Michelle Naef, and spent some hours reading and taking notes.
Arun Gandhi spoke of the atmosphere of vengeance in our nation today (in response to terrorism), with little effort to look intelligently at the root causes of terrorism and our part in that history. He recommends building relationships by considering, with others, the needs of all people, and not just the narrow self-interest of the United States. His hope is that with increased communication and global economy, this may become more possible.
In talking with him about the link between spirituality and social action, he spoke of his grandfather taking spirituality above religion and ritual to a level of unity and diversity, where all religions might respect and cooperate with one another. Gandhi recommended that “a friendly study of all scriptures is the sacred duty of every individual.” In his twice-daily public prayer services, he used prayers from various traditions and held them in a neutral space, such as an outdoor area.
Arun’s advice about individual prayer and meditation is to do it in such a way (every time one prays) that brings into one’s prayer the world, those in places where war is taking place, the homeless, one’s own friends who are in pain, all who are in suffering and need. Otherwise one becomes overly-individualized, and prayer becomes all about me, my feelings, my needs, my sense of God’s presence in my life. According to Gandhi, this is really the root of violence, because it isolates one from others, leading to haves and have-nots, indifference to injustice, etc.
I hope that the Institute survives Arun’s eventual retirement. He is in his late ‘70’s, and unfortunately the main draw for those who are interested in this Institute is Gandhi’s grandson and his stories about Grandfather. He travels at least once a week to give these talks. But do they come to conferences on practical applications of nonviolence today? Do they take his grandfather’s teachings seriously? Both Arun and the director are uncertain whether anything will remain after he is gone. It seems that people want to hear the stories of the great man but are not too interested in learning about how to apply the principles of nonviolence to the world in which they live.
I’m struck by what we do to these heroes of conscience. We take away their power by turning them into sentimental figures. MLK has a dream, Gandhi is the cute little man wearing rags. We read short quotations, watch PBS specials, visit museums, and temporarily feel moved. There is a woman who has been sitting in protest outside the National Civil Rights Museum (Lorraine Hotel) here in Memphis for 16 years. Her signs say: Stop worshiping the past! Address racism today!
While the museum is a needed thing (and they also make the same point as she does), it does contribute to the media marketing and resultant oversimplification and trivialization of the message. “Let’s package this popular figure and control his message so it stays safely in the past; then we won’t have to deal with him!”
Meanwhile, we ignore poverty and racism and those who live without healthcare. We still drop bombs on innocent people and kill a disproportionate number of people of color on death row, and Muslims and Hindus are still killing each other in India and Pakistan. Are Gandhi and King rolling over in their graves as the thousands file through the museums that pay tribute to them?
May 4 — Montgomery
Went to a Montgomery Biscuits Baseball game this evening (AA team for Tampa Bay), where at the top of the 9th inning they broadcast the opening riff for Lynryd Skynryd’s Sweet Home Alabama. The crowd leapt to its feet, clapping and singing along. Innocent enough, until you watch a crowd of 95% white people in this very mixed city watching a game of black players, being served by black employees, and the white males singing along enthusiastically (belligerently?) with this anthem to the South: Well, I hope Neil Young will remember, Southern Man don't need him around anyhow…this being a reference to Neil Young’s song Southern Man, a stinging indictment of slavery, religious hypocrisy, and white-on-black violence. Apparently southern men still don’t want any “outside agitators” lecturing them about racism.
Growing up in northern California, my somewhat distorted image of the South was influenced by stereotypes: fat policemen beating demonstrators, Klansmen lynching some poor soul, and Dennis Hopper getting shot off his Harley in Easy Rider. The South seemed like a scary place for this long-haired, anti-war northerner, so I gave it a wide berth.
As I finally explore the South now, I find a complex racial situation. Unlike the North, where blacks and whites have lived at a nervous and distrustful distance, segregated by more subtle forms of racism, in the South blacks and whites have always lived very close together. I’m aware of a much easier and looser interaction here, born out of a shared history and common sense of belonging. And yet in the South there is also this deep-seated racism for a few that still jumps out occasionally, as well as an unconscious denial of the magnitude of the problem for many more (What’s the big deal about a Confederate flag flying over the state capitol? It’s a symbol of regional pride and history! Neil Young, we don’t need you down here anyhow…).
And then, on the corner of Lee and Montgomery, the very corner where Rosa Parks refused to move to the back of the bus, was a newspaper box. The headline story was about an assistant District Attorney who had worked in that office for 16 years, who had just been caught on an answering maching tape calling an African-American lawyer a F…..g N….r. Yes, he was condemned and fired immediately. The law is on the right side now. You can’t do that anymore. But the bigotry is still in the hearts of men and women.
May 5 — Montgomery and Selma
First thing in the morning I went to the parsonage for Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, where Martin Luther King and his family, and The Rev. Vernon Johns before him, had lived. Since I was the first there, the guide showed me around herself. She grew up as a member of Dexter, and remembered MLK and Coretta well. She showed me the hole in the concrete front porch, which is where one of the two dynamite attacks on his house took place. Amazingly, no one was hurt either time.
I asked about MLK’s ever-growing duties with the civil rights movement and his increasing absences from his job, and how the congregation took that. Showing me the pastor’s log that confirmed this fact, she explained that the whole congregation was willing to share him with the world in the important work he was doing. She also called Dexter Ave. Church for me to set up a visit, since right now they are closed to the public.
They let me into the church alone, and had about a half hour there, just taking it all in. It’s a bit bigger than St. Michael’s, and I could imagine MLK preaching there, holding strategy meetings in the basement offices below, and speaking to crowds. Just a 26-year old new pastor, thrown into the national limelight in a small city, by virtue of his having been chosen as the new president of the organization that organized the Montgomery Bus Boycott, after Rosa Parks began it all with her arrest. Downtown Montgomery is a small place, too. Everybody must have known one another, and here it was, ending up on the cover of national magazines, on television, and now in the museums and history books. I’m struck by how history can be so unpredictably written from such humble beginnings.
Next I went to the Southern Poverty Law Center (and the beautiful memorial sculpture there by Maya Lin). SPLC is an organization begun by the courageous Morris Dees, which since 1971 has worked to shut down, prosecute and imprison hate groups and individuals. They essentially bankrupted what was left of the Klan, among others.
They’ve had many very credible bomb threats (and one successful one that burned the old building), so I was only able to enter their new, large fortress-like building because I called ahead of time and told them that Susanna had been supporting them since 1977. We spoke of the parallels between the attitudes of segregationists and those who are so irrationally anti-gay and lesbian, and of the SPLC’s programs that attempt to educate around this current issue of prejudice and hate crime. My guide took me to meet Dees himself, invited me to a staff lunch, and then she gave me three teaching programs on tolerance. Again, I am amazed by the simple hospitality of so many good people whom God has placed in my path on this trip, just at the right times.
I drove on to Selma, and on the way stopped in at Hayneville, where Jonathan Myrick Daniels, a seminarian from Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge MA, was killed in 1965. He had heeded the call to come help with voter registration, and was arrested along with some children at a demonstration. They were released unexpectedly in this small town, and as they made their way into a store, a deputy sheriff walked up, pulled a shotgun, pointed it at one of the black kids, and Jonathan stepped in front of her, taking the blast himself. The killer was arrested but later acquitted. As I talked with a drugstore owner near the site where it happened, he said that local whites really don’t want to talk about it too much. They’re embarrassed by this shameful period in their history, and at the same time they’re defensive too. The pharmacist said Not all the changes that have come as a result of those times have been good, let me tell you…you can think of the issues that were being addressed back then in simplistic terms, good guys and bad guys, but there’s always more to the story….Plus, the widow of the man who shot Daniels is still alive, still very involved in this small community. We wouldn’t want to embarrass anyone, now would we? So there, in a little corner of the town square, is a quiet, uncomfortable reminder: a small memorial to Daniels, erected by the Virginia Military Institute, where he went to college before seminary. In the middle of the square is a much larger monument to the Confederate heroes, erected by the town.
At the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, and all along the road between there and Montgomery, where thousands marched in support of voting rights, it was easy to imagine it all. On Bloody Sunday, white police beat black marchers with bullwhips and rubber hoses wrapped in barbed wire, as white onlookers cheered. Then hundreds of clergy – including numerous Episcopal ones – arrived with Joan Baez, Pete Seeger, Harry Belafonte and others who responded to MLK’s call. Over several days, a crowd that began at 8,000 swelled to 25,000 in the 50 miles to Montgomery. And then on the evening that this triumphant march concluded, Viola Liuzzo, a housewife and mother from Detroit, was shot dead by Klansmen as she transported some of the marchers. All on this country road that connects a large town and a small city.
This land here is soaked in the blood of martyrs. I look into the woods and imagine lynchings and beatings. I look over bridges and imagine drownings and body-dumping in the rivers below. The Hayneville store, the Lorraine Hotel, the Pettus Bridge, the prisons, the 16th St. Baptist Church basement in Birmingham, and way before that, the plantations, the auction blocks, the ships from Africa. Behind the physical violence was another kind of violence: hatred, intimidation, humiliation, poverty, denial of rights, and inequal legal protection, employment, medical care and education.
But into this modern American hell was interjected the gospel of Jesus Christ. More than the political planning and execution, it was the biblical Christian faith of the African-American church that provided the movement its continual inspiration and its spiritual discipline. It wasn’t just a dream of equality that changed history. It was the unstoppable power of God’s truth, the public display of Christ’s forgiveness, and the utter freedom that comes from people who have moved beyond fear of hatred, injustice and death into the peace of the kingdom of heaven.