The Promised Land (2)

On June 11, 1963, a reluctant young President Kennedy addressed the nation. For the second time in his administration he was forced to federalize a state’s National Guard to ensure that black students were able to enroll in universities, which were deemed “off-limits” to people of color.

            Kennedy was not a champion of civil rights at the time. His ventures into the increasingly violent white reaction to a black minister’s call for an end to “Jim Crow,” a call for equality under the law regardless of the color of one’s skin, were often politically motivated. But now, with a Southern Governor standing on the threshold of his state’s flagship university and refusing admittance to two qualified black students in defiance of a Federal court order, with fire hoses and attack dogs let loose on peaceful children (some as young as six) marching and singing, Kennedy had seen enough.

            Race, he said, was a moral issue. America cannot be the land it professes to be as long as some of its citizens are denied the American dream, denied equal citizenship because of their color. He said, “Race has no place in American life or law.”

            That night, a young black wife and her children waited for a husband and father to arrive home in Jackson, Mississippi. This man – soft spoken and well versed – was the face of the civil rights movement in his state. As his wife and children walked out the front door of their home to tell him of President Kennedy’s words a shot rang out. Medgar Evers lay dead in his driveway. His crime? He believed in “the promised land.”

            Race in America. President Kennedy was right. Until we deal with it, lay it out there and move forward, America will never get to the Promised Land. I write this blog in a moment of deep distress over what I saw in here this week among young men who are – purportedly – seeking an education and a future. As I have written so often, prison is a reflection of the society at large. The views, the prejudices, uttered in here are the same as those out there. That thought distresses me.

            A Humanities class is being taught. The subject the African-American experience. It is taught through great American literature and it is taught by a petite white woman. The class is equally divided: eight whites, eight blacks. It wasn’t intended that way; that’s just how the college student pool in here breaks down.

            From the outset of the class I heard carping from white students. “Why do I need this bullshit?” My response: Have you ever read ‘A Raisin in the Sun”? Have you ever read Richard Wright? Do you know who Langston Hughes is? Maya Angelou? Have you ever dissected Dr. King’s letter smuggled from the Birmingham Jail?

            They reluctantly agree to give the class a shot, all the while muttering code words for the “N” word: “Yams,” “Canadians.” There are dozens of words tossed around in prison that white guys use to degrade blacks without uttering the “N” word.

            So now I’m pissed. I can’t believe I’m having to justify Dr. King to a bunch of idiots – worse, idiots who profess a belief in the teachings expressed by Jesus yet they fail to see that everything Dr. King wrote and preached began with this pure statement of faith:

            “We as a people will get to the Promised Land … Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!”

            Powerful, heartfelt words of faith and determination, and hope, uttered-ironically – less than 24 hours before he too was cut down by an assassin’s bullet.

            In frustration I run and wonder how professing Christians can ignore Paul’s words to the citizens of Athens (Acts 17) as he proclaimed “the God who made the world and everything in it … He has made from one blood every nation of men to dwell on the face of the earth.” We are so far from the Promised Land.

            I was frustrated and angry … and it got worse. For now there were the black students, members of offshoot black supremacist groups acting under color of religion: the IVOI, Moors Temple, 5%ers. They profess intellectual acumen yet they are forged and schooled in the same dearth of prejudice and ignorance I just confronted with the whites.

            “Why do you want to teach this material?” One guy asks in class. The question, at first blush, seems innocuous; but it isn’t. Moments before, I heard this same Einstein shake his head and say, “I got to listen to this European lady talk about black issues.” “European,” that’s black “supremacy” lingo for “cracker.”

            “Why do you want us to read Native Son? Why do you want us to read 12 Years a Slave?” Each question is a challenge to her. He might as well say, “What gives you the right to delve into the black experience? You aren’t black!” And I get more frustrated, pissed off, angry. “When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?”

            “I don’t know what the future holds … but I know who holds the future.” On one of the darkest days of the civil rights struggle – bombings, murders, beatings, - a fearful group of parishioners gathered in an all-black church on a sweltering day. Dr. King, from the pulpit, uttered those words and from around that church came soft murmurs of “Yes, Lord.” “The Promised Land” is so because He deems it to be so. God – not man – will deliver His people to the Promised Land.

            A story I have never shared with anyone. I was a sophomore in college living in a wild party-filled dorm across campus. In the room next to mine was a young black guy from Dayton, Ohio – Johnny D. Johnny and I shared some common interests in music, food, girls. I thought I was cool – I had a black friend.

            One night we had a party on our floor. There was way too much alcohol and weed; there were girls everywhere and we were all getting way too sloppy and out of hand. I’d spent some time with “Charlotte” a tall, gorgeous girl from Valdosta, Georgia. We were making out, getting friendly, when she saw Johnny looking our way. In her sexiest Southern drawl she told me the “N” was making her uncomfortable. I turned toward Johnny and laughing said, “he’s a harmless n-----.” … As the word came out of my mouth I had a flash of sobriety. I saw his face and what my saying that word had done. In my rush to win over some beautiful, though obviously ignorant, girl I had done something harmful.

            “Look, Johnny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. I was just trying to impress her.” He looked at me and said, “It’s ok. I’m used to it.” The truth is you never are used to that.

            I have never used that word since. I still feel guilt over saying it then. “The promised land.” Will we ever get there?

            “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” Powerful words that describe the dream of America written by a slave owner from Virginia.

            “Jesus loves the little children

            All the children of the world

            Red and yellow

            Black and white

            They are precious in His sight

            Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

            Will we ever get to the Promised Land? We have to walk through the valley of fear and ignorance. In God’s eyes there is no black or white, no yellow or brown. In spite of this week’s race baiting and ignorance on both sides I still have hope. As Dr. King so eloquently put it in his Letter from Birmingham Jail, America will overcome the scourge of its racial past because,

            “The sacred heritage of our nation and the

            eternal will of God are embodied in our

            echoing demands.”

The Promised Land

            I had an extraordinary moment the other afternoon. And like most extraordinary events in our lives, it occurred in the midst of a very ordinary day, a day that began with me reading a devotion based on the Exodus story.

            It’s a story almost everyone knows, made popularly famous by director Cecil B. DeMille, and Charlton Heston portraying a man to whom he would be forever linked. The Exodus, the story of God freeing His people, the Israelites from the yoke of slavery and oppression in Egypt and leading them to “the promised land.” It is an amazing story of plagues, the Passover, and the drying of the waters momentarily to allow the Israelites to escape. It is a remarkable story remembered each spring in Jewish homes around the world as they gather at the Seder and they remember the Lord, their God.

            Life in here ebbs and flows for me. There are – surprisingly – very joyous, happy times. Then, there are times of immense loneliness and difficulty. Those times of great ebbs have, thankfully, come less and less frequently. A year ago, I was in one of those ebbs. At one of those dark points, a card arrived. There was no return address, but a local postmark. I thought I recognized the handwriting. The card was a beautiful, inspirational message of faith and hope. And there was a simple message: the sender was praying for me and she told me to maintain my faith. It was signed “Martha.”

            “Martha.” I knew no Marthas. I assumed Martha was an alias referencing the Biblical Martha whose brother Lazarus was raised from the dead by Jesus. That night I thanked God for the card and I thought of my old life …

            The Exodus. God calls on an exiled Israelite shepherd named Moses who had fled Egypt years earlier after killing an Egyptian soldier. Moses saw the burning bush and heard the voice of God, but Moses was afraid to go back, afraid to return; his faith, his understanding of the power of God, compelled him. God said, “I have heard the cries of My people.” And Moses trusted God, and the people followed Moses, and the Israelites left oppression and walked into the desert a free people.

            It must have been hard, you know, to leave what you know and go forward. There was fear and tears. The story of the Exodus records numerous times when the people of Israel questioned their decision to follow Moses. “Perhaps Pharaoh will appreciate us,” they remarked and the hurt and injustice they had felt for so many years gave way. The old days, the life they left, didn’t look so bad compared to what lay ahead, the unknown.

            Over the next six months, I received more cards from “Martha.” There were references to sermons she’d heard that reminded her of my plight, or a Bible reading about Paul in prison that would lead her to write and say “I’m praying for you.” I was so sure I knew who Martha was; and like the Israelites in the desert, I was so convinced things were so much better for me “back when.”

            I found myself playing “what if” the other day. What if the Israelites blogged about their experiences as they fled Egypt. Would Pharaoh have read the blog postings and been moved by their descriptions? Or would Pharaoh think everything written was about him? Would his blood boil, his anger erupt, as he read of the Israelites travails and think “I gave those people the best years of my life. How dare they!” See, that’s the thing with Pharaoh, God told Moses. Pharaoh’s heart was hardened. He couldn’t see the truth. His own ego prevented him from understanding the pain, and hurt, and damage he’d done to the Israelites.

            The people of Israel wandering in the desert hoped Pharaoh would now see their worth. They dreamt of Pharaoh accepting them as his own and acknowledging that their toils, their efforts, were appreciated. But that wasn’t Pharaoh; and that was why the people had to move on.

            And we know what happens. It takes forty years of wandering in the desert for the people of Israel to humble their heart and their minds to God and realize Pharaoh’s respect, Pharaoh’s appreciation, Pharaoh’s love, wasn’t needed. They were children of God. Pharaoh didn’t love them the way their God did.

            “I’m sorry I haven’t sent you any cards in the last few months, but I have prayed for you every day.” I looked at her and said, “You’re Martha?” She told me my stories touched her, but my outlook gave her hope. She told me people she worked with knew me in my prior life. “They said you were the nicest guy they’d met. Never say no to anyone. And, they felt so bad for you.”

            I had been wrong about who Martha was. Like the Israelites, I too had hoped my Pharaoh would realize what I was enduring walking through this desert. But, that isn’t in Pharaoh’s heart. Sometimes, forty years in the desert turns out to be almost six years behind bars. And God, in that time, teaches you that He is your shelter from the storm; He is there when, as David wrote, “a host of enemies encamp against me.” Throughout those forty years the people of Israel clung to the hope that Pharaoh missed them, that Pharaoh worried about the dangers they faced, the struggles they overcame. But Pharaoh frankly only cared about himself and what he had after the Israelites left.

            The Exodus story isn’t about Pharaoh changing. Pharaoh doesn’t change. The Exodus story is about a people, you and me, realizing Pharaoh’s heart has always been hard and about Pharaoh putting himself first. And there is no turning back. You go forward into the unknown trusting in God, and you head to the Promised Land.

            The funny thing about the Exodus story is that for Pharaoh the story was an end, but for the Israelites it was the beginning. I thought about how much time I’d wasted waiting, hoping, worrying about Pharaoh instead of looking forward to the Promised Land.

            I heard a song on the radio and realized it could have been sung by the Israelites – or me – in the wilderness:

            “I’m giving up on you

I’m sorry I couldn’t get through

            To you.”

            And I’ll hear those words all the way to the Promised Land.