Thoughts on Rick Bragg's "The Best of Who We Are":         Not only with our lips, but in our lives... 

Little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action. 1 John 3:18

So, here’s my confession: I’ve never read any of Rick Bragg’s books. I’ve definitely come across – and thoroughly enjoyed – some of his humorous essays about life in the South from time to time.

Rick Bragg and I share a home state – Alabama. And although he is a few years older than I am, we are, for all practical matters, contemporaries.

Yet, no doubt, the lens through which we see life in the South is entirely different, shaped by the very different experiences that we each have had – him, as a white man, and me as an African American woman.

Several friends had suggested that I read his essay, “The Best of Who We Are,” in the October 2017 issue of Southern Living, so I genuinely looked forward to reading this piece.

The essay is a bit different than others of his essays. As he points out himself, he’s not one to write about news or politics – usually just the humor of everyday living in the South. But in this essay, Bragg took on the recent protest in Charlottesville, explaining that Southerners should be “angry to be dragged down among” the likes of the protesters because, he says, that really isn’t who we are. Or, at least, it isn’t the best of who we are.

The best of who we are, Bragg reminisced, was in the sermons that he heard in a tiny, all-white Baptist church in Alabama. There, he commented, ministers preached about “loving your brother and sister... [and helping] the sick and poor.” Those good lessons had followed him throughout his life.

While Rick Bragg was hearing words about loving his neighbor in his tiny, all-white church, elsewhere in the state of Alabama, I, too, was listening to a message of love at my great-aunt’s Methodist church. Rev. Raymond Stephens reminded a church filled with Black people that – despite the many negative messages that we received in the world – we, too, were loved by God, and equal in the eyes of God to anyone else. His sermon celebrating the Emancipation Proclamation as the exodus from slavery in our country was one of the most powerful messages that I heard as a child. Rev. Stephens’ messages of God’s limitless love were powerful and inspirational.

I would guess that many Southerners of Bragg’s and my generation heard our fair share of good messages of love in our churches. But did we really hear and digest those messages? How did the Christians in Alabama and elsewhere who used the Bible to justify slavery and segregation understand those messages? How did the Christian folks who stood at church doors and a governor who stood at university doors, refusing to allow people of color to come in, internalize those messages? Were the eight Alabama ministers who, in an open letter to Birmingham residents, criticized Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and argued that peaceful protests against segregation in Birmingham were “unwise and untimely,” sharing those messages in their churches? Could those messages of love really have made their way to the people who were responsible for bombing Birmingham’s 16^th Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963, taking the lives of four innocent African American girls whose only crime had been going to church that Sunday morning?

I think that the moments that represent “the best of who we are” aren’t the moments that come during good sermons, but instead are the moments that come after – when, with transformed hearts and lives, we try to apply those lessons of God’s love and mercy to the most difficult of life’s circumstances. The best of who we are or can ever hope to be will come in the moments that we stand together, hand in hand, supporting one another and fighting for justice for all of God’s people. We’ve seen glimmers of that light, in Dallas and Houston, in Wichita, in Charleston, when men and women, white and Black, Latino and Asian, have come together to work through grief, frustration and sadness. Those are the moments that give me the greatest hope.

I wish that more people had experienced the sermons of Rick Bragg’s minister and Rev. Raymond Stephens; the world would be a better place if those lessons of love touched every heart.

But only in moving beyond mere words will we see “the best of who we are.” If we all begin sowing those seeds of love that came to us in those great sermons, we can bring forth harvests that choke out hate – and we can live together in peace, support one another, and promote justice for all human beings.

The Debate About Historical Markers, Monuments and Statues: Are Learning and Dialogue Possible?

Image credit: EastHarlem.com

Several months ago, I stumbled across an essay about Dr. J. Marion Sims, often referred to as the "father" of modern gynecology. Sims has been credited with devising ground-breaking surgical procedures that greatly improved the lives of women in the 19th century.  Because of his work, statues of Sims can be found at the site of the New York Academy of Medicine, and in Montgomery, Alabama, where Sims lived and practiced medicine between 1845 and 1849.

And those statues are at the core of a controversy. Sims' critics claim that much of his experimentation was conducted on enslaved black women, and that many of his surgeries were performed without anesthesia; those critics argue that his statues should be removed because so much of his work was done at the expense of an enslaved and vulnerable population. Sims' proponents argue that we cannot place his work under our modern microscope to determine its ethics, claiming that he began performing life-saving procedures even before the use of anesthesia was considered safe, and that he performed his first pioneering surgeries, without anesthesia, on free and slave women, alike.

The controversy around Sims - a figure with whom I had not been at all acquainted - was eye-opening for me: The only reason that we were talking about Dr. Sims was because of these statues. But for these statues "honoring" Dr. Sims, none of us would be in dialogue about him, his work, and what we all might learn from that history.

And that gave me even more cause for pause than I already had about the removal of historical plaques, markers, and monuments in our communities. Would we still have reason to have open, critical, and revelatory conversations about the world that existed before our time if the name of every historical figure whose actions might offend our modern sensibilities was removed from our public spaces? More importantly, can we honestly believe that we can experience the kind of healing that is needed in our communities apart from our being able to engage in these kinds of honest conversations?

As a Christian minister, I try to put all of this into the context of what we learn in scripture: The fact that we are told in Genesis that Abraham took his slave woman, Hagar, and his firstborn son, Ishmael, into the wilderness and left them, presumably, to die, is not a reason for us to stop studying scriptures or to fail to recognize Abraham as a pillar of our faith tradition. The fact that we are told that Jacob's sons sold their brother, Joseph, into slavery out of jealousy is not a reason for us to stop studying scriptures, or to learn from "the rest of the story" that the sojourn of the people called Israel into Egypt (beginning with Joseph) likely saved them from famine and finally gave them a place in which Abraham's descendants could indeed grow to be as many as the stars in the sky. And while reading the account of Hagar's banishment, or the Genesis account of Joseph's brothers selling him into slavery, may make us uncomfortable, studying these texts should invite us - rather than judging our forebears under our modern microscope - to ask ourselves questions and to examine our own existence. What do we learn? When have we, too, displaced those in our own lives who are no longer useful to us? When have we, too, been willing to trade the life of a sister or brother made in the image and likeness of our Creator God for a few pieces of silver? Through these Biblical accounts, we are called to ask ourselves how God might call us to live differently.

So, as I ponder what we, in our modern culture, should consider in the debate about removing or renaming historical markers, monuments and statues, the same question arises for me: How might we be called to learn from the lives of these historical figures, and live differently in our own time?

And if we rename everything in our public space, what holds us accountable to one another to remember even the "ugly" of our history and learn from it?

Who is Hattie McDaniel, and why should we care? The case against the Orpheum Theatre’s decision to remove “Gone with the Wind” from its Summer Film Series

Memphis’ Orpheum Theatre has announced its decision to pull the 1939 film, “Gone with the Wind,” from its summer film series.

I will not hide my disappointment at hearing this news. My disappointment centers around the fact that one of GWTW’s stars, Hattie McDaniel, was the very first African American to win an Academy Award, for her role as Mammy, a slave at Tara, the film’s fictional plantation. From my perspective, the Orpheum’s decision to pull GWTW has resulted in the loss of a significant piece of history – the history of Hattie McDaniel. And I am stunned that others have not voiced the same concern.

Through our modern lenses, some may choose to disparage this Civil War film. Some may choose to criticize McDaniel’s role as a slave in the film; it is claimed that she was criticized by the NAACP for accepting roles as maids and servants and perpetuating those stereotypes of African American persons.

But regardless of how we view it today, Hattie McDaniel made history.

McDaniel made history when a segregated Academy chose to honor her for her work. Consider that, among the other contenders for the Supporting Actress Oscar that year included McDaniel’s GWTW co-star, Olivia de Havilland. Imagine how she (and the rest of the contenders!) must have felt, losing to McDaniel – in 1940.

McDaniel made history when she accepted the award in a segregated Ambassador Hotel. The film’s producer, David Selznick, apparently had to secure permission for her even to enter the hotel to accept the award (She had previously been barred from GWTW’s Atlanta premiere.). In her acceptance speech, McDaniel, the daughter of two slaves, said, "I shall always hold it as a beacon for anything I may be able to do in the future. I sincerely hope I shall always be a credit to my race and to the motion picture industry."

McDaniel made history, even before her Oscar win, when she became the first African American woman to sing on the radio in the United States. And after her Oscar win, she went on to make more history, purchasing a home in the exclusive West Adams Heights neighborhood in Los Angeles, and in the process, fighting restrictive racial covenants which were designed to prevent African Americans from owning homes there.

Clearly, with our new, politically correct 20/20 vision in 2017, the Orpheum has decided not only that McDaniel isn’t a credit to her race, but also that the film – as art – has nothing to offer any of us. Too smart for our own good, we’ve thrown the proverbial baby out with the bath water. And instead of celebrating the extraordinary milestone of McDaniel’s win, we’ve pushed her out of sight and mind, her name never to be spoken by future generations who cannot fathom what she accomplished in her time. We choose to overlook just how incredible her performance must have been for a segregated Academy to award her an Oscar in 1940.

Another 24 years would pass before the next African American – Sidney Poitier – would win an Oscar for his role in “Lilies of the Field.”

I am ashamed that the Orpheum has chosen to close that chapter of history here in Memphis – rather than dedicating all future showings to McDaniel and taking that opportunity to share her history. I am ashamed that, rather than celebrating the fact that she pushed against restrictive racial covenants and helped to desegregate an exclusive Los Angeles neighborhood, we follow those who would find her an embarrassment, and push her aside.

Our shared history together – black and white – on North American soil is unpleasant and complicated. But it is just that: our shared history. And until we work to come to terms with it – in all of its ugliness – we will continue to struggle.

Thank you, Hattie McDaniel, for your contributions to our history. I, for one, truly appreciate you.

Who is my neighbor?

Who is my neighbor?

It was bound to happen.

I’ve tried to be so careful about walking with our dog since he’s become so sensitive to loud noises. Loud noises seem to paralyze him. He freezes where he is, refuses to move, begins shaking and wildly panting. Thunder, trash collection trucks, lawn mowers and blowers, and construction noises all seem to have the same impact. And that means that our walks are largely limited to evenings – after all of the noise except birds, bugs and other critters has gone away – and then he’s literally pulling me down the street, anxious to get out and enjoy his long-awaited walk.

So last night was bound to happen: We headed out for a brisk, long, winding walk through the neighborhood. As darkness fell on an otherwise quiet evening, the sound of fireworks in the distance sent our sweet dog into a panic. He froze, unwilling to budge, even to get out of the street.

The problem was that we were a few – four or five – blocks from home when he was spooked. We might as well have been four miles from home, given the fact that I can’t carry a spooked 65-pound dog. And, not having a cell phone with me (because I hadn’t anticipated fireworks on July 2!), I couldn’t call my husband to ask him to pick us up.

So there we were, mama and scared dog, quite literally stuck just minutes from our front door. And I hoped that someone else who had decided to take a late stroll might happen by.

Just a couple of minutes later, as I was still trying to comfort our dog, someone did walk by – a man I’ve seen almost every single day of the fourteen years that we’ve lived in the neighborhood, out on his daily walk. So I thought that surely he’d recognize me (or at least recognize our dog!) and I spoke to him, asking if he might happen to have a cell phone so that I could call my husband. He barked back (no pun intended), “What’s wrong with you?” I tried to explain quickly that my dog had been spooked by the fireworks and that we couldn’t make it home. And he quickened his pace as he walked by me, quipping, “Lady, you’ve got small problems.”

I can't argue with that; he was right. In the grand scheme of problems in the world, I had a small (first world) problem in my terrified 65-pound dog who refused to move. And in all fairness, it wasn't as if it were a life-threatening problem: Eventually, my husband would have wondered why we'd been gone so long and would have driven around to look for us.

But a couple was approaching from the opposite direction as the man rushed away. I called out to them. “Excuse me, by any chance would either of you have a cell phone? My dog got spooked…I need to call my husband.”

The first gentleman who passed me without stopping had now stopped and turned around in the street, watching to see if the other neighbors would come over to me. Was he stopping now because he might need to assist them, just in case my five-foot-two-inch self with my cowering, now slobbering dog, posed some danger? The couple stopped. They came over to me, introduced themselves, petted my frightened dog, shared a cell phone, offered to wait with me, and commented that they were glad that they had decided to take a late walk and were able to help. We hadn’t met before – but when I mentioned the block on which I lived, we talked about all of our common neighbors and friends. We talked, like neighbors meeting each other on the street. Today, I’m sending a thank-you note to my neighbors – and new friends – and I’m making a gift to their worshipping community in their honor.

No doubt, in this day and time, many of us would be leery of someone (yes, even a 5’2” non-athletic-looking me with a cowering dog) on the street asking for help. We might think twice, uncertain if it’s a trap or a scam.

I think that’s what Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. meant when, in his retelling of the parable of the Good Samaritan, he commented that the priest and the Levite who passed by the injured man may only have considered what would have become of them if they stopped to help, while the Samaritan asked a different question: What would become of the injured man if he didn’t stop to help?

Who is my neighbor? Yes, my neighbor is the hungry neighbor with whom I can share a meal.

Yes, my neighbor is the neighbor without shelter, with whom my worshipping community can share hospitality through Room in the Inn.

Yes, my neighbor is the child in the failing school, where I and others can help read, tutor and provide a strong, mature, and loving presence.

Yes, my neighbor is the person looking for employment who I can connect with those who have jobs.

Yes, my neighbor is the refugee with whom I may share the far-too-many items in our home that we no longer need and use ourselves.

But, yes, my neighbor may be the person who lives just blocks away, whose gender, faith tradition, or skin color is not the same. That’s my neighbor, too.

Today, I am grateful for good neighbors who wondered what would become of me if they didn't stop. And today, I pray that I may always be that good neighbor.

Holy Week Musings..."They will know we are Christians by our love..."

We began this Holy Week by remembering Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem - where the cheering crowds welcomed him, waving palm branches and strewing cloaks upon the road to honor the King. This King’s entry was humble - on a donkey, not like a warrior on a mighty steed. He had come in peace, in sharp contrast to the brewing furor of the religious authorities and the Roman Empire.

In no time, the tide would turn, and the adoring crowd would become an angry mob, demanding Christ’s crucifixion. And Jesus, who had come to serve, to heal, to give hope, to bring peace, would die a violent death on a cross in Jerusalem.

We are reminded of this stark contrast between the ways of Christ and the ways of the world in the events of the last several days. On Palm Sunday, in Alexandria and Tanta, Egypt, nearly four dozen Christians were killed in attacks in Coptic Churches, and over one hundred more were injured.  These attacks are the most recent in a six-month period during which more than seventy Christians have been killed in churches in Egypt while worshipping.

These attacks are a sobering start to Holy Week. For Christians who are privileged to worship largely without fear, we take for granted our ability to openly profess our faith. We take for granted our ability to raise our voices together in song and prayer in our churches.

But for those whose profession of the Christian faith is not without consequence - including the Christians in Egypt - the attacks become just another reminder that the decision to follow Jesus isn’t promised to be a safe one. The cost of discipleship is great. Jesus told his disciples, “’If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.’” (Matthew 16:24-25)  Jesus’ words can be hard words for us to hear - particularly for us in the Western world, where our relative freedom to express our faith may too often have lulled us into a false sense of both comfort and complacency - and silenced us in the face of injustice and oppression for which our voices should have been raised.

This Holy Week will bring our Lenten journey with a Jesus who was neither comfortable nor complacent to its close. And as we prepare our hearts for a joyful celebration of Easter, my prayer is that we do so remembering that, perhaps more than ever, our strong witness to our faith is needed in the world. The world needs to see in us the tremendous love that Christ has shown, in our actions, and in our standing in solidarity with those who suffer for our faith.

We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.
We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord.
And we pray that our unity will one day be restored.
And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,
yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

In Christ,

Dorothy+