By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace. Luke 1: 78-79
It was 1964. The four of us sat low in the car. We didn’t want to be noticed. We were half a block from the police station in North Philadelphia. We were waiting for a Red Police Car to pull out of the lot. We would tail it. We were to be witnesses.
What the hell am I doing here?
In the back of the car I was trying to stay focused on the task. We were all members of CORE. We were to follow the police car and observe the behavior of the officers. We needed to follow without being noticed; we were not to attempt to intervene directly but to record; we were to be respectful to all, including the police. CORE's Rules.
I was glad to be there. Rattling about in my head was some combination of American values about justice and equality and Christian understandings about the common good and justice. I was reminding myself. There was also this, “What the hell am I doing here?”
Where has your life intersected with Black Americans?
For my first 17 years, not much.
When I returned from Quantico USMC in the summer of 1963, I went to see Don Farrow, my priest at St. Andrew’s. I asked him if he had any ideas about how I might best make use of the summer. He suggested I ask Fr. Paul Washington if he would add me to the summer staff at the Church of the Advocate. For the next four summers, and a bit during the year, I ended up serving on the day camp staff and living with others in the curacy. I was frequently the only white person in the room. I made my first confession to a black priest (Jessie Anderson, Jr.), I ate and shopped in black owned businesses, I socialized with black members and staff, and I was in awe of Paul and Christine Washington. I attended the Sunday Eucharist and coffee hour and my sense of what it was to “be the Church” grew. I joined CORE (the Congress of Racial Equality), demonstrated, received training in non-violent civil disobedience, and started a campus chapter at Penn State.
In the following years I’d spend a lot of time with Black friends and co-workers; serve as an OD or parish development consultant for Black non-profits and churches; be the priest in parishes that were integrated; and have experiences that revealed just a small bit of the pain and joy that Black America lived. That doesn’t mean that I really understood.
The unyielding and harsh power
Something I did come to understand, is that if your white life intersects with the life of Black Americans, you may get hurt. In saying that, I’m not including the risks involved by joining in protests, then and now. I’ll mention three experiences.
The swimming pool – My family lived in Somerton. An overwhelming white area in Philadelphia. It was a good-sized house with a bit of ground around it. Several steps up from the Oxford Circle row house I grew up in. My parents stopped going on vacations and used the money to have a built-in swimming pool in the back of the house. I invited the summer staff from the Advocate to come up for a picnic on Saturday. There we were, black and white together in a swimming pool. It wasn’t very long before a police car pulled up—“We’ve had complaints from some neighbors about the noise.” They spoke with my father, “the owner of the property,” and pushed him to end the gathering. My working class, didn’t finish high school, Dad said, “Get the f … off my property.” And they did.
The wedding – I loved working at the Advocate. So, when Donna and I thought about where to get married that was our choice. Paul Washington agreed to the use. Don Farrow would officiate. Not long before the wedding Dad told me that none of his family would be coming. They felt that I was shoving my views down their throat. Dad was at the wedding, his brothers and sister were not. For several years Dad had no contact with his brothers and sister. Those siblings raised one another after their parents died. All of them served the nation during the war. They were close.
The party – We had rented an apartment for the semester of student teaching. It was in Philadelphia, near my parents’ home, and close to the school we taught in. We invited our friends to come to a party. Again, white and black together. And again, two police officers at the door, “We’ve had complaints from some neighbors about the noise.” They wanted to come in, look around, and they insisted that the party end. I was channeling my father, “I’m sorry you have to deal with the complaints. We’ll lower the noise. But ‘no’ you can’t come in.” They said, “that’s fine. We’ll get a warrant, wait outside for the warrant, and check everyone who does leave to make sure no one underage has been drinking.” I ended the party after consulting with a few others.
Three events that would not have happened if my life had not intersected with Black America. Please hear me on this. The point isn’t “poor Robert.” It’s not even “poor Robert’s Dad” (though I have felt both guilt and pride over what he had to do). The primary issue here is about the relentless pressure Black Americans experience in their life. What I, my father, and my white friends, experienced in each of these events was incidental and collateral damage to the unyielding and harsh power of the racism known by Black Americans.
Life enlarged
My life has been a better life because of the people I came to respect and love—Claudia, William, Paul and Christine, Mark, Barbara, Robert, Margie, Bob, Don, Heide, Georgia, Howard, Don and Esther, Mary, Denise, Kim, Fred, Mary, Anne-Marie, Winston, Bill, Bob, Victoria.
Every few weeks Marge would come by the clergy house. We’d sit in the living room and smoke cigarillos. If it was before 3:00 we’d drink coffee, after 3:00 was scotch. And we’d talk. She of her social work job. Me of the parish. We’d solve all the problems of the world. Occasionally we’d disagree. Often, she’d help me see something from the perspective of an African American woman.
A sideshow
I don’t mean to diminish the experience of my own life in what I’m about to say. This has been for me, in Augustine’s words, “a real life” largely because of that experience.
But in regard to the issues of race, policing, and justice in America—my experience is at best a sideshow. A very minor paragraph within the big story. Incidental in every way.
And for me, that suggests a need for a bit of humility. I see through a glass darkly, in part.
Parish development
How can our parishes engage these times? How might our parishes help its members pray, think, and act faithfully? How can we do this in a manner that brings growth to individuals and strengthens the apostolic center of the parish? So, this community becomes a more; listening, compassionate, courageous and persistent community?
Help people share their experiences of race and policing. Where has your life intersected with Black Americans? To be contemplative and Eucharistic in understanding and sharing their own stories and contemplative and compassionate in listening to the experience of others.
If just a few come to a place of more humility, courage, patience, and persistence the apostolic center of the parish will have been strengthened and individuals brought in touch with the Beloved Community.
What might we do to help our people become more reflective? To find that “inner core of silence” that allows us to stand apart from the consumer society and within the ancient traditions of truth and justice?
On the Feast of the Nativity of Saint John the Baptist
Then I will draw near to you for judgment; I will be swift to bear witness against the sorcerers, against the adulterers, against those who swear falsely, against those who oppress the hired workers in their wages, the widow and the orphan, against those who thrust aside the alien, and do not fear me, says the Lord of hosts Malachi 3: 5
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