Forty Years

There are some moments that are burned into our memories. Some are happy moments, others are moments of fear, and some are moments of despair.

Forty years ago I had driven to Memphis from a little community outside Nashville where I was a pastor. I was still at Vanderbilt working on my Master of Divinity. We had come to Memphis to visit my in-laws—I don’t remember why. Perhaps it was nothing special.

I was tired, as I often was in those days of daily 30 mile commutes, classes, second job and being a pastor. That afternoon found me in the master bedroom lying on the bed, listening to the radio and dozing. And then the announcement came. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been gunned down. I was still struggling with my southern upbringing, but was making progress in dealing with my naturally acquired racism. And, to be honest, there were times not too many years previous when my thoughts about Dr. King were anything but warm.

But in this moment, I began to cry. I cried because a husband and father , friend of many and a leader’s life had been snuffed out. “Not again,” was one of my thoughts, remember a November day not too many years earlier. And I cried because I knew in that moment, my beloved city would never be the same. That relations between my race and African Americans would probably never recover from this act.

Forty years later, I’m saddened to say, my worst fears have been realized. Oh, sure, “progress” has been made, but the U.S. is still a racist nation and Memphis is a city routinely divided and polarized along racial lines, no matter what the issue might be.

We have miles to go before we sleep and miles to go before Dr. King’s dream even approaches actualization. I will not live to see it, of that I’m certain. And today, I feel tears coming again.
Peace,
Jerry+