Reflecting on civic responsibility and Martin Luther King Jr.’s last speech, 12 days after attacks on the US Capitol
If you have some time, take a few moments to read Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop” speech. King gave this speech on April 3, 1968 in Memphis, Tennessee — the day before he was killed.
King begins his speech by saying, “if I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of general and panoramic view of the whole human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me, ‘Martin Luther King, which age would you like to live in?”
King lists monumental moments in history and places that have long since faded into the past; the Israelites fleeing Eygpt and the parting of the Red Sea, the time of Aristotle and Plato, the era of the Roman Empire, the day Abraham Lincoln would sign the Emancipation Proclamation. He passes over each one as they come into view.
King says, “I would turn to the Almighty, and say, ‘If you allow me to live just a few years in the second half of the twentieth century, I will be happy.” King continues by saying, “Now that’s a strange statement to make, because the world is all messed up. The nation is sick. Trouble is in the land. Confusion all around. That’s a strange statement. But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough, can you see the stars. And I see God working in this period of the twentieth century in a way that men, in some strange way, are responding — something is happening in our world.”
King was on the frontlines of a revolution that cost him his life. He is a prolific force in our society. As I read the words he delivered the day before he was assassinated, I was humbled and shocked by the gravity of what he shared.
A few lines later in his speech, King says, “I’m happy to live in this period is that we have been forced to a point where we are going to have to grapple with the problems that men have been trying to grapple with through history, but the demands didn’t force them to do it. Survival demands that we grapple with them. Men, for years now, have been talking about war and peace. But now, no longer can they just talk about it. It is no longer a choice between violence and nonviolence in this world; it’s nonviolence or nonexistence. That is where we are today.”
Rather than have the day off in observation of MLK Day, my team at The Factory Ministries drove 30 minutes from our office to visit the site where Zachariah Walker was lynched on August 12, 1911, in Coatesville, Pennsylvania. The account of the events that took place that August Sunday were horrific and absolutely evil, with “church people” among the mob of people cheering on the death of Walker, where bystanders watched as the humanity of a person was literally turned to ash.
When I witness or hear accounts of horrible events like the lynching of Walker, I want to write myself out of the images I see. I want to wash my hands of the mess that “those people” made. I want to scrape my name from anything that rings with contempt and disgust for my fellow humans.
What I revolt against, what disturbs me when I look at the images and the evidence that sticks after any moment of social outcry, is the reality that I am them and they are me. That darkness that I want to so badly condemn, criticize, and erase is in my bones.
Henri Nouwen says, “In the face of the oppressed I recognize my own face, and in the hands of the oppressor I recognize my own hands. Their flesh is my flesh, their blood is my blood, their pain is my pain, their smile is my smile.”
“𝐌𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐦 𝐛𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩.” — @scottthepainter
One of the most disturbing things about what I saw as the news stories poured in after the attacks on the Capitol were photos of people holding signs on the steps of the capitol that state “Jesus saves” and “In God We Trust.”
Maybe it struck me because earlier that morning, I drove past a house in my town with a sign plastered on the front door that read “Jesus is my Savior and Trump is my President.”
I wasn’t necessarily intending to equate the attacks on the Capitol to lynchings when I set out to write this piece, but then I remembered the words that Scott Erikson shared following the events that unfolded, which included a giant replica of a noose constructed in front of a United States Government building:
“To evoke the symbol of the noose is call forth the narrative of black bodies knowing their status. It’s to call forth a nauseating photo album of caucasian bodies surrounding one tortured black body. The last lynching in America happened in 1981 when Klu Klux Klan members lynched a 19 year old Michael Donald in Mobile. That’s not textbook history. That’s in my lifetime.”
We don’t need to keep breaking down the events and running the narrative of these attacks in order to determine the depth of the contempt that brought us to this breaking point and the immensity of the healing that needs to take place; healing that needs to happen in our churches, in our schools, and in our homes. To neglect these conversations because they are “uncomfortable” is to turn our backs on our own humanity.
Wholeheartedly criticizing and being pissed off about this. Wholeheartedly committing to deepen my participation in the healing of these wounds.
After reading King’s speech, I asked myself the same question, “if I were standing at the beginning of time, with the possibility of general and panoramic view of the whole human history up to now, and the Almighty said to me.. ‘which age would you like to live in?”
With conviction and assurance, I would choose this present moment. Even with Coronavirus, even with massive wounds that are being exposed in our culture, even with chaotic politics and an uncertain future. I would choose to live in this time period because we are reaching a breaking point where contempt can no longer serve us or carry us forward.
I believe in grace, in forgiveness, and in redemption. I believe in calling out injustice and learning to see from perspectives that are not given the room they rightly deserve. I also recognize that when I claim to have no stake in this fight, when I claim to have nothing to do with this darkness, is to also deny my humanity and the humanity of my neighbor. All of my “good intentions” must be met with bold action. All of my talk must be met with an equal desire to step into discomfort.
Hope does not equal optimism.
Hope means there is something worth fighting for.
May we love and leave stronger for it. May we hold and touch the stars when we see each other for all that we are — Brilliant. Bright. Beaming.
Let there be light.
