This week’s observance of the 50th anniversary of
Dr. Martin Luther King Jr’s great speech climaxing the March on Washington
brought back many memories. 1963 was the year I graduated from McCormick
Theological Seminary and accepted my first call to serve a three-church parish
in North Dakota. When I heard that summer of the plans for the great civil
rights gathering in the nation’s capital, I wanted badly to join the throng. I
had long admired Dr. King and had heard him speak in person (more on that in a
moment). I was certain that his speech would be the highlight of the event. But
Washington was a long way off, My wife and I had little spare money, and, most
important, I was just beginning my pastorate and had no time off coming. So,
like many other Americans, I listened and watched as much of the proceedings as
possible on TV.
A little over four years earlier it was Dr. King who in a
way almost got me fired from my first church job. While a college student at
Butler University I was hired by an inner city Presbyterian church to help
start and lead an after school program for children and youth, even though I
was a Methodist. The church’s pastor and the church session (governing board
for you non-Presbyterians) had a vision for using their building as a means of
serving young people who had no place to go except the unsupervised streets for
recreation after school. I was a serious reader since my childhood, in high
school having been introduced to Gandhi and his writings, so when the
Montgomery Bus Boycott was successful, leading to the publication of Dr. King’s
book Stride Toward Freedom, I eagerly bought and read it.
Thrilled by the book, I longed to be engaged in some
meaningful resistance to racial segregation. That opportunity came sooner than
expected when a call was sent out (I think by the N.A.A.C.P.) for “people of
good will” to walk a picket line at the Galyans Supermarket on the west side of
Indianapolis. Galyans was a local chain with grocery stores in all sections of
Indianapolis. This particular Galyans was located in an “all-Negro” area, but
its management had refused to hire any blacks as cashiers or clerks, other than
for menial jobs of sweeping and carrying out the garbage. The picket line was
part of a boycott—the message being, if you won’t hire blacks, then we will not
buy your groceries. So, filled with a romantic view of fighting for the right,
I drove over to the store on the day of the event.
Walking that line with a sign demanding equal employment in my
hands was perhaps the scariest thing I had done up till then, my romantic
feelings quickly giving way to fear. None of my friends went. I had not told my
mother and step dad, with whom I was still living while going to college. So, walking back and forth with mostly black
strangers, I felt alone and vulnerable. People, most of them also black, came
and went. The press took pictures. And then I heard a loud thumping on the
store window. It took me a moment to realize that the person doing the thumping
was trying to get my attention. His face, contorted by anger, looked familiar.
Suddenly I realized it was D. J. He belonged to the church where I worked as
youth director. His pleasant tenor voice was an important part of the choir, to
which I also belonged. We had exchanged pleasantries many times at choir
practice and on Sunday mornings. He gestured toward the door, so I walked over
to it where he met me. How dare I do such a thing as picket his store, he
declared, among many other things. Turns out he was the assistant manager of
the store. He promised to call the minister and the members of session. Either
he or I would soon be leaving the church!
D.J. kept his promise, and the pastor called the session to
meet with me—and also representatives from the Presbytery, the governing body
for all Presbyterian churches in Indianapolis. This was the late Fifties, a
couple of years before the national leaders of the Presbyterian church (led by
Eugene Carson Blake) began to take part in demonstrations demanding the integration
of facilities, so none of my interrogators had any precedent for dealing with
my participation in the protest at Galyans. I had been very close to the
minister—indeed, he had convinced me to leave the Methodist Church and become a
Presbyterian—but he was largely silent during the meeting, though it did become
obvious that he did not accept D. J.’s demand that I be fired.
The head of the Presbytery assumed leadership of the
meeting, asking why I would do such a thing? His tone implied that walking a
picket line with a protest sign in the “Negro side of town” was not the sort of
thing a good Presbyterian should do. I replied that I was an admirer of Dr.
King and the freedom movement he was leading, that it was wrong for a store to
sell to blacks but refuse to hire them, and that I could not in good conscience
teach and lead the youth of the church if I had refused the invitation to
picket. I would have felt like a hypocrite.
There was more said, but I recall little of it, something
like a haze descending on me as I sat in the hot seat, and never a word of
encouragement issuing from these local leaders of my denomination whom I
considered my mentors. I wish I could say now that challenging, prophetic words
shot forth from my mouth—later I thought that I should have said, “Why weren’t
you there if you really believe in equality and justice?”--or that I turned
down their offer that if I would not go back the next day to the demonstration,
there would be no further repercussions—but I didn’t. I stayed, and D.J. left
the church. I had gone through a mild form of what the New Testament calls a
baptism or trial by fire but had not been very heroic.
Good job Ed!
ReplyDeleteI ended up giving up my job (Chaplain at a New England Prep School) after having brought Coretta Scott King, around 1975, to deliver the Baccalaureate Address. She was a big success, but the backlash against the event and me,and my inter-racial marriage, proved too much for my politically thin skin. I am proud of having brought her there, we raised thousands of dollars for the new King Center, and it is now remembered as a great moment for all! Duncan Newcomer