by dan robling
This message is dedicated to Grandmother Williams who was born a slave, her daughter Grandmother McDonald who was mistreated throughout her life because of her heritage, and to my mother Wilma McDonald Robling who felt compelled to leave the city and county of her birth to escape the pains of racism.
As a young Methodist preacher, I was assigned to five churches surrounding a county-seat town of fifteen thousand people. Our parsonage (rectory) was located in the town. The five churches were located fifteen to twenty miles in varied directions surrounding the town. While we were having a late Sunday lunch at home one afternoon, I noticed a large billow of black smoke. It appeared to be about two blocks away. We were in a residential area, so surely the fire was a neighbor's house. I ran from the parsonage toward the burning house.
It was what we called a "shotgun house" in that neck of the woods. It was a long narrow house. The door opened into a living room. From the living room one would walk through a door into a second room. The second room in a shotgun house was either a dining room or bedroom. Walking through the second room one would find a third area divided into two small rooms, a small kitchen and a small bedroom.
The fire had started in the kitchen. I ran into the house and joined others carrying out furniture, clothing, and other personal belongings. We carried kitchen stuff first and worked our way to the front yard. We were able to remove most of the family belongings and placed them in the front yard.
As I placed the last article in the front yard, I stood up to rest my back and survey the situation. I was astonished to see a heretofore-unnoticed multitude of white people glaring at me as though they were going to kill me. I realized two things. The first thought occurring to me was that I was looking into the depths of the eyes of evil. The second realization was that everyone but my cousin (now Father Gordon Morrison) who had been carrying out items from the house was Black. I cannot adequately describe the sickening feeling that came over me as the reality of the situation became clear.
I asked to meet the owner of the house. He stepped forward and extended his hand. He was the local Black dentist. The good doctor had grown up in that community of hate. He left the community after high school and went to Chicago. He was able to find a job in Chicago where he worked his way through college and dental school. He was able to establish a successful dental practice in Chicago and was on his way to a life of comfort. Thoughts of the people back in the hate-filled community of his childhood haunted him. He kept thinking about his suffering people back home knowing that they could not get dental care from white dentists. Thoughts of their unbearable pain overwhelmed him. Even though he realized that his people could not pay for his services, he gave up his Chicago practice and life of comfort to return to his people. The "shotgun house" with its meager furnishings was all he had.
The call from Christ that I was answering was not limited to boundaries of my parish. It was a call to bring the world to salvation. I could not walk away from this good man and that evil multitude without taking a stand. I asked the Doctor what I could do to help. He said that I should meet Dr. A.M. Alcorn. Dr. Alcorn was the A.M.E. pastor and the leader of the local black community. The dentist invited me to the evening service and arranged an introduction to his pastor. Dr. Alcorn greeted us warmly and told us that there was something we could do to help. He said for us to come to a meeting that was scheduled for Wednesday evening of that week and we would learn about what we could do to help.
I will never be able to forget the significance of that meeting and how it has affected my life. The group was already assembled when we arrived. The Reverend Doctor Alcorn introduced us and said, "See, I have told you that there are other people who care." The group simultaneously knelt around us and gave thanks to God for our presence. I have never felt as honored, humbled, or as inadequate as in that moment. Those wonderful people were thanking God for sending a twenty-year-old preacher and his seminarian cousin to change the miserable conditions of their lives.
Dr. Alcorn advised us that there was one hospital in the entire county. The hospital was built and operated on tax revenues. The area was a sub-marginal area that, other than a few cotton fields, would hardly grow weeds. There were a few slave-wage industrial plants. People did not have insurance and few could pay medical bills. Four of the beds in the huge county owned hospital were designated for black patients.
The group's concerns had peaked the week previous to our meeting. A Black teenager had required emergency surgery. The only available bed for Blacks was in a room with her dying mother. She suffered the pains of surgery and healing while enduring the agony of watching her mother die. The situation was intolerable.
As a twenty-year-old preacher who had been called to "save the world," I was equipped with fast answers for every situation. I suggested that Dr. Alcorn call for a meeting with the hospital administrator and the board of directors of the hospital. The truly wise Dr. Alcorn, a member of the board of trustees of Wilberforce University, advised me that he had requested a meeting and his request had been denied.
He suggested that as the pastor of five white churches, I would have the power to force a meeting with the hospital board.
We people of Black African heritage have found it necessary to organize frequently for leading godly change. Yes, I said Black African Heritage. I am a descendent of a slave. I never met her. She passed on before I was born. I did know her daughter though, our Grandmother McDonald. When I think of Grandmother McDonald, I recall a woman with a sweet spirit. I am sure she learned and received that sweet spirit from her mother, a former slave.
A meeting was arranged with the hospital administration in combination with other issues. I told the young girl's story. I spoke of the four-bed situation and demanded change. I was advised that change would not occur. I reminded them that the situation was ungodly, immoral, and illegal. They laughed. I left.
They called a meeting of the townsfolk; some were my parishioners, at the Courthouse Square. The courthouse was one of those that had "colored only" drinking fountains and restrooms. I had been there many times to speak to various government agencies. People always reviled me for drinking at the "colored only" fountains. I always took time to and get a drink. A consensus decision was made to hang (lynch) me. I sent my nineteen-year-old wife and eighteen-month-old son back to Indiana by bus to her mother's house where they would be safe.
While I was waiting to be hanged, I received an urgent call from my boss. He was the United Methodist District Superintendent (similar to the bishop of a diocese). He said that he needed to talk with me in his office immediately. He was curious about the situation and wanted to hear my side of the story. I told him the story as described to you today. He asked, "Do you know that they are going to hang you?" I replied in the affirmative. He asked what I planned to do about it. I told him that my plan was to be hanged.
I wanted my life and death to send a message that standing against the evils of prejudice and racism was worth dying for. He replied that he appreciated a preacher with a "social conscience." He concluded that having a preacher hanged at the Courthouse Square would reflect badly on the church. I was whisked quickly to a six-church parish in another county.
Recovering respect for the Church and its leaders took several years. The passion for standing against injustice has never lessened.
I have looked into the eyes of evil, escaped the hangman's noose, and ducked the bullet whizzing past my head on its way to shattering the glass window behind me. I KNOW EVIL WHEN I SEE IT. I KNOW EVIL WHEN I HEAR IT. Prejudice and racism, at best, are subtle forms of hatred. Hatred in any form is evil. Evil in the heart of any person will prevent that person from knowing the full joy of the salvation that Christ died to provide.
Jesus did not say, "Feed my white sheep." He did not say, "Those among you who are white, feed my sheep." In Matthew 11:28 Jesus is quoted as having said, "Come unto me ALL who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest."
Sometimes people say, "Dan, you sound angry when you talk about racism." The voice you hear today is the voice of my heart. It is not an angry heart. It is an agonizing and pain-filled heart. The agony is shared with the revolutionary Jesus who looked down over Jerusalem and wept. It is pain shared with Jesus as he looks down on his world today, on this state, his church, and into the hearts of people who have not embraced his love.
The revolutionary Jesus who fed multitudes has left US in charge of continuing his revolution. WE must lead his family to love and understanding.
If anyone reading this today is uncomfortable with hearing about racism and is angered by what I am saying please understand that there is not room in a human heart (the soul of a person) for the love that accompanies a saving knowledge of Jesus Christ and the hatred that accompanies racism. The two cannot dwell in the same heart.
Christ loves you and I love you. -Amen