Respect Trumps Conflict
In 1957 I accepted an appointment as
Minister in Charge of a Methodist parish in Alabama. The night I was
ordained Brother Pickard, a retired pastor said, “Max, most folks
will not care how much you know until they know how much you care.”
Little did I know then, how that would play out in the years ahead.
I was the Minister in Charge by the
appointment of the Bishop. I would become a pastor in the real sense
only when and if I felt the people's pain, mourned their losses, and
shared in what made them happy. I was tested by the conflict that
arose when my preaching challenged their prejudices. Remember this
was 1957 in a
And unfold it did – from the first
day we moved into the parsonage. That very night, a man knocked on
the door. He said he was a member of one of the churches in my
charge and just wanted to welcome me. He also said, almost as an
aside, that there had been talk that the Klan had planned to burn a
cross in front of the parsonage as a protest against the liberal
preacher who preceded me. I knew that the county had a high Ku Klux
Klan membership. After all, I was a son of the South and I had been
raised in a cotton mill town not far from where my churches were
located. I knew where I was. I also knew that if the Klan thought
my predecessor was liberal, I was in deep trouble. It didn't take
me long that night to realize that my visitor was not there to
welcome me as much as he was there to deliver a threat. I understood
what he was saying. I responded to his message the only way I could
think of at the moment. I said, “That would be terrible.” And
when he nodded, I continued, “I keep a loaded shotgun inside the
front door. I can imagine waking in the night with a mob burning a
cross in my front yard, firing into the crowd and, God forbid,
killing someone. I'm not sure I could live with that.”
After he left, my wife said, “Why
did you tell him that? You don't even own a gun.”
I said, “I know, but he doesn't know
that.”
A couple of days later, a member of
the church told me, “I hear you had a visit from the Klan the other
night.”
The Klan never attempted to burn a
cross in front of the parsonage. I never knew why not. I doubt if
they felt intimidated by my presence. It may be they didn't think I
was worth the effort. Whatever the reason, I never heard any more
about it and it was never mentioned in church.
However, racial conflict was the issue
of the day, in and out of the Church. Responses to the threat of
dismantling segregation were emotional, sometimes to the point of
violence. Church members were angry, scared, and defensive as they
struggled with their faith and conscience.
Before I unpacked my books, one of the
churches in my charge called a meeting to vote on a proposal from the
national Methodist Church to end segregation within its membership.
Mine was the only voice in favor of the proposal. The reaction to my
vote was swift, emotional, and threatening. One
member called me a Communist and I almost came to blows with another
one. The thought occurred to me that I might have the shortest term
as pastor in the history of that church.
I remained as pastor for
three years and left of my own accord. I cared for the people:
burying the dead, consoling the suffering, baptizing the babies,
marrying the young, and listening to people's problems. My family
and I shared many a meal with families in the church. We couldn't
ignore the dark clouds of racial conflict but through our struggles,
we held together as the Church - and I never equivocated in my
preaching of God's inclusive love.
Quite often through those
three years, I remembered what Brother Pickard had said about caring
for the people. Over time I realized that caring begins with
respect. If we had judged each other only by first impressions of
those turbulent beginning days, we would have parted company early
on. If we had not determined to respect each other until we got to
know each other better, we would never have discovered a shared
vision or maintained any semblance of community.
There used to be a stop
sign where Highway 24 runs into Highway 81 up in the northern part
of Kansas. Below the Stop symbol was another sign that read, "Look
both ways." And underneath that sign was another that said,
"Look again." If we are to sustain a culture of peace and
justice, our leaders can't wait until everyone holds hands and sings
Kum Ba Yah together. Sometime we have to say no to the mean
spirit that pervades our world today. That calls for clever
strategies and unyielding resolve. But it begins with respect. What
do you see when you look at a neighbor with whom you disagree? Look
again. Look for that shared vision. Prompted by the author of the
Book of Proverbs, I write where there is no vision, the
people perish, justice is denied, and compassion has its hands
tied.
There is no report card on
how well I succeeded as pastor to those country churches. That's not
my point. The story happened long ago and far away in the crucible
of troubling times, but the lessons learned then ring just as true
today in these challenging times.
