W. B. Selah Clarion Ledger

The following is a printed statement from Dr. Selah, after the Galloway Board enacted rules that would bar Freedom Riders from entering Galloway for service.  I was six months old.

Clarion Ledger
Jan 7, 1963 Monday 

Selah States Stand On Race Integration

By THE ASSOCIATED PRESS 

The pastor of the largest Methodist congregation in Mississippi said Sunday he believes forced segregation is wrong and advocates voluntary desegregation of all public facilities.

Dr. W. B. Selah of Galloway Memorial Methodist Church in Jackson stated his beliefs in answer to an Associated Press query about his position concerning a statement last week by 28 young Methodist ministers endorsing an official "no discrimination" church position.

Since the “born of conviction” statement was published last Wednesday in the Mississippi Methodist Advocate, the movement has slowly added numbers and age to its list of supporters.

However, the bishop of the Mississippi and North Mississippi Conferences, Dr. Marvin A. Franklin, said Wednesday he would not like to be quoted concerning the statement and has maintained silence since.

Thursday, Dr. J. P. Stafford, lay leader of the Mississippi Conference, praised the statement as "very worthwhile." He said "it is hard for many of us to go along with the great Methodist Church and changing times, in matters of race, but this is an adjustment Christians can make." 

As lay leader, his position in the conference is roughly the lay equivalent of that held by Bishop Franklin among the clergy. Dr. Stafford's remarks will appear Wednesday in his column in the Advocate.

Francis B. Stevens, a Jackson attorney, an associate lay leader of the Mississippi Methodist Conference, said Saturday he endorsed the statement of the 2 young ministers. He said that a climate of "fear and hatred, created by pressure groups, had kept many Mississippians silent on the race issue.

Also last Thursday, 23 ministers along with Dist. Supt. W. I Robinson of Tupelo voted "enthusiastically" to endorse the original statement of the 28, which did not ask desegregation and made few specific references outside of a denunciation of communism, but stressed the freedom of the pulpit.

Dr. Selah's statement, however, tackled racial questions direct and answered them directly. The church's own obligations in racial matters was the central theme of Dr. Selah's statement Preference for segregated worship is not sinful, he said, but sin is committed when a church erects a color bar.

"I've been saying it-announcing those principles (in his statement) lots of times," Dr. Sela said. His 17 years at Galloway mark the longest tenure in a Mississippi Methodist church.

He said most of his statements Sunday came from a sermon delivered at Galloway on Nov. 19, 1961. He has had it, entitled it "Brotherhood," put into print. His statement Sunday bore no title

Dr. Selah's statement is as follows:

"Jesus said, 'One is you Father and you are all brothers’ The doctrine of the Fatherhood of God and the Brotherhood of man is fundamental in Christ’s teaching. For seventeen years I have preached the law of Christian love from the pulpit of Galloway Methodist Church. This law means that we must seek for all men, black and white, the same justice, the same rights, and the same opportunities that we seek for ourselves. Nothing less than this is Christian love. To discriminate against a because of his color or his creed is contrary to the will of God. Forced segregation is wrong. We should voluntarily desegregate all public facilities. We should treat men not on the basis of color but on the basis of conduct.

"In the light of Christian principle, there can be no color bar in a Christian church. It is not sinful for white people to prefer to worship with white people or for colored people to prefer to worship with colored people. The sin comes when a church seeks to erect a color bar before the Cross of Christ. As Christians, we cannot say to anyone, 'You cannot come into the house of God.' No Conference, no preacher, no official board can put up a color bar in the church. That matter is determined by the nature of Christianity which is an inclusive fellowship of those who seek the Lord. The house of God is a house of prayer for all people. black and white.

"When a person seeks membership in the church he is not asked about the color of his skin. He is asked about his faith in God as revealed in Christ. Salvation is not by color but by faith. There can be no color bar in a Christian institution.

"Race prejudice is a denial of Christian brotherhood. Any kind of prejudice racial or religious weakens the nation by dividing it into hostile groups. It sets race against race, church against church. This plays into the hands of the Communists and makes it easier for them to do their diabolical work.

"Every American citizen, black or white, is entitled to the best educational opportunity the state affords. In our struggle with Communism we need to offer all our people the best possible training; for in the long run the fight for freedom will be won by that nation which produces the finest brains and the best character. The public schools must be kept open.

"No doubt there are some places where laymen expect the preacher to echo their opinions. The freedom of the pulpit must be maintained. The preacher must get his message not from the community but from Christ. He must state his convictions and allow others to disagree. I'm sure that many of my people disagree with things I say. But they want me to declare my convictions. "Think and let think' is the genius of the Methodist Church. Thoughtful laymen will demand a free pulpit. Only a free pulpit inspires people to think.

"All these things I have stated to my people many times before."

Not What I Expected In Church

I'm probably gonna get in trouble for this.  Don't you love it when I have to start with a disclaimer like that?  I'm not gonna lie and say something like "some people feel" or "there is a perception" This is what I feel, my perception, me, nobody else, and I'm just vain enough to think that hearing it might help something somewhere.

When I was in high school, at an expensive, upper middle class, mostly white, private school, I had four unlikely friends from football that became known as The Travelers.  Someone suggested we took the name because that was the name of Robert E Lee's horse, but Mike Shepherd said, "No, man, That's Trigger!" and that was that.  We called ourselves Travelers because, in my old Ford LTD, we traveled three in the back seat and two in the front seat and saw Mississippi.  

We took our white privilege, little prince asses, around Mississippi and saw things we never would have been exposed to in our Fondren Neighborhood high school.   We nearly got arrested for driving the wrong way down the only one-way street in Bolton, Mississippi, but it was ok because the cop was drunk and sent us home.   We met the famous wrestler Ernie Big Cat Ladd and bought him dinner at Jobie Martin's chicken restaurant and lounge and danced with women much older than us while Jobie promised if he ever got his show back, he wanted us to be on it.  We would have too, but he never got his show back.

We visited Charles Evers at his radio station often enough that he knew our names.  The engineer let us in while he was on the air, and he'd talk to us while the record played.   He, too, promised to put us on the air but never did.  To us, he wasn't the guy whose brother was murdered because he fought to integrate Mississippi.  He was a guy on the radio who was willing to talk to us.  

Back at school, James Meridith wasn't the guy who integrated Ole Miss or even the guy who got shot marching for more integration; he was the dad of two kids in our lower school.  Ed King was a guy I ran into over and over with issues relating to Millsaps.  Sometimes, we were on the same side.  Sometimes, we weren't.  He's in my Sunday School now.

I mention these names because I was born at a time and in a place where the Civil Rights movement to liberate the descendants of African Slaves in Mississippi was very real and very present, and people who made real and genuine sacrifices weren't just names in a textbook, they were people I would meet and know under other, less painful, circumstances.

Knowing these people and knowing what they went through and seeing some small bit of it firsthand made me realize they understand more about bigotry and oppression than I ever could.  As much as I tried to understand them, their experience was so much larger and more real than mine.  

To me, black Southerners had a perspective on alienation that made them experts, and became people whose perspective I sought when discussing the alienation of others.  While nobody had it as bad as them, their experience offered insight into other oppressed people that I consider valuable.

There have been times when I expected Black Southerners to fight against the oppression of other people in one way and got something entirely different.  It's impossible for me to judge them.  Their experience is not my experience, and just because they may once have suffered doesn't make them obligated to think one way or another, but it makes things difficult when they stand in the way of someone else's liberation.

Because she is black, I expected Mississippi's new United Methodist Bishop to see something familiar in the act of civil disobedience performed by Elizabeth Davidson and the Paige Swaim-Presley.  I thought she would see it, as I see it, as two young ministers fighting for the civil rights of their congregants.  The Bishop didn't agree.  I can't judge her for that.  I haven't been through what she's been through in life, and she has an awful lot more concerns in this matter than I do, but her reaction was very different from what I expected.  

I'm not alone in confusion about how to respond here.  There's been maybe eight people I've looked to for spiritual leadership in my life more than all others.  Three are dead, and one has dementia.  Two of these people were discussing the Bishop's response, in this case, yesterday at Sunday School.  To my way of thinking, that's a pretty high-level conference in the United Methodist Church.  They felt like, as I feel that the Bishop was being unusually harsh with Elizabeth and Paige.  They also felt like she wasn't following the procedure set out in the Book of Discipline in cases like this.  Normally, I'd say that aspect was an issue for a lawyer; fortunately, there happened to be a few of them present.  You can't swing a dead cat at Galloway without hitting three lawyers.

I had hopes that a Black woman from the South would have been more sympathetic to this case, not less, but that's not what happened, and I have to respect that, and I do respect that, but I'm not satisfied that this is over.  I'm told there's a chance that Paige and Elizabeth will be defrocked.  They might go to another denomination, but they'd have to start the process of becoming a minister all over again.  I've seen that happen before, but I sure would like to keep people with their kind of energy and conviction within the UMC.

So, I sit in church, and I see empty spots on the pews where people I knew and loved once sat.  They lived their entire lives without being able to share with their beloved church what they were.  I see people who are still alive and who have lived a long full life in the church that, despite all, still doesn't accept them as equals.  I see young people, so full of life and promise, who I worry the church will lose because we cannot say they are equal to me.  I can say it.  I can hold them as much higher than me, but until the Book of Discipline says it, until our Bishop supports actions in that direction, I can't say that my job is done.  I can't say that our church loves them as much as me, even though it should love them more.

Life in Mississippi is complicated.  Life as a Christian is too.  Somehow people here always find room for rejection and alienation.  I don't get that.  We barely have enough talented people to make Mississippi work; I don't see how excluding anyone helps anything.  I can't parlay our bishop's experience as a Black Woman in the South into mercy and acceptance for two young pastors and two even younger Millsaps students in love.  To me, that tracks as my not being able to understand the experience of Black Southerners, Women, or Lesbians well enough to bring them together.  I accept that, but I'm not giving up.   I don't exactly know where to go from here--but that's never stopped me before.  Mississippi isn't a story that ever ends.  Sometimes, it doesn't even change that much.  I'll keep turning the pages, though.  After me, someone else will.  There is progress, but man is it ever slow.  

Her Name On Google

 I searched her name on Google.  It's been a few years since we lost her and many more years since we last spoke, but there was a time when I said I loved her, a time when I said I wanted to be with her forever.

I don't know what the policy for Facebook is for people who are no longer alive.  Her account is still there.  Eleven friends, nine are mutual.  That doesn't seem right.  I don't know anyone who didn't love her.  By the end, I had pretty good reasons not to love her, but I still did.  

It doesn't seem right.  A life, any life, should leave more of an impression on the world.  Her life, even just her smile, touched so many people, but when those of us who remembered it are gone, there will be nothing left.  

I don't know how to fix this.  When she was alive, I tried.  Sometimes I tried really, really hard, but whatever it was that tortured her just wouldn't move.  Most people never knew this about her.  Most people thought she was forever happy and forever carefree.  That wasn't the truth.  

I can't say something crazy like "She was the only one I ever loved" because that's just not true.  I loved as deeply as I could and as often as I could.  She wasn't the only one, but she was a very, very important one, but I was never able to make things better for her for more than just a few days.  I was pretty strong, but her demons were a lot stronger, and I'm honestly really bothered by that.  

My gift, it seems, isn't being strong or leading fearlessly.  My gift is muddling words together in a way that means something sometimes.  That's kind of an ironic joke because I was born with a disease that should have made words my enemy.  

Maybe one day, I can put words together that make a better monument to her life.  I want to do it in a way that I don't have to say her name because then people will say, "What happened to her?" and I don't want to get into that.  That's not the point.  What I want is something that makes people feel like they felt when she was around, when she was alive.  I'd like for that to be what the world remembers.

A lot of people carry really broken things inside of them.  Sometimes you can see it, and sometimes you can't.  It doesn't define them.  It doesn't sum up their existence in this world.  

Her smile was the most powerful thing I ever saw.  I would have done anything to see it.  I'd do anything to see it again.  Part of me can only say I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for not coming back for her.  I'm sorry for not being there in the end.  I'm sorry for not ever making it any better.  

One day, I'll write something, and even though I won't say her name, people will read it and say, "Wow, I really wish I had known her."  That's not enough, but I think that's something I can do.

Through The Desert

There's a lot of consternation about the changes you see in the United Methodist Church.  A lot of it, I understand.  If you look at my church as an example: this morning, we had a pretty small gathering.  After all the activities of Easter and Church on the Grounds, I expected that, plus there was a big concert in Oxford.  

In our pews were what you always saw, plus about twelve percent Black Methodists and twelve percent Hispanic Methodists.  Twenty-four percent is the beginning of a paradigm shift.  For people of a more progressive frame of mind, this is a wonderful thing.  For people of a more conservative frame of mind, this is a mild threat to their existence.  

Religion is one of the primary arteries that feed our culture.  In some ways, it is THE primary artery.  Education, literature, art, music, food, dance, film, theater, politics, and economics, these are also arteries feeding our culture, but Religion is bigger than those and often encompasses those, so any mild change in it has larger ripples throughout the culture.  Sometimes those ripples can be discomforting. 

If you add to this another twelve percent LBGTQ Methodist to the mix and the fact that a little over fifty percent of our pastoral staff is women, and this starts to look like a very different sort of church than what it was just thirty years ago.  Twenty-five years ago, I used to make church dates because I thought hearing Ross Olivier speak would impress the girls I liked.  We've changed a good bit even since then.  

People think of the church as a static thing.  As a fixed place.  That gives them comfort in a turbulent world.  It may not be the best way to understand what the church is, though.  To me, the church is like the entire body of Israel who left Egypt with Moses.  They had an idea where they were going, but none had been there.  It had been so long since anyone had seen the promised land that nobody knew the way.  Out of Egypt, through the Red Sea, to the foot of Saini, Moses led them.  The church is our Moses.  It leads us through time to a place we have heard about but have never seen.  We carry the bones of our dead with us so that they may see the promised land.  One day, my bones will rest in a niche in the walls of my church.  Wherever it is that we're going, I won't be alive when we get there, but, like Abraham, my bones will be.

The people who left Egypt were not the people who crossed the Jordan.  Some died along the way.  Some were born along the way.  The individuals changed, but the body of Israel remained the same.  This is true of our churches.  Some churches move out into other counties to be less changed, but it's a temporary fix.  Our neighbor, St Peters, has a one o'clock service in Spanish that's filled to capacity.  When was the last time you saw one of our downtown churches filled to capacity?  

Not everybody will be happy with all these changes.  Not everybody was happy with moving through the desert for forty years.  These things aren't up to us.  What we can do, is stick together and keep moving.  The faces will change, but wherever we're going, we'll get there.  This was promised to us.

Our Reputation

There's a culture war on.  Because of that, there have been a few times this week, including twice today, where people have made comments to me along the lines of: "Millsaps should work to appear more conservative because the other small private colleges we compete with are."

I'm most likely going to have an opinion on that.  First off, and the most obvious to me, is that this is a battle we can't possibly win.  Some of these other small, private colleges are so far out on a limb with regard to their cultural doctrine that we could never hope to survive out there with them.  I question not only their academic integrity on this but sometimes their sanity.  That's simply not a path Millsaps can travel down.  

Secondly, I don't think we should sell something we don't believe.  We're not a conservative Christian college.  We're just not.  What we can do is get better at telling the truth about ourselves, and that truth is that we work pretty hard to present a balanced view of things to our students and then make them work like hell to develop the critical thinking skills that enable them to make their own choices.  Producing students with the skills and the knowledge to make their own decisions is about the only thing I can think of that makes the effort and the money that go into a Millsaps education worthwhile.

We allow and encourage both our students and our faculty to go down whatever path they feel is the most truthful, and that sometimes means we have faculty and students who get involved in protests, and seeing Millsaps shirts at these protests means we're a bunch of communists to some, but to others, it signals that we're fighting for them, which sometimes makes a big difference.  For some people, one kid with blue hair and a picket sign makes all the kids with short hair and Bibles invisible.  Millsaps has always fought that perception.  We may enroll purple-haired lesbian communists sometimes, but there are not that many, and they don't describe us--but most importantly, we provide them with the academic freedom to pursue their own path, so long as they do the work, and there's a lot of work.  

When I was at Millsaps, there was a detente moment in the culture war, and the socialists broke bread with the Young Republicans fairly often.   I myself was pretty conservative until I figured out that Reagan wasn't going to keep his promises.   If you go to Millsaps today, you'll see that the Young Republicans are still active, and so are the Babes for Bernie Socialists.  They live together and take classes together because we allow them to and we encourage them to.  We don't make their decisions for them.  As much as people accuse us of indoctrinating students, the reality is just the opposite.  We provide them with a varied table of information and make them make their own choices.  We refuse to indoctrinate them.  We put a balanced diet on the table and force them to use critical thinking in what they choose to put on their plate.  

Over the years, I've come to realize that one of our biggest allies in this effort is Ole Miss.  Whatever they were in the sixties, they now work to present students with a balanced perspective.  You'd be surprised how many students go from Millsaps to do graduate work at Ole Miss.  It's a good fit.  Ole Miss doesn't have the same reputation for liberalism that we do, probably because they fought against segregation way back when and we avoided the fight by opening our roll books without being forced to.  Beyond that, we're very similar, and after college, we end up in the same law firms, the same medical offices, and the same banks as the kids who went to Ole Miss on day one, and it's a good fit.

We sometimes get the reputation for being a bunch of radical nutbags, and that isn't fair because it isn't true.  We have some people on one end of the socio-political spectrum, but we have people on all the other ends too.  Our best path forward might be to just get better at communicating the message that we're balanced, and we teach our students to seek their own path, and just how valuable that is compared to schools that make these choices for their students.

Weathering the Storm

 I find it interesting that some of the voices that were the loudest and most radical when it came to desegregating the Methodist Church are now the same ones advising caution and patience, and moderation with regard to the current conflict over sexuality. Some of these voices are pretty high up in the church. Some are very high up in the church.

A lot of this I attribute to the fact that our members fought to desegregate the church over sixty years ago. Time and experience have a way of tempering the raging passions of youth. Young pastors care little if their actions divide the congregation when they believe they are acting as Christ would. Older pastors are more anxious to wait and see.

These are not universal descriptions. I know some pastors in their thirties seeking caution and advising patience and some pastors in their nineties who are more than ready to storm the ramparts. Some are very concerned about showing that the rules of the church are important and will be followed, while others are adamant that the only rule that matters is the example of Christ.

What I know is this: there's no way out of this without some people getting hurt. There's no way out without some people having their faith in the church challenged. I think about this a lot, and I can't think of a path through this that doesn't alienate somebody, and alienating people from their faith is pretty serious business.

For me personally, me Boyd here at my computer: I'm always going to side with the weak. I'm always going to side with the smaller force. Some of the best Christians I know are gay. Some of the best Christian couples I know are gay. Some of the most devoted members of my church are gay. I come from a time when these people had to hide who they were to survive. Some of them still do. It's hard for me to imagine this is what Jesus would want.  It's hard for me to imagine Jesus wouldn't fight for their full inclusion in every aspect of the church.

That being said, I'm not in a position of any authority in the church. I can say my piece and decide where I stand, but that's about it. This will be decided by other people. I'm getting used to the idea that some people I know, some people I support, are going to get hurt--and I'm sorry for that, but I can't figure a way out of it.

I don't like being in the position of having to say, "The church doesn't support you, but I do." I don't know how to stop that, though. I think that's what Jesus would have me do.  I think there are times when that is what Jesus did.

Churches that follow rules give many people a great sense of comfort and security, and I appreciate that. When they lose faith that their church doesn't follow rules it causes them great discomfort and feelings of insecurity. I appreciate how important that is. I also appreciate the damage it causes when you tell people, "You're not good enough to go with us." which I believe the current conflict does.

There are people I knew who are no longer with us, who were members at Galloway for many years and had someone in their lives that they loved enough to marry at the church but were forbidden to. There are couples, young and old, now that I would love to say, "The church sanctions your love as much as I do," but I can't.

When I can put names to an issue, it's no longer political. When I can say: This is about Patricia, or Lawrence, or Elizabeth, or Timothy, then it becomes something more than doctrinal; when it becomes about people I know, then it's deeply moral and considerably more important.

I feel like our roots are deep enough for the tree to weather this storm. Hopefully, the trunk is flexible enough. Sometimes, I think love attracts lighting, that caring for others lays the seedbed for pain--mine and theirs.

For the people I know who will be hurt by all this--I can't make it stop. I just can't. My ego is big enough and warped enough where that alone causes me considerable pain and embarrassment, but I can't change it.

I'll sit with you through the storm, though. It doesn't matter how wet or cold we get; I won't budge. Sometimes, that's all anyone can do.  

Till Justice

People are upset that Carolyn Bryant Donham died without ever being prosecuted for her part in the death of Emmett Till.  They're hurt because the scales of justice were never balanced in his death.

They're missing the point.  Because the scales of justice were never balanced is what gave the Till story its power.  Because Emmett Till was denied, justice moved the country to begin taking action on civil rights in the South and racism throughout the whole country.  That may not have ever happened if Till's death was met with equal justice when it happened.  

Sometimes the entire point is that a thing was broken.  Consider the crack in the liberty bell or the leaning tower of Pisa.  Were these things whole, you would never have known about them.   Emmett Till never received justice.  That imbalance, that brokenness of purpose, moved the entire world.

Good Ole Boys

Big parts of Mississippi politics are pretty wholesome. We don't have much money, so everybody kind of goes along to get along. Some of it could easily be an episode of the Andy Griffith Show. We do pretty well on issues about gender. The most powerful mayor in Mississippi is a woman, and Evelyn Gandy was once the most powerful person in the state, even though she couldn't get elected governor.

We get along pretty well on most things until it comes to issues of race, and then it gets murderous. I'd say improving the lot of Mississippi's black citizens was our third rail, but hardly anyone in Mississippi has ever ridden a subway, so they don't get the metaphor.

Why can't we have hospitals in the Delta? Black people live there. Why can't we have money for Jackson? Black people live there. Why did a football star, a professional wrestler, and a governor think it was ok to steal money for the poor? Black people are poor.

What ends up happening is in these districts that are mostly black, nobody wants to work with them, so they elect people nobody wants to work with, so these districts like the Delta and Jackson that need cooperation from the state don't get it. They end up electing candidates who are really good at civil rights rhetoric instead of economics and industry, and civic administration, which is what they really need. Jackson is the best example of this.

My uncle Boyd and my Dad were acolytes of Ivan Allen. Allen was the mayor of Atlanta, and he believed that there were too many black people who lived in Atlanta for the city to ever prosper if he, as mayor, continued with such brutal oppression as they experienced in the past. By today's standards, Allen didn't do much for the poor blacks of Atlanta, but what he did do was give Martin Luther King Jr. and his church enough room to breathe so that they had room to grow and whatever happened in Selma or Jackson or Memphis, they had a safe place to grow in Atlant, and that changed everything.

Mississippi has got to realize that the only way we're ever going to lift ourselves off the bottom of everything is if we enable our large black subculture. It's not going to be easy to incorporate a subculture that's been oppressed for hundreds of years with the culture that did the oppressing, but that's out only viable path forward.

What I'm writing sounds like it could have been said in 1960, and it was in several of my Uncle Boyd's speeches, then again in some of my dad's testimony on behalf of the Chamber of Commerce in the seventies. It's been sixty years, and the message isn't getting through.

It doesn't do any good for me to call for a Mayor for Jackson that's better at facilities management, economic development, or real estate because so many people in Jackson are more concerned about having their basic civil rights protected, and they have reason to. They're less interested in developing an effective police force because they're more concerned about what the police do to their people. I would be too.

I don't have any answers. That's gonna have to come from somebody wiser than I. What Ivan Allen said is true, though. We're never gonna rise unless we take everybody with us. Without that, we're gonna stay on the bottom.

When We Remembered Zion

 I had lunch on Zoom today with a friend who's thirty-two and lives in Seattle. She's Ashkenazi, a descendant of grandparents who immigrated from Russia in the twenties. She made a joke about how a Jew like her must seem very alien to people in Mississippi.

So, I told her Jews aren't aliens here at all. They came in fairly large numbers during the cotton boom and settled all over the South. I told her about Beth Israel Cemetary, where we told ghost stories when I was in college and how it was the most immaculately manicured cemetery in Mississippi.

Then I told her about what happened to Rabbi Nussbaum when I was a little boy. How the klan had bombed the Beth Israel Temple and Rabbi Nussbaum's home, and she had a look of confused pain on her face.

Then I showed her a clip of Driving Miss Daisy, which she'd never seen and didn't know was about a Jewish woman. I showed her the scene where Houke tries to drive Miss Daisy to temple, but the police turn him back because someone had bombed the temple, and he tells Daisy a story about a man who was lynched.

I explained that the scene in the play was inspired more by a similar bombing in Atlanta in the fifties, but the impact was the same as the one in Jackson. To preserve their closed culture, men in the South would destroy places of worship.

A tear rolled down her cheek. In her young life, where she lived, the persecution of her people never really seemed that real. Somehow, me telling her the story made it feel real, and she wept.

By the waters of Babylon, we sat down, and we wept when we remembered Zion.

Men will do terrible things if you make them believe their culture is in danger, and there's great political power in making people believe that danger is real, even when it isn't.

I wish bigotry and hatred of the other were only limited to race and religion, but it goes so much deeper than that. There's always somebody willing to say, "They are dangerous because THEY are different," and someone will do something terrible because they believe it.

When I was a child, about the same time as the Beth Israel Bombings, even my church split apart over race and culture; now it's happening again over sexuality. Nobody's set off any bombs yet, but it's not a far journey.

You don't have to be "woke" to be afraid of what bigotry does to your community. You just have to be good at history.

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