The "Something" That You Can Do

I wrote a sermon to deliver last week at my home church and although I seem to not have much time to write in this log right now, I figure I can at least steal my own work to post here. The sermon was about how doing justice work is hard and its even harder to maintain one's "mojo" for doing it in the face of so much need and so much defeat. I wanted to inspire people to take little steps, to not be daunted by the overwhelming nature of the work and not to feel that whatever they could do would be, to quote my grandfather, akin to "spitting in the ocean". The theme was drawn from an 18th century Unitarian minister who said:

I am only one,
But still I am one.
I cannot do everything,
But still I can do something.
And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.

Working on the sermon got me to thinking about my Dad, who was not, on the surface, a social justice crusader, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that he was. Here's what I said about him:
"I like to say that my father was a mystery wrapped up in an enigma. He was a complex person who was, as we humans are, flawed. But as Luther and I spoke about this service, I realized one thing very clearly, my father fully and completely understood this concept of looking at the world through a justice lens. And as I thought about my childhood, I realized that he, in his own way, was an activist for justice throughout his life, though you will not find his name in any history books and to the best of my knowledge he participated in exactly one protest march.

He was an activist in two ways – He was successful in his work life and by the early 70’s he had risen to the position of District Director of Customs for the Baltimore region and as such had hundreds of employees reporting to him. In this job he was an active promoter of African Americans to positions that had previously been closed to them. He told me once that he did what everyone should do; he gave the job to the best person. Period. It was in fact that clear to him. He looked through that justice lens and acted on what he saw.

When he died, his Assistant Director, Lyle, came to me at the funeral home and asked me if I knew how much my father had done for the black people in his region. I said I thought I did, but as this man told me all of the roadblocks my father had removed from his way, I realized that I did not really know the extent of my father’s commitment. Lyle told me that he and many others believed that my father had not been promoted to Regional Director because of his tireless advocacy on behalf of others. When they discussed it once, my father said that he would not savor a promotion that came at the cost of his integrity. For my father, that was the something he could do.

I said earlier that my father truly understood looking through a justice lens. The reason I know that is because I realize now that this is the thing that my father was talking about all through my growing up years. You see, he had a justice lens and he also gave one to me. And he did not only give it to me, but throughout my childhood, he tirelessly showed me how to use it. He did not take me fishing or hiking, but he taught me how to operate that justice lens. I believe it to be the most important gift he gave to me. My father spoke to me of class and skin color privilege from as far back as I can remember. When Dr. King was assassinated in 1968 we lived outside of Washington DC. When the riots had been quelled, my father took us to the still smoldering areas and asked us what we thought about folks burning their own neighborhoods. He then explained about the lives of African Americans, the hundreds of years of discrimination, the lack of educational opportunities, the poverty they had endured. He then told of the hope that had come to them with the Civil Rights movement and the gains that had been made. And somehow he made me understand their anger and the despair.

He brought that alive for me, I was 7 years old, but I understood for the very first time how privileged I was. I think my father gave me the justice lens that day and I have never looked at the world in quite the same way since. Whenever issues of class came up, my father was quick to remind me that I was privileged not because of anything I had done, but because I had been born into a white, middle class family. It was through him that I came to understand that it was my responsibility to address the justice issues on the ground, where I lived and that I could not stand by and listen to racist jokes or silently witness discrimination or violence. It was, I believed, my responsibility to be one of those people who made the changes. Even in elementary school I knew that is was my responsibility to heed the call to bring justice to all people, to do the something that I could do."

I am amazed that, nearly 25 years after his death, I can still discover new things about my Dad. It made me smile. I wish I held beliefs that would tell me that he can see me, even after death. I'd like to believe he heard that sermon and was proud of me and knew that I was proud of him.

Just in case - here's a tip of my hat to my Dad - a social justice crusader in his own way.

Peace & Blessings for the journey,
Suzanne