March 7, 2008
Selma
It’s March 7th.
It’s the forty-third anniversary of Selma. It’s also the forty-third anniversary of my first Sunday in a big, fat-cat, downtown, over-my-head southern parish not all that distant from Selma, Alabama, where I’d meant to be and wasn’t.
I had even more severe delusions of grandeur in those days, believing all the stuff I’d heard about church and ministry and “career.” I lament when I see around me there are also those who do so yet.
But it wasn’t all rock-and-roll. By the grace of God, some of us had already escorted students through Texas picket lines.
It was over then, but nobody was admitting it. Like some haven’t admitted it yet. Like some are even now wondering and planning how they can use it in a presidential election. Like Selma and all the others had never happened — and the fire hoses and the dogs and the beatings and the whips and old Bull — and Viola and Jonathan and Medgar and the others.
It’s March 7th, and some still march.
No Comments »
RSS feed for comments on this post.
| TrackBack URI
You can also bookmark
this on del.icio.us or check the cosmos