Restoring Funding for Birmingham Civil Rights Institute

I wrote my letter in supoort of restoring funding for the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. I urge you to write yours.

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Dear Governor Ivey,

Grace and peace to you.

It is my understanding that your proposed new budget does not include any funding for the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute. I am writing to urge you to reconsider.

The news that it has been completely cut comes on the heels of national efforts to suppress conversations about race and the legacy of the Civil Rights Movement. These conversations are essential to understanding who we are and how far we’ve come. The timing of this could not be more sobering.

As a white man who grew up in the south, I do not find the truth of our past to be threatening. I find it challenging and empowering. We need to keep the truth alive.

The stories that line the walls of the Birmingham

Civil Rights Institute are not abstract. They are Alabama history. They are American history, not a whitewashed version but real history.

I am deeply concerned about what removing this funding represents. It appears to be part of a larger extremist effort to undo decades of bipartisan investment in telling Alabama’s story in full—not just the parts that are comfortable, but also the hard truths of segregation, resistance, and the propensity to overcome.

I believe in protecting civil rights history. I believe the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute matters. I believe truth matters. If we don’t know our history, we’re doomed to repeat it, as they say. But just as importantly, if we don’t know our history, we rob ourselves of the opportunity for gratitude.

Please restore funding for the Birmingham Civil Rights Institute.

Sincerely,

Rev. Dr. Steve West

Senior Pastor, Jacksonville First United Methodist Church

Jacksonville, Alabama

The “Cherry-Picking” of the White Church

This potent quote is from “The Crucible of Racism: Ignatian Spirituality and the Power of Hope” by Patrick Saint-Jean, SA.

“The white church has often cherry-picked its way through the Bible, ignoring scripture’s clear and consistent support of those whom society has marginalized. Meanwhile, the actual message of the Hebrew Scriptures and the message of Christ in the Gospels and throughout the rest of the Christian scriptures challenge us to build a world based on justice, equality, and love.”

Prayer at the Alabama State Legislature

Because of the kind invitation of a member of our church family who serves as an Alabama State Representative, I did something this week I’ve never done. I went to the state capital in Montgomery to lead prayer for the legislative session.

It was a whole new pastoral experience for me. The most humbling part of it is that I forgot my sports coat. Leave it to me! I had on my tie and my carefully printed prayer folded in my freshly ironed pocket, but when I decided to change out of my sweater (think “Mr. Rogers”), it was nowhere to be found in my car.

Thankfully, this has happened before and capital security knew what to do. A blue blazer appeared, and it was just my size. In a sense, by the time I got to the microphone, I was already humbled. But nothing is more humbling than knowing I had precisely two minutes to do something I would probably never have the opportunity to do again. What do I say?

It was an honor and I did not take it lightly. I love my home state and sincerely pray for our leaders, who face volatile and difficult times. I had no idea how long it would take me to write that two minute prayer.

So I thought I’d share it with you here. Please join me in praying for our leaders in Montgomery.

Steve

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Let us pray, God of all creation, since the very founding of our nation, countless legislatures have begun public sessions with prayer. We continue that tradition today, not just for history’s sake but because of incredibly high stakes. The matters that come before us are of vital importance, and the women and men of this esteemed house do not take our duties lightly.

So we pause, and we pray, and we acknowledge the Sovereign One who is above all things and imbued in all things.

We confess, oh Lord, our propensity in politics to work against each other instead of with one other, to speak our minds without engaging our hearts. Forgive us, we pray. May we set aside needless ideology for the common good, knowing that only in the sharing of differing voices can we tease out the truth. This is the very principle our government is founded on, that no one corners the market on what’s right. What we do is represent the people of every corner of this great state. May we represent them faithfully and diligently today.

We ask that you “grant us wisdom, grant us courage for the living of these days.” The state of Alabama has come a long way, but like any state, we still have a long way to go. Not far from this legislative gathering is both the pulpit of Martin Luther King’s preaching and the step of Jefferson Davis’s inauguration. Their proximity is a visceral reminder of the confluence of wheat and tare in our history. May we nurture the fine wheat and trust you for the tare.

May we serve Alabama the beautiful, and with our whole hearts sing, “we will aye be true to thee.”

And now, with deep respect for diverse faiths that might be represented here, I offer this prayer in the name of my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Podcast on “Come to me … ALL”

It was a joy to prepare and record the “Read Together” podcast this week. The introduction written by Lyn Cosby at the Conference Center says:

Rev. Steve West finds a recurring theme of inclusiveness in this week's reading list—prompting us to remind ourselves, all means all.

You can listen to it here.

Today is January 6

Systemic Racism and Collective Responsibility

Here is a recent post written by my cousin, Warren Hamby (the son of my Uncle Warren). It is a tribute to my courageous uncle, especially relevant for these times when there are those that deny the reality of systemic racism and collective responsibility.

A little more than 50 years ago, in Jackson, MS, a member of our church who was active in the Civil Rights Movement was a victim of a house bombing by the Ku Klux Klan. He and his family escaped death only because they had minutes before retired to bed. My dad, his pastor, read a statement from the pulpit the following Sunday. Here is part of his courageous statement.

"What had he (Bob Kochtitzky) done (to provoke this)? He had kept the integrity of Christian witness as a sensitive Christian in a society not yet willing to such a witness. He had taken seriously the convictions that were imparted to him by the teachings of the church school and the witness of the pulpit of this church. He had dared to go beyond the respectable acquiescence of the polite forms of Christianity that so often characterize the poor witness of most of us.

"The truth of this is so profound that it turns the question around so that it becomes, not what he has done, but what have we done to prompt this kind of violence?

"Let us not draw a small circle of guilt, for we are all indicted. The so-called decent and responsible people of our city, state and section are the Sauls at whose feet lie clothes of the whole affair. Upon our consciences the whole matter must rest. Justice, Brandeis once said; 'The greatest menace to freedom is an inert people.'

"Who is to blame? Every pulpit where justice and mercy and goodwill have not been enough proclaimed; every alleged Christian who has thought more of his or her prejudices than of seeking the will of God and the spirit of Jesus Christ in attitude and behavior; every newspaper that has defended indefensible positions and voiced its own prejudices; the responsible elected officials of city and state who have been more concerned with expediency than integrity--here, my friends is the accumulated and collective guilt that is ours."

That pastor was my dad, the Rev. Warren Hamby, Sr. To honor him this Father's Day, I could list his good qualities and tell you how much I admired him, but I think the words I quoted above speak for themselves. And tell you how much I miss him since he has been gone from this life, words fail me. There are no words.

Red Letter Christians

Today, I signed the "Red Letter Christians" pledge. I believe this with all my heart and life. You may want to consider signing it as well.

It is time for Christians to stand up for what is right, what is good, what is gospel. We aren't truly living as Christians unless we are on the journey of giving ourselves to the vision of the kingdom of God. If we do it not unto the least of these, we do it not for Christ. Be a part of the kingdom breaking into our world!

For more information, go here. A copy of the pledge is below.

I dedicate my life to Jesus, and commit to live as if Jesus meant the things he said in the “red letters” of Scripture.

I will allow Jesus and his teaching to shape my decisions and priorities.

I denounce belief-only Christianity and refuse to allow my faith to be a ticket into heaven and an excuse to ignore the suffering world around me.

I will seek first the Kingdom of God – on earth as it is in heaven – and live in a way that moves the world towards God’s dream, where the first are last and the last are first, where the poor are blessed and the peacemakers are the children of God, working towards a society where all are treated equally and resources shared equitably.

I recognize that I will fall short in my attempts to follow Jesus, and I trust in God’s grace and the community to catch me when I do.

I know that I cannot do this alone, so I commit to share this journey with others who are walking in the way of Jesus. I will surround myself with people who remind me of Jesus, help me become more like him and hold me accountable for my actions and words.

I will share Jesus with the world, with my words and with my deeds. Like Jesus, I will interrupt injustice, and stand up for the life and dignity of all. I will allow my life to point towards Christ, everywhere I go.

John Rutland, George Wallace, Communion, and the Kingdom of God

February is Black History Month, and we have also entered the holy season of Lent. Our United Methodist Bishops have called the church to a Lenten season focused on dismantling racism. Their devotions may be found here.

This convergence has led me to share a story that I recently wrote down for the first time. 

It's part of an introductory chapter in a book I am writing on the distinctiveness of Wesley's communion spirituality in our times of divisiveness.

Attached is a picture of Rev. John Rutland and his wife Mary.

If there is such a thing as a mind-blowing story about Holy Communion, I have one. I heard it years ago from a man named John Rutland. He had been a friend of my family since long before I was born. John was one of the old time Methodist preachers of the North Alabama Conference, always wearing a white shirt, a blazer or sport coat, a super-wide tie, and an even wider love for Jesus. He had a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eye, and to me this short, stocky man was always larger than life.

He and my dad had been colleagues in ministry, and John loved to tell of a time he gave me a quarter when I was a child and he was my father’s District Superintendent. Apparently, I got up in his lap and said “Brother Rutland, when you go to that place …” He said, “you mean Annual Conference?” “Yes, and you see that man …” He responded, “you mean the bishop?“ “Yes, will you tell him to send my daddy to Disney World?”

John had told me plenty of stories, though his communion story brought them all together. My wife and I had become associate pastors at the same church he served in his retirement, and he told me numerous tales from his years of preaching in the middle of Birmingham civil rights history and his uncanny tendency to step into it. He once took me to the pulpit area of the old Woodlawn United Methodist Church and pointed to a seating section on the far right, near the exit. “That’s where Bull Conner used to sit … when he was sitting, that is.” I knew, of course, that “Bull” was the infamous commissioner in Birmingham that oversaw the police and fire departments, enforcing segregation and becoming a national symbol of police brutality with police dogs and fire hoses. Conner had been a member of that church during the Civil Rights era when Rutland pastored there. “Sometimes, when I would preach that Jesus loved all people, regardless of the color of their skin, he would stand up, huff, and storm out.” 

Standing by the pulpit that day, he told me the colorful story of the time he walked up to Conner and his deputies standing on the front steps of the church with their arms crossed. After he asked what they were doing, Conner said, “we’re making sure only the appropriate people come to church today.” John got up in his face and said, “let me tell you something, Mr. Conner. I’ve been appointed by the bishop to be pastor of this church, and I will decide who can come in for worship. And if you get in my way, I’ll call your own police department and have you removed.” He then walked away, his legs feeling like limp noodles. As he turned the corner, he heard Conner whisper to his deputies, “let’s go boys. He’ll do it.” John Rutland must be one of the few people that Bull Conner backed down from. 

On another occasion, John told me of a letter he had once gotten from Alabama Governor George Wallace. He had been with a group of preachers who had met with Wallace a few weeks prior to his first inauguration, a meeting when he had made all sorts of promises to these pastors who were in favor of integrating schools. Then at the inauguration, Wallace made the infamous speech with the words, “segregation now … segregation tomorrow … segregation forever!” John was perplexed and wrote Wallace a letter asking how he could possibly change his tune so dramatically in such a short period of time. Wallace wrote back to him saying, “I’ve been out-segged and I’m not going to be out-segged again … you fancy-pants preachers had better watch your back in Alabama.” 

So, you can imagine how I felt when Rutland walked in my office one day and said, “I wish you’d been here yesterday.” I had been visiting the hospitals, and boy was I sorry. “I dropped by to see if you wanted to go with me to serve communion to George Wallace.” He then told me one of the most compelling stories about Holy Communion I have ever heard. 

Our bishop, Lloyd Knox, had called John Rutland to ask if he had a portable communion set. George Wallace, still a Methodist, had called Bishop Knox from his death bed and asked if he would come serve him communion. The bishop had been busy preparing to move away from the Annual Conference at the end of his term, so his was already packed. “John, I want you to go with me to serve communion.” 

“Um, bishop, I’d be glad to loan you my communion set, but I really don’t think you want me to go visit George Wallace with you.” As John put it, the bishop could be very persuasive, as bishops can be. He went after all, just hoping that since it had been so many years, Wallace would not recognize him. But as soon as he walked in the room, Wallace looked at him and said in a booming voice, “John Rutland!” 

 He sheepishly walked into the room. The bishop gathered them around the hospital bed and asked why he wanted to receive communion. Wallace said, “I asked you to come today because for so many years, I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things.” He shared that he needed to make his peace with God. Bishop Knox went and got the nurse out of the hallway, and she happened to be African American. They all shared the holy meal together. 

John finished his story with words I will never forget, “Here we were, Bishop Knox, George Wallace, a black nurse, and the ‘fancy-pants preacher’ sharing communion together. Now that’s the kingdom of God!” It certainly is. 

Communion has a way of shedding light on both who we really are and who we are called to be. It is an honest meal. We come to the table being real with God through confession, and Christ comes to us in real ways though his presence, hospitality, and grace. The Lord’s Supper binds us together in mysterious ways, for it is a sacred act of both receiving the grace of God and being the body of Christ with one another. 

John Rutland’s story has stuck with me during the remainder of my life and ministry. It was not just a tale about race relations. It was a crystallized moment in time that sheds light on the holy meal. We taste and see the goodness of the Lord. We get an honest look at who we are, experience how incredibly beloved we are, and get a glimpse of life in the kingdom of God while we are at it. No, it’s not magic. A better word for it would be mystical.

Copyright 2021 Stephen P. West, all rights reserved

White Supremacy is Real

This is MLK, Jr. weekend when we observe one of the great Christian heroes of our time.

Racism in general, and white supremacy in particular, is something the Church must openly stand against. The insurrection against the capitol is a vivid reminder of just how dangerous it is to ignore the reality of extremist white supremacy in the US. The FBI has named it as our greatest domestic threat.

 

For the Church, calling out white supremacy is never about partisan politics. It’s about the gospel.

Jesus never mentions some of the things we get tied up in knots about in politics, so I consider those issues important, perhaps, but secondary because of the Word of God.

But no social issue is more centrally attached to the gospel of Jesus Christ than racism. Addressing issues related to conflict between Jews and Gentiles and Samaritans are everywhere in his ministry. Even gospel sermons in the early church follow the mode of Paul’s in Acts 13, where the good news of resurrection life was followed with the uncomfortable truth (for racist Jews of the time) that this good news was for both Jew and Gentile.

Stand against racism. Right now, it’s not enough to be personally not participating. We have to be faithfully anti-racist.

Years ago I published a column about this subject. In can be found on my blog here.

"O Holy Night" - A Super-Charged Political Statement

   

This is a written version of my first Christmas Eve meditation on December 24, 2020. Because of the pandemic, we met for livestream-only worship in the sanctuary, followed by outdoor communion serving and closing candlelight circle. I shared a separate meditation later by the manger scene outdoors.

Did you know the classic Christmas song, "O Holy Night," contains a political statement that was bold and brazen for its time?

On Monday, many of us gazed into the sky and saw what has been dubbed the “Christmas Star.” Since this rare conjunction of planets is one way astronomers say God might have sent us the star of Bethlehem, I took it as a sign of hope in difficult times. How wonderful that for us, the "Christmas Star" happened to appear on the longest night of year. It’s been a year which has felt like one long night.

As I woke up Monday morning in what seemed like utter darkness, the song “O Holy Night” popped into my head. On the day of our darkest night, the first thing on my mind was the holiest of nights. So I did a little research.

Did you know “O Holy Night” was written in 1847? The text was written in the French language bv the French poet Placide Cappeau and set to music by French composer Adolph Adam. It wasn't translated into English until 1855.

Obviously, the major social issue blazing in the world in 1847 was slavery, and that's not just what was boiling in the United States. In fact, the following year, 1848, was the year slavery was finally abolished in France and the French colonies.

This simple fact deepens the impact of the last verse of "O Holy Night":

Truly He taught us to love one another;

His law is Love and His gospel is Peace;

Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother,

And in his name all oppression shall cease, … 

That was a daring and direct statement with political implications! When the world was enraged and even on the brink of war over slavery, they openly sang that "the slave is our brother" and that in Christ's holy name, all such oppression shall cease. Period.

This gives us an angle on Luke's second chapter tonight. The very first "Christmas carols" in history - the canticles of Mary, Zechariah, and Simeon recorded in Luke - all sing that the coming of the Messiah had everything to do with God's concern for the lowly, the poor, the oppressed, and the marginalized.

That’s why Jesus was born in poverty. That’s why he came from a technically unwed mother. That's why his family didn’t have the connections to find a decent room when traveling to Bethlehem. That’s why they laid the baby Jesus in a messy feeding trough full of hay, and that’s why they were visited by smelly shepherds who’d been working all night long.

God adores the poor and lowly, the needy and oppressed. So in God's odd way of saving the world, God became one of them, so that Christ might save us all.

This year, which has felt like one long night, has been a year when we’ve been acutely aware of stubbornness of systemic racism, and yet we worship the one in whose name all oppression shall cease. This year, when politics have been so divisive, we worship the one whose gospel is peace. This year, when some of us live on the brink of religious division, we worship the one whose law is love. This year, when we have been dealing with the blows of a world-wide pandemic, we worship the one who taught us to love one another.

This holy child, this Messiah, this savior, this prince of peace came to not only show us what true love is, but to bust open the door holding back God's radical grace. The singers of these songs can see that the love of God saves the whole world, but especially pours out upon the places and spaces love hasn't been reaching.

May it reach you tonight.

God Brings Life to the Dead Branches

Today, I spent some time with the most unlikely of roses.

We have lived in our new home for over four months. As always, moving is a chore (for pastors, it's an occupational hazard). There has been an enormous amount of things to do.

I have loved meeting the people of our new church. That's the best part. But I often say "I love going to new churches, I just don't love moving to get there!" Between unpacking and getting settled, decorating the house, reclaiming the yard, meeting my neighbors, and starting a new ministry, it's always a challenge to get it all done. With COVID, it's been strange challenge indeed.

One of the tasks that went undone was tending to a particular dead rosebush in our backyard. I've noticed it countless times. It's right behind the house, in front of the garage and under an old clothesline post we've reclaimed with teal spray-paint and bird feeders. The branches are brittle and it has looked dead as a doornail for four straight months. I've been meaning to cut it away.

I'm glad I didn't. Last Sunday, suddenly, I noticed a breach of the deadness with a burst of life. A new rose blossom had appeared. Out of the deadness, there is life. Out of the dryness, there is joy. Wow. God did it again.

I have contemplated all week this gift of God. There is so much deadness around us right now. The coronavirus has been an unimaginable curb of normal life, not to mention the death it has brought to hundreds of thousands. The country has been through divisive times politically, as if there are two alternative worlds we live in, not one. Signs of structural racism abound, and I wonder if the energy to bring about prophetic change will fall away as it too often does. The denomination I love is going through a long, drawn-out, slow division as a group makes plans to secede and go start a new denomination.

It feels like there is a dead rosebush that I can't seem to get around to. It just lingers. Where are the signs of life? Then when I least expected it, it appeared. There is hope.

This week, I spent some more time with that little rose. It's moved from being a rosebud to a fully formed thing of beauty. I just can't bring myself now to break away the dead branches, for now they stand behind the rose as a reminder of the deadness God has brought life to.

God did it again. And God will keep doing it again.

Here's a picture of what I experienced in my quiet time today. May the joy of the Lord burst forth in your life, too.

Letter from the Bishop during the Civil Rights Movement

I have a gift from the family of the late Rev. Talmadge Clayton that has now taken up permanent residence in my study.

It was written by Kenneth Goodson, the resident bishop of the North Alabama Conference of the Methodist Church. I did have the fortune of meeting him at a dear friend's wedding before he died, but this letter comes from a time before my time. It's a letter expressing support for voting rights of African Americans during a time when it was quite controversial in Alabama. I include the postal stamp in the display case because it reminds me that this was mailed to the members of the Annual Conference the very month I was born, April of 1965. For those of you with a keen sense of history, you may know that this was just a few weeks after the March from Selma to Montgomery by those who believed in the constitutional right to vote, in defiance of segregationist repression.

I will keep this on the wall in my study and read it from time to time. It gives me hope that the church always has, and always will, endure trying times for the sake of the truth of the gospel and the purity of love. In many ways we have come a long way, and yet history repeats itself and we have a long way to go. We are on the road to perfection, as John Wesley would say. Notice that I keep his bust close by.

Random Acts of Gratitude

This is my column which appeared in The Arab Tribune on Wednesday, November 27, 2019.

I was appointed to pastor my first church at the ripe old age of 24.

Sandy and I had only been married for a year, and this was the first time we had gotten out of an apartment and set up house. We couldn’t wait to get started.

We moved into the modest little home next to our church in Fyffe, Alabama and the journey began. After setting up our new post office box, I started to check the mail every day. But only one letter stands out in my memory from that whole first year in our home.

When I think of that letter, it takes me back. I visualize the whole setting, including the extra wide sidewalk in front of the post office.

What was this singular letter? It was what I now call a “random act of gratitude.”

The handwritten letter was from Rev. John Rutland, who was many years my elder, a retired pastor in North Alabama.

He knew my family well, but he was mostly the stuff of legends to me. He had taken a progressive stand during the civil rights era when that wasn’t so popular in Alabama. He had stood toe to toe with his own parishioner, the infamous Bull Connor of Birmingham, and had worked hard to integrate the Annual Conference of the Church. I’d heard stories of his contentious relationship with Governor George Wallace over issues of segregation. And he was an incredibly loving man.

I couldn’t imagine why such a prominent figure in ministry would write a note to little old me. But I can still remember how the scribbled black ink flowed on the creme colored personalized stationary. He wasn’t being a legendary figure that day. He was all pastor.

He told me how proud he was of me, how much he loved my family, and how thankful he was that I was starting out in ministry. He described how every November, he made a list of 30 people he was thankful for and wrote one every day. He said today was my day. The card stock stationary just oozed with gratitude.

You’ve heard of random acts of violence, and maybe you’ve heard of the movement to counteract them with random acts of kindness. Whenever I ponder the idea of random acts of gratitude, I think back to John Rutland’s letter. It has stuck in my mind all these years because it was a completely unexpected and serendipitous expression of the quality of being thankful. I found it incredibly encouraging as a young pastor.

Perhaps the latter part of November, at least, could lead you to perform some random acts of gratitude.

Go out of your way to express your thanks. Share a word of appreciation in a way that’s unexpected, if not wild and crazy. Make thanksgiving not only something you give to God but something that spills over onto everyone else. Let gratitude be way more boundless than the obligatory annual family prayer over turkey and dressing. Let it be a daily attitude, not confined to a holiday but something that makes every day a little more holy for someone.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer that pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, “Musings of a Musical Preacher,” is found at www.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

A Southerner Against White Supremacy

This is my column which appeared in The Arab Tribune on Wednesday, September 6, 2017.

Pictured is the portable pulpit of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., referenced in the column.

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I am definitely a southern gentleman. The farthest north I’ve ever lived is Athens, Alabama (why, that’s darn near close to Tennessee!). My mother was a southern lady and I grew up on Dixie cuisine. My soul food is fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and watermelon, and my favorite delicacy is fried chicken livers with ketchup. I have concluded that there are two kinds of tea ... sweet, and "not worth it." As for grits, well, they are manna from heaven.

All four of my grandparents were southern, and all eight of their parents were southern, too. In fact, several of us on my family tree made southern preachers. So I can say with confidence that I speak with a southern voice.

I believe we need to hear southern voices stand up and speak against white supremacy. White supremacy is wrong. It is hateful, it is anti-Semitic, and it is evil. There is no room for it in public discourse, and we can't just normalize it. That's because this kind of racism is not a political issue. It's a gospel issue.

Now that I've gotten that out of the way, I understand the desire to remember southern heritage. Southerners do not believe we were right (or even just righteous) about the Civil War. We joke about it bring the war of "northern aggression” as a way of honoring our past with a bit of humor. I wonder if those who live outside the south can really understand the sense of southern tragedy that is attached to remembering where we've been. It tastes bittersweet.

That tragic southern memory is in my blood. My great grandfather was an artilleryman at Fort Morgan, captured by the Union army in the Battle of Mobile. Another great grandfather was in the confederate cavalry, captured by the Union army then rescued back by the confederates in an exciting train heist. Another one of my great grandfathers supplied beef for the confederate army.

Yet another set of ancestors came from a county in North Georgia that had outlawed slavery long before the war. The family story is my relatives indeed did not believe in it, but joined the confederate fight simply because they didn't appreciate their town being invaded by Yankees. I wouldn't call that being driven by racism.

So I know from my own blood that the story of race relations in our country is more complicated than it is black and white, proverbially speaking.

I realize that the Charlottesville protest, as offensive as it was, was over a carved symbol of confederate heritage. While I can in no way accept the use of confederate flags with swastikas, and chants with torches, because of the obvious overtones that bring back to life a painful evil in American history, at the same time I know cultural symbols are important. I encourage open conversation over symbols like statues and how they are perceived from various viewpoints. I also believe communities should make their own discerning decisions.

Remembering the power of symbols for good or for evil, I went to see a potent symbol in Montgomery recently. Just a couple of years earlier, I had stood on the steps of the capital where Jefferson Davis was inaugurated as president of the confederacy. At the time, I looked down the street and imagined how just a little over 100 years later, the civil rights march from Selma to Montgomery culminated at this same spot. I had planned to take a tour someday of Dexter Avenue Baptist Church, the building in view from this scene on the steps, where Martin Luther King, Jr. started his ministry. Since I had a meeting in Montgomery, this was a great and timely chance.

I stood at the portable pulpit from which King preached the sermon "How Long? Not Long!" at the conclusion of the march from Selma. I considered that the star on the capital steps I had once stood by was indeed an icon of cultural heritage, and that this pulpit was too. The step at the capital is my Alabama, but this pulpit is my Alabama too.

This platform where I stood a few moments was where Dr. King spoke the immortal words, "the long arc of history bends towards justice." I recalled that this march from Selma and its concluding speech happened precisely one month before I was born.

We must not forget it. All of it.

I know that for many of us in southern small towns, life is a fairly insular experience. There are pros and cons to that.

I remember years ago when I was growing in my personal commitment to stand for the gospel of Christ and therefore against the original sin of racism in our great country, and I realized I had no close friends who were African American. I began years of praying until God gave me one, a dear soul friend. This changed my whole life.

I'd like to challenge us all to have a good look within, but also to find a way to connect significantly with someone dramatically different than us. Make a cross-cultural connection. Discuss what symbols are meaningful to their culture and why others may bother them. Listen with your heart and plan to come to a whole new conclusion.

In the meantime, it’s important to call out racism out for what it is. Racism has a very specific definition. There is no racism in "playing the race card," speaking out on political issues, fighting for fair treatment in the criminal justice system, or counter-protesting white supremacists. We can argue about these things, but they are not racism. The dictionary says racism is "prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism directed against someone of a different race based on the belief that one's own race is superior." That last part is important.

Those who assume that people who oppose white supremacy, or who stand for issues important to African American experience, are racist must be wearing a different pair of glasses from me. White men are not being persecuted by political correctness. Those of us who say that are blind to our own white privilege.

I say all this as a deep fried southern preacher, who loves our southern heritage and desires that we remember it in a way that moves us beyond the hatred of the past and honors the glorious ways we have overcome. Let's actively remember our heritage ... all of it ... so we can move forward, not backward.

In the kingdom of God, there is a way to honor the past without living in it. Jesus said "no one who puts their hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God." Let's remember where we've been and put our hands to the job of making things better, until freedom's song is sung from sea to sea.

Rev. Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First UMC in Arab, Alabama. His blog, "Musings of a Musical Preacher," may be found at stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

The Crossroads of Hope

This is my column that appeared in the Arab Tribune on Wednesday, March 30, 2016. The editor told me it made him cry. I'm honored (I think!).

There are times when I feel like I’m standing on the crossroads of history, and it always brings with it strangely mixed feelings.

As I see it, standing on crossroads is different than having memories of historical events. I can indeed remember when I was four years old, watching the first man walk on the moon. I was mesmerized on the den carpet.

I can remember being seven when my mother sat me down to watch the president resign and cry on TV. “This is important, you will thank me later” she said.

I remember being on the bus on our college choir tour watching the Space Shuttle explode on television, over and over and over.

I remember the high school classroom where I was hosting teacher appreciation day, sponsored by the church I was starting, on 9/11. Our hospitality room took on a quiet and heavy tone as teacher after teacher came in to watch the news.

All these are powerful memories of potent experiences. But the feeling of standing on the crossroads of history is more than that. It is being in a place where many roads intersect and many memories collide, where my personal recollections blend with corporate remembrances of previous struggles.

One of these crossroads was a result of my involvement with the Marshall County Leadership Challenge. Some 25 leaders from our great county have been on a journey together all year, and this month we went on a field trip to Montgomery to explore state government.

After a fascinating tour of the capitol building, which I had not seen since grade school, I walked out upon the front steps. For a moment, in the midst of a crowd, my emotions were whisked away and there was a strange feeling of silence.

As if suspended in time, I stood on the steps where Jefferson Davis, the first and only president of the Confederacy, was inaugurated. From there, I looked out upon a street scene which was the focal point of the march from Selma in March of 1965, peacefully demonstrating for the right for African Americans to vote. From this vantage point, I could clearly see the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church where Martin Luther King, Jr. had preached for several years prior to leading that march. To my right, I could admire the “moon tree,” a pine that had grown strong and proud from where it was planted, after Governor George Wallace had its seeds sent to the moon and back.

Our tour guide had already told us that his was the voice narrating the movie “Selma” and he had himself been in that march, having escaped injury on “Bloody Sunday” a few days beforehand. That was certainly impressive, but for me, this quiet space was more powerful than that.

Here in one place, experiencing a few moments to myself, I stood on the crossroads of several layers of bondage and brokenness, of heritage and hope, with stories of struggles stretching well over a hundred years long. Yet I could clearly see them from one standpoint. This is a crossroads indeed.

Since that moment on the Alabama courthouse steps, I have been thinking about my life. I am 50 years old, and a lot has happened in my one little life span. The march for black voting rights, which I experienced in my mind’s eye from the top of the steps, happened just six weeks before I was born. In subsequent weeks, before I saw my first daylight and breathed my first breath of fresh air, the first commercial communications satellite was launched.

Now we have had an African American president for eight years, and I can follow the news on election primaries on my phone which, by the way, holds more power in my pocket than the massive computer that put the man on the moon, an experience I had watched on a black and white TV.

I am an Alabama boy. I’ve never lived north of the Tennessee state line, and not one of my ancestors was a yankee. I am descended from fifteen Revolutionary War patriots and about half that many Confederate soldiers.

But I live in a new South, one that is even newer than the “New South.” It is where I love my heritage, and where I live my hope.

Perhaps my life, in itself, is a crossroads. I suppose that’s part of what makes it worth living. My character has not been forged by its struggles and successes in a vacuum. Our lives are lived in context. They take shape in the midst of the grand movements of history as well as the deeper and more subtle movements of grace.

These are difficult times. There is great hostility and violence, of divisiveness and hurt, in our world. But it’s not the first time, and it’s not the last.

There will always be brokenness, but there will always be healing. There will always be sin but, thank God, there will always be grace. There will always be hopelessness.

But there, on those steps, what overwhelmed me was hope.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, “Musings of a Musical Preacher,” is found at www.stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Christ Draws the World to Himself

I love this stained glass window of Jesus drawing the world to himself at St. Paul UMC in the Civil Rights District in Birmingham. This historic church was very involved in social change, and some say the bombing at 16th Street Baptist Church may have been intended for this church (it's next door) since they were so involved in the creation of the NAACP. Joseph Lowery was the pastor at the time. Standing before this window, I recall God's dream for all humanity to come together in Christ's arms.

Nope, Hate Did Not Win

This is my column which was published in The Arab Tribune on Saturday, June 27, 2015.

I think of my monthly column as musings on things that are light, perhaps even humorous. Love shines through the simple moments of humanity, when we are willing to gaze into them with an eye for the divine.

But this month, I don't feel like telling a story or pondering an experience. I've got nothing. That's because my heart hurts.

Last Wednesday night, a young man visited a prayer meeting in Charleston, at a sister congregation in the Methodist family I am a part of. They welcomed him into their midst, and he sat with them for an hour. Then he pulled out a gun and opened fire, killing nine of them including the pastor. This is more than tragic. This is horror.

My heart aches that we live in a world of such brokenness. There is so much hate. There's even hate in the church. It's not limited to the "us and them" distinctions we create, for Muslims are killing Muslims, Christians are killing Christians, and believers are killing believers. Violence of every kind and description goes on and on.

We may feel Arab is a "city on a hill", insulated from this kind of thing. But we're not. We are one human family. It breaks my heart, and I know it breaks the heart of God.

It is sad that we have to peer into the darkness of an event like this to see that there are deep racial wounds that just don't want to heal. But we pretend they don't exist. I don't want to get into political arguments, I'm just feeling the rawness of the truth.

These nine people were shot in a church, when attending a prayer meeting. This is not a "tragedy," like a flood or a tornado. This is hate. We may be tempted to dismiss it as one more guy who lost his mind. But in this case, there is no way not to see this as violence motivated by racial hostility. His own manifesto is the proof.

Please don't just politicize this. Don't dismiss it as if there is no hate or racism in our country. It's like the Nazi Party that's still active underground in Germany. There is a residual strain of hate, hidden beneath the surface. It's real and it's time to stop pretending it's not there.

I am as Southern as you can get. I love grits. I have never lived north of the Alabama state line, and neither did my parents or grandparents (okay, one of them grew up in south Tennessee). I am a descendant of Confederate soldiers as well as Revolutionary patriots, and I know what it means to honor our heritage. But this kind of violence degrades it.

I don't pretend to have a simple solution, but I do believe that the gospel transforms this world. That's why I believe in a life of worship, because vague familiarity with a few superficial niceties and tidy doctrines doesn't make sense of why these things keep happening.

We live in a world that builds layers of hostility. But when we live the life of the church and live it well, Christ comes to peel the layers away, redeeming us and showing us the face of God, even in the face of evil. For those of us who carry the banner of Christian, the good book says the one who prayed "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do" was lifted up from the earth so that the world might be drawn to him. Well, we're not there yet.

But here's the hope. Love always wins. Christians are called that because we are called to be "little Christs." That means we love, and we forgive, and we bring peace in places of hate, and we bring calm in every storm, and we tear down what Paul calls the dividing walls of hostility. We don't do this because we think it "works," or because we think it "wins." It's not a strategy. It's because this is who we are. And love is what God is.

The people of the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church know this. Did you read about the relatives of the people slain who spoke to the alleged shooter at the bond hearing? They did not speak words of anger or hostility. One by one, they offered forgiveness and prayers for his soul even as they plunged into the depths of their pain.

"I forgive you," one daughter said. "You took something very precious from me. I will never talk to her again. I will never, ever hold her again. But I forgive you. And have mercy on your soul."

A grandson said, "I forgive you. My family forgives you ... We would like you to take this opportunity to repent. Repent. Confess. Give your life to the one who matters the most: Christ. So that he can change it."

One mother said, "We welcomed you Wednesday night in our Bible study with open arms," her voice trembling. "Tywanza was my hero. But as we said in Bible Study, we enjoyed you. May God have mercy on you."

Wow. These are not words of people who are suddenly trying to come up with some semblance of hope in a vacuum. These are the words of people who pray and study together every week. They have embraced the love that first embraced them.

After the hearing, folks gathered outside the courtroom to sing favorite gospel hymns.

Nope, hate did not win.

Steve West is a husband, father, minister, musician, and writer who pastors Arab First United Methodist Church. His blog, "Musings of a Musical Preacher," is found at stevewestsmusings.blogspot.com.

Bishops Write Pastoral Letter on Racism

When I saw this beautifully written pastoral letter from the bishops of the UMC, I immediately felt led to share it with all of you. In light of recent rioting on American soil, I am reminded of the historic struggles of the American soul. Let us all pray for healing for all of God's creation.

The Council of Bishops issued a pastoral letter on racism to the people of The United Methodist Church affirming the sacredness of all lives and renewing their commitment to work for an anti-racist, pro-humanity church. The action came at the end of the Council’s weeklong meeting in Berlin in May of 2015.

The letter reads:

Grace and peace in the name of Jesus Christ!

We, the bishops of The United Methodist Church, are meeting in Berlin, Germany, 70 years after the end of World War II.  As we gather, we renew our commitment to lead, as together we seek to become the beloved community of Christ.  

We are a church that proclaims the Gospel of Jesus Christ to the world.  On every continent, people called United Methodist are boldly living the mission of making disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.  Yet, the people of our world are hurting, as injustice, violence and racism abound.  Our witness to the dignity of all human life and the reign of God is needed now more than ever.

Our hearts break and our spirits cry out, as we see reports of migrant people being attacked and burned in the streets of South Africa, note the flight of Jews from Europe, watch the plight of Mediterranean refugees and see racially charged protests and riots in cities across the United States that remind us that systems are broken and racism continues.  The evidence is overwhelming that race still matters, that racism is woven into institutional life and is problematic to communal health.  This reality impacts every area of life – in the church and in the world.

Racism is prejudice plus intent to do harm or discriminate based on a belief that one is superior or has freedom to use power over another based on race. Xenophobia is an unreasonable fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers or of that which is foreign or strange.  Racism and xenophobia, like other sins, keep us from being whole persons capable of living up to our full potential. They deny the profound theological truth that we are made in the image of God with the handprint of love and equality divinely implanted in every soul.

As bishops of the Church, we cast a vision for a world community where human worth and dignity defeat acts of xenophobia and racism. We acknowledge that silence in the face of systemic racism and community fears serves only to make matters worse.

We commit to lead, model and engage in honest dialogue and respectful conversation and invite people of faith everywhere to join us.  Let us repent of our own racial bias and abuse of privilege.  May we love God more deeply and, through that love, build relationships that honor the desire of people everywhere to be seen, valued, heard and safe. As we proclaim and live the Gospel of Jesus Christ, may we lead the way in seeking justice for all, investing in and trusting God’s transforming power to create a world without hatred and racism. 

As United Methodists, we affirm that all lives are sacred and that a world free of racism and xenophobia is not only conceivable, but worthy of our pursuit.  We renew our commitment to work for a Church that is anti-racist and pro-humanity, believing that beloved community cannot be achieved by ignoring cultural, racial and ethnic differences, but by celebrating diversity and valuing all people.

“This commandment we have from him: Those who claim to love God ought to love their brother and sister also.” 1 John 4:21 (CEB)