The small town I group up in was idyllic. My grandparents had each moved there, met, and married in the 1920s, my granddaddy a businessman, my grandmother an English teacher. They raised their kids there through the 1940s and 50s. And it’s where I grew up in the 1970s and early 80s. It really was a near-perfect place to grow up, with red brick streets on which my friends and I rode our bikes all around the town. We made a raft and fished down at the creek. There were carnivals and town picnics and parades, and everybody looked out for everybody.
But my town had a secret—a secret lived right out in the open but never talked about. My idyllic small town was segregated, even in the 1980s. There was a section of town literally across the railroad tracks called Morningside. It was established in the 1920s as a place for black workers in the cotton fields to have homes and something of a community away from the white folks. Problem is, it never changed. No African-American really had the option of living in the town proper. They all still lived in Morningside. The powers that be liked things the way they were. So even through the civil rights victories in the 60s and 70s, and in the “morning in America” of the 80s, the institutional racism was still deeply entrenched in small towns and large cities throughout the country. It still is, of course. But all I knew was that I didn’t play with my black classmates after school, on weekends, or in the summer. They went to their side of the tracks and I stayed on mine. That’s just the way things were. And aren’t those the words that most often keep us—as individuals and as communities—from becoming all we might be: “That’s just the way things are.”
Read More[This post is part of an Easter series: President [fill in the blank] and King Jesus.]
My lowest grade in college was in Art Appreciation, so I really don’t have any authority to say what I’m about to say. But…I’ve concluded that most of the art that shows up if I do a search for Jesus’ ascension serves to hinder my ability to follow him rather than to help it. For example, doesn’t this make Jesus look less like the king of the world and more like Peter Pan?
Read More[This post is part of an Easter series: President [fill in the blank] and King Jesus.]
“We set sail…to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony” (Acts 16:11-12).
Philippi was a Roman colony in northern Greece, settled mostly by Roman soldiers about a hundred years before Paul gets there. These Philippian colonists were proud of being Roman citizens, and they did their best for generations to introduce and cultivate the Roman way of life in this Greek territory. In addition to the very fleshly way of life enjoyed by most middle- and upper-class Roman citizens, one of the key aspects of Roman culture to emerge was emperor worship. Caesar was hailed literally as “savior” and “lord” and “son of the gods,” and to be a colonist under his lordship meant that one’s life should reflect the best of the king’s empire. For a Philippian to claim to be a “citizen of Rome” did not mean they were just going to sit around and act like the natives until they got to return to Rome. No—as a colonist, to be a citizen of Rome meant that they were going to live the Roman life right there in the midst of foreign territory.
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