Morning Thanks

Garrison Keillor once said we'd all be better off if we all started the day by giving thanks for just one thing. I'll try.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Morning Thanks--Four men from Berwyn



The old Timothy Christian School 

Late Sixties images should include a gallery of burning cities all over America, images most of us would rather forget. People died in violent street protests. People were killed. Shot. In the middle of the horror in Vietnam, National Guard troops were called up to police burning streets in Newark, Detroit, LA, cities all over America. The nation was torn asunder by racial hatred. 


In Cicero, Illinois, a small, community-based Christian school, faced its own racial crisis when African-American parents from one of its supporting churches asked to have their children enrolled in what had been an all-white school in an all-white section of the city. The board agonized but finally refused, claiming that admitting the black children to what had been an all-white school would put the entire student body and the school itself into jeopardy--no, into danger that was very, very real. 

Fifteen or so years before, a black family attempting to move into Cicero, came home to discover everything they owned stacked up in the street, a mob of 4000 having formed to make sure they understood African-American people were not welcome in Cicero. Animosity is too lean a word; hate is what motivated that mob, hate fueled by the fear the white and ethnic population of Cicero saw on a slippery slope: if there's one black family, next week there will be a half-dozen. A year from now there'll be a score. 

Many of them had experienced similar neighborhood transitions, often difficult, often violent, in other Chicago communities. They didn't want black people in the neighborhood because they were sure that, soon enough, black people would be the neighborhood. 

When the Timothy Christian School Board determined those black children would not be enrolled, they argued that those black children could not be enrolled because the fever of racial hatred--which is to say racism--in the neighborhood was so high that every last dear little child--white and black--would be in danger at the hands of the same mob who had piled that black family's belongings in the street outside their home. Warnings were given--shots would be fired, the school would be torched--bloody threats were made. The board decided they could not risk the torch of hate.

All of that happened almost fifty years ago, but I remember it because I was convinced, and I was not alone, that what happened at Timothy Christian School, Chicago, was the outing of inherent racism in my own ethnic and religious community.  I was a college student with decidedly liberal leanings at Dordt College, a very conservative place.  My father--a wonderful Christian man--considered Martin Luther King an "agitator" who couldn't be trusted because he'd frequented the company of known communists. King wanted war, not peace, my father would have said. Wherever King went, racial animosity didn't diminish, it grew, like a fire.

Timothy, to me, proved beyond a doubt that my people were racists.

Just a few weeks ago, at a restaurant in Berwyn, Illinois, I listened to four retired white men remember that era in their lives, four men who were part of the community that rejected those black children, four men who still attend Berwyn Ebenezer Christian Reformed Church, four men who were, back then, accused of the sin of racism by people like me because those men sided with the board's refusal to admit black children. 

Two of them cried when they recounted those days. All four spoke passionately.  Even though almost a half century has passed, they look back on that crisis as horrifying in every detail. The tensions, the threats, the impossible decision, and the hate that decision created, all of that constituted a moment in their lives like few others.

I'll tell you what I expected to hear from them: I expected confession. I expected these retired men to say they were sorry for refusing admission to black children. I may have even expected tears wrung from heartfelt repentance.  

There were tears, but I was wrong. Each one claimed that if he had to determine an answer to the request of those black parents again back then, if he had to relive all that hate, his answer would be the same because each of them was absolutely sure that horror would result, not from African-Americans, but from their own white neighbors. That's how much hate they witnessed and feared.

I listened to their stories, as did our whole committee, a committee composed almost totally of people of color. It's important to know that the white folks--me included--sitting around that table were a minority. 

There we sat, a church committee, a denominational committee, whose most pressing concern is racial reconciliation, listening to four white men tearfully recount the horror they'll never forget in all its heart-rending detail, but sticking with a decision that made them look and sound, back then, just like their own racist neighbors. 

It was a powerful and tearful moment, a precious moment I'll never, ever forget.

Back then, were they right? 

I think not. But there's far more hesitation in my voice when I say that, fifty years later. Today, I know them. Today I understand them far better than I did when I was twenty because I've heard their memories and their life stories both before and after the Timothy crisis. I listened to their testimony of faith. I saw tears. I felt in all of those stories the very real humanity of those men, which is to say, by way of my faith, I felt the image of God right there in them as they sat and talked around that breakfast table.

The work of racial reconciliation is never easy, but it is blessed; and this morning, I am greatly thankful for those four men, for what they told us, for how they opened their hearts and filled ours.

6 comments:

Anonymous said...

Back then, THEY WERE RIGHT. I was one of the white kids in the school. Timothy goes on; it's in Elmhurst now --flourishing -- integrated -- black and white have been learning together for some time now. That's a good ending to the story......

Anonymous said...

Great ending by the first post person. Could not get past the "I feel strongly both ways" approach by JCS.

I guess we now know the rest of the story. Thanks!

Cleavon Little (Blazing Saddles) said...

MLK was no saint either....orgies every city he went to. "Where the white women at?" He took my line.

Mark VanDyke said...

Thanks so much for this article!

I imagine that within this debate was the question of "when do we endure persecution?" There were times when the Apostle Paul submitted himself to beatings and even death sentences but other times where he fled so he might preach another day. I don't envy those school board members for having to make that very decision when considering the admittance of black students to TC.

Anonymous said...

Paul risked his own life, but the school board members would have risked the lives of black children as well as the white ones......

John Schuurman said...

Thanks Jim. I was teaching in the high school in Elmhurst from 8/68-6/70 and remember well the anxiety of the school community.
I remember teaching a speech class in which the kids could choose which side of the issue they wanted to debate. The class was split right down the middle. I regreted it then and still do because it gave some of the overtly racist kids what they felt to be a forum to chant street trash.
I wasn't torn on the issue then, (I was all for opening up the Cicero school--and the high school WAS integrated) But when you are twenty two and sure of your invincibility it is easy to be idealistic and self-righteous about the painful choices other people feel the need to make.