My MLK Mentors

A big surprise for me in ministry was the first time I heard people repeating phrases of my sermons. As they encouraged one another or did theological reflection, I overheard comments like, "Rev. Bob said in his sermon..." or, "remember what Rev. Bob always says...." That was scary and eyeopening. Leaders make an impact that is generative and creates new leaders of similar stripe.

My first hit upside my head about the impact of Martin Luther King was in 1955 in quasi segregated Woodbury Heights, NJ. A brave 8 year old "African American "classmate to be" came to school for her first day. Her appearance followed with "whisper down the playground", "who is she? why is she here? She's not allowed at our school, she lives in New Sharon (a nearby community of African American hog farmers descended from the slave community of Southern NJ), will the principal send her home?" I said nothing but questioned the behavior in my mind. I didn't have my "voice" in those days. Partly because my father believed in segregation - and the Bible.

I still hear the playground comments as if it were yesterday. I still see the little girls tear stained face as the principal took her to his office. We never saw her again. As I wrote the last sentence, I am shocked at how we lived then. Indeed, she did live in the bounds of our borough and we had only one school and it was for whites. There were no funds to build a school for one black child whose family managed to buy a house just inside the borough border (read "walls"). Several years later, my father campaigned and voted for George Wallace. That was life in 1955.

Nadine Cato entered my life at Woodbury High School. Nadine went to the all black neighborhood grade school and then our integrated high school. I don't remember exactly how we became "buddies" but we did. Most likely it was her huge contagious smile, plainspoken earthiness, positive outlook and authentic care about my life and the life of the world. Twenty five years later she spotted me in a throng at a farmers market in South Jersey. "Bob, Bob Anderson!", I heard across the din. She recognized me, knew my name, and gave me a huge hug - I was "loved" and remembered across racial divides and active prejudices. Thank you Nadine.

I worked my way through college with the help of ServiceMaster Hospital Corp. They let me work part time in the various hospitals where they managed environmental services ("janitors," back then). They kindly placed me a few blocks from school at Hannemann Hospital in Philadelphia. I worked nights along with Nate, an African American from North Philly. This was Nate's third job of the day. His youngest was going to Temple University and he had bills to pay. Nate became my first real mentor in life. At break time we walked across Broad Street to White Castle and shared meals of hamburger and grease balls in the soot stained, white tiled "Castle".

I compared my life to his, saying my family was poor, too. Racial Injustice 101 for Bob. "Yeah", he said, "maybe". But the issue isn't money. You dad can work at ARCO Refinery and I can't." Naivete's bubble burst as he pulled at the white skin on my arm, "because y'alls got white skin, and white skin is privelege and power regardless of money. I work three jobs instead of one because my skin is black. White skin is powerful, Bob, use it wisely." I ate my burger in stunned silence. We had conversations like that night after night. Nate expanded the world that opened for me when I saw the little pigtailed girl try to go to school in Woodbury Heights.

These days I get my hair cut at Fred's barber shop on Galveston St. around the corner from my house. Fred is a VietNam Vet and has been cutting hair since he was eight years old. He says.
The other barber is Jerry. His long dreadlocks mark him as a different generation. I love them both. Their shop is the local community center for African Americans in my neighborhood. Haircuts are slow paced here because relationships trump time. I sit for a half hour or longer listening to conversation about life in a community that was/is invisible to me (read, Ralph Ellison's classic, The Invisbile Man"). It's like catching brief glimpses of King's dream breaking through (God's reign?). I watch Jerry look a young African American teen straight in the eye and set him straight on drinking. His witness to Jesus is sparking clear and fresh.

Fred is quieter, older and wrapped in love and grace. Love and joy beam from his face. I walked past Fred's shop the other night while walking with a neighbor. I waved and shout "hi" to Fred and Jerry through the window. The waved back but my companion wanted to go in and warm up. Introductions were made and we some talk about the recent fire on the block. When we left, my companion said, "I want to go back there. Love fills that place. It was noted that long held fears began to flake away in the face of love. I can't wait to tell Fred!

I'm far from being a radical social justice leader, and I need to repent for that. Our world is not just. It only seems so from the comfy chair in which I sit. I am grateful for these who, infected with the contagious Christian radical discipleship of Martin Luther King, gave me pause and helped me explore the world in a new way. I have another hero to add to the list and she is Karen Battle of our presbytery staff. She is well tuned to justice and never ceases to gently but clearly refocus my faith on Jesus who spent most of his time with those on the margins of society and culture. Her heart is anchored to the poor, the oppressed, the marginalized. It is the "lens" through which she reads scripture, prays (so beautifully, tears come), and speaks to the long festering racial and justice challenges we face. I told her that my prayer this year is that I begin to think more like she does as a natural response.

I still have to work hard at changing my conversation. That shouldn't be. I can hear the gunshots in Manchester, but the bullets are not hitting my front door. I drive by the drug deals on the corner but it is not on my front stoop. Our Presbytery office sits on the corner that marks the start of the Manchester neighborhood. Our Bidwell Presbyterian Church, with Rev. DeNeice Welch, is creating a major initiative for transforming bullet riddled streets into paths of peace, highways of justice whose crooked ways are made straight. Our Pittsburgh Presbytey office must become a cornerstone for that effort. Thank you little girl, Nadine, Nate, Fred, Jerry, Karen and all those in my life who carried the MLK vision in their own way and time. You allowed me access to your worlds and that changed my life course more than a few degrees.

And today, I hear the call from the mountain of dreams. I hear God asking me to lead our presbytery to be a partner in racial reconciliation and to start with Bidwell's initiative in Manchester.

I know Karen will hold me accountable. But so does Jesus.

With Gratitude to God and my Spiritual Guides,

Bob