I am an adamant skeptic of
religion. Usually, I think of religious institutions as divisive social
structures. I dropped out of Hebrew school and am firmly nonreligious.
On
the Sunday before MLK day, we visited Ebenezer Baptist Church, and I initially
considered myself a religious tourist, coming to see the church of Martin
Luther King Jr.’s childhood, which he later returned to as a preacher. But as
soon as the choir began to sing, I was swept up in the sound and knew I was
more than simply a spectator; I sang, with the whole congregation, as loudly as
I could. And then the pastor began to speak. He spoke of how the Kingdom of
Heaven is threatened violence. He spoke of the humiliation of unemployment and
the injustice of poverty—of working minimum wage full time and over time and
still being unable to afford a two-bedroom apartment. He spoke of prison—how a
two-month sentence is, in reality, a life sentence—the war on drugs, and gun
legislation. And he spoke about how these forms of violence are affecting our
communities today, describing problems with incredible passion and conviction.
For
half an hour, the pastor became the conscience of the community. Not only did
he talk about political and social agendas, but he also gave moral advice: he
said that if you’ve never had hard times because of what you say, you ought to
examine the truth of the gospel you’re preaching. He reminded us that what
affects one of us directly affects all of us indirectly, as Dr. King did. He
preached these messages with caring force and thoughtful leadership.
When
we sang “We Shall Overcome” at the end of the service, with our arms around one
another, I realized that, though I do not believe in God, I believe in the
power of religious communities to provide support. The moral and emotional
support, provided by both the words of the pastor and the music of the choir,
was so clearly enormous. I
understood, for the first time, the importance of the role of religion. I am by
no means a convert. The way I felt in the church similar to how I feel standing
in the mountains or cooking, eating, and laughing impossibly hard with friends,
and, more importantly, I mumbled and averted my eyes when God was mentioned,
particularly Jesus. But regardless of the actual religion, I saw for the first
time how the support, guidance, and community provided by churches across the
South were essential to the civil rights movement. Fear and doubt disappeared
during the service, I felt full of hope and was compelled to dedicate myself to
making the world better,
In
the aftermath of that experience, doubt has returned, along with my skeptical
questions. Firstly, I began to wonder whether the support and guidance were
enough to foster a world-changing movement, or whether faith in God, or at the
very least some higher power is necessary as well. (I hope not, but I’m not
sure.) I also wonder: how united must the values of a community be in order to
create this type of sustaining support? And how does this affect people who
fall between groups?
We
watched Obama’s (second!) inauguration from the Southern Poverty Law center the
following day, which was absolutely incredible, except for the religious language and content used
in the ceremony. The references to Jesus in the final benediction troubled me,
and I was disturbed by the words, “one nation under God,” more than usual. But
most of all, I was intensely bothered by the fact that both Obama and Biden
took their oaths with their hand on a bible. Religion felt like a uniting force
in Ebenezer, but suddenly turned sinister in government—an institutionalized
form of segregation. Would it be possible for us to elect a Muslim, Jewish, or
nonreligious president? If we did, what book would they take their oath of
office over?
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