Freedom Is a Constant Struggle
The Meaning of July Fourth for the Negro
by Frederick Douglass
(born Frederick Augustus Washington Bailey;
c. February 1817 – February 20, 1895),
an American social reformer, abolitionist, orator, writer and statesman
“... Fellow-citizens, pardon me, allow me to ask, why am I called upon to speak here to-day? What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence? Are the great principles of political freedom and of natural justice, embodied in that Declaration of Independence, extended to us? And am I, therefore, called upon to bring our humble offering to the national altar, and to confess the benefits and express devout gratitude for the blessings resulting from your independence to us?”
Photo by George Kendall Warren (circa_1879), Public domain
A few years ago, I journeyed to the Black Hills in solidarity with the Lakota People at Standing Rock. Soon after, I traveled to Brazil in solidarity with the mothers of the favelas, lamenting the loss of their children stolen from them by state sanctioned violence. That same summer I was engaged in a dialogue with Dr. Allan Boesak, discussing the parallels between the Anti-Apartheid movement in South Africa and the Black Lives Matter Movement in the United States. In my own lament, I experienced the loss of a loved one murdered by a self-proclaimed white supremacist. With a heavy heart, I carry these narratives with me as I ponder the meaning of freedom and liberation in a yet to be united America.
What is freedom and liberation in this 21st century where as a U.S. citizen, there remains a staggeringly high domestic unemployment rate among young Black men, a lack of affordable housing, disproportionate violence against Black transgender women and a lack of local laws designed to protect Black children. To quote the prophet Jeremiah, “They cry for peace and yet they ignore the wounds of my people” (Jeremiah 6:14). What is liberation and freedom when we the people cry out in moral injury?
Moral injury is what Carl Wendell Himes, Jr. meant when he wrote: “Dead men [and women] make such convenient heroes: They cannot rise to challenge the images we would fashion from their lives.”
Moral injury is not only the unfilled dream of the dreamer, but the insistence on preventing her from articulating her lived nightmares. The false narratives that are too often imposed upon a community fighting for its rights and human dignity — that is moral injury. The denial of the narratives of the oppressed — the denial of the narrative by any means necessary — equals moral injury.
Himes, referring to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, wrote:
“Now that he is safely dead, let us praise him. Build monuments to his glory. Sing hosannas to his name. Dead men make such convenient heroes … And besides, it is easier to build monuments than to make a better world. So, now that he is safely dead, we, with eased consciences will teach our children that he was a great man … knowing that the cause for which he lived is still a cause and the dream for which he died is still a dream, a dead man’s dream.”
Across this land, there are uprisings and there are monuments falling. Across this country are monuments purportedly dedicated to freedom, justice and liberation. Monuments built by the hands of enslaved people and yet the messages of freedom inscribed on those walls did not include them. In this 21st century, those monuments are crumbling as the disinherited reclaim their stories.
Across this land, we will find monuments and memorials to the dead —affirming their sacrifices and patriotism; but we desecrate the sacred burial grounds of Standing Rock and in the Black Hills of the Dakotas, where the first people have been stripped of their land, their language and human dignity in the name of oil and greed. Would we even dare to create a plan to build a pipeline through Arlington National Cemetery?
Moral injury is when we choose to only see the Black bodies of athletes on the podium at the Olympics and in the limelight of a competitive and lucrative world stage, and yet ignore the Black bodies dying in the streets.
Moral injury is the exhaustive list of hashtags that memorialize young Black and Brown people in America that have died at the hands of the state either directly or through systemic neglect, profiling, criminalization, racism, classism and other forms of normalized culture of violence. These hashtags have become virtual monuments to human suffering. These hashtags have become the technological griot telling the stories of the nightmares of American resistance to her people in their outcry for freedom; in their outcry for equal rights; and their outcry in the words of the late Eric Garner, Tanisha Anderson, and now George Floyd, for the right to “breathe”.
Moral injury, yes, includes the inhumane conditions forced upon Palestinian people, to live under the oppression of apartheid and the physical, spiritual, economic, cultural and psychological implications of such occupation and discrimination — and all forms of discrimination that impacts their holistic being.
Moral injury calls upon these young martyrs to be the inconvenient heroes of our 21st century because they have exhibited for us the moral consciousness, authority and courage to stand in the gap for the marginalized and be inarticulate and profound voices for the oppressed when the church has been peculiarly quiet. This is not to say faith communities have not played a role in this righteous and radical work of peace building. Too often, the work comes after the bodies have been lying and exposed in the sun for 4.5 hours. Too often, the work comes after the tear gas and the rubber bullets. Too often, the work comes after the mischaracterization of our youth and young adults that have sacrificed their bodies and spirits to be on the proverbial wall we preach about. Too often the work comes after the character assassination of one of our own trying to do the work, but out of theological indifferences, jealousy, insecurities, fear and self-centered agendas — we join in the chorus to persecute the very vessels God is using to be a prophetic voice and witness.
This happened to Dr. Martin Luther King — an infamous inconvenient hero. We love the dream of this visionary, but, how often do we quote his nightmares? How often do we discern from his sleepless nights that came when four little girls were killed in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham? Juxtapose this to June 17, 2015 when 9 congregants were murdered in the basement of Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal church. Do we want the narrative of the dream — the false narrative that the families forgave the act of domestic terror? Or will we allow our ears to hear their lament, their righteous anger, their pain and suffering? Will the church be the inconvenient ones in the margins? Or, will we remain safe in our places of worship? Safe in our political correctness? Safe in proclamations and resolutions? Safe in our proclivities to pat each other and ourselves on the back or will we expand and transcend our work?
Dr. King was unwavering in his commitment to non-violence. Non-violence does not equate to being inactive, passive and certainly not silent. Near the end of his life, Dr. King was “committed to the cause of the poor — in Mississippi, Chicago, Vietnam, Central America, South Africa and Memphis”. It was not the Dr. King on the National Mall — the dreamer that was killed. It was the inconvenient voice in the wilderness that dared to see his and his people’s interconnectedness in the diaspora — the one that spoke out against the US involvement in the Vietnam war; the one that sought to close the racial divide by calling out the socio-economic disparities in America —that was the King that was killed. Moreover, his monument is not the one that towers in the District of Columbia with his words wrapping around the walls that encircle his stoned image. His monuments are those that heard him — his full speech — his full message — not the soundbites or the gentrified Dr. King. We celebrate these monuments in the spirit of freedom and independence. These monuments are lasting from generation to generation.
Dr. Angela Davis, an icon of political activism in her publication, “Freedom Is a Constant Struggle: Ferguson, Palestine and the Foundations of a Movement” wrote: “Our freedom against racism, including the occupation and marginalization of lands and its people must be a concern for any freedom movement. There is no pathway to freedom as long as even one remains shackled. There is no pathway to freedom as long as even one remains oppressed.”
Dr. Davis believes the secret to freedom and revolution is recognition of our interconnectedness. Our movements must work together. If this is true, then there cannot be a Christian liberation movement without the solidarity of the movements in the streets and abroad. This is much like the formations, trainings and organizing that occurred in the church basements of the U.S. Civil Rights Movement. We must continue to build bridges between the church and the community.
Borders must not restrict our activism, witness and ministry where our cries for peace only apply to our own land, and in safe and convenient places. We who call ourselves followers of Christ, another inconvenient hero, must not ignore the wounds of God’s people (Jeremiah 6:14). We must continue to dream, but we must also tell the truth in the narratives of the nightmares. We must continue to tell these truths until all across the diaspora are free. Freedom is a constant struggle and we cannot rest until it comes for all.
Rev. Dr. Waltrina N. Middleton Executive Director