Set in the
floor of the
rotunda of the Library at Talladega
College in Alabama
there is a bas-relief plaque of the ship La
Amistad. It is a tradition at the college that the plaque is never
stepped
upon. It is a sacred thing. In addition, the walls of the Library of
Talladega
College are adorned with three large, dramatic and colorful murals. The
murals
depict the Amistad revolt, the trial of the captives and their eventual
return
to Africa.
Talladega College teaches the Amistad story to every single
student who
passes through the college. Talladega
cherishes and teaches the Amistad story because it is their story …
because the
story goes to the very heart of their mission: the education and
equality of African
Americans; and because the story reveals something fundamental about
the heart
of God.
The Amistad
story is also our
story. It is a United Church of Christ story … a story of New England
Congregationalists. For those who don’t know it, the story goes like
this:
In June of 1839
a Spanish
schooner named, La Amistad, sets sail
from Havana Cuba. On board, among other
cargo, are
fifty-three captive Africans who have already endured a cruel and
horrific
journey from Africa. The Spanish
intend to
sell the Africans into slavery. Shortly after setting sail, the
Africans revolt,
they kill some of the crew, and seize control of the ship. The Africans
instruct the Spanish crew to turn the ship and sail for Africa.
They are going home.
By day the
Spaniards do sail the
ship eastward, into the rising sun. But, by night, the Spaniards
secretly steer
the schooner northward. The result is that for two months, July and
August of
1839, the schooner zigzags slowly up the US coastline.
In late August
the schooner
is observed for its erratic behavior, its ragged sails and its African
crew. It
is seized by the US Navy and towed to New London, Connecticut.
The Africans are arrested, jailed and charged with murder and mutiny.
This is where
we come in:
Christian abolitionists sense the opportunity in this case. They raise
funds
for the legal defense of the captives. A Yale professor of theology,
visits the
captives and learns to count to ten in their language. He travels to New York City
where he
walks up and down the docks, counting out loud in the Mendi language.
Eventually he
finds a sailor
who recognizes the language. The sailor is brought to Connecticut to
act as translator. For the
first time, the Africans can tell their story. In addition, divinity
students
from Yale are organized to teach the Africans to read and write.
Congregational
clergy advocate on behalf of, and raise funds to provide for, the
African’s
physical comfort.
The Amistad
captives live under
arrest for two years … during which time their case winds its way
through the
courts – slowly, painfully, in fits and starts. The case is
complicated. It
involves property and salvage rights, a tug of war between local and
federal
jurisdictions, and another tug of war between the US
and Spain.
As the case approaches the US Supreme Court, former president, John
Quincy
Adams agrees to represent the Africans.
He is old, his eyesight is failing and he has not argued a
case before
the US Supreme Court for thirty-two years. He nevertheless pours his
heart and
soul into the defense of the Africans. On March 9, 1841 the justices of
the US
Supreme Court render their verdict: they decide in favor of the
Africans and
they are set free. This represents the first civil rights victory of
the US
Supreme Court … and it represents a turning point in the cause of
abolition.
To thank him
for his
brilliant defense of their case, the Africans presented John Quincy
Adams with
a gift – a Bible – known today as the Mende Bible. It was the same
Bible used
by Deval Patrick, when he was sworn in as Governor of the Commonwealth.
I am
honored to announce that the Governor, with his daughter, Katherine, is
here
with us this morning. Welcome, Governor, to Old
South Church
in Boston.
The Amistad
Committee –
originally formed to defend and care for the Amistad captives – becomes
the
American Missionary Association. The American Missionary Association
grows to
become the largest and best organized abolitionist society in America.
Unlike
many of the abolitionist societies, it is composed of whites and
blacks, who
work side by side. They work together for abolition and for the full
equality
of the races.
Following the
Civil War, the
American Missionary Association founds and funds over 500 schools and
colleges
throughout the South … schools whose purpose is to educate those who
had been
enslaved, to assist their transition to post-slavery life, and to work
politically and socially for racial equality.
The United
Church of Christ
is the legal successor of the American Missionary Association. And Talladega College – along with the other
schools
of the AMA – is a United Church of Christ college.
The Amistad
story is our
story. Just as Talladega
cherishes it, so too do we. We cherish it, tell it and pass it on to
the next
generation, because it goes to the very heart of our mission, ministry
and
identity and because it witnesses to the nature of God’s heart … a
heart of
mercy.
The abolition
of slavery in
the West during the 19th century was a uniquely Christian
endeavor …
driven by Christian impulses. Its leaders were Quakers, Methodists and
Congregationalists.
But here’s the
thing: the
Amistad Committee and the American Missionary Association represented
an
ardent, evangelical expression of Christianity. Theirs was a minority
position
among Christians. The majority of white Christians were not
abolitionists.
In fact, for
decades, indeed,
centuries, slavery was supported by Christians and defended by them:
defended
theologically and biblically.
How could this
be? Well, the
honest answer is that the Bible itself is, at best, ambiguous about
slavery.
There is the Exodus story, of course. God hears and responds to the
suffering
of the Hebrews in slavery in Egypt
and sends Moses to advocate for their freedom. But there are those who
have
argued that this Old Testament story is, in effect, cancelled out by,
or
trumped by the New Testament injunction of Paul who urges slaves to be
subject
to their masters.
Taken together,
biblical
authors understand slavery as a fact of life and, by and large, they
don’t
argue against it very much.
So, what’s a
Christian to do?
What’s a Christian to do when our book, our Holy Book, our Good Book is
exposed
for what it is: ambiguous at best, and morally repugnant at worst, on
at least
one of the most important ethical matters with which humans have had to
contend?
I can tell you
what our
evangelical, abolitionist forebears did: they argued that those
portions of the
Bible which support slavery or assume slavery as a fact of life, are
historically
conditioned and that they are – can be, must be – superseded by morally
superior principles that run throughout the scriptures: specifically,
the
principles of mercy and justice.
They did what I
did in
selecting passages about mercy for us to read this morning. They poured
over
the scriptures – and, remember, they knew their Bibles intimately – and
gleaned
what they fully believed best expressed God’s heart, God’s commitments,
God’s
pathos. In the end – although it took far too long – their argument won
the
day.
It has been
observed that one
of the chief casualties of the Civil War was the Bible: its authority
and its
reputation. The effect of the debate among Christians about slavery led
to the
disestablishment of the Bible as a definitively authoritative text.
Christians
discovered that the Bible was divided against itself.
The Bible has never really been the same since.
It is curious
to me that
while we know this, so much of the world apparently does not. When I
read about
Christians in the news, it is too often about those who present a
historically
naïve and unsophisticated reading of our Good Book.
For instance,
just last week Christian
clergy were widely quoted in the news as they called for the dismissal
of the
City Manager of Largo, Florida.
City Manager, Steve Stanton, had served
ably in the
job for fourteen years. There were no complaints against his
performance. He
was dismissed when he informed city commissioners that after much
anguish and
deliberation he had decided to change his gender.
Among
the most
outspoken leaders of those who called for his dismissal were Christian
clergy.
At an open town meeting one pastor declared:
"If Jesus was here tonight, I can guarantee you he'd want
him
terminated. Make no mistake about it." These sort of Christian views
were
prominently reported in the media. Indeed, these were the only
Christian views
reported in the media, at least as far as I can determine.
In
response to
this, leaders of Old
South Church
wrote a letter to each of the Largo City Commissioners and to the Mayor
of
Largo. We informed them that the Christian clergy who had called for
the
dismissal of their City Manager did not represent all Christians or all
clergy.
We informed them that when Old South was approached by a transgender
person, we
did not dismiss her. We did not condemn her, judge her, or ask her to
change.
Instead, we invited her to teach us and help us understand what drives
a person
to change their gender. In the process, we said, our hearts had been
opened,
our minds had been informed. Finally, we offered to help their City
Commissioners to find resources and materials from which to learn. And,
we
copied our letter to all the media outlets that had carried the story.
When
we heard
about Steve Stanton and the leadership of Christian clergy, we were
saddened
and outraged. We felt somebody needed to defend Jesus and God from a
reading of
the Bible that is cruel, historically naïve and blind to the
divine heart’s
capacity for mercy.
Today, across
the UCC our
congregations are honoring and marking Amistad Sunday. To us it is a
sacred
story, a holy story.
It is the story
of courageous
Africans who fought for their freedom. It is the story of evangelical
abolitionists who wrestled with the Bible – long into the night – until
it
revealed something inexorable about the nature of the Christian God. It
is the
story of Christians moving from acts of kindness to acts of justice:
rolling up
their sleeves and influencing public policy. It is the story of
hundreds of
make-shift schools set up all across the South in tents, barns, homes,
and
fields – anywhere and everywhere – to educate those who had been
enslaved. It
is, first and last, a story about God: God’s heart, God’s pathos and
God’s
mercy.
