I Was There

Growing up in the 1960s, there was a television series, portrayed in dramatic recreations, and hosted by Walter Cronkite, that returned viewers to several key moments in American and world history.
Each episode began with Cronkite setting the scene from his anchor desk, in New York City. An announcer would then state the official date and remind us of the event we were observing, followed by a loud and boldly spoken “you are there.” We all know that the most reliable commentaries of history come from the eyewitnesses who get to see it happen.
This has been some week in Cape May County. We watched the news and saw the video of the blatant mistreatment of George Floyd, an African American man, by Minneapolis officers that led to his death. As the footage recurred, I couldn’t understand why someone didn’t tackle Derek Chauvin, who pressed his knee into Floyd’s neck for almost nine minutes.
Are some Americans still so barbaric that they could kill a man in broad daylight over $20? Haven’t we learned anything along the way? Isn’t human life more sacred than our prejudice and conceptions?
What followed was trying to discern the difference between the rightful assembling of peaceful protesters and the organized gatherings of those who had no other agenda but that of raw defiance and destruction. It’s painful to see people in desperate tears observing their homes and businesses destroyed without reason. It quickly brought to mind the adage taught to us in Catholic school: “Do two wrongs ever make a right?”
Hatred is only lighter fluid on the charcoals of discontent. Evil never breeds life and only causes more heartache and pain.
God made all humanity in His image, and nobody has the right to decide who has more of the divine image than others. I have always reacted against injustice, even as a young boy in Morristown. I know what’s right and wrong, and I don’t confuse it.
My dad worked at Morristown High School in 1968, when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated. Morristown always had strong ethnic backgrounds, and everyone thought that the place was a timebomb waiting to explode.
I went with my Dad to work because I wasn’t going to be staying home if he wasn’t going to be in a safe place. What I witnessed changed my life.
There was a rally, led by the special guest, Mahalia Jackson. Nothing was set ablaze that night, other than the hopes and dreams of kids like me that maybe we could make the future different. I didn’t have to own the bigotry of my ancestors.
I also want to make a point that music played a huge role in bringing people together. There is something about music that was instrumental in breaking the division between white and black in the ’50s and ’60s, and I still believe it is the best medicine for a battered, beaten soul.
This is why I knew I could not stay hidden at home when protestors gathered in Rio Grande. I texted Mayor Tim Donahue and asked if it would be OK with him if I came down. If God’s spirit lives within us believers, then I believed that the Holy Spirit would want me to be part of the solution, not the problem.
The obstacles were the rumors that were circumnavigating our area. They were on social media, telling us that busses were coming from the city with vanloads of bricks, and so forth.
I was told that this was going to end ugly. I ignored the voices of fear and kicked in an act of faith. I had to be there.
Love is still stronger than hate, and light can still dispel the darkness. Singing is still better than shouting slurs at one another.
As I drove down, I was blasting the classic song “What’s Going On,” by Marvin Gaye, on my car stereo. I was asking the Lord to go before me and reign mercy and peace in the middle of routes 9 and 47. I was praying for Jesus to change the course of what could be to what should be, and I am so glad I was there.
I was humbled from the moment I entered the circle of protesters. I witnessed our Middle Township law enforcement, led by Chief Chris Leusner, standing by to protect the American right to peacefully assemble and doing so respectfully, quietly and carefully. They were there from 7 a.m., and this was now almost 12 hours later. I don’t know about you, but when I get tired, it’s hard to be your sharpest, but God was there to ensure that this story wasn’t going to end in defeat.
I moved around, looking at my beloved company in the eyes, with no other agenda than to hear their stories. I wanted to know why they were there and what they hoped this would accomplish. There was one moment when the situation became somewhat tense, and I fell to my knees and couldn’t control what was coming out of my mouth.
“In the Name of Jesus, please stop this crazy thing called hate,” I prayed repeatedly.
I didn’t care who was looking or who heard. I knew I was there to pray and care. I cared, and now I needed to pray.
The beautiful moment was that after I was done on my knees, I needed help standing, and a young black man, Jalen, was quick to assist me. It meant the world to me.
What a sight to witness how this potential powder keg became a firework of peace and potential understanding for the following days. Pastor Thomas Dawson spoke words of life into the crowd, I saw Mayor Tim Donahue always listening, other clergies, like Pastor Leo Dodd, of the Assembly of God, was praying, and future meetings with the attorney general were organized.
Around 10 p.m., Pastor Alfonzo Toney prayed us into tomorrow as we gathered in a huge circle and locked into each other’s arms and hearts. I drove home grateful to God and thankful that I have called Cape May County my home for the last 23 years. The corrected Herald Headline should have been and only one: “Peace and Unity Defeat Fear and Anger in Rio Grande.”
Pride will only make situations worse. If the first response is to defend ourselves, then we won’t achieve progress in the process.
When I say “black lives matter,” I am not supporting any organized group with a less than a positive agenda. I am saying that the lives of my black and brown brothers and sisters matter to me, and should matter to everyone.
I have learned so much this week simply by listening. When I say “black lives matter,” you don’t have correct me by saying, “all lives matter.” God created us in His image, and every life at each age is special, unique, and beyond valuable, but the facts show that my white brothers and sisters don’t have to fight as hard as my black brothers and sisters to prove that to be true.
When my boss, Kelvin Walker, an African American man, who is also the district superintendent of the Christian and Missionary Alliance, must videotape many of his encounters to protect himself and his family, something is still broken. No man exudes more of God’s spirit than Kelvin, and yet, if others only see him as a black man with their tinted eyes of racism, he remains unsafe.
Unfortunately, our society too often judges the book by its cover and color and reacts before they’ve collected the facts. Too many assume someone is guilty simply by their skin’s color, where they live, what they wear, and so forth. We need our white family to stop defending themselves and humbly begin to stand by those who are mistreated and misrepresented after all these years.
There are times that I need my brothers and sisters of color to look out for me. For such a time as this, it is we who are white who must have the back of those who are dying simply for being black and brown. Hence, black lives matter, and all lives won’t matter until all colors and all people of every age matters, too.
Let me close with the words that ended each “You Are There” broadcast.
“What sort of day was it? A day like all days, filled with those events that alter and illuminate our times, and you were there.”
ED. NOTE: The author is the senior pastor of The Lighthouse Church, 1248 Route 9 South, Court House.