Part 2 - The Great River
As with numerous state names, Mississippi is derived from the name given by the region's native inhabitants. Mississippi means “Great River”. They recognized the enormous expanse of the river we now know as the Mississippi. And in many ways, Mississippi was a “Great River” of change for me.
Just a month after tying the knot, Terely and I departed for Jackson, Mississippi to attend seminary. If you weren’t a local you felt it. The social connections I lacked, the presumptions made about Floridians and Cubans, the customs that were new to me, and the painful remnants of Mississippi's troubled past all contributed to a cross-cultural encounter. Although I met some of the most remarkable individuals during my time there, I still longed for acceptance in an unfamiliar setting. My three-plus years in Mississippi were a mixture of enchantment and enigma, reflective of the South's great paradox.
The Interview
Upon completing a year in seminary while simultaneously juggling various jobs to make ends meet, I was presented with a promising opportunity: the role of Jr. High Youth Coordinator at First Presbyterian Church, one of Jackson's largest churches. As a member of the Presbyterian Church in America (PCA) which was new to me at the time, I was oblivious to the racist roots that ran deep within this denomination and specifically this church - a well-documented fact that is not new. Although FPC had taken steps to confront its racist past, much work remained to be done, as was evident even back in 1988 when this journey had only just begun.
Entering the room, I was greeted by a circle of individuals eagerly awaiting my arrival. The youth committee had arranged an interview with me, and I was warmly received by many who would later become familiar faces as parents of the youth I would eventually pastor. Over the course of 45 minutes, I was presented with thought-provoking questions that revealed a deep affection for their children and a desire to secure the best possible candidate to guide them through this crucial stage of life.
Being the Jr. High Youth Coordinator at First Presbyterian Church, Jackson, MS, was one of the great privileges of my life. We had a lot of fun.
And then it happened. During the interview, a committee member - a person whom I had been forewarned was an outspoken racist and bore the name of a Confederate General who served directly under Robert E. Lee - posed a question that took me by surprise. "Fred, you're not on some sort of crusade, are you?" Caught off guard, I fumbled my response, "Well, I suppose I'm on a crusade for Jesus?" (Let me be clear that I would never use the term "crusade" today to describe anything I'm doing.) He shook his head and continued, "No, I mean, you're not going to take a bunch of those colored kids from their church and bring them over here, are you? And then take our kids over to the colored church?" As I glanced around the room, I noticed the rest of the youth committee members bowing their heads in embarrassment. Without thinking, I replied, "Mr._____, I don't believe the children at the black church have any interest in coming here, but if they do, we will welcome them with open arms." Immediately, he backed down and said, "Oh, certainly. No more questions, thank you." Following the meeting, each member of the committee profusely apologized, but I don't believe anyone confronted the man himself. It's worth noting that he went on to become an elder in that church. Search for "white solidarity" on Google.
I was offered the position, and without hesitation, I accepted. Serving as the Jr. High Youth Coordinator at FPC Jackson for two years proved to be one of the most enriching periods of my life. We always felt welcomed and loved. The parents were supportive and involved, making it every youth pastor's dream. The kids responded positively to everything that Terely and I did, and I still hold dear the relationships that were formed during that time. However, it was also during this period that I began to experience cognitive dissonance regarding my own role in perpetuating white supremacy. Despite considering myself a curious individual, I remained silent as I witnessed black women dressed in white caring for white babies every Sunday, overheard snide remarks about black individuals, and watched the church's history being consistently whitewashed. The problem of white solidarity applies to me as well. We all have our work to do in dismantling the wickedness that is white supremacy.
The Presbytery Meeting
Then I met doctrine.1 Of course I did, I was in seminary.
Initially, I found doctrine to be important merely for passing my classes and fitting in. However, as I delved deeper into the doctrine, I began to feel that it was overshadowing the importance of listening and loving. While doctrine and empathy can certainly coexist, doctrine can easily be wielded as a weapon by a young man attempting to navigate life. Furthermore, coupling curiosity with doctrine can be a perilous path to tread. It is not something that is received with gladness by those who need the doctrine to hold together, no questions asked.
The PCA has a specific stage in its credentialing process referred to as licensure. This involves being scrutinized by a committee of other PCA pastors on one's understanding of Theology (as defined by the Westminster Confession of Faith2), Scripture, and church governance. Despite this examination, one is required to undergo another round of questioning before the entire presbytery. This is because trust in the committee's evaluation is not highly regarded in the PCA, where suspicion is widespread.
It was permissible to make cautiously worded objections to the accepted (white, northern European) theology of the Westminster Confession of Faith. In my case, I took issue with its novel view of the Sabbath Day. I expressed the belief that "some forms of personal and familial recreation are permissible on the Sabbath Day," a statement that one of my seminary professors crafted for students like myself who wished to make such an exception during their licensure exams. I thought I was safe. I was not.
An elder sprung to his feet and proceeded to protest my statement by shouting as loudly as he could that I was, among other things, “Baptist, dispensational, and dumb!” His screaming statement left the room in silence and in shock. I muttered something about not being Baptist or dispensational. In my mind, the jury was still very much out about my own intelligence. These kinds of suspicious cult-like environments that require strict adherence to the accepted rubric don’t exactly inspire confidence. For me, they inspired anxiety and activated every childhood message I had received about being slow on the uptake.
The sanctuary of Westminster Presbyterian Church, Vicksburg, MS exactly as it was in 1988 at a Presbytery meeting that is still talked about to this day.
Despite my heretical beliefs about the Sabbath Day, the presbytery passed my licensure exam. However, from then on, I couldn't shake off the constant anxiety and a sense of not belonging in the PCA. To cope with this feeling I developed an obsession with believing the right things and the addiction to certainty3 that often follows. People still mattered to me. But they mattered in the sense that they were ‘deformed unless they were reformed’, a phrase I’m ashamed to admit I learned and repeated in those days.
But I know why I did. It was such a relief for my anxious, traumatized self to have it all nailed down. The world for me was scary. The trauma of my childhood, the need to show ‘them’ (parents, naysayers, imaginary critics) that I was making my own way in the world, and the satisfaction of being “right” in my chaotic reality was the drug I needed to survive. Having all the answers was like cotton candy for my soul. Sweet, and so immediately gratifying. But wholly inadequate for the complexities of this life.
After obtaining my seminary degree, I failed to recognize that much of my education revolved around answering questions that no one was actually asking. However, I was content with my answers and eager to impose them on others regardless of the questions they had in mind.
Have you experienced a period in your life similar to this? When you acquired new knowledge and clung to it as the ultimate truth?
Have your beliefs remained the same as they were at 27? What has changed? Richard Rohr suggests that "great love or great suffering" are the most effective catalysts for change. In the years to come, I would experience both. Like the “Great River” itself, life continued to roll on by, and while my curiosity was dormant at the time, it wasn’t dead.
Part 3 is next: 6 years in Big Orange Country.
I realize we all live by some ‘doctrine’. It’s becoming ‘doctrinaire’ that I’m really combating here.
I consider the Westminster Confession of Faith to be the very worst of the Reformed Confessions.
Book recommendation: The Sin of Certainty, by Pete Enns
So well said-- so many highlights for me... for example the description of academic terror being a form of trauma that can bring up old traumas. Also reminds me of a friend's description of being terrified as a child by the fear mongering in his church.
Would love someday to hear more about: "I consider the Westminster Confession of Faith to be the very worst of the Reformed Confessions."