The Ministers’ March for Justice: The how, the why, the march, and what next from a white pastor.

The how

It was never on my calendar to attend the Ministers’ March for Justice planned by the National Action Network.

To be completely honest, I didn’t know anything about the march, until the Rev. Michelle Bodle sent me a text with the information four days before the March, which was scheduled to take place Aug. 28.

That date is etched into my head. I recognized its significance immediately. Aug. 28, 2017, was the 54th anniversary of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King’s “I Have a Dream” speech and it was also the day my son would be starting first grade.

I called my son’s godmother and close colleague, the Rev. Chenda Innis-Lee, who lives near the U.S. Capitol in the Virginia Annual Conference. She not only invited me to march with her but also took away my excuse for getting up early by offering me a place to stay the night before.

I mentioned the plan to my wife, assuming she would say it’s not good timing. Instead, she looked me deep in the eyes and said, “You have to do this! You have to march for me!”

I quickly found that God was dealing with my concerns even before I could recognize them. I was driving down U.S. Route 15 on my way to D.C. before I knew it. I knew God was calling me to this march, but for what I wasn’t entirely sure.

The why

I found that as I quickly planned for this unintended trip, I kept asking myself why am I doing this? Why is it important for a white pastor in Central Pennsylvania to drive to D.C. and to march for justice? Why was marching necessary?

I was surprised at the answers that came to me as I began to pray and discern.

I was reminded of the time as a seminary student when I first read King’s “Why We Can’t Wait.” I feared that one day I would become the white pastor to whom King was speaking. I feared I’d be one of those who said, “slow down, it will come.” Had I said, “I don’t need to march,” I would have become that pastor.

King also said, “Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed.” I believe Christ calls us to stand with the oppressed, even when it is not me who is being oppressed.

As I drove, I recalled my confirmation and all those times I reaffirmed my baptism when I felt the weight of the vow I made with God to “accept the freedom and power God gives you to resist evil, injustice, and oppression in whatever form they present themselves.” For me to say this is evil and unjust but to do nothing is to be the very thing I fear: being a lukewarm Christian.

By the time I hit the Maryland border, I had wondered if I, as a pastor, was doing the right thing. I remembered the section of the Discipline that says my role is “to lead the congregation in racial and ethnic inclusiveness.” And also to “embody the teachings of Jesus in servant ministries and leadership.”

I realized that at times Jesus calls us to stand up and hold even the government accountable when evil is blatant and present. This call means that sometimes I preach and other times God calls us to stand up, stand together and peacefully march. If I only put up signs and preached sermons, yet did not march, I would be showing the people of Paxton United Methodist Church that I’m good with words but lacking in action.

As I arrived in D.C., I knew some things to be true:

• White supremacy and racism are still alive, deeply ingrained in our society, and more present than ever in this age of technology.
• I knew that no longer could the White Community overlook the cries of the oppressed.
• I was confident that this was a moral issue and at times we are called to be like Jesus and be the conscience of those in power. (See Jesus’ and the woman to be stoned John 8:1-11.)
• I also believed that what I was doing was necessary if I truly was going to be a servant leader. I wasn’t marching alone. I was also marching for those who couldn’t.

I pulled into Innis-Lee’s driveway tired and hungry but certain this was where God was calling me to be.

The march

I have marched before, but this time my emotions were everywhere. I felt uncomfortable as I got ready, unsure of what I was doing.

I put on the Black Lives Matter shirt that I had worn so often with pride. However, this time it felt almost heavier.

I grabbed my stole and felt the same weight as our Uber driver dropped us off at the Martin Luther King, Jr. Memorial and I put it around my neck.

I paused to take a moment of prayer.

I asked God just one more time if God was sure I was supposed to be here. My feelings didn’t match the assurance I had felt the night before.

Then it hit me: I didn’t have to be here. My whiteness assured me that if I just kept the status quo, I would be OK.

However, my Christianity told me that to continue to depend on that comfort — while others are oppressed, refused health care, and told they are no longer welcome in America — it would be a slap in the face of God’s grace and my role as a Christian.

As I opened my eyes, I found comfort in my surroundings.

The march was intended to have 1,000 clergy from all denominations. Instead, 3,000 showed up. Each one of us had the same purpose.

Bishop Julius Trimble from the Indiana Annual Conference put our feelings to words when he told a reporter, “We cannot afford to live in a time when the clock is being turned back on the progress that has been made since 1963. We can’t afford to go backward in the area of voting rights, jobs for all, hospitality for immigrants, racial justice. We can’t go back in areas of critical conversations on race that are needed for this time.”

I felt my mood change as I stood and listened to speakers before the march began. I heard from Pentecostal pastors, Roman Catholic nuns, clergy from the United Church of Christ, priests, imams, cantors, and rabbis. We sang together, held hands together, and agreed that King’s Dream cannot and will not be quieted, even after 54 years.

I realized that these issues surpassed all the walls we put up to tell ourselves we are different. We came together from different places, having differing experiences, but recognizing that if we wanted to be the hands and feet of Christ, the change had to start with us. And so, the march to the offices of the U.S. Department of Justice began.

I have found that it is not possible to walk with 3,000 people without making new friends. I walked with Buddhists, sang old gospel songs with people I didn’t know, and even got to walk with future clergy as I marched with students from Wesley Theological Seminary.

I spoke with a man who was 75yrs old, who was using a walker. As we walked, his daughter kept asking him to slow down and save his energy. His response both gave me the goosebumps and made me smile. “Honey, I am marching for truth. God is giving me the strength I need for this journey.”

I walked with a Rabbi from the D.C. area who talked about our shared belief that all people are created in God’s image and should be treated that way.

I walked with a mother who carried her child and said that she was marching in the hopes that her child would not have too. She was quick to add, “I brought her with me so that if she does, she won’t be afraid.”

Before long, the nearly two-mile-walk from the memorial to the Justice Department was over. But, God was not done. We continued to hear from clergy and laity. 3,000 clergy from all across the spectrum of beliefs sang “Sanctuary” as we lived out what it meant to have a prayerful, peaceful march.

We prayed together. We chanted together. We vowed to love without barriers. But, most of all, we recognized that the change had to begin within our churches if we wanted to see real practical change. For the first time in a very long time, I felt what King meant when he spoke of the “beloved community.”

What’s next

Church and Society’s general secretary, the Rev. Dr. Susan Henry-Crowe, said something in an interview before the march that I had forgotten. “We have a statement in our Social Principles that is important to remember,” she said. “United Methodists say that racism, manifested as sin, plagues and hinders our relationship with Christ inasmuch as it is antithetical to the Gospel itself.”

This quote stayed with me on my way home. I felt that I had a choice. I could keep my will, stay comfortable, safe, and continue with the status quo that is beneficial to me as a white man. Or I could align my will with God’s and accept that for real change to take place it must happen within our white churches.

I began to remember our roots as United Methodists, a group that is not afraid to stand up for justice and love. We are a community of believers that is grounded in grace and prayer. We are a denomination based on practical faith and service, not social status.

I honestly believe that most of our church leaders and members feel concern for our neighbors. However, the question remains: are we ready, as a predominantly white connection, to stand up and say, “no more?” Are we willing to recognize that we do in fact have benefits just because we are white, and are we ready to let go of those benefits, so that those who do not, can?

White supremacist groups are growing by leaps and bounds across the country. Are we ready for the hard conversations and personal reflection? Do we trust in the gospel enough to stand up and say, “no more?” Are we prepared to pray for justice everywhere and stand with the oppressed in our communities? I know I am ready. Are you? If you aren’t, are we able to explain to God why?

The Rev. Brent Salsgiver is pastor of Paxton United Methodist Church in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.