Over the winter break, I finished several books, including biographies of two Civil Rights heroes. The first book was David Greenberg’s John Lewis: A Life, which chronicles the life of my former congressman when I lived in Atlanta, the Honorable John Lewis. Lewis — the “boy from Troy [Alabama]” — rose to national prominence during the Nashville Student Sit-In Movement in the 1950s, initially fighting for the desegregation of department store lunch counters. After assuming leadership of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC, pronounced “snick”), Lewis continued to be involved in the Civil Rights Movement across the South from Albany, Georgia, to Selma, Alabama. Despite being subjected to imprisonment, insults, and physical violence, Lewis retained a relentless commitment to Gandhian nonviolence, a philosophy he carried with him throughout his life, including his long career in the U.S. Capitol, where he became known as “the Conscience of the Congress.” As a congressman, Lewis defined Democracy as “an act,” saying, “Each generation must do its part to help build what I call the Beloved Community, a nation, and a world society that is at peace with itself.”
John Lewis learned nonviolence from the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., the subject of the other biography I read over the break. Jonathan Eig’s new biography, King: A Life, is the first comprehensive biography of the famous Civil Rights leader in a generation. It begins with his grandparents in rural Georgia (who adopted the surname “King” after emancipation to communicate their pride and human dignity). It ends with his assassination in Memphis, Tennessee, on April 4, 1968. Like all human beings, Martin Luther King, Jr. was complicated. What set him apart was his belief that the only path toward a genuinely peaceful, flourishing society was through nonviolent resistance to evil. His commitment led him to eschew bodyguards, guns, and retaliation, even when he and his family were attacked. King saw the humanity in all people, even his enemies committed to maintaining Jim Crow laws. King thought the proponents of segregation and the victims of segregation were both victims of a wicked system that undermined the humanity of both. The solution was a “revolution of values,” recovering the human dignity distorted by inhumane systems. In a 1963 Time magazine article naming him Man of the Year, King stated that the purpose of the Civil Rights Movement was to “save the soul of a nation,” a task that required unconventional tools, namely, love.
What struck me about both Lewis and King was their framing of nonviolence as a discipline. I knew that it required training. My senior paper as an undergraduate at Johnson C. Smith Univeristy explored the role of the Black Church in the Civil Rights Movement (I discovered John Lewis’s senior paper was similar to mine). I received my first master’s degree from the Interdenominational Theological Center in Atlanta, Georgia, an institution with historical ties to the Atlanta University Center, which became the epicenter of the Atlanta Student Movement. I received my second master’s and doctoral degrees from the University of the South, an institution near the Highlander Folk School that taught nonviolent seminars throughout the Civil Rights Movement. I knew that training was required to participate in the protests and sit-ins. Early in the Civil Rights Movement, activists refused to allow some people to participate because they weren’t committed to nonviolence or hadn’t practiced it long enough to be trusted to adhere to its principles in the moment of decision.
What I never previously considered was one’s whole life an arena for nonviolent direct action. Nonviolence doesn’t just happen. Nonviolence in word and deed is a choice one must make and then remake daily. In the Christian tradition, it calls to mind Jesus’s invitation in Luke 9:23 to “take up your cross daily and follow.” Martin Luther King, Jr. would add to this scripture in one of his sermons where he said:
One must take up his cross, with all its difficulties and agonizing and tension-packed content, and carry it until that very cross leaves its mark upon us and redeems us to that more excellent way which comes only through suffering.
Both Lewis and King’s unwavering commitment to nonviolence in the face of inhumane terror and violence transformed them. Reflecting on the meaning of Martin Luther King Jr. Day and the presidential inauguration, I think we need a “revolution of values,” one rooted in nonviolence and respect for our shared human dignity, even while engaging in principled disagreement. Our bitterly divided national politics isn’t just inconvenient or fodder for late-night comedians. It is a problem that renders us incapable of addressing our most significant challenges: economic disparities and insecurity, the climate crisis, global human rights abuses, and more.
If nonviolence is a choice, then what can we do? Both King and Lewis adhered to Mahatma Gandhi’s satyagraha philosophy, which wasn’t simply about nonviolent action; it was a nonviolent way of life. Gandhi taught adherents to harbor no anger, refuse retaliation, and willingly submit to arrest for the cause of freedom if necessary. A commitment to nonviolence requires me to look inward to confront my anger, despair, pain, trauma, and loss. I’m not just resisting external acts of violence and dehumanization; nonviolence also requires me to resist it within, to remember and retain my human dignity. What can we do? We can take a mental inventory of our lives and consider the ways we lean on violence or domination to help us navigate the world. In the words of the Tao Te Ching, “He who conquers others is strong; he who conquers himself is mighty.” This commitment is essential to living well in a diverse community. Are we making room for others or insisting on our way? Are we leading with curiosity or judgment toward those who see the world differently than we do? Are we willing to work hard toward the world we want, or do we hope others will do the work for us? If your call is to get involved as an activist, do so with a firm commitment to nonviolence. The same is true if your call is to get more civic involvement. How might our society be different if each citizen committed to voting non-violently, not using our votes to punish people we don’t know, don’t like, or don’t feel belong, but instead using our voices and votes positively to build the world we want our children to live in?
There is much that our Civil Rights heroes can teach us. Personal transformation that informs our collective transformation is one of the many lessons they pass down to us. Both King and Lewis died with work undone, but they died having been transformed by the work itself. It is not insignificant that we are on a campus whose mission is to form bold leaders who lead transformative lives. Dr. King would call bold, transforming leaders “transformed nonconformists.” The purpose of our pursuit of academic excellence and scholarship isn’t for the sake of self alone but for the well-being of the human family. This is the meaning behind our (perhaps antiquated) school motto: Pro Ecclesia et Patria (“For Church and Country”). In a generation long gone, this motto signaled that graduates of Trinity College were for their community, not simply the self.
If, as John Lewis said, “Democracy is an act,” then we must do our part to help our country become what it claims to be but has yet to truly become. That work starts within.
