I keep getting the same question: “What is it like in Ferguson?”
It is hard to offer an answer. Michael Brown was shot a week ago yesterday afternoon in Ferguson by a city police officer. Things are too fluid to make what is happening now make easy sense. The preacher in me wants to write something that proclaims Good News. The scholar in me wants to deliver something rigorous. The realist in me sees pain, distrust, hope, and good works. There is much sorrow, righteous anger, and many moments of hope being expressed here right now.
The preacher in me wants to write something that proclaims Good News. The scholar in me wants to deliver something rigorous. The realist in me sees pain, distrust, hope, and good works.
First, let me offer a quick snapshot of Ferguson itself. It’s a place many in St. Louis know but have never visited. There are dozens of churches here. Most are declining, majority-white, mainline churches. More energized black churches are here, too. Churches are essential to many in Ferguson. There are three primary shopping areas; one a box store mecca, one a revitalized historic district, and the third increasingly destroyed by nightly looting. Most anything one needs or wants is available here. There are big houses and little houses, old neighborhoods and newer ones. There are many rental properties. There are apartment complexes like Canfield Green, where Michael Brown was shot. Home ownership is down since the recession of 2008. Foreclosures are up. There are not a lot of rich people here. There are more and more people who are poor. Until the shooting most people here would have said things were socially, economically on the rise, even as educational progress seemed stalled. Ferguson has features that are both urban and suburban. Ferguson is multiracial and proudly so. About two-thirds of the people of Ferguson are black. Most of the rest are white.
The night of the shooting the emails started. Facebook lit up and then the calls. Sunday at church the Gospel reading included Matthew 14:22-33: “Jesus made the disciples get into the boat and go on ahead to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up the mountain by himself to pray.”
This passage depicts Jesus withdrawing. It was beginning to seem like Jesus was not very present. I’m sure a lot of folks were feeling like the disciples in the boat, “battered by the waves, far from the land, with the wind against them.” I think a lot of people in Ferguson feel like that right now.
Unlike many Ferguson residents, I did not go to the prayer gathering held that day at the Police Station. I met my son for lunch and imagined if he wondered why I was looking at him so intensely. I could not fathom what it would be like to have your son die or to have your son shoot someone. And I realized how self-focused my processing of this whole thing was becoming. Fear and anxiety can produce a kind of introversion.
While I was at lunch, a mother whose son is in his early 20s called to let me know that things were getting tense at the prayer gathering. As I drove back to church, I found myself wishing I could retreat from the crowds and spend time praying. That feeling lasted until the QuickTrip was set on fire.
My model for ministry is the parish priest. My hero as a kid was Father Conroe. He played jazz at night. Was front and center in the Civil Rights action. He played pick-up basketball with us. I remember his homilies. He seemed like he always knew what was going on. Out of seminary and working in a congregation, I was drawn to the idea that one’s parish was a geographic community, not a membership base. In Ferguson I chair a school board, work with Ferguson youth, eat local food, shop the local grocery store, help out at a local Farmer’s Market, and pray at public gatherings. I tell people I am a parish priest in Ferguson more often than I tell them that I am a priest at St. Stephen’s.
As the week unfolded, I worked to stay as close to the ground as possible, being around town, on calls, in meetings, and with people in a variety of ways. Because of the generous response to stock our Food Pantry’s empty shelves, I have also been answering calls, email, tweets, and Facebook messages from people who are donating food. People want to help. Food helps. The Ferguson people I have talked to are hopeful, saddened, outraged, defensive, engaged, scared, prayerful, and deeply committed to getting through this difficult time together. I am talking with white people and black people. I have only talked with a few teenagers. Some people know the police officer. No one I have talked with knew Michael Brown.
Here are some snap shots that may give you a sense of how Ferguson people are responding:
A man whose son was murdered two years ago dropped off a bag of food and talked about the sorrow of the family, the police, and the community.
A group of young moms who work to end gun violence took sandwiches and water to folks at the burned out QuickTrip. They had their kids in tow.
Black tweens raised their arms in the air as I drove by them showing what has become the sign of remembrance for Michael Brown that is being used all around the world.
A black Pentecostal elder told me, “Your church has that book (the Book of Common Prayer) with that St Francis prayer in it. That’s a really good prayer.”
I have been living with this quote from Desmond Tutu: “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”
Tonight there is more sorrow, tear gas, and destruction. Tomorrow will be a day devoted to distributing food, funding a program that engages youth in entrepreneurialism, and sitting quietly in prayer. Like most people I know in Ferguson, I will be trying to discover what it’s like to be on solid ground.
I have been living with this quote from Desmond Tutu: “Do your little bit of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that overwhelm the world.”
This is what it’s like in Ferguson now.
Steve Lawler is rector of St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church in Ferguson, Missouri.
