A news article shared the fact that a New Jersey school district was removing the names of all holidays from the school calendar so as not to offend anyone. The decision came after a raucous debate in a public meeting about the decision to replace “Columbus Day” with “Indigenous People’s Day.” A school board member explained that “every holiday will be listed as a day off so we don’t have anyone with hurt feelings.”
The same week I read that story I read of a customer fatally shooting a supermarket cashier in Decatur, Georgia. The cashier had asked the customer to adjust his mask; he refused, left the store without making a purchase but returned immediately with a gun and shot the cashier.
Those two stories brought to mind two lines from William Butler Yeats poem, “The Second Coming.”
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity
I don’t want to dissect the poem, but I can’t resist noting that it is not only “the worst” who are full of passionate intensity. I thank God for the passionate intensity I see in folks who are committed to, and working for, the common good. I simply want to make a plea for “the best” to overcome their lack of conviction.
At age 87, I reflect more than ever on my life. I remember one of those occasions when my conviction was full of intensity. I was a young pastor in Mississippi in the late 50’s and early 60’s. At the height of the civil rights struggle, when the public schools were being threatened and blacks were being turned away from white churches, three other young ministers and I drafted a “Born of Conviction” statement about the issues facing us. (1) Twenty-four other ministers joined us in signing and publicly issuing that statement. My congregation knew what my convictions were. I’d preached those convictions for years, but they could not emotionally tolerate such a public stance on my part.
I can vividly remember the anxiety and pain of the occasion when the officials of the church called a meeting to confront me and to, in their words, “settle this issue once and for all.” I was frightened, but was given the guidance and strength to make the case for what I believed, and to plead for freedom of the pulpit.
One leader, who was unmoved by my reasoning, kept pressing: “What can we expect of you in the future?”
I was surprised by my calmness, because this was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the church, one who had been among my dearest friends, and was one of the strongest in his opposition to my stand. I was equally surprised at my response: “You can expect me to be consistent in my understanding and preaching of the gospel, my stand for justice and human rights, as I have shared those with you tonight.”
“How can you be so arrogant?” the man shouted as he stormed out of the room.
I think that’s the only time I’ve ever been publicly accused of arrogance, and I felt no arrogance at all. What I felt was freedom, an inner strength and calmness that enabled me to speak with boldness. I was certain of who I was, and what God’s word and will was for my life and our church. I was certain God had spoken to me, and was speaking through me, and that gave me confidence.
For me it seems that ours is a time when
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
I’m going to continue keeping my life under the judgment of that claim.
- Joseph T. Reiff has told this story in context in his book Born of Conviction, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2016)