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my support of abortion rights. I must admit that I may have been infected with
societyÆs prejudices and predilections and attributed them to God; that JesusÆ
call to love one another might demand a different conclusion; and that in
years hence I may be seen as someone who was on the wrong side of history. I
donÆt believe such doubts make me a bad Christian. I believe they make me
human, limited in my understandings of GodÆs purpose and therefore prone to
sin. When I read the Bible, I do so with the belief that it is not a static
text but the Living Word and that I must be continually open to new
revelations-whether they come from a lesbian friend or a doctor opposed to
abortion.
THIS IS NOT to say that IÆm unanchored in my faith. There are some things
that IÆm absolutely sure about-the Golden Rule, the need to battle cruelty in
all its forms, the value of love and charity, humility and grace.
Those beliefs were driven home two years ago when I flew down to Birmingham,
Alabama, to deliver a speech at the cityÆs Civil Rights Institute. The
institute is right across the street from the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church,
the site where, in 1963, four young children-Addie Mae Collins, Carole
Robertson, Cynthia Wesley, and Denise McNair-lost their lives when a bomb
planted by white supremacists exploded during Sunday school, and before my
talk I took the opportunity to visit the church. The young pastor and several
deacons greeted me at the door and showed me the still-visible scar along the
wall where the bomb went off. I saw the clock at the back of the church, still
frozen at 10:22 a.m. I studied the portraits of the four little girls.
After the tour, the pastor, deacons, and I held hands and said a prayer in
the sanctuary. Then they left me to sit in one of the pews and gather my
thoughts. What must it have been like for those parents forty years ago, I
wondered, knowing that their precious daughters had been snatched away by
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violence at once so casual and so vicious? How could they endure the anguish
unless they were certain that some purpose lay behind their childrenÆs
murders, that some meaning could be found in immeasurable loss? Those parents
would have seen the mourners pour in from all across the nation, would have
read the condolences from across the globe, would have watched as Lyndon
Johnson announced on national television that the time had come to overcome,
would have seen Congress finally pass the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Friends
and strangers alike would have assured them that their daughters had not died
in vain-that they had awakened the conscience of a nation and helped liberate
a people; that the bomb had burst a dam to let justice roll down like water
and righteousness like a mighty stream. And yet would even that knowledge be
enough to console your grief, to keep you from madness and eternal rage-unless
you also knew that your child had gone on to a better place?
My thoughts turned to my mother and her final days, after cancer had spread
through her body and it was clear that there was no coming back. She had
admitted to me during the course of her illness that she was not ready to die;
the suddenness of it all had taken her by surprise, as if the physical world
she loved so much had turned on her, betrayed her. And although she fought
valiantly, endured the pain and chemotherapy with grace and good humor to the
very end, more than once I saw fear flash across her eyes. More than fear of
pain or fear of the unknown, it was the sheer loneliness of death that
frightened her, I think-the notion that on this final journey, on this last
adventure, she would have no one to fully share her experiences with, no one
who could marvel with her at the bodyÆs capacity to inflict pain on itself, or
laugh at the stark absurdity of life once oneÆs hair starts falling out and
oneÆs salivary glands shut down.
I carried such thoughts with me as I left the church and made my speech.
Later that night, back home in Chicago, I sat at the dinner table, watching
Malia and Sasha as they laughed and bickered and resisted their string beans
before their mother chased them up the stairs and to their baths. Alone in the
kitchen washing the dishes, I imagined my two girls growing up, and I felt the
ache that every parent must feel at one time or another, that desire to snatch
up each moment of your childÆs presence and never let go-to preserve every
gesture, to lock in for all eternity the sight of their curls or the feel of
their fingers clasped around yours. I thought of Sasha asking me once what
happened when we die-ôI donÆt want to die, Daddy,ö she had added
matter-of-factly-and I had hugged her and said, ôYouÆve got a long, long way
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