THE POWER OF FORGIVENESS

He was an ordinary pastor, Brother Garner, the sort of pastor you would expect a Methodist bishop to send to my hometown.

South Arkansas was unprepared to face the present, much less the future. The Civil War hung like a heavy shroud on this declining railroad town. Less than 100 years before, Yankee soldiers had unceremoniously marched through our swamps to Vicksburg. To our eternal shame, no significant resistance was offered, except a brief unsuccessful skirmish at Boggy Bayou.

A pastor distinguished only by his mediocrity, Palmer Garner seemed committed to irrelevance. Despite the fact that desegregation was fracturing our fragile community and some our neighbors and relatives were warring with the Army Reserve units at Central High School in Little Rock, Arkansas, Garner was warning us of “immoral thoughts.” Most of us had not had an “immoral thought” since Elvis Presley played in the old VA gym.

The only redeeming feature of Brother Garner’s sermons was that they were mercifully short. They allowed us to get to Lawson Cafe’s hickory-smoked pork ribs before the Southern Baptists!

We never liked Garner’s sensitivity. It seemed so effeminate–un-Christian, really. He seemed to be an incorrigible sentimentalist, and while Southern ethos was full of tradition and veiled sentimentalism, we fiercely hid our true feelings.

For instance, when a prominent citizen tried to kill himself, no one expressed surprise or shock. Such an act was expected of an unstable person whose alcoholism had brought dishonor on his family and town. The only thing that bothered us was that he failed. Such a vulnerable act demanded resolution, and we perversely expected our friend to act like a man and finish the job. Although we never said anything to him, he knew what was expected and he finally did it.

Garner was, however, a greater threat to our fragile equilibrium. Dwight Washington, a high school scholar and track star, had a conversion experience at one of our revival services. He foolishly thought that since Jesus loved him, we would too. So, he tried to attend our Sunday morning worship service. But he was politely asked to leave during the assurance of pardon–because “nigras” should go to their own churches.

Garner saw everything and was obviously displeased. Not that he castigated us. We could handle that. We enjoyed pastors who scolded us for our sins. We tolerated, even enjoyed his paternalistic diatribes. No, Garner did the intolerable: he wept. Right in the middle of morning worship, right where great preachers like Muzon Mann had labored, where our children were baptized, Garner wept! Right in the middle of morning worship, as if it was part of the liturgy, he started crying! Not loud, uncontrollable sobs, but quiet, deep crying. Like a man who was overwhelmed by the exigencies of life.

Old Man Hendrick, senile and almost deaf, remembering the last time he cried–when his wife died–started crying too. And then the children. How we hated Palmer Garner! If we ever doubted, Garner was obviously an outsider to our community . . .

We owe so much to Palmer Garner. He taught us Southerners how to cry . . . In the face of so many obstacles . . . is it so bad to relax and let ourselves feel the injustice–not in hopelessness–but in hopeful empathy . . . .

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