In honor of Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, here is a post I made a couple of years ago describing my journey into the poorest part of Orlando:
Yesterday, I decided to stay home from work—I took a vacation day—to retreat into the life and heart of the man whose birthday was commemorated. I vowed to spend the day reading a biography of this man, whom I had been increasingly drawn to over the past year.
This man was Martin Luther King, Jr.
Being born many years after the Civil Rights movement, my perspectives on race have been filled with naivete. I have rarely experienced racism first-hand. I have barely given care to racial injustices, particularly in my own community. Sure, I am scandalized when I hear of a crime committed solely because of skin color. And my heart breaks when I hear of the black man beaten by white supremacists.
These are easy, though. These are clear injustices, even to those who barely squint.
But I usually keep my eyes downward each time I encounter “soft racism”: a racist comment by a friend, or an unjustified stereotype.
Worse yet, I have comfortably distanced myself from instances of major, systemic oppression.
I have often refused to admit the arc of racial injustice that has stretched over our country from the arrival of the first slave ship, through the Jim Crow laws, and into the distant future.
Throughout these past months, Martin has again and again put his hands under my chin to gently tilt it upwards. He has allowed me to see not only the systematic injustices that shadow our country from above, but also to witness the hope that they can be shattered.
He has bellowed out to me that there is hope because our God brings life out of death. There is hope because our God brings dawn at the end of darkness. There is hope because our God is relentless until everything is put right.
Martin has birthed in me a deep hope that even I can break that arc. Me, a busy working man. Me, a devoted married man. Me, a suburban twenty-something. Yes, me, a comfortable acceptor of systems that oppress.
He has led me to believe that even I can hack away at that arc—especially I. And fitted with new shoes of possibility and hope, I have begun to walk.
This past Saturday, a handful of others and I had a chance to visit the poorest part of my city. Guided by one of the matriarchs of the community, a strong black woman named Dorothy, we were introduced to a neighborhood isolated from our cushy suburban lives. Parramore, the name of the community and the main street, is the site of the earliest recorded African-American settlement in the city. It also happens to be the symbolic residence of poverty in Central Florida.
We began at the oldest historically-black church in Orlando, Mt. Zion Missionary Baptist Church. The church was founded in 1880, only a handful of years after the end of the Civil War. I was struck by the legacy of the building. The walls gave off an incredible aura. I wished that they could sing; I could almost hear their sacred songs. I looked into the eyes of the pastors whose images hung on the wall and imagined the hopes and dreams, pains and elation that they had seen within those walls. I imagined a passionate Reverend King standing at a similar pulpit, empowering thousands of men and women to break the chains of inequality. From the pews of the church I could hear the cries of ones who had sat in similar seats —the people who had groaned for justice throughout history and who screamed, “No more!”. The very ones who had fought for righteousness over the years had been empowered by the same symbol I gazed up at: The Cross.
While sitting in those pews, I listened as Dorothy told the story of her people. Each of her words called to my distant heart, gradually bringing it closer to the lives of the people of Parramore today.
The predominantly black people of Parramore have seen themselves, slowly over time, shoved and swept away from the high-brow downtown area. Grocery stores have left, schools have failed and closed without adequate funding or resources, and the number of businesses still open can be counted on two hands. Without cars, most of the people are forced to be isolated within a few square miles. An impending mega-arena has encroached on land once lived on by locals, and highways constantly squeeze the boundaries of the community closer together.
For the children, lack of quality education has led to crime, crime has led to a breakdown of families and the community, and these breakdowns have continually regenerated this cycle of poverty, angst, and hopelessness.
Muddled, vacant lots litter the landscape, barren under their branding as investment properties. Investors, with unlimited time and patience, sit on their empty properties while the lots generate a drab feeling of destitution that haunts the community daily. These empty lots preclude affordable housing being built for the people of Parramore.
The empty lots are a persistent symbol to the people of hopelessness and abandonment, a cruel reminder that the sacred land of their community is nothing more than cash-flow to others.
The surrounding city has turned a blind eye to this reality. One of the overgrown lots even belongs to the former Mayor of Orlando.
Lack of jobs or adequate wages has prevented the people from being able to purchase homes in their own community. Those who can afford to rent a home do so from oppressing landlords who financially abuse their tenants. The money they pay never grows into the equity of a house that they can pass on to children.
Another huge contributor to the lack of hope in the community is the homelessness that pervades it. Homelessness is rampant. The homeless coalitions within the neighborhood provide support for some, but many are turned away. This has led many vagabonds to scour the streets during the day, an ever-present symbol to the youth of destitution. These wandering transients silently symbolize the entire community—a drifting people looking for some piece of hope to grasp and call home.
Dorothy continued talking as she guided us out the doors of the church, and onto the sullied grounds of Parramore. She walked us through the heart of her community. She introduced us to the people that filled her stories.
Despite all of the heartache I had heard about, there was something incredibly surprising.
There were actually smiles in the streets! Despite men and women who had no place to call home, there were faces that revealed contentment and joy! Even though the people had been socially trampled upon, I still saw heads held high with dignity and honor!
Because of a faith that permeated the community, rooted in local churches like Mt. Zion, these people had a resounding, deep hope.
The experience was raw, the roads and buildings were dirty, and some encounters were awkward. But, there was a peculiar sense of profundity about the community.
Those people were special.
Incredibly special.
Walking down the street, I looked into the very eyes of those I had heard about. I greeted and nodded to men who had no home. I exchanged smiles with women whose families had deteriorated. I felt deeply honored to even be walking on their street.
Something birthed in me then that had long been dormant:
Solidarity.
These were my brothers. These were my sisters. Oh, how badly I wanted to run through the streets and excitedly scream this to them! Brother! Sister! I am yours! I have finally realized that I am yours!
I didn’t save the world. I didn’t heal sickness. I didn’t end poverty. The wrenching stories of darkness and hurt in the community still hung heavy in the air.
But, I did find a brother.
I did love a sister.
I did allow a little more of my hard heart to be softened, and I did become a part of that community.
Jesus has never asked me to fix the whole world. But he has asked me to love.
And I believe I can do that.
Martin Luther King, Jr. has opened up the door to a community I had never considered family. He has allowed me to become united with ones who suffer. What a gift! From here, everything is possible.
A friend remarked later that, “There are more than thirty cities in our country that are populated with more than one-million people. Every one of those cities has at least one Parramore.”
This is a sobering truth. Jesus said, “The poor you will always have among you.” There are brothers and sisters in every city who will remain unknown to many because of the thinness of their wallets and the emptiness of their bellies.
Jesus whispers that these “least” ones are the most blessed, for it is within them He finds the greatest emptiness to fill.
May you find those among you who glow with hope despite a life of hopelessness.
May you see the beauty hidden within all brokenness.
And may we never stop walking in the dreams Martin once foretold.