Reprinted From a Report on Friends Visitation Among the Burned Churches of Mississippi
Diocesan Press Service. February 8, 1965 [XXIX-10]
Early last spring a small Negro Baptist congregation, not far from Jackson, decided to begin construction of a new church. Unable to foresee the violent events of the summer, they elected to build their church of wood. About the same time they were approached by several Civil Rights groups with respect to the possibility of making their church social hall (across the road from their church site) available for use as a freedom school. The congregation agreed to permit the Civil Rights groups to use their social hall and for two months the two efforts -- church construction and freedom school -- proceeded without incident.
Then late one night in August, a fire destroyed the church social hall and suddenly the congregation found itself confronted with two rather pressing questions -- one practical, one moral. Should they proceed with the construction of their woodframe church and should they continue to serve as the location for a freedom school?
Needless, to say, these were not easy decisions to make. For as the pastor later explained, there was virtually no way of safeguarding the partially completed church -- isolated as it was from the rest of the rural Negro community. Nor could the congregation afford to make the obvious switch from wood to brick construction. Even so, the congregation was of the conviction that it was the will of the Lord and not the lumber that ought to concern them most. And then, too, the record of summer violence left no assurance that the church would be spared even if they did decide to stop the freedom school. And so the congregation decided to stick to its guns, and carry on with both the building and the freedom school program.
For a while all went well. Then this fall, just as the building was nearing completion, several more disheartening developments came to light. It was discovered that not one of the thirteen state insurance agencies would insure the new church. "Too great a risk," they said. And, of course, they may well have been right. Still the fact remained that the congregation had invested approximately ten thousand dollars in labor and materials in constructing their new church and now, as a result of the summer's wave of terror, they found themselves unable to protect their investment. But the crowning blow was still to come. Word got around that some of the deacons had an idea as to who had been responsible for the burning of the church social hall. Apparently, however, their suspicions must have been voiced around a bit too much, for shortly thereafter one of these deacons had a run-in with one of the rumored suspects. After that, all of the church members were convinced that just as soon as the new building was completed, it too would be burned. And by whom? -- why none other than the local law officer who lived down the road!
Ever since then this little congregation has been waiting -- waiting without hope of justice or promise of relief. In the midst of their own everyday world of uncertainty these long-suffering people now feel bitterly certain of one thing, and this is simply that someday, sometime, somehow The Man will come and burn their beautiful new church to the ground. And there's nothing they can do about it. Not even sentries with shotguns will help. For how can they hope to change the man beneath the sheet? And what religious congregation can long survive the psychological strain of sitting up night after night defending their sanctuary with shotguns, waiting for someone who can afford to wait?