A Lost King Bible or a Forgotten King Dream?

My father was not Dr. King, but he was my king. He died when I was only seven years old. The fathomless hole that my father's death opened is still at times painful, almost twenty years later. It was an ugly place for me; but even in death there seems to be a small but pretty horizon of hope. Death is indeed ugly but what he left behind was quite pretty. He left me a library of his hand written sermons, personal Bibles, and a cache of vinyl records. These are markers of the legacy that he had left behind for me. It is with these things that he still lives, speaks and directs me. 

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. is long gone. His voice can only be heard by recording, his touch can only be remembered, and his smile is only captured in photo. However, his legacy has transcended his death. His work for humanity cannot be undone with an assassin's bullet. The markers of his legacy are all around us. We all see the public markers of his legacy, but his children hold the sacred private markers of his endowment, namely his traveling Bible and the Nobel Peace Prize. 

The benefaction of the harbinger of justice is now up for grabs. These sacred items have been defaced by sibling rivalry. Will the King Bible become the next suggested item on Amazon? Will the Nobel Peace Prize become a dusty collector's item to the highest bidder? When did the promise of cash trump our sense of civility? When did greed cause us to barter our treasured memories? 

This no doubt is ugly, but I must ask what is worse? A lost King Bible or a forgotten King dream? Will the people who stand in line for Jordan's stand up for justice? Will the churches that shamelessly beg for cash, cultivate a better future or hoard an endless building fund? Will the oppressed who strive for the edge of life demand to be placed at the center of life? Will babies be seen as another stream of government income or a source of undying hope?

My father left things behind that I will never sell and the Father of Fairness left things behind that we have long ago placed on the clearance rack. The markers of his legacy are us but have we been sold? Humanity is wrapped up in an ugly sibling rivalry, and while we bicker, the dream suffers. 

Sounds of Hell, Bells of Hope

I live in an ugly neighborhood, where drug addicts thrive and violence prevails. In that place I constantly hear sounds. It is a place where sirens are constant and laments are loud. It is place where screams drown out the sound of children's laughter. Many of the sounds seem to be conflicting, but this place has managed to pull the sounds of hell and the bells of hope together in an ambivalent symphony.  

It is in this ugly place that pretty moments begin. I see mothers grasping small hands and escorting them through ugly streets. I see church goers walk into a pretty sanctuary and return to an ugly reality. I see workers leave their ugly homes and travel on ugly buses in an attempt to make pretty money. What I see seems to blur my vision yet, I have some sense of conflicted clarity. 

On last night this neighborhood proved true to its character as I heard the sounds of hell and bells of hope. I saw danger and safety in the same sense of conflicted clarity. On last night I heard gunshots. These shots struck me with fear. I went through the process of the "urban fire drill" and lay on the floor of my apartment, in fear and disgust.I arose to view the carnage and called nearby neighbors. When the shooting stopped, I heard a strangely comforting sound. Only seconds after the gunshots the church bell rang out. 

What does it mean that only seconds after I heard shots that caused great fear, I heard a bell that inspired hope? Was this some sick divine prank? What is God saying through these sounds? Shouldn't sirens and screams follow shots? Shouldn't I be paralyzed with fear instead injected with hope? 

This is the pretty moment that lies in an ugly place. The church bell which represents the presence of God within the community somehow seems out of place. The church bell rings and reminds those who hear it that there is sanctuary, its sound is soothing. But this ring is not some simple reminder of hope, God, and safety. It is a call. The bell calls us to action. It rings in spite of the constant sounds of hell. If this is the case, the gunshot must also be a call. These gunshots ring in spite the presence of the church and its bell. They too elicit feelings like the church bell. 

Gunshots and church bells are signs of a conflicted reality. Which sound can silence the other? It is the gates of hell that will not prevail against the church, but what about the sounds of hell? Who will win this clash of kingdoms? Will both sounds remain ambivalent partners in a dangerous dance that we call a neighborhood?