James wrote to the believers, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers
and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds because you know that the
testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work
so that you may be mature and complete, lacking nothing.” It is a great honor
to be back in Ebenezer Baptist Church in the pulpit of its greatest pastor, Dr.
Martin Luther King Jr., to pay my respects to perhaps his finest disciple. An
American whose faith was tested again and again, to produce a man of pure joy
and unbreakable perseverance: John Robert Lewis.
To
those who have spoken, to Presidents Bush and Clinton, Madame Speaker, Reverend
Warnock, Reverend King, John’s family, friends, his beloved staff, Mayor
Bottoms, I’ve come here today because I, like so many Americans, owe a great
debt to John Lewis and his forceful vision of freedom.
You
know, this country is a constant work in progress. We’re born with
instructions, to form a more perfect union. Explicit in those words is the idea
that we’re imperfect. That what gives each new generation purpose is to take up
the unfinished work of the last and carry it further than any might have
thought possible. John Lewis, first of the Freedom Riders, head of the Student
Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, youngest speaker at the March on Washington,
leader of the march from Selma to Montgomery, member of Congress, representing
the people of this state and this district for 33 years, mentor to young
people—including me at the time—until his final day on this earth, he not only
embraced that responsibility, but he made it his life’s work. Which isn’t bad
for a boy from Troy.
John
was born into modest means—that means he was poor. In the heart of the Jim Crow
South to parents who picked somebody else’s cotton. Apparently he didn’t take
to farm work. On days when he was supposed to help his brothers and sisters
with their labor, he’d hide under the porch and make a break for the school bus
when it showed up. His mother Willie May Lewis nurtured that curiosity in this
shy, serious child. “Once you learn something,” she told her son, “once you get
something inside your head, no one can take it away from you.” As a boy John
listened through the door after bedtime as his father’s friends complained
about the Klan. One Sunday as a teenager he heard Dr. King preach on the radio.
As a college student in Tennessee he signed up for Jim Lawson’s workshops on
the tactic of nonviolent civil disobedience. John Lewis was getting something
inside his head. An idea he couldn’t shake. It took hold of him. That
nonviolent resistance and civil disobedience were the means to change laws but
also change hearts and change minds and change nations and change the world.
So he
helped organize the Nashville campaign in 1960. He and other young men and
women sat at a segregated lunch counter, well dressed, straight back, refusing
to let a milkshake poured on their heads or a cigarette extinguished on their
backs or a foot aimed at their ribs—refuse to let that dent their dignity and their
sense of purpose. And after a few months the Nashville campaign achieved the
first successful desegregation of public facilities of any major city in the
south. John got a taste of jail for the first, second, third—well, several
times. But he also got a taste of victory and it consumed him with righteous
purpose and he took the battle deeper into the South.
That
same year, just weeks after the Supreme Court ruled that segregation of
interstate bus facilities was unconstitutional, John and Bernard Lafayette
bought two tickets, climbed aboard a Greyhound, sat up front, and refused to
move. This was months before the first official Freedom Rides. He was doing a
test. Trip was unsanctioned. Few knew what they were up to. And at every stop
through the night, apparently, the angry driver stormed out of the bus and into
the bus station. And John and Bernard had no idea what he might come back with.
Or who he might come back with. Nobody was there to protect them. There were no
camera crews to record events. We—you know, sometimes, Rev—we read about this
and we kind of take it for granted. Or at least we, we act as if it was
inevitable.
Imagine
the courage of two people Malia’s age—younger than my oldest daughter. On their
own. To challenge an entire infrastructure of oppression. John was only 20
years old. But he pushed all 20 of those years to the center of the table,
betting everything, all of it, that his example could challenge centuries of
convention and generations of brutal violence and countless daily indignities
suffered by African Americans. Like John the Baptist preparing the way, like
those Old Testament prophets speaking truth to kings.
John
Lewis did not hesitate and he kept on, getting onboard buses and sitting at
lunch counters, got his mug shot taken again and again. Marched again and again
on a mission to change America. Spoke to a quarter of a million people at the
March on Washington when he was just 23. Helped organize the Freedom Summer in
Mississippi when he was just 24. At the ripe old age of 25, John was asked to
lead the march from Selma to Montgomery. He was warned that Governor Wallace
had ordered troopers to use violence. But he and Hosea Williams and others led
them across that bridge anyway. And we’ve all seen the film and the footage and
the photographs. President Clinton mentioned the trench coat, the nap sack, the
book to read, the apple to eat, the tooth brush. Apparently, jails weren’t big
on such creature comforts. And you look at those pictures and John looked so
young and he’s small in stature. Looking every bit that shy, serious child that
his mother had raised, and yet, he’s full of purpose. God put perseverance in
him.
And
we know what happened to the marchers that day. Their bones were cracked by
billy clubs. Their eyes and lungs choked with tear gas. They knelt to pray,
which made their heads easier targets. And John was struck in the skull. And he
thought he was going to die, surrounded by the sight of young Americans gagging
and bleeding and trampled. Victims in their own country of state-sponsored
violence.
And
the thing is, I imagine initially that day the troopers thought they’d won the
battle. You can imagine the conversations they had afterwards. You can imagine
them saying “Yeah, we showed them.” They figured they’d turn the protesters
back over the bridge. That they’d kept, they’d preserved a system that denied
the basic humanity of their fellow citizens. Except this time there were some
cameras there. This time the world saw what happened, bore witness to Black Americans,
who were asking for nothing more than to be treated like other Americans, who
were not asking for special treatment, just equal treatment, promised to them a
century before, and almost another century before that. And when John woke up
and checked himself out of the hospital, he would make sure the world saw a
movement that was, in the words of Scripture, “hard pressed on every side but
not crushed. Perplexed, but not in despair. Persecuted but not Abandoned.
Struck down but not destroyed.” They returned to Brown Chapel, a battered
prophet, bandages around his head, and he said, “More marchers will come now.”
And the people came. And the troopers parted. And the marchers reached
Montgomery. And their words reached the White House. And Lyndon Johnson, son of
the South, said, “We shall overcome.” And the Voting Rights Act was signed into
law.
The
life of John Lewis was, in so many ways, exceptional. It vindicated the faith
in our founding. Redeemed that faith. That most American of ideas, the idea
that any of us, ordinary people without rank or wealth or title or fame, can
somehow point out the imperfections of this nation and come together and
challenge the status quo. And decide that it is in our power to remake this
country, that we love, until it more closely aligns with our highest ideals.
What a radical idea. What a revolutionary notion. This idea that any of us
ordinary people, a young kid from Troy, can stand up to the powers and
principalities and say “No, this isn’t right, this isn’t true, this isn’t just.
We can do better.” On the battlefield of justice, Americans like John,
Americans like Lowery and C.T. Vivian, two other patriots we lost this year,
liberated all of us. That many Americans came to take for granted. America was
built by people like them. America was built by John Lewises. He, as much as
anyone in our history, brought this country a little bit closer to our highest
ideals. And someday when we do finish that long journey towards freedom, when
we do form a more perfect union, whether it’s years from now or decades or even
if it takes another two centuries, John Lewis will be a founding father of that
fuller, fairer, better America.
And
yet as exceptional as John was, here’s the thing: John never believed that what
he did was more than any citizen of this country can do. I mentioned in the
statement the day John passed, the thing about John was how gentle and humble
he was. And despite this storied, remarkable career, he treated everyone with
kindness and respect because it was innate to him, this idea that any of us can
do what he did—if we’re willing to persevere. He believed that in all of us
there exists the capacity for great courage. That in all of us, there’s a
longing to do what’s right. That in all of us there’s a willingness to love all
people, and extend to them their God-given rights. So many of us lose that
sense. It’s taught out of us. We start feeling as if in fact we can’t afford to
extend kindness or decency to other people. That we’re better off if we’re
above other people and looking down on them and so often that’s encouraged in
our culture. But John always said he always saw the best in us and he never
gave up and never stopped speaking out because he saw the best in us. He
believed in us even when we didn’t believe in ourselves.
And
as a congressman, he didn’t rest. He kept getting himself arrested. As an old
man, he didn’t sit out any fight, sat in all night long on the floor of the
United States Capitol. I know his staff was stressed. But the testing of his
faith produced perseverance. He knew that the march is not over. That the race
is not yet won. That we have not yet reached that blessed destination, where we
are judged by the content of our character. He knew from his own life that
progress is fragile, that we have to be vigilant against the darker currents of
this country’s history. Of our own history. Where there are whirlpools of
violence and hatred and despair that can always rise again. Bull Connor may be
gone, but today we witness with our own eyes, police officers kneeling on the
necks of Black Americans. George Wallace may be gone, but we can witness our
federal government sending agents to use tear gas and batons against peaceful
demonstrators.
We
may no longer have to guess the number of jellybeans in a jar in order to cast
a ballot, but even as we sit here, there are those in power who are doing their
darnedest to discourage people from voting by closing polling locations and
targeting minorities and students with restrictive ID laws and attacking our voting
rights with surgical precision, even undermining the Postal Service in the
runup to an election that’s going to be dependent on mail-in ballots so people
don’t get sick.
I
know this is a celebration of John’s life. There are some who might say we
shouldn’t dwell on such things. But that’s why I’m talking about it. John Lewis
devoted his time on this Earth fighting the very attacks on democracy and
what’s best in America that we’re seeing circulate right now. He knew that
every single one of us has a God-given power and that the faith of this
democracy depends on how we use it. That democracy isn’t automatic. It has to
be nurtured. It has to be tended to. We have to work at it. It’s hard. And so
he knew that it depends on whether we summoned a measure, just a measure of
John’s moral courage to question what’s right and what’s wrong. And call things
as they are. He said that as long as he had a breath in his body, he would do
everything he could to preserve this democracy and as long as we have breath in
our bodies, we had to continue his cause.
If we
want our children to grow up in a democracy, not just with elections, but a
true democracy, a representative democracy, and a big-hearted tolerant,
vibrant, inclusive America of perpetual self-creation, then we’re going to have
to be more like John. We don’t have to do all the things he had to do because
he did them for us. But we got to do something. As the Lord instructed Paul,
“Do not be afraid. Go on speaketh. Do not be silent. For I am with you and no
one will attack you to harm you for I have many in this city who are my
people.” It’s just everybody’s got to come out and vote. We got all those
people in the city but they can’t do nothing. Like John, we’ve got to keep
getting into that good trouble. He knew that nonviolent protest is patriotic, a
way to raise public awareness and put a spotlight on injustice and make the
powers that be uncomfortable. Like John, we don’t have to choose between
protests and politics. It’s not an either/or situation. It’s a both/and
situation. We have to engage in protests where that’s effective but we also
have to translate our passion and our causes into laws. Institutional
practices. That’s why John ran for Congress 34 years ago. Like John, we’ve got
to fight even harder for the most powerful tool that we have, which is the
right to vote.
The
Voting Rights Act is one of the crowning achievements of our democracy. It’s
why John crossed that bridge, why he spilled that blood. And by the way it was
the result of Democrat and Republican efforts. President Bush, who spoke here
earlier, and his father, signed its renewal when they were in office. President
Clinton didn’t have to because it was the law when he arrived. So instead he
made a law to make it easier for people to register to vote. But once the
Supreme Court weakened the Voting Rights Act, some state legislators unleashed
a flood of laws designed specifically to make voting harder, especially, by the
way, state legislators where there’s a lot of minority turnout and population
growth. That’s not necessarily a mystery or an accident. It was an attack on
what John fought for. It was an attack on our democratic freedoms and we should
treat it as such. If politicians want to honor John, and I’m so grateful for
the legacy and work of all the congressional leaders who are here, but there’s
a better way than a statement calling him a hero. You want to honor John? Let’s
honor him by revitalizing the law that he was willing to die for. And by the
way, naming the John Lewis Voting Rights Act, that is a fine tribute. But John
wouldn’t want us to stop there. Just trying to get back to where we already
were.
Once
we pass the John Lewis Voting Rights Act, we should keep marching to make it
even better by making sure every American is automatically registered to vote,
including former inmates who’ve earned their second chance. By adding polling
places and expanding early voting and making Election Day a national holiday,
so if you are somebody who’s working in a factory or you’re a single mom, who’s
got to go to her job and doesn’t get time off, you can still cast your ballot.
By guaranteeing that every American citizen has equal representation in our
government, including the American citizens who live in Washington, D.C., and
in Puerto Rico. They’re Americans. By ending some of the partisan
gerrymandering, so that all voters have the power to choose their politicians,
not the other way around. And
if all this takes eliminating the filibuster, another Jim Crow relic, in order
to secure the God-given rights of every American, then that’s what we should
do.
Now,
even if we do all this, even if every bogus voter-suppression law is struck off
the books today, we’ve got to be honest with ourselves that too many of us
choose not to exercise the franchise. Too many of our citizens believe their
vote won’t make a difference or they buy into the cynicism that, by the way, is
the central strategy of voter suppression, to make you discouraged, to stop
believing in your own power. So, we’re also going to have to remember what John
said. If you don’t do everything you can do to change things, then they will
remain the same. You only pass this way once. You have to give it all you have.
As long as young people are protesting in the streets hoping real change takes
hold, I’m hopeful, but we can’t casually abandoned them at the ballot box. Not
when few elections have been as urgent on so many levels as this one. We can’t
treat voting as an errand to run if we have some time. We have to treat it as
the most important action we can take on behalf of democracy, and like John, we
have to give it all we have.
I was proud that John Lewis was a friend of mine. I met him when
I was in law school. He came to speak. And I went up and I said, “Mr. Lewis,
you are one of my heroes. What inspired me more than anything as a young man
was to see what you and Reverend Lawson and Bob Moses and Diane Nash and others
did.” And he got that kind of “Aw shucks, thank you very much.” Next time I saw
him I’d been elected to the United States Senate. And I told him, “John, I’m
here because of you.” And on Inauguration Day in 2008-2009, he was one of the
first people I greeted and hugged on that stand. And I told him, “This is your
day too.”
He
was a good and kind and gentle man. And he believed in us. Even when we don’t
believe in ourselves. And it’s fitting that the last time John and I shared a
public forum was on Zoom. And I’m pretty sure neither he nor I set up the Zoom
call because we didn’t know how to work it. It was a virtual town hall with a
gathering of young activists, who had been helping to lead this summer’s
demonstrations in the wake of George Floyd’s death. And afterward, I spoke to
John privately. And he could not have been prouder to see this new generation
of activists standing up for freedom and equality. A new generation that was
intent on voting and protecting the right to vote. In some cases, a new
generation running for political office. And I told him all those young people,
John, of every race and every religion, from every background and gender and
sexual orientation—John, those are your children. They learned from your
example, even if they didn’t always know it. They had understood through him
what American citizenship requires, even if they’d only heard about his courage
through the history books.
By
the thousands, faceless, anonymous young people, Black and white, have taken
our nation “back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the
Founding Fathers in the formulation of the Constitution and the Declaration of
Independence.” Dr. King said that in the 1960s. And it came true again this
summer. We see it outside our windows in big cities and rural towns. In men and
women, young and old, straight Americans, and LGBTQ Americans, Blacks, who long
for equal treatment and whites, who can no longer accept freedom for themselves
while witnessing the subjugation of their fellow Americans. We see it in
everybody doing the hard work of overcoming complacency, of overcoming our own
fears and our own prejudices, our own hatreds. You see it in people trying to
be better, truer versions of ourselves.
And that’s what John Lewis teaches us. That’s where real courage
comes from, not from turning on each other, but by turning towards one another.
Not by sowing hatred and division but by spreading love and truth. Not by
avoiding our responsibilities to create a better America and a better world,
but by embracing those responsibilities with joy and perseverance and
discovering that, in our beloved community, we do not walk alone.
What a gift John Lewis was. We are all so lucky
to have had him walk with us for a while and show us the way. God bless you
all. God bless America. God bless this gentle soul who pulled it closer to its
promise. Thank you very much.
