SPENCER PERKINS1Spencer Perkins is one of the pastors of Voice of Calvary Fellowship, Jackson, Mississippi.
Abortion—and the prolife movement—present black evangelicals with a dilemma. It is not that we question the evil of abortion; Jesus clearly would have condemned it. But for me, a black man, to join your demonstrations against abortion, I would need to know that you understand God’s concern for justice everywhere.
It is hard for me, for example, not to be distracted by the faces I see leading the prolife crusade. Aren’t some of these the same people who 20 years ago were calling Martin Luther King, Jr., a Communist? Are they not the same people who 15 years ago moved out of the neighborhood in which I now live because too many blacks were moving in? Or aren’t they the same Christians who opened private schools as soon as the courts ordered desegregation in the South in order to avoid any contact with us?
When it comes to abortion, these experiences have led to a credibility gap. Ever since I can remember, it has been almost axiomatic that if we blacks took a stand on an issue, conservative evangelical Christians would line up on the opposite side of the street, blocking our way. The gulf between us is so deep that it is hard to imagine us on the same side of an issue.
When Love Is Costly
When I was growing up in Mississippi, we were taught that the evidence of love for Christ was love for neighbor. I always asked if that meant that I had to love white people, too. The answer was always the same: “especially white people.” Even after my father, John Perkins, was severely tortured and beaten almost to death by angry white men blinded by hatred and prejudice, the answer was the same: “especially white people.” Since it was increasingly obvious in the sixties that white people did not love us, I wondered if there were no white Christians south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
The wounds of racism and oppression still cut deep. Just how deep was made plain to me by comments made by a black single mother while she watched white antiabortion protesters on the evening news. “Do you think they would care if only black babies were being aborted?” she asked. Many of us, even now, struggle with our answer. I know this sounds callous, but such sentiment demonstrates the magnitude of the gulf between us and illustrates our desperate need for reconciliation.
The issues get even more complex. For blacks who have a huge stake in the well-being of the black neighborhood, what does the reality of “zero abortions” mean? How many more female-headed households would be created? How many more young women would be trapped in the cycle of poverty and dependence on welfare? How many more gang members would these families produce? Wouldn’t the ghettos be twice as large in just a few years? Wouldn’t the crime rate soar? Wouldn’t the prisons overflow? Who would take care of all of these children?
Am I not right in assuming that as the ghettos became larger and more dangerous, these same antiabortionists would move farther and farther into the suburbs, taking little or no responsibility for the social consequences of the lives they helped save?
Hope For Healing
These questions are real to us; before I can pick up a picket sign and join in this parade—before I can join hands with you and sing “We Shall Overcome,” and certainly before I can go to jail with you—some of my fears need to be calmed. I need to feel secure that you have had a change of heart. I have heard very few Southern evangelicals admit they were on the wrong side of the race issues back in the fifties, sixties, and early seventies. I have never heard any of them say that they should have blocked the entrances to the jails where we were beaten and tortured, or taken a stand with us when we wanted equal access to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” In fact, over the past few years there have been only a few Southern, white, evangelical Christians who have asked our forgiveness and extended a hand in reconciliation. On the contrary, for every step we take in their direction, it seems that most take another step toward the suburbs.
This is the truth as we see it—the truth that needs to be heard in order for healing to take place in the Christian church, black and white. Healing will be hindered as long as Christians let their “Thus saith the Lord” on one issue be the evidence of their righteousness—at the expense of a lifestyle of justice. As Christians we are called to be “prolife,” but that must have more than a narrow meaning, for life without dignity is a fate worse than death. A true prolife perspective must include a concern for justice in all its forms.
A recent incident illuminates the contradictions and frustrations surrounding the abortion issue because this broader prolife concern has not always been in evidence. One of the black women in our church was tending the nursery a few months ago while a Right to Life meeting was being held. Our church, Voice of Calvary Fellowship, is unusual for a Southern church in that the racial make-up is approximately half black and half white. Some of the white brothers and sisters of our church are passionately involved in the prolife movement, which is probably why the meeting was held at our church. One local white woman obviously did not realize our racial mix and did not prepare her children for what they would encounter. When they walked into the building, the first thing they saw was the skin color of our black children. One of the woman’s boys immediately asked in disgust, “What kind of church is this?” His brother’s response summed up what these young boys felt about their black brothers and sisters: “We’d better be careful what we touch here,” he said, drawing his hands back as if fearing contamination.
I have to wonder at the answer these young white children are given in words and deeds when they ask the question, “Does loving my neighbor mean loving blacks too?”
Where Strategies Meet
Being prolife and demanding an unborn baby’s “right to life” is a high calling. But I believe that God cares about a deeper principle—a “right to justice”; that is, a right to a decent quality of life.
It is not a simple, glib response, then, when I must counsel an unwed black teenager against an abortion, even though I believe with all my heart that abortion is morally wrong. I feel that if the love of Christ compels me to save the lives of children, that same love should compel me to take more responsibility for them once they are born. Until Christians like me are willing to offer more than counseling for prospective mothers, until the Christian church is willing to take responsibility for the quality of life of these mothers and children, whatever that may entail, then our crusade for the lives of unwanted children will continue to be perceived as lacking integrity, especially in the black community.
For me, the issue is not about abortion—whether it is wrong or right to kill unborn children. The issue for me is much deeper—whether together we will embrace a Christianity committed to justice for all, or whether we will remain apart and fight our separate battles. Perhaps the abortion controversy is the vehicle God will use to bring us together.
As for answering the question, “Where do black Christians stand on abortion?” it looks to me as if we are on the same side of a moral issue. But if, from where you stand, you insist the battle is against abortion, while we believe the battle is against injustice, our strategies must remain different. We believe your plans for an all-out war on abortion will prove to be shortsighted. When and if you win the abortion battle, the war will be over for you and you will be able to return home. Then we will be left to undertake the reconstruction. Therefore, our strategy must continue to be the fight against injustice—a war with many battle fronts. Where abortion will rank in our battle plan will depend on the strength of the relationship we can establish in the future and on how much your burdens and concerns, because of that relationship, can become ours.
