As I watched the evening news with my parents and saw reports on the Civil Rights activities of the early 1960s, human rights activist Diane Nash was coordinating peaceful sit-ins at segregated lunch counters in Nashville, Tennessee. The success of the sit-ins in Tennessee and North Carolina, along with her participation with the Freedom Riders, would bring Nash to the forefront of the student campaign of the Civil Rights Movement and her co-founding of the Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC).

As we stand on the shoulders of those who came before us, we must continue their stride for equality because we have not reached that gateway yet. “Freedom, by definition, is people realizing that they are their own leaders,” Nash said. As a member of my generation, her story resonates with my own and challenges me still.

Diane Nash in Louisville, Kentucky, February 1963, Carl and Anne Braden Papers, WHS

As the product of a military family, living most of my childhood on military bases, I experienced overt racism only when visiting or traveling to my southern roots in Louisiana. Diane Nash was born in 1938 to a middle-class Catholic family and raised in Chicago. “Because I grew up in Chicago, I didn’t have an emotional relationship to segregation. I understood the facts and stories, but there was no an emotional relationship,” she later noted.

Nash chose to attend Howard University in Washington, D.C. but after one year transferred to Fisk University in Nashville, Tennessee, where she would experience the intensity of Jim Crow laws and the efforts of Black people to gain their equal rights. She was furious but used her anger against segregation to become a renowned activist.

While travelling to my tiny hometown of Opelousas, Louisiana, my family met with racism at motels, restaurants, and gas stations as we motored across country from Army Base to Army Base. My parents would trade off driving all night long to avoid having to search for a hotel that welcomed Black people. They also packed lunches in a cooler to avoid trying to find a restaurant that would serve us. When having to stop for gas, we were forced to either use the filthy restrooms for “coloreds” or stopped alongside of the highway while my father stood guard.

“Diane, you’ve gotten in with the wrong people!” Nash’s grandmother said to her about her affiliation with the Civil Rights Movement. But Nash was not only affiliated with the movement, she had become a leader. She encouraged the students in Nashville to protest the segregated lunch counters by sitting peacefully in seats, while being beaten, where paying white customers would usually sit.

The Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC), co-founded by Nash, was also founded in 1960 because of the student sit-ins and became the major channel of participation for the students in the Civil Rights Movement. Members of the SNCC worked closely with other major organizations such as the National Advancement of Colored People (NAACP), the Congress of Racial Equality (CORE), and Martin Luther King’s Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC). Nashville became the first southern city to desegregate lunch counters in the United States.

Nash would meet and marry James Bevel, a Minister as well as a Civil Rights Activist, in 1961. They would have two children. In 1961, Nash was arrested for “contributing to the delinquency of minors,” because she led young people in the fight against segregation. She would be arrested many times including spending 30 days in jail in South Carolina and once while she was six months pregnant.

On May 1, 1961, 13 activists joined together to plan one of the most dangerous challenges to segregation; the Freedom Riders, a non-violent protest designed to end segregation on interstate buses and in bus terminals. The protesters began in Washington and traveled throughout the South on Greyhound and Trailway buses. When the buses were burned and the Freedom Riders beaten by white mobs, the Nashville Student Central Committee was alerted, and Diane Nash led the new group.

Because of the violence that the Freedom Riders were subjected to, Attorney General Robert Kennedy objected to the protests and had his assistant, John Seigenthaler, speak to Nash directly. Nash explained that the Freedom Riders were well aware of the dangers they faced and had even written their wills, in case they died on one of the rides, and given them to Nash.

In 1963, after the bombing of the church in Birmingham, Alabama, and the death of four little girls, Diane Nash and her husband took on the issue of voting rights. Nash was also a member of the committee that promoted the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Today, at 83 years of age, Nash still advocates for fair housing in Chicago, where she works in real estate. All of these issues are still with and demand our urgent attention and participation today.

Nita Clarke is a Black Catholic writer who attends St. Peter Claver Catholic Church in Lexington, Kentucky.

As I write from my home in Arlington, Virginia, newly elected Governor Glenn Youngkin has opened a “hotline” for parents of school-age children and teens to report teachers for teaching lessons that make students feel “uncomfortable.” Under the guise of stamping out “critical race theory” in public schools, Youngkin has radically politicized the classroom.

I wonder how my former high school teaching colleagues, who are required by law to teach about slavery, the use of violence to control slaves, and later freed Black persons, are faring. Do they worry that a student –- or their parents -– may be uncomfortable with lessons on the freedom riders or the beating of John Lewis at the Edmund Pettus Bridge?

Robert P. Jones’s book, “White Too Long: The Legacy of White Supremacy in American Christianity” provides valuable insight into what is happening in Virginia and other states. The attempt at erasing history, replacing it with a sanitized restoration of a “golden age” is all too familiar. While the role of white supremacy is well documented in political and economic historical analysis, less understood is the primary role religion played to maintain white power and white institutions. Whatever the new governor says, it really should lead to white discomfort.

Jones, a Southern, white Christian who founded the Public Religion Research Institute (PRRI), traces the historical record of white supremacy in white Christian churches from the beginning of the colonization of America and institutional slavery, through the use of Bible texts and racist structures moving through our founding period before and during the Civil War.

He details how politicians supporting slavery served as church leaders legitimizing their standing in the community. Churches were dependent on contributions from slaveholders who used their wealth to fund the construction of churches as well as seminaries to teach the next generation of church leaders.

After the defeat of the Confederacy, white Christianity adapted both its theology and structures enabling it to spread from the Southern Christian churches to become mainstream throughout white Christian and Catholic churches in the latter half of the 20th Century.

From the creation post-Civil War of individualist theology, which insists that Christianity has little to say about social injustice, shielding white consciences from the evils and continued legacy of slavery and segregation, to the use of religious and cultural symbols honoring leaders of the Confederacy in an attempt to whitewash slavery, white Christian leaders bare responsibility for “damage to those who live outside the white Christian canopy.”

Jones ultimately challenges white Christians to live into their call for justice both to redeem relationships with those who suffer oppression and to claim their own humanity.  His book is a must-read particularly for those of us who are white and who want to do the work of racial justice and racial healing. We need an unvarnished telling of the many ways white supremacy has infected white churches. May this book disturb us in order to imagine and work towards dismantling and healing of our collective past.

Hear more from Robert P. Jones at NETWORK’s upcoming event, “White Supremacy and American Christianity” April 9 at 12:30 PM Eastern. Register for the event here.

“I wanted to talk to you over dinner tonight. There’s something very important that your dad and I are going to require of you.”

This was not the normal dinner banter my family and I had at the dinner table back in 1957. My brothers and I – aged 9, 11, and 13 – normally fought over who would get the best piece of whatever we were having that night, playfully teasing one another as our 18-year-old sister Carol dismissed us with sisterly disdain.

Deacon Art Miller is a permanent deacon of the Archdiocese of Hartford, Connecticut.

After a glowering look from our father, Mom continued: “There’s a country in Africa, called South Africa that has a system of governing the people that is horrible and evil. It’s called apartheid. It means to separate. They require that their Negro citizens carry passes with them at all times. These passes are so they can make sure the Negro people don’t go anywhere they are not supposed to go. The Black people have no rights. They can’t vote. They are put in jail and are treated very poorly.”

My older brother Pete, whose friend and classmate at McCosh Elementary School was Emmett Till, was suddenly quiet.

He found his voice and whispered; “That sounds a lot like Mississippi.”

Mom responded; “Yes, it does. That’s one of the reasons we in this family, are going to protest, like they are doing in the South. There’s a company here in America that’s helping the South African government create these passes. The name of the company is Polaroid. They make a camera that makes a picture instantly. So the government of South Africa is buying these cameras to make it easier to create those dreadful passes. So we are not going to allow anyone to bring a Polaroid camera into our home. We will not buy one, and we don’t want anyone to take your picture with one. Do you understand?”

We all quickly agreed with the family mandate.

Mom was rarely so severe. She was an elegant woman, profoundly intelligent and deliberate, but always gentle in her approach to our learning. We knew she was very, very serious. Even Dad was quiet, almost bowing his head in deference to her passion.

I looked up to see a most remarkable thing, rare for a man who was as impassionate as she was passionate. He reached out and touched her hand, very gently. Almost startled by the gesture, Mom smiled at him. He returned the smile and removed his hand from hers. With that it was done. Polaroid Corporation had lost a customer.

That company would never know that a Black family in a little third floor apartment on the south side of Chicago had taken a stand against a horrid injustice. The South African government, more than 8,000 miles away, had no idea nor could it care that this little family had stood up against its ungodly tyranny. But we did. We knew.

That night I learned what social justice truly meant. We learned there was a new and important way to love your neighbor, even if you didn’t know them. Even if you had never met them, they were still your neighbor. We learned on that long ago night that to love your neighbor was to suffer for them.

This idea of deep love was embodied by our mother. She was a friend to Mamie Till-Mobley, Emmett’s mother. We prayed for her and Emmett when all the terrible things happened. The women in the neighborhood had brought food and comfort to Ms. Mobley during those days of torment.

Mom particularly embraced our Catholic faith as a safe harbor during that time, where she found the comfort only God can provide. In every difficult moment we faced, her faith got us through. We, that small family from the south side of Chicago, learned well the tenets of our faith, that faith is never restricted to the Sunday morning Mass.

Our faith is not static but transportable. We are to apply our faith to the moments we live outside the building we call church. For we are the church, we are where the deposit of faith is to be made manifest. We are the church that lives in the world which breaks down anger and injects love, which enables generosity to overcome selfishness, which causes humility to be more important than pride.

The church lives as long as our faith lives.

Deacon Art Miller is a permanent deacon of the Archdiocese of Hartford and former head of the archdiocese’s Office for Black Catholic Ministries, which has since closed.