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Mary Brooke Casad (girl at right) witnessed her parent’s stand for
civil rights in the 1960s in Monroe, La., where her father (left) was
founding pastor of St. Paul’s Methodist Church. A UMNS photo courtesy of
Mary Brook Casad.
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A UMNS Commentary
By Mary Brooke Casad*
1:00 P.M. ET February 28, 2012
Sixty years ago, when my parents, Ben and Nancy Oliphint, were newlyweds, they started a new church in Monroe, La.
A small group of charter members joined them every Sunday night for
Bible study and book reviews of contemporary theologians. The group
called itself simply “Sunday Night Study Group.”
Over the years, as St. Paul’s Methodist Church
grew, so did the ties between these couples. Strong friendships were
forged through hours of study and prayer as together they struggled
with the call of discipleship on their lives in the context of the
segregated South. It was this group who stood with my parents during
the trying times of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1960s.
Inspired by hearing Martin Luther King Jr. give a speech in Chicago, my father quoted him in sermons. Bishop Aubrey Walton received calls of complaint. Several parishioners wanted Dr. Oliphint moved.
“The only reason they could give was that they didn’t like my views
on civil rights,” I remember my dad saying when he recounted the story.
“Bishop Walton told them that was not grounds for moving a pastor.”
Helping a man to vote
Under the Jim Crow laws, a black person could register to vote only
with the endorsement of a white person. St. Paul’s custodian, a black
man named Samuel Tucker, asked my father to go with him to the
courthouse to register to vote. A church officer was waiting for my
father in the church parking lot when he returned.
“Do you see this church that you built?” he asked my father,
pointing to the building. “Now you’re tearing it down, brick by brick.”
Soon the bomb threats, harassing phone calls and letters to the
editor in the local newspaper began, followed by a summons to the
Louisiana House Committee on Un-American Activity.
And, then, one night, when my father was meeting with his very
supportive district superintendent, the Rev. Ed Hauk, my mother called
to say there was a burning cross in our parsonage front yard. She later
spoke of her gratitude for Rev. Hauk and how he stayed on the phone
with her as my father hurriedly drove home.
At the next meeting of the St. Paul’s administrative board, a
resolution was presented that stated if black persons attempted to
worship at the church, they would be given directions to the nearest
black church and asked to leave. My father said if the resolution were
approved, he could no longer be their pastor because St. Paul’s would
have ceased to be a church — it would have become a country club. The
board chair, a member of the Sunday Night Study Group, announced there
would be a roll-call vote. A motion to table the resolution was quickly
made and passed. The meeting adjourned.
The next day, half of the congregation left, taking one-third of the
budget with them. “But God provided,” my father said. “We had a
shortfall of $40,000, which was exactly the amount we had in the
savings account.”
Destructive riots began sweeping across many Southern cities. Monroe
city leaders decided to integrate quietly by opening the doors of
shops and restaurants to all its citizens.
Shielded from the trials
My younger brothers and I were shielded from many of the trials our
parents faced, but I remember a period of tension when I was not
allowed to answer the telephone, when they moved me to a makeshift bed
in my dad’s study at the back of the house, out of my front bedroom
with the large windows. It would be many years before my dad could talk
about this painful time of threats and divisiveness. Most of my
memories are based on those later conversations.
But, as the Sunday Night Study Group began to reassemble at the feet
of the Master, and their children gathered for memorial services, the
stories have been told again and again. As the daughter of the
administrative board chair said of that time, “It was the defining
moment of our childhood.” We have all agreed that our parents’ bold
stand was their finest legacy.
My dad always said it was the Methodist pastors who helped bring
about civil rights in Louisiana through their brave stances and bold
witnesses, supported by many good Methodist lay folk. He would tell
their stories with great admiration. Across the years, I’ve met many
“preachers’ kids” with stories similar to my own.
St. Paul’s United Methodist Church celebrates its 60th birthday this
year. Martin Luther King Jr., whom my dad quoted in his sermons to the
dismay of some church members then, now has a national holiday named
in his honor. America has an African-American president. There is much
to celebrate about the changes that have taken place in the years since
my childhood.
But there is still much to be done. That’s why I’m thankful for the
many faithful congregations across our world, where there are clergy
and laity studying God’s word together, asking the hard questions of
what discipleship means in our day, seeking to live as true followers
of Jesus, taking courageous stands in their communities.
May the stories of the faithful who have gone before us continue to embolden us in seeking justice for all God’s children.
*Casad is executive secretary of the Connectional Table.
News media contact: Maggie Hillery, Nashville, Tenn., (615) 742-5470 or newsdesk@umcom.org.
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