With Justice for All: A Strategy for Community Development

PERKINS

INTRODUCTION

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal . . . With these words the Declaration of Independence of the United States of America holds out the noble promise of justice for all. Yet the very signing of this landmark of human freedom betrayed its own promise. For among its signers stood men who at that very moment owned other men. Justice for all didn’t really mean justice for all: it meant justice for some. The inalienable right of liberty belonged only to the privileged.

To this day our nation has not lived up to its goal of justice for all. Would anyone claim that a child trapped in the ghetto has equal access to quality education as his suburban counterpart? Would anyone claim that the teenage girl in the ghetto has the same chance of getting a summer job as the girl from an affluent family? Or that the ethnic young adult, deprived of good education and job experience, has an equal chance of making it in the American job market?

Poverty, you see, is much more than lack of money; poverty is the lack of options. For millions in our land there is not justice. For them, equal opportunity is at best an elusive dream; at worst a cruel taunt.

But this is not a book of despair; it is a book of hope. Though our nation has failed to live up to its own ideal of justice, I believe it can. I believe that justice for all can become a reality in America. Government alone though, however good, can never bring justice. I am convinced that the promise which our nation’s laws alone have been powerless to fulfill can only be fulfilled in one way—through the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Yes, the gospel has this power. I know, for I have seen it bring hope to the hopeless; I have seen it empower the powerless to break the chains of oppression. I am persuaded that the Church, as the steward of this gospel, holds the key to justice in our society. Either justice will come through us or it will not come at all.

A few years ago I tried to challenge the Gospel Light staff with the urgency of this mission. After I spoke, my friend Bill Greig, who was president at the time, came up to me. John, he suggested, "why don’t you follow up Let Justice Roll Down with a book that explains how we Christians in America can work for biblical justice? We’ll call it With Justice for All."

As the months passed, I became more and more convinced that the book was needed. I watched the American evangelical church mushroom in numbers while losing the battle against crime and immorality. The church was not transforming our society. The Moral Majority emerged and made a political statement—maybe a needed statement—yet one that ignored the plight of the disenfranchised. I began to wonder if conservative evangelicals were making the same grave error the liberals had made—seeking political solutions to moral problems.

In the years since Watergate, Koreagate and Abscam, we’ve had the Twin Towers, skyrocketing crime rates, and increased levels of hatred toward Christians and Jews like we’ve never before seen in our lifetime. A generation of young American soldiers are returning from the ravages of war in Iraq and Afghanistan. Hurricane Katrina has ravaged New Orleans. The middle class is shrinking and the poor are increasing in alarming numbers. These all add even more to the sense of urgency I felt when I wrote this book. As I said then, I repeat now: Christians need to act!

This book is an invitation—an invitation to join me in proclaiming and living out the gospel in a way that brings good news to the poor and liberty to the oppressed (see Luke 4:18). It is an invitation to white and black, Jew and Gentile, to every racial and ethnic group in our nation to be reconciled to one another, to work together to make our land all God wants it to be. And it is a blueprint—a practical strategy by which American evangelicals can do the work of biblical justice in our own land.

When I used to attend the World Vision board meetings, I was bombarded by the cries and suffering of the people of the world. In the face of such overwhelming need I feel utterly helpless.

Yet I know where we have to start. To correct economic injustice, we must pursue a strategy of development—empowering people to become self-sufficient through the power of the gospel. Yes, the very lives of the victims of famine and war depend on our relief efforts. We dare not neglect those needs. But the greater need is for development—to break the cycle of poverty, so that today’s receivers become tomorrow’s givers.

The growing social awareness in American evangelical churches encourages me. Some of our largest congregations are raising big offerings for overseas hospitals or giving other compassionate responses to the needy. That is good. But it is not enough. Far more than they need our money, the poor need us—people. People with skills who will work with them and teach them how to become self-sufficient.

This book maps a strategy for just that kind of development. It is my attempt to share what God has taught me about ministry. Because God usually teaches me through real life experiences, this book is full of stories from my life. Naturally, many of the stories in this book have been told before in Let Justice Roll Down and A Quiet Revolution. Unlike Let Justice Roll Down, however, which tells my life story, these events are not all in chronological order. I tell each story to share with you how God first taught me some ministry principle, or to illustrate that principle.

To help you to personalize the ministry principles, reflection questions for personal or group study follow each chapter. For groups ready to move beyond talking about justice to doing justice, instructions for six interaction sessions are included at the end of the book. These are so designed that visitors to the group who have not read the book can participate in all the activities, making these activities suitable for such groups as a Sunday School class or an open small group.

In this book, I lay out the need for such a strategy—why evangelism is not enough, and how both white evangelicals and the black church have failed to rise to the challenge of biblical justice in America. I describe how God nurtured within me the dream for Voice of Calvary (VOC) and then gave me a strategy to do what He had called me to do. I call this strategy the Three Rs of Christian Community Development—relocation, reconciliation, and redistribution.

It was during an incredible night of horrors many years ago as I was being viciously beaten by policemen in Brandon, Mississippi, that I heard and accepted God’s call to a ministry of reconciliation between blacks and whites. In these pages I tell that story. I also report on our efforts to engage the work of reconciliation through a new ministry in Jackson, Mississippi; and I review the fruits of Voice of Calvary’s decades of ministry in the heart of that racially torn state.

In these pages I offer practical suggestions for implementing the three principles of relocation, reconciliation and redistribution. Like a three-legged stool, they cannot work one without the other. They operate in unity, consecutively, and from a heart of compassion for people in need.

The earth does not belong to you and me, but to God. We are only its stewards. God provided the earth for all mankind. God’s Justice is achieved by working with Him to share His resources with the disenfranchised of the world.

Though conceived in compassion, most of the so-called poverty programs of our great nation are ineffective in helping to develop people. In this book I propose a fundamental change in government’s role in assisting the poor, and I reveal ways to make our economic free enterprise system work for those in impoverished communities.

This strategy of Christian community development calls for effective leaders. What kind of leader can be effective in this task? Nehemiah, by his example, paints a powerful picture of just such a leader. Just as Nehemiah challenged his countrymen to join him in rebuilding the wall of Jerusalem, I extend my challenge to you—my fellow countrymen, my fellow Christians: Come, let us rebuild the wall of America!

THE NEED

1

EVANGELISM IS NOT ENOUGH

It was one of the best things that ever happened to me. It seemed to come out of the blue. I had no inkling that it was coming before that Sunday afternoon in the fall of 1961. That was the day I got kicked out of the church.

Just my being in that little church in Mendenhall, Mississippi, wasn’t exactly my idea. I had left the state at age 17—for good. Or so I thought. Coming back was the last thing I wanted to do.

You see, back then blacks in rural Mississippi had three choices: (1) We could stay, accept the system and become dehumanized niggers; (2) we could go to jail or get killed; or (3) we could leave for the big city. For my family it didn’t seem safe to stay, so most of us made off for California.

Growing up for me wasn’t filled with the kind of fond memories that might make me want to go back home. Momma died a slow, painful death of pellagra when I was seven months old, from lack of milk and medical care. About the time Momma died, my father left home and gave all of us kids—Clyde, Mary, Clifton, Emma Jean and me—to his mother. Grandma Perkins—Aunt Babe, people called her—had already raised 19 kids of her own. In time she had to give three of us kids away. She kept me because I was little and sickly. She kept Clyde too, because he was big enough to plow.

We were sharecroppers. Sharecroppers and bootleggers. We lived on Mr. Bush’s plantation in a three-room shack with our aunts and uncles and cousins. There were always at least 12 of us, sometimes as many as 15, living there.

During my teens, tragedy struck my family repeatedly. Mary’s boyfriend killed her in Louisiana. I never knew the details. Then Clyde got shot by a deputy marshall. He rode in my arms to the hospital in Jackson, 50 miles away. A few hours later he died. Other members of my family were killed too, all within just a few years. Bitterness and hatred ate at me. That’s when I left Mississippi. I was going to put all that behind me once and for all.

In California I found all kinds of new opportunities. I got a good job at Union Pacific Foundry in South Gate and soon was organizing the work of the men on the production line. When we joined the United Steel Workers Union, although I was still a teen, I was chosen as our department’s union steward. Before long I was in the thick of organizing a strike that won us several benefits, including a piecework provision that sometimes brought me as much as $100 a week—not bad money for back then. I’ve never forgotten the power of united action.

In the spring of 1957, the gospel of Jesus Christ confronted me. By then I had been through the Korean War, gotten married to Vera Mae, and started a family. My oldest son, Spencer, was going to the weekly Good News Clubs at a little church just down the street from our house. Spencer started coming home and saying verses before we began to eat—something we had never done before. I watched Spencer. I saw something beautiful developing in him, something I knew nothing about. Never before had I seen Christianity really work in anyone’s life.

Before long I joined my wife and children in attending a little church in Pasadena that plainly taught the Word of God. Here I joined a class that was studying the life of Paul. I had never taken the Bible seriously before. I had always thought of it as a bunch of old wives’ tales and superstitions. But now I was eager to learn. This Paul really intrigued me. What made him tick? What motivated this man to suffer so much for a religion? If he had been going after money, I could have understood him. But religion! How could religion mean so much to anybody, even Paul? The question hounded me all summer.

The answer came as I grappled with Paul’s message of law and grace. In Galatians 2:20, Paul wrote, I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me; and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me (KJV). At age 27, for the first time in my life, I came to see that the Christian life was more than what I was seeing in the churches. It was the outliving of the in-living Christ! I knew Christ wasn’t living inside me. I felt a deep inner hunger to know Him in this personal way.

One Sunday morning the minister spoke from Romans 6:23: The wages of sin is death; but the gift of God is eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord (KJV). For the first time I saw that I was a sinner. I saw that I was committing my every act of sin against a holy God who loved me and had sent His Son to die for me. That morning I accepted the gift of eternal life. A joy filled my life. I felt just as though that was the day for which I had been born.

I started growing in my new life. I studied this mystery of God’s great love for me and His forgiveness for my sins. My church family nourished me in the Word. The director of Child Evangelism Fellowship for the San Gabriel Valley, Mr. Wayne Leitch, began to teach me. Hour after hour, day after day, he faithfully ministered the Word to me. Two days a week, an hour and a half each day, for two years he taught me, until he had led me from Genesis through Revelation.

I began to share this newfound joy with others. I rounded up children and brought them into my home to tell them about Jesus. There were about 28 of them, many of them young boys—boys who didn’t go to Sunday School, boys much like I had been.

I began going with some Christian businessmen to share my testimony with the young prisoners in the prison camps along the San Dimas Mountains. One morning as I told how I had dropped out of school between the third and fifth grades and how God had come into my life and transformed it, two young men broke down and cried. After the session, I talked with them. They told me that their lives were much like mine and that they too wanted to know Christ.

As those boys shared their life stories with me, it started me thinking about my own values and goals. Many of them had backgrounds just like mine. Some came from the deep South or were the children of families who came from there. They came to California just as I did, but for some reason they hadn’t made it.

Many of the problems in the ghetto, I was seeing, were really the unsolved problems of the South. This incident triggered a growing conviction that God wanted me to go back to Mississippi to identify with my people there, to help them break out of the cycle of despair—not by encouraging them to leave but by showing them new life right where they were.

An inner battle raged for the next two years. On the one hand I had a growing hunger to go back to Mississippi and share this newfound love of God with my people. On the other hand I was afraid. We were just beginning to make it. After the Korean War I started with another company as janitor and worked up into a leadership position. I was motivated. I loved my job. What I really loved, I think, was the result of working—the money. I saved money and bought stock in the company. My stock divided twice while I worked there. I bought a big 12-room house to raise my growing family. I was all set.

The lines of battle were drawn. Which would it be—the values of the world or sharing God’s Word in Mississippi?

I already had definite goals and was working hard to reach them. I didn’t want to give those up. So I worked all the harder on my job, trying to drown out this call. But it wouldn’t go away.

Another reason I didn’t want to go was that I realized I was inadequate. One night I had this incredible dream. I dreamed that I was preaching to a whole crowd of people in front of my house. That was really something—me preaching to all those people! Here I was, a third-grade dropout. No way would I ever be preaching to all those people! And so I kept rejecting the call.

I remember when my growing conviction became a command. I was giving my testimony to a church in Arcadia, California. My text came from Romans 10:1-2: Brethren, my heart’s desire and prayer to God for Israel is, that they might be saved. For I bear them record that they have a zeal of God, but not according to knowledge (KJV).

God took the power of Paul’s love for His people and shot it through me, saying, John, my desire for you is that you go back to Mississippi, because I bear your people witness that they have a zeal for God, but it is not enlightened.

I was reminded of the emotionalism of many of the congregations I had seen and heard. I thought of how little my people really knew about the Bible. It was true. My people had a zeal for God but not according to knowledge.

God was calling me. I could never be at home in California after that.

June 9, 1960, saw us arrive back in Mississippi—the same Mississippi I had once left for good. Vera Mae and I and our five children went to live with her grandmother down near New Hebron. During that summer we organized some vacation Bible schools. In the fall I started holding chapels in the public schools. Before long I was reaching about 15,000 kids a month over a five-county area. I also became the regular chaplain at Prentiss Institute, a black junior college. God was opening doors.

In February 1961, we found a house in Mendenhall, 17 miles away. I liked the location because Mendenhall was near the center of my area of ministry. Although our new house was right across the street from the Nazareth Baptist Church, every Sunday Vera Mae and I still drove back down to the Oak Ridge Church in New Hebron. Pretty soon, though, we saw that it made more sense to worship in Mendenhall and we made the change.

The people at the Mendenhall church had heard about me, so they asked me to be a guest teacher in the Sunday School class. They really enjoyed my teaching. This new open door really excited me because I saw it as an opportunity for evangelism. Evangelism was my one burning concern. I wanted to win people to Jesus Christ! I believed that if people would come to know Christ, their lives would be changed and everything would be okay. That belief, though, was about to be challenged.

The blacks in Mendenhall all lived across the tracks in the quarters, the section of town that had years before been set aside for slaves. As I walked the dirt streets in the quarters (only the uptown streets were paved), I passed shack after shack. The paint had long since peeled off most of the houses. Porches dropped. One makeshift room after another clung to the houses where they had been added to make room for growing families. The plumbing consisted of a lone water faucet beside each shack. A honky-tonk, a room attached to the side of a house and boasting a Coca-Cola sign above the door, graced each end of the street.

Poverty’s smells hung in the air. A strong blend of backyard pigpens, outhouses, and cow manure being burned as mosquito bombs on front porches was joined at supper time with the aroma of good Southern cooking.

People sat listlessly on their porches, their hopeless faces haunting me. At every house, it seemed, someone was sick. Children dogged my steps, begging for pennies. I didn’t yet realize that practically all of them had been born out of wedlock and then left behind with aunts or grandmothers by mothers moving on to the big city.

But of everything I saw, the one thing that most burdened me was the pregnant teenage girls. That year at Harper High alone, 17 got pregnant and dropped out of school with little or no prospect of ever going back to finish. In every single school where I worked, the story was repeated. With their education cut short, these girls’ best chance for rising above their poverty was gone. And the thing that amazed me was which girls were getting pregnant. They