Reflections on a Civil Rights Tour

The bus left Jackson, MS, carrying 41 people, including myself, on a journey that would become more meaningful with each passing mile. We traveled through Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia to places that marked some of the most powerful and painful chapters of civil rights history. This wasn’t just a sightseeing trip, it was an opportunity to come face-to-face with our past, to listen deeply, and perhaps to help create change. The journey was generously funded by donors, not the Mississippi Annual Conference, making it accessible to all who genuinely wanted to participate.

As I glanced around the bus, something struck me hard: only ten of us were white. And of those ten, just four adults were not employed by the conference office. Out of those four, only three were pastors.

This realization troubled me deeply. Where was everyone else? Some might point to the cost, but scholarships generously provided by donors removed this barrier completely. Yes, it was Spring Break, a time when families often have plans; but the presence of four families on our bus showed that prioritizing this trip was indeed doable. Comfort, too, could have been an easy excuse, but one attendee, who brought his heating pad and plugged it in on the bus to manage his back pain, proved that even significant discomfort could be navigated with enough commitment. And the excuse of not knowing about the trip fell flat as well, considering all the notices and informative videos sent out by the conference long in advance.

The difficult truth I realized was that for many who didn't join us, it simply boiled down to two things: the importance placed on confronting racial divisions and, particularly for white people, a reluctance to truly understand how actions of the past still affect lives today. I must confess, there have been times when I've been part of both groups. I've even said those naive words, "Why can't everyone just get past it?" But this trip, with its honest conversations and emotional places we visited, showed me exactly why moving past isn't that simple.

One particular conversation pierced my heart. We talked openly about the stereotype of absent black fathers. Someone gently yet firmly challenged me to think about history. Just five generations ago, families were torn apart, fathers ripped from their homes, never to return. There are still people alive today who lived through the 50s and 60s who remember their father or grandfather being forcibly taken from them forever. The trauma from those experiences continues to ripple through generations. Understanding this context made it clear why we haven't "just gotten past it."

But recognizing history doesn't mean bearing generational guilt. I'm not personally responsible for the horrific actions committed by people who looked like me in the past. However, I do have a responsibility now—to learn, to listen, and to stand against injustices that continue today. Ignorance isn't innocent; it's complicity. When I refuse to learn or refuse to acknowledge the pain, I allow those wounds to persist.

I've always had a strong desire to understand things, but hate has always felt incomprehensible to me, and therefore actions that arise from hate or feelings of superiority have been easy to avoid. But avoidance is exactly how ignorance thrives, and ignorance is how old wounds fester and remain open. This trip wasn’t just about history; it was a powerful call to action; a call to step out of comfort zones and truly engage with the reality of racial injustice.

As a white person, the discomfort I felt visiting these historic sites, hearing painful truths, and participating in raw conversations is exactly why this journey mattered so deeply. It forced me to recognize that racial reconciliation is not some distant, abstract idea; it’s intensely personal. It requires that we stop looking away and pretending it doesn't affect us or have anything to do with us. Instead, we must choose to take responsibility through education, empathy, and honest conversations.

This journey changed me. It revealed how wounds inflicted long ago still bleed into our present. It showed me that my own discomfort pales compared to the lifelong struggles faced by many others. Most importantly, it made clear that silence and ignorance are no longer acceptable. Learning, understanding, and acting with compassion are our responsibilities. The real question isn't why we can't move past it, but rather how we choose to face it together.