Get the context here. I gave this short chapel talk to the faculty and students of Boston Trinity Academy on January 16, 2018–JF
I am so pleased to be back at Boston Trinity Academy. (BTA) I continue to reflect fondly on my last visit in May 2014 when I had the honor of serving as your commencement speaker. It is great to see old friends and I have already made some new ones.
Students: please know how privileged you are to be at this place. BTA is a school committed to the integration of Christian faith and learning at the highest level. There are few places like this in the country. Cherish your education here. Thank God for it every day. And be attentive to God’s voice so that you can obtain the wisdom necessary to know what you should do with this great gift you are receiving.
I am also excited for all of you as you spend your J-Term exploring the culture of rural America. I wrote my first book about rural America. It focused on a young man living in the 1760s and 1770s. His name was Philip Vickers Fithian. Philip left rural America, went to college at Princeton, and served his country during the Revolutionary War. But he never forgot the people from the rural community who raised him and taught him how to love God and others. Philip’s path of education and self-improvement always seemed to lead him home. So, needless to say, the topic you are studying this week is near and dear to my heart and I look forward to working with you today– the first day of your journey.
The countryside. The frontier. The hinterland. The backcountry. Whatever you want to call it—rural America played a powerful role in our understanding of who we are as Americans. One of my favorite rural novels is Willa Cather’s My Antonia (if you haven’t read it, you should!). I teach it at Messiah College in a course I offer on the history of immigrant America. In this novel we meet a young man named Jim Burden. He grew up on the East Coast, but after both his parents died he was sent to Nebraska to live with his grandparents. As Jim gets a first glimpse of the Great Plains he says: “There was nothing but land: not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.” Several days later he adds: “Everywhere, as far as the eye could reach, there was nothing but rough shaggy red grass, most of it as tall as I.”
As he stands in the Nebraska fields, Jim starts to consider his own smallness: “Between that earth and that sky I felt erased, blotted out… that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.” Jim Burden teaches us that rural America—with its pristine meadows and vast expanses of land—can have a humbling effect on those who experience it. The rural writer Kathleen Norris, in her introduction to the edition of My Antonia I use in class, writes that Jim is “obliterated by the landscape.”
Thomas Jefferson, our third president and author of the Declaration of Independence may have related to the fictional experience of Jim Burden. “Those who labour in the earth,” Jefferson wrote, “are the chosen people of God, if ever he had a chosen people, whose breasts he has made his peculiar deposit for substantial and genuine virtue.” Jefferson wanted to build the United States around the character traits that he saw in the ordinary farmer. He used the word “yeoman”—a common term for a landholder—to describe this kind of farmer.
Throughout American history farmers have been committed to local places, to living lives in community and to the importance of family. They understood the dignity of hard work. They were often portrayed as healthy and strong. They were people of faith—the kind of faith needed to place complete trust in a God who controls the weather. They were patient folk who knew how to wait on the Lord.
At the same time, farmers were independent–the kind of people needed to sustain a nation founded upon freedom. In other words, they were not dependent on others—such as manufacturers and bank owners–to survive. They were not defiled by the corruption and self-interest of cities—urban centers filled with workers who were at the mercy of factory owners. Jefferson envisioned a country filled with landowners who would spread out across the continent. Manufacturing and urbanization did not play a major role in his vision. These things were part of the vision of his political rival Alexander Hamilton.
Jefferson’s rural vision for America died after the Civil War. It gave way to industry and railroads and factories and markets. If Jefferson were alive today he would probably be appalled by how dependent we are on food processed by big companies. He would not be happy that we pursue the American dream by going into debt to credit card companies and mortgage firms and banks. (This, despite the fact that Jefferson spent most of his adult life in debt).
Indeed, we don’t live the kind of independent lives Jefferson envisioned. We trade the patience of the farmer for immediate gratification. We want it all—and we want it now. But the American rural dweller,–the farmer–teaches us to slow down and listen. To endure. To trust God for our most pressing needs. Maybe even to suffer—as many farmers did when the weather did not cooperate. Farmers understood (and understand) that that suffering produces perseverance. They understood that perseverance produces character. They understood that character leads to hope (Romans 5:4)
There is a lot to commend in this vision of America. But it also easy to get nostalgic about it. The warm and fuzzy feeling we get when we read about Jim Burden or study Thomas Jefferson’s America can blind us to another side— a dark side—of the history of rural life. Maybe you have heard of this term, “nostalgia.” I think of it as a sort of homesickness for a time in the past when everything was wonderful or when we at least thought that everything was wonderful. But nostalgia is an inherently selfish way of thinking about the past because it often fails to see how other people—people who are not like us—lived through the same era and did not think it was so great.
With this in mind, as we gather on the day after Martin Luther King Jr. birthday, we would be remiss, and historically irresponsible, if we did not think about this other side of rural America. After all, for most of American history the countryside was the home of forced labor camps—white people called them plantations—where millions of enslaved Africans and their families cultivated the land. Abraham Lincoln described slavery in his First Inaugural Address as “250 years of unrequited toil.” The whip of the slaveholder drove the Southern cotton economy and contributed to the success of Northern manufacturing and industry. The growth of American power went hand in hand with the growth of slavery. The rise of American capitalism would be impossible without the labor of the enslaved.
Slavery ended officially in 1865, but the enslaved—now called freedmen—had a hard time escaping rural America. Many of them returned to the fields as sharecroppers—a system of work that could be just as degrading as slavery. And they also came face-to-face with white rural Americans who were not happy that they were free. For the next century these white Americans in the South would do everything in their power to deny African Americans the liberties they were entitled to.
Martin Luther King and the other leaders of the Civil Rights Movement knew this history of rural America very well. But they refused to let the past have its way with them. They fought to bend the trajectory of America’s future toward justice. By the time of the Civil Rights Movement in the 1950s and 1960s, many African-Americans had left rural life in search of opportunities beyond the cotton plantations of the South. They traveled to northern cities like Detroit, Chicago, Cleveland, Philadelphia, New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and St. Louis. They came to work in the factories of Buffalo, Boston, Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Kansas City, Cincinnati, and Indianapolis. Even those who stayed in the South left the farm for cities like Greensboro, North Carolina; Atlanta, Georgia; Montgomery, Birmingham, and Selma, Alabama; Little Rock, Arkansas; and Memphis and Nashville, Tennessee. Ironically, it was in cities like these where Martin Luther King Jr. fought against the racism born in the fields of rural America.
Today about 10% of African-Americans live in rural areas. This makes rural America largely the domain of poor white men and women who do not have the financial resources to get out. They often live alongside immigrant laborers—most from Central America—who do farm work for the big corporations that now control most of American agriculture.
As the urban population of America grows, the rural communities of the United States lose about 30,000 people per year. Donald Trump was right when he described a rural America of “rusted-out factories” scattered “like tombstones across the landscape.” Once-thriving town-centers in rural communities are now filled with closed storefronts. People in rural America have limited access to doctors and are now more likely to suffer from diabetes, heart disease, and cancer than people living in the cities and the suburbs. Suicide rates in rural areas are double that in urban areas. People are living in despair. Access to a good education is becoming more and more difficult. If you want to get a glimpse of rural America’s decline in places like Kentucky and Ohio I encourage you to pick-up a copy of J.D. Vance’s book Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of Family and Culture in Crisis. I re-read some of it on the plane on the way here. It explains a lot about why so many rural Americans saw Donald Trump as their savior in 2016.
So what happened to Jefferson’s vision of a country built upon yeoman farmers? Does Jim Burden’s Nebraska still exist? What has the long legacy of slavery and racism done to rural places? These, I hope, will be the questions you will try to answer this week.
As I close, let me suggest that your task in making sense of rural America must be guided by the practice of at least three virtues essential to any kind of educational endeavor:
The first is empathy. For many of you here in Boston, “rural America” might as well be a foreign country. Empathy will be your passport for entry into this strange land. This is going to take some discipline on your part. You will need to walk in the shoes of those who live in rural America. Your mind must be open to the experiences of the people who have inhabited and continue to inhabit these places. As historian John Lewis Gaddis has written, to practice empathy means you must make every effort to “understand their hopes and fears, their beliefs and dreams, their sense of right and wrong, [and] their perceptions of the world.” I challenge you to see life on their terms, not yours. Pray about this. Ask God to open your eyes and ears to people who are different. This, after all, is what school is all about. The Latin word for education literally means to “lead outward”—to grow personally by encountering others.
This kind of empathy will ultimately lead to a second virtue: humility. Like Jim Burden, who felt overwhelmed and small from staring into the Nebraska sky, your experience with people who are different should make you realize that you are part of something much larger than this moment, this particular place, and this particular time. As an individual, you are important. You are a child of God. That gives you a dignity that no one can take away. But at the same time, it’s not all about you! To take a deep dive into another culture or another part of the world, or even another part of the United States, is to realize that God’s human creation is much more diverse, much larger and wonderful, than the tiny little slice of the world that you experience here in Boston or through the screen on your cell phone. Pray for humility this week. Whenever we study people who are different we see the awesomeness of God’s glorious creation. This kind of encounter should humble us. If it doesn’t, the problem is not with the rural Americans you will be studying this week. The problem is with you!
Third, welcome the stranger. During J-Term you will be meeting people who live in rural America. You will also encounter the voices of rural America visiting your classroom in the form of historical documents and pieces of literature and videos and online sources. Listen to these voices. Make them feel at home in your classrooms. Make them your guests. I know that sounds kind of strange, but unless you show hospitality to the texts you read and the people you encounter—even in a virtual or imagined way—you cheat yourself and are rejecting an opportunity to learn.
So I wish you well in this educational and intellectual journey for which you are about to embark. Remember that Boston Trinity Academy is a place where your teachers love you. And because they love you they want to encourage you to love the Lord with your minds. And for that we can say “thanks be to God.”