It was Sunday morning in the mostly white church in Richmond, Virginia. The last shots in the agonizing American civil war had been fired. Despite the Lincoln-inspired kind treatment the people in that church felt the burden of defeat. Their city was in ruins. Once the proud capital of the South, now all that remained was smoke blackened neighborhoods and a trickle of returning refugees.
The pastor sought to lift the spirits of a congregation who had seen
their values pierced by bayonets. They turned to the familiar things for
comfort. Church was full that morning. They were striving to return to what life
was like before the conflict.
Then suddenly one of the issues of the war came flooding into the
service. Just after the minister had made the invitation to people to come
forward to receive communion at the altar a tall, bold black man rose from his
seat and was the first to walk the isle. The symbolism was lost on none. In
former times blacks were welcome to worship with whites in only a few
progressive congregations. Even then they were expected to come near the end of
the procession. I know this
doesn’t seem real but we are talking of April, 1865.
Now he was kneeling at the altar. The pastor stepped forward, communion
elements in hand. His eye roved the gathered worshippers. In the front rows he
could see mouths tighten into thin white lines of anger. He waited for the
customary procession to kneel at the communion rail. No one moved. The tension
mounted.
Then a gray bearded gentleman rose and with that a soft murmur echoed as
heads turned. His step was no longer free with youth’s abandon. Yet there was
the deliberate measured pace of an old soldier as he came to kneel beside his
fellow communicant. He was Robert E. Lee, commander of the vanquished rebel
armies. It was for all to see a
moment of grace and an act of humility. War had shaped him. Defeat had tested
him.
I was in the Lee home in Arlington, VA in 1994. Approaching the mansion,
I was impressed with the 8 imposing Corinthian columns. I stood between them and
tried to imagine the view in the 1800s. There
were broad wooden floors, spacious rooms and tasteful décor. The paintings
recalled the career of the general from Virginia. A guide at the house was just
coming off duty when he heard that I was a South African.
We spent 30 minutes discussing the interaction between generals and
politicians. Lee had lived here, hoped here, loved here, but was banished from
here by the choices he made.
I feel for this man torn by his times. He deplored slavery, but
couldn’t take up arms against his beloved Virginia.
He was a soldier with loyalty to brothers like Sherman and Grant yet a
citizen with duty to his state. People with convictions have to make choices.
We weigh ethics. With courage we declare our verdict by our actions. For
Lee the selection was that of a gray uniform and a long, bloody march to
Appomatox Courthouse.
Life may not always go the way you hoped but it will always follow the path of your choices. That's what breaks God’s heart about when we choose to disregard His laws. Sin hurts! There is no such thing as the victimless sin. There’s no transgression without consequences. Some parents strive to shield their children from the results of their naughtiness. They set in motion a delusion that hurtles that child in later years over the guardrail of conscience. In the face of broken homes we need a school that teaches how to choose integrity even when personal disadvantage seems the apparent result. I don’t know how to judge Lee’s choice. I hope though that your defeats don’t leave you bitter. If you learn anything from life may it be how to grow older with grace and compassion.