Like many organizations, the Church has been grappling with its history over the last few years, particularly with regard to race. Our diocese has invited parishes to investigate their own history to try to learn more about our complicated relationships with racism in America: the ways in which we have been complicit in, benefited from, and fought against the sin of racism.

Our neighborhood, too, has been engaging in these conversations, including a monthly dialogue on race and equity hosted by the Charlestown Coalition in the Peace Park on Tuesday evenings. (If you’re ever available, I’d strongly recommend attending at least once!) During one recent conversation, I was fascinated to hear the very different childhood stories being shared by two parts of our community: middle-aged adults (all white) who had grown up as white students during “the busing,” and current high-school students (all people of color) telling stories of police encounters and sidewalk slurs today.

So I was fascinated to come across the following reflection on busing from the Rev. Neil Hastie, who served as Rector of St. John’s from 1973-1981, as part of a much longer (and really fun!) reflection on his ministry. It features several characters who’ll be familiar to many of you—and is a really thoughtful reflection on the difficult challenges and beautiful opportunities that the racial diversity of our city provides. I’ll simply present Mr. Hastie’s words here:

I did not approve of the 1973 federal court decision to integrate only Boston schools, and ignore Greater Boston. I envisioned what in fact happened. White flight to the suburbs—with which I was already only too familiar in Roxbury—intensified. White students became a small minority in Boston. It rankled the working class—black and white alike—to have affluent suburban judicial authorities demand of our low-income communities what they had no intention of demanding of their own well-to-do enclaves. I was reminded of the old racial policies of the Deep South: the pitting by upper class whites of lower class whites against the blacks. But I was proud of St. John’s congregation’s response to the school-busing crisis…

On the second Sunday morning in September, all the women of St. John’s were huddled in conversation in the center aisle of the church when I arrived. I walked up to them and said that I knew what was on their minds. The same thing was on the minds of all Boston parents that day: the busing of children next morning into unfamiliar neighborhoods, to effect the racial integration of the public schools. I said, ‘I have never spoken to you about race. But you know my family lives in Roxbury [i.e., in the black community], and we come here every Sunday morning with no bruises or broken bones.’ Ruth Sherwood replied, ‘I think of that all the time!’

Marion and Winkie Wood’s younger soon Randy got assigned to an elementary school in lower Roxbury, only two blocks from St. Cyprian’s Church, where Marion had attended Episcopal district meetings with me. In August, Marion and Winkie attended the parents’ orientation meeting at the school. When they said they were from Charlestown, there was a gasp of surprise. The first day of school, only one other child from their neighborhood attended, along with Randy. Marion went door to door to reassure her neighbors about safety issues. By Friday they all went. Middle school Charlestown students in Florence Johnson’s neighborhood were assigned to the Timilty School at Eliot Square, across the street from Roxbury’s ‘Missionary to the Indians’ John Eliot’s historic First Parish Church. Florence said, ‘We are not going to send our children to a place we have never even seen.’ She led a group of her neighbors on a thorough inspection tour; then they consented to their children’s attendance.

I was safer living with my family in mostly-black Roxbury than in all-white, angry Charlestown. It had not made sense for us to move into St. John’s handsome, spacious Monument Square rectory. John’s and Beth’s school, and my weekday work [Greg’s note: Mr. Hastie was only 1/3 time at St. John’s], were all in Roxbury, where we owned our house. In my stead, Marie Hubbard moved with her family into the rectory, and experienced the three a.m. random firebombing of her parked automobile…

I had a black pre-seminary year-long full-time assistant, J. C. Woods, who grew up in Memphis and attended a predominantly white college in the mid-west. His college chaplain, Robert Gamble, my former seminarian, referred him to me…

I took J. C. with me to visit Goldie Graffam. In the project parking lot, several teen-age boys confronted us, still in my van. The leader, who carried a baseball bat, demanded, ‘What’s he doing here?’ ‘He’s my student assistant at St. John’s Episcopal Church.” ‘Hmmph!’ They walked away. ‘Remember, J.C., ‘the blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.’ In huge black letters on the wall by the project door, we saw, ‘KILL N—RS.’ [Greg: I’ve chosen to censor the slur, here.] ‘J. C., it’s a good thing you’re not a n—r!’ I reminded J. C. that he was in Charlestown only one day per week, where I was in Roxbury at least six days per week. He knew that I knew the difference.”