By DAVID EPPS
Pastor

have been misinformed. For several years, I have judged an event based upon what I was told about the event rather than investigating the event for myself. I have been critical about the event and have snubbed my nose at the very mention of the event. I was misinformed, but I was also wrong to allow that misinformation to cloud my thinking and speaking.

Last week, quite by accident, I attended my first Kwanzaa Celebration. I confess that I didn't intend to attend a Kwanzaa Celebration. I was in attendance at a meeting of the Fayette County NAACP at Flat Rock African Methodist Episcopal Church when I discovered that the meeting would be concluded by a Kwanzaa Celebration. Years ago, I had heard that Kwanzaa (which officially begins the day after Christmas and lasts for seven days) was a counterfeit holiday designed to compete with Christmas. I certainly did not want to be present at anything that diminishes the birth of Christ; however, not wanting to appear rude, I decided to stay. I was glad I did. I was misinformed about Kwanzaa.

The celebration opened with the beating of an African drum. Having spent a brief period of time in Kenya and Uganda, I have come to appreciate this unique sound of Africa. After an introduction, the congregation stood to sing the "Negro Anthem," which was both moving and beautiful. Words included were,

"Stony the road we trod, bitter the chastening rod

Fell in the days when hope unborn had died;

Yet with a steady beat, have not our weary feet

Come to the place for which our fathers have sighed..."

I realized that under no circumstances could I truly understand the stony road, the bitter rod, of the days when hope had died. My ancestors, who left England in the early 1600s to arrive in Jamestown, Va., came by choice and, by choice, they could return.

I heard the hope in the third verse of the anthem which read, in part:

"God of our weary years, God of our silent tears,

Thou who hast brought us thus far on the way;

Thou who hast by thy might, led us into the light,

Keep us forever in the path, we pray."

I watched and listened as the seven principles of Kwanzaa were briefly expounded, which were, unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, remembering, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and faith. After each principle was explained, a candle was lighted. A black candle (which, I assume, stood for the continent of their ancestors) stood in the middle surrounded by three red candles (symbolizing the blood and suffering of the past) and three green candles (symbolizing hope for the present and future). I found myself in agreement with the principles as explained by different members of the congregation.

After the principles, the drum began to softly beat again. Those present were invited to come forward, pour out a small bit of water in honor of those who had come before, call the name of an ancestor or personal hero, and light a candle in honor or memory of those being honored. Soon, the front of the church was ablaze with the light of the candles. The lights in the church were turned off as the congregation meditated upon those who had gone before.

There, in the darkened sanctuary, illuminated by the candles of the past, I imagined the fear of a young African, kidnapped from his village, and now chained in the lurching, stinking hold of a Spanish ship with scores of other frightened men and women, bound for a life of misery. I could only see with my mind the terror and horror of a young teenager repeatedly raped and abused by her captors and tormentors. I could scarcely imagine the tearful scene in the slave markets of the New World as families were permanently broken up and separated.

Did any dare to hope that their children or grandchildren would be free? Could any have possibly dreamed of the day when their descendants would be not only free men and women, but people who would help lead the most powerful nation in the world? Could any have foreseen, through their pain and tears, a great-great-grandchild like Martin Luther King, Jr., Colin Powell, Thurgood Marshall, Condoleezza Rice, or tens of thousands of others like them? Their descendants would not have an easy road, to be sure. For over a hundred years, even after the abolition of slavery, there would still be stony roads, bitter rods, and weary years.

There, in the light of the brightly burning candles, listening to the gentle beat of an ancient drum, I realized that I had been terribly misinformed. Kwanzaa was not a hollow holiday, neither was it an alternative to Christmas, but, in a sense, at least from my limited perspective, it is a combined Memorial Day and All Saints Day for members of a community joyfully and respectfully giving honor to ancestors who had suffered, lived, and died in a foreign land and who had struggled and prevailed against insurmountable odds.

Some have said sarcastically, "Kwanzaa isn't even an African holiday!" I don't know about that. I'm a novice at Kwanzaa. But, even if Kwanzaa is a modern event designed specifically for descendants of Africans living in North America, that does nothing to diminish its meaning, it's relevance, or it's power. As the Negro Anthem says,

"Sing a song full of faith that the dark past has taught us,

Sing a song full of hope that the present has brought us:

Facing the rising sun of our new day begun,

Let us march on till victory is won."

Happy Kwanzaa.

[Father David Epps is rector of Christ the King Charismatic Episcopal Church in Peachtree City. He may be contacted at FatherDavidEpps@aol.com or at www.ChristTheKingCEC.com.]

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