On an unseasonably warm afternoon earlier this week, I went for a jog along my typical route, heading north on Drexel Boulevard. That morning we’d woken up to the news of Rev. Jesse Jackson’s death and a small collection of reporters and cameras had already been positioned across the boulevard from the Rainbow PUSH Coalition building. After reaching my halfway point and turning toward home, I again passed the television vans and press. This time, I noticed something else, a middle-aged man standing at a distance and gazing almost meditatively toward the imposing Rainbow PUSH building. It seemed like he’d made his way purposefully to that spot on the boulevard, wanting to pay his humble respects before the official commemorations and memorials began.

The man’s quiet presence beyond the attention of the cameras and reporters captured something about my observations of Jackson over the years. Unlike many of my local colleagues, my experiences with the civil rights leader were limited and generally at a distance. But there were two moments that will continue to shape how I think about Jackson’s legacy as well my sense about the sort of leadership our justice-seeking efforts deserve.

The first came in the fall of 2001. I’d been invited by the principal of a local Christian school to pray for the students and families on the first day of classes. Unbeknownst to me, the principal had also invited Jackson to stop by and share a few words with the students. Understand, this was a small school. There were no reporters or cameras that morning. But there, in front of the school beneath some trees, Jackson greeted the students and their parents as they arrived. And then, as he’d done countless times before, he led the students in his classic call-and-response.

I am Somebody!
I am Somebody!
I may be poor,
But I am Somebody.
I may be young,
But I am Somebody.
I may be on welfare,
But I am Somebody.
I may be small,
But I am Somebody.
I may have made mistakes,
But I am Somebody.
My clothes are different,
My face is different,
My hair is different,
But I am Somebody.
I am black,
Brown,or white.
I speak a different language
But I must be respected,
Protected,
Never rejected.
I am God’s child!

If you’ve not already seen it, take a minute to watch the clip of Jackson on Sesame Street leading a group of adorable children in this poem. That morning was my first time hearing “I am Somebody” and watching the students respond enthusiastically to Jackson’s prompts was a joyful sight to behold.

Seven years later, on a hot July day, I joined other Chicagoans who responded to the invitation of Father Michael Pfleger and Jesse Jackson to shut down the Dan Ryan Expressway to call attention to the gun violence which was devestating our city. I’ll never forget walking north, surrounded by thousands of people who’d come from around the city to demand justice for the Black and Brown communities which were being disproportionately impacted by shootings. As we walked under an underpass, a group of mothers who’d each lost a child to gun violence paused and wrote the names of their children in chalk on the walls bordering the normally noisy road, now silent as we witnessed the mothers’ heartbreaking act of remembrance.

But before we stepped foot onto the expressway, the crowd of marchers stood for a long time on the on-ramp. Sweating through the summer heat and humidity, we were waiting to learn whether the State Police would let us through. I was close enough to the front that I could watch as Pfleger and Jackson negotiated with the police. It was striking to see Jackson, so well-known and accustomed to the big stage, increasingly diminished by age and illness, working quietly and persistently to secure safe passage for the marchers. Eventually, despite repeatedly telling the crowd to go home, the police relented and Jackson and the other leaders stepped aside so that the march could be led by the young people who’d showed up that day.

I’d bet that most Americans, when remembering Jesse Jackson, will think of the iconic photos from the Lorraine Motel, moments before and after Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated. Or they might hear his soaring voice from one of his presidential campaigns, “Keep hope alive!” But my memories are of these quieter scenes and I think they are worth learning from as we consider a future in which so many of our elder leaders have taken their rest.

As he demonstrated on that hot July day, Jackson was willing to leverage his influence for others. Would we have successfully shut-down the expressway that day without his quiet advocacy? I doubt it. And while he didn’t need to lead the way or hold the mic, when the situation required it he willingly deployed his moral authority to open the way for the young people and mourning parents whose voices our city needed to hear that summer.

This habit of showing up for the people others typically overlook was also evident on that back-to-school morning. That this famous man who surely had other places he could have been chose to prioritize a group of school kids is something I’ve never forgotten. Looking into their eyes, coaxing their shy voices to claim their somebody-ness, it was evident that he really wanted the best for each of them. Their lives and their futures mattered to him.

We’re going to miss Rev. Jackson here in Chicago. I pray that the next generation of our leaders uses their influence similarly, so that the overlooked and the vulnerable would find themselves ushered to the front of the line declaring that they too are somebody.

Communities of Flourishing

If you’re anywhere near Phoenix this coming weekend, I hope you’ll join us on Saturday for the Communities of Flourishing conference.

The View From Here

On Tuesday afternoon my youngest son and I drove over to Wolf Lake, just across the border in Indiana, hoping to spot some birds. In addition to some hooded mergansers, a horned grebe, and a bunch of geese, we got to see a few common goldeneyes.