This past weekend was the Faith and Politics Instituteâ€™s annual civil rights pilgrimage to Selma, Birmingham and Montgomery with Rep. John Lewis, D-Ga. Because I went last year, I didnâ€™t think there could possibly be more that I could say about the extraordinary privilege and humbling experience of walking with the giants of the civil rights movement. And then we arrived for Sunday service at Brown Chapel African Methodist Episcopal Church in Selma, Alabama.
When the bus pulled up to the historic church where the Selma-to-Montgomery marches stepped off in 1965, you couldnâ€™t help but notice him. A fresh-faced little white boy wearing glasses, a tan trench coat and a backpack standing under a tree with another, more casually dressed boy and a knot of adults. It wasnâ€™t until I saw the little guy after the more than three-hour church service did it hit me. The curious kid - the grandson of former representative Dick Gephardt, D-Mo. - was dressed the way a young John Lewis was on March 7, 1965.
That morning, Lewis and about 600 others set off to march from Selma to Montgomery, the Alabama capital, to demand their voting rights. He was wearing a tan trench coat and a backpack, which held his provisions for what he thought would be a certain night or a few days in jail: a book, an apple, an orange and toothbrush and toothpaste. Instead of being arrested, Lewis and countless others were mercilessly beaten by Alabama law-enforcement officers while trying to cross the Edmund Pettus Bridge. The world was literally watching as the savagery that became known as â€śBloody Sundayâ€ť was televised. The harrowing images and accompanying screams of the innocents sickened the nation and sparked action.
Their success, bought with blood and sacrifice, is one of the examples I thought of when former attorney general Eric Holder added context to the â€śarc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justiceâ€ť metaphor at the â€śCape Upâ€ť live event last week. â€śThat only happens when people put their hand on that arc and pull it towards justice,â€ť Holder told me. Lewis and the other foot soldiers for justice - ordinary people who had little more than courage and conviction - did just that. They pulled that arc, changed history and moved the country to a better place.
Lewis depicts this pivotal moment in the civil rights movement in a graphic novel trilogy titled â€śMarch.â€ť The comic book-style rendering of the civil rights movement became a surprise hit, winning a National Book Award in 2016.
The books are beautifully done. But the power of the man and his story is not just in those beautifully done pages. It was standing in the brilliant sun on a Sunday afternoon in Alabama.
Perhaps I have black superheroes on the brain because of â€śBlack Panther,â€ť Marvelâ€™s mega-blockbuster movie. On its merits, it is a spectacular film. That it features a black cast and a story that revolves around an advanced and wealthy African nation whose leader is a superhero has African-Americans (and everyone else, it seems) screaming â€śWakanda forever!â€ť But as prideful as that fictional story made me, nothing beats real life.
Fifty-three years ago, Lewis was a mild-mannered student of nonviolence who was beaten and arrested more times than any of us could or would ever endure. He was as reviled by whites then as he is revered today by all Americans. And nothing captured that reverence more than the picture of that boy standing, eagerly awaiting Lewisâ€™s emergence from the church. I find so much hope in this photo. That a little white boy would be proud to dress up like John Lewis shows you how far the arc of the moral universe has bent. It shows that John Lewis is the black superhero weâ€™ve had all along.
Jonathan Capehart is a member of the Post editorial board and writes for the PostPartisan blog.