THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, November 26, 1995 TAG: 9511260175
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 75 lines
If you grew up spending you're childhood Sabbaths in Sunday School, chances are, you knew someone like Mrs. Murphy.
I never knew her first name, but in 1963 and '64, she was the teacher of the Beginners Class at the East Thomas Baptist Church. A round woman with snow-white hair and a slight speech impediment, Mrs. Murphy had taught the parents of most of my Sunday school pals.
Well into her 80s, she told the stories of Baby Moses and his basket in the bullrushes, Jonah and the Whale, and Jesus feeding the 5,000 as if they had taken place right around the corner last week.
And each week, she led us in song:
``Jesus loves the little children,
``All the children of the World,
``Red and Yellow, Black and White,
``They are precious in His Sight
``Jesus loves the little children of the World.''
I've been thinking a lot about Mrs. Murphy and that song lately, especially after spending two days with more than a dozen of my colleagues to talk about diversity.
Now, diversity means a lot of different things to a lot of different people. For some folks it means quotas; for others, leveling the playing field. Some see it as clarifying the historical record to reflect all ethnic and religious cultures, others see it as revisionist nonsense that throws accuracy to the wind.
I will leave those debates to more learned minds.
But diversity is worth some thought, particularly as we enter the season of peace on earth and good will to men.
Without betraying a promise of confidentiality, I can only say that in those two heart-wrenching days of diversity training, a cross-section of people found out that a lot of preconceptions they held about each other simply aren't true.
All Southerners are not bigots. All African-Americans are not hired to fill quotas. Not every disabled person is an invalid. And not every white male had an easy road to the top.
Some of us shed tears in those two days as we heard the stories. Accounts that struck so deep a cord that they brought a room full of normally opinionated people to silence. Stories of cruelty so painful that it caused us to take a hard look at ourselves.
And we found out, I think, that not every hatemonger wears a Klan hood, or belongs to some racist organization, or tosses firebombs or assassinates presidents.
Sometimes they wear suits and ties, dresses and heels, and go to work every day. They pay bills and raise families, and even go to church.
Which brings us back to Mrs. Murphy.
One spring Sunday morning, she led us in the song. We had our Sunday School lesson, and then went to the sanctuary to hear the preacher. Only a mile or so away, at another Baptist Church, four little girls were dead, killed by a man with a bomb who hated the color of their skin.
No doubt he had heard a Mrs. Murphy of another time sing the song. But for some reason, it didn't take hold. And sadly for many of us in this world, Mrs. Murphy's song is a still unfamiliar tune.
There is a scene in the movie version of Harper Lee's classic, ``To Kill a Mockingbird,'' which the Alabama lawyer, Atticus Finch, gives his young daughter a lesson.
``You just learned a single trick, Scout, to get along better with all kinds of folks,'' Atticus says. ``You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.''
For two days at the diversity seminar, we walked around in another's skin, saw things through their eyes, and we understand a little better. We're a little closer to being just plain folks.
But we've still got a lot of walking to do. by CNB