Between Sundays

This weekend, as we observed Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I found myself thinking not only as a pastor, but as a historian.

One of my part-time roles is teaching Modern U.S. History at Stevenson University. For the past three years, I’ve had the privilege of teaching in classrooms that are richly diverse, racially, culturally, politically, and experientially. My students come with different stories, different assumptions, and very different relationships to the history we study.

One of the questions I return to again and again with them is a simple one:
Who gets to tell the story?

History is not just a list of dates and events. It is interpretation. It is perspective. It is shaped by the voices that record it, and by the voices that are silenced or dismissed along the way.

Take, for example, the Civil Rights Movement. Over time, our national memory has grown comfortable with Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. He is often presented as the “acceptable” voice of protest, measured, nonviolent, inspiring. And indeed, King was deeply committed to nonviolence, rooted in Christian theology, and guided by a profound moral vision.

But what we sometimes forget is that King was not widely popular in his own time. He was surveilled. Criticized. Called disruptive. Labeled dangerous. And even his nonviolent strategies were anything but passive. King understood the power of media. The Selma marches were carefully planned to expose injustice to the nation’s conscience. Nonviolence was not weakness; it was strategy.

At the same time, figures like Malcolm X were often portrayed as villains, too radical, too angry, too confrontational. History textbooks and news coverage frequently flattened his story, ignoring the complexity of his thought and the evolution of his views. When we revisit the sources, ask harder questions, and consider the context, a more nuanced picture emerges.

Maybe Malcolm X wasn’t simply “too much.” Maybe the reporting of the era couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hold voices that challenged the dominant narrative more directly.

One of the great gifts I received from my own teachers, professors, and pastors was the encouragement to read critically. To examine sources. To ask who benefits from a particular framing. To recognize bias, not just in others, but in myself. I don’t rely on a single news source. I try to listen broadly, question carefully, and remain aware that perspective always shapes perception.

That discipline matters, not just in the classroom, but in the life of faith.

As people shaped by the Wesleyan tradition, we believe truth is discerned through Scripture, tradition, reason, and experience held together. We are not afraid of asking hard questions. We are not called to intellectual laziness or spiritual avoidance. Faith, at its best, invites us to think deeply, love generously, and act courageously.

In times like these, when public discourse is polarized and simplified, we need communities that can hold complexity without losing compassion. Communities that are willing to listen across differences. Communities that refuse to accept easy answers when the truth is more demanding.
The world will reflect on the days we are living. History always does. And the stories that endure will depend, in part, on who was willing to question, to speak, and to stand with integrity.

As a church, and as individuals, may we be people who seek truth honestly, love boldly, and refuse to let fear determine whose voices matter. May we remember that faithfulness often requires us to look again, listen again, and ask better questions.

Until Sunday, and all the days between,
Dr. Hutton