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

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

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

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 [email protected] or at www.ChristTheKingCEC.com .]