The Train Tracks of the Moral Universe
David R. Weiss – August 8, 2023

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Martin Luther King, Jr.’s famous declaration was on my mind as we marched along the boulevard that carries his name just past the grassy lawn in front of the Minnesota State Capital.

Moments earlier we were gathered in a circle on that grassy lawn, summoned by Philip Vance’s cry for justice—for freedom. Philip has spent twenty years imprisoned for a murder he had nothing to do with. Convicted in an absence of physical evidence, based solely on the (now recanted) testimony of multiple jailhouse informants and the work of a corrupt (and since disbanded) police gang unit, Philip has unwaveringly asserted his innocence. (Read a fuller account of his story here.)

Two years ago, Philip was hopeful that the newly launched Minnesota Conviction Review Unit would finally open a pathway to the truth. He has been sorely disappointed. Perhaps betrayed is the better word. The Unit is so underfunded and understaffed, that its soaring rhetoric seems to mock the magnitude of injustice—of real human lives—waiting to be addressed. Worse, the Unit appears to be seeded with skepticism from the start—as though its goal is not so much to recognize wrongs and right them, but to defend those wrongs from ever being righted.

Although it was Philip’s innocence—in fact, Philip’s urging—that brought us together on Tuesday afternoon, he wasn’t alone in the circle formed by the couple dozen of us who’d gathered. We heard Philip’s daughter—just two when he was sent to prison—name her anguish for her dad and her gratitude for our presence through bitter tears. Then others spoke. Family members shared the stories of Marvin Hayes, Kemen Taylor, Tobie Johnson, and Deaunteze Bobo—all innocent men behind bars in Minnesota. They represent a mere fraction of those whose freedom is sacrificed—24 hours at a time, running on for years—to support the illusion of justice in our society.

So, when we began to march along MLK Boulevard, the arc of the immoral universe that held these men seemed determined to continue its bend toward injustice. Undeterred, we held signs high as we walked: “Free Philip Vance” and signs naming the other men, too. In turns, we chanted their names and made other calls for justice. We lifted signs, words, voices against an unbending and unjust system. We were met mostly by indifference. The people in the few cars that passed either looked out with mild interest or they focused their gaze straight ahead, determined not to notice our little procession.

When we reached the intersection of Park Street and University Avenue we circled again—this time spreading ourselves across Park Street … and the Green Line tracks running alongside University Avenue. Signs raised and chants continued, though at only two dozen persons we were hardly an imposing presence. But now we were standing on the arc of the moral universe itself. Drivers along University could not help but read our signs. People standing on the train platforms could not help but be curious about our cause. Cars trying to cross Park had to wait or turn away.

And then, around 1:05 pm, a pair of Green Line commuter trains headed in opposite directions approached. Some of us (I’ll admit, I was among them), shifted uneasily. Not for fear of the trains; we were in plain sight and the operators immediately slowed their trains to a stop. Rather, for fear of arrest. More bluntly, simply for fear of stepping out of line … in a universe where the lines have almost always worked to our benefit. That is, with some exceptions, those who held the tracks were mostly persons of color. Persons whose very skin set them outside the lines already. And persons whose kin were behind bars. And those of us who shifted slowly off the tracks, we were mostly those whose (white) lives would go on with privilege intact at days’ end.

I don’t mean to dismiss our presence. Our signs remained high. Our presence remained a palpable witness to the dozen whose bodies held the tracks. But these others, they seemed to carry more deeply in their gut an anguished longing for justice and the piercing knowledge that the arc of this moral universe doesn’t bend on its own. It bends when the weight of witness and the conviction of conscience exert so much force that it cannot help but bend in response.

And for almost fifteen minutes on Tuesday afternoon our comrades bent the train tracks of the moral universe and held the Green Line at bay.

We were, of course, an inconvenience in the afternoon of the riders. Many of whom, I imagine grew impatient; a few of whom even got off the train to yell at us. But ultimately, we delayed their day by less than one minute for every year of Philip’s life stolen by a criminal injustice system happy to lock up young black men regardless of their guilt. Around 1:20 pm, now with multiple police cars and officers on hand, we allowed the trains to resume—our goal accomplished. Every passenger stared at our “Free Philip Vance” signs as the trains carried them on into their afternoon. Okay, some glared. But one passenger had even hopped off, grabbed a ”Free Philip Vance” sign, and was holding it up in the window as the eastbound train went by. And everyone on both trains knew his name. And that he ought to be free.

One essential act of justice is helping the voices of those pushed to the margins—in Philip’s and Marvin’s and Kemen’s and Tobie’s and Bobo’s cases, the voices of those locked away—to be heard at the crossroads of public life. Next to the Capitol, along MLK Boulevard, and there on the tracks of the Green Line.

The arc of the moral universe is long, but it is not distant. It runs right through our communities. Right through our lives. Right through the places we choose to plant ourselves. By our choices we bend the arc. And Tuesday afternoon, for fifteen minutes, we bent the arc so that cries for justice and freedom could sound.

Those in our group who commandeered the tracks bent the arc with the conviction borne in their bodies. The rest of us, more timid than we may have wished, bent it ever so slightly with our nearby witness. (And maybe we bent it a bit inside ourselves, stretching the place we might choose to plant ourselves next time.)

Free Philip Vance! Free Marvin Hayes! Free Kemen Taylor! Free Tobie Johnson! Free Deaunteze Bobo! With each bend of the arc, freedom is calling. And it’s calling them—by name.

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David Weiss is a theologian, writer, poet and hymnist, doing “public theology” around climate crisis, sexuality, justice, diversity, and peace. Reach him at drw59mn@gmail.com. Read more at www.davidrweiss.com where he blogs under the theme, “Full Frontal Faith: Erring on the Edge of Honest.” Support him in writing Community Supported Theology at www.patreon.com/fullfrontalfaith.