JIMMIE LEE JACKSON — A DEACON WHO WANTED TO VOTE

On February 26, 1965, a brother in Christ laid down his life.

Jimmie Lee Jackson was not a rioter. He was not a criminal. He was not a threat to society. He was a Baptist deacon—a servant in the house of God. He was a veteran of the United States Army. He had worn his nation’s uniform. He had stood beneath its flag. He had done what many call the highest form of citizenship: he had served.

And yet when he returned home to Marion, Alabama the simple act of seeking to register to vote was treated as defiance.

On the night he was shot, February 18, he was doing something profoundly Christian. He was protecting his mother and his grandfather from blows. When violence broke out and state troopers descended on peaceful demonstrators, Jimmie did not strike back. He shielded. He stood between harm and his family. And a bullet tore into his body.

Eight days later, he died.

What was his crime?

He wanted to vote.

That sentence should sit heavy on us. A deacon—a churchman—a man who had fought for his country—died because he believed that the promises written on paper should apply to him too.

Don’t talk about it? Forget the past on issues like this? What if that had been your son, your brother, your father? What if it had been you lying in a hospital bed because you dared to ask for the right to vote? Would you want to be forgotten? Jimmie Lee Jackson‘a name is still unknown to many even in Alabama. If that were your flesh and blood, would you not want him remembered? Would you not want his story told with dignity? Silence is easy when the grave is not in your family, but remembrance is a small act of justice we owe to those whose only “crime” was believing the promises written on paper applied to them too.

I grew up learning about Robert E. Lee, his strategy, his honor, his legacy. Streets bore his name. Statues bore his likeness. Textbooks treated him with gravity and care. Yet how many of us were taught about Jimmie Lee Jackson? How many Sunday school classes mentioned the deacon whose blood helped water the soil of voting rights? And now you say we shouldn’t talk about it?

Memory is not neutral. What we choose to remember says something about what we value.

One man fought for a Confederacy formed to preserve slavery. Another fought for his country and later stood peacefully asking that his constitutional rights be honored. One became marble and bronze. The other became a footnote.

But Heaven does not measure history the way nations do. The Lord said, “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be filled” (Matthew 5:6). Jimmie Lee Jackson hungered for righteousness—not vengeance, not chaos—but justice. He desired participation in a system that claimed to be of the people. That desire cost him his life.

And yet his death was not wasted. His killing stirred the conscience of a nation and helped ignite the Selma-to-Montgomery marches that would press the country toward the Voting Rights Act of 1965. The blood of a deacon became seed.

As pastors, as church members, as believers, we must remember him not merely as a symbol, but as a brother. A man baptized into Christ. A man who loved his family. A man who believed that civic dignity and Christian faith were not enemies.

We do not remember him to stir anger. We remember him to stir conscience. We remember him because the Church must tell the whole story, not just the comfortable parts.

And perhaps today we ask ourselves a gentle but searching question: Who do we honor? Whose sacrifices do we teach our children? And are we willing to stand—peacefully, faithfully—for righteousness, even when it costs?

May we never forget the deacon who only wanted to vote. And may we be found worthy of the freedom purchased at such a price.

He was not organizing a revolt against whiteness, nor preaching retaliation, nor calling for violence in return for violence. Jimmie Lee Jackson was a Baptist deacon, a veteran, a young Black man who believed that the promises of American democracy he fought for and would have died for should apply to him as well.

On that night in Alabama he was not carrying a weapon or inciting chaos; he was shielding his mother from blows and seeking the simple dignity of the ballot. He did not ask to lynch white men; he asked to vote beside them. That is what makes his death so sobering—not that he died in rebellion, but that he died pursuing a right that should never have required martyrdom.

And I resent not learning about him until I was an adult, even though I live in the state of Alabama.

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Lord Jesus, You are the righteous Judge who sees every hidden wound and forgotten grave. Teach us to remember rightly. Give us courage to stand for what is just, and hearts tender enough to call every suffering believer our brother. Amen.

BDD