The names “Plessy” and “Ferguson” are linked, seemingly forever, in American legal history. Homer Plessy, a resident of New Orleans, bought a first-class ticket for a train from New Orleans to Covington. He sat in a car reserved for White passengers. The conductor ordered him to move to a different car because he was of “mixed descent:” 7/8 “Caucasian” and 1/8 “African,” as the Court puts it. State law required the provision of “equal but separate” accommodations for White and Black passengers. When Homer refused to relocate, the conductor had him arrested, the State charged him with a criminal violation of the statute. Plessy claimed that the statute violated the Equal Protection clause of the 14^th Amendment, a claim that eventually went to the United States Supreme Court. Under laws of mandamus still live today, attacks on the legitimacy of a court proceeding are technically a suit against the trial judge: in this case, John Ferguson. In an 8-1 decision, the Court held that racially segregated facilities were not per se unconstitutional. The Court sent the case back to the trial court, where the state, not satisfied with having vindicated this particular version of Jim Crow, continued to prosecute him. Plessy was found guilty and fined twenty-five dollars.

Plessy v. Ferguson is no longer good law, of course. A number of cases, most notably Brown v. Board of Education, have held that segregated facilities are demeaning and hence inherently unequal. (Brown v Board of Educationis limited on its face to school cases, and, according to some, didn’t formally and fully overrule Plessy, but I wouldn’t suggest citing Plessy in a brief.) Now, the names Plessy and Ferguson have found their way into the news, in a potentially redemptive manner. Keith Plessy, a collateral relative of Homer, and Phoebe Ferguson, John Ferguson’s great-great-granddaughter, have formed a foundation to promote understanding of civil rights and racial discrimination, and have sought a pardon for Homer. Last week, that part of their mission succeeded. Governor John Bel Edwards announced that he is pardoning Homer.

To some, pardoning a dead man might seem like a useless gesture. Not, however, if we contemplate how it reminds us of the importance of time to both culture and theology. In order for Homer’s pardon not to be a useless gesture, we have to regard ourselves as living in a narrative that reflects not just “random” acts of kindness or cruelty to a story with a beginning and an end and purpose for each of us in that story. (I put random in scare quotes because, as Oliver O’Donovan points out, making it one’s life purpose to act randomly is by definition nonsensical.) Viewed that way, Homer’s pardon redeems the earlier injustice of his conviction, and Keith and Phoebe, in working for the pardon, live redemptive lives. 

We also can’t help thinking what it means to say that Keith and Phoebe are relatives of Homer and John. Thinking about it helps us understand the related concepts of identity and agency. Each of us is at the same time a distinct agent, the latest installment in our own familial and tribal lines, and a small part of a grand narrative. To lose sight of any of these is to have an incomplete and hence false view of reality. Denying our own agency rejects, sinfully according to O’Donovan, the essential gift of personhood; persons have purposes. Ignoring our heritage, on the other hand, endorses the modern fiction that one can be a citizen of the world, that is of everywhere. Being a citizen of everywhere carries with it a view from nowhere, another popular modern fiction that ultimately leads to blindness. And losing the sense of a grand narrative denies what we all instinctively sense, that there is a larger story of which we are a part. It is this sense that causes us to hold on to values such as toleration, justice, mercy, and honor. Because we lose sight of the grander narrative, however, we view those values as adversarial rather than complementary. We lose hope that, as the psalm says, justice and mercy can embrace.

In other words, the story helps us understand properly the concept of history. We all have our separate histories, but without a belief in an overarching narrative, there is no way to conceive that events have connections to each other – that they form a history. Faulkner was half right when he said that the past is never dead. But only half right; viewed purposefully, life advances even if it never disconnects from the past. Phoebe and Keith seek not to cancel this shameful bit of history; they seek to redeem it. Paul writes to the Ephesians that to “redeem the time” is an act of wisdom. We should be grateful for that small bit of wisdom this Thanksgiving weekend.