Speaking With a Shaking Voice: Fear, Guns, and Means Restriction in Wilson County

Photo: Janelle Clevinger, Wilson Times

Monday night, I spoke at the Wilson County Commissioners meeting. A group of county residents had organized to push the commissioners to adopt a resolution naming the county a “2nd Amendment Sanctuary.” I was opposed to the resolution for any number of reasons, not the least of which was its mis-appropriation of the term “sanctuary” to be about protecting guns rather than vulnerable people. But of course, there was more to my opposition than that.

I shared with the commissioners that I think every day about the possibility of gun violence on the campus where I work. That I think about how I would help students to hide, bar a door, get to an exit, if someone burst into a classroom, into the chapel, into my office.I told them that my wife, a hospital chaplain, regularly sees the aftermath and carnage of gun violence, the grieving mothers, the paper clips that have to be taped next to the exit wounds so that they show up on X-rays. And I told them that we shouldn’t bypass the big, courageous conversation we need to have about gun violence and reasonable gun safety measures by passing resolutions like this. I told them I was praying for them, and for peace for our homes, our communities, and our world.

One of the more creative comments on the article about the meeting

Getting up to speak was terrifying. I tried to control a shake in my voice. The room was full of supporters of the resolution, lining the walls and the hallways outside. Almost all of them, if not all, were white, mostly men. They muttered and made angry noises when I or other opponents of the resolution spoke. Of those who spoke against the resolution, all were people of color except for me. I assumed many of the resolution supporters were carrying concealed firearms, despite the prohibition against guns in the county manager’s office, as nobody was checked at the door. One man who spoke after me stated loudly that he would protect his right to own whatever guns he wanted “by any means necessary,” turning and looking at me and my wife when he said this. When we left, people stared at us, glared at us. I kept an eye out over my shoulder as we walked to our car to make sure we weren’t being followed. A commenter on the newspaper article the next day called me treasonous, a fake Christian, and said that the people of the county ought to “hold me accountable” for speaking against the resolution.

The man who spoke before me, in favor of the resolution, said that he looked into gun violence statistics and declared they weren’t accurate because they included deaths by suicide. “Those people,” he said, “would have found some way to kill themselves anyway. That’s got nothing to do with guns.”

I knew when I decided to speak that I wouldn’t be able to respond to every little thing that the supporters of the resolution said. But I did have to respond to that. So I told the commissioners that means restriction is one of the most effective types of suicide prevention. I told them that I had been personally impacted by suicide, that I knew and loved “those people,” and that yes, it is violence.

Eventually, in a closed session, the commissioners would pass a resolution affirming their commitment to the 2nd Amendment but not fully endorsing the sanctuary resolution being lobbied for. The only two commissioners who voted in opposition were the two African American women who serve on the commission. I wish the commissioners had simply chosen to take no action. To instead find a way to host a big, honest, courageous discussion about guns, gun violence, mental health, and suicide. But they did not.

I am still glad I spoke.

It was a scary thing to get up and speak. But I get to speak. Those whose deaths by suicide have deeply impacted to me do not get to do so.

So I will keep speaking. Even with a shaking voice.

And I will, indeed, keep praying and working for peace for ourselves, our homes, our communities, and our world.