Harvard Divinity School 2024 Convocation

At Harvard Divinity School's 209th Convocation ceremony, HDS Dean Marla F. Frederick delivered the address "And, Yet...We Hope" to the HDS and Harvard community, friends, alumni, and distinguished guests.

The event also featured remarks from David F. Holland, Associate Dean for Faculty and Academic Affairs, and John A. Bartlett Professor of New England Church History, the Rev. Taylon E. Lancaster, MDiv candidate, Jonathan Lee Walton, President, Princeton Theological Seminary, and vocal performances from Teddy Hickman-Maynard, Associate Dean for Ministry Studies, Lecturer on Ministry.

Readings were provided by Khushi Choudhary, MTS candidate, and Eliza Harmon Rockefeller, MDiv candidate.

Convocation took place on September 26, 2024.

Full video and transcript below. 

SPEAKER 1: Harvard Divinity School.

SPEAKER 2: Convocation of Harvard Divinity School at the Opening of the 209th Year, September 26, 2024.

DAVID HOLLAND: Welcome to the 209th Convocation of Harvard Divinity School. My name is David Holland, and I currently serve as the Academic Dean and Professor of American Religious History here at HDS. Dean Marla Frederick has asked me to open this evening's events with a few words of welcome. I want to begin by thanking our marvelous musicians, Yui Jit Kwong, Craig Rusert, Matt Kinnemore, and Chris Hossfeld, who have literally gotten us off on the right note tonight. What a beautiful way to begin a convocation. Thank you so much.

Convocation is, without fail, one of the best things on an astonishingly full and rich calendar of community events at Harvard Divinity School. It is an opportunity at the opening of each new year to convene, to connect, to reflect, and to project a vision for the coming year. One of the best things about academic life is this steady rhythm of beginnings and completions like the reliable beat of waves surging onto the shore and then returning to the sea.

A school like ours receives an annual rush of new students, and new faculty, new energy, and new possibilities, a flow of people, and perspectives that fill these spaces and then return to other places carrying the elements that they've acquired here. Both parts of that process are rewarding, the beginnings and the completions. But today is a celebration of one of them. The ingathering, the uptake, the beginning.

And the gathering before me from my perspective, is beautiful tonight. It's a wondrous sight to behold. And thank you for being here. I see so many different people here who contribute to this school in so many different ways.

Students, and staff, and faculty, and friends, and supporters from across Harvard and friends and supporters from beyond Harvard and graduates and guests. Welcome to all of you. And thank you each for bringing your thread into the weave of this celebration and another new beginning.

Not all new beginnings, of course, are equally auspicious. I'm reminded of a story my colleague and our former dean, David Hempton, told me this very week as we shared a late commuter train out of Cambridge. He mentioned an American tourist in Ireland, who was a bit lost in the countryside. When he stopped to ask for directions to Dublin, the local farmer replied, if you want to get to Dublin, I wouldn't start from here.

[LAUGHTER]

By contrast, tonight's gathering strikes me as the perfect place to start for the next chapter of this remarkable community. This celebration is particularly momentous as it marks the first convocation of our new dean, Marla Frederick, whose arrival has already brought its own surge of possibility and optimism. It's been a true gift to watch her have such a Swift and positive effect on this community.

And I'm so very happy to have this chance to ring in the start of her first full year at the head of our school. It is one of the great privileges of my professional life to serve under her leadership in this current administration. We'll have the blessing of hearing from her shortly.

But for now, to begin, we will have an acknowledgment of the land and people by Reverend Taylon E. Lancaster, a student in our Master's of Divinity program. Following the acknowledgment, Reverend Lancaster will also provide our first reading. Reverend Lancaster.

TAYLON E. LANCASTER: Thank you, Dr. Holland, for that heartfelt introduction. The acknowledgment of land and people. Harvard University is located on the traditional and ancestral land of the Massachusett, the original inhabitants of what is now known as Boston and Cambridge.

We pay respect to the people of the Massachusett tribe, past and present, and honor the land itself, which remains sacred to the Massachusett people. My brothers, my sisters, all of us gathered, do not lose hope, nor be sad. You will surely be victorious if you are true in faith: Surah Ali Imran Chapter 3 Verses 139 out of the Quran.

Where there is ruin, there is hope for a treasure by Rumi. Out of the book of Lamentations cries out these words Chapter 3 verses 21 through verse 29. But this do I call to mind. Therefore, I have hope. The kindness of the Lord has not ended. His mercies are not spent. They are renewed every morning. Ample is your grace.

In declaring this year, the year of 2025, the year of hope, the Pope undergirds his statement using several scriptures from the New Testament. And among them are these two from Romans Chapter 5. Hope does not disappoint because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us. Romans 5 verses 2 through 5. We boast in our sufferings knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope. Thank you.

DAVID HOLLAND: Thank you, Taylon. We'll now be pleased to have a reading from Khushi Choudhary, an MTS candidate. And Khushi will be followed by Eliza Harmon Rockefeller, an MDiv candidate. Khushi.

KHUSHI CHOUDHARY: A poem by Rabindranath Tagore, a famous twentieth-century Hindu and contemporary of Gandhi from his Nobel Prize volume, Gitanjali that expresses hope for a new and free India in the early 20th-century. Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high. Where knowledge is free. Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls.

Where words come out from the depth of truth. Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection. Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit. Where the mind is led forward by into ever widening thought and action into that heaven of freedom. My father let my country awake.

ELIZA HARMON ROCKEFELLER: Hello. I'll be sharing two readings. A reading from A House For Hope, a brief systematic theology written by two leading UU theologians, Rebecca Parker and John Burens.

Hope rises. It rises from the heart of life here and now beating with joy and sorrow. Hope longs. It longs for good to be affirmed, for justice and love to prevail, for suffering to be alleviated, and for life to flourish in peace.

Hope remembers the dreams of those who have gone before and reaches for connection with them across the boundary of death. Hope acts to bless, to protest, and to repair. Hope can be disappointed, especially when it is individual rather than shared, or when even as a shared aspiration, it encounters entrenched opposition.

To thrive, hope requires a home. A sustaining structure of community, meaning, and ritual. A reading from James Baldwin. No name in the street. The hope of the world lies in what one demands not of others, but of oneself.

DAVID HOLLAND: Thank you, Khushi, and thank you, Eliza. We'll have a slight adjustment to our program. We will now be pleased to hear a vocal performance by Dean Teddy Hickman-Maynard, who will be performing "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing." Dean Teddy.

[PIANO PLAYING]

[VOCAL PERFORMANCE]

[APPLAUSE]

What a gift you are, Teddy. Thank you so very much. One of the great benefits of having Marla Frederick as our Dean is that she is a person of irresistible gravitational pull who brings people together and makes friends easily.

Dean Frederick has associates literally all over the globe who admire her and trust her and like her. And HDS gets the benefit of the goodwill she generates everywhere she goes. Tonight, we have the opportunity to hear from one of her many well-placed good friends who also happens to be the president of Princeton Theological Seminary and who also happens to have been an important and influential member of the HDS community not that long ago.

President Jonathan Lee Walton assumed the presidency at PTS in 2023. Princeton Theological Seminary is President Walton's doctoral alma mater. And his return was a source of much celebration.

Prior to his appointment at PTS, President Walton served as the Dean of Wake Forest University School of Divinity. And prior to that, he was the Plummer Professor of Christian Morals and Pusey Minister in the Memorial Church at Harvard University. Before and during his time at Memorial Church, Jonathan was also a dedicated teacher and colleague and scholar right here at Harvard Divinity School.

President Walton's widely read scholarship engages especially pressing questions of social ethics focusing on the intersection of evangelical Christianity, mass media, and political culture. His wide-ranging insight into this side of converging cultural forces is on display in a rich corpus of writings, including Watch This: The Ethics and Aesthetics of Black Televangelism, which was published in 2009, and A Lens Of Love: Reading the Bible in Its World for Our World from 2018.

President Walton is also a sought-after commentator on contemporary events and an effective communicator to diverse audiences who's been featured in the New York Times and Time Magazine, as well as on CNN, and CBS, and any number of other outlets. I know it means the world to our new dean to have President Walton here to introduce her as our keynote convocation speaker. President Walton.

[APPLAUSE]

JONATHAN LEE WALTON: How are you all doing?

[LAUGHTER]

The historic appointment of Dr. Marla Frederick as dean of this school speaks volumes. It speaks to this community's confidence and trust in her competence and her capacity. And it would be easy to attribute this appointment solely to the usual markers of academic success and distinction.

Some may argue that her distinguished reputation as a scholar makes her uniquely qualified. Marla Fredrick's work has been nothing less than groundbreaking. Her first book, for example, Between Sundays: Black Women and Everyday Struggles of Faith. It was the first to engage African-American religious broadcasting as a vehicle through which Black women navigated the challenges of everyday life while finding a powerful, though at times, problematic tool of empowerment.

Today, due to her subsequent books and many essays and articles, an entire generation of social scientists and theologians, regard religion, race, gender, and mass media as co-constitutive categories of analysis. We're all drinking from her wells. Yet even this remarkable scholarly contribution is only part of the story. Maybe to better understand why Marla Frederick is uniquely situated to lead this institution, we might also look to her intellectual and administrative leadership in the scholarly guild.

Her presidency of the Association of Black Anthropologists and later serving as president of the American Academy of Religion. It marked her as a trailblazing and transformative figure across multiple fields. Yet Marla's actual distinction lies not in her titles, but I would argue, in her task.

Her fearless commitment to naming and challenging the forces that perpetuate evil, injustice, and inequality. Recall her American Academy of Religion presidential address in 2021. She invoked the powerful words of Baby Suggs from Toni Morrison's Beloved lamenting the relentless drive of those in power. Baby Suggs declares, "They just don't know when to stop."

Dean Frederick appealed to this admonition to illumine unchecked dominance of white supremacy, religious bigotry, and unbridled capitalist greed that defines so much of our world today. With wisdom and warmth, conviction and courage, Dean Frederick called on scholars of religion to pause. She called us to reflect. She called us to recognize how we in higher education are complicit in systems of power that perpetuate exploitation and exclusion.

Her leadership calls us to reconsider our roles defining institutional standards of excellence, not based on the percentages of those we can keep outside of the gates, but rather according to the avenues of opportunity and access that we might establish. But maybe this isn't it. Maybe we should look to her days at Spelman College to truly understand what shapes Marla Frederick.

It was here that she was surrounded by brilliant, and beautiful, distinguished, and dignified, responsible, and respectable Black women, women who are unashamed and unapologetic in their brilliance under the motto our whole school for Christ. And it was a Spelman that Marla developed her deep appreciation for institutions.

For Dean Frederick, Black churches and historically Black colleges and universities are more than spaces of worship and learning. They are the anchors that sustain Black dignity in the persistent face of dehumanization, degradation, and dismissal of Black humanity. And, therefore, higher education writ large. No matter where we serve, we must support and protect these institutional pillars of productivity and democracy.

But even this deep institutional commitment is only part of the reason she's so uniquely qualified. I would say today that to truly understand what has prepared Marla Frederick for this moment, we have to remember her roots in Sumter, South Carolina. It is here, Sumter, South Carolina, that shaped Mary McLeod Bethune, the county that shaped the two Black deans of Harvard Divinity School, Preston Williams and Marla Frederick.

This community shaped Marla, including her recently departed parents, L.C. and Carolyn Frederick. Parents who instilled in her the values of love, service, kindness, and tenderness. At First Baptist Missionary Church in Sumter, she witnessed the power of love and grace by people who fertilized her faith and tended to her future.

And I would argue that this is the environment and environment full of affection that gave Marla Frederick her greatest asset as an anthropologist, the ability to see the world through another's eyes. The ability to empathize with the struggles, hopes, and dreams of others, and the ability to give voice to the often unheard. It's this empathy that has defined your scholarship. It's defined your leadership.

Dean Frederick's gift is her capacity to recognize the humanity of those in whom she encounters as she wrote in between Sundays, to understand the spiritual life of a community, one must first sit with its women, those who know the heartbeats, its rhythms, and its wounds. And only then can one truly begin to grasp the depth of the faith that sustains its people.

So this, my dear friends, is why Marla Frederick is uniquely situated to lead Harvard Divinity School. It's the foundation of Sumter, Spelman, and Bethel AME Church, a foundation that has taught her that leadership is about seeing, about serving, about standing alongside those whose voices are too often muted.

So please join me in celebrating Elsie and Carolyn Frederick's daughter, Brenda and Frederica sisters, Erik's partner, Miles's parent, Ray and Gloria Hammond's parishioner, and all of our dear friend. I present to you, Dean Marla Faye Frederick.

[APPLAUSE]

MARLA F. FREDERICK: Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. I want to thank President Walton for that so gracious and kind and wonderful introduction. I don't know how to repay him.

When you say Jonathan have to say Cecily. So Jonathan and Cecily, dear friends of mine who have loved and supported me throughout my time here at Harvard. And I say I don't know how to repay him because I still owe him for all the food I ate at their house. So I feel like I still need to pay on that grocery bill.

But I'm just so grateful for the introduction. Thank you so much. And David Holland, thank you so much for the way you have led this program so graciously.

Teddy Hickman Maynard, thank you so much for leading us and "Come Thou Fount Of Every Blessing." That is my favorite hymn. And for me it speaks to this moment, prone to wander. Lord, I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.

It's in times of great distress and hopelessness that we often tend to want to leave. And so thank you for the way you ministered that song to us. And thank you to all of the student readers. And thank you, HDS community, for your love, and support, and for so graciously welcoming me here as your new dean.

And I want to say a word of thanks to my sisters, Brenda and Frederica, my brother-in-law, my nieces that are here, my husband Eric, and my son Miles. I so greatly appreciate your love and support through all the years and through all the ups and all the sad times that we have recently shared.

Convocation. I want to say one more thing. And that is to all of my friends who have traveled near and far to be here. I have special words that I want to share with them a bit later.

But I want to say a word about Convocation. Dean Hempton has iterated in previous ceremonies that Convocation is a time to reflect on the past and imagine a way forward. This year's Convocation offers us the same opportunity as we imagine what future possibilities lie ahead for the work of Harvard Divinity School.

And given the many events locally, nationally, and internationally that raise questions, cause concern, and bring grief to so many, I thought I might speak on the topic, And yet, we hope.

It is futile to try to compare the human cost of various tragedies. For the families and communities affected, they are singular. And yet the emotions they create can be shared. There is a word for hopelessness. In fact, there are several words and phrases that come to mind when one thinks of historical events that engender utter despair.

Descendants of the African slave trade call it the Maafa, the great destruction, the great suffering, the great catastrophe. It began in 1441 with the Portuguese and ended in 1867 lasting 426 years. The United Nations reports that more than 15 million men, women, and children were the victims of the trans-Atlantic slave trade. Estimates suggest that 15 percent died at sea in the middle passage sickened, thrown overboard, often eaten by sharks who followed closely behind ships.

Millions more survived and disembarked, entering a process of mass dehumanization, enslavement alongside the forced destruction of their language, customs, religions, and ways of knowing hopelessness. Descendants of those who were forced from their land by the Indian Removal Act of 1830 call it the Trail of Tears. The Cherokee Historical Association tells us that upwards of 100,000 Indigenous people lost their homes after Congress under President Andrew Jackson passed the act by a slim and controversial margin.

Tribes such as the Cherokee, the Muscogee, the Seminole, the Chickasaw, and the Choctaw were removed mostly from the southeastern United States and relocated to land out west. Thousands died, many succumbing to the ravages of disease and starvation in just this instance. Again, hopelessness.

Descendants of the 6 million Jews who perished in Europe during the World War II call it the Holocaust or the Shoah in Hebrew, catastrophe. Men, women, children, entire families gathered and put to death between 1941 and 1945 in Auschwitz, Treblinka, Belzec, Sobibor, Chelmno in the occupied Poland. It started with mass shootings, gathering Jews from their homes, taking them to places beyond the city, forcing them to dig mass graves, and then executing them.

In time, they used gas vans and later built entire extermination camps. For those able to say goodbye, mothers kiss their children, husbands hug their wives knowing they would never see one another again. In those moments, hopelessness.

Descendants of Palestinians who were displaced for the creation of the state of Israel call it the Nakba, catastrophe in Arabic, referring to the mass displacement and dispossession of Palestinians during the 1948 Arab-Israeli war. Men, women, children, entire families forcibly removed from their homes in order to help establish a safe haven and fulfill the dream of a religious homeland for Jewish people, many fleeing persecution.

The solemn history of Nakba Day reported by time tells us that of the 1.4 million strong Palestinian population at the time, 800,000 were displaced, suffering the loss of life, and approximately 15,000 killed alongside the loss of communities, including homes, schools, and sacred sites. Again, hopelessness.

These are just a few, brief, incomplete examples of monumental historical events that have shaped the lives of so many. The Maafa, the Trail of Tears, the Holocaust, the Nakba. It is impossible to compare the real human toll of devastation. And my point is not to engage in endless comparisons or claims of uniqueness of any of these tragedies.

Despite differences in scale, historical context, and impact, they all hold one thing in common for their descendants who tell their stories. Hopelessness. And why emphasize descendants?

I do so because descendants generally don't deny. They want others to hear and appreciate their stories. They write about it. They talk about it.

They don't ban books about it because they want other people to remember it as they are the ones who have to live in the pain of its aftermath. As an anthropologist, I know that stories matter. They are, in essence, the foundation of our lives, how we understand who we are.

These stories, however, are not value-free. They often represent competing and contested truths. The mission and challenge of the university, especially of one whose motto is Veritas, is to make room for these narratives, to excavate them, to weigh them, to critique them, and to be informed by them.

And even as I mentioned these events, time truly fails to really tell of the traumatic destruction and the devastating losses of life that have taken place throughout history, continuing into our present day. As recorded by the Geneva Academy, today, there are more than 110 armed conflicts happening across the globe in Asia, Africa, Europe, Latin America, and the Middle East. And those are just the recorded armed conflicts.

We are also grappling with overwhelming crises, including the lingering effects of a global pandemic, the existential threat of climate change, the persistent reality of inequality in both resources and rights, and the grief that visions for peace seem as distant as they ever have as wars erupt around the world and acts of violence continue to afflict our nation here at home.

In the years ahead, what will we even call October 7 and its aftermath? How will we explain the ongoing violence and destruction to future generations? What words will the scholars, journalists, public officials, and religious leaders use to help us make sense of this moment? I don't know. Only time will tell.

The history is still being written. But what remains clear is that in each of these events, the Maafa, the Trail of Tears, the Holocaust, the Nakba, or the many wars underway in the world. What's clear is that they each produce cause for hopelessness, cause for dystopian imaginations about the future.

After all, religion has often been front and center in these moments and movements. As anthropologist Talal Asad argues in genealogies of religion, religious discourse depends on practices and discourses that are often not religious at all. Religion, one might argue, is as much about the ethereal concerns of spirit and its afterlife, the so-called intangible world of faith as it is about the very tangible, corporeal conditions that define our everyday lives. Struggles over land, geography, politics, power, and control.

Religion with its hierarchies, its chosenness, its sacred geographies, its blessed and cursed peoples can inspire the worst of human compulsions towards war and exclusion. At the very same time, religion can inspire the best of humanity compelling us towards hope in the midst of great despair.

In preparing for our HDS Community Read, we're over the course of this year, we will read both Israeli and Palestinian perspectives on the conflict. I was moved by a passage from Yossi Halevi's letters to my Palestinian neighbor, one of our reads. Halevi, who is Jewish and Israeli, writes of his hope for Israel and Palestine.

His hope, distinct from some other Zionists, he explains, is that Israel will stop the expansion of settlements and the two peoples can live peaceably alongside one another. Yet he writes this while also describing the many failed attempts over the decades at peace. The bombs by Israel, the intifadas by Palestine, the deaths, the destruction.

He writes, quote, "As a religious person, I am forbidden to accept this abyss between us as permanent, forbidden to make peace with despair. As the Qur'an so powerfully notes, despair is equivalent to disbelief in God. To doubt the possibility of reconciliation is to limit God's power, the possibility of miracle, especially in this land. The Torah commands me, seek peace and pursue it. Even when peace appears impossible. Perhaps, especially then."

And so in the midst of great tragedy, when people work to build back the ruins of history, they are often compelled to move forward because of the very faith that brought contention. The challenge in doing that work, however, is often the open wounds of discord, the need to reach beyond existential pain to possibility. We are indeed asking grieving people to find solutions. And this indeed is possibly the greatest challenge.

Over the past year, as universities across the nation, including our own, were engulfed in conflict and burdened with the weight of the moment, I've had little time to truly process the range of emotions that accompanied my start as dean. As the year began in August of 2023, as many of you know, my father passed away unexpectedly. Then October 7, I wasn't here yet, but I was processing grief. And grief compounded by the heartbreak of what was unfolding internationally.

When I arrived in January to begin this historic journey as the first woman to lead Harvard Divinity School, I was struck by yet another great and surprising grief. My mother died in her sleep the day after attending my welcome reception. Amid both of what I have called Great Grief. I'm so sorry.

In hindsight, I see that my sisters and I were, in fact, extended great grace. In their deaths, we were allowed space to grieve and remember an opportunity for some form of tenuous closure.

For weeks, people came to my parents' home bringing food, telling stories, deeply fond memories of my parents. Their funerals were attended by hundreds of people from across the community who celebrated their lives with us and told stories that even at their funerals, made us laugh.

The pastor of our home church offered heartwarming eulogies that spoke to their great humanity. And we all sang praises to God for the gift of their lives. They were somber, yet beautiful experiences, great graces, I call them today.

The people of Israel, whose parents, children, and loved ones were lost or taken captive do not have that grace. Many don't even know if their loved ones are dead or alive. Though they walk daily with an open wound of the most humankind, the people of Gaza, parents, children, and loved ones who have been lost to war.

Homes and lives destroyed. Their families, too, do not have that grace. The people of war-torn communities around the world do not have that grace.

Many are literally on the run, sitting in grief, unable to process the devastation of family, home, school, and community. How do you mourn with such uncertainty? What happens when grief has no place to go, no place to be honored? Sadly, we have seen that lived out over this past year.

Our great and common humanity, however, calls us to something better to manifest hope in the midst of despair. This is aspirational to be sure. But history has shown us time and time again that humanity has the propensity to persist despite catastrophe.

As we grapple with our modern-day challenges and complexities, especially at a place like Harvard, we must focus on what is within our control to build toward a better future for all. How do we create space in the world for greater dialogue across our differences? How can a respect for difference mitigate violence and ultimately lead us to a world without war?

How do we develop leaders who are attuned to the concerns of others, even as they advocate and work towards the concerns of their own communities? How do we develop leaders who are deeply informed about history, and culture, and cultivate scholars who excel at examining the most intricate details of religious life and meaning? Here at Harvard Divinity School, we have a high calling, a lofty vision, a truly grand idea.

We study and teach the world's great traditions. We know and seek to understand the great sorrow and bitterness wrought by religion and religious divides. And at the same time, we pursue and celebrate the great joy and connection inspired by faith and faith communities.

I returned to Harvard and to HDS, in particular, in part, because of the hope found here in these hallowed halls. The sense of possibility about what Harvard Divinity School has to offer the world in need. And we know that long before last year, there were already a plethora of issues that could benefit from the promise of our mission and vision.

Here in the United States, religion continues to play a role in our political debates and in society, whether we were debating climate change, or reproductive rights, gun laws, LGBTQIA issues, or the efficacy of public health, health efforts such as masking during a pandemic or the value of vaccinations. Religion too often was wielded as a way to instigate social fracture.

The things we label today as culture wars from the banning of books, to the fierce debates over the border, to the rise of particular forms of nationalism around the globe are often rooted in issues of religious interpretation, religious difference, and ideas of dominance. There is a way in which we as scholars of religion can take for granted the idea that everyone holds dear the values of pluralism and tolerance. These are often bedrock ideals in the humanities, and in the social sciences, in particular.

Indeed, as a form of practice, we scholars of religion intentionally think about the makings of our multifaceted religious worlds. The extensive histories, the sacred texts, the diverse communities, the balances or imbalances of power and resources, the affinities that make for religious devotion and care.

How do we share these insights with a broader public amidst increasing social divisions? Especially given that our hope for a multiracial and multi-religious democracy depends upon our openness to others. There is no shortage of reasoning as to why we need Harvard Divinity School and our many counterparts. Schools, programs and associations that focus on the study of religion.

I've said many times as dean in these last months that HDS is a multireligious divinity school where we teach a multitude of traditions Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism, African, and Indigenous traditional religions. And we do so within a community that represents dozens of different faiths, including people who ascribe to multiple denominations or none at all. People who are discerning their beliefs and those who practice their faith religiously.

This respect for pluralism within our community is intentional. It is intended to serve as a model for how to lead by example here at Harvard and beyond. People from every background, belief system, family structure, class, creed, and ability are part of our shared humanity, especially here in the US.

Ours is a multiracial and multi-religious democracy. And this is not by accident, but by struggle and sacrifice. And as a government for the people and by the people, the United States offers us a unique model, a representative democracy, where the ideal of democracy is that everyone gets a vote and everyone has a voice.

But with that promise, we must also recognize that democracy is not a guarantee. It is a grand experiment that men and women have struggled to bring into being, and one that we have to struggle to keep. I learned this while conducting ethnographic research in Eastern North Carolina among Black Baptist women and men who advocated daily for the concerns of their community, whether for clean drinking water, justice for Black farmers, or educational parity.

I learned at watching women in Georgia rally to register citizens to vote as civil rights workers had done generations before them trying to bring all of God's people to the table. And I learned it in reading the works of Mary McLeod Bethune, who having dedicated her life to building Bethune Cookman College, argued that, quote, "Education is the great American adventure. The world's most colossal Democratic experiment."

We must participate in the process of democracy to protect and defend this way of life. This includes protecting and defending the foundation of education, which includes academic freedom and open inquiry. The very idea of this monumental institution, the historic Harvard University, incorporated before our nation was even founded, would not be possible without the ideals of democracy to guide us.

Our ability to honor our diversity and background and diversity and beliefs will determine the future of our democracy and the potential for democracies around the globe. If we are to ensure that this multiracial, multireligious democracy that we ascribe to not only survives, but thrives, we need the foresight that is at the heart of Harvard Divinity School's vision statement, which is to provide an intellectual home where scholars and professionals from around the globe research and teach the varieties of religion in service of just world at peace across religious and cultural divides.

And so as we move into this new year, I hold hope. Thanks to all of the good work HDS has already put into the world by way of our excellent faculty, our dedicated staff, our inspiring students, our remarkable alumni, and our supportive friends. And I hold hope for how HDS will grow into the future.

I hope for HDS continued commitment to intellectual excellence. May we hold a sustained focus on the rigorous and engaged study of religion to delve mindfully into the literature and sacred texts that inform religious communities to excavate the unique and complex histories that explain their development, to wrestle with the anthropological and sociological matters that inform our contemporary realities, to always explore the ethical implications of their practices. And this is only the start of our academic inquiries.

Intellectual excellence is instrumental here at HDS for each degree program and each area of study, as well as throughout the field as scholarly networks are built and strengthened. I hope for HDS continued commitment to character. May we have the foresight to engage in intellectual rigor that makes room for difference and honest debate.

The type of character that holds and honor the humanities of those with whom we differ. The type of humanity that grieves with those who grieve and cares for those in need, regardless of our differences. As I was reading Reverend Warnock's memoir in preparation for tomorrow's symposium, I came across a passage where he recounts a similar concern about character as he explains his decision to attend Morehouse College, his alma mater, which he holds in high regard for its commitment to the cultivation of what he calls mind and heart.

As he considered matriculation at Morehouse, he came across a written reflection by a then 18-year-old Martin Luther King Jr. in the school newspaper, where King shared his thoughts on education. King had observed that Eugene Tarmac, the quote "hate-filled segregationist governor of Georgia held a Phi Beta Kappa key." King reflected, by all measuring rods, Mr. Talmadge could think critically and intensively.

Yet he contends that I am an inferior being. Are those the types of men we call educated? We must remember that intelligence is not enough.

Intelligence plus character. That is the true goal of education. Training the head and tuning the heart exemplifies this essential element of teaching and learning.

We will need character now more than ever to get through these dark days of discord. The type of character that insists on seeing and valuing the full humanity, even of those with whom we disagree. And maybe especially. This was, in part, the great genius of the Civil Rights Movement.

Finally, I hope for HDS continued commitment to beloved community. May we have faith in ourselves and each other that we can tend to our scholarly pursuits, our spiritual callings, our dreams for a better future with care. May we work toward the possibility of a better future by creating more light and causing less harm.

May we find solace in our sacred teachings, in our shared humanity, in the many ways that faith may sustain the spirit. And may we protect the privilege and the promise that education provides. Please know that these hopes are ones I carry with me as a leader, as a scholar, as a mother, as a partner, and in each of the relationships I've been blessed with in my life.

This emphasis on excellence, and character, and community comes from the values my parents instilled in me. I might say, since I was knee-high to a tadpole.

[LAUGHTER]

In the face of adversity, particularly living through the Jim Crow era in the South, my parents held fast to their faith and the promise of a better future. They taught me the importance of education, the meaning of character, and the necessity of tending to one another with care. My parents may not be here with us today, but they are guiding me in spirit. And I pray that you feel that grace as I lead this extraordinary school.

In closing, I would like to invoke Zora Neale Hurston, a writer and anthropologist who inspired my love of stories with her keen observation. We are all storytellers, weaving the threads of our experiences into the grand tapestry of life. May we listen to and truly hear one another's stories, and may our commitment to intellectual excellence, character, and beloved community guide us now and always. And yet, we hope. Thank you.

[APPLAUSE]

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Thank you so much, Teddy. And this wonderful band. Can we give them a hand?

[APPLAUSE]

Thank you. Thank you all so much for being here with us today. Please join us for a reception downstairs. And please join us tomorrow for our symposium in here on religion and democracy. See you downstairs.

[APPLAUSE]

DAVID HOLLAND: Closing music. Yui Jit Kwong, MTS Candidate, tenor saxophone. Craig Rusert, MDiv candidate, bass. Jay Matthew Kinnemore, DIB Office, drums. Chris Hossfeld, Director of Music and Ritual, piano.

Copyright 2020, the President and Fellows of Harvard College.