The chancel of All Souls Unitarian Church in Washington, D.C., where in 1970 the Rev. David Eaton preached "fire from the pulpit" about a proposed unjust crime bill. (Photo by Heather Malkawi/Texas Impact)
Texas Impact | May 5, 2026
While in Washington D.C. last week, I asked a few friends what I should do in my spare time. As expected, I was met with an onslaught of restaurants and museums I “just had to check out.” But as I scrolled through recommendations and sightseeing lists, something dawned on me: I was less than a mile away from a church where one courageous minister delivered one of the most influential sermons of its time. (I know, that’s a bold statement, Stay with me.)
I turned to Steven, a Unitarian Universalist minister I had met at the National Anti-Hunger Conference I was attending, and said, “I’m going over to All Souls Unitarian Church. Do you want to come?”
We didn’t expect much, just a quick stop, maybe a photo outside, and then on to the next thing. But something told me to ring the doorbell.
Almost immediately, a kind woman welcomed us inside and offered to show us around. She guided us into the sanctuary, where we quietly took in the space and snapped a few pictures.
Standing in the sanctuary, I was suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. I found myself quietly slipping into a pew, committing the room to memory. It was breathtaking: the raised pulpit, the wraparound balcony, the full wall of organ pipes, and the chandelier suspended above, casting a quiet glow. There was a stillness in the room, but it didn’t feel empty. It felt full—of history, courage, of something that had happened here that still lingered in the air.
And sitting there, I was reminded exactly why I had come.
On May 3, 1970, Rev. David Eaton stood in the pulpit at All Souls Church in Washington, D.C. and preached a sermon that would ripple far beyond the walls of his congregation. Titled “Take the Blindfold Off the Lady: The D.C. Crime Bill,” it was bold, unsettling, and deeply rooted in a question that still echoes today:
What does justice truly require of us?
At the time, the nation was reeling. The assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was still fresh in the collective memory. Cities were grappling with unrest, economic strain, and deep racial divides. Then came the proposed D.C. Crime Bill, sweeping legislation that expanded police powers through “no-knock” warrants, preventive detention, and increased surveillance.
What troubled Eaton was not just the content of the bill but the silence surrounding it.
So he did what prophets and pastors sometimes do: He told the truth as he saw it, even when it made people uncomfortable.
Drawing on the image of Lady Justice, blindfolded to symbolize fairness, Eaton challenged a long-held assumption. What if justice should not be blind? What if, in refusing to see, it also refuses to recognize harm, inequity, and lived experience?
His sermon was described as “fire from the pulpit.” At one point, his words shocked the congregation, so much so that people gasped. And yet, beneath the provocation was a deeper moral claim: that responding to oppression requires more than passive agreement. It requires attention. It requires courage. It requires action.
The reaction was immediate. His sermon was discussed in newspapers, on radio, and even in the halls of Congress. Some condemned him. Others defended him. And in a moment that still feels instructive today, his congregation ultimately chose to stand with him—not necessarily because every word was easy to hear but because the conversation itself mattered.
The D.C. Crime Bill passed that summer.
But the question Eaton raised did not go away.
Fifty-six years later, we find ourselves in another moment shaped by tension; around safety and freedom, law and liberty, truth and power. We are still wrestling with how to hold these things together. We are still asking what justice looks like in practice, not just in principle.
We still use the language of fairness; of treating everyone the same. But we also see, more clearly now, that sameness is not always justice. That what appears neutral can have unequal impact. That history, context, and lived experience matter.
So what does it mean, today, to take the blindfold off?
It might mean paying attention to who is being heard and who is not.
It might mean noticing where systems work well for some and not for others.
It might mean asking harder questions, even when the answers are uncomfortable.
And it might mean, like Eaton, being willing to speak when silence would be easier.
Not recklessly. Not without care. But with a clear-eyed commitment to dignity, accountability, and truth.
Because justice—real justice—is not passive.
It is not distant.
And it is not blind.
It sees.
It responds.
And it asks something of each of us.
So perhaps the question we carry forward is not just what justice is but what it requires.
And, just as importantly:
How far are we willing to go to live into the answer?
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Heather Malkawi
Heather Malkawi is a policy advocate with Texas Impact, the state's original interfaith policy network for social justice in which United Methodists participate. This post is republished from Texas Impact's Substack blog.