JESSE

There are moments when a democracy tells the truth about itself without saying a word. No press conference. No bill number. Just a door that stays closed.

After Rev. Jesse Jackson’s death, his family—through Rep. Jonathan Jackson—asked House Speaker Mike Johnson to allow Jackson’s remains to lie in honor in the U.S. Capitol Rotunda. The request was denied. 

If you’ve never heard the phrase lie in honor, that’s part of the problem. It’s one of the nation’s highest public rituals of remembrance—typically used for the rare private citizen whose life became a civic landmark. In modern memory, examples have included figures such as Rosa Parks and Billy Graham.

This is why the denial stings: not because Jesse Jackson needed a building to be Jesse Jackson, but because the Rotunda is a national mirror. Who we place there signals who we believe “belongs” to the story of America.

Jesse’s life pressed America toward a larger “we.” He pushed a coalition politics that treated poverty, war, labor, and racism as stitched together—problems that don’t stay in their assigned boxes. His work helped shape the language of modern voting rights, multiracial organizing, and human rights advocacy. And long before viral slogans, Jesse gave the country a simple, durable medicine—I am somebody—a sentence that teaches dignity as a public duty.

In the reporting around the denial, one detail keeps repeating: there is no single, crystal-clear rule that makes decisions like this automatic. The Rotunda “lie in honor” tradition lives in precedent and political agreement—typically requiring action by both chambers. In other words, the “how” can be as consequential as the “what.” A ritual shaped by unwritten practice leaves room for selective memory—room for gatekeeping that can feel personal even when it claims to be procedural.

Rep. Jonathan Jackson described the request as “uncomfortable,” and he framed it as an effort that could have been good “for the nation,” even as he acknowledged that history will judge the decision. That’s the right frame: this is bigger than one family’s grief. A country that cannot honor its builders with consistency becomes a country that trains itself to forget.

Meanwhile, the memorials and homegoings still move forward—because Black community has always built its own cathedrals of remembrance when the state hesitated. In Chicago, Jackson is scheduled to lie in state at Rainbow PUSH Coalition headquarters, with additional services planned in Washington, D.C., and South Carolina. The people will gather. The songs will arrive on time. The testimony will be fluent.

SO WHAT DO WE DO WITH A NATIONAL “NO”?

We do what Jesse practiced: we turn a denial into a lesson, and we turn a lesson into action.

First, Congress can establish transparent, public criteria for “lie in honor” decisions—criteria that recognize civic contribution, movement leadership, and moral courage alongside formal office-holding. Second, we can insist that public memory be spacious enough to hold the full American story, especially the parts that made America more democratic than it wanted to be.

Civil rights leaders are already warning that the progress Jesse fought for is under pressure in this moment. That makes remembrance more than ceremony. It makes it strategy.

At Progress for All (PFA), we believe civic repair is a daily practice: telling the truth, protecting participation, and building community resilience. Jesse’s work was never just a biography—it was a blueprint. The question now is whether we’ll carry it like a banner, or leave it folded in a drawer.

The Rotunda is one room. The country is the whole house. And the work is still ours.