Cronies in a Tizzy, Co-workers on the Farm

"When Jesus was born in Gainesville, Georgia, during the time that Herod was governor, some scholars from the Orient came to Atlanta and inquired, 'Where is the one who was born to be governor of Georgia?  We saw his star in the Orient, and came to honor him.'  This news put Governor Herod and all his Atlanta cronies in a tizzy."  (Matthew 2:1-2, Cotton Patch Gospels)


So begins the familiar story of the birth of Jesus and the visit of the Magi as translated by Clarence Jordan in the 1960s.  In his paraphrase, Jordon, a Greek scholar with a PhD in New Testament Studies, recast the story in terms that he hoped would prompt folks to recognize that the life and teachings of Jesus had ramifications for modern times. 




Jordan didn't live in some ivory tower, however, but rather on a farm in rural Georgia--a commune, I suppose one might call it.  He described it as an intentional Christian community, modeled after the description of the early church one finds in the book of Acts. Along with his wife Florence and another couple, he founded the community, called Koinonia Farm, in 1942 (koinonia is Greek for communion or joint participation).




My wife Linda and I had the honor of visiting Koinonia as we wended our way north to New Jersey.  It is located in Americus, Georgia. 




As we toured the grounds with a long-term intern we were filled in on the history of the Farm.  From the start it was rough going, because Jordan and his co-founders were committed to racial equality.  Folks, black and white, lived and worked together on the farm, and their neighbors were none too pleased.  When additional help was needed to harvest pecans and other crops, the workers they hired were paid a fair wage (unlike many others in the area) regardless of their race.  And their neighbors were none too pleased.  The KKK targeted Koinonia, and fires were set.  There were drive-by shootings.  Indeed, stacks of wood were piled on all four sides of the buildings to provide a measure of protection from flying bullets.  But Jordan and his fellow residents persisted.  They had a mission--not just to provide an example of Christian community, but also to introduce farming methods that would help conserve the soil and protect the environment.  The Farm was very involved in providing low-cost housing for folks in the area, and in time gave birth to Habitat for Humanity.




Today they are still seeking to live out it's mission.  There are many outreach programs to the wider community, a retreat program where they share their learnings with others, and they have  recently introduced biologic farming to the area.




we sat at lunch, and shared the fresh greens from their gardens and meatloaf and burgers made from their grass-fed beef, we are also fed by the sharing of prayers and a reading from the scriptures.  And as folks shared with us at lunch, we realized that Jordan's dream has been realized as the community lives on decades after his death in 1969.  "What the poor need," he once said, "is not charity, but capital, not caseworkers but co-workers."  Koinonia continues to provide just that, co-workers--and we were honored to meet and talk and dine with several of them.

Steeples, Basements and Dreams

On sabbatical and starting in the deep South . . . .

When we arrived at Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, South Carolina, we hadn't been sure we'd be able to get inside.  And sure enough, the doors to the sanctuary were locked.  So we walked around to the back of the building, hoping to find an office entrance.  We had to make our way past some construction--the church is putting in an elevator, realizing the dream of its late pastor, Clementa Pinckney, and many others, to make the building accessible to all.

As we rounded the back of the structure we were greeted by a fellow in his sixties.  He introduced himself as one of the church trustees.  We explained the work I am doing on the abolition movement and our hope to see the inside of the church, for its congregation has often been at the center of the struggle for equal rights.

Well come this way, he said, and then he ushered us through a side door and down a  narrow flight of stairs into the church basement.  It is a church basement like hundreds, thousands, of other church basements all across the country,  Basements where church suppers with casserole dishes and salad bowls brought from home, youth group meetings with silly games and serious discussions, and Bible studies of all kinds are held on a routine basis.  But on that Wednesday night in June things had been anything but routine as gunfire ended nine lives, and shattered so many others.  As we sat there on metal folding chairs, we were filled with a mix of emotions and an overwhelming sense of the sacred.

We smile a lot around here, our trustee host told us, it helps us make it through each day.  And as he took us around the rest of the building, we were struck again and again by the pride the congregation has in its property.  Most of it built by former slaves, we were told.  The woodwork on the pews was intricate.  There was a fine looking organ.  It was a place where folks like Martin Luther King, Jr., had spoken and offered up God's word of hope.

Emanuel AME--Mother Emanuel--is situated on Calhoun Street in Charleston, but it used to be called Boundary Street.  Because it marked a boundary, a line, that people of color were only allowed top cross if they were with their masters or on their masters' business.  They could work across the boundary, said our new friend, but not worship.  But on this side . . . .

On this side stands Mother Emanuel, with its steeple reaching for the sky.  Bearing witness.  Saying God's over here as well!

They call Charleston the Holy City for all its churches and steeples.  But last week I was reminded how often the holy lives cheek-by-jowl with that which is anything but holy.  Yet I was also reminded that even in the midst of great tragedy, there are those who keep building elevators, and welcoming strangers, and reaching for a dream that transcends all the boundaries we human beings can erect.

On the Road Again (without Willie Nelson!)

Well, Linda and I are finally on the road for my sabbatical.  It is such a lovely gift for a congregation to give to their pastor!  Many folks have called it "well-deserved"--and that may be the case, but mostly I think of it as a gracious expression of a congregation's care!


We have quite a journey planned.  We have already dropped off our cat Tiny at "Camp Laurie"--the home of a dear friend in Ocala who watches Tiny whenever we are gone for more than a day or two.  And this afternoon we arrived in Americus, Georgia.  We are staying at a grand old hotel, the Windsor.  We plan on visiting the headquarters of Habitat for Humanity (there is even a Millard Fuller Road here in town!), Koinonia Farms (a community that played and plays a key role in the struggle for civil rights) and the birthplace of Jimmy Carter (planned many months ago, but suddenly very timely!)


From here we head to Charleston, South Carolina, where we will be staying with a seminary buddy and daughter Elizabeth's godmother, Sue Ingham.  There we will be visiting several significant sites in that storied old seaport.  We are especially anxious to visit Mother Emmanuel to pay our respects.  So much good work has happened over the last many years since abolition, but so much still needs to be done!


From there we plan time in Cape May, NJ, Easton, PA, and then on to Bayhead, NJ (on the Jersey shore), where we will stay for two weeks in a rented house.  Bayhead is on the commuter line to New York, and I will travel into the city two or three times to do some research.  I am doing some work on the abolition movement, and in particular the role played in the same by John Quincy Adams.  Stimulating and important stuff!  I hope to produce a course that I will teach this spring on Sanibel, perhaps an article for publication and a monologue. 


Our five-and-a-half week journey then takes us to Lake George and Gloversville, New York, for some family visits and some real rest.  And then, as we wend our way home, a stop in Kentucky to visit my mother.  My siblings will all converge there at the same time--so a mini-reunion of sorts.


Last Sunday, many good folks wished me well as they left church on Sunday.  I received several nice notes and e-mails from people with similar wishes.  Ironically, one of them came from a very dear parishioner who died suddenly just before I left Sanibel.  A memorial service awaits my return.  Life works that way sometimes.


One parishioner who is currently up north, wrote, "Your grand road trip sounds wonderful . . . your itinerary sounds delicious . . . ."  What a great word!  Delicious!  My mother is fond of saying certain things feed your soul.  That I trust will be the case with this delicious sabbatical.


As one parishioner was leaving service on Sunday she tucked a piece of paper in my hand.  It was an offering envelope she had taken from the pew rack.  On it she had written:  "John, I will pray some time each day for you during your sabbatical.  I pray today for your safety as you start your venture
tomorrow.  Blessings."  You see what I mean about it being a gift?  Your prayers are welcome as well.  For my part I'll keep you posted through this blog--and no doubt Linda will be making smart comments on Facebook!

Waiting at the Door

My congregation has entered into some preliminary conversations with Mount Olive AME Church, a predominantly African-American congregation in neighboring Fort Myers.  Our hope is to form a partnership that crosses various boundaries, so that together we might reach out to the wider community.  We have talked about the possibilities of shared mission efforts, youth work and worship experiences.  Time alone will tell how all that turns out.  I am excited about the prospects!

This past Sunday I was off  and so I thought I'd take the opportunity to worship at Mount Olive.  I called the pastor on Friday to give him a heads up that I'd be in the congregation on Sunday.  He said that would be lovely. 

I fully expected to do just that--sit in the pews and simply enjoy the service.  But when I arrived, the pastor had stationed a layperson at the sanctuary doors to be on the look out for me.  Then he invited to be sit in the chancel with him.  During the service I was introduced, asked to say a few words, and very much to my surprise, presented with a gift basket filled with good things to eat!  I was stunned!  Person after person came up to greet me, shake may hand and tell me how glad they were that I was there. 

In the United Church of Christ we talk about "extravagant welcome"--and I experienced that on Sunday!  I don't imagine we could pass out gift baskets to every visitor (in season we can have fifty or sixty visitors some Sundays!) , nor ask each one to "offer a few words"--but we can, and should, be on the lookout for those who are new, offering them a warm welcome, with words and a handshake, and an invitation to Coffee Hour.  Like my new pastor friend in Fort Myers, we can be watching for them at the door!  And not just at church.  We can be expecting newcomers in our wider communities as well, seeking to help them feel welcome.  Folks who look like us--and those who don't. 

Well done, Mount Olive--thanks for a great morning!

Making History . . . Not Just in Missouri

Have you ever been to Independence, Missouri?  I hadn't--at least not until last week, when my mother and I spent part of a day while on our "pilgrimage" to her favorite bookstore (see last week's blog for more details about the bookstore!)

Independence, which is a short distance from Kansas City, is a rather fascinating place.  Not only is it home to the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library and Museum, it also has a Mormon Visitors Center, which highlights the Mormons' time in Independence, and the Temple of the Mormon breakaway group, the Community of Christ.  It is one of those places Chambers of Commerce and tour books describe as "historic."  You know, "Visit Historic Independence, MO!"

It is true, there are many historic sites to visit in Independence, but that term has always bothered me.  For every place, every location, is loaded with history!  Presidential history?  No, not usually.  Major events in religious history?  Not as a general rule.  But every place has political leaders; every place has its religious story.  And far more than that!  For every place has people with rich and varied backgrounds.  Every place has families--and some of them stretch back in time for generations!  There is history to be discovered in every backyard, at every intersection, in each church and synagogue and mosque and city or town hall.

My mother has devoted many, many hours to the preservation of history in her own county in Kentucky.  It is a small place, with a few brief encounters with better know events and people.  Daniel Boone made his way through the county seat when it was still a forest.  The first shots fired in the Civil War in Kentucky were shot off in her county.  But for the most part, it is a quiet, and somewhat remote spot.  But the little museum where she has spent so much time is full of artifacts and stories of everyday folks doing everyday things!  Everyday folks making history!

So what are you contributing to history today?  You don't have to be a Mormon or Harry Truman or even Daniel Boone to add to history--simply by living you are doing that every single day!

(Photo:  Harry S. Truman Gravesite, Independence, MO)

A Crazy Tale about Mothers and Books and Wichita

Many years ago my parents owned a bookstore--well, actually, a gift and bookstore.  But for my mother it was the book part that really counted.

Mother loved operating that little shop in part because it gave her ample time to sample the wares.  I can still picture her sitting in her rocker near the checkout counter, engrossed in one or another volume she had slipped off the shelves!

They sold the business over thirty years ago, but to this day, my mother loves bookstores.  Most any kind of bookstore.  from big chains like Barnes and Noble, to small musty ones that sell second-hand books.  She loves them all!  She can get lost amongst the rows of bound pages for hours on end. 

For several years now her favorite bookstore has been a rather eclectic place in Wichita, Kansas called Eighth Day Books.  It is run by an Eastern orthodox fellow who is a big fan of Wendell Berry and C. S. Lewis.  It has sections devoted to literature, liturgy, spirituality, science--even a section devoted to the art of reading!  And it also has a very large stock of icons.  The eyes of Mary follow you all over the store!

But while mother had poured over Eighth Day's catalogues, which included reviews and lengthy descriptions, and while she has ordered dozens of books from the shop by mail, she had never set foot in the place! 

So earlier this summer she was talking about Eighth Day and off-handedly said, "You'll just have to take me there some day!"  We both laughed.  I live, as readers of this blog know, in Florida.  Mother lives in Kentucky.  The store is, as I said earlier, in Kansas!  But when I got off the phone and told my wife Linda about the conversation, she said, "Why not?  Why don't you take her to Wichita?"

So, the next Sunday, when we talked on the phone, I told her--and she was thrilled!

"Wichita?"  she almost shouted, "You're really taking me to Wichita?"  And so an adventure was born.

And this week we've been to Wichita.  The owner of Eighth Day Books, Warren Farha, and his staff, were most welcoming!  I suppose it's not everyday somebody comes all that distance just to visit their store.  But we did!

Crazy, right?  I mean, Wichita?  In August?  But such is the draw of books--for Mom, and quite honestly, for me as well.  My sister, who lives in the same town as Mom, tells me Mother has told everyone about the trip.  Everyone.  her friends, her pastor, her pharmacist, probably the guy who pumps her gas.  And when she gets back home I'm sure she'll regale them all with tales of our trip.

Who knows what the future holds for me and Mom as we both continue to grow older.  But, hey, we'll always have Wichita!

(Photo:  Warren Farha, owner of Eighth Day Books, my mother, Dr. Connie Danner, and me at Eighth Day Books)

Imagine That: Another Shooting

Another child has been shot in the neighboring city of Fort Myers.  Her name is Luxury--Luxury Vance.  She was at a family gathering when she was shot three times--probably for no other reason than the simple fact she was in the way of gunfire.  According to the police, "the child was not ithe intended target."  (News-Press, 8-3-15)

She's a good kid, folks are saying.  A really fine basketball player--and a leader on her school team.  And she's just twelve years old.  One year older than three of my own grandchildren.   It could have been any one of them.  Imagine that. 

Of course, that's the problem.  Lots of folks refuse to imagine such a thing.  Luxury is a black child--she lives in one of the more challenged parts of town.  Of course such things happen--it's Dunbar--what do you expect?  But such a failure of imagination is part of the reason such things happen--  because we refuse to identify.  We refuse to think it could happen to "our" children, "our" grandchildren. But it could--and even if it couldn't, the Luxurys of the world matter.  No child's death should be "expected" or acceptable!  And as long as we also refuse to create and enforce serious gun control measures, such things will continue to happen.

A week or so ago I saw a cartoon that spoke to the problem with real eloquence.  It was published shortly after the most recent mass shooting.  It picture a traditional old man God, complete with long white beard, looking over a cloud, holding a lightening bolt in his hand.  "OK," he said, "enough of the prayers for the victims and their families!  How about enacting some serious gun control measures!"

I don't think we should give up on the prayers, and I'll add Luxury and her family to my prayer list.  But enough is enough.  The time has come to put our imaginations to work, and to finally come to grips with the reality that we need to do something about the guns.

Imagine that!  Really.  Imagine that!