Keep The Faith -- Remembering John Lewis

I wrote the following brief essay a few months back. The world is a lesser place following the passing of John Lewis. Although he was diminutive in stature, he was a giant of a man.

“Keep the Faith” 

Civil Rights was a popular subject requested by visiting groups during the years I headed up William Penn House, a Quaker-related seminar center on Capitol Hill. A visit to the office of Rep. John Lewis, among other appointments, sometimes was on the agenda.

His courage was unquestioned during those very tense days of the Civil Rights Movement. He was the leader of SNCC, the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee; he is the last person still living who spoke at the 1963 March on Washington, made famous by Martin Luther King’s “I Have A Dream” speech; he played a huge role in the Freedom Rides; and, he was front and center during the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery that became known as “Bloody Sunday.”

Lewis suffered incredible, life-threatening violence that day and others, was arrested more than 40 times, and is a true American hero. Probably no one imagined that this “dangerous person” one day would become one of the most-respected members of the House of Representatives, referred to by some as the “conscience of Congress.”

I frequently saw Congressman Lewis around Capitol Hill, our paths intersecting as we went about performing our respective duties. The first time was outside the Cannon House Office Building as we waited to cross the street from opposite directions. Before the traffic light changed I spotted him across the way, in a cluster of other pedestrians. We made eye contact during our turn in the crosswalk, and he greeted me as we passed one another.

A memorable visit to his office occurred when a dozen or so high-schoolers from across the U.S., attending the annual WPH-sponsored Quaker Youth Seminar, were treated to Lewis’ personal recollections from Bloody Sunday. He displayed enlarged photos showing the Alabama state troopers on horses running through the peaceful marchers. One picture showed Lewis himself being beaten senseless by a law enforcement officer. Lewis, of course, carried no weapon and made no threats against the officer. He was leading a march.

Congressman Lewis betrayed no bitterness or anger at the memory. Granted, it was nearly thirty years after the attack occurred, but he and others I met who experienced so much hatred directed against them during those nightmarish years didn’t have time for negativity. Their purpose was not to divide, but to unite, and unity doesn’t happen through anger, hatred or bitterness.

At some point I read John Lewis’ memoir, Walking With the Wind. His story truly was inspirational. Surely, it seemed, his sense of faith and the related connectedness to others who shared that faith fed and sustained him through the many challenges, difficulties, dangers and violent times he knew. It’s a message for the ages and applicable to anyone who hears it, even though most never face the severity of trouble and danger with which he contended.

A few years after leaving WPH, I decided to seek his personal inscription on my copy of his book. So, one day there I was, bounding up the Metro escalator on my way to Lewis’s office, having dropped off the book a couple of weeks earlier. The receptionist went through the door behind her and retrieved my book.

As I stood there and turned to the title page to read what John Lewis wrote, the door opened again and Lewis himself emerged. I waved the book as I said, “Thanks for signing it.” He came to me and shook my hand. Unlike so many politicians I have met and observed, Congressman Lewis looked directly into my eyes as he said a word of greeting, and once again I was in awe of this small man who continues to contribute in large ways to the greater good of our society and the world.

After that, I always kept John Lewis’s book on my desk at work, and sometimes when I felt discouraged or frustrated by the church, or when I questioned my calling and my commitment to it, I picked it up and read again what he wrote on the title page. Above his signature, along with his “Best Wishes,” John Lewis wrote, “Keep the faith.”

Fear and Loathing in the Land of the Free

It's absolutely ironic that the Current Occupant would threaten to call out the military to stop protesters from exercising their Constitutional rights. Members of the armed forces should be appalled. After all, they accept applause and "thanks for your service" because of the notion they defend our freedom from those who would threaten that freedom.

The Current Occupant didn't get it when NFL players "took a knee," and he doesn't get it now that people are fed up with police brutality and the other injustices of our society. Criticizing and threatening to punish those who object to being excluded from the freedoms we supposedly hold dear in our country is racism in its most transparent and blatant form.

His order to tear-gas peaceful protesters in the Nation's Capital so the streets would clear long enough for him and his lackeys to walk across Pennsylvania Avenue to stand in front of a church he doesn't attend, holding a Bible, and presenting himself with a photo op, reveals the depravity of his soul, his complete lack of compassion, and displays the dishonor he continually brings to our nation.

How's Your Hearing?

During a break in the conference I overheard some clergy colleagues talking and one said, "They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him."  He was, of course, quoting from the Gospel of John, chapter 20, verse 13, which is part of John's story of the resurrection of Jesus.

The conference took place at Bethany College in West Virginia, and my esteemed colleague was reacting to the lectures presented there by John Dominic Crossan.  Crossan and others spent a lot of time and worked very hard at trying to uncover as much authenticity as possible regarding Jesus, what he actually said (as opposed to everything attributed to him in the New Testament), what he actually did, and the true focus and meaning of his work, mission, and ministry.

Now, wouldn't one think all of that has merit?  Would it not be important to folks who say they want to follow Jesus?

Not so fast.

How many translations and paraphrases exist of the Bible itself?  I couldn't begin to count.  All I know is when I have heard some church people defend the King James Version a few actually have said of the archaic language, English, of course, "If Jesus spoke it, that's good enough for me."

Once, a fellow at a church I was attending at the time (not as its pastor) approached me with this idea:  "Let's get together and write a new version of the Bible."  As I recall, he knew nothing of the original languages in which the Bible was written.  He just wanted something that was "easier to read."  That may be the second most inane thing said to me in a church.  (The winner of that contest was a member of my congregation who stated in an adult Sunday morning class, "God invented war so man (!) could settle his differences."  I actually was struck dumb by that one -- although not so much as the originator of the statement, it seemed to me.)

Crossan, Marcus Borg, Reza Aslan, and others are worth reading if one is not afraid to step outside of conventional "wisdom" and orthodoxy, and is interested in some thought-provoking discussion of how Jesus, his message, and actions fit into the historical/cultural context of his time, and how they might be germane to people of faith today.

(Just do it.)

This issue was aroused within me today as I learned from watching worship live-streamed on YouTube that this, the Fourth Sunday of Easter, is called something like "Jesus the Good Shepherd Sunday."  I'm a little rusty on my Liturgical Holy Days, so this was news to me.

In any case, the Gospel text for the day comes from chapter 10 of John, the first ten verses.  Within these verses are a few references to sheep knowing the voice of the shepherd.  Of course, the lesson hopped onto by preachers the world over is that Jesus is the shepherd of Christians.  We know his voice, and we do well to listen to it.

Methinks some of us are hearing voices, I'm just not so sure Jesus is the speaker.

When I worked on Capitol Hill I sometimes saw a woman holding forth in front of the east side of the U.S Capitol, at the base of the steps leading into the rotunda.  Standing beside her on the first or second step was a mannequin made up to look like Jesus as a shepherd holding a baby lamb.  Next to Jesus was a boom box blaring out Gospel music.  I believe the lady had pamphlets to hand out, but I always managed to side-step her as I went about my business.

Across the street, circling the Supreme Court building there usually was a guy carrying a sign with an anti-abortion message.  He wasn't just there on the day in January when the Roe v. Wade anniversary draws fanatics from both sides of the issue to engage in their annual screaming match proving the ignorance and evil intents of the others.  He was there practically every day.

Recently, pastors in various places defied stay-at-home orders and encouraged their "flocks" to show up in person for church services, disregarding social distancing protocols.  Some declared God to be stronger than Covid-19.  Some called the pandemic a hoax.  Some died from exposure to the virus.

Were any or all of these people listening to Jesus's voice?

On those same Capitol steps during Reagan's Iran-Contra fiasco, faith leaders and adherents gathered weekly to protest official policy.  It was all very peaceful - and legal - until one week the executive ministers of three or four denominations proceeded into the Capitol rotunda and began reciting the Lord's Prayer.  This, in the eyes of the beefy guys with the badges and the revolvers on their hips, constituted holding a worship service in the public spaces of the Capitol.  That, my friends, is agin' the Law.

After several warnings to cease and desist, the Lord's Prayer reached its climax, and the perps were hauled off to the slammer.  Among them was The Rev. Dr. John O. Humbert, General Minister and President of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), my denomination at the time. (I subsequently sent him a letter, having observed first-hand his criminal behavior, and thanked him for his witness for peace.  His response was grateful, but indicated that perhaps others within our church family were not amused.)

Were those of us who gathered on the steps, and those who ventured into the rotunda for a quick prayer, hearing the voice of Jesus?

As I have noted previously, when unprogrammed Friends, the Quakers, gather for worship it is a silent meeting.  Friends come together at the appointed hour, sit facing one another, usually on benches, and settle into silence. The idea is that they, as individuals and as a group, await the Spirit, open to receiving insight and wisdom from beyond themselves. It is permissible for worshipers to speak if they feel moved by the Spirit to share a message they sense they have received.  (From personal experience, I can report that not all the "messages" seem to have originated with the Spirit, but then, who am I to say?)

On it goes.  People express their faith in varieties of ways, and outside observers wonder how there can be such difference in emphasis, tone, and content, one from another.

Is the voice of Jesus heard by any or all of those who say they follow him?

Well, we're only human, and that would explain, it seems to me, why so much of Christian expression is self-centered, narrow, hateful, and just plain ignorant.

My sense is that if one truly listened to Jesus there would be much more concern for the other:  the poor, the immigrant, the racial/ethnic minority, the oppressed, and...(gulp)...the enemy.

The question arises, perhaps:  "Why would Jesus tell his followers to have such concern and to act upon that concern?"

Maybe Jesus was less interested in people "going to heaven (or hell)" and more interested in the unity of humanity under a loving Creator whose dream is abundant life for all.

One actually might be able to discern that from reading the Bible, even without the assistance of Dom Crossan, Marcus Borg, Reza Aslan, and the others trying to help us.

Who's The Boss?

    As one who grew up “Inside the Beltway,” matters of power and authority, and the struggle for them, always were immediate, lurking, and defining in my consciousness.  The daily local news reports had less to do with robberies at 7-11stores and more to do with what was happening on The Hill or within The Administration.  The Supreme Court also got its share of air time.  Neighbors, by and large, either were Federal workers, congressional staffers, or members of the military.  
    The Saturday Night Massacre occurred on my 19^th birthday, as Nixon cleaned out the top leadership of the Department of Justice looking for someone to fire Special Prosecutor Archibald Cox:  Attorney General Elliott Richardson and Deputy Attorney General William Ruckelshaus both said no, and out the door they went.   Number three man, Solicitor General Robert Bork caved. (Years later, when I met Elliott Richardson I told him how much I admired him for standing up to Tricky Dick.  His broad smile conveyed his appreciation.)


    When Reagan was shot in 1981, there were moments of governmental chaos and uncertainty.  As the President underwent surgery, a press conference was underway at the White House. Someone asked the fateful question, “Who’s in charge with the President incapacitated?”   Secretary of State Alexander Haig stepped up to the mic and erroneously replied, “I am in control.”  The order of succession, by the way, is Vice President >Speaker of the House>the president pro tempore of the Senate>Secretary of State>Cabinet Secretaries in the order in which their departments were created.  Neither I, nor anyone else, recalls where Vice President George H. W. Bush was when Haig made his declaration.


    During the years that Bush the Younger held the keys to the Oval Office it was widely suspected (and observed) that his Vice President, Dick Cheney, was the puppet-master.  This was especially the case when it came to the post-9/11 invasions of Iraq, in search of non-existent Weapons of Mass Destruction, and Afghanistan.


    On a more mundane level, Washington went through phases a generation or so ago of men wearing Power Ties (basically yellow neckties); people taking Power Naps of 10 to 15 minutes each day in order to enable their striving and achieving; and, Washington doyennes and Georgetown hostesses affecting a hairstyle referred to as a Washington Power Helmet.


    Power and authority contentions spiked again following the 2016 elections and continue as the nation endures the Covid-19 pandemic.  Trump and his base vie with people who actually know and understand what is happening.  Governors try to keep their states’ best interests at heart as those at the presumed Top look for ways to self-promote.  The Governor of Florida, for instance, decreed that professional wrestling is an essential business for his state.

   Which workers and businesses are essential?  How long should current precautions remain in place?   When should the country “re-open?”  Power, authority, control, and political ambition all play a role in deciding.


    As all of these issues are untangled, I simply must protest what I perceive to be an especially egregious, pernicious, deleterious, malevolent, and abusive power-and-authority-grab:  Amazon decided that my order of two Party-Sized bags of M & M’s is not essential, and delayed shipment by two days!


    How much longer are we going to stand for this?

Reflections Upon Someone Else's Retirement

A friend and colleague noted that the most recent Christmas Eve worship service over which he presided will be the last one for him before he retires.

Even though I left the fray myself six years ago (at age 59), his comment caused me to stop and think.  He and I began the journey together at seminary in September of 1977.  We were so young. 

Scenes of those days flash through my mind: sitting around seminar tables; a snarling theology professor; mentors T.J., Lester, Vinton, and Davie; term paper upon term paper; roommates from Thailand and India; a revolving door of students, many of whom bailed early; conservative classmates questioning the “salvation” of professors; walk-outs from campus chapel services if someone slipped and used male pronouns for God; driving back and forth, back and forth, back and forth every weekend, first to and from my field assignment 90 minutes away, and then to and from Ft. Knox, three hours away, after marrying Mary; an oral exam before three professors dealing with EVERYTHING covered in 90 credit hours of courses; and, telling my faculty advisor, upon completion of every academic requirement that I was ready to go out and “convert the heathen,” only to hear him quickly respond, “or be converted.”


I lacked confidence in myself and faced a major re-orientation of my head at seminary, having been an accounting major in college.  Unsure I was in the right place, the path to seminary unfolded in such a way I almost felt I was pushed into going.  Growing up in the church in the 1960’s around Washington, DC, I was impressed as a youth that so many of the primary leaders of the Civil Rights Movement were clergy, and that the church, albeit the black church, played a prominent role.  Also, many of the vocal opponents of the war (you know which one) came from faith communities.  So, I developed a notion of how Christianity was supposed to apply to life in the world.


When I went away to college I dropped out of the church, but soon was pulled back in by unexpected people.  Then, the brother-in-law of my home pastor showed up in town as pastor of a church there.  He and his wife took me in almost as another member of the family.  Ralph was a support, mentor, and inspiration.  We spent many, many hours together, and he steered me toward the seminary that he attended. 


When the time came for me to go, my home congregation decided, with no provocation from me, to pay my tuition.  Another clergyperson in the area, whom I knew practically my whole life, arranged another, smaller, scholarship for me from a congregation in Illinois, of all places.  When I arrived in Indianapolis to begin the journey, I quickly found employment as a student assistant minister, which, along with money I saved from my accounting job (I worked for a year after college), paid my other expenses.  At the end of my second year, I was awarded the two largest scholarships given by the seminary.  This was a complete surprise to me, as I had not applied for either, and had no notion of being a candidate.

So, despite a sense of my own shortcomings, blessings and good fortune abounded, and I had the idea I was supposed to be there.


Now, over 40 years since it all began, I feel a certain emptiness about the whole thing.  So much has happened.


For me, the positives are my marriage and family.  There have been lean times along the way, but despite all the job and financial stresses we have survived.

There have been several moves: Indianapolis to South Carolina to New York to Washington to Florida to North Carolina.  Numerous job changes occurred along the way, including dropping out of pastoral ministry without knowing what was next.  The Quakers took me in eleven months later. I spent nine years trying to hold together a crisis-plagued program of theirs, and benefitted greatly by my association with them, despite the toll the job took on me.


There was a short enjoyable respite following my burn-out with the Quakers: an interim ministry with a congregation that shared many of my notions of what the church should be about.


Following that it was back into the fire with a congregation that was dead in the water after jettisoning their previous minister (I had a habit of following those who were shown the door).  Almost five years later, I was called to be the number two person at our denomination’s flagship church in Washington, DC.  The senior minister was a denominational “superstar,” who, it turned out, was stealing his sermons from a preacher in New York. The fact that the star was African-American added to the nightmare that followed, as race entered into the dynamic.  When I refused to cover the star’s behind (stealing sermons wasn’t his only failing as a person and as a minister), his purpose in life, beside protecting his position, was to get rid of me.  When that finally happened, his tenure hit the skids.  He was gone in four months, only to finally land on his feet in New York.


Meanwhile, we had to move to Florida.  Nine years were spent there trying to prop up another congregation that was spiritually bereft following the ouster of their prior pastor.  It was a frustrating and very stressful time, leading to health issues for me, and culminating in my being physically carried out of the church on a stretcher and loaded into an ambulance following worship on the Sunday after I submitted my resignation.


Along the way, most of my professors died, as did my best friend from seminary days, as well as my parents, and others in my life; the mainline church suffered dramatic losses in terms of membership, haggling over issues such as homosexuality and biblical inerrancy while broken people surrounded them on all sides; churches died on the vine all across denominations; Facebook, Twitter, and other social media emerged to provide outlets for angry, hateful exchanges between people, known to each other as well as with strangers; rudeness and offense-taking became the first play in many ordinary human interactions; bigotry and related violence became almost acceptable and expected; political divisiveness continues to deepen and fester; guns, guns, and more guns have their inevitable effects.  On it goes.


I have left the denomination to which I was loyal for over fifty years, and am not enthusiastic or hopeful about the church today.  I do everything I can to avoid letting people know what I did for a living.


Many clergy and clergy-to-be are inspired by the words of the prophet Isaiah, as recorded in chapter 6.  As his nation was in turmoil following the death of the king, Isaiah had a vision of God, sitting on a throne attended by “seraphs,” who sang loud praises for the Almighty. There were earthquakes and smoke.  Isaiah was overcome by his smallness and inadequacy.  One of the seraphs touched Isaiah’s lips with a burning coal, and declared him free from the effects of his failings.  Suddenly, God’s voice boomed:  “Whom shall I send?  Who will go for us?” Almost without thinking, Isaiah blurted out:  “Here am I!  Send me!”

Too often the reading of the text ends there.  It turns out, though, there is more:  “And (God) said, ‘Go and say to this people:  “Keep listening, but do not comprehend; keep looking, but do not understand.” Make the mind of this people dull, and stop their ears, and shut their eyes, so that they may not look with their eyes, and listen with their ears, and comprehend with their minds, and turn and be healed.” Then I said, “How long, O Lord?” And (God) said: “Until cities lie waste without inhabitant, and houses without people, and the land is utterly desolate; until the Lord sends everyone far away, and vast is the emptiness in the midst of the land. Even if a tenth part remain in it, it will be burned again, like a terebinth or an oak whose stump remains standing when it is felled. The holy seed is its stump.”’”


There are a lot of frustrated and angry clergy who started out with notions of ministry and the church that simply were not true or, in retrospect, possible.  William Sloane Coffin was on to something when he asked, “How can you be disillusioned unless you had illusions to begin with?”


I really don’t know all of what my soon-to-retire friend is thinking and feeling these days about the last 40-some years of his life and experience.  In some of our conversations I got the sense it wasn’t all lollipops and roses for him, either.  My gut feeling is he will be glad to be done with it all.


Sometimes when my thoughts wander into consideration of the vanity of those trying to hang on to the institution of the church, and I think of their attempts to save their buildings, to stubbornly refuse to abandon their organizational structures, to be more interested in their financial reports than in seeking the Spirit, I remember the stump Isaiah described.  Can it be that while what we are experiencing is the inevitability of our selfishness, ethnocentrism, and greed, there still is a glimmer of hope?  Is there really a “holy seed” that will sprout something new?  I guess deep down I truly don't want to give up on that.  It’s just difficult to see the way from now to then.


Harking back, however, to those from the Civil Rights Movement who inspired me so long ago, they were motivated by the faith that God “makes a way where there is no way.”