Michael and I are a part of the generation of Baptists that were beaten up and beaten down as we watched our denominational home place disintegrate into a swamp of anger and despair. We left Baptist life and have not been to a Baptist meeting since 1990. We loved our heritage, and our memories of growing up Baptist were sweet. Our adulthood had been devoted to the Baptist church. It was the centerpiece of our life as a family and as a couple. Michael was an associate pastor, pastor, seminary professor and pastoral counselor. The bitterness of the divorce from our religious homeland lingered, along with a faint embarrassment whenever we told strangers we had been Baptist. That changed this week in Atlanta at another big Baptist meeting, the celebration of a New Baptist Covenant.
As we walked into the huge hall, people of all colors streamed by us. Young, old and in between, dressed to the nines and in blue jeans, gay and straight, liberal and conservative, laughing and excited, we all headed down the escalators to the lower level. The hall was filling up and large screens provided a close up view of the platform. Somewhere between 16,000 and 20,000 people were in the hall and it felt like we knew most of them, even the strangers. All across the auditorium, people were greeting and hugging and introducing themselves. The family reunion had begun.
We found a place to sit and I sat while Michael cruised the hall. The Greater Traveler’s Rest Baptist Church Choir rocked the congregation up on its feet and we were off to the revival. William Shaw, President of the National Baptist Convention, USA, and pastor of White Rock Baptist Church in Philadelphia was the first preacher for the evening. He set the tone for our time together, gently poking fun at our white need for schedule control while honoring his culture’s more relaxed approach to the length of a sermon. Doctor Shaw preached on "The Bible Speaks About Peace With Justice" using the Bible, often quoting from memory, turning well known phrases upside down and inside out as he brought us to our knees and to our feet in appreciation. I caught the eyes of the black man sitting next to me in my row and we laughed together, shaking hands as Doctor Shaw began to cut loose. And he cut us loose with his preaching... loose from our worry about doing it right, loose from our need to please, loose from anxiety about our worship differences as black and white children of God, loose to love with open hearts and hands as we began this historic gathering in of Baptists who have been lost from one another.
The Mercer University Singers, beautiful young black and white college students, provided the special music before Jimmy Carter rose to speak. Carter, the co-chair of this gathering, is surrounded by a force field of humility and strength that is impressive. His piety and simplicity are informed by his extensive education. The congregation gave him a standing ovation as he stood at the podium. We knew this reunion was the dream of many people who had worked tirelessly. He had not done this alone. We also knew that this man represents for many of us what was and is good about Baptists. He challenged us to focus on the central message of Jesus Christ as of utmost importance, letting the differences rest. For the rest of our time together we were asked to put away our habit of speaking negatively about those with whom we disagreed in the name of the God who loves us all.
I wept that night, and laughed and held hands with strangers, met some Baptists who were very different from me and very much like me at the same time. Old friends, some not seen in decades, the awareness of all who were there as friends yet to be discovered, smiles and laughter and tears on faces all around, glad, glad reunion. I weep as I write, feeling the sweetness of my homecoming that Wednesday night wash over my soul. The first evening was over and I could hardly wait for the morning worship. To be continued...
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
a two step day...
Yesterday was a two step day, one step forward, two steps back, a dance that ended up back where it started. On paper, my day looked fairly simple with huge amounts of time available for preparation for my two new classes starting today. I went to feed cows and cats early so I could make my rewiring appointment without rushing. So at seven thirty I drove down the hill in the mule layered in many layers against the twenty four degree weather. The cows were in the barn so I threw down hay for them. The hay I am using comes in big rolls and we do not have a spear on the tractor, so all that hay must be thrown with a pitchfork. The hay we bought this summer in Lincolnton is dirty hay and hard to work so I opened a roll from daddy’s farm. It is sweet clean hay and the smell of it reminds me of summers long past spent in daddy’s hayfields. I think the cows must remember, too, because they stick their noses deep in the hay as they gather up mouthfuls of the dried grass.
Two tom cats were yowling, promising to do terrible things to one another. One tom, a yellow and white one, was a stray living on the farm when we bought it. The other tom, Henry, is tabby and white. They are both huge grizzled veterans of the outdoor life and their faces are marked with scars from past battles. Helen and Hattie the Horrible were waiting patiently for food so I fed them before I carried more hay to the field. As I drove back to the lower pasture, Junie B came running. She wanted her carrots and oats, in that order, please. I left her munching her hay and oats as I filled the hay ring with more hay for the day. Then on to the chicken barn for the last cat feeding station where the oldest cat on the place, Patches, and her son Barn Bud Cat waited for their breakfast. As I drove back up the hill, in between shivers, I saw the crisp outlines of distant mountains and smelled the cold clean winter air. Winter has its own smell, sharp and tangy. The hillside below the high barn was full of birds feeding and they scattered as I drove by.
I shed my many layers and walked up the basement stairs to the warmth. The clock said eight thirty so I had time for breakfast and some hot tea. At nine, I began to dress and left at nine thirty for my ten o’clock appointment. Afterwards, I went to the bank to make a deposit then met a young woman at a coffee house for conversation.
At our pot luck dinner Sunday, I saw her sitting alone with her children. Her face was one I recognized having seen it in my mirror in years past, sad and angry and frightened. I was holding baby Elliott so I sat down next to her and we began to talk. Later she found me, tugged on my coat tails and we went to the stairwell to talk some more. Tears and laughter, anger and sadness... she needed her mama and her mama was in Brazil. I was her stand in mama yesterday and we began to get to know each other in that coffeehouse yesterday. It was and hour and a half well spent.
I called Janet to see how the Midnight in Mountains panels were coming along. She has borne the brunt of the construction of these beautiful pieces so I am the support team. I come and help with color layout and draw the initial pattern outline. She had run out of three fabrics so I bought them and brought them to her. We shared hot tea as we reworked the layout, looked at the location for the moon, talked about the stitched highlights on the mountain river, anticipated the hanging of these new additions to the autumn panels we finished before Christmas. It was another good well spent hour and a half.
On my way home, I swung into Eric’s Automotive to see if I could get the oil changed. He was slammed so I will have to go back today after class. It was three thirty so I headed home. As I walked in the door, I grabbed my to do list and began calling. I gathered up bills for Michael, talked to Jeannie and Leisa about their days, walking around the house as I talked picking up and cleaning up. At four, Dianne came to help with the afternoon feeding and as we drove down the hill, all the dogs (except Zeke who always rides) ran along behind. An hour later, I came in and loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, put on a load of clothes, pulled out chicken for supper, and began to think about my new classes on Tuesday. After thirty minutes of trying to settle, I gave up and began supper preparation. As the meal cooked, I checked e-mail and did my focusing exercises. Michael called around six forty five, on his way home so the evening began.
One of my rituals for the recognition of the transition to evening time is the lighting of candles. Something about the fragrance and flame helps me leave the day behind. I can remember and give thanks for all the day has brought as I move around the house lighting candles. It is another way to pray, I suppose. The act of lighting all my candles and oil lamps slows and settles my soul, gives me a gratitude and beauty break between the day time and night time. In Leviticus, Moses is told to keep a light burning continually as a reminder of the presence of God. I like to imagine my connection to those light bearers long ago in the wilderness. I will keep my candles lit as I move through the darkness of Lent and my two step days, remembering all that has been and giving thanks for all that is to come. It is more than enough. Thanks be to God. Peggy Hester
Two tom cats were yowling, promising to do terrible things to one another. One tom, a yellow and white one, was a stray living on the farm when we bought it. The other tom, Henry, is tabby and white. They are both huge grizzled veterans of the outdoor life and their faces are marked with scars from past battles. Helen and Hattie the Horrible were waiting patiently for food so I fed them before I carried more hay to the field. As I drove back to the lower pasture, Junie B came running. She wanted her carrots and oats, in that order, please. I left her munching her hay and oats as I filled the hay ring with more hay for the day. Then on to the chicken barn for the last cat feeding station where the oldest cat on the place, Patches, and her son Barn Bud Cat waited for their breakfast. As I drove back up the hill, in between shivers, I saw the crisp outlines of distant mountains and smelled the cold clean winter air. Winter has its own smell, sharp and tangy. The hillside below the high barn was full of birds feeding and they scattered as I drove by.
I shed my many layers and walked up the basement stairs to the warmth. The clock said eight thirty so I had time for breakfast and some hot tea. At nine, I began to dress and left at nine thirty for my ten o’clock appointment. Afterwards, I went to the bank to make a deposit then met a young woman at a coffee house for conversation.
At our pot luck dinner Sunday, I saw her sitting alone with her children. Her face was one I recognized having seen it in my mirror in years past, sad and angry and frightened. I was holding baby Elliott so I sat down next to her and we began to talk. Later she found me, tugged on my coat tails and we went to the stairwell to talk some more. Tears and laughter, anger and sadness... she needed her mama and her mama was in Brazil. I was her stand in mama yesterday and we began to get to know each other in that coffeehouse yesterday. It was and hour and a half well spent.
I called Janet to see how the Midnight in Mountains panels were coming along. She has borne the brunt of the construction of these beautiful pieces so I am the support team. I come and help with color layout and draw the initial pattern outline. She had run out of three fabrics so I bought them and brought them to her. We shared hot tea as we reworked the layout, looked at the location for the moon, talked about the stitched highlights on the mountain river, anticipated the hanging of these new additions to the autumn panels we finished before Christmas. It was another good well spent hour and a half.
On my way home, I swung into Eric’s Automotive to see if I could get the oil changed. He was slammed so I will have to go back today after class. It was three thirty so I headed home. As I walked in the door, I grabbed my to do list and began calling. I gathered up bills for Michael, talked to Jeannie and Leisa about their days, walking around the house as I talked picking up and cleaning up. At four, Dianne came to help with the afternoon feeding and as we drove down the hill, all the dogs (except Zeke who always rides) ran along behind. An hour later, I came in and loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the kitchen, put on a load of clothes, pulled out chicken for supper, and began to think about my new classes on Tuesday. After thirty minutes of trying to settle, I gave up and began supper preparation. As the meal cooked, I checked e-mail and did my focusing exercises. Michael called around six forty five, on his way home so the evening began.
One of my rituals for the recognition of the transition to evening time is the lighting of candles. Something about the fragrance and flame helps me leave the day behind. I can remember and give thanks for all the day has brought as I move around the house lighting candles. It is another way to pray, I suppose. The act of lighting all my candles and oil lamps slows and settles my soul, gives me a gratitude and beauty break between the day time and night time. In Leviticus, Moses is told to keep a light burning continually as a reminder of the presence of God. I like to imagine my connection to those light bearers long ago in the wilderness. I will keep my candles lit as I move through the darkness of Lent and my two step days, remembering all that has been and giving thanks for all that is to come. It is more than enough. Thanks be to God. Peggy Hester
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Pants Stretchers for the Soul
Mama’s laundry room was the side porch. We had a washer, a green metal porch chair, a laundry basket, a bag holding the clothes pins and a clothes line in the back yard. When we were babies, she washed our clothes and diapers in the tub so a washer was a real luxury. And this wasn’t the old wringer style... a tub for automatic washing but you had to feed the clothes through two bars to wring the water out... it was fully automatic. When the machine stopped, the clothes were ready to hang on the line. That was the chore reserved for Gayle and me. We learned to look for snakes under the line in the summer time, put on gloves in the winter time, how to hang a continuous line of clothes with each item connected to the other one (socks were an exception), and how to use the least amount of line space for large items. Clothes dried in the sun were crispy, not soft, and smelled of the outdoors. My children insist clothes dried on the line at my parent’s house smelled like cow but they just smelled like home to me.
One of the greatest inventions for clothesline drying was the pants stretcher. In the era before permanent press material, everything had to be ironed. That included daddy’s heavy denim work pants. It was a hot, hard job to iron those pants and unbearable in those pre-air conditioned summer days. Pants stretchers were an aluminum frame designed to slide in the wet pants, expand and click into place, stretching the pants as they dried on the line and reducing greatly the number of wrinkles. They were almost pressed when you took them off. We overlooked the struggle to insert the pants at the right angle, and the occasional collapse under pressure because anything was preferable to ironing those work denims.
I wonder if there are any soul stretchers like those pants stretchers that pulled the heavy fabric taut. It seems to me that soul stretchers could provide some growth and save us some anguish. How would one stretch one’s soul?
One way to stretch my soul is to put the quieetus (a southern word for cut that out) on one of my bad habits, the habit of judging other Christian expressions of faith as less than if their theology is different from mine. This habit reflects a holier than thou attitude, the assumption that I know what the ultimate truth is. Even if my mouth says I know better, my heart and soul often are grumbling underneath about those others. Going to the New Baptist Covenant Gathering in Atlanta this week will give me a chance to practice. There will be twenty eight different kinds of Baptists there, all colors and denominations and various theologies. Every one will hear one of their own preach, regardless of the labels. I will be sharing soul space with other Christians whose view of the Scripture and Jesus and God will differ greatly from my own and it will not matter. The whole point of this gathering is to affirm our likenesses not our differences. That ought to stretch my little liberal soul some.
Another soul stretcher is to worship occasionally somewhere other than in my own church and denomination. It is so easy to settle in, settle down and assume your way is the best and only way to approach the Almighty. I remember when Michael and I were wandering in the wilderness looking for a new church home several years ago. We, life long Baptists, visited Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, other Baptist churches and Greek Orthodox churches, participating in worship. The variety of language and ritual was astounding. Michael’s dad was for years a liaison with the black Baptist churches in Alabama. We worshiped in African American churches all over the south and loved the energy and noise and rituals of worship there. I, of course, loved being one of many women wearing hats.
The most difficult soul stretcher for me is the practice of silence. Many years ago as a young mother, I would go to a mother house for the Sisters of Loretto for a weekend retreat every two months or so. The silence was frightening at first. My fatigue level was so high I would sleep for the first twenty four hours, waking only to eat and read. After the rest, I was bathed in silence, surrounded by nuns, removed from all my activity aids, pushed to quiet and reflection by my surroundings. Often what floated to the surface of my restless soul brought tears to my eyes and I would weep for no reason I could name. The external silence created internal silence and I could hear my soul creaking as I settled into the quiet. Worship, eating in silence, walking the grounds, reading and reflecting would soothe me during the second twenty four hours. I found myself aware of my breathing and my body and soul expanded, full of the Breath of Life.
Finding that quality of silence in the middle of my days is next to impossible. Even when I turn off the phones, cut off the television and go to the porch, I am surrounded by my "to do" list. Everywhere I look, I see something or someone who needs tending and finding the silence is difficult. Maybe this week I will practice silence every morning. If I rise a little early and just sit, be still and listen, something might happen. Maybe I will go back to sleep. Maybe I will be able to catch my breath and feel the brush of the Spirit’s wings on my soul. Maybe I can learn to just be still and know that God is present in my lying down and my waking up. Be still and Know...
One of the greatest inventions for clothesline drying was the pants stretcher. In the era before permanent press material, everything had to be ironed. That included daddy’s heavy denim work pants. It was a hot, hard job to iron those pants and unbearable in those pre-air conditioned summer days. Pants stretchers were an aluminum frame designed to slide in the wet pants, expand and click into place, stretching the pants as they dried on the line and reducing greatly the number of wrinkles. They were almost pressed when you took them off. We overlooked the struggle to insert the pants at the right angle, and the occasional collapse under pressure because anything was preferable to ironing those work denims.
I wonder if there are any soul stretchers like those pants stretchers that pulled the heavy fabric taut. It seems to me that soul stretchers could provide some growth and save us some anguish. How would one stretch one’s soul?
One way to stretch my soul is to put the quieetus (a southern word for cut that out) on one of my bad habits, the habit of judging other Christian expressions of faith as less than if their theology is different from mine. This habit reflects a holier than thou attitude, the assumption that I know what the ultimate truth is. Even if my mouth says I know better, my heart and soul often are grumbling underneath about those others. Going to the New Baptist Covenant Gathering in Atlanta this week will give me a chance to practice. There will be twenty eight different kinds of Baptists there, all colors and denominations and various theologies. Every one will hear one of their own preach, regardless of the labels. I will be sharing soul space with other Christians whose view of the Scripture and Jesus and God will differ greatly from my own and it will not matter. The whole point of this gathering is to affirm our likenesses not our differences. That ought to stretch my little liberal soul some.
Another soul stretcher is to worship occasionally somewhere other than in my own church and denomination. It is so easy to settle in, settle down and assume your way is the best and only way to approach the Almighty. I remember when Michael and I were wandering in the wilderness looking for a new church home several years ago. We, life long Baptists, visited Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, other Baptist churches and Greek Orthodox churches, participating in worship. The variety of language and ritual was astounding. Michael’s dad was for years a liaison with the black Baptist churches in Alabama. We worshiped in African American churches all over the south and loved the energy and noise and rituals of worship there. I, of course, loved being one of many women wearing hats.
The most difficult soul stretcher for me is the practice of silence. Many years ago as a young mother, I would go to a mother house for the Sisters of Loretto for a weekend retreat every two months or so. The silence was frightening at first. My fatigue level was so high I would sleep for the first twenty four hours, waking only to eat and read. After the rest, I was bathed in silence, surrounded by nuns, removed from all my activity aids, pushed to quiet and reflection by my surroundings. Often what floated to the surface of my restless soul brought tears to my eyes and I would weep for no reason I could name. The external silence created internal silence and I could hear my soul creaking as I settled into the quiet. Worship, eating in silence, walking the grounds, reading and reflecting would soothe me during the second twenty four hours. I found myself aware of my breathing and my body and soul expanded, full of the Breath of Life.
Finding that quality of silence in the middle of my days is next to impossible. Even when I turn off the phones, cut off the television and go to the porch, I am surrounded by my "to do" list. Everywhere I look, I see something or someone who needs tending and finding the silence is difficult. Maybe this week I will practice silence every morning. If I rise a little early and just sit, be still and listen, something might happen. Maybe I will go back to sleep. Maybe I will be able to catch my breath and feel the brush of the Spirit’s wings on my soul. Maybe I can learn to just be still and know that God is present in my lying down and my waking up. Be still and Know...
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