Jeannie’s voice was excited. "Can you come now, Peggy, and see this farm?" Tim, Jeannie, Michael and I had been searching for several years, trying to find twenty or so acres we could buy and then split for a min-farm. It had been a long frustrating search. She gave me instructions and I drove out to Weaverville, headed towards Marshall, turned on Shepherd’s Branch (where the Shepherd family lived) and began looking for Edna Roberts Road. I turned to the left and crossed Flat Creek, drove up a narrow gravel road bordered by a creek on one side and high rock hill on the other. We climbed into the real estate agents four wheel drive vehicle and began to drive up the hill.
There was no easily passable road. The old toll road was eroded and rutted beyond belief and the other road was crude but could be driven with a four wheel drive. As we crested the hill, Jeannie said, "How about this for your house site and we could build on the other hill facing the barn. I love that old barn." A couple from California had made an offer but the deal had fallen through. We had a narrow window of opportunity to make another offer. In less than twenty four hours, we were committed to buying this farm. Instead of twenty acres, it was sixty some odd. Instead of an anonymous tract of land, it was the Clarence and Edna Roberts Farm. Instead of isolation, we found country community. Instead of life lived within four walls, we found life of all kinds lived in the outdoor homestead. We found home.
Eight years have come and gone since that sunny day. Days of gladness and grief, days of sunshine and shadow, days of sweet hard labor and blessed rest, days of peace and turmoil, all of them blessed days even in times of trial. For eight years I have watched autumn come and the little deaths of winter begin... the death of abundant light, the death of the summer leaves and flowers, the hardening of the ground into a frozen shell. We draw inward as the cold weather comes and gather around the light and warmth in our homes.
It is not easy to be outside when ice, snow and cold winds blow. We venture outside for the tasks that must be performed layered in coveralls, hats and gloves. Darkness covers us in the morning and evening as we throw hay, put out feed, check the stock to make sure they are warm and fed. We settle in to sleep at night covered by quilts, listening to the wind on the hill howl, resting gently, knowing all is well in the midst of the winter darkness.
Lent, for me, is that same process of venturing out into the darkness and cold to do what must be done. If I did not go out into the cold to check the cows, Buzz Light Year could have died from exposure when his hoof was caught in the manger. If I did not get up and go out in the morning darkness to feed, the cows and Junie B would be hungry. We venture out in the night darkness to do what must be done, sometimes to the tunes of coyote songs, because we must.
And yet there are treasures in the darkness and the cold. Deer grazing on the hillside, startled into frozen poses of grace by our passage... turkeys gobbling and flying as the dogs and Michael walk by... possums scuttling in the barn looking for leftover cat food, falling over and playing possum dead... the warmth in the barn from the cows and the soft sounds of their eating hay from mama and daddy’s farm... barn cats watching over me from their perches high on the hay as I put their food out... Bud Barn Cat twining around my legs asking for a pat... the silence, the blessed silence of the dark.
Lenten dark silence with treasures for those who take the risk of venturing inward to the great outdoors contained within our souls. There is no way I have found that can take me to the Heart of God without first passing through the dark cold clear winter lightdarkness of Lent. Here in the middle of my self, honestly grappling with my lack of perfection, the darkness begins to show me new signs of life. Brush away the leaf cover in the woods and you can find some green even when it appears all is dead and frozen. And so it is with Lent, the life of the soul is holding on against all odds and preparing for resurrection spring.
"I will give you the treasures of darkness and the hoards in secret places, that you may know that it is I, the Lord, the God of Israel, who calls you by your name...I call you by your name, I surname you, though you do not know me... I gird you though you do not know me... I form light and create darkness... I am the Lord who do all these things." Isaiah 45: 3-7
Call my name, Lord, this Lenten season. I will be down by the barn feeding in the dark morning waiting and watching for you. Peggy Hester
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Friday, February 8, 2008
memories, all alone in the moon light
I am sixty one now, memory of a life lived is as important to me as life yet to come. The word remember is full of power and yearning. I watch my father in law descend into the pit of dementia where there is no memory, only the present. It is painful to see him lose the remembrances of a rich and meaningful life. And it is the liturgical season of remembrance, Lent.
Driving home last night after teaching my class, the moonlight grew brighter as I drove into the darkness of the countryside, leaving the reflected light of our city behind. Everything familiar was transformed, frosted with a light that softened the hard edges revealing a different reality by moonlight. Memory is a moon lit walk that can both remind us of our past and show us the way of our future.
In Barack Obama’s voice I hear echoes of Martin Luther King and John Kennedy. Hillary Clinton speaks and I hear Bobby Kennedy speaking . John McCain’s voice awakens the memory of his voice when he returned to our country after years spent in a Viet Nam prison. Our past in this country and our future are connected in ways we can not always name. New faces and voices come. Those of us who remember, who were there, carry a reservoir of feelings and experiences that can only be accepted on faith by those who were not yet born.
I am a member of a church that has changed drastically in the past five years. We have moved twice, membership has been a revolving door of those leaving and those coming. We do not look or feel like the community we once were. Our worship is different and we are not yet fully staffed to meet the needs of our growing congregation. Many of the folks I loved when I came to this community are gone now and with their leaving, we have lost much of our institutional memory. John Gatling died and with him died his fervent desire for our community to provide services for the children in our city. Virginia Long is no longer able to attend worship. Many other of our older women have died, are in ill health or moved away. We no longer have our widow’s row that was renamed wisdom row. Only Dorothy Smart, Henry’s wife and widow, remains as a reminder of the depth of memory that once graced those pews. Some of the young families that were a part of our beginning again have moved to other churches. Ted Schoonmaker died and Hazel moved to be with her children. Their humor and grace filled presence are remembered by those of us who knew them. For all the richness and possibilities of the new, we are the poorer for the loss of our memories.
I can’t help but wonder if this is how the disciples felt after Jesus death and resurrection. How can I be the memory bearer for those who never knew what came before? Is there any way I can tell the old story so that those who are new can taste the tears and feel the joy of those days long ago? Does the old story matter at all in light of a changed community? How can Jesus and Ted and John and Virginia and Henry be remembered not just for their presence among us, but for the meaning they gave and continue to give to our lives? How can the rich past of my Baptist heritage be remembered for the patchwork quilt it was and not the angry, tattered and torn coverlet it became? I still hear Grady’s giggle and Carlyle Marney’s growl and Claypool’s benediction and feel Mr. Coody’s gentle pat and Brother Kannon’s handshake. Can I remember, give thanks, hold fast to all that was true without settling in the land of once upon a time?
The early church began to remember by observing the last supper Jesus shared with the disciples. It became a universal ritual shared by all Christendom that jogs our memory, reminds us to whom we belong, reminds us where we came from and calls us to our future. Ritual... a power full ceremony that puts us in community with our past, present and future. This Lenten season I will spend time remembering those in my life who have been Christ bearers for me. I will call their names, remember their lives as gifts to me, give thanks for their presence in the world and in my life. I remember so many now, many no longer in the land of the living, many still here. They are an honor guard in my life, those who stand and call my attention to the movement of the Spirit, the brotherly love of Jesus and the encompassing availability of God. I am grateful for memories in the moonlight, memories of the past and memories not yet made. Thanks be to God.
Driving home last night after teaching my class, the moonlight grew brighter as I drove into the darkness of the countryside, leaving the reflected light of our city behind. Everything familiar was transformed, frosted with a light that softened the hard edges revealing a different reality by moonlight. Memory is a moon lit walk that can both remind us of our past and show us the way of our future.
In Barack Obama’s voice I hear echoes of Martin Luther King and John Kennedy. Hillary Clinton speaks and I hear Bobby Kennedy speaking . John McCain’s voice awakens the memory of his voice when he returned to our country after years spent in a Viet Nam prison. Our past in this country and our future are connected in ways we can not always name. New faces and voices come. Those of us who remember, who were there, carry a reservoir of feelings and experiences that can only be accepted on faith by those who were not yet born.
I am a member of a church that has changed drastically in the past five years. We have moved twice, membership has been a revolving door of those leaving and those coming. We do not look or feel like the community we once were. Our worship is different and we are not yet fully staffed to meet the needs of our growing congregation. Many of the folks I loved when I came to this community are gone now and with their leaving, we have lost much of our institutional memory. John Gatling died and with him died his fervent desire for our community to provide services for the children in our city. Virginia Long is no longer able to attend worship. Many other of our older women have died, are in ill health or moved away. We no longer have our widow’s row that was renamed wisdom row. Only Dorothy Smart, Henry’s wife and widow, remains as a reminder of the depth of memory that once graced those pews. Some of the young families that were a part of our beginning again have moved to other churches. Ted Schoonmaker died and Hazel moved to be with her children. Their humor and grace filled presence are remembered by those of us who knew them. For all the richness and possibilities of the new, we are the poorer for the loss of our memories.
I can’t help but wonder if this is how the disciples felt after Jesus death and resurrection. How can I be the memory bearer for those who never knew what came before? Is there any way I can tell the old story so that those who are new can taste the tears and feel the joy of those days long ago? Does the old story matter at all in light of a changed community? How can Jesus and Ted and John and Virginia and Henry be remembered not just for their presence among us, but for the meaning they gave and continue to give to our lives? How can the rich past of my Baptist heritage be remembered for the patchwork quilt it was and not the angry, tattered and torn coverlet it became? I still hear Grady’s giggle and Carlyle Marney’s growl and Claypool’s benediction and feel Mr. Coody’s gentle pat and Brother Kannon’s handshake. Can I remember, give thanks, hold fast to all that was true without settling in the land of once upon a time?
The early church began to remember by observing the last supper Jesus shared with the disciples. It became a universal ritual shared by all Christendom that jogs our memory, reminds us to whom we belong, reminds us where we came from and calls us to our future. Ritual... a power full ceremony that puts us in community with our past, present and future. This Lenten season I will spend time remembering those in my life who have been Christ bearers for me. I will call their names, remember their lives as gifts to me, give thanks for their presence in the world and in my life. I remember so many now, many no longer in the land of the living, many still here. They are an honor guard in my life, those who stand and call my attention to the movement of the Spirit, the brotherly love of Jesus and the encompassing availability of God. I am grateful for memories in the moonlight, memories of the past and memories not yet made. Thanks be to God.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Night and Day, You Are the One
The morning light comes earlier now. Gradually, like a cat laid low sneaking up on prey, little by little, light is creeping back into life on the farm. It is no longer dark when Michael leaves for his walk. I do not feed the cows in the dark. Sunrise wakes me now, not the clock. And Christians begin the observance of Lent today, a journey through darkness as the world gains more light, a dark counterpoint to the melody of light. The contrast catches my soul’s eye and highlights the need for both. To be Christian is to struggle with both interior and exterior darkness. One cannot live long in this world without knowing the pain of suffering and sin, one’s own and others. And if you are paying attention, you also know the sheer joy of resurrection and new life. Light needs darkness, darkness needs light, and we cannot live without the presence of both in our lives.
All over the world tonight Christians will be marking the beginning of Lent by marking their foreheads with ashes. We are joined together, no distinctions in denominations or theologies can trump the remembrance of Jesus’ descent into the darkness of death. Just as we join in marking the advent of light into the world with his birth, we now acknowledge the presence of destruction, death and darkness in our world and in us.
I have been reading an interesting book, Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller. He tells his story of struggling with the Christian faith, his image of it as something for the intellectually naive. At the heart of his struggle was the magic of being made new and what he calls his sin nature. A political protest march leaves him with the startling revelation that he is the problem first, not the powers that be.
"I know now, from experience, that the path to joy winds through this dark valley. I think every well adjusted human being has dealt squarely with his or her own depravity. I realize this sounds very Christian, very fundamentalist and browbeating, but I want to tell you this part of what the Christians are saying is true. I think Jesus feels very strongly about communicating the idea of our brokenness, and I think it is worth reflection. Nothing is going to change in the Congo until you and I figure out what is wrong with the person in the mirror."
I want to figure out my brokenness this Lent, not fix it, just name it. Fixing comes later. I want to find in my broken places the connection to all those, who like me, are a little cracked and crackled around the edges from suffering and pain, mistakes and sin. In the company of my brothers and sisters who carry their own crosses of darkness, I want to honor the One who made this journey thousands of years ago. Jesus calls me to walk the same lonesome valley he walked, descend into darkness. I must face my own dark shadow self with honesty and courage remembering all the while, night and day, Jesus is the One. Give me courage for this forty day journey, Lord. I am scared of monsters in the dark. Peggy
All over the world tonight Christians will be marking the beginning of Lent by marking their foreheads with ashes. We are joined together, no distinctions in denominations or theologies can trump the remembrance of Jesus’ descent into the darkness of death. Just as we join in marking the advent of light into the world with his birth, we now acknowledge the presence of destruction, death and darkness in our world and in us.
I have been reading an interesting book, Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller. He tells his story of struggling with the Christian faith, his image of it as something for the intellectually naive. At the heart of his struggle was the magic of being made new and what he calls his sin nature. A political protest march leaves him with the startling revelation that he is the problem first, not the powers that be.
"I know now, from experience, that the path to joy winds through this dark valley. I think every well adjusted human being has dealt squarely with his or her own depravity. I realize this sounds very Christian, very fundamentalist and browbeating, but I want to tell you this part of what the Christians are saying is true. I think Jesus feels very strongly about communicating the idea of our brokenness, and I think it is worth reflection. Nothing is going to change in the Congo until you and I figure out what is wrong with the person in the mirror."
I want to figure out my brokenness this Lent, not fix it, just name it. Fixing comes later. I want to find in my broken places the connection to all those, who like me, are a little cracked and crackled around the edges from suffering and pain, mistakes and sin. In the company of my brothers and sisters who carry their own crosses of darkness, I want to honor the One who made this journey thousands of years ago. Jesus calls me to walk the same lonesome valley he walked, descend into darkness. I must face my own dark shadow self with honesty and courage remembering all the while, night and day, Jesus is the One. Give me courage for this forty day journey, Lord. I am scared of monsters in the dark. Peggy
Monday, February 4, 2008
you can go home again...you must leave home again
The preaching was inspired. The music, all of it, the many different expressions of faith through music, touched me in places words cannot reach. The young African American woman who danced while the Russian man played a violin solo gave me a wonderful gift of grace that will live in my memory. But greater than all the preaching and singing and testifying was the gift of connections... connections to those I have loved for years, connections to those in the hall whom I did not know and might not ever know, connections to my history as a Baptist and a renewed spirit that came from the connection I felt to God during those three days.
My friend Dorri teased me about my feet not being on the ground after this meeting. She is right. My feet are off the ground and I pray I don’t forget how it feels. I have been long overdue for a revival and this was revival at its finest. One of the evangelical traditions that has fallen by the wayside is the revival. Abuse of the privilege, haranguing and harassing, have caused most of us liberal religious folks to throw out revival as a dangerous practice. As surely as the revival of spring following winter, our souls cry out for the same opportunity, a chance for new birth and growth after a season of darkness and loss. None of us can believe alone, sustain our faith alone, get through life alone. Revival, wherever we find it, connects us to each other and to God.
Memory pictures... standing in the hallway, hugging and being hugged by friends from Kentucky, Texas, North Carolina, South Carolina and Alabama... seeing friends from our past who were and are dear to us... watching Jimmy Carter walk the hallway, the Secret Service pulled back, with folks reaching out to him... sitting at lunch with another young Michael, a student in the Baptist House at Duke Divinity School, who came with thirty other young divinity students... meeting some of the young adults who took time off work and came... sitting at a table for supper, having conversation with a black pastor from New York City who came by himself to see what was going to happen, hearing him say it was more than he expected... the non-Baptist couple who sat with us at a table in the CNN building, waiting for the hockey game to start, asking me what the argument was about this time... standing and singing "Just a Little Talk With Jesus" lead by a black choir and minister of music, hearing thousands of men sing the bass part on the chorus, "Now let us have a little talk with Jesus, let us tell him all about our troubles"... walking out after the first meeting and hearing my name called by Mary Lynn and Walter Porter, two of the most important people in my faith formation... And after the last meeting, as I began to leave the mostly empty hall, stopping to talk with three African American women who remained seated. They had driven two days from Missouri to attend and were going to begin the drive back the next day. We decided we knew how the disciples must have felt when they wanted to build a temple after the Transfiguration. How could we leave without some outward sign left to remind us of all that happened during these three days? We laughed about raising an Ebenezer. Finally we decided the only way to save the experience was to share it with as many as we could, to testify to the power of the Love that had held us close as strangers and angels unaware in Atlanta, Georgia for a short time. We were being redeemed and we knew it.
Thanks be to God for all that has been in Baptist history, for Roger Williams and his commitment to religious freedom, for all the Aunt Thelma’s and Lottie Moon’s who found ways to be ministers even when men denied them their call, for our wandering in the wilderness of disintegration and despair as a people, for the new generation that has raised up untouched by the tar brush of anger and loss, for all who showed up for this new Baptist covenant. Our future is held in the loving arms of Jesus and I give thanks. Don’t let my feet touch ground anytime soon, Lord. Peggy Hester
My friend Dorri teased me about my feet not being on the ground after this meeting. She is right. My feet are off the ground and I pray I don’t forget how it feels. I have been long overdue for a revival and this was revival at its finest. One of the evangelical traditions that has fallen by the wayside is the revival. Abuse of the privilege, haranguing and harassing, have caused most of us liberal religious folks to throw out revival as a dangerous practice. As surely as the revival of spring following winter, our souls cry out for the same opportunity, a chance for new birth and growth after a season of darkness and loss. None of us can believe alone, sustain our faith alone, get through life alone. Revival, wherever we find it, connects us to each other and to God.
Memory pictures... standing in the hallway, hugging and being hugged by friends from Kentucky, Texas, North Carolina, South Carolina and Alabama... seeing friends from our past who were and are dear to us... watching Jimmy Carter walk the hallway, the Secret Service pulled back, with folks reaching out to him... sitting at lunch with another young Michael, a student in the Baptist House at Duke Divinity School, who came with thirty other young divinity students... meeting some of the young adults who took time off work and came... sitting at a table for supper, having conversation with a black pastor from New York City who came by himself to see what was going to happen, hearing him say it was more than he expected... the non-Baptist couple who sat with us at a table in the CNN building, waiting for the hockey game to start, asking me what the argument was about this time... standing and singing "Just a Little Talk With Jesus" lead by a black choir and minister of music, hearing thousands of men sing the bass part on the chorus, "Now let us have a little talk with Jesus, let us tell him all about our troubles"... walking out after the first meeting and hearing my name called by Mary Lynn and Walter Porter, two of the most important people in my faith formation... And after the last meeting, as I began to leave the mostly empty hall, stopping to talk with three African American women who remained seated. They had driven two days from Missouri to attend and were going to begin the drive back the next day. We decided we knew how the disciples must have felt when they wanted to build a temple after the Transfiguration. How could we leave without some outward sign left to remind us of all that happened during these three days? We laughed about raising an Ebenezer. Finally we decided the only way to save the experience was to share it with as many as we could, to testify to the power of the Love that had held us close as strangers and angels unaware in Atlanta, Georgia for a short time. We were being redeemed and we knew it.
Thanks be to God for all that has been in Baptist history, for Roger Williams and his commitment to religious freedom, for all the Aunt Thelma’s and Lottie Moon’s who found ways to be ministers even when men denied them their call, for our wandering in the wilderness of disintegration and despair as a people, for the new generation that has raised up untouched by the tar brush of anger and loss, for all who showed up for this new Baptist covenant. Our future is held in the loving arms of Jesus and I give thanks. Don’t let my feet touch ground anytime soon, Lord. Peggy Hester
Sunday, February 3, 2008
you can go home again...
Worship with two sermons, music and testimonies that lasted three hours, felt like one hour and I was being transformed by the Spirit that came to rest on us all in that vast gathering. The preachers and speakers were some of the best and brightest Baptists in our world... Marian Wright Edelman, Tony Campolo, Senator Charles Grassley, John Grisham, Dr. Charles Adams, Julie Pennington Russell, Hanna Massad, David Satcher, Naw Blooming Night Zan, Bill Clinton and Al Gore... and all of them laying their lives down for the least of those among us. Marian Wright Edelman told us what was wrong with the children in our country was the adults... adults who refuse to be grownups with their own children and refuse to take responsibility for those children who are without... without parents, health care, supervision or love. Tony Campolo shared stories of young men and women following the radical call of Jesus by living with the poor in Haiti, working to eliminate poverty and heal bodies. Senator Grassley is now and has been for years working to help eliminate hunger. As a midwesterner, he knows the abundance of our food supply here in the United States and is called to work through the government to help farmers and consumers alike. Julie Pennington Russell, red Bible held high in one hand, preaching on diversity, rephrased familiar verses..."God so respected the world that He gave... Now abideth faith, hope, and respect... Respect God and respect your neighbor as yourself... Respect is not the answer for living with diversity. Love is." Hanna Massad, trained and served as a pastor in California, returned to his people in Gaza, told us of his peoples struggles to live. His family’s farm taken away in 1948, his church bookstore bombed twice, the young associate pastor kidnapped and murdered in October, the sadness and grief in his voice as he stood before us, a living testimony to the bruising power of hatred and love. Naw Blooming Night Zan whose family lived in the jungles of Burma for the first four years of her life fleeing the brutal military, stood before us telling the stories of her people. Women raped, children killed, her ethnic group living in spite of the horrible atrocities. Some of these life and faith stories wrung me out. I could not begin to imagine living as Hanna Massad and Naw Blooming Night Zan do every day. And yet there was even in the grief and anger, a solid rock of faith. All the speakers affirmed their faith as the anchor that holds them steady.
One of my favorite speakers was David Satcher, M.D. Ebony skin, snow white hair, a calm twinkling presence on stage, he told us his story. One of nine children born to a farm family in Anniston, Alabama, he nearly died of whooping cough when he was two. A doctor came, told his parents they might lose him but gave them instructions on how to keep his chest clear and his fever down. He lived and as a child of five felt the call to be a doctor. No one in his family had ever graduated from high school much less college. As a student at Morehead he participated in the civil rights struggle and was arrested along with A.D. King, Martin’s brother, and other students. They were trying to integrate a restaurant. A white man sprayed them with fly spray as they lay on the floor waiting for the police. Not only did the police arrest the students, they arrested the man who sprayed them. When President Kennedy called Mayor Ivan Allen asking for the release of Dr. King, the students were released as well. Dr. Satcher tells how A.D. King, as they were leaving the jail, turned around and led them back in to gain the release of Mr. Spayberry, their tormentor. As Mr. Spayberry came out, he shook A.D. King’s hand and friendship came into being through the power of forgiveness. This man became Surgeon General and Assistant Secretary for Health 1998-2001. A memory picture... Dr. Satcher told of following Rosalyn Carter when she was First Lady of Georgia working together on immunizing the children of the state, following her as First Lady of the Nation in Washington where they held the first national conference on mental health at the White House, and following her now as she is First Lady to the world. She blew him a kiss. Their relationship is a powerful image of the beloved kingdom. These two people who came from such opposite ends of the earth, bound together by a shared faith and love that shines through their black and white skin. Once again I was weeping.
On the last night Dr. Charles Adams was the first preacher. He is pastor of Hartford Memorial Baptist Church in Detroit and has preached at Harvard, the United Nations, and the World Council of Churches. He serves the Baptist World Alliance, the World Council of Churches and the National Council of Churches and is the chairman of the Harvard Divinity School Black Alumni Association. He is no slouch in the pulpit. The sermon, The Bible Speaks About Setting the Captive Free, began slowly and deliberately. His words were well crafted and captured our minds. Then he began to catch our spirits. The speed and fervor increased as he began to list all our captivities from which we need to be freed... Don’t you tell me you can’t stop smoking, don’t you tell me you can’t stop doing crack cocaine... don’t you tell me you can’t go to school and make good grades... the whole congregation began to move. He named our differences... race, gender and sexual orientation, nationalities, economic levels, theological divides, educational achievements. He named all the theologians and their particular ways of viewing God. And as one people, we were caught up in a vision of a world where we could all be freed from whatever held us captive. I have never seen so many white people get happy in worship before. Revival... To be continued
One of my favorite speakers was David Satcher, M.D. Ebony skin, snow white hair, a calm twinkling presence on stage, he told us his story. One of nine children born to a farm family in Anniston, Alabama, he nearly died of whooping cough when he was two. A doctor came, told his parents they might lose him but gave them instructions on how to keep his chest clear and his fever down. He lived and as a child of five felt the call to be a doctor. No one in his family had ever graduated from high school much less college. As a student at Morehead he participated in the civil rights struggle and was arrested along with A.D. King, Martin’s brother, and other students. They were trying to integrate a restaurant. A white man sprayed them with fly spray as they lay on the floor waiting for the police. Not only did the police arrest the students, they arrested the man who sprayed them. When President Kennedy called Mayor Ivan Allen asking for the release of Dr. King, the students were released as well. Dr. Satcher tells how A.D. King, as they were leaving the jail, turned around and led them back in to gain the release of Mr. Spayberry, their tormentor. As Mr. Spayberry came out, he shook A.D. King’s hand and friendship came into being through the power of forgiveness. This man became Surgeon General and Assistant Secretary for Health 1998-2001. A memory picture... Dr. Satcher told of following Rosalyn Carter when she was First Lady of Georgia working together on immunizing the children of the state, following her as First Lady of the Nation in Washington where they held the first national conference on mental health at the White House, and following her now as she is First Lady to the world. She blew him a kiss. Their relationship is a powerful image of the beloved kingdom. These two people who came from such opposite ends of the earth, bound together by a shared faith and love that shines through their black and white skin. Once again I was weeping.
On the last night Dr. Charles Adams was the first preacher. He is pastor of Hartford Memorial Baptist Church in Detroit and has preached at Harvard, the United Nations, and the World Council of Churches. He serves the Baptist World Alliance, the World Council of Churches and the National Council of Churches and is the chairman of the Harvard Divinity School Black Alumni Association. He is no slouch in the pulpit. The sermon, The Bible Speaks About Setting the Captive Free, began slowly and deliberately. His words were well crafted and captured our minds. Then he began to catch our spirits. The speed and fervor increased as he began to list all our captivities from which we need to be freed... Don’t you tell me you can’t stop smoking, don’t you tell me you can’t stop doing crack cocaine... don’t you tell me you can’t go to school and make good grades... the whole congregation began to move. He named our differences... race, gender and sexual orientation, nationalities, economic levels, theological divides, educational achievements. He named all the theologians and their particular ways of viewing God. And as one people, we were caught up in a vision of a world where we could all be freed from whatever held us captive. I have never seen so many white people get happy in worship before. Revival... To be continued
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