Monthly Archives: November 2015

I dreamed a dream…

24 Tuesday Nov 2015

Posted by in Gullibility, Learning from mistakes, People

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The other night I dreamed a dream about a huge and elaborate wedding, so fantastic and so immense in the imagination of the couple, that only a giant could officiate. I did not know the couple, but still I was invited; they were inviting everyone. Not wanting to be a spoilsport or left out of the biggest social event of the year, I went. The caterers prepared huge hampers of food and barrels of beverages and loaded them onto decorated trucks. A troop of acrobats led the wedding procession in front of the drum major and a marching band, followed by the dozens of handsomely costumed people in the wedding party in open carriages, drawn by teams of Belgian and Clydesdale horses, until the bride and groom came in the grandest gold carriage of all, then the parents, and the decorated food trucks, collecting the cars and buses of the guests as they went, winding through the streets of the city into the countryside. We all arrived at the edge of the forest where the giant emerged from the trees and, to a hundred trumpet fanfare, the couple and members of the wedding party ascended the great platform, specially built and decorated with banners and bunting, to stand on a pedestal in front of the giant. The music stopped, and the crowd hushed, waiting for the giant to speak.

“Food first!” said the giant. “We eat first, then we have wedding ceremony.” By “we” the giant meant “I,” and the couple looked at each other, then stood aside and gestured to the Master of the Caterers, and they brought forth, immediately, as if by magic, plates full of food, to offer to the giant. The plates looked so pitifully small in the hands of the giant, like pennies or dimes in his hands, that he tossed them aside, and yelled “Real plates! Real food!” The servers scurried away and came back with huge caskets filled with sides of beef and ham and whole turkeys, troughs full of mashed potatoes and vegetables, each carried by teams of four to eight servers, up to the top of the platform , while the giant scooped up the food in his huge hands, all the time calling for “More! More!” until it was obvious that the giant was eating everything that had been prepared, and there would be nothing left for anyone else.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, but it was a dream, of course, and everyone looked in amazement and wonder as the giant ate the wedding banquet all by himself, and, when he had finished, he turned and walked grandly back into the forest, leaving the bride and groom, and the wedding party, and all of the guests, looking at his back, as he disappeared into the trees, leaving no one to lead the ceremony. I turned and said to the person next to me, “Didn’t the giant look a lot like Donald Trump?” but before he answered, I woke up or at least I think I did.

Beginning work as a pastor at Wapella

14 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by in Caring, Church, Learning from mistakes, Small town life

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During my senior year in college I served my first appointment as supply minister for the sixty members of the Wapella Methodist Church. It started out as a summer job, and extended month by month as the District Superintendent said that he could not find a permanent replacement. Wapella had been part of a five point “larger parish,” but they grew tired of sharing a minister with so many other congregations. They wanted a minister of their own. They welcomed me enthusiastically, at least until I stated why I opposed the war in Vietnam, and they even tolerated that as long as they could keep me. At the end of seven months I had to end my service to them, giving the superintendent and the congregation a month’s notice. I had college work to complete, and I had trouble keeping my car running the eighty mile round trip two or three times a week. The superintendent said he would find someone else to serve them temporarily, but he didn’t for several weeks. They continued to meet for worship anyway.

Three months later a tornado tore through the town one late afternoon, and several college friends joined me in returning to what was left of Wapella. A friend drove, since my car was not working. We arrived after dark, and learned that the first task was to locate people across the countryside. Since I knew where people lived, and telephone lines were down, we drove out to see whether people were safe and sheltered. Heavy rains continued, and at one point we found ourselves driving on seemingly flat land with water above the floor boards of the car, so we didn’t get to all of the people we wanted to check. By the end of the night, one way or another, everyone was accounted for, and few injuries were reported.

Daylight showed the carnage of the disaster. We returned to be part of the clean-up crew and the job appeared to be insurmountable with the remains of houses and buildings scattered over a wide area. I saw few of my former parishioners, as those who lost their homes had sought refuge elsewhere and had little left to salvage. We put in a day’s work, but many more would be required before the town would be ready to start rebuilding.

At one point in the day we looked at the church. The large stained glass windows were gone. The tornado had lifted and moved the structure a few feet, and it sat at a crazy angle on the foundation. It was a total loss. Later I learned that the congregation had used their insurance money to buy a house as a meeting place. They were determined to continue as long as they could in spite of all the difficulties they faced. Neither my poor service nor an “act of God” would close them down.

All in all it was a revealing but not an encouraging beginning to my service as a pastor.

Dangerous Domestic Disputes

12 Thursday Nov 2015

Posted by in Caring, Church, Farm, guns, Small town life

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Chicago Old TownApart from random reckless hunter’s shots and target practice on my car traveling through inner city neighborhoods at night, and the occasional shots through the parsonage windows that occurred at Tilton, Minonk, and Burlington, one bullet hole apiece, the only serious threats occurred as I tried to moderate domestic disputes.

At Tilton I learned that domestic disputes provide the most common setting where guns come out.

I was making a regular pastoral visit to an aged grandmother, whose several children lived within a few blocks of her house. She informed me that her daughter was going through a terrible ordeal and needed my help. The daughter had no phone, but she was home. Could I go and talk to her? I could and did. Talking to daughter and grand-daughter together, they explained the abuse they had endured and the sense of despair and hopelessness they felt. Where could they go? In the midst of that conversation, the husband came home early and drunk, and before I had a chance to say anything more than hello, he held a gun on all of us. Forty years later, I do not remember much of what I said, only the feeling that these could be my last moments, and the resolve to be calm and non-threatening, as I explained that I was a pastor, there to help all of them and not to take sides. His gun could only make things worse for him and for those he loved. Gradually he lowered his gun and began to cry. How it happened, I never did know, but over the next several months that family survived intact, that husband stopped drinking, and eventually they became active in the church.

In another situation a father held his gun on me when I came with his daughter to his house to take her children away from him. They had lived together for several years, but the daughter had resolved that her children’s well-being and her own required that they live on their own.  Only with repeated assurances that he could still see the children regularly, and no threats about legal actions or custody, did he give up his threat to use his weapon and kill everyone.

When I later agreed to serve as a volunteer chaplain for the city police department, the first instruction dealt with the dangers of domestic conflicts. The police trainer noted that officers wanted to have chaplains with them in family disputes to shift the focus from law enforcement to peaceful resolution. They felt more secure when the chaplains could join them, but they warned us that these situations remained volatile and unpredictable. They didn’t have to tell me.  In the months that followed, twice more I wondered if I would make it out alive. Years later, in another town, when I received another request to serve as a police chaplain, I decided that I was dealing with enough stress without adding that to the list.