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Category Archives: Events

Because of a car with an eagle on the hood…

28 Thursday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Death, Events, Learning from mistakes, Racial Prejudice, Small town life

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A License to Preach, events, Synchronicity

3 Owls

The young man was two years out of high school, making a high wage as he worked in construction on the Clinton nuclear power plant, and proud of his shiny new black Trans-Am with the large eagle design on the hood. He was a brash and mouthy country boy, which was understandable. He was young, energetic, with pockets full of cash, and he came from a small town not noted for open attitudes.

Two young men, about the same age, drove down from Chicago, looking for work, but not finding. They filled out applications, but knew they were filed away at best, often just tossed into the waste can. They had more wishes than experience, and their references were not spectacular. Their car was an old beater, barely held together by Bondo and wire. They were as brash and mouthy as the first young man.

They were on a collision course, randomly, to all appearances, not by clear intent, and they had more in common than they knew, except that one had a good paying job and the other two did not. No one witnessed the event itself. We could only imagine what was said, by whom. It was in Champaign, Illinois, outside a bar. None of the three was operating with his best behavior. Prejudices and resentments fueled their encounter.

A telephone call came to me soon afterward. Would I officiate at the funeral of a young man, killed in an angry altercation, his “pride and joy” car stolen? They didn’t know who had done it, but they had ideas. A neighbor had recommended that they call me. I didn’t know any of them, but I said “yes.” They needed someone.

There was a mob at the funeral, filling the mortuary chapel and its overflow spaces. The directors had “never seen such a crowd,” they said. The young man was well-known, if not always well-loved. Grief held center stage, but it was surrounded by a cast of anger, hatred, and fear.

After conversations with his family, I had plenty to say that appreciated his life and work. I noted the absurdity of dying because of one’s proudest possession, and I named the encounter as a tragic and devastating loss for everyone concerned. I represented a “Savior who died for all,” who loved each person, understanding the mixture of guilt and good that is in each one, and who can be trusted to take what we are and to shape it for  a better world to come. It was too early to expect anyone to understand a call for forgiveness. What did they need to forgive in the young man who was murdered? How could anyone ever forgive the murderers? Mostly the crowd was silent afterward. A few made the special effort to say that they heard what I was saying. Much later, a man said that it was the one sermon that he remembered and pondered.

Bootlegging…the Family Business

23 Saturday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Books by Gary Chapman, Events, Growing up, Gullibility, Learning from mistakes

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Books by Gary Chapman, Out of My Hands

OOMH

My Uncle Albert Hunsaker had sold his share in the railroad as it was going bankrupt, and I didn’t know how he was making a living. He and Mary had gotten a divorce. She and the four children still at home continued to live where they had at Yale, but Albert rented a room in an old boarding house nearby with three other guys. Grandpa had suspected that he was making his living by bootlegging, and mentioned it to me, but we did not really know what he was doing. He had lost his car, so he approached me for a ride. He said he had a job over in Indiana. “Could you take me in your Model A?”

I wondered what kind of job he was talking about, but he had helped me get to my jobs years ago, and he was my uncle, so I decided I could drive him where he needed to go. He loaded my car with his “gear and tools,” he called them, and we took off on Route 40 headed east. Meanwhile the Cumberland County sheriff had caught on to his bootlegging operation and came after him. He kept looking back at the road behind us, so I suspected something was wrong. Suddenly he ordered me to turn off the highway onto a dirt road, and he told me to look for a hiding place for the car and ourselves in a gravel pit that was at the end of that road.

“What’s going on?” I yelled at him. “I’m not going to break any laws,” I insisted, but he informed me that I already had. His “gear” included bootlegged liquor and, whether I liked it or not, I was an accessory, and the law would treat me as guilty as he was. We hid ourselves overnight. During the night, while we hid in the dark and didn’t dare even to light a fire, he told me about various trips he had made in recent years. He had carried liquor and made enough to support himself. Sometimes it was over the Canadian border between Detroit and Windsor. More often he carried between Illinois and a club in Indiana. He worked with people connected to the Chicago crime syndicates and Al Capone. He would be in worse trouble if he did not complete this delivery, so I continued the trip with him, and made it back without any further incident. I informed him that I was never going to do that again. “Don’t even think about asking!” I told him.

Missed Signals and What They Meant

21 Thursday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Events, Gullibility, Learning from mistakes, Small town life

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A License to Preach, events

red footbrigde over lily pads

Many years ago a couple came seeking a wedding at the church I was serving. I had worked with the young man as his occupation crossed paths with mine. The young woman did not know me, except by reputation. They had grown up in nearby villages to the one where I lived and served.

When a couple had no experience in the church which they wanted to host their wedding, I usually asked, “Why do you want to hold your wedding here?” In this case I knew the church where she and her family had participated. It was a recent merger of two friendly congregations, who had built a beautiful new building with convenient facilities, all on accessible ground level, instead of “my” traditional Gothic  two-story building with its many steps. So I asked my question.

The bride-to-be paused momentarily, as if uncomfortable, dropping her eyes. The groom came to the rescue, saying that they planned to move to this community and expected to take part in this church, where they would make their home. She seemed to recover her composure quickly, and the rest of our conversations moved smoothly over many appropriate thoughts about marriage and the wedding service itself.

Still I puzzled about that moment and what it meant.

I knew her minister; in fact, he and I gathered with other ministers of our affiliated denominations monthly in conversation. He was popular due to the successful growth of his congregation during and after their reorganization and building program and also due to his outgoing and attractive personality. When we next met, I let him know that the couple had come to me to prepare for their wedding, and that they had shared their plans to move. He did not respond visibly. To my mind, he seemed unusually uninterested in what they were doing or planned to do.

A year later, several of the young women of his church, several of them being juveniles, accused him of sexual misconduct. He was arrested and held in jail for a few days, much to the embarrassment of his wife and children. He submitted his resignation, surrendered his credentials as a minister, and eventually moved to a distant community and took up another occupation, selling insurance. The case against him fell apart as the women, one by one, decided not to go through the visible public process of a trial.

Odd Things @ Death: The Happy Birthday Rotating Cake Plate

14 Thursday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Death, Events, People

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Serendipity, Synchronicity

Luna moth

Alice Haskell was quite a lady—vocal, dignified, competent, self-possessed. I met her when the senior pastor assigned her Senior Women’s Sunday School classroom to serve as my office, a dual purpose. She was indignant that her space had to be shared; whether she was totally serious or not, which I never knew, we made our accommodations with each other, which included several lunches and suppers together over the months to come, and much sharing of experiences. She extorted a promise that was against my better judgment, that I would not leave her town until I had firmly planted her underground. That promise was sealed with an exchange of tokens, like any sincere covenant. She gave me a metal cake plate that one wound up and it rotated and played ‘Happy Birthday.’ Of course, it had a chocolate cake on it to seal the deal. I planted bedding flowers in her garden by her house. In due course, Alice died. I officiated at her funeral. Within a year I moved on.

We arrived in our new house, ready to unpack boxes upon boxes, on my birthday. Sitting on the couch we were looking at the job we hated to begin when one of the boxes, that was sitting on the kitchen counter around the corner, began to play “Happy Birthday.” We got up, went into the kitchen, opened the box and, of course, it was the cake plate, but how it managed to rotate and play its tune, packed as it was, inside the box, left us puzzled. “Thank you, Alice,” was the only response that seemed appropriate.

My Start at Chicago Theological Seminary

12 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Events, Learning from mistakes, People

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A License to Preach, events, Serendipity

Monkeys see, hear, speak no evil, Bangra.com

I was moving to Chicago’s Hyde Park near the University of Chicago campus, driving a small rental truck with our apartment’s furnishings. The direct route from the Stevenson Expressway to Woodlawn Avenue was Garfield Boulevard, and I had been driving on that boulevard for about three blocks when I saw the flashing lights of a police car behind me. I pulled over to the curb right away.

“Where are you going?” the officer asked.

“Woodlawn Avenue south of 57th on the UC campus,” I answered, with trepidation. What I did not need at this time was a traffic ticket that I had no money to pay.  “Did I do something wrong, officer?”

“It’s illegal to drive a truck on a Chicago boulevard,” he answered. “May I see your license?” As I pulled my license out of my pocket, he asked me, “Are you a student or a teacher?”

“I’m a student in seminary and a pastor,” I answered, as I showed him my driver’s license.”

“Excuse me, Father,” he answered as he crossed himself. “If you’ll just follow me, I’ll show you how to get there.” He handed my license back to me, walked back to his car, turned off the lights, and pulled in front of me, waiting for me to drive the truck into the traffic lane and follow. At the next corner we took a right turn, and then a left, following a street that ran parallel to Garfield until we reached the Midway. He waved me forward, and I pulled up beside him. He yelled, “God bless you in your studies, and remember not to drive your truck on a boulevard.”

“Thank you,” I yelled back, but I did not add, “God bless you, too, my son,” although I wanted to.

Fire Call #4 at the Guns and Ammo Store

11 Monday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Events, fighting fires, guns, Small town life

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The Volunteer Fire and Rescue Squad

Yellowstone Pool

The siren blasted on a fall evening after dark, calling us volunteers, not to an retail merchant’s store, but to a single story ranch-type house set on a one acre wooded lot, with several other homes nearby. The house was smoking heavily when we arrived. The owner had been smoking heavily also, but he awoke in time to escape and stood nearby. We responded with a full crew and three trucks and had the hoses out and charged when the explosions started inside the house. We began to hear whizzes and pops against the side of the new firetruck where I was adjusting the controls, and I felt something hit my helmet hard.

“What’s inside that’s doing that?” Don, our chief, asked the owner, and he answered, “A hundred or so guns, positioned around the house, and lots of ammo. They’re worth a lot of money. I’d like to see you get busy and save what you can.”

Don called out in his loudest voice, “Pull back. Pass the word. Pull back now.” As the explosions continued and the occasional sound of stray bullets, also, the crew repositioned the hoses and the trucks about thirty yards farther back, aiming the new high pressure hoses from a distance, breaking the few windows that remained, blasting holes in the burning sides of the house, but mostly watching that the wind did not carry flames or debris toward the neighbors north and east of the house.

The owner was angry, and protested the decision to pull the crew back and away from the house. It was obvious that the house was going to be a total loss, after the delays and the new orders from the chief. “As I see it, I’ve got three duties that come before saving your house. Saving my firemen. Saving your neighbors’ property.  And protecting our equipment.”

“What about my stuff?” the owner asked.  Don answered that the owner had already taken care of that, when he set fire to his own armory and shooting gallery. The owner did not respond well. The year was 1974, before the country as a whole had gone gun-mad, but this man already had the conviction that he had to be ready for anything. That’s why he had loaded guns and ammunition in every room of his house. Unfortunately, he was not quite ready for anything.

Fire Call #3 at the Foundry

10 Sunday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Events, fighting fires, Small town life

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The Volunteer Fire and Rescue Squad

Yellowstone PoolThe fire siren split the quiet spring afternoon with its insane blare, and I was the first to respond to the station. Earlier I would have tried to drag my feet, but it would have been obvious since my office and home were just two blocks from the station. I put on my firefighter suit and boots, and had opened the main door and started the engine when a couple of other volunteers arrived. The bad news that I had to relay was that the call came from the General Motors Foundry, a five block long complex of oversized buildings filled with molten iron and steel. The good news was that they were asking for precautionary backup. They didn’t think that we needed to call for mutual aid from other departments. Their own crew was fighting the fire already and they thought they would have it under control when we arrived.

We hurriedly drove, siren screaming, to the east end of the complex and the open hangar door that looked like it could admit two or three fire trucks simultaneously. A little Hyster lift-truck preceded us down the aisle past employees standing nonchalantly, waving, obviously out-of-work for the time being while the problem was being resolved elsewhere. As the building swallowed our fire truck and we tried to look ready for whatever task awaited us, we at least felt some relief that the workers seemed unconcerned, not panicky and not ready to flee.

Turning a corner near the far end of the building we saw an area of smoke and steam ahead, water hoses charged and spraying under the command of three other volunteers that belonged to our squad, but also worked for the foundry. They did in fact have the fire under control, and I said my silent prayers of thanksgiving as we learned what had happened.  It was a vehicle fire, and grease fire, that had ignited some storage boxes nearby. Fortunately they had an in-house plan for immediate response. This was the first time that anyone remembered that they had called in an outside fire department, and they were grateful to learn that we could respond so quickly.

Whether they knew it or not, they were not more grateful than I was that they didn’t need the help of three volunteers who were ill-prepared to do much more than they had already done. We were deep inside the belly of a building that looked like nothing less than a Towering Inferno even when it was not on fire.  We took even more seriously the immensity of tasks that we might face and the training that we needed.

The Hunger Simulation at a church conference

09 Saturday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Events, Learning from mistakes, People

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A License to Preach, Serendipity

Monkeys see, hear, speak no evil, Bangra.com

In 1974 a concern for food deficits and hunger swept through the church and the nation. Famine in the Sahel and the rediscovery of large pockets of hungry people in the United States moved many people to take part in study groups, organizing, advocacy, and simulations. Simulations? In order to identify with hungry people, those of us who were not usually hungry had to remind ourselves what hunger felt like.

I attended my first Illinois Conference of the United Church of Christ Annual Meeting at Dekalb, Illinois, in June of 1974. I had attended many conferences, many annual conferences of the United Methodist Church, but this was my first UCC Annual Conference. I did not know what to expect. My ignorance went so far as to include what my registration fee covered. It seemed like a lot of money to me at the time. I assumed it covered the costs of the meeting itself, housing, and meals. It was the latter item that revealed that I had assumed too much. The cost of meals was not included.

I did not have much money in those days, living paycheck to paycheck and paying off education loans. I had a family of a wife and two small children who needed cash more than I did, so I had about five dollars in my pocket and a gas credit card for the travel. What else would I need?

The conference meeting lasted about four days, and my loaf of bread and jar of peanut butter had stretched about as far as I could make it stretch. I had access to plenty of water. I also had a conference dinner to look forward to, with a ticket that was prepaid in my registration fee. I felt very happy that the fee had at least covered that one meal. The dinner itself was elaborately set up in a grand ballroom with white tablecloths, napkins, glassware, and tableware, no plastic or paper in sight.

The servers had specific instructions that began with the serving of about ten people out of a hundred with hors d’oeurves. Then came the salads which were served randomly to about fifty out of a hundred, including of course those who had already been served. Meanwhile the grumbling had begun from those who had not yet been served. The servers just continued their quiet compliance with their directives. As a newcomer I did not yet have a voice, but I was in tune with the times and catching on to what was happening.  When the main course arrived, about seventy people out of a hundred had full plates with meat, potatoes, vegetables, and bread rolls. The rest got small plates of rice. In front of me sat a small plate of rice.

The dessert that followed the main course came to about thirty out of a hundred. The grumbling increased in volume and anger, and the faces of those who had received and eaten the extra food looked appropriately humble. Everyone scarfed down what was set in front of them. No one within my view was sharing anything that they received, although I learned afterward that some tables had several sharers when the dessert arrived. By the next business session, facing an angry audience, the planners of the simulation extended their apologies and promised not to surprise the attendees with such an ill-conceived plan again.

The rice that I ate was probably the best rice I have ever eaten, and the portion, though small, satisfied my hunger. I could return home with a clear conscience to a place where I had enough to eat.

Shall we join the demonstrators?

06 Wednesday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Events, Racial Prejudice, Words

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A License to Preach

cropped-circledance.jpgWhat is a demonstration? Is it a showing, a calling of attention to something? Or is it a proof of the reality of something, bringing enough evidence together to be persuasive, as some of us would assert the validity of the metaphorical statement, “Christ is the light of the world?” Like most words we may use the word “demonstration” either way.

Some of us grew up in a world of demonstrations which grabbed our attention, and persisted in presenting uncomfortable truths, and made life more difficult for both demonstrators and others immediately involved, with positive results I would hurry to add. There were sit-ins, marches, and boycotts– many of which demonstrated effectively the presence of racist discrimination and injustice in our world. The demonstrators often had to pay a price in fines and imprisonments, ridicule and bodily injury,

loss of security and even life, in order to demonstrate the deprivations of dignity and opportunity to others. The people demonstrated “against” had to deal with a challenge to their authority, routines and attitudes.

We owe much to one who expressed so powerfully the rule of love as a means to effective demonstration, including self-giving, sacrifice and refusal of violence–  M L King Jr. He made his source in the love of Christ a central affirmation of his work, but he made no secret that he owed much to the influence of the Mahatma as well.

I think of Sheltered Reality with its focus on homelessness, youth and their capacity to express themselves, their songs and their drums as a form of demonstration. The sound of dozens of drums can be deafening, literally, when people do not protect of their ears. It can be uncomfortable and challenging, and those involved pay a price in time and energy for their effort. The obvious “target” is the people who ignore and dismiss the problem. Yet, as the years have  gone by since the group was formed, the problems of homelessness have continued to mount, and someone must make noise about it. As in the earlier demonstrations, youth are often more willing and ready to show their true colors than their seniors.

Many of our demonstrations are more polite and subtle, less brash and potentially offensive, and as a result often less effective. We have some noisy and obvious tools at our disposal– bells, lights, and whistles to draw attention. When and how will we use them? We come from many centuries of tradition calling for human dignity and mutual service, the relief of suffering and life in solidarity with the oppressed. We live with the benefits and burdens of mass media letting us know of innumerable insults and attacks on such values. Where shall we apply ourselves and our resources? Does it matter which situation of need we address or where we work as long as we do? Shall we join the demonstrators?

Starting a list of the odd things that happen around death

05 Tuesday May 2015

Posted by chaplines2014 in Caring, Death, Events

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A License to Preach, Serendipity, Synchronicity

Luna mothA colleague told me about his uncle who was killed in the Battle of the Bulge during World War II. He went to visit the military cemetery in Belgium where his uncle’s body was buried along with thousands of other casualties from that battle. He entered the memorial chapel where the book is kept that records the names of all the soldiers buried there, with the locations of the graves. He approached the book. It was already open to the page with the name of his uncle, out of thousands of names, and no one there to open the book for him.

A friend’s grandfather died at the ripe age of 95. He had lived at his own home and tended his own garden until a short final hospitalization. She had lived nearby and helped him in his garden. The day of the funeral they went back to his house for a family gathering, and near the front door there was a fresh rose blooming on an old plant, but the rose showed a new combination of red and white, his favorite rose colors, on a plant that before had only produced reds.

I had spent several hours of the day at the bedside of a dear and faithful member of the church, knowing that her time was growing short. She had no family left, and her aged peers could not remain at her side. I also needed a break and took a few minutes for something to eat, and returned as quickly as I could. When I approached the door to her room, I heard lovely symphonic music coming from inside. At least I thought it was coming from inside, though no player or radio had been there before. I supposed a thoughtful nurse had brought one in, to provide the soothing sounds that sometimes calm the sufferer. When I opened the door, walked into the room and stood at her bedside, I saw that she had died, her face finally serene after her struggles with pain. Then I noted that the music had stopped; the room was utterly quiet. There was no player or radio there, and there was no music coming from outside either.

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