Making Dreams Come True

12 Saturday Nov 2016

Posted by in Events, Faith, Learning from mistakes, Prayer, Suffering, Words

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hot-owl-southern-white-faced-owl-in-botswana-trying-to-keep-coolThe evening before the election, I heard Donald Trump say, “I will make all your dreams come true.”

I have a lot of dreams. Since the days of studying both Carl Jung and Gestalt Therapy, I have taken my own dreams and other people’s dreams seriously. These may not be the dreams Donald Trump had in mind, but sleeping dreams reveal much about us and the world we live in.

In the days before the election of George W. Bush, I dreamed repeatedly about going to war with Iraq again. A year before 9/11 and two years before the Second Iraq War, there had been enough talk about Saddam Hussein as a devil that the dreams were understandable. My dreams were chaotic and yet clear in their aversion to the prospect of war in Iraq. As Iraq fell into chaos after our “victory” had been declared, the news became a daily experience of déjà vu.

Before the election of Donald Trump, I had a series of automaton dreams, with people crawling out of a trunk that an orange-headed man had opened. The automatons were zombie-like and yet their faces were full of expression. Their smiles were broad and fixed and their eyes were bright, as they screamed and yelled obscenities and attacked other people, including my friends and family and me, because we were not like them. We did not “belong” to this order of Pandora. Sometimes they attacked people of color and foreigners, sometimes same sex friends and couples (“We’re just friends; we’re not married,” I heard them say, defending themselves.), sometimes crippled and helpless people who just melted under the assaults, as the attackers called them “freaks” and “losers.” They even attacked scrawny children, clothed in rags, who fell under their trampling feet. Once I had my hands around the neck of one of the attackers, and I squeezed her throat, until I stopped myself, and said, “I can’t do this. (I’m becoming like them.).” When I awoke, I’m glad to report, Jan was sleeping soundly at my side, undisturbed and unthreatened. The dream reoccurred with small changes, and I supposed they resulted from the frequent media footage of Donald Trump rallies.

I studied at Chicago Theological Seminary with Franklin Littell, historian of the rise of fascism in Europe, and Andre Lacocque, a biblical scholar who experienced the years of the Third Reich, and whose teaching of Daniel and Job were framed by those experiences. My dreams are often affected by memories of what I’ve learned and by the echoes of those years in the words and actions of extremist leaders and groups of all kinds. It doesn’t take much to reawaken the dreams-turned-nightmares—a straight-armed salute, a swastika or similar angular symbol, the waving of certain flags, especially the Confederate flag. Even our own Pledge of Allegiance, recited with too many flags, too many uniforms, too many people, gives me the creeps.

Mass deportations of millions , indiscriminate stop and frisk, silencing and demonizing dissent, shredding the social safety net for the underclass and the already impoverished and the desperately ill, expanded militarization of the police and search and seizure in our neighborhoods, climate and war refugees crowded into mass camps and prisons across the earth—all of these are nightmarish prospects that have been spoken aloud and celebrated. I pray these dreams are not the ones Donald Trump had in mind when he promised to make all our dreams come true.

The Four-Square House

24 Monday Oct 2016

Posted by in Growing up, House

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The four-square farmhouse sits on a rise above the broad sweep of rich land bisected by the Middlefork of the Vermilion River. In the center of Ford County, the last county to be formed in the state of Illinois, the glacial swales are not prominent here, but sufficiently high to see every other rise in the area, including the town of Paxton, the highest point between Chicago and Cairo on the Illinois Central Railroad. Along that ridge a native trail wound above the surrounding marshland, known in historic times as the Ottawa Trail, with respect to the travels of the tribe that used it before and after the battles of Pontiac and later Tippecanoe. We found a variety of projectile points and tools along that ridge, dating from different centuries, unusual because no water source on that land provided the locale for village sites, as were common two miles lower along the riverbanks.

Why is this land so important to me? Fifty-four years ago it saved my family, my hopes for the future, and my sense of a secure place in the world. My father had lost the lease on the 320 acres on which we had lived for twelve years. I was sixteen years old.

For months he had searched for another farm or another job, without any encouraging possibilities. The college funds that my father had guided me to save went into the family budget. The prospective homes that we toured, that we could afford to live in, were depressing in their poor condition. The sale of the Angus herd and the excess farm equipment raised just enough to pay off accumulated indebtedness, leaving nothing to live on or secure someplace to farm.

Then this house and the hundred acres on which it sat came up for sale, owned by the elderly Bonnen couple who had lived there for many years, until his health began to fail, and she needed to move to Gibson City to continue her studio teaching of piano students. My father put together the down payment, based on the cash value of his life insurance, knowing that the farm would ordinarily pay for itself, and he and Mother would have to find other work to provide their livelihood, although the land itself would provide most of what we needed to eat. My mother would continue for many years working as a cook at the county nursing home. My father would get work at the post office and the broom factory, before assembling rental land year by year for the next fifteen years to nearly a thousand acres eventually. This was our home, and to it we returned for family gatherings and for respite for 37 years until Mother died here, and Dad continued to live here for another ten years until he couldn’t farm or drive any more, and he “retired” at the age of 89.

The land and the house, rented to two young families during the past thirteen years, along with Social Security, provided the money needed for assisted living and nursing home care for my father until he died a few months shy of 94. After that, the rental and farm income paid for home maintenance and provided enough to buy some of the land, eight acres, from my brothers. That made a remnant farm of 34 acres. Here we will live for a while, restoring the 101-year-old house to serve the next generation that will live here. We will try to pay this old house back for the happiness it has given us and enjoy it and the serenity of its location for a while longer.

 

Moving On from ‘A Fail’

28 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Disabilities, Faith, Gullibility, Learning from mistakes, Words

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3 Owls

Yesterday I got the news. I had failed. There was good news with the bad. I had averaged six and a half hours a night during the past six months with the blessed Bi-PAP machine. My number of apnea incidents per hour had reduced by… three. Whoopee! The resulting total made it three times the acceptable goal. My fifth mask had done pretty well. It usually let me sleep an hour before waking me. Unfortunately my face is evidently misshapen from what any of the existing masks fit. The neurologist’s verdict—a fail.

It is not easy to accept failure. I never failed a course. That ‘B’ in English the freshman year in high school, and in Biology in my sophomore year in college, were had to take, but in my defense I suffered with a kidney stone and infection during that college semester. I was never fired from a job, and when one job ended I always had another one to go to. I married one of the most helpful, loving, and gracious persons in the world, and we had two wonderful children who found terrific spouses, and we have three fantastic grandchildren who amaze us with their accomplishments, and they all still love me. At least they do everything to make me think they do. Somehow I have survived illnesses and close calls and the deaths of people close to me, and to faith goes the credit, but I made it through. I have made many mistakes and people have for the most part forgiven me and let me know that. I have enjoyed a long career that was, if not successful, at least fulfilling and rewarding in every way that I could expect. I consider myself to be one of the richest, most fortunate people who have ever lived, even without winning a lottery. Why buy a ticket? I can donate directly to the schools.

The money that my insurance companies have spent could have helped someone who really needed it. It could have bought a new car. (Not for me. I didn’t really need a new car.)

I am pretty tired of the Bi-Pap machine, but I will continue to use it until something else replaces it. I cannot remember sleeping so badly for months at a time, and feeling so exhausted because of it. I am cured of the sin of looking forward to bedtime. The initial hopes of reduced angina and arrhythmia have given way to just being glad I do not bother my wife with snoring as much as I did. That is probably enough, come to think of it.

One is supposed to learn from failure; it is respected as a great teacher. Next on the agenda is an “oral appliance.” I will make a call to the installer now. I have been delaying long enough.

The Call and the Calls

23 Friday Sep 2016

Posted by in Church, Faith, Growing up, Innocence, Prayer

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Methodist Bishop Edwin Voight sponsored a Convocation on the Ministry at First Methodist Church in Springfield, Illinois, in 1961. The aim was to inform and recruit young men for the ministry; no women attended. My pastor, Glen Sims, aware that I had completed the God and Country Award in Scouting and was serving as a de facto chaplain for the local Boy Scout troop on our monthly outings, thought that I might be interested and shared the invitation to attend. Families of the Springfield churches generously provided accommodations and hospitality.

Fifteen years old, I was the youngest in attendance. Most were older high school or college students. I knew I was out of my league. The program consisted of young adults and older ministers recounting their calls to ministry and their formative years in ministry, as well as prayers and worship around the theme of vocation. Their stories were impressive and elaborate, though fifty-five years later I cannot remember a single one of them.

What I do remember was my inadequacy and youth in the face of the experiences shared. The personal experience that I had to share, when in small groups we were asked to share our own stories, was the fact that I walked regularly four blocks to my home church, after school when I had to stay for some extra-curricular activity, in order to use the church telephone to call home. Then, while waiting for my mother or father to pick me up, I would stand in front of the impressive stained glass window or the great Last Supper carving and pray, while I waited twenty to thirty minutes for a ride (Our home was five miles away.). During those times I came to think of the church as my second home. I prayed about my future and how I could use the talents that people around me told me that I had, though I wasn’t at all sure.

When I had finished recounting ‘my calling’ in this way, the group leader noted appropriately that not everyone had a call to the ministry, which I took as a direct response to my story. That stung a little. Later in the gathering, the call of Moses, who was not an effective speaker at the time, and Jeremiah, who was just a boy at the time, gave me a little courage to think that I might yet be in the right place. I was not convinced, but the thought was effectively planted.

To Be Called a Muslim

14 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Faith, People, Racial Prejudice, Words

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65% of Republicans think President Obama is a Muslim, according to a recent headline. Since I first met President Obama (when he was State Representative Obama, and he was regularly attending the same church I was attending that day) at Trinity United Church of Christ, the same denomination that ordained me as a minister, I knew at the outset that he was officially and formally a Christian, even though his name had a Muslim heritage. ‘Barak’ was the great steed that carried Mohammed into heaven in his vision at Jerusalem, and ‘Hussein’ has many associations, for better and worse. ‘Obama’ suggests Africa, and could be Muslim or Christian in Kenya. (My name on the other hand suggests a peddler of trifles or cheap books, or a barbarian tribal warrior. Neither seems to have handicapped me or determined my destiny.)

The other part of calling someone a Muslim is the significant meaning of the words ‘Muslim’ and ‘Islam,’ which derive from the definition of “one who submits to Allah” with Allah being the name for the One God. The God referred to is the God of the “people of the Book,” that is, the Bible, before it came to include the Koran. The title is therefore an honorific title as well as an aspiration for those who accept it. If someone were to call me a Muslim, I would consider that an honor, knowing what I have studied about Islam and the faithful Muslim people that I have known.

On the other hand, ordinarily, to be a Muslim is to accept the Muslim creed, that there is only One God and Mohammed is a prophet of that One God, although that One God has many names according to God’s many attributes. To use the title of prophet for Mohammed puts him in the company of an impressive historical, and from my perspective, some ahistorical characters, but they include Abraham, Moses, Elijah, Isaiah, Mary, and Jesus, among other lesser figures like Jonah and Job. Does Mohammed deserve the recognition that places him in that company? Traditionally many Christians have said no, but that is without assessing what Mohammed accomplished. Mohammed converted scores of Arabian tribes from paganism and idolatry to monotheism with all of the moral dimensions that traditional monotheism entails, not a small or unimpressive accomplishment. When he finally had the opportunity to utterly destroy his opposition, who had so often attempted to kill him, he offered mercy and forgiveness. Unlike most of the prophets who spoke to power, but had little of their own, at least in earthly terms, Mohammed was able in the last years of his life to exercise a great amount of political power, and he did so with some admirable accomplishments as well as some judgments that were more problematic, not unlike some of the wisest leaders the world has known. The title ‘prophet’ seems to apply to him at least as well as to most of the others.

I grew up in a Methodist Church, recognizing that the title ‘Methodist’ was first used of John Wesley as a pejorative, ridiculing the disciplined and ordered life that he espoused. I never lived up to that name, nor would I confidently describe myself as a Muslim, in the tradition of those who have fully lived out the meaning of that name, but I sure would like to be.

The Storm’s Unpredictable Wind

13 Tuesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Faith, House, Nature, Yard

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“You hear the sound of it but you don’t know where it comes from or where it goes…”

I was sitting in my overstuffed chair last Wednesday evening, working on one of the online philosophy courses that I teach, when a great wind blew with the sound of crashing, followed quickly by the storm warning siren and pouring rain. Putting my laptop computer aside, I jumped from the chair and headed toward the kitchen where Jan was, just to make sure she was okay. She was. The only noise to follow was the sound of heavy rain, so I went to the basement, not for its supposed protection from the wind, which quickly subsided, but to check on the water that might be invading. Sure enough, the water was bubbling out of the drain, because the city sewer could not handle the volume of the downpour. I monitored the water level for the next two hours, but the electricity did not go out and the constantly running sump pump kept pace with the invading water.

The next morning, I again checked the house for damage, which the darkness could have hidden the night before. No problems showed up.

Early in the spring I had noted the two large limbs of the tulip tree that overhung the house, knowing that sometime this season I would need to make arrangements for the tree surgeon to remove them. Friends in Zion Church had given the tree to me when my mother died suddenly twenty-six years ago. It was one of her favorite tree species, and it grew quickly into a lovely specimen. But those two limbs had to go.

I did not notice at first, when checking the house after the storm, but those limbs were indeed gone. Where did they go? Forty feet away in the small space between the crabapple tree and the garage, one large limb was planted rightside up against the fence, the large trunk of the branch into the ground. Behind it, the other large branch sat upside down with the heavy trunk on top.   

The wind had removed both eight inch-diameter branches close to the trunk, without damaging the roof or breaking windows, and placed them so neatly in the yard that they almost looked like they belonged there.

I think I owe the Great Tree Surgeon in the Sky big time.

Called to Account

07 Wednesday Sep 2016

Posted by in Caring, Church, Faith, Growing up

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Pentecostal bannerEarly in 1974 I sent my paperwork to the Central Association “Church and Ministry Committee” requesting consideration as a candidate for ordination in the United Church of Christ. By doing this I bypassed the usual procedure of becoming “In Care” of an Association for at least a year before being considered for ordination. I had served the United Church of Tilton full-time since receiving a Doctor of Ministry degree a year earlier, and I “voluntarily located” at that Methodist-UCC merged congregation, instead of entering the United Methodist itinerant ministry and be subject to appointment by the bishop. For that year I had been living between denominations. Toward the end of it I surrendered my credentials as a United Methodist deacon.

I was grateful that the area UCC committee was willing to give me a hearing; they were not obligated to do so. Although I had studied the UCC for the five years of graduate education, and organized the Chicago Theological Seminary archives, which required a growing familiarity with UCC polity, I did not know what to expect when facing that committee. My essays on personal experience, theology, Christology, ecclesiology, ministry, and church history and polity were rooted in biblical study but far from traditional. If I were to be rejected by the committee, I had no back-up plan. I expected that at best they would delay my request while I developed longer relationships and more trust with UCC people in the area.

The committee, equally divided between clergy and laypeople, heard my presentation and asked perceptive questions that revealed that they had read my papers. They also explored the particular needs and background of the ministry at Tilton. Most of the time the group seemed to be interested and agreeable, and I sensed no areas of disagreement or serious challenge, until one of the members, a senior minister at one of the leading area congregations, wanted to know more about my Christology. It appeared to be “low” in comparison to his “high Christology.” I had already spoken at some length about the mediating and representational character of Jesus’ ministry. He pursued the weakness of my positions relentlessly. Finally, I admitted that he was probably right. I was closer to being a Modalist than an Athanasian Trinitarian. I did not have a philosophical position that enabled me to know the internal being of the divine. That did not please him. I retired to another room while the committee deliberated for the next hour.

The new minister of the Association, Robert Sandman, came out for a minute to reassure me that they were dealing with each other’s different positions as much as dealing with my case. That did not encourage me at the time, but I realized that they were giving more attention to serious matters of Christian life and belief than any church-related group I had faced before.

At the end, they called me back into the room, congratulated me for my ministry, and asked that I proceed with preparations for ordination as soon as practical with the aid and advice of a couple members of the committee.

I had passed their scrutiny, and they were willing to approve my ordination. They had seriously considered many concerns that I thought were important, including some of the social issues of the day, but, equally important to them and me, theological questions in depth. I was impressed. They were living up to their reputation of considering creeds as “testimonies but not tests of faith.” They were willing to suspend their own rules in order to recognize the validity of a ministry that they valued. It was a high point in my journey into ministry, and it would be followed by many more.

And What About Your Wife?

03 Saturday Sep 2016

Posted by in Church, Faith, Growing up, Learning from mistakes

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In June of 1970 I asked to be considered for ordination as a deacon in the United Methodist Church. At that time ordination to the office of deacon was a step toward ordination as an elder for Methodists. I had completed two years of graduate theological and professional studies, and I had served as a “licensed local preacher” for seven years in a variety of church-related positions. The Conference to which I belonged was Central Illinois, where I had lived all of my life before moving to Chicago in 1968, but my two years in Chicago had stretched my ties to the Methodists in central Illinois. My original mentor in ministry, Glen Sims, had died suddenly with a brain tumor. Controversies surrounding racial justice, the War in Vietnam, and other social issues had alienated some ministers who had been part of my formation, and they had left the conference or found themselves in vocational jeopardy.

The times were changing, but I wanted to persist in a path toward ministry and knew that I had to submit my credentials and my ideas to the judgment of those who made the decisions regarding whom the church would ordain. There were two dozen men who were candidates for deacon that year, a large class. Women were just beginning to request consideration; I do not remember any that year, although I knew several excellent candidates who were coming in the years ahead. Just to help us feel more insecure, the leaders of our assembly made it clear that the church had a lot more candidates for ministry than they had congregations to employ us, so we should be ready to be disappointed.

The panel called us in one by one. Several ministers sat around the table with questions. Mentally I reviewed the theological and social controversies that wracked the church and challenged us all to deeper faith and extensive preparation. So the questions came. “Do you smoke or use tobacco?” No, I found that I am allergic to tobacco, I responded. “Do you drink alcoholic beverages?” Very little, I said. (I don’t have money to waste, I could have added, but didn’t.) “Do you expect to have an appointment to serve a local church?” No, I have secured an internship in a Methodist Church in Danville and Tilton, and afterwards I will return to seminary to complete my studies. “What about your wife?” I explained that she loved the church as I did, but she was raised a Lutheran and a Presbyterian, so she was just getting acquainted with Methodism, and where we lived in Chicago, we worshipped at a Disciples congregation near our home. This coming year would be her first opportunity to worship regularly with Methodists, since we had left Illinois Wesleyan and its ecumenical chapel services. Responding to me, there were some comments that wives could help or hinder one’s ministry, and I should resolve this situation before seeking an appointment. That was it. That was my ordination interview. My answers to their questions disappointed my interviewers. They appeared to be mostly relieved that I wasn’t seeking an appointment to a parish anytime soon.

Later I learned that the panel had approved my ordination as a deacon. Bishop Lance Webb appeared before our class before the service itself, letting us know that some of us were not likely to be ordained as elders unless several matters were resolved. He would not ordain anyone who accepted smoking and drinking. Our families had to be as committed to the Methodist ministry as we were. He was looking at me as he spoke, or he seemed to be. What about other issues? What about our faith formation and life in prayer and the extensive problems facing our society? They were not mentioned that day, except that he wanted us to read his books. I recognized that these were tests that I would not seek to pass when the time came, not because I couldn’t, but because there were other tests that were more important to me and to the church I wanted to serve.

 

‘Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread’

02 Friday Sep 2016

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I spent much of that May evening in 1971 walking in a park and praying about my wife and baby daughter and my future. My year as an intern pastor was coming to a close, and finding a job to support us and a place to live and enough money to return to seminary in Chicago were on my mind. So far I had no idea how these issues could be resolved. We had spent all of our savings, meager as they were, during the intern year, replacing a failing vehicle, and paying daily expenses. There was nothing left, even to pay for a small U-Haul truck to move our stuff. Every option I had investigated during the previous three months had gone nowhere. We would soon be out of time as well as money, as the internship ended in two weeks. My mood was bleak.

In the next afternoon, a knock on the door opened to a man who was active in one of the churches I had served. He said his wife and he had been praying together the evening before, and they thought of us, and they wanted to help. He handed me a check for $100. On the evening of the next day I met with a study group I had organized during the year. They wanted to thank me for the many evenings we had spent together; they had collected $150. The next day I finally got word that a small apartment would be available to us, and I had been awarded a fellowship that would pay for our housing, tuition, and living expenses at seminary; the seminary had received an unexpected donation to organize its archives, and the fellowship supported me to do that, with my experience working in the seminary library and prior graduate history studies. In the next few days more gifts came from several co-workers in the churches.

We had enough, just enough, within a week of my night of despair. It was a lesson that would be repeated in many circumstances in the following years, but none more dramatically for us.

Jan’s Last Day as an ISES Interviewer

29 Monday Aug 2016

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Chicago skyline 1970Jan prepared for her last day as an Employment Interviewer with the Illinois State Employment Service, with offices located on Chicago’s Sixty-third Street in the middle of the South Side. She had worked there for a year into April of 1970. Most mornings she got into her 1960 Ford Falcon, drove the mile to the office, and parked in the neighborhood north of Sixty-third, walking the last block or two, all in the gray of sunrise, then retracing her steps in the dusk after 5 o’clock. Though it was the middle of the “ghetto,” or considered so in those years, and gang violence and neighborhood deterioration was advanced, she rarely had any trouble in that neighborhood. In fact, she had several people watching out for her, as one of three Caucasians in an office of about forty workers, mostly African-Americans. Mr. Parham, in particular, took her under his wing, drew an occasional sketch of her in charcoal, when he had a little free time and she didn’t know he was watching, and in general adopted her as his kid.

On this last day, she dressed in a powder blue maternity dress, suitable to her condition at eight and a half months. Shortly after arrival she learned that there had been an oversight in her original hiring process. Not all the paperwork had been completed, and one requirement had not been met. She had not been finger-printed. Who knew that all workers in the state employment service had to be fingerprinted as part of their background check or possible future criminal behavior or possible identification if someone happened to bomb the office? Before they could officially release her, they had to correct that mistake. They sent her to the precinct police station several blocks away.

Taking her seat in a waiting room, surrounded by several police officers and some suspicious-looking characters, she took her place among the people waiting to be processed. There was a quiet wave of discussion passing through the room about what she was “in for.” Pregnant, lily-white and noticeably paler than usual, in powder blue, what had she done to require being arrested and held by the police? The officers had quite a lot of fun at her expense as they went through the finger-printing routine. They weren’t the only ones wondering why she had to be there.

It seemed a fitting end to a frustrating year, trying to help people find work in a nearly impossible environment.

If you happen to see her picture at any local post office, you can be assured that she is still wanted.