“It’s not Black History. It’s American History.”

A week before Christmas I found myself in the basement below Hillis Hall holding the hand of a visitor who told me that this place felt safe. She had just learned that she was a 4th-generation family member of Anna Maria Weems, a young woman who had fled slavery via the Underground Railroad in the 1850s. Along the way Anna Maria had been taken in by Plymouth member Lewis Tappan, who made sure she was fed and sheltered before she continued her journey to Canada where she would be reunited with her family. Over the past three years I have given tours of Plymouth to people from all walks of life, but this flesh and blood connection to the story brought it to life in new and powerful way.

Just a few weeks before this moment, a producer had contacted Plymouth about making a short film that focused on the Underground Railroad. At first, the details were fuzzy: their plan was to work with genealogists to trace the descendants of people who had escaped slavery through New York, or who had helped to support and facilitate that network. This research led them straight to Plymouth, which became the heart of the film.

Shooting at Plymouth
Shooting at Plymouth

The timeline was short. In order to have the film ready by their target premiere date in late January, they would have to shoot it the week before Christmas – a serious logistical challenge for a busy church like ours! And it so it happened that I returned to the Sanctuary just hours after our annual Carol Concert ended to meet six special visitors: the descendants who would be the subjects of this story. As the day unfolded, they would learn how they were connected to the place and to one another. My role was to appear on-camera giving a tour of Plymouth and in interviews that would fill in historical context about New York in the years before the Civil War, particularly focusing on how Henry Ward Beecher and the people of Plymouth worked to end slavery through their words and actions. The day of filming was deeply moving. I was humbled in a new way by the perseverance of the African American people and inspired by the very real impact the members of Plymouth had made on history.

A few days after Christmas, the film’s producers contacted me again. The reason they had been in such a hurry to film this piece was that they were planning to premiere it at the Sundance Film Festival, Robert Redford’s annual gathering indie filmmakers and media distributors in Park City, Utah. They wondered if they could bring me to the festival to speak on a panel following the screening. The other historian who would be speaking at the event was none other than the Harvard historian, Emmy-winning filmmaker, and creator/host of the PBS series Finding Your Roots, Henry Louis Gates, Jr.! Equal parts starstruck, intimidated and excited, I happily accepted their offer.

Two weeks ago, I made my way to Utah. I was fortunate that my sister was able to drive out from Colorado to act as my stylist/personal assistant/manager for the weekend. We went to parties and premieres, mingled with people from every aspect of the film industry and occasionally reached for the same cocktail as an A-list actor. SundanceTV did not skimp on its treatment for the representative of the Plymouth History Ministry!

Railroad Ties panel at Sundance
Railroad Ties panel at Sundance

Of course, my purpose there was to talk about Plymouth and the experience of making this film. I talked about how my relationship to the church has grown since I first started as singer in the choir, and how this congregation continues to believe it can make a difference in the lives of those seeking freedom. I encouraged people to visit us – to step into history by sitting where Abraham Lincoln sat and visiting the basement where people hid while escaping to freedom.

 

The resulting film, Railroad Ties, is beautiful and moving. It will air on AMC and SundanceTV in February and available to view online. Although its release is tied to Black History Month, the film’s director, Sacha Jenkins, made an important point during our panel discussion: “It’s not Black history. It’s American history.”

~ Melissa

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“Amy Poehler is ruining my birthday!”

Amy Poehler and Graham, Caleb, Carol and Brett Younger at breakfast
Amy Poehler and Graham, Caleb, Carol and Brett Younger at breakfast

We took Carol to Westville Dumbo, a trendy breakfast spot, for her birthday. I could have ordered seared marinated tofu, but I went with scrambled eggs and toast. As we waited for Carol’s beets with goat cheese and sweet roasted walnuts, we took turns naming things we love about Carol – her intelligence, her infectious laughter, her patience, her editing skills, her reasonable height and her willingness to be the subject of other people’s columns.

Then Amy Poehler came in. We are a “Parks and Rec” family. All of us would love to vote for Leslie Knope, the perky, mid-level bureaucrat in the Parks Department of Pawnee, a fictional town in Indiana we would have visited by now if it existed.

Ron Swanson is our favorite libertarian, Ann Perkins our favorite nurse, Andy Dwyer our favorite shoe shiner and Mouse Rat our favorite band. (We are the kind of fans who know that every Mouse Rat song includes one of these two lyrics – “Spread your wings and fly” or “You deserve to be a champion.”)  Our family cried at Li’l Sebastian’s Memorial Service. We imagine how sweet Sweetums must be. Leslie’s hatred of libraries makes us question our love for libraries.

We have lived in Brooklyn long enough to know that when we see a celebrity, we do not acknowledge their fame. We do not touch them, talk to them, look them in the eye, ask for autographs, follow them into the bathroom or take a picture. If the celebrity happens to be in a picture the waitress takes of your family that is just a coincidence. (You can see Amy just to the left of Graham’s head.)  When this happy coincidence happens, we do not share it, tweet it or Instagram it.

We know stars are just people, so we are as chill as we can be, which is hard when the star is Amy Poehler. What is she eating? Leslie promised to “avoid salad and other disgusting things.” Wouldn’t it be great if she is eating waffles? Leslie taught us, “We have to remember what’s important in life: friends, waffles and work. Or waffles, friends, work. But work has to come third.”

What if Amy Poehler says something to us, how should we respond? We do not want to say something she has heard a million times. Carol could say, “Ms. Poehler, Leslie was so right. My husband loves it when I show him I’m better than he is at something he loves.” Amy might like it if we said, “We didn’t want to bother you because Leslie pointed out that ‘One person’s annoying is another person’s inspiring and heroic.’”  After several minutes of working on what we would say if Amy Poehler decided to join us at our table, Carol announced, “Amy Poehler is ruining my birthday!”

Carol is right. If we ignore the person at our table in favor of the celebrity two tables away, then we have a problem. A culture that suggests fame is the ultimate measure of success makes us feel bad that we do not look like Ryan Gosling. Plastic surgery seems reasonable. Reality TV passes for reality. Celebrity news looks like real news. If the mostly unknown believe that being mostly known is the goal that matters most, then they are not going to feel good about themselves.

When we become more interested in fame than reality, then we need to put down Us Weekly and pick up The New York Times. We need to be able to name more senators than “Real Housewives.” We need to know more about the co-worker at the next desk than about Ariana Grande.

When celebrities whine about being famous it seems ridiculous that they are complaining about achieving something so many people want, but they have a point. Fame does not usually lead to happiness. Celebrities often feel trapped by their fame.

And yet, most of us harbor a secret desire to be famous. We crave the tiny reassurance of attention. We wait to be discovered. We are disappointed that we are not more celebrated.

Letting go of our desire to be famous could lead to better birthdays. Admiring people who do things worthy of our admiration – hard workers, loving parents, good listeners, caring teachers – could help us understand that anonymity is okay. The happiest person could be a perky, mid-level bureaucrat who enjoys life and a good breakfast.

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Learning to Love the Google Machine

I got to technology late.  I bought a new electric typewriter cheap right after they were obsolete.  I avoided email until I was the only one who had never heard from a Nigerian prince.  I don’t have a Facebook page, so someone else made one for me without me knowing it.  Did you know they could do that?

But every once in a while, a decade or so after everyone else, I experience the joy of technology.  I walk everywhere.  My office is up two flights of stairs.  Many of the people who come to church are well-dressed and expect their minister to be well-dressed.  About a month ago I put these facts together and googled “black sneakers that look like dress shoes” and found this:

shoes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am so happy with my Skeechers Dress Knit Relaxed Fit Memory Foam Oxford Shoes.  For a while I expected someone to say, “Hey, you’re wearing tennis shoes to work,” but I no longer think it is going to happen.

This has led to a new appreciation of my Google machine.  You can google your way through life.  The possibilities are amazing.

If you want to get up earlier google, “ideas for getting up earlier,” and set your coffee on a timer, put a warm robe by the bed, and tell yourself “getting up is fun.”

Google “things to do on your commute,” and listen to a podcast, make your to-do list, or get your worrying out of the way.

Google “how to get along with a grumpy co-worker,” and stay cool, take a timeout, and say their name.

Google “things to daydream about” and imagine sitting in a bathtub full of bubbles with a good book, going on a road trip with your best friend, or lunch.

Google “cures for an afternoon slump,” and rub peppermint oil on your hands, brush your teeth, or try some yoga.

If you want “ways to kill time on youtube” you can find bad lip reading, honey badger, and sneezing baby panda.

If you can’t sleep, google “when you can’t sleep,” and turn down the thermostat, take a hot shower, and drink some milk.

The Google machine has more applications to church life than you might think.

If you are having trouble “keeping your child quiet during worship,” google it, give them a phone, hand them Goldfish, or let them wear black sneakers.

Google your way to “ideas for livening up a dull Bible study” like turn down the thermostat, paint something, and use pillows instead of chairs.

Google “ideas for adding fun to a church meeting,” and throw stuffed animals at anyone who says anything negative, bring an egg timer, or go to a movie instead.

Google “how to end a column,” and use a relevant quote—“Google is your friend,” a thought-provoking fact—“Google processes 40,000 searches every second,” or echo the introduction—“I get to technology late, so you probably already knew this.”

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Reading the Paper

As a retiree, I am fortunate to be able to indulge in a slow beginning to my morning, drinking my coffee and reading assorted online newspapers. Of late, the news has been depressing. But on November 30, there was a confluence of news that made me smile with appreciation and gratitude, with awe and wonder.

First, there was an article in the NY Times about a Dutch church in The Hague which has taken in a family of asylum-seekers, a family from Armenia which has been in Holland for 9 years. Exploiting a centuries old tradition that government authorities cannot enter a church during worship, the church is holding round-the-clock worship to protect this family. This continuous cycle of worship had been going on for a month as of the day the article was published.

The closing of the article read, “… after initially using local preachers to deliver the service, the church has now reached out to others and has received offers of help from some 500 people from different churches as far away as Belgium. That support gives the locals strength to carry on, hoping that they can open talks with lawmakers and the government about the family’s plight. ‘As long as it’s useful to contribute to the dialogue, we will continue with the church service…’”  The article did not mention God by name, but I felt like God’s fingerprints were all over the story.

I am addicted to the weekly essays called “Modern Love” in the NY Times. Some weeks are better than others – some stories are appalling and others are profoundly moving. On November 30, a young woman wrote about being confronted with a diagnosis of bowel cancer in her 33-year-old partner and, looking for a distraction, she immersed herself in a British TV program called “Love Island.” On this “reality’ program, assorted people are assembled in a remote place in hopes they will fall in love, and the TV audience gets to vote on the best couple. The writer was looking for love and hope.

“It gave me comfort to see these love stories taking place outside of the dirty context of reality. May you never see the person you love with tubes running out of their body, I wished for them, these beautiful couples who were all years younger than me, though I considered myself young, and too young for what was happening…”

The story concluded, “I believed in the radical possibility of love, the radical stupidity of it, of letting myself fall. I believed, too, in the maelstrom of emotional energy that my screen had been transmitting nightly, restoring my faith, or something like it. To see that even under the most cynical of circumstances, love would find a way through adversity.” She never said what “faith” had been restored, and she never, in fact, mentioned God – for all we know she might be an atheist – but whether she would acknowledge it or not, I saw God’s fingerprints all over her story.

In The Washington Post, again on November 30, my eye was caught by an article entitled, “Astrophysicists Count all the Starlight in the Universe.”  I will never be an astrophysicist or even a physicist – I cannot get my head around what they do. But the article gave me goosebumps.

“The universe shines with the light of some billion trillion stars. A team of astrophysicists recently used a satellite to sum up all these stars’ light, measured in particles called photons. Let there be numbers: By their estimate, over the history of the universe, stars have emitted 4 times 10-to-the-84th-power photons into the visible universe (that’s a 4 followed by 84 zeros).”

Yes, the author really said, “Let there be numbers” – I didn’t put that there. But if his report does not evoke awe and wonder, try this: “The team used 739 blazars to survey starlight across history. The closest blazar was created 200 million years ago. The most distant blazar gave the scientists a view as long ago as 11.6 billion years. (The universe is about 13.8 billion years old.) The stars really began to bloom when the universe was just 2 billion years old. Star formation reached its peak a billion years later and then began a slow decline as it aged.”  God’s fingerprints again? Sometimes I wonder if even God is awe struck by the sheer extravagance of creation – a billion stars would have been amazing on their own, but there are a billion trillion stars out there – and we are the beneficiaries of their light.

All of this is to say that I think I will keep reading the papers, but I will also keep looking for the glimmers of good news that are buried there.

 

If anyone would like to read the articles, they can be found at:

https://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2018/11/30/world/europe/ap-eu-netherlands-church-asylum-seekers.html

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/11/30/style/modern-love-marooned-on-love-island.html

https://www.washingtonpost.com/science/2018/11/29/astrophysicists-count-all-starlight-universe/?utm_term=.d49b616b0910

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Simply Thankful

If we put it off until Thursday, Thanksgiving may not be the spiritual event for which we hope.  Children with families of their own will drive back to Mom and Dad’s.  Warnings will be issued to children in the back seat:  “Don’t talk about the president in front of Grandpa and Grandma.  Not the old president.  Not the new president.  Not any president.”

Parents will make bizarre promises:  “If you will just try everything, even the green stuff, we’ll go to McDonald’s on the way home.”

Wives will warn their husbands:  “If you have to watch the stupid football game, at least have the decency not to cheer.”

A new son-in-law will have the feeling that he walked into the wrong class—English literature instead of the calculus for which he studied.  Everyone else knows all the answers.  There will be names, dates, and stories for which they only use the punch line:  “We know not to let Linda fix the turkey.  Ha!  Ha!”  The poor confused son-in-law will smile stupidly, having no idea what’s going on.

Some in-laws will hope to be a little less confused at Christmas.  A few will spend Thanksgiving trying to make other plans for Christmas.

Several college students will second-guess their decision to shave their feeble attempts at moustaches rather than face the humiliating comments of their fathers.  Homes that have gotten along on ham sandwiches and microwave pizzas will see some pretty fancy cooking on November 22.

For all the trouble we go to, Thanksgiving does not really happen for everyone.  Many of us will be glad that we have what we have, but gladness is not gratefulness.  The people having turkey and dressing will outnumber those having a real experience of gratitude. Thinking about what we want is easier than thinking about what we’ve been given.  For most of us, having more has not made us more grateful.

In a letter to his yuppie nephew, Henri Nouwen writes:  “Increasing prosperity has not made people friendlier toward one another.  They are better off, but that newfound wealth has not resulted in a new sense of community.  I get the impression that people are more preoccupied with themselves than when they didn’t possess so much.  There is less opportunity to relax, get together informally, and enjoy the little things of life.  Success has isolated a lot of people and made them lonely.  The higher up you get on the ladder of prosperity the harder it becomes to be together, sing together, pray together, and celebrate together in the spirit of Thanksgiving.”

God calls us to more than a pause to say thanks.  God invites us to spend our lives gratefully responding to God’s goodness.

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Why Big Bird and Oscar Cannot Retire

carollspinneyseason45Six-year-olds are going to ask, “Does Big Bird have a cold?” “What’s wrong with Oscar?” “Who are they trying to fool?”

Caroll Spinney, the man inside Big Bird and Oscar the Grouch, is retiring after nearly fifty years of delivering comforting lines like “Bad days happen to everyone, but when one happens to you, just keep doing your best” and grouchy lines like “Now leave me alone and get lost!”

Spinney is 84 years old and knows what he is doing, but I keep thinking, “What is he doing?”

Where do you go to retire when you have been on Sesame Street since 1969? What neighborhood is going to have such sunny days? Where is the air going to be so sweet? Where will he find such friendly neighbors? Does he understand that there are not many places where everything’s A-Okay? How can a retirement community be an improvement when you have lived on a street where birds, monsters, and people live in harmony?

Spinney met his wife Debra in 1972 while in the Big Bird costume. What woman would not be impressed? He is going miss wearing bright yellow feathers and being 8 feet, 2 inches tall.

Big Bird danced with the Rockettes. He has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame and his likeness on a stamp. He conducted symphony orchestras. Big Bird starred in his own movie Follow That

Bird and guest starred on Saturday Night Live, The West Wing and The Colbert Report. He has been the BBF (best bird friend) for so many children.

When asked how he could still be six years old after being around for so long Big Bird replied, “Just lucky, I guess.”

Why would anyone want to leave Sesame Street?

Maybe the inside of Big Bird—like Sesame Street itself—is a little claustrophobic. Spinney may feel the need to spread his wings and fly. Perhaps there is a clue in that once, while in an airplane, Big Bird said, “Isn’t flying wonderful? It makes me feel like a bird.”

Do people eventually get tired of sunny days, cloudless skies, and friendly neighbors? Could it be that we can only be kind and sweet for so long?

That is why we need Oscar. What could be more therapeutic than being both Big Bird and Oscar? A tender, nurturing, childlike avian is great, but there is a part of us that is a crabby, trash-talking, green monster. Big Bird and Oscar are yin and yang, Jekyll and Hyde, Mary Kate and Ashley. Oscar’s different perspective reminds us that there are other perspectives.

Big Bird shows us how to be kind, but Oscar teaches us that it is okay to be grouchy. Sometimes we do not want to talk, and that is fine. We can think—even if we should not say—“Scram!” “Get lost!” “Go away!” We can be cranky without being a bad person.

Caroll Spinney may find the world outside his old neighborhood is easier for Oscar than Big Bird. Most places are not as pristine as Sesame Street. Most air is not that sweet. Some neighbors are more irritating than Bert and Ernie.

Most of us have days when we might as well live in a garbage can. We act like Big Bird, while we feel like Oscar. We are gentle, disgruntled and lovable. We need to be in touch with the grouch that stands up for what is right.

We need the joy of a gargantuan canary, but we also need the feistiness of a complaining Muppet. We need to know our bad moods are not the end of the world. That could be how we get to Sesame Street.

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Ministers Telling People How to Vote

Ministers who are sane do not want to tell people how to vote.  If the minister is in the majority of a red or blue congregation, then taking a side is picking on the one guy who wears a MAGA hat to the potluck or the one woman who has an I’m too poor to vote Republican bumper sticker on her Prius.  If the minister is in the minority, then he or she can survive only a limited number of endorsements.  If the congregation is evenly divided between Democrats and Republicans, then championing candidates is asking for angry emails.

Being a minister has gotten harder since the 2016 election.  When a sermon refers to President Trump by name the preacher has to answer for it during coffee hour.  Mentioning poverty, integrity, or compassion sounds political.  Speaking against greed, violence, xenophobia, homophobia, or sexism is controversial.  Politics is depressing, because some important religious issues are not listed in either party’s talking points.

Caring for the poor is a religious issue.  The world’s great faiths insist on feeding the hungry.  While officials argue over who represents the middle class, only a few put forth policies that offer poor families a real chance.

War is a religious issue.  Many seem to have forgotten that our nation has troops in Afghanistan.  The suggestion that we love our enemies would sound strange on who-can-scream-the-loudest talk shows.

Telling the truth is a religious issue.  Politicians have a shrinking concern for accuracy.  Constituents give their side a free pass.

Few politicians make serious efforts to consider how free trade could alleviate hunger, basic medical coverage could ease suffering, or concern for justice in the international arena could reduce anger towards our country.

Religious people are smart enough to consider issues beyond the last partisan punchline.  Immigration, prison reform, and the environment matter to religious people because our faiths have something to say about hospitality, revenge, and creation.

Imagine how good government could be if those who say God is love took love for the poor, the desire for peace, and an insistence on honesty into the voting booth.  What wonderful things would happen if our values were derived from virtue rather than partisanship?

Sincere people of faith vote for different candidates for reasons deeply rooted in their faith.  They disagree on how to educate children, promote racial understanding, and support gender equality, but they share frustration with politicians who appeal to individual interests, national interests, and special interests.  Religious faith leads away from narrow-mindedness to concern for the good of others.

Religious organizations have no business endorsing candidates, but they have an obligation to share the best of their traditions.  Ministers do not get to avoid the call for justice in order to avoid appearing political.

Religious people disagree on how to care for refugees, but ministers have to preach that it is not acceptable to separate children from their parents.

Religious people disagree on what a prison should look like, but ministers have to preach care for those who are imprisoned.

Religious people disagree on how to respond to victims of sexual assault, but ministers have to preach the necessity of listening.

Religious people can offer ideas beyond politics as usual, speaking for political reform where the insights of faith intersect societal concerns.  The movements for civil rights, women’s suffrage, and child labor laws began with religious people.  When debates focus on which candidate will make voters richest, religious people can be a voice for the oppressed.

The United States is a remarkable country with lofty goals.  Even when disappointed by the choices they have been given, religious people appreciate the privilege of voting.  Ministers should encourage their congregations to pay attention to more than the superficial and vote with concern for all on Tuesday.

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Wake Up and Smell the Coffee

The church has taken centuries to understand that in a world that is asleep, coffee is no doze.  Opening the church to coffee drinkers has been a long, difficult struggle.  Coffee dates back to the fifteenth century and the Sufi monasteries of Yemen.  The legend is that the mystic Ghothul Akbar Nooruddin Abu al-Hasan al-Shadhili was traveling in Ethiopia.  He saw birds acting unusually lively, and upon trying the berries that the birds had been eating, experienced the same vitality.  Coffee was soon part of religious practice in the Islamic world.  The Sufis used the beverage to keep themselves alert during nighttime devotions and as a kind of spiritual intoxication when they chanted the name of God.

Because Muslims loved coffee, several Christian groups, including The Ethiopian Orthodox Church, made a big brouhaha and banned coffee.  Mormons still avoid this potion made with magic beans.

Churches need to wake up and smell the coffee.  When we ask Siri to “find coffee” she lists four places within 800 feet of Plymouth.  Our neighborhood has more coffee shops than churches.

Coffee is the most important meal of the day for many.  In the midst of the daily grind, coffee is invigorating.  A yawn is a silent scream for coffee.  Sleep is a symptom of caffeine deprivation.  Coffee smells like freshly ground heaven and tastes like hopes and dreams.

When we are holding a cup of coffee, the warmth radiates through our hands.  The smell drifts through the air.  The cream goes into black coffee and magically changes it into good to the last drop caramel. This sensual experience helps our sleepy selves greet the day with gratitude.  We reflect on what we are worried about and what we now have the energy to achieve.

Worship would be less lively without a cup of joy.  We can tell a lot about a church from how they caffeinate worshippers.  My parents’ Baptist church is Folgers.  Unitarians drink fair trade coffee.  Mennonites have Kuerig committees that wash and recycle those little cups.  Presbyterians have long filled their fellowship halls for the sacrament of coffee hour.  Catholics serve decaf at midnight mass.  Sharing coffee is a way of saying, “We love you a latte.”

The church house at Plymouth was built with coffee money.  In the early 1900s, the Arbuckle Brothers’ coffee factory in Brooklyn roasted more coffee than any other building in the world.  John Arbuckle, “the Coffee King,” changed how coffee was made.  He roasted and ground coffee beans onsite and packaged the coffee in one-pound bags.  Coffee money paid for the Plymouth Institute.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?” is an offer of friendship.  Coffee turns a counseling session into a conversation between friends.  Saying “Yes” to coffee at the end of a meal is a promise to hang around.

Here is a question that will begin to percolate one day.  Would coffee be a better symbol for communion?  Grape juice is dull.  Wine puts you to sleep.  Coffee refreshes, revives, and stimulates.  The Lord’s Table could be a coffee table.  If we drank coffee at communion, we could get rid of the tiny shot glasses.  Picture those little communion cup holders on the backs of pews becoming real cup holders.  Coffee would be a fine symbol for the enlivening of the Spirit that happens at the table.

When we celebrate communion it will be with wine and grape juice, but there will be coffee in Hillis so we can fill the church with sweetness and light.

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What I Learned from My Eighth Grade History Teacher

img_0205Mr. McBrayer threw the barista by ordering “a cup of coffee”—which was not on the menu at the Caffeinated Indian.  43 years after the eighth grade, I met my social studies teacher at the only coffee shop in Fulton, Mississippi.

In 1975, Mississippi was ranked 50th in education and was some distance from being 49th.  My school reflected our state’s poverty, racism, and provincialism.  Good teachers like Danny McBrayer fought uphill battles.

During study hall a group of us were discussing the quickest way to make our first million.  Mr. McBrayer told us about driving a school bus, watching the sunrise each morning, and seeing the sunrise change through the year:  “I drive the bus to get paid, but without the sunrise it wouldn’t be worth it.  Your job needs to be worth it.”

In a school that had recently integrated and was painfully divided, Mr. McBrayer went out of his way to spend time with African American students like Ronnie Agnew—the Executive Director of Mississippi Public Broadcasting.

Checking in after four decades provides a lot to talk about.  Mr. McBrayer knows almost everyone’s story.  My biology teacher continues to believe that she could have married Elvis.  Coach Wright was inducted into the Mississippi Football Hall of Fame.  Our principal, who smoked a pipe, died of throat cancer.  When I asked about my least favorite teacher Mr. McBrayer said, “She just never liked poor kids—and that was most of our kids.”

My old friends have tragic, predictable, and amazing stories.  One of the best athletes in school history is in prison.  Two of the three sisters whose names rhymed died years ago—one with cancer and one in a car accident.  Bobby got into lots of trouble, became a preacher, and died.  Willie has had a hard time:  “His family fell apart and he has no legal income.”

Jimmy and Dorothy surprised everyone by not getting married.  Dorothy ended up with a pro golfer’s cousin.  Jimmy went through a divorce, but his ex-father-in-law liked him so much they went into business together.  (I’m changing the names because I can’t read my writing and am afraid I may announce a divorce where there is only peace and harmony.)

Lori, on whom most of the eighth grade had a crush, married the quarterback, and has done just fine.  Joe, the shooting guard on the basketball team, is selling tires. Goony—a nickname I include because he must have left it behind years ago—runs his dad’s garage.  Peachy—another has-to-have-been-forgotten nickname—is selling satellite dishes.

Craig, the top math student, is an engineer with NASA.  Ken, the center on the basketball team, is a high school principal.  Todd, who was a great best friend, teaches teachers in Nashville.

Mississippian William Faulkner said, “The past is never done with us.  It isn’t even past.”

So much seems capricious—who lives, who dies, who gets a great job, who gets cancer, whose marriage falls apart, whose child is born broken.  Telling who’s who is hard in middle school, and we do not get much better at it.  Even if we could know exactly who someone is we cannot know how far they have come to get there.

Mississippi makes it clear that the playing field is not level.  Some are born with two strikes against them.  Some who seem a step behind have made up a mile.  Some give themselves to lifelong friendships, honest work, and caring for the hurting.  Some who sell tires make more important contributions than some with big corner offices.

Those who create lives out of not much make it seem obvious that we should fill our prisons with politicians who lie to poor people while helping rich people keep their advantages.

As we finished our coffee, Danny said, “I became a Christian in 2001.  I feel bad that I didn’t make that decision sooner.  I might have helped more students.”

“Mr. McBrayer, you told us to think, dream, and do more than was expected.  That sounds like what God would have you say.”

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The NACCC: We are Not Alone

unleashedTwo weeks ago 226 people from 96 churches from 23 states across the country gathered in sunny San Diego, CA for the 64th Annual Meeting and Conference of the National Association of Congregational Christian Churches. The theme this year was Unleashed, a reference to Acts 1: 8. Those in attendance from Plymouth Church: Grace Faison, Carol Younger, Edith Bartley, Jim Waechter, Julie Johnson Staples, Brett Younger, and myself.
Frequent questions I get asked from Plymouth newcomers are: So what is the NACCC? Is it a denomination? Simply answered, the NA is a voluntary group of churches who follow the Congregational Way, a practice derived from the traditions and beliefs of the Pilgrims, puritan Christians from England who settled in America in the early 1600’s in pursuit of religious freedom. Basic principles of the Congregational Way include:
• Christ alone is the head of the church (kings, popes or bishops can’t tell us how to practice our faith)
• All members of the church are spiritually equal and called to ministry (everyone matters and has a job to do for God)
• Christians are bound to one another by a voluntary covenant (we don’t have a doctrinal statement)
• Every Christian has the freedom to interpret the Bible according to their own conscience (there’s a bunch of theological diversity in a Congregational church)
• The Bible, not a creed or written confession, is our guide for our beliefs and living out our faith (so we have to actually read and study it)
• Every local church is autonomous and complete (no one can tell us what to do…except maybe our own Church Council…with our approval)

Being a Congregationalist is radical. We accept diversity of belief and giftedness. We claim an independence in our faith. We don’t allow other entities to bully us into doing church their way.
This overt religious radicalism allows NA churches to be beautifully unique, irreplaceable members of the larger Body of Christ. So once a year these wonderfully diverse churches gather together to help one another continue and strengthen their separate holy callings to their particular corners of the world. They call this meeting the “Annual Conference.”
There was a bunch of boring business at the conference (Congregationalists like to vote on things). But I don’t want to spend much time on that stuff. In short, we approved a budget, listened to annual reports from various committees, elected new leaders (the most exciting being Jim Waechter as Moderator – yay!), and received a report from Executive Director Michael Chittum. We also adopted a new Mission and Vision Statement.

NACCC Mission Statement:
To nurture fellowship among Congregational Christian Churches and support ministries of the local church in its community and to the world, all in the name of Christ.

NACCC Vision Statement:
Vital and healthy Congregational churches, sharing the love of Jesus the Christ.

My favorite parts of the conference were the moments I realized the true importance of an association like the NACCC. Plymouth Church, being located in a big city and being a healthy, growing congregation, can easily fall into the false belief that we don’t need any other churches to help us do our ministry, and that we have this church thing all figured out. We are at risk of becoming ecclesiastic snobs, turning our noses up at the small, Midwestern NA churches that have nothing to offer large, historical, and successful churches like Plymouth. The moment we start embracing the sin of arrogance and self-reliance is the moment we will begin to fail in our own mission to Know God and Grow Together.

Plymouth has a lot to learn from the rest of the world, even the smallest corners. Plymouth needs to know that a first-year pastor, Rev. Jacob Poindexter, of First Congregational in Anchorage, Alaska is heading up his regions Poor People’s Campaign. Plymouth needs to know that the all-white First Congregational Church in Toulon, IL, a small town of 1,200 people recently called an African American, Rev. Dr. Ron Toliver, as their senior minister. African Americans make up just .21% of Toulon’s population. Plymouth needs to know that Rev. Dr. Elvis Sa Do and his wife Rev. Naw Pale Say work tirelessly in Yangon, Myanmar to bring God’s message of hope and healing to a people who have been isolated and persecuted by an oppressive government. Plymouth needs to know that we are not alone. The churches and ministries of the NACCC are out there carrying God’s love to the rest of the world, and come together to support one another in that mission.
Twenty years ago Plymouth was a struggling church with membership down and finances strained. The NACCC gave Plymouth and its leaders support and strength to continue. We must not forget our own recent history.

As part of the NACCC, we must recognize that we are all in this together. We are a family. We are the keeper of our sister churches. They are our keepers. We need to continue to support one another, pray for one another, and (once a year at least) show up for the reunion.
If you would like to learn more about the NACCC, visit: www.naccc.org.

Erica Cooper

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