pastor pam's messages
RESURRECTION AND NEW LIFE
PAMELA J. TINNIN
AUGUST 2, 2020
“ It’s Pastor Pam Tinnin joining you again from Kitchen Church in my very own kitchen. We are the Guerneville Community Church-United Church of Christ in Guerneville, California. We are Open & Affirming which is our way of saying everyone is welcome. We are in the pandemic lockdown which means we cannot gather together in our small sanctuary but are staying in touch through the miracles of modern technology and, of course, through the unbreakable bonds of love and prayer. Today’s message was inspired by several things: first several scriptures that attempt to explain what happens when we die; the pandemic that is sweeping across the world. And the words of a true American hero, John Lewis. When I read them, I thought if we followed his words, we would be living in the Way of Jesus.
“Though I may not be here with you, I urge you to answer the highest calling of your heart and stand up for what you truly believe. In my life I have done all I can to demonstrate that the way of peace, the way of love and nonviolence is the more excellent way. Now it is your turn to let freedom ring.” John Lewis
“Though I may not be here with you, I urge you to answer the highest calling of your heart and stand up for what you truly believe. In my life I have done all I can to demonstrate that the way of peace, the way of love and nonviolence is the more excellent way. Now it is your turn to let freedom ring.” John Lewis
GIVE ME A LISTENING HEART
PAMELA J. TINNIN
JULY 26, 2020
Throw the First Stone
Pamela J. Tinnin
July 19, 2020
“I’ve been angry this week, angry and sad. Angry and sad that so many people are dying and a reason to believe it didn’t have to be this way, at least not for this many. Angry and sad that there are those who would endanger our children and all those who work in education whether teachers, principals, aides, cooks, nurses, janitors, whoever. Angry and sad that the virus has struck hard at nursing homes and other care facilities and infected over a thousand inmates at San Quentin. Angry and sad that here in the U.S. we’re fighting a war that cannot be won. We cannot agree and seemingly are not willing to do the work that is necessary for healing and reconciliation. I’m also saddened that at least sometimes I give in to the anger and let it dominate my feelings. There is no way for this country to live as a divided nation. We must learn to put the common good first, the common good of all, not just our own. We should have learned that from places like Gettysburg and Shiloh and Bull Run. If it gets uglier, will we be able to forgive each other? Here is my message for this week. The character who speaks is Tawana, called Tukie by the people who love her.”
John 8:3-7
3 The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4 and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5 In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6 They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.
But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7 When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”
You know I read in the papers bout a woman in Africa who was going to be stoned because she had a child outta wedlock. Can’t hardly believe they still do that. Course the Bible does tell how women caught foolin’ around got stoned. Preacher Allen told how they would bury the woman up to her neck, just so’s her head was stickin’ outta the ground. Then they’d pick up stones—not little rocks, big stones, boulders and start throwin’. Course you don’t never read about a man gettin’ buried in sand up to his neck and the life knocked out of him cause he got caught messin’ around on his wife, do you?
There was that story of how some men brought this woman accused of adultery to Jesus and demanded that he go along with stoning her. Remember that? First off, Jesus drew in the sand, then he reached over and picked up a rock. He held out that rock and said, “He who is without sin, cast the first stone.”
When I read that, I half expected one of the crowd to take the stone and hit her, what with folks havin’ a way of bein’ blind to their own faults. But they all snuck away, ashamed of themselves.
Jesus is sayin’ is we’ve all got faults; at one time or another we fail—it’s just human nature, and one sin is the same as any other. Thing is, we got to learn to forgive, we got to learn to make things right.
Course, we don’t stone folks any more, right? But thinkin’ on the scripture this week, and that woman in Africa, I got to rememberin’ somethin’ that happened a long time ago, back durin’ the Vietnam War, when a lot a the boys round here went off to the Army. My husband Murray had a punctured eardrum, so he was safe from the draft, but five or six outta our class got one of those letters and was gone right after graduation.
Murray and me got married in a double weddin’ with his cousin Delmer and his girl Racine Hopkins. Delmer shipped out three days later. He was the best shot in Kent County, so the army had got themselves a real prize.
Racine was awful young, only 16, so she lived with her folks while Delmer went off to fight in the jungles. She helped out in their feedstore and put her Army checks in the bank cause she and Delmer was savin’ up to buy a house.
I remember how she cried when Delmer signed up for another hitch. Near two years he was gone.
About a month before Delmer was due home, I stopped by the feedstore for some cracked corn. Racine hadn’t been in church the last few Sundays and she wasn’t in the feedstore either. I asked her momma if she was to home. Mrs. Hopkins said yes, she was, but “she’s too sick for company.”
I started to walk on home, then thought, I’ll just stop by and say hey. The Hopkins lived in a little wood house with climbin’ roses at the gate and honeysuckle growin’ all along the fence. I knocked and knocked—finally the door opened a crack. Racine’s voice came then, soft and whispery. “Just go on, Tawana,” she said and I could tell she was crying. Then I saw her belly—bout five months along looked like to me, and I knew then why she hadn’t been comin’ to church or workin’ at the store.
I walked home cryin’ myself, not knowin’ what to think, nor what to tell Murray, he and Delmer bein’ close as brothers. By Sunday the whole town had got wind of the situation and the whisperin’ that mornin’ in church was like a bunch a old hens in a chicken coop.
In the weeks after that, I shoulda gone back, shoulda wrote her a note or somethin, but I didn’t. Racine’s folks stopped comin’ to church; when you saw ’em at the feedstore, they didn’t have much to say, and to be honest, no one said much back.
We heard Preacher Allen went to the house and told Racine that she needed to come to church and stand before the congregation and confess her sins. “You need to get right with the Lord,” he told her. We all heard how Racine’s daddy invited Preacher Allen to leave and used his boot to help him along.
Then the day come that Delmer was due in on the bus from Lexington. He was gonna go right to his folks, thinkin’ that Racine would be there waitin’ for him, along with the rest of the family, includin’ Murray and me. We crowded into the living room, but Racine was nowhere to be seen.
A truck drove up outside, Delmer and his daddy. They came up the walk real slow and I could see Delmer had a cane and was favorin’ his right leg and terrible thin. Worst of all was his face—looked like stone, his eyes angry and sad all at once. I knew then his daddy had told him.
Murray grabbed Delmer and hugged him long and hard, but Delmer stood there like he was no more alive than the statue of the soldier that stands in front a the courthouse, blank eyes starin’ off into the distance.
We tried to make a party, but it was no use. Suddenly Delmer stood up, told us he appreciated all the trouble, but he couldn’t stay…he just couldn’t, and he went out the door and left in his daddy’s pickup, throwin’ gravel all over.
We heard later he got a quart of white shine whiskey from old man Toller and drove up highway 19 into the mountains where he hunted when he was a kid. Stayed there all night.
It was early the next mornin’ when Delmer knocked on Racine’s door. “I was still in my old flannel gown,” she told me, “my hair all in knots, and there he was, standin’ at the door, still the best lookin’ man I ever seen.”
Racine could smell the whiskey on him, and hoped he wasn’t crazy drunk, but he just stood there, lookin’ at her, her lookin’ at him. Then he walked over to her and knelt down, right in front a her. He touched her face, and her arm, and placed his hand real gentle like on her belly. Then he asked, “Do you still love me, Racine?”
She told me she could hardly talk. “I done okay for a while, Delmer, but then you sent that letter sayin’ how you were gonna stay over there another year. I got to feelin’ like you didn’t wanta come home, like you didn’t wanna be with me. I felt like nobody wanted me, but I never quit lovin’ you, Delmer…never.”
Racine told me that’s when Delmer said the strangest thing. “The Lord knows I have seen enough death to last me the rest of my days.” He said. Then he was quiet for a long time. “He took a long breath and kind of whispered, “We are gonna have ourselves a baby,” and Tukie, he put his arms around me and put his face in my lap, like he’d come home at last.”
Racine smiled at me then, a smile that had enough light and love to fill this room.
The next Sunday they come into church, Racine with tears on her cheeks, havin’ a hard time lookin’ at folks, but Delmer straight and tall, aholdin’ her up, his eyes darin’ anyone to shame her. Funny thing—when the baby come, a lot of folks told Delmer the boy looked just like him.
Life is so hard sometimes—people get lonely and afraid…we forget who we are and act stupid. It beats all how human beings can be mean as snakes, any one of us.
What we all gotta remember is what Jesus kept tryin’ to tell us over and over…that more than laws and rules and blame, we got to learn to forgive, to make things right, We got to learn to be like a little child who don’t hold on to his anger…
It’s either that, or livin’ mean, waitin’ for an excuse to throw stones. And who of us hasn’t done something we can’t hardly look at in the light a day? Who? But we are forgiven and we are loved. Stay safe and stay well. AMEN
John 8:3-7
3 The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group 4 and said to Jesus, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. 5 In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” 6 They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.
But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger. 7 When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”
You know I read in the papers bout a woman in Africa who was going to be stoned because she had a child outta wedlock. Can’t hardly believe they still do that. Course the Bible does tell how women caught foolin’ around got stoned. Preacher Allen told how they would bury the woman up to her neck, just so’s her head was stickin’ outta the ground. Then they’d pick up stones—not little rocks, big stones, boulders and start throwin’. Course you don’t never read about a man gettin’ buried in sand up to his neck and the life knocked out of him cause he got caught messin’ around on his wife, do you?
There was that story of how some men brought this woman accused of adultery to Jesus and demanded that he go along with stoning her. Remember that? First off, Jesus drew in the sand, then he reached over and picked up a rock. He held out that rock and said, “He who is without sin, cast the first stone.”
When I read that, I half expected one of the crowd to take the stone and hit her, what with folks havin’ a way of bein’ blind to their own faults. But they all snuck away, ashamed of themselves.
Jesus is sayin’ is we’ve all got faults; at one time or another we fail—it’s just human nature, and one sin is the same as any other. Thing is, we got to learn to forgive, we got to learn to make things right.
Course, we don’t stone folks any more, right? But thinkin’ on the scripture this week, and that woman in Africa, I got to rememberin’ somethin’ that happened a long time ago, back durin’ the Vietnam War, when a lot a the boys round here went off to the Army. My husband Murray had a punctured eardrum, so he was safe from the draft, but five or six outta our class got one of those letters and was gone right after graduation.
Murray and me got married in a double weddin’ with his cousin Delmer and his girl Racine Hopkins. Delmer shipped out three days later. He was the best shot in Kent County, so the army had got themselves a real prize.
Racine was awful young, only 16, so she lived with her folks while Delmer went off to fight in the jungles. She helped out in their feedstore and put her Army checks in the bank cause she and Delmer was savin’ up to buy a house.
I remember how she cried when Delmer signed up for another hitch. Near two years he was gone.
About a month before Delmer was due home, I stopped by the feedstore for some cracked corn. Racine hadn’t been in church the last few Sundays and she wasn’t in the feedstore either. I asked her momma if she was to home. Mrs. Hopkins said yes, she was, but “she’s too sick for company.”
I started to walk on home, then thought, I’ll just stop by and say hey. The Hopkins lived in a little wood house with climbin’ roses at the gate and honeysuckle growin’ all along the fence. I knocked and knocked—finally the door opened a crack. Racine’s voice came then, soft and whispery. “Just go on, Tawana,” she said and I could tell she was crying. Then I saw her belly—bout five months along looked like to me, and I knew then why she hadn’t been comin’ to church or workin’ at the store.
I walked home cryin’ myself, not knowin’ what to think, nor what to tell Murray, he and Delmer bein’ close as brothers. By Sunday the whole town had got wind of the situation and the whisperin’ that mornin’ in church was like a bunch a old hens in a chicken coop.
In the weeks after that, I shoulda gone back, shoulda wrote her a note or somethin, but I didn’t. Racine’s folks stopped comin’ to church; when you saw ’em at the feedstore, they didn’t have much to say, and to be honest, no one said much back.
We heard Preacher Allen went to the house and told Racine that she needed to come to church and stand before the congregation and confess her sins. “You need to get right with the Lord,” he told her. We all heard how Racine’s daddy invited Preacher Allen to leave and used his boot to help him along.
Then the day come that Delmer was due in on the bus from Lexington. He was gonna go right to his folks, thinkin’ that Racine would be there waitin’ for him, along with the rest of the family, includin’ Murray and me. We crowded into the living room, but Racine was nowhere to be seen.
A truck drove up outside, Delmer and his daddy. They came up the walk real slow and I could see Delmer had a cane and was favorin’ his right leg and terrible thin. Worst of all was his face—looked like stone, his eyes angry and sad all at once. I knew then his daddy had told him.
Murray grabbed Delmer and hugged him long and hard, but Delmer stood there like he was no more alive than the statue of the soldier that stands in front a the courthouse, blank eyes starin’ off into the distance.
We tried to make a party, but it was no use. Suddenly Delmer stood up, told us he appreciated all the trouble, but he couldn’t stay…he just couldn’t, and he went out the door and left in his daddy’s pickup, throwin’ gravel all over.
We heard later he got a quart of white shine whiskey from old man Toller and drove up highway 19 into the mountains where he hunted when he was a kid. Stayed there all night.
It was early the next mornin’ when Delmer knocked on Racine’s door. “I was still in my old flannel gown,” she told me, “my hair all in knots, and there he was, standin’ at the door, still the best lookin’ man I ever seen.”
Racine could smell the whiskey on him, and hoped he wasn’t crazy drunk, but he just stood there, lookin’ at her, her lookin’ at him. Then he walked over to her and knelt down, right in front a her. He touched her face, and her arm, and placed his hand real gentle like on her belly. Then he asked, “Do you still love me, Racine?”
She told me she could hardly talk. “I done okay for a while, Delmer, but then you sent that letter sayin’ how you were gonna stay over there another year. I got to feelin’ like you didn’t wanta come home, like you didn’t wanna be with me. I felt like nobody wanted me, but I never quit lovin’ you, Delmer…never.”
Racine told me that’s when Delmer said the strangest thing. “The Lord knows I have seen enough death to last me the rest of my days.” He said. Then he was quiet for a long time. “He took a long breath and kind of whispered, “We are gonna have ourselves a baby,” and Tukie, he put his arms around me and put his face in my lap, like he’d come home at last.”
Racine smiled at me then, a smile that had enough light and love to fill this room.
The next Sunday they come into church, Racine with tears on her cheeks, havin’ a hard time lookin’ at folks, but Delmer straight and tall, aholdin’ her up, his eyes darin’ anyone to shame her. Funny thing—when the baby come, a lot of folks told Delmer the boy looked just like him.
Life is so hard sometimes—people get lonely and afraid…we forget who we are and act stupid. It beats all how human beings can be mean as snakes, any one of us.
What we all gotta remember is what Jesus kept tryin’ to tell us over and over…that more than laws and rules and blame, we got to learn to forgive, to make things right, We got to learn to be like a little child who don’t hold on to his anger…
It’s either that, or livin’ mean, waitin’ for an excuse to throw stones. And who of us hasn’t done something we can’t hardly look at in the light a day? Who? But we are forgiven and we are loved. Stay safe and stay well. AMEN
THE WOUNDED HEALER
PAMELA J. TINNIN
JULY 12, 2020
John 20:25
“Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
It seems that all my life I’ve been a doubter and a questioner. My faith didn’t come easy when I was younger and to be honest, there are times I still struggle, times like the one we’re living in, a time that has brought a dark cloud over us all; a darkness that has invaded the whole world.
Some pastors say I shouldn’t admit that I sometimes struggle; I shouldn't talk about having questions or doubts. But then I think, I can’t be the only one who has those thoughts and questions, and perhaps once in a while, like Thomas, like me, you sometimes say, if only silently “Show me…show me”.
When hard times come, I reread the story of Thomas. In the midst of their fear and doubts and panic after the crucifixion, the disciples came together trying to figure out what the future held for them. A doubter, a handful of frightened fishermen, and then, in their midst, a risen but still-wounded savior.
That encounter helped them trust that God was calling them to show the world the way of resurrection—to live lives that were filled with new life and salvation even in the midst of the suffering and trials which are part of all our days.
As a new pastor nearly twenty-five years ago, I learned an important lesson about belief and about faith when I taught my first confirmation class. When it came time to confirm the class, some hadn’t finished the requirements; they hadn’t “learned” their lessons.
As a brand new pastor I didn’t know what to do. According to the curriculum and denominational rules, some of them didn’t qualify to be confirmed. But when I thought about announcing that only part of the class would be confirmed, I couldn’t stand the thought of it.
I asked other pastors and of the five I called, four said something like “Well, you can’t let them get away with that. They have to take faith seriously or you haven’t done your job.
The fifth pastor I called was an elderly gentleman who had been called out of retirement to serve a tiny Church of the Brethen, a denomination I’d been told was very conservative. He chuckled at my question, and shook his head.
“A long time ago in Africa,” Pastor Adelberg said, “a pastor spent a year with a Masai village to teach them about Jesus and the Christian God. The time had come for the people in the village to be baptized, at least the ones who had come to the classes and learned the lessons and memorized the creeds. The priest went to the village elder and told him who would be baptized and who had failed the lessons.
The elder of the village held his hand up. “No” said the elder. “the whole village will be baptized, or none will be baptized.” The priest objected. “Only some are ready,” he said. — “The others missed some of the lessons, or slept through them; several have certainly not changed their ways.”
The elder shook his head sadly. “It’s not good to baptize some and not others. That would divide the village and it would destroy who we are,” he said. “We have always been a village where we help one another. The quick help the slow, the wise help the foolish, the well ones help the sick; those who can see help the blind, and together we live and find our way through life. “So it must be in all things,” he said. “Together we will live our faith and grow in knowledge and love.”
What could the priest do,” Pastor Adelberg told me, “but baptize the whole village. The story goes that the last prayer that day was the pastor thanking God for the Masai people who had reminded him that Jesus’ way is one of deep connection; they helped him remember we’re never left to be followers alone, but as part of the family.
The next Sunday I gave confirmation certificates to the entire class. This is part of what it means to believe in resurrection. The way of Jesus draws us into community with one another and to live in solidarity. And in that solidarity and community, we will find strength and grace and the Spirit that we’ve been seeking all along.
But yet, what do we do when life gets hard, and we falter, and feel as if our faith isn’t strong enough? What do we do when we cry out to God and hear nothing but silence? What do we do when we feel we are lost in the darkness?
How do we live out Jesus’ mission wherever it is, even like now when we are unable to be together? Especially in times like these when the whole world is wounded, when millions are waiting for a touch, a word, a helping hand.
We need not be afraid of our own incompleteness. Questions and doubts are part of who we are. Struggles and problems are part of what it means to be human. And when we share these things with one another, we will also find the presence of the holy among us. It's often in our weakness that God becomes known, and in our brokenness that Sacred Spirit is present.
We are called to live the Jesus way, to walk in his footsteps and to take on ourselves the work of healing the world. We are called to be unafraid to reveal our own struggles and questions, unafraid to embrace others in their weakness and mistakes, unafraid to reach out to all those who suffer and are wounded.
And when you are tired or lost or hurting, let others hold you up and help you along the way. Right now we cannot meet face to face, but we can share in prayer and also by phone, texting, on-line, and old-fashioned mail. Most of all we are connected by the unbreakable bonds of faith and love. “We, too, will live our faith together and grow in the knowledge and love of our God and God's Jesus.”
May God bless and keep you, may you stay well, and know that you are loved. AMEN
“Unless I see in his hands the print of the nails, and place my finger in the mark of the nails, and place my hand in his side, I will not believe.”
It seems that all my life I’ve been a doubter and a questioner. My faith didn’t come easy when I was younger and to be honest, there are times I still struggle, times like the one we’re living in, a time that has brought a dark cloud over us all; a darkness that has invaded the whole world.
Some pastors say I shouldn’t admit that I sometimes struggle; I shouldn't talk about having questions or doubts. But then I think, I can’t be the only one who has those thoughts and questions, and perhaps once in a while, like Thomas, like me, you sometimes say, if only silently “Show me…show me”.
When hard times come, I reread the story of Thomas. In the midst of their fear and doubts and panic after the crucifixion, the disciples came together trying to figure out what the future held for them. A doubter, a handful of frightened fishermen, and then, in their midst, a risen but still-wounded savior.
That encounter helped them trust that God was calling them to show the world the way of resurrection—to live lives that were filled with new life and salvation even in the midst of the suffering and trials which are part of all our days.
As a new pastor nearly twenty-five years ago, I learned an important lesson about belief and about faith when I taught my first confirmation class. When it came time to confirm the class, some hadn’t finished the requirements; they hadn’t “learned” their lessons.
As a brand new pastor I didn’t know what to do. According to the curriculum and denominational rules, some of them didn’t qualify to be confirmed. But when I thought about announcing that only part of the class would be confirmed, I couldn’t stand the thought of it.
I asked other pastors and of the five I called, four said something like “Well, you can’t let them get away with that. They have to take faith seriously or you haven’t done your job.
The fifth pastor I called was an elderly gentleman who had been called out of retirement to serve a tiny Church of the Brethen, a denomination I’d been told was very conservative. He chuckled at my question, and shook his head.
“A long time ago in Africa,” Pastor Adelberg said, “a pastor spent a year with a Masai village to teach them about Jesus and the Christian God. The time had come for the people in the village to be baptized, at least the ones who had come to the classes and learned the lessons and memorized the creeds. The priest went to the village elder and told him who would be baptized and who had failed the lessons.
The elder of the village held his hand up. “No” said the elder. “the whole village will be baptized, or none will be baptized.” The priest objected. “Only some are ready,” he said. — “The others missed some of the lessons, or slept through them; several have certainly not changed their ways.”
The elder shook his head sadly. “It’s not good to baptize some and not others. That would divide the village and it would destroy who we are,” he said. “We have always been a village where we help one another. The quick help the slow, the wise help the foolish, the well ones help the sick; those who can see help the blind, and together we live and find our way through life. “So it must be in all things,” he said. “Together we will live our faith and grow in knowledge and love.”
What could the priest do,” Pastor Adelberg told me, “but baptize the whole village. The story goes that the last prayer that day was the pastor thanking God for the Masai people who had reminded him that Jesus’ way is one of deep connection; they helped him remember we’re never left to be followers alone, but as part of the family.
The next Sunday I gave confirmation certificates to the entire class. This is part of what it means to believe in resurrection. The way of Jesus draws us into community with one another and to live in solidarity. And in that solidarity and community, we will find strength and grace and the Spirit that we’ve been seeking all along.
But yet, what do we do when life gets hard, and we falter, and feel as if our faith isn’t strong enough? What do we do when we cry out to God and hear nothing but silence? What do we do when we feel we are lost in the darkness?
How do we live out Jesus’ mission wherever it is, even like now when we are unable to be together? Especially in times like these when the whole world is wounded, when millions are waiting for a touch, a word, a helping hand.
We need not be afraid of our own incompleteness. Questions and doubts are part of who we are. Struggles and problems are part of what it means to be human. And when we share these things with one another, we will also find the presence of the holy among us. It's often in our weakness that God becomes known, and in our brokenness that Sacred Spirit is present.
We are called to live the Jesus way, to walk in his footsteps and to take on ourselves the work of healing the world. We are called to be unafraid to reveal our own struggles and questions, unafraid to embrace others in their weakness and mistakes, unafraid to reach out to all those who suffer and are wounded.
And when you are tired or lost or hurting, let others hold you up and help you along the way. Right now we cannot meet face to face, but we can share in prayer and also by phone, texting, on-line, and old-fashioned mail. Most of all we are connected by the unbreakable bonds of faith and love. “We, too, will live our faith together and grow in the knowledge and love of our God and God's Jesus.”
May God bless and keep you, may you stay well, and know that you are loved. AMEN
WHAT IS TRUTH?
PAMELA J. TINNIN
JULY 5, 2020
John 18:28-38
An old cleaning woman sees everything the day Jesus is brought before Pilate. She never lets on that she has met the accused man before.
I was there—I heard every word. I am a cleaning women at the preatorium. I know everything that goes on in that place—they pay me no mind—I’m just one more old widow woman.
All this craziness. I think it’s just a sign of the times—things are getting way out of hand, have been a long time now. Crazy John the Baptist crying out for repentance and dunking people in the river, saying they were born again, when anyone in their right mind knows that’s impossible.
Always some nut claiming to be the messiah. Conjurers and magicians in the streets, yelling themselves hoarse trying to drum up business, saying they could foretell the future, heal with a touch, or cast a spell on your enemies—after you give them a coin, of course.
I wouldn’t want to be in Pilate’s shoes—I mean, he’s a powerful man, sets his own wages and married into money—but trying to keep the Romans happy, and convince the Jews they never had it so good. And that wife of his—well, she can’t be easy to live with. Always nagging him with those dreams—dipping into the wine too often, I say.
And if he didn’t have troubles enough, they went and arrested that Nazarene. Pilate tried to wash his hands of him. He thought he took care of it when he sent the Jew on to Herod, but they don’t call Herod “The Fox” for nothing. Here Jesus stood before Pilate again, smelly, unshaved, in rags, looking the worse for wear…
What is it about this Jesus? He didn’t even try to fight back, just stood there quiet, trying to rub some feeling into his arms where the leather bindings pulled tight. Pilate blurts out, “So you’re king of the Jews?” And then that answer—“My kingship is not of this world.” Then Pilate snorts, “So you are a king?” You don’t get much past Pilate, that’s for sure.
Then another answer that just didn’t make sense: “You say I am a king—but I came to bear witness to the truth.“
Then they just stared at each other for the longest time, that Jew without a hope in the world of walking away, and Pilate, probably hoping against hope that the man in front of him, reeking of blood and sweat and muck, would disappear in a puff of smoke.
Nobody moved, or said a thing. A big blow fly up near the ceiling buzzed loud and slow in the heat, the clop of horses’ hooves sounded through the window; and still the Jew stood there, scuffing one bare foot in the dust, and saying nothing. The carpenter held his ground, kept looking Pilate right in the eye. And Pilate…he turned away first. I almost didn’t hear what Pilate said at the last, barely more than a whisper, “What is truth?” Strange thing, he sounded almost sad.
The truth? Pilate had the power, and Jesus had nothing. We all knew how it would end. Only a miracle would save him; some said the carpenter had done miracles, but there weren’t any that day. There were plenty who wanted his blood. He must have stepped on some pretty important toes.
I don’t think Pilate cared one way or another. He isn’t any worse than any other prefect, as long as you stay out of his way. As my man Caleb used to say, “Go along to get along.”
Pilate tried to set Jesus free. The high priests didn’t have enough to convict him. But, no, they wouldn’t have it, and Pilate gave in. Now it’s just a matter of time—they’ll crucify him for sure.
Can you keep a secret? You look like I can trust you. I didn’t say anything when they brought him in, but I recognized the Nazarene right off. I had seen him once before.
It was an early morning, two summers ago, before I came to Jerusalem to be near my son. I went down to the shore when the fishing was good. I could usually pick up a bit of work mending nets. They’d give me fish, enough to dry and to sell for a few coins.
That’s when I saw him, talking to those two boys of Zebedee’s, James and John. The three had built a little fire with some sticks of driftwood, a big fish with its tail curling up cooked over the flames, the fat sizzling and popping when it dripped into the fire.
There was the first glimmer of light at the far shore, the sun just beginning to come up, trying to shine through one of those thick Gallilee fogs. The waves lapped at the rocks, knocking the boats against each other.
These old bones hurt with cold, and I was shivering. The stranger waved me over, saying “Sit by the fire, mother.” He made room, then broke off a piece of his bread and handed it to me.
Bread never tasted so good, and the fish was smoky and rich on my tongue. You could tell Zebedee’s sons couldn’t believe he’d called a woman to sit and eat and talk. But the strange one acted like it was natural as anything. At first I was too nervous to speak, but he asked me about my people.
Once I started it was like I wanted to tell it all—how when I was a girl I could run like the wind; how I haven’t seen my daughter since she married that boy from the south; how funny it was that Caleb and I came to love each other even though our folks arranged the marriage; how much I miss that old man.
The stranger ate, stirred the fire, and listened like he had all the time in the world, like my life was as important as anyone’s. Talking, I forgot the cold, I forgot my worries.
When it was time to take the boats out again, he filled my basket with fish, then helped me to my feet. As I turned to walk away, he stopped me. I felt the calluses on his hand as he touched my forehead, smelled the fish on his breath as he whispered words of a blessing.
I watched the three of them step into the water and walk towards the boats, the dark water moving up their legs, the heavy nets carried on their shoulders. The sun was up, the fog had disappeared. The Nazarene turned his head and looked back at me. The strangest thing—his face seemed filled with light, even though he stood in the shadows.
I never saw him again, not until they brought him into the praetorioum. I’d heard the stories—the whole countryside was talking. I’d only seen him that once, and when I remembered that morning—the eating, the talking, the blessing—I wondered if it was real or just the dreams of an old woman’s heart.
What is truth, Pilate asked, and well he might. I think he’ll come to regret the day he washed his hands and gave him up to that mob. As for the rest of us, we who don’t have the courage to stop it, we who stay quiet in our corners, hoping no one notices us—we should be on our knees praying that God doesn’t rend the heavens and shake the earth, and destroy us all at the moment of Jesus’ dying.
I’m just an old woman—maybe my mind’s going—it happens. But…what if he is who they say?—the Holy One who came to offer us new life, a way of living where no one must beg for a few fish just to live; no one would be condemned to spend their last days with the untouchables because they have no other place to go.
In these times, it’s dangerous to talk of such things, but what is truth? …could it be? Is it him? Has he really come? And if he came, why aren’t we doing what he told us to do? Why aren’t we loving each other? Why aren’t we being kind? Why aren’t we living like family?
Like I said, I’m just an old woman. Maybe I don’t understand these mysteries. But what if we could do those things? What if we could? Please God, help us. Help us.
An old cleaning woman sees everything the day Jesus is brought before Pilate. She never lets on that she has met the accused man before.
I was there—I heard every word. I am a cleaning women at the preatorium. I know everything that goes on in that place—they pay me no mind—I’m just one more old widow woman.
All this craziness. I think it’s just a sign of the times—things are getting way out of hand, have been a long time now. Crazy John the Baptist crying out for repentance and dunking people in the river, saying they were born again, when anyone in their right mind knows that’s impossible.
Always some nut claiming to be the messiah. Conjurers and magicians in the streets, yelling themselves hoarse trying to drum up business, saying they could foretell the future, heal with a touch, or cast a spell on your enemies—after you give them a coin, of course.
I wouldn’t want to be in Pilate’s shoes—I mean, he’s a powerful man, sets his own wages and married into money—but trying to keep the Romans happy, and convince the Jews they never had it so good. And that wife of his—well, she can’t be easy to live with. Always nagging him with those dreams—dipping into the wine too often, I say.
And if he didn’t have troubles enough, they went and arrested that Nazarene. Pilate tried to wash his hands of him. He thought he took care of it when he sent the Jew on to Herod, but they don’t call Herod “The Fox” for nothing. Here Jesus stood before Pilate again, smelly, unshaved, in rags, looking the worse for wear…
What is it about this Jesus? He didn’t even try to fight back, just stood there quiet, trying to rub some feeling into his arms where the leather bindings pulled tight. Pilate blurts out, “So you’re king of the Jews?” And then that answer—“My kingship is not of this world.” Then Pilate snorts, “So you are a king?” You don’t get much past Pilate, that’s for sure.
Then another answer that just didn’t make sense: “You say I am a king—but I came to bear witness to the truth.“
Then they just stared at each other for the longest time, that Jew without a hope in the world of walking away, and Pilate, probably hoping against hope that the man in front of him, reeking of blood and sweat and muck, would disappear in a puff of smoke.
Nobody moved, or said a thing. A big blow fly up near the ceiling buzzed loud and slow in the heat, the clop of horses’ hooves sounded through the window; and still the Jew stood there, scuffing one bare foot in the dust, and saying nothing. The carpenter held his ground, kept looking Pilate right in the eye. And Pilate…he turned away first. I almost didn’t hear what Pilate said at the last, barely more than a whisper, “What is truth?” Strange thing, he sounded almost sad.
The truth? Pilate had the power, and Jesus had nothing. We all knew how it would end. Only a miracle would save him; some said the carpenter had done miracles, but there weren’t any that day. There were plenty who wanted his blood. He must have stepped on some pretty important toes.
I don’t think Pilate cared one way or another. He isn’t any worse than any other prefect, as long as you stay out of his way. As my man Caleb used to say, “Go along to get along.”
Pilate tried to set Jesus free. The high priests didn’t have enough to convict him. But, no, they wouldn’t have it, and Pilate gave in. Now it’s just a matter of time—they’ll crucify him for sure.
Can you keep a secret? You look like I can trust you. I didn’t say anything when they brought him in, but I recognized the Nazarene right off. I had seen him once before.
It was an early morning, two summers ago, before I came to Jerusalem to be near my son. I went down to the shore when the fishing was good. I could usually pick up a bit of work mending nets. They’d give me fish, enough to dry and to sell for a few coins.
That’s when I saw him, talking to those two boys of Zebedee’s, James and John. The three had built a little fire with some sticks of driftwood, a big fish with its tail curling up cooked over the flames, the fat sizzling and popping when it dripped into the fire.
There was the first glimmer of light at the far shore, the sun just beginning to come up, trying to shine through one of those thick Gallilee fogs. The waves lapped at the rocks, knocking the boats against each other.
These old bones hurt with cold, and I was shivering. The stranger waved me over, saying “Sit by the fire, mother.” He made room, then broke off a piece of his bread and handed it to me.
Bread never tasted so good, and the fish was smoky and rich on my tongue. You could tell Zebedee’s sons couldn’t believe he’d called a woman to sit and eat and talk. But the strange one acted like it was natural as anything. At first I was too nervous to speak, but he asked me about my people.
Once I started it was like I wanted to tell it all—how when I was a girl I could run like the wind; how I haven’t seen my daughter since she married that boy from the south; how funny it was that Caleb and I came to love each other even though our folks arranged the marriage; how much I miss that old man.
The stranger ate, stirred the fire, and listened like he had all the time in the world, like my life was as important as anyone’s. Talking, I forgot the cold, I forgot my worries.
When it was time to take the boats out again, he filled my basket with fish, then helped me to my feet. As I turned to walk away, he stopped me. I felt the calluses on his hand as he touched my forehead, smelled the fish on his breath as he whispered words of a blessing.
I watched the three of them step into the water and walk towards the boats, the dark water moving up their legs, the heavy nets carried on their shoulders. The sun was up, the fog had disappeared. The Nazarene turned his head and looked back at me. The strangest thing—his face seemed filled with light, even though he stood in the shadows.
I never saw him again, not until they brought him into the praetorioum. I’d heard the stories—the whole countryside was talking. I’d only seen him that once, and when I remembered that morning—the eating, the talking, the blessing—I wondered if it was real or just the dreams of an old woman’s heart.
What is truth, Pilate asked, and well he might. I think he’ll come to regret the day he washed his hands and gave him up to that mob. As for the rest of us, we who don’t have the courage to stop it, we who stay quiet in our corners, hoping no one notices us—we should be on our knees praying that God doesn’t rend the heavens and shake the earth, and destroy us all at the moment of Jesus’ dying.
I’m just an old woman—maybe my mind’s going—it happens. But…what if he is who they say?—the Holy One who came to offer us new life, a way of living where no one must beg for a few fish just to live; no one would be condemned to spend their last days with the untouchables because they have no other place to go.
In these times, it’s dangerous to talk of such things, but what is truth? …could it be? Is it him? Has he really come? And if he came, why aren’t we doing what he told us to do? Why aren’t we loving each other? Why aren’t we being kind? Why aren’t we living like family?
Like I said, I’m just an old woman. Maybe I don’t understand these mysteries. But what if we could do those things? What if we could? Please God, help us. Help us.
EXILED IN THE DESERT
PAMELA J. TINNIN
JUNE 28, 2020
Genesis 21:13-14
Sarah said to Abraham, “Get rid of that slave woman and her son, for that woman’s son will never share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.”
Right from the start, I knew being married to Robert Allan Johnston wasn’t going to be any picnic. At heart I know that Robert’s a good man, but he was a spoiled only child, born late to parents who’d about given up hope. Even today, I swear his mother sometimes looks at him like he walks on water.
Of course, I knew about the baby—everybody did—Russell’s a small town and you can’t sneeze without somebody three miles down the road saying Bless You.
Not long after Christmas Robert’s senior year, Ellie Engstrom had come knocking on the Johnston’s door, claiming she was pregnant with Robert’s baby. We all heard how Ellie told his folks that it was Robert’s child.
Seems Robert said he never touched her and that she’d been with half the football team. Mrs. Johnston told Ellie she had another thing coming if she thought she was going to trap herself a husband with that old trick.
The Johnston’s farmed nearly 3,000 acres of ground. Who was going to listen to a girl who lived in an old silver trailer house with her grandma, a half-crazy religious nut who claimed that Russia’s premier Gorbachev was the anti-Christ and that the birthmark on his head spelled out 6-6-6?
Ellie tried to stay in school, but the principal called her in to the office, said there was a rule against pregnant girls. Got fired from her job at Rexall, too.
Grandma Engstrom hauled Ellie down to the Assembly of God Church and made her stand in front by the altar rail and confess her sins to the whole congregation. The elders laid hands on her and prayed and prayed that Ellie would be healed of her “evil ways.”
Guess her grandma didn’t think it worked, though, cause about a month before the baby was due, she sent Ellie packing.
My mother was on her way to the Post Office and saw Ellie standing on the corner of Maple Street, staring off at nothing, a beat up blue suitcase beside her, like she was waiting for a ride.
None of us knew where she went. That next winter Grandma Engstrom died—her heart had been bad for years. Ellie didn’t come to the funeral.
By spring, Robert and I were going steady. Before I’d take his ring, I asked him about Ellie and the baby—he said she was lying, there was no way the baby could be his. I guess more than anything, I wanted to believe him.
We got married June 5, 2007, two days after I graduated. I’d never wanted anything more than my own home and having babies.
Robert didn’t go college that fall—said he’d go later, but he never did. We moved into the little house across from his mom and dad.
But the babies didn’t come. At first, I wasn’t too worried—we were young, there was lots of time.
I thought about how Robert’s mother was always saying he was an answer to prayer, so I started going to church, thinking maybe if I was a better person, God would give us a baby of our own.
I asked Robert, begged him even, to go with me to the doctor, but he wouldn’t. I mentioned adoption and he wouldn’t hear of that either, said, “If I can’t have my own blood sons, I don’t want any.”
Then one night last June near the end of wheat harvest, I was in the kitchen getting supper ready to take out to the men, when the phone rang. At first no one spoke. I was about ready to hang up when a boy’s voice came, high and shaky, “Hello…hello… this is Robert Allan, Jr.”
I just stood there holding the phone, my heart pounding loud in my ears. All I could think of was Ellie Engstrom and her pretty freckled face, those big eyes, and that long, pale hair, and here I was in a dirty apron and sweating in the heat. I hung up, almost dropping the receiver. That night I prayed that the boy wouldn’t call back.
The scripture that Sunday was from Genesis, the twenty-first chapter. Mr. Royal was the reader, his voice deep and rich, just like when he read Shakespeare in sophomore English class. He read how Sarah had told Abraham to send Hagar and her boy out to the desert; how Abraham did what his wife told him, his own son or not. When Hagar saw that the boy was going to die she put him under a tree and turned away so she wouldn’t have to watch him take his last breath. Then God saved them with a miracle.
Pastor Miller started preaching. I kept thinking about Sarah, so desperate to have a baby, just like me. And there was Hagar and her own sweet Ismael… all those years as a slave—no one she could trust, no one she could turn to, and then sent out to a place where nothing waited for her and her boy except death under a hot desert sky.
When the last hymn started, I sat there with Pastor Miller’s final words ringing in my ears, “Abraham and Sarah and Hagar sinned against each other, but in his mercy and grace, God blessed them anyway.”
Sitting there with the smell of Mother Johnston’s talcum powder heavy in the air and the light streaming through the window making everybody shining and golden, all I could think of was a 16-year-old girl standing on a corner with a scuffed up suitcase, looking down the road at nothing.
I was putting dinner on the table and Robert was still out in the field when the boy called again. I held the phone so tight my fingers hurt while he told me his mother was sick, had cancer. That she wanted to talk to me. Would I come?
That Friday I made a double batch of brownies and left meatloaf sandwiches in the fridge. Told Robert I had a Methodist Women’s meeting. I followed the boy’s directions to a little white house on the edge of Dodge City.
The yard was kept up nice with yellow roses hanging heavy on a trellis next to the porch where a dark-haired boy waited in the swing, pushing it slowly back and forth with his toe.
“You’re Robert?” I asked. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and led me through the screen door. Ellie lay on the couch, but I wouldn’t have recognized her, her prettiness gone with the cancer, her face so thin and drawn, her pale hair patchy from the chemo.
There was a chair close by and I sat down, my knees shaking. When she sent the boy outside, her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“Sharon,” she said, “I want you to take my son. He’s Robert’s—I swear it. He needs to be with his father—and I…well, I… ” She just looked at me then, her eyes flat and so very tired. We talked about all of it then and she napped some.
The boy was already packed, his things in bags and boxes by the door. While Ellie was sleeping, he and I put them in the car. But when we went to say good-bye, I looked at her and at the boy, already taller than me, his voice changing to a man’s. I saw the way love just filled her face when she looked at him. I knew right then I couldn’t leave her, not there alone, waiting to die.
It took a bit of doing and a lot more than that talking with Robert Sr., but by the end of the week, we brought Ellie home. Moved her into one of those duplexes in back of Harlen’s Grocery, and got her a home health care nurse to come in twice a day.
She was in and out of the hospital for a while, but Ellie got her miracle—the cancer’s gone into remission. Doctor says he doesn’t know how long it’ll last, but Ellie’s determined she’ll be here to see Robert Jr. graduate high school.
Mother Johnston had a fit and said, “You’re going to do a blood test, right?” I put my hand on my husband’s arm and shook my head. He doesn’t stand up to her often, but he did that day—said “There’s not going to be any blood tests.”
Robby Allen goes back and forth between Ellie’s place and ours. I’m always running him to one thing or another—football practice, the swimming pool, youth group.
And me? Well, I haven’t given up on having a baby, 31’s not that old. We’re not waiting, though—tomorrow we go down to fill out papers to be foster parents.
Truth is, love’s never easy. Sometimes it can be the hardest thing we’ll ever do. But the miracle is, even when we fail, even when we turn against each other, with bountiful mercy and grace, God will bless us anyway and if we open our hearts and minds, God will help us set things right. AMEN
You know, this scripture is Hagar’s story as much as Ishmael’s. When we think about her life, how oppressed and mistreated she was, bound in slavery, stolen from her own people, forced to bear a child for two old people desperate for an heir.
it is also a liberation story. When things look darkest, we’re not alone. God hears our cries, even when they’re silent and will show us a way when there seems to be no way. All across the country and even in other countries people are hearing and seeing in a different way. Dreaming of a world of mercy, love and justice.
Yes, people have tried and failed before, but look at the joy in the faces of the people pleading for change? Demanding change. God is listening and there’s a light on the horizon that grows brighter and brighter. Together we could begin to create a world where the Hagars and Ishmaels, and every man, woman and child, even the Sarahs and Abrahams will share the same bountiful feast? May it be so. In the name of all that is holy, may it be so.
You know, this scripture is Hagar’s story as much as Ishmael’s. When we think about her life, how oppressed and mistreated she was, bound in slavery, stolen from her own people, forced to bear a child for two old people desperate for an heir.
it is also a liberation story. When things look darkest, we’re not alone. God hears our cries, even when they’re silent and will show us a way when there seems to be no way. All across the country and even in other countries people are hearing and seeing in a different way. Dreaming of a world of mercy, love and justice.
Yes, people have tried and failed before, but look at the joy in the faces of the people pleading for change? Demanding change. God is listening and there’s a light on the horizon that grows brighter and brighter. Together we could begin to create a world where the Hagars and Ishmaels, and every man, woman and child, even the Sarahs and Abrahams will share the same bountiful feast? May it be so. In the name of all that is holy, may it be so.
Sarah said to Abraham, “Get rid of that slave woman and her son, for that woman’s son will never share in the inheritance with my son Isaac.”
Right from the start, I knew being married to Robert Allan Johnston wasn’t going to be any picnic. At heart I know that Robert’s a good man, but he was a spoiled only child, born late to parents who’d about given up hope. Even today, I swear his mother sometimes looks at him like he walks on water.
Of course, I knew about the baby—everybody did—Russell’s a small town and you can’t sneeze without somebody three miles down the road saying Bless You.
Not long after Christmas Robert’s senior year, Ellie Engstrom had come knocking on the Johnston’s door, claiming she was pregnant with Robert’s baby. We all heard how Ellie told his folks that it was Robert’s child.
Seems Robert said he never touched her and that she’d been with half the football team. Mrs. Johnston told Ellie she had another thing coming if she thought she was going to trap herself a husband with that old trick.
The Johnston’s farmed nearly 3,000 acres of ground. Who was going to listen to a girl who lived in an old silver trailer house with her grandma, a half-crazy religious nut who claimed that Russia’s premier Gorbachev was the anti-Christ and that the birthmark on his head spelled out 6-6-6?
Ellie tried to stay in school, but the principal called her in to the office, said there was a rule against pregnant girls. Got fired from her job at Rexall, too.
Grandma Engstrom hauled Ellie down to the Assembly of God Church and made her stand in front by the altar rail and confess her sins to the whole congregation. The elders laid hands on her and prayed and prayed that Ellie would be healed of her “evil ways.”
Guess her grandma didn’t think it worked, though, cause about a month before the baby was due, she sent Ellie packing.
My mother was on her way to the Post Office and saw Ellie standing on the corner of Maple Street, staring off at nothing, a beat up blue suitcase beside her, like she was waiting for a ride.
None of us knew where she went. That next winter Grandma Engstrom died—her heart had been bad for years. Ellie didn’t come to the funeral.
By spring, Robert and I were going steady. Before I’d take his ring, I asked him about Ellie and the baby—he said she was lying, there was no way the baby could be his. I guess more than anything, I wanted to believe him.
We got married June 5, 2007, two days after I graduated. I’d never wanted anything more than my own home and having babies.
Robert didn’t go college that fall—said he’d go later, but he never did. We moved into the little house across from his mom and dad.
But the babies didn’t come. At first, I wasn’t too worried—we were young, there was lots of time.
I thought about how Robert’s mother was always saying he was an answer to prayer, so I started going to church, thinking maybe if I was a better person, God would give us a baby of our own.
I asked Robert, begged him even, to go with me to the doctor, but he wouldn’t. I mentioned adoption and he wouldn’t hear of that either, said, “If I can’t have my own blood sons, I don’t want any.”
Then one night last June near the end of wheat harvest, I was in the kitchen getting supper ready to take out to the men, when the phone rang. At first no one spoke. I was about ready to hang up when a boy’s voice came, high and shaky, “Hello…hello… this is Robert Allan, Jr.”
I just stood there holding the phone, my heart pounding loud in my ears. All I could think of was Ellie Engstrom and her pretty freckled face, those big eyes, and that long, pale hair, and here I was in a dirty apron and sweating in the heat. I hung up, almost dropping the receiver. That night I prayed that the boy wouldn’t call back.
The scripture that Sunday was from Genesis, the twenty-first chapter. Mr. Royal was the reader, his voice deep and rich, just like when he read Shakespeare in sophomore English class. He read how Sarah had told Abraham to send Hagar and her boy out to the desert; how Abraham did what his wife told him, his own son or not. When Hagar saw that the boy was going to die she put him under a tree and turned away so she wouldn’t have to watch him take his last breath. Then God saved them with a miracle.
Pastor Miller started preaching. I kept thinking about Sarah, so desperate to have a baby, just like me. And there was Hagar and her own sweet Ismael… all those years as a slave—no one she could trust, no one she could turn to, and then sent out to a place where nothing waited for her and her boy except death under a hot desert sky.
When the last hymn started, I sat there with Pastor Miller’s final words ringing in my ears, “Abraham and Sarah and Hagar sinned against each other, but in his mercy and grace, God blessed them anyway.”
Sitting there with the smell of Mother Johnston’s talcum powder heavy in the air and the light streaming through the window making everybody shining and golden, all I could think of was a 16-year-old girl standing on a corner with a scuffed up suitcase, looking down the road at nothing.
I was putting dinner on the table and Robert was still out in the field when the boy called again. I held the phone so tight my fingers hurt while he told me his mother was sick, had cancer. That she wanted to talk to me. Would I come?
That Friday I made a double batch of brownies and left meatloaf sandwiches in the fridge. Told Robert I had a Methodist Women’s meeting. I followed the boy’s directions to a little white house on the edge of Dodge City.
The yard was kept up nice with yellow roses hanging heavy on a trellis next to the porch where a dark-haired boy waited in the swing, pushing it slowly back and forth with his toe.
“You’re Robert?” I asked. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and led me through the screen door. Ellie lay on the couch, but I wouldn’t have recognized her, her prettiness gone with the cancer, her face so thin and drawn, her pale hair patchy from the chemo.
There was a chair close by and I sat down, my knees shaking. When she sent the boy outside, her voice wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“Sharon,” she said, “I want you to take my son. He’s Robert’s—I swear it. He needs to be with his father—and I…well, I… ” She just looked at me then, her eyes flat and so very tired. We talked about all of it then and she napped some.
The boy was already packed, his things in bags and boxes by the door. While Ellie was sleeping, he and I put them in the car. But when we went to say good-bye, I looked at her and at the boy, already taller than me, his voice changing to a man’s. I saw the way love just filled her face when she looked at him. I knew right then I couldn’t leave her, not there alone, waiting to die.
It took a bit of doing and a lot more than that talking with Robert Sr., but by the end of the week, we brought Ellie home. Moved her into one of those duplexes in back of Harlen’s Grocery, and got her a home health care nurse to come in twice a day.
She was in and out of the hospital for a while, but Ellie got her miracle—the cancer’s gone into remission. Doctor says he doesn’t know how long it’ll last, but Ellie’s determined she’ll be here to see Robert Jr. graduate high school.
Mother Johnston had a fit and said, “You’re going to do a blood test, right?” I put my hand on my husband’s arm and shook my head. He doesn’t stand up to her often, but he did that day—said “There’s not going to be any blood tests.”
Robby Allen goes back and forth between Ellie’s place and ours. I’m always running him to one thing or another—football practice, the swimming pool, youth group.
And me? Well, I haven’t given up on having a baby, 31’s not that old. We’re not waiting, though—tomorrow we go down to fill out papers to be foster parents.
Truth is, love’s never easy. Sometimes it can be the hardest thing we’ll ever do. But the miracle is, even when we fail, even when we turn against each other, with bountiful mercy and grace, God will bless us anyway and if we open our hearts and minds, God will help us set things right. AMEN
You know, this scripture is Hagar’s story as much as Ishmael’s. When we think about her life, how oppressed and mistreated she was, bound in slavery, stolen from her own people, forced to bear a child for two old people desperate for an heir.
it is also a liberation story. When things look darkest, we’re not alone. God hears our cries, even when they’re silent and will show us a way when there seems to be no way. All across the country and even in other countries people are hearing and seeing in a different way. Dreaming of a world of mercy, love and justice.
Yes, people have tried and failed before, but look at the joy in the faces of the people pleading for change? Demanding change. God is listening and there’s a light on the horizon that grows brighter and brighter. Together we could begin to create a world where the Hagars and Ishmaels, and every man, woman and child, even the Sarahs and Abrahams will share the same bountiful feast? May it be so. In the name of all that is holy, may it be so.
You know, this scripture is Hagar’s story as much as Ishmael’s. When we think about her life, how oppressed and mistreated she was, bound in slavery, stolen from her own people, forced to bear a child for two old people desperate for an heir.
it is also a liberation story. When things look darkest, we’re not alone. God hears our cries, even when they’re silent and will show us a way when there seems to be no way. All across the country and even in other countries people are hearing and seeing in a different way. Dreaming of a world of mercy, love and justice.
Yes, people have tried and failed before, but look at the joy in the faces of the people pleading for change? Demanding change. God is listening and there’s a light on the horizon that grows brighter and brighter. Together we could begin to create a world where the Hagars and Ishmaels, and every man, woman and child, even the Sarahs and Abrahams will share the same bountiful feast? May it be so. In the name of all that is holy, may it be so.
YOU FEED THEM
PAMELA J. TINNIN
JUNE 21, 2020
Mark 6:35-37
35 And when it grew late, his disciples came to him and said, “This is a desolate place, and the hour is now late. 36 Send them away to go into the surrounding countryside and villages and buy themselves something to eat.” 37 But he answered them, “You give them something to eat.”
My granddaughter’s gettin’ married come Saturday. I think she invited everybody in the county to the weddin’. Puts me in mind of when I was 16, 1939. The Great Depression had swept across Kentucky like the plague—pretty much infected the whole United States. First the banks closed, then the mines shut down. My daddy and his cousin Harold went up to Cincinnatti to look for work. If it hadn’t been for the little bit my mama brought in keepin’ house for Mrs. Delroy, we woulda had nothin but garden truck, the eggs the hens laid, and what squirrels and rabbits my brothers shot.
Mr. Delroy was manager up at Wincott Mining. When the mines closed in ’35, Wincott let folks stay in the company houses, but cut off credit at the store. Mama used her dollar a day to buy flour and beans and a little sugar. She traded eggs for milk from Old Man Peavy—he still kept a couple a cows. Baby George and SharraLee was only 2 and 5 and had to have milk.
Fixin’ supper one night, Mama told me the oldest Delroy girl was comin’ home to get married. Mama was real excited about the extra $5 Mrs. Delroy said she’d pay, plus the leftovers she said we could take home.
That wasn’t like Mrs Delroy at all—oh, Mama always got her noon meal, but any extras stayed in that big house or was thrown out to Mr. Delroy’s huntin’ dogs. Never set right with me, good food to dogs while people was goin’ hungry, but Mama said it wasn’t our place to judge.
Course, Mama had a heart too big for her own good. Always invitin’ folks over to share Sunday dinner, even when all we had was one skinny chicken. “I’ll just make more dumplins,” she’d say. I swear, I never tasted any part of the chicken but a wing til I was married myself.
And no matter how hard things was, Mama never failed to put what she called “God’s share” in the offerin’ plate at church, and it wasn’t no ten percent—she was always givin’ extra to some missionary in Africa.
Well, the weddin’ day finally came. Wouldn’t you know it was the hottest day of the year, first Saturday in August. We was runnin’ back and forth from the kitchen to the big dinin’ room. Mama’s face was flushed and her hair was curlin’ in the heat. She looked like a young girl, not a woman grown with seven children.
The Delroy’s cook outdone herself. Fat pink shrimp like fancy crawdads served in these little glasses with red sauce. Those folks even ate black fish eggs—smeared ’em on crackers. Ask me, it smelled just like old bait. Roast beef sliced so thin you could near see through it, mashed potatoes swirled in pretty peaks, Virginia ham, and the weddin’ cake five layers high with a tiny bride wearin’ a real veil and a groom in a little top hat, smilin’ painted plaster smiles.
For two hours they ate and drank and made toasts with champagne, just like the movies. I looked around that table, at the half eaten ham, the roast beef in a sea of dark shiny gravy, the weddin’ cake with the icin’ meltin’ in the heat.
Strangest thing—right then I thought about Mrs. Patrick, a widow woman livin’ up the crick from us. One day we walked up to her place and found her lyin’ on the floor. She hadn’t had a thing to eat for three days and too proud to tell folks.
I thought of Mavis Halloway, just 17 and carryin’ her first child, her husband Toby gone to stay with his brother in Chicago, hopin’ to get work soon. Mavis’ arms was so thin, you couldn’t help but wonder bout the baby she was carryin’.
There was the Semanski boys, none of ’em 12 years old, workin’ every day in the woods pickin’ ferns and diggin’ ginger root to sell. I’d seen ’em waitin’ outside the store for their mama, standin’ there serious and quiet as old men.
Just then Mama nudged me from behind and said, “Girl, don’t stand there day-dreamin’—we got work to do.”
Mrs. Delroy and her husband, the new bride and groom, and the guests started puttin’ their napkins down, pushin’ their chairs away. Then I heard my voice, an angry, hard whisper, “Mama, don’t tell me about how Jesus fed all those folks with loaves and fishes—seems to me God feeds the rich and leaves the poor to their hunger.”
“Child,” she said, “don’t you start with me. Just get in there and get to work—the family needs this job.” I could tell I had said enough.
We was there til near 7 o’clock, cleanin’ up. We had two big crates packed with food—ham and roast beef, mashed potatoes and peas with little onions, some a the shrimp and fish eggs, and there was near half a the weddin’ cake. Mama had thought to bring the kids’ red wagon and we piled it high and started down the big drive, takin’ turns pullin’ and pushin’. “We got enough food to last us a week,” said Mama, fluffin’ up her damp hair.
“Well, we earned every bite,” was all I said.
Fireflies had come out and I could feel the sweat coolin’ on my face in the breeze that had took some of the heat out of the day. At the Jacksons’ place, the old couple was sittin’ on the porch, the squeak of their rockers loud in the quiet, the glow of Mr. Jackson’s pipe a tiny red light floatin’ in the air.
“Evenin’,” they said.
Standin’ there listening to Mama’s soft voice askin’ after their health and their kids, I kept thinkin’ about that roast beef and Virginia ham and weddin’ cake. Mama said her good-byes and she grabbed hold a the wagon handle, but then stopped and turned back. “Milo and Harriet,” she said, “We’d sure be honored if you could join us this evenin’—we’re gonna have a party.”
I almost choked and just glared at her, but Mama wouldn’t look at me, just started pullin’ that wagon. When we got down the road a ways, I started in, but she shushed me up. “Eleanor,” she said, “I want you to get out the Bible tonight and read the sixth chapter of Mark. You pay attention to what Jesus told his disciples.”
She invited everyone up and down the trail to our place, even sent the boys down to Verl McDonald’s, an old bachelor who worked the mines for 43 years til he went blind. That old man lived til he was 91 and got along just fine feelin’ his way with a rope strung from his porch to the outhouse.
Old folks still talk about that night. We brought the big oak table outside and spread the food from Linda Delroy’s wedding. Then Mrs. Andrews set down a couple jars of her strawberry jam and one a her vinegar pies. Belle Jamison brought a big pot a beans rich with the smell a bacon. Roy Semanski unwrapped a haunch a smoked deer meat and his wife Lois started cuttin’ the cornbread she’d baked, still hot from the oven. Verl McDonald took out his old fiddle and began to play.
When we gathered round the table for grace, I looked at my mama’s face in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. She held baby George in her arms, his head tucked right up under her chin. Mama’s eyes was shinin’ and her hair looked golden. In all my years, I don’t think I ever saw a woman more beautiful than she was right then.
Long after midnight, I crawled into my bed in the attic. There was the Bible sittin’ on my quilt. Mama must have brought it up when she came in. The ribbon was at Mark 6, the story about the loaves and fishes, how when the disciples came to Jesus and asked him to send the people away to get food. Jesus told them: “You give them something to eat…you give them something to eat.”
You folks like us in Kentucky are sufferin’ from the virus that’s killin’ so many; then that poor man Mr. Floyd was killed by cops in Minneapolis, …all over the place people took to the streets wantin’ justice not just for one man, but for every man, woman and child.
Funny thing, when you share your food, when you eat together with folks, it’s hard to hate them. Could be that’s one of the things Jesus was tryin’ to get at.
I’ve never forgot that night, a bunch of poor mountain folks eatin’ like kings. or Mama’s words of grace. She asked the Lord to watch out for my daddy Big George and all the husbands, sons, and brothers gone to a far country. She prayed, “Bless the gift of this food, Lord, and be with those who are hungry this night.”
But it was the last thing that has been the words I have tried to live by all these years, though I know I have failed many a time. “Last of all, Lord,” she said, “Write these words upon our hearts “You feed them.”
35 And when it grew late, his disciples came to him and said, “This is a desolate place, and the hour is now late. 36 Send them away to go into the surrounding countryside and villages and buy themselves something to eat.” 37 But he answered them, “You give them something to eat.”
My granddaughter’s gettin’ married come Saturday. I think she invited everybody in the county to the weddin’. Puts me in mind of when I was 16, 1939. The Great Depression had swept across Kentucky like the plague—pretty much infected the whole United States. First the banks closed, then the mines shut down. My daddy and his cousin Harold went up to Cincinnatti to look for work. If it hadn’t been for the little bit my mama brought in keepin’ house for Mrs. Delroy, we woulda had nothin but garden truck, the eggs the hens laid, and what squirrels and rabbits my brothers shot.
Mr. Delroy was manager up at Wincott Mining. When the mines closed in ’35, Wincott let folks stay in the company houses, but cut off credit at the store. Mama used her dollar a day to buy flour and beans and a little sugar. She traded eggs for milk from Old Man Peavy—he still kept a couple a cows. Baby George and SharraLee was only 2 and 5 and had to have milk.
Fixin’ supper one night, Mama told me the oldest Delroy girl was comin’ home to get married. Mama was real excited about the extra $5 Mrs. Delroy said she’d pay, plus the leftovers she said we could take home.
That wasn’t like Mrs Delroy at all—oh, Mama always got her noon meal, but any extras stayed in that big house or was thrown out to Mr. Delroy’s huntin’ dogs. Never set right with me, good food to dogs while people was goin’ hungry, but Mama said it wasn’t our place to judge.
Course, Mama had a heart too big for her own good. Always invitin’ folks over to share Sunday dinner, even when all we had was one skinny chicken. “I’ll just make more dumplins,” she’d say. I swear, I never tasted any part of the chicken but a wing til I was married myself.
And no matter how hard things was, Mama never failed to put what she called “God’s share” in the offerin’ plate at church, and it wasn’t no ten percent—she was always givin’ extra to some missionary in Africa.
Well, the weddin’ day finally came. Wouldn’t you know it was the hottest day of the year, first Saturday in August. We was runnin’ back and forth from the kitchen to the big dinin’ room. Mama’s face was flushed and her hair was curlin’ in the heat. She looked like a young girl, not a woman grown with seven children.
The Delroy’s cook outdone herself. Fat pink shrimp like fancy crawdads served in these little glasses with red sauce. Those folks even ate black fish eggs—smeared ’em on crackers. Ask me, it smelled just like old bait. Roast beef sliced so thin you could near see through it, mashed potatoes swirled in pretty peaks, Virginia ham, and the weddin’ cake five layers high with a tiny bride wearin’ a real veil and a groom in a little top hat, smilin’ painted plaster smiles.
For two hours they ate and drank and made toasts with champagne, just like the movies. I looked around that table, at the half eaten ham, the roast beef in a sea of dark shiny gravy, the weddin’ cake with the icin’ meltin’ in the heat.
Strangest thing—right then I thought about Mrs. Patrick, a widow woman livin’ up the crick from us. One day we walked up to her place and found her lyin’ on the floor. She hadn’t had a thing to eat for three days and too proud to tell folks.
I thought of Mavis Halloway, just 17 and carryin’ her first child, her husband Toby gone to stay with his brother in Chicago, hopin’ to get work soon. Mavis’ arms was so thin, you couldn’t help but wonder bout the baby she was carryin’.
There was the Semanski boys, none of ’em 12 years old, workin’ every day in the woods pickin’ ferns and diggin’ ginger root to sell. I’d seen ’em waitin’ outside the store for their mama, standin’ there serious and quiet as old men.
Just then Mama nudged me from behind and said, “Girl, don’t stand there day-dreamin’—we got work to do.”
Mrs. Delroy and her husband, the new bride and groom, and the guests started puttin’ their napkins down, pushin’ their chairs away. Then I heard my voice, an angry, hard whisper, “Mama, don’t tell me about how Jesus fed all those folks with loaves and fishes—seems to me God feeds the rich and leaves the poor to their hunger.”
“Child,” she said, “don’t you start with me. Just get in there and get to work—the family needs this job.” I could tell I had said enough.
We was there til near 7 o’clock, cleanin’ up. We had two big crates packed with food—ham and roast beef, mashed potatoes and peas with little onions, some a the shrimp and fish eggs, and there was near half a the weddin’ cake. Mama had thought to bring the kids’ red wagon and we piled it high and started down the big drive, takin’ turns pullin’ and pushin’. “We got enough food to last us a week,” said Mama, fluffin’ up her damp hair.
“Well, we earned every bite,” was all I said.
Fireflies had come out and I could feel the sweat coolin’ on my face in the breeze that had took some of the heat out of the day. At the Jacksons’ place, the old couple was sittin’ on the porch, the squeak of their rockers loud in the quiet, the glow of Mr. Jackson’s pipe a tiny red light floatin’ in the air.
“Evenin’,” they said.
Standin’ there listening to Mama’s soft voice askin’ after their health and their kids, I kept thinkin’ about that roast beef and Virginia ham and weddin’ cake. Mama said her good-byes and she grabbed hold a the wagon handle, but then stopped and turned back. “Milo and Harriet,” she said, “We’d sure be honored if you could join us this evenin’—we’re gonna have a party.”
I almost choked and just glared at her, but Mama wouldn’t look at me, just started pullin’ that wagon. When we got down the road a ways, I started in, but she shushed me up. “Eleanor,” she said, “I want you to get out the Bible tonight and read the sixth chapter of Mark. You pay attention to what Jesus told his disciples.”
She invited everyone up and down the trail to our place, even sent the boys down to Verl McDonald’s, an old bachelor who worked the mines for 43 years til he went blind. That old man lived til he was 91 and got along just fine feelin’ his way with a rope strung from his porch to the outhouse.
Old folks still talk about that night. We brought the big oak table outside and spread the food from Linda Delroy’s wedding. Then Mrs. Andrews set down a couple jars of her strawberry jam and one a her vinegar pies. Belle Jamison brought a big pot a beans rich with the smell a bacon. Roy Semanski unwrapped a haunch a smoked deer meat and his wife Lois started cuttin’ the cornbread she’d baked, still hot from the oven. Verl McDonald took out his old fiddle and began to play.
When we gathered round the table for grace, I looked at my mama’s face in the dim light of the kerosene lantern. She held baby George in her arms, his head tucked right up under her chin. Mama’s eyes was shinin’ and her hair looked golden. In all my years, I don’t think I ever saw a woman more beautiful than she was right then.
Long after midnight, I crawled into my bed in the attic. There was the Bible sittin’ on my quilt. Mama must have brought it up when she came in. The ribbon was at Mark 6, the story about the loaves and fishes, how when the disciples came to Jesus and asked him to send the people away to get food. Jesus told them: “You give them something to eat…you give them something to eat.”
You folks like us in Kentucky are sufferin’ from the virus that’s killin’ so many; then that poor man Mr. Floyd was killed by cops in Minneapolis, …all over the place people took to the streets wantin’ justice not just for one man, but for every man, woman and child.
Funny thing, when you share your food, when you eat together with folks, it’s hard to hate them. Could be that’s one of the things Jesus was tryin’ to get at.
I’ve never forgot that night, a bunch of poor mountain folks eatin’ like kings. or Mama’s words of grace. She asked the Lord to watch out for my daddy Big George and all the husbands, sons, and brothers gone to a far country. She prayed, “Bless the gift of this food, Lord, and be with those who are hungry this night.”
But it was the last thing that has been the words I have tried to live by all these years, though I know I have failed many a time. “Last of all, Lord,” she said, “Write these words upon our hearts “You feed them.”
HONOR, SHAME, AND BUILDING BRIDGES
PAMELA J. TINNIN
JUNE 14, 2020
When Jesus walked the earth the Roman Empire ruled a good part of the world. His people lived under a brutal occupation where they were essentially powerless.
There were strict divisions between those few who held power and the majority who struggled just to survive. Those divisions were enforced by a strict code of honor and shame.
You were defined by the group, the tribe, the family to which you belonged. You were also defined by your wealth, your class, and by your race. Sort of sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
In the book of Mark 3:20, hearing that Jesus had been casting out demons, the temple authorities were enraged. Jesus has broken the code, saying things that make people think he’s gone crazy.
Hoping to avoid any public scene or display that would make things worse, up comes his Mama and Jesus’ brothers and they call Jesus to come out. They want to confront him in private, without the crowd hanging on every word. But Jesus refuses and his answer leaves them shocked and probably trembling in fear.
Jesus has something else on his mind. He says that it isn’t your family, your country, your race, gender, or any other difference that matters. It isn’t the old shame/honor system that determines things in God’s kingdom.
Jesus’ says that the old ways are done, finished, over. He redefines family boundaries—he’s connecting all people into one new “family” and it’s a family that doesn’t depend upon status, upon honor and shame, upon an up/down hierarchy. Jesus wanted to build a bridge across all the social, economic, and cultural divides.
in the third chapter of Mark it also says “A nation divided against itself cannot stand.”
You know, these last months have made people wonder if this is it, the end of the world. A world-wide pandemic with no known cure has not only killed more than a million people, but with many entire countries virtually quaran-tined, including ours, the world economy has been decimated. Millions are unem-ployed and already some businesses have closed.
Then on May 25, four police officers in Minneapolis, Minnesota arrested a black man suspected of passing a counterfeit $20 bill. One of the officers threw the man to the ground and put his knee on the man’s neck. George Floyd begged for him to stop; his last words were “I can’t breathe.” As he died the other officers did nothing.
Mr. Floyd’s death was video-taped and soon people around the world were stunned at the public killing. Tens of thousands took to the streets to demand that the brutal oppression of human beings because of their race, the color of their skin, or their background, must at last come to an end.
Like Jesus, the protesters refused to stay silent and risked their lives, not only because of the possible spread of the pandemic, but because they willingly exposed themselves to the violence that killed George Floyd and thousands before him.
Like Martin Luther King and Ghandi before him, people in cities and towns of every size, organized and worked at being non-violent. They are still protesting and a movement has come together, a movement that may well have the power to change the world.
I am so proud of those who stood up for all of us and more than anything wish I could be with them. My own health conditions kept me from it but each of you will always be held in my heart.
Thinking about these past weeks, it is much like another time when our country was so terribly divided, a time when I and thousands of others protested. It was during the Vietnam War.
As the war went on and on, we turned against one another. On both sides, there were times when we forgot about compassion and caring and let hate get the upper hand. Families, communities, even churches were splintered apart, and there seemed to be no way to heal what was broken, even years after the war ended.
In 1987, the half-sized replica of the Vietnam Memorial, The Wall, came to a town near us. The first time we went it was night, a warm summer evening in June.
The lights from hundreds of candles flickered across all those names, more than 58,000, row upon row, separated only by narrow spaces of smooth stone. In that hushed stillness, with only the sound of an occasional car in the distance and the rustling leaves of some nearby oak trees, something holy and healing happened.
It was mysterious and even miraculous. As I stood there in silence the names listed there spoke more powerfully to me than mere words. They spoke of lives ended before they’ve begun, of losses and grief, of all the things that death steals away.
They are names like Smith and Gambelli, Morales and Chung, Dieffenback and Chernoski, Tinnin and Johnson. They’re American names and on that wall there is no notice of race or gender or class. When I saw my face reflected back from that shining black stone, names like a shadow across my face, I realized it isn’t what divides us that’s important. It’s all that we hold in common—our precious families, our faith no matter what tradition, this country born of dreams, and our hearts’ yearning for what is good and decent and right in the world.
How strange that a vertical slab of granite sunk into the earth could be a bridge, a bridge that has allowed so many to reach across the pain and alienation that a terrible war left behind.
But we didn’t do enough. We didn’t address the other battles there were to fight—the years of racism that was established when the first settlers ignited the genocide that nearly wiped out the indigenous peoples and with the first slave ship that arrived from Africa.
We didn’t do the hard work that we should have to bring justice to all people. Now I truly believe we have another chance. It is a monumental work that will take generations to complete, but we cannot give up. We CANNOT GIVE UP. What a world it could be if we stayed the course.
Like Jesus tried, and other faith traditions have very similar teachings, I believe it is a human responsibility to bridge the anger, pain, and sadness that separates us from each other. To bridge our differences with healing and reconciliation, forgiveness and compassion.
With the grace and power of the Holy One, let us always stand together and speak our truth in love and become the bridges that bring people together. In the name of all that is holy, AMEN
There were strict divisions between those few who held power and the majority who struggled just to survive. Those divisions were enforced by a strict code of honor and shame.
You were defined by the group, the tribe, the family to which you belonged. You were also defined by your wealth, your class, and by your race. Sort of sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
In the book of Mark 3:20, hearing that Jesus had been casting out demons, the temple authorities were enraged. Jesus has broken the code, saying things that make people think he’s gone crazy.
Hoping to avoid any public scene or display that would make things worse, up comes his Mama and Jesus’ brothers and they call Jesus to come out. They want to confront him in private, without the crowd hanging on every word. But Jesus refuses and his answer leaves them shocked and probably trembling in fear.
Jesus has something else on his mind. He says that it isn’t your family, your country, your race, gender, or any other difference that matters. It isn’t the old shame/honor system that determines things in God’s kingdom.
Jesus’ says that the old ways are done, finished, over. He redefines family boundaries—he’s connecting all people into one new “family” and it’s a family that doesn’t depend upon status, upon honor and shame, upon an up/down hierarchy. Jesus wanted to build a bridge across all the social, economic, and cultural divides.
in the third chapter of Mark it also says “A nation divided against itself cannot stand.”
You know, these last months have made people wonder if this is it, the end of the world. A world-wide pandemic with no known cure has not only killed more than a million people, but with many entire countries virtually quaran-tined, including ours, the world economy has been decimated. Millions are unem-ployed and already some businesses have closed.
Then on May 25, four police officers in Minneapolis, Minnesota arrested a black man suspected of passing a counterfeit $20 bill. One of the officers threw the man to the ground and put his knee on the man’s neck. George Floyd begged for him to stop; his last words were “I can’t breathe.” As he died the other officers did nothing.
Mr. Floyd’s death was video-taped and soon people around the world were stunned at the public killing. Tens of thousands took to the streets to demand that the brutal oppression of human beings because of their race, the color of their skin, or their background, must at last come to an end.
Like Jesus, the protesters refused to stay silent and risked their lives, not only because of the possible spread of the pandemic, but because they willingly exposed themselves to the violence that killed George Floyd and thousands before him.
Like Martin Luther King and Ghandi before him, people in cities and towns of every size, organized and worked at being non-violent. They are still protesting and a movement has come together, a movement that may well have the power to change the world.
I am so proud of those who stood up for all of us and more than anything wish I could be with them. My own health conditions kept me from it but each of you will always be held in my heart.
Thinking about these past weeks, it is much like another time when our country was so terribly divided, a time when I and thousands of others protested. It was during the Vietnam War.
As the war went on and on, we turned against one another. On both sides, there were times when we forgot about compassion and caring and let hate get the upper hand. Families, communities, even churches were splintered apart, and there seemed to be no way to heal what was broken, even years after the war ended.
In 1987, the half-sized replica of the Vietnam Memorial, The Wall, came to a town near us. The first time we went it was night, a warm summer evening in June.
The lights from hundreds of candles flickered across all those names, more than 58,000, row upon row, separated only by narrow spaces of smooth stone. In that hushed stillness, with only the sound of an occasional car in the distance and the rustling leaves of some nearby oak trees, something holy and healing happened.
It was mysterious and even miraculous. As I stood there in silence the names listed there spoke more powerfully to me than mere words. They spoke of lives ended before they’ve begun, of losses and grief, of all the things that death steals away.
They are names like Smith and Gambelli, Morales and Chung, Dieffenback and Chernoski, Tinnin and Johnson. They’re American names and on that wall there is no notice of race or gender or class. When I saw my face reflected back from that shining black stone, names like a shadow across my face, I realized it isn’t what divides us that’s important. It’s all that we hold in common—our precious families, our faith no matter what tradition, this country born of dreams, and our hearts’ yearning for what is good and decent and right in the world.
How strange that a vertical slab of granite sunk into the earth could be a bridge, a bridge that has allowed so many to reach across the pain and alienation that a terrible war left behind.
But we didn’t do enough. We didn’t address the other battles there were to fight—the years of racism that was established when the first settlers ignited the genocide that nearly wiped out the indigenous peoples and with the first slave ship that arrived from Africa.
We didn’t do the hard work that we should have to bring justice to all people. Now I truly believe we have another chance. It is a monumental work that will take generations to complete, but we cannot give up. We CANNOT GIVE UP. What a world it could be if we stayed the course.
Like Jesus tried, and other faith traditions have very similar teachings, I believe it is a human responsibility to bridge the anger, pain, and sadness that separates us from each other. To bridge our differences with healing and reconciliation, forgiveness and compassion.
With the grace and power of the Holy One, let us always stand together and speak our truth in love and become the bridges that bring people together. In the name of all that is holy, AMEN
INVITE THE MISFITS
PAMELA J TINNIN
JUNE 7, 2020
Invite the Misfits
Pamela J. Tinnin
Luke 14:12-13
The Parable of the Great Banquet
12 Jesus “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. 13 But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.”
A long time ago, I used to volunteer at a Soup Kitchen. It was in a large old church, shabby and worn. People still met there on Sunday mornings, a few mostly elderly worshippers scattered in an enormous sanctuary.
But each weekday at noon, the Fellowship Hall was crowded with diners, mostly people off the streets, some who would walk blocks and blocks just for a plate of hamburger goulash or tuna and noodles, some corn or green beans, two slices of white bread, an apple or orange, and a cookie. I couldn’t come every day because of my job, so I was assigned simple tasks—pouring coffee or walking up and down the aisles with a tray, picking up dirty dishes.
Over the months I worked there, I got to know quite a few of the ”regulars.” Manuel, an old man with a gold tooth in a big smile and there was Johnny B, once a cowboy, his legs as bowed as a wishbone. Quinn had to be in his seventies, but he dressed with great flare in tie-dye t-shirts, his long hair always a bright color, purple, fuschia, once a neon green.
Few women came in, but Gladys was one of my favorites. Gladys’s story was a familiar one—it began with the death of her only child, her husband’s desertion, and a breakdown followed by a long stay at the state psychiatric hospital. Eventually she made her escape to the streets that somehow seemed less threatening to her than the “real world” as she called it. Her age was a mystery, but she remembered the day World War II ended, how she and her high school friends went out and kissed strangers celebrating in the streets.
Gladys’ clothes were always clean—how she managed that living on the streets was a mystery. She was also meticulous in her table manners, carefully opening her paper napkin and placing it across her lap. She ate her food slowly, one small bite at a time, usually saving her bread and apple for later. She loved the worship service that came before the meal—she sang the hymns with great enthusiasm, listened to every word the preacher said, and went forward at every altar call, her face as happy and open as a child’s.
One noon time when I arrived, there wasn’t the usual talking, joking, or storytelling —the people around the tables sat there glum and silent. Larry, the cook, told me that at the last Sunday service, the church’s congregation had voted to evict the Soup Kitchen.
They were concerned about “liability,” they told him. “What they’re concerned about is what people think when all these folks show up here,” Larry said. “We’re trying to find another location,” he went on, “but they want us out by the end of the month.”
I grabbed up a tray and started picking up plates and cups and silverware. When I got to Gladys, she was sitting there, her food untouched, tears rolling down her face. “Jesus wouldn’t kick us out,” she sobbed. “Would he? Jesus loves us.”
I wasn’t even attending church at the time, much less comfortable talking about what Jesus would or would not do, so I fumbled and patted her shoulder and said that things would work out. She just kept crying silently. When I left that day, she still sat there, hands in her lap, her eyes red from weeping. I hugged her but I couldn’t look back at her as went out the door.
The next time I went to the Soup Kitchen, it was closed. There was a sign on the door, “Soup Kitchen moved to 1211 Hanson Street,” That was right in the middle of what people called Skid Row.
One day I thought I saw Gladys, her funny walk, small steps, like her feet hurt, her hands clasping the handle of the grocery cart she pushed everywhere. I slowed down, but the person turned, and it wasn’t be her at all.
I had planned to help at the new location, but not long after that, I moved halfway across the state. Sometimes I wondered whether Gladys had found her way to the new place, whether she was still so fastidious. I wondered whether she still believed Jesus loved everybody.
What was it Jesus said? “The next time you put on a dinner, don’t just invite your friends and family and rich neighbors, the kind of people who will return the favor. Invite some people who never get invited out, the misfits from the wrong side of the tracks.”
Many times I think we try to soften scripture; we say it’s cultural, or that things are different now—we try to ignore the rough edges, the ones the make us uncomfortable. The hospitality Jesus practiced wasn’t just the kind we share at a Soup Kitchens or even at a holiday dinner. It’s the hospitality of full inclusion in what it means to be human; full inclusion in the human community.
Jesus invited everyone to the party—the blind and lame, the lepers and thieves, the prostitutes and tax collectors, rich and poor, all races, all genders—everyone. And the Great Banquet? It’s life itself
For over \four months a disease called Covid-19 has held our country and the world captive. But the diseases that have plagued us for much longer are the sicknesses that infect our souls—racism, sexism, classism, diseases that are common to us all.
We so desperately need to cure them, in ourselves as well as in others. It may be the hardest thing we’ve ever attempted and will take generations. I pray we find the courage and commitment to work for a world where all people, all living creatures, and the very earth itself, are treated with the same absolute, loving, compassionate hospitality.
Pamela J. Tinnin
Luke 14:12-13
The Parable of the Great Banquet
12 Jesus “When you give a dinner or a banquet, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, lest they also invite you in return and you be repaid. 13 But when you give a feast, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.”
A long time ago, I used to volunteer at a Soup Kitchen. It was in a large old church, shabby and worn. People still met there on Sunday mornings, a few mostly elderly worshippers scattered in an enormous sanctuary.
But each weekday at noon, the Fellowship Hall was crowded with diners, mostly people off the streets, some who would walk blocks and blocks just for a plate of hamburger goulash or tuna and noodles, some corn or green beans, two slices of white bread, an apple or orange, and a cookie. I couldn’t come every day because of my job, so I was assigned simple tasks—pouring coffee or walking up and down the aisles with a tray, picking up dirty dishes.
Over the months I worked there, I got to know quite a few of the ”regulars.” Manuel, an old man with a gold tooth in a big smile and there was Johnny B, once a cowboy, his legs as bowed as a wishbone. Quinn had to be in his seventies, but he dressed with great flare in tie-dye t-shirts, his long hair always a bright color, purple, fuschia, once a neon green.
Few women came in, but Gladys was one of my favorites. Gladys’s story was a familiar one—it began with the death of her only child, her husband’s desertion, and a breakdown followed by a long stay at the state psychiatric hospital. Eventually she made her escape to the streets that somehow seemed less threatening to her than the “real world” as she called it. Her age was a mystery, but she remembered the day World War II ended, how she and her high school friends went out and kissed strangers celebrating in the streets.
Gladys’ clothes were always clean—how she managed that living on the streets was a mystery. She was also meticulous in her table manners, carefully opening her paper napkin and placing it across her lap. She ate her food slowly, one small bite at a time, usually saving her bread and apple for later. She loved the worship service that came before the meal—she sang the hymns with great enthusiasm, listened to every word the preacher said, and went forward at every altar call, her face as happy and open as a child’s.
One noon time when I arrived, there wasn’t the usual talking, joking, or storytelling —the people around the tables sat there glum and silent. Larry, the cook, told me that at the last Sunday service, the church’s congregation had voted to evict the Soup Kitchen.
They were concerned about “liability,” they told him. “What they’re concerned about is what people think when all these folks show up here,” Larry said. “We’re trying to find another location,” he went on, “but they want us out by the end of the month.”
I grabbed up a tray and started picking up plates and cups and silverware. When I got to Gladys, she was sitting there, her food untouched, tears rolling down her face. “Jesus wouldn’t kick us out,” she sobbed. “Would he? Jesus loves us.”
I wasn’t even attending church at the time, much less comfortable talking about what Jesus would or would not do, so I fumbled and patted her shoulder and said that things would work out. She just kept crying silently. When I left that day, she still sat there, hands in her lap, her eyes red from weeping. I hugged her but I couldn’t look back at her as went out the door.
The next time I went to the Soup Kitchen, it was closed. There was a sign on the door, “Soup Kitchen moved to 1211 Hanson Street,” That was right in the middle of what people called Skid Row.
One day I thought I saw Gladys, her funny walk, small steps, like her feet hurt, her hands clasping the handle of the grocery cart she pushed everywhere. I slowed down, but the person turned, and it wasn’t be her at all.
I had planned to help at the new location, but not long after that, I moved halfway across the state. Sometimes I wondered whether Gladys had found her way to the new place, whether she was still so fastidious. I wondered whether she still believed Jesus loved everybody.
What was it Jesus said? “The next time you put on a dinner, don’t just invite your friends and family and rich neighbors, the kind of people who will return the favor. Invite some people who never get invited out, the misfits from the wrong side of the tracks.”
Many times I think we try to soften scripture; we say it’s cultural, or that things are different now—we try to ignore the rough edges, the ones the make us uncomfortable. The hospitality Jesus practiced wasn’t just the kind we share at a Soup Kitchens or even at a holiday dinner. It’s the hospitality of full inclusion in what it means to be human; full inclusion in the human community.
Jesus invited everyone to the party—the blind and lame, the lepers and thieves, the prostitutes and tax collectors, rich and poor, all races, all genders—everyone. And the Great Banquet? It’s life itself
For over \four months a disease called Covid-19 has held our country and the world captive. But the diseases that have plagued us for much longer are the sicknesses that infect our souls—racism, sexism, classism, diseases that are common to us all.
We so desperately need to cure them, in ourselves as well as in others. It may be the hardest thing we’ve ever attempted and will take generations. I pray we find the courage and commitment to work for a world where all people, all living creatures, and the very earth itself, are treated with the same absolute, loving, compassionate hospitality.
PENTECOST THEN AND NOW
PAMELA TINNIN
MAY 31, 2020
This Sunday is Pentecost, the remembrance of the day the disciples and other worshippers received the gift of fire, the fire of the Spirit that was so powerful that people from different places and cultures and languages could speak and understand as if they were all alike, all one.
I pray that what I say today, whether read or heard, will be understood in the light of the Spirit; I pray you can feel the love I mean with every word.
These last months have been like one of those bad dreams, the ones you can’t wake from, the ones that never seem to end. A pandemic struck the world in early winter. Day after day coronavirus news has filled the front pages and beams from the many internet sites.
Because of the virus, countries have shut down, asking people to stay at home. In Sonoma County in mid-March schools and all but essential businesses were closed. We were all put on “shelter in place.” Two months of lock-down and the world economy is reeling. In the U.S. nearly a fifth of workers are unemployed, hospitals and free food pantries are overwhelmed, and even our schools have been shuttered for months.
We are living in a terrible time, fighting a pandemic that shows no mercy as it invades country after country, city after city. Over 100,000 people dead in the U.S. alone and Covid-19 is far from finished with us.
Even some government people call the Coronavirus our enemy in this war. But the pandemic is not the only enemy. Once again we have turned against each other. It seems that like the scars from any war, our country’s deepest wounds have never truly healed.
The pandemic has merely peeled back the bandaids and exposed what lies beneath—the massive inequalities in the country and the world, the racism, sexism, and classism that are still very much with us.
Then last week in Minneapolis the whole world watched on video while four police officers took the life of a man named George Floyd. One officer knelt, his knee pressed into the man’s neck. While George cried out that he couldn’t breathe and begged for his life, the other officers did nothing to help.
The video is brutal and painful to watch, but crucifixion is recognized whenever it happens. The video has aroused thousands to take to the streets. The protests have spread—violence has risen and the National Guard brought in.
Watching the news clips this week, was like a replay from when I was young. The violent demonstrations in Minneapolis took me back to an older nightmare, the years of the Vietnam War when people including me took to the streets, wanting to stop a war that was killing our brothers, husbands, fathers, sons, even our sisters.
Now people are out there trying to stop another war that has killed so many, a war that can be traced to the racism that has only increased in these last three years. Yes, there has been violence on both sides. We are all living with an unknown future and some of us have endured brutality, death and discrimination far too long. Long repressed rage and the fear of the future are a powerful combination.
I want no part of violence, but I wish I could stand with others as a witness that our country is now faced with choice—an abyss that will only grow deeper or a rare opportunity to turn things around. I not 24 any more and at 74 with a compromised immune system and as caregiver to my very vulnerable 90-old mother-in-law with Alzheimer’s, my voice, my words are the only weapons I have, as poor as that is in the midst of such tragedy that goes on and on.
Our elected leaders have failed us, failed to do their best to ensure our most vulnerable are cared for, failed to help us fix what is broken, failed to join us to mourn our dead; failed to speak the words and do the things that might inspire us to act for the good of all.
In some ways our churches have failed us, too. The institutional church has often put the pursuit of money and property above sharing what we have with those in need. Over the years we’ve paid too much attention to the world’s demands and not enough to doing the work Jesus calls us to; too much attention to speaking the words, but not enough to the work of living the words. We’ve allowed exclusivity to sneak in when non-judgemental love is the most important thing of all.
These last months the church has been in lockdown, too. We cannot even meet safely together; our churches largely sit empty. While some pastors and churches push to remove pandemic restrictions, a church in Mendocino County learned the painful lesson of opening too fast.
Like us they missed worshipping together, seeing each other. After they ignored precautions and met for choir, nine people were diagnosed with Covid-19. Not long after I read about them, a medical researcher said that group singing carries a high risk of exposure to the virus. Hopefully churches will be patient for however long it takes to be safe for everyone and use social distancing and in the meantime wear masks.
Perhaps as the days of the lockdown continue, both the country, our people, and our churches can come to see this as a time to pause, a time to take stock and consider what we might change for a better future. Make a fresh start, to rekindle a fire in our hearts to “highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain…”
On this Pentecost and always, I pray this may be so. AMEN
I pray that what I say today, whether read or heard, will be understood in the light of the Spirit; I pray you can feel the love I mean with every word.
These last months have been like one of those bad dreams, the ones you can’t wake from, the ones that never seem to end. A pandemic struck the world in early winter. Day after day coronavirus news has filled the front pages and beams from the many internet sites.
Because of the virus, countries have shut down, asking people to stay at home. In Sonoma County in mid-March schools and all but essential businesses were closed. We were all put on “shelter in place.” Two months of lock-down and the world economy is reeling. In the U.S. nearly a fifth of workers are unemployed, hospitals and free food pantries are overwhelmed, and even our schools have been shuttered for months.
We are living in a terrible time, fighting a pandemic that shows no mercy as it invades country after country, city after city. Over 100,000 people dead in the U.S. alone and Covid-19 is far from finished with us.
Even some government people call the Coronavirus our enemy in this war. But the pandemic is not the only enemy. Once again we have turned against each other. It seems that like the scars from any war, our country’s deepest wounds have never truly healed.
The pandemic has merely peeled back the bandaids and exposed what lies beneath—the massive inequalities in the country and the world, the racism, sexism, and classism that are still very much with us.
Then last week in Minneapolis the whole world watched on video while four police officers took the life of a man named George Floyd. One officer knelt, his knee pressed into the man’s neck. While George cried out that he couldn’t breathe and begged for his life, the other officers did nothing to help.
The video is brutal and painful to watch, but crucifixion is recognized whenever it happens. The video has aroused thousands to take to the streets. The protests have spread—violence has risen and the National Guard brought in.
Watching the news clips this week, was like a replay from when I was young. The violent demonstrations in Minneapolis took me back to an older nightmare, the years of the Vietnam War when people including me took to the streets, wanting to stop a war that was killing our brothers, husbands, fathers, sons, even our sisters.
Now people are out there trying to stop another war that has killed so many, a war that can be traced to the racism that has only increased in these last three years. Yes, there has been violence on both sides. We are all living with an unknown future and some of us have endured brutality, death and discrimination far too long. Long repressed rage and the fear of the future are a powerful combination.
I want no part of violence, but I wish I could stand with others as a witness that our country is now faced with choice—an abyss that will only grow deeper or a rare opportunity to turn things around. I not 24 any more and at 74 with a compromised immune system and as caregiver to my very vulnerable 90-old mother-in-law with Alzheimer’s, my voice, my words are the only weapons I have, as poor as that is in the midst of such tragedy that goes on and on.
Our elected leaders have failed us, failed to do their best to ensure our most vulnerable are cared for, failed to help us fix what is broken, failed to join us to mourn our dead; failed to speak the words and do the things that might inspire us to act for the good of all.
In some ways our churches have failed us, too. The institutional church has often put the pursuit of money and property above sharing what we have with those in need. Over the years we’ve paid too much attention to the world’s demands and not enough to doing the work Jesus calls us to; too much attention to speaking the words, but not enough to the work of living the words. We’ve allowed exclusivity to sneak in when non-judgemental love is the most important thing of all.
These last months the church has been in lockdown, too. We cannot even meet safely together; our churches largely sit empty. While some pastors and churches push to remove pandemic restrictions, a church in Mendocino County learned the painful lesson of opening too fast.
Like us they missed worshipping together, seeing each other. After they ignored precautions and met for choir, nine people were diagnosed with Covid-19. Not long after I read about them, a medical researcher said that group singing carries a high risk of exposure to the virus. Hopefully churches will be patient for however long it takes to be safe for everyone and use social distancing and in the meantime wear masks.
Perhaps as the days of the lockdown continue, both the country, our people, and our churches can come to see this as a time to pause, a time to take stock and consider what we might change for a better future. Make a fresh start, to rekindle a fire in our hearts to “highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain…”
On this Pentecost and always, I pray this may be so. AMEN
Let’s Get to It
Pamela J. Tinnin
May 24, 2020
The summer of 1961 we heard the Presbyterians were gonna send us a missionary. Seems like some folks up north had decided the poor people of Kentucky needed a new kind of religion. Our preacher Brother Charles had heard about it and was mad as a banty rooster struttin’ in the yard, shoutin’ from the pulpit that we holiness people knew how to gain salvation. There wasn’t a Presbyterian Church closer than 40 miles—I think the preacher was worryin’ they were tryin’ to extend their territory.
That very next day I was standin’ with Cindy Lee Watkins in front a Jamison’s Store. First day a school only two weeks away and we were lookin’ at the pleated skirts Mrs. Jamison was hangin’ up. Watchin’ in the winda, I saw this shiny black and white ’56 Ford turn onto Main Street. With only a year between my brother B.J. and me, I knew ever year and model a car on the road—ever time we went up to see Sissie and Alden in Cincinnati, we bout drove our folks crazy, shoutin’ out the names and years a cars.
“Whooee,” said Cindy Lee. “Who is that?” And she was already fluffin’ her blond hair up off her neck, checkin’ her lipstick in the reflection in the glass, tuggin’ down her t-shirt.
“I think we got ourselves a Presbyterian,” I giggled, “but I sure didn’t figure he’d be that cute.”
Just then the car pulled over and the driver leaned out the winda, his hair shinin’ black in the sun, his teeth showin’ in a big white smile. Looked like he wasn’t much older than us. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey back,” we said, right at the same time.
“You girls live around here?” he asked in a funny accent, the words cut off and sharp-soundin’.
“Yeah,” I said, hopin’ my face didn’t look as red as it felt.
“Can you tell me how to get to the Courthouse?”
“Be better if we showed ya,” said Cindy Lee, and she blinked her eyes twice, real slow, and I hit her hard with my elbow, hardly believin’ she had the nerve. We were only 14, neither of us even been on a car date.
The stranger laughed and said, “Get in, then.” Course Cindy Lee held the door open for me and waved me into the backseat. Then flouncin’ like Miss America herself, she sits in front. Before drivin’ away, the driver held out his hand, said, “My name’s Jackson Newman…glad to meet you.”
Easy to tell Jackson Newman came from moneyed people… told us he went to some fancy college to study religion. Professors filled his head with all these crazy ideas… Jackson wanted to change the world… gave it a pretty good try, too… he surely did that…
First off, he started a community center in the old Elks Hall that hadn’t been used since before I was born. Spent a week cleanin’ and patchin’ and paintin’. Cindy Lee and me were helpin’ and pretty soon, five or six more girls hangin’ around—he was the handsomest man. After Jackson put up the basketball hoop out back, Jimmy Boardman and Robert Johnson come down, brought the whole team from Mountainview High with ’em.
Fore long, there was a bunch a folks helpin’ at the Center. Robert Johnson’s mama set to organizin’ the Food Bank Jackson had thought up. None a us had any money, but everbody give a quart or two a garden truck. The boys had put up some shelves and Mrs. Johnson put the canned goods in rows—looked pretty with all the peaches and beets and green beans, quart jars on the bottom shelves, pint jars higher up.
Jackson brought in some old sewing machines and Mrs. Porterfield started makin’ quilts. Her neighbor Ruthie Winston come, too. Had a bunch a flannel scraps, sewin’ up tiny baby shirts and gowns for the Hampton girl—expectin’ by Christmas and her husband out a work. By Thanksgiving there was a crowd a ladies near ever day, sewin’ and crochetin’ and knittin’, in a circle round the old woodstove. Bout 9 o’clock, Jackson would come in and read a scripture and they’d talk about it.
We were all surprised when Jackson showed up that first Sunday at Free Will Methodist Church. I can still hear him singin’ right behind me in choir—had the sweetest tenor voice. First Sunday he come, Brother Charles preached how Jesus had gone up to heaven and we was to wait here until the Second Coming. “Then all things will be set right!” shouted Brother Charles. “Our suffering on this earth prepares us for that time when we shall be carried up and reunited with our Lord.”
Mama had invited Brother Charles and Jackson for Sunday dinner. Daddy and them sat on the porch fannin’ themselves in the heat. I helped Mama set out the platter of fried chicken and a bowl piled high with mashed potatoes swimmin’ in butter. I remember Mama tuckin’ in the curls that had come down from her hair, wipin’ her hands on her apron, and steppin’ to the door and sayin’, “Come on in… everythin’s ready.”
Brother Charles said grace, then hardly waited til the amen fore he said to Jackson, “So, young friend…when do you think the Second Coming will be? And are you ready for it? Is your soul right with God?”
Jackson waited quite a while to answer, lookin’ down at his plate fore he spoke. “Brother Charles,” he said, “I don’t know about the Second Coming… what I do know is that until then, we’ve got to live as if it had already happened—not endure suffering but be with those who suffer.”
“Son, unless you have made yourself right with God, when Jesus comes, you’ll be left behind in all manner of torment.”
“Sir, I believe Jesus is already in our midst—unless we treat each other like the Savior here and now, then we’re not being faithful to Jesus’ message.”
Brother Charles’s face was gettin’ redder by the minute and looked like he was bout to choke on his chicken.
“Boy… you are steppin’ close to blasphemy… you had better read your Bible and do a lotta prayin’… and learn to respect your elders while you’re at it,” snapped Brother Charles, wipin’ his face with his napkin.
Dinner was real quiet after that, nobody sayin’ much of anythin’ til we all started admirin’ Mama’s blackberry cobbler. Jackson left soon as he’d helped with the dishes, only stopped to shake hands with Daddy. Brother Charles had stood up and went to the other end a the porch til Jackson was gone down the path.
The days passed—Jackson just kept workin’. Soon he had a program for kids after school—they come and learned scripture verses, played games, and ate graham crackers. At Christmas, a truck come in to the Center, loaded with frozen turkeys and toys and such. We never knew where they come from, but I think ever family in the holler got something extra that year.
The night before New Year’s Eve, round midnight, the wail a the siren on top a the high school sounded. I remember runnin’ out to the porch, bare feet cold as ice, everythin’ lookin’ white under a new snow. Oscar Ransom stopped in his old Chevy truck, yellin’ for Daddy to come on. “Brother Charles place is burnin’—chimney fire started it.” Daddy and B.J. jumped in the back and they roared off and I watched their taillights gettin’ smaller and smaller.
Mama and me got dressed and grabbed up quilts and blankets. She hated to drive in the snow, but she done it that night, slippin’ from one side a the road to the other, all the way down the mountain. When we got there, some men was holdin’ the preacher. He was fightin’ them, tryin’ to get away, screamin’ the words of a prayer, “Oh, Sweet Jesus, save my Dorothea.” Somehow in all that smoke, they’d lost hold of each other and she was still in the house, the flames lickin’ at the sky.
That’s when I saw Jackson—he grabbed a quilt from Mama and held it in the water gushin’ from the firetruck hose. Fore anyone could grab ’im, he’d run inside. I don’t think there was one of us there who thought he’d make it out, but he did, carryin’ Dorothea Rogers, lookin’ like she was dead. That wet quilt wrapped around her was so hot it was smokin’ and when I saw Jackson’s face, the skin hangin’ in strips, my stomach twisted all funny-like. Jackson sunk to the ground and Brother Charles and Mama rushed over. When they lifted Mrs. Rogers from his arms, Jackson slumped over and we could see the fire had burned his jacket clean through to his back.
Dorothea come out of it with bad lungs, but even so, she’s the oldest person livin’ at Sunshine Meadows home—even outlived her husband. Jackson hung on for eleven days in the burn unit up to Lexington General. His folks flew in from New York—seemed like real good people. They stayed for the memorial service up to the high school gym, crowd so big, over two hundred folks stood in the snow listenin’ to it on loudspeakers.
Brother Charles did the service, tears runnin’ down his face the whole time. He quoted that same scripture, about how Jesus had ascended to heaven, leavin’ his disciples behind, starin’ up at the sky.
“Last Friday, in the early hours of the mornin’ Jackson Newman ascended to heaven, gone to be with his Lord. Like the disciples on that long ago day, we are left behind, left with missin’ him, with wonderin’ why. Some of us here this mornin’ are confused, some may even be angry.
“But we haven’t got time to stand around, lookin’ to the heavens. We haven’t got time to wallow in our grief. As a wise young man told me, Jesus is already in our midst—unless we treat each other like the Savior here and now, then we’re not bein’ faithful to Jesus’ message. Friends, the Lord left us a mighty work to continue—the salvation and redemption of the world. Let’s get to it.”
After that, seemed like everbody in the holler come to sign up at the Community Center. The Freewill Methodist Church worked along with the Presbyterian Church District Office—got a Headstart program started for the little kids, a lunch program for old folks, and a community potluck and dance first Saturday of the month.
Funny thing, too—people started comin’ to church that hadn’t been there in an age. Pretty soon the place was filled, just like the old days, Mama said. Brother Charles put her in charge of the visitation team. Ever shut-in had someone stop by once a week. Mama said seein’ the look on the old folks’ faces was a blessin’ in itself.
If you’d a told me all those years ago that some day I’d be director a the Jackson Newman Community Center and a deacon at Freewill Methodist, I’d a said you was crazy. I just been doin’ whatever work the Lord put in my way.
Sometimes I think bout Jackson, how he barely had time to live, almost like he was never here at all. Then I look around and see what he started here in these mountains, all the signs of his passin’. I think more ’n anything, he showed us that Jesus believed in us, even when we didn’t believe in ourselves. When you come to see that Jesus believes in you, why …you can change the world. You can change the world. AMEN
That very next day I was standin’ with Cindy Lee Watkins in front a Jamison’s Store. First day a school only two weeks away and we were lookin’ at the pleated skirts Mrs. Jamison was hangin’ up. Watchin’ in the winda, I saw this shiny black and white ’56 Ford turn onto Main Street. With only a year between my brother B.J. and me, I knew ever year and model a car on the road—ever time we went up to see Sissie and Alden in Cincinnati, we bout drove our folks crazy, shoutin’ out the names and years a cars.
“Whooee,” said Cindy Lee. “Who is that?” And she was already fluffin’ her blond hair up off her neck, checkin’ her lipstick in the reflection in the glass, tuggin’ down her t-shirt.
“I think we got ourselves a Presbyterian,” I giggled, “but I sure didn’t figure he’d be that cute.”
Just then the car pulled over and the driver leaned out the winda, his hair shinin’ black in the sun, his teeth showin’ in a big white smile. Looked like he wasn’t much older than us. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey back,” we said, right at the same time.
“You girls live around here?” he asked in a funny accent, the words cut off and sharp-soundin’.
“Yeah,” I said, hopin’ my face didn’t look as red as it felt.
“Can you tell me how to get to the Courthouse?”
“Be better if we showed ya,” said Cindy Lee, and she blinked her eyes twice, real slow, and I hit her hard with my elbow, hardly believin’ she had the nerve. We were only 14, neither of us even been on a car date.
The stranger laughed and said, “Get in, then.” Course Cindy Lee held the door open for me and waved me into the backseat. Then flouncin’ like Miss America herself, she sits in front. Before drivin’ away, the driver held out his hand, said, “My name’s Jackson Newman…glad to meet you.”
Easy to tell Jackson Newman came from moneyed people… told us he went to some fancy college to study religion. Professors filled his head with all these crazy ideas… Jackson wanted to change the world… gave it a pretty good try, too… he surely did that…
First off, he started a community center in the old Elks Hall that hadn’t been used since before I was born. Spent a week cleanin’ and patchin’ and paintin’. Cindy Lee and me were helpin’ and pretty soon, five or six more girls hangin’ around—he was the handsomest man. After Jackson put up the basketball hoop out back, Jimmy Boardman and Robert Johnson come down, brought the whole team from Mountainview High with ’em.
Fore long, there was a bunch a folks helpin’ at the Center. Robert Johnson’s mama set to organizin’ the Food Bank Jackson had thought up. None a us had any money, but everbody give a quart or two a garden truck. The boys had put up some shelves and Mrs. Johnson put the canned goods in rows—looked pretty with all the peaches and beets and green beans, quart jars on the bottom shelves, pint jars higher up.
Jackson brought in some old sewing machines and Mrs. Porterfield started makin’ quilts. Her neighbor Ruthie Winston come, too. Had a bunch a flannel scraps, sewin’ up tiny baby shirts and gowns for the Hampton girl—expectin’ by Christmas and her husband out a work. By Thanksgiving there was a crowd a ladies near ever day, sewin’ and crochetin’ and knittin’, in a circle round the old woodstove. Bout 9 o’clock, Jackson would come in and read a scripture and they’d talk about it.
We were all surprised when Jackson showed up that first Sunday at Free Will Methodist Church. I can still hear him singin’ right behind me in choir—had the sweetest tenor voice. First Sunday he come, Brother Charles preached how Jesus had gone up to heaven and we was to wait here until the Second Coming. “Then all things will be set right!” shouted Brother Charles. “Our suffering on this earth prepares us for that time when we shall be carried up and reunited with our Lord.”
Mama had invited Brother Charles and Jackson for Sunday dinner. Daddy and them sat on the porch fannin’ themselves in the heat. I helped Mama set out the platter of fried chicken and a bowl piled high with mashed potatoes swimmin’ in butter. I remember Mama tuckin’ in the curls that had come down from her hair, wipin’ her hands on her apron, and steppin’ to the door and sayin’, “Come on in… everythin’s ready.”
Brother Charles said grace, then hardly waited til the amen fore he said to Jackson, “So, young friend…when do you think the Second Coming will be? And are you ready for it? Is your soul right with God?”
Jackson waited quite a while to answer, lookin’ down at his plate fore he spoke. “Brother Charles,” he said, “I don’t know about the Second Coming… what I do know is that until then, we’ve got to live as if it had already happened—not endure suffering but be with those who suffer.”
“Son, unless you have made yourself right with God, when Jesus comes, you’ll be left behind in all manner of torment.”
“Sir, I believe Jesus is already in our midst—unless we treat each other like the Savior here and now, then we’re not being faithful to Jesus’ message.”
Brother Charles’s face was gettin’ redder by the minute and looked like he was bout to choke on his chicken.
“Boy… you are steppin’ close to blasphemy… you had better read your Bible and do a lotta prayin’… and learn to respect your elders while you’re at it,” snapped Brother Charles, wipin’ his face with his napkin.
Dinner was real quiet after that, nobody sayin’ much of anythin’ til we all started admirin’ Mama’s blackberry cobbler. Jackson left soon as he’d helped with the dishes, only stopped to shake hands with Daddy. Brother Charles had stood up and went to the other end a the porch til Jackson was gone down the path.
The days passed—Jackson just kept workin’. Soon he had a program for kids after school—they come and learned scripture verses, played games, and ate graham crackers. At Christmas, a truck come in to the Center, loaded with frozen turkeys and toys and such. We never knew where they come from, but I think ever family in the holler got something extra that year.
The night before New Year’s Eve, round midnight, the wail a the siren on top a the high school sounded. I remember runnin’ out to the porch, bare feet cold as ice, everythin’ lookin’ white under a new snow. Oscar Ransom stopped in his old Chevy truck, yellin’ for Daddy to come on. “Brother Charles place is burnin’—chimney fire started it.” Daddy and B.J. jumped in the back and they roared off and I watched their taillights gettin’ smaller and smaller.
Mama and me got dressed and grabbed up quilts and blankets. She hated to drive in the snow, but she done it that night, slippin’ from one side a the road to the other, all the way down the mountain. When we got there, some men was holdin’ the preacher. He was fightin’ them, tryin’ to get away, screamin’ the words of a prayer, “Oh, Sweet Jesus, save my Dorothea.” Somehow in all that smoke, they’d lost hold of each other and she was still in the house, the flames lickin’ at the sky.
That’s when I saw Jackson—he grabbed a quilt from Mama and held it in the water gushin’ from the firetruck hose. Fore anyone could grab ’im, he’d run inside. I don’t think there was one of us there who thought he’d make it out, but he did, carryin’ Dorothea Rogers, lookin’ like she was dead. That wet quilt wrapped around her was so hot it was smokin’ and when I saw Jackson’s face, the skin hangin’ in strips, my stomach twisted all funny-like. Jackson sunk to the ground and Brother Charles and Mama rushed over. When they lifted Mrs. Rogers from his arms, Jackson slumped over and we could see the fire had burned his jacket clean through to his back.
Dorothea come out of it with bad lungs, but even so, she’s the oldest person livin’ at Sunshine Meadows home—even outlived her husband. Jackson hung on for eleven days in the burn unit up to Lexington General. His folks flew in from New York—seemed like real good people. They stayed for the memorial service up to the high school gym, crowd so big, over two hundred folks stood in the snow listenin’ to it on loudspeakers.
Brother Charles did the service, tears runnin’ down his face the whole time. He quoted that same scripture, about how Jesus had ascended to heaven, leavin’ his disciples behind, starin’ up at the sky.
“Last Friday, in the early hours of the mornin’ Jackson Newman ascended to heaven, gone to be with his Lord. Like the disciples on that long ago day, we are left behind, left with missin’ him, with wonderin’ why. Some of us here this mornin’ are confused, some may even be angry.
“But we haven’t got time to stand around, lookin’ to the heavens. We haven’t got time to wallow in our grief. As a wise young man told me, Jesus is already in our midst—unless we treat each other like the Savior here and now, then we’re not bein’ faithful to Jesus’ message. Friends, the Lord left us a mighty work to continue—the salvation and redemption of the world. Let’s get to it.”
After that, seemed like everbody in the holler come to sign up at the Community Center. The Freewill Methodist Church worked along with the Presbyterian Church District Office—got a Headstart program started for the little kids, a lunch program for old folks, and a community potluck and dance first Saturday of the month.
Funny thing, too—people started comin’ to church that hadn’t been there in an age. Pretty soon the place was filled, just like the old days, Mama said. Brother Charles put her in charge of the visitation team. Ever shut-in had someone stop by once a week. Mama said seein’ the look on the old folks’ faces was a blessin’ in itself.
If you’d a told me all those years ago that some day I’d be director a the Jackson Newman Community Center and a deacon at Freewill Methodist, I’d a said you was crazy. I just been doin’ whatever work the Lord put in my way.
Sometimes I think bout Jackson, how he barely had time to live, almost like he was never here at all. Then I look around and see what he started here in these mountains, all the signs of his passin’. I think more ’n anything, he showed us that Jesus believed in us, even when we didn’t believe in ourselves. When you come to see that Jesus believes in you, why …you can change the world. You can change the world. AMEN
Singing the Lord’s Song in a Strange Land
Pamela J. Tinnin
May 17, 2020
These last few weeks as the pandemic rages and our “Shelter-in-Place” order has gone on and on, life is so different; it almost seems we live in a foreign land. Must of us can’t go to work, our kids can’t go to school, theaters are closed, cafes don’t open except for to-go orders. Businesses are closed except those deemed “essential” like grocery stores, banks, drug stores, hospitals, and gas stations. Faith communities can no longer gather to share worship and fellowship.
What a minute! This is the United States isn’t it? Not that long ago, we celebrated Christmas with crowded stores, dinners with family and friends crowded around the table, and worship services with our best music, those Christmas pageants that always bring laughter and sometimes even a tear or two.
But life is different now. A fast moving, deadly virus that quickly spread across the world changed all that. Today our lives have become much more isolated and lonely. As a pastor I struggle with trying to help my congregation stay connected to each other and to God. When we can’t even see each other except on computer screens thanks to Zoom or other on-line meeting applications. For many people, even that isn’t possible.
I live an hour away from our little church. It’s in west Sonoma County two miles from Guerneville. Since the shutdown began in March, it has sat empty.
We are what is called a family sized congregation. Most Sundays we have 15-18 folks, although we do have visitors quite often. None of our regulars is under fifty and most are over sixty. At 74 according to the pandemic data, I’m in the population considered most vulnerable to the coronavirus. So is most of my congregation either by age or underlying health conditions.
Fear and anxiety are a natural response to a truly terrible time, one that we share with the whole world. Even though I don’t live alone, I feel the loss of connection; I miss the strength that we build when we share time with others. More than anything I miss smiles and shared laughter, a comforting hug, the sweetness of singing together.
How hard it must be to live alone now. Except for quick trips to buy food and supplies, single people are stranded at home alone, left to watch TV, read a book, play video games, walk for exercise, do housework, and for some, work via the internet.
Who would have guessed that the world could change so drastically and so quickly? Sometimes, when I think of the future, I have a hard time trying to imagine what life will be like even in a few months, not to mention next year or the next. Right now our country, our world, even my life, sometimes seem totally foreign, like a strange land.
Others say they feel the same. As the days pass, I hear the loneliness and anxiety when I talk with people on the phone or read their words on Facebook. Yesterday a friend told me, “Today I just wish I could stop crying.”
But then I think of how our own situation is much better than the lives of others. Tens of thousands of people have died all over the world, 85,000 here in the U.S. The world economy is in shambles and millions are without work or income, while even large businesses find themselves failing. Truly we are one world and right now the situation is dire.
This week I read the words of Psalm 137, “How should we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land” How do we find joy in a dark time? A terrible time. Certainly the worst time the world has seen for some time. How do we feel safe when the future is in such jeopardy? How do we keep hope alive when hope seems to have died, too.
Years ago, I learned that hope isn’t just a feeling, an emotion—when I stop and think about it, often hope happens in hard times. Years ago a spunky woman and a quiet, reserved young man showed me that hope is more like a verb, an action word.
For nine years I pastored Street Church. Each Sunday afternoon after traditional church, we met for worship and a meal at the county Park & Ride parking lot. Everyone was welcome and we shared communion every Sunday.
Many people who came lived down by the river when it was warm. When the winter came, some would stay under the bridge while others would sleep at the temporary emergency shelter that opened for three to four months. Some found shelter wherever they could. We were there whatever the season.
One of the folks who joined us many a Sunday was a short, dark haired woman named Theresa. She was a joy to have around. She was boisterous, always laughing and teasing, and knew almost everyone by name.
One day after everyone had taken their plates of food and found a place to sit, Theresa motioned for me to sit next to her. We talked for a while and I told Theresa how I admired her for finding the good in life, even when things were hard. She threw back her head and laughed, and said, “Hey, I made up a song.” And she began to sing.
And she sang a peppy little four-line song, “I found Jesus at the Park & RIde.”
When she began the song for the second time, one by one, almost everyone joined in. People were laughing, clapping their hands, and a few even shouted AMEN when the singing wound down.
There was another woman who had shown up the past few Sundays. Later that day, she sidled up to me and whispered loud enough for others to hear, “I think that woman’s on drugs. What has she got to sing about?… hmmmph.”
Before I could speak, a voice came from behind us. One of the young guys who never talked much but always stayed to help clean up and load our truck had heard. His words were soft as could be, but clear enough. “You can find Jesus anywhere. Maybe you should look a little harder.”
The woman’s face turned red. She threw down the paper towel she’d used to wipe off the table, stomped to her car and drove away, squealing the tires.
I hoped she’d come back, but we never saw her again. Mostly I was sad that there seemed to be so little joy in her life. I wanted to tell her that life is so much easier if we remember that our job is to love people without judging whether they’re worthy.
When we recognize that life itself is holy, there is a lightness, a joy that is present even when things seem so dark we can’t see the path that lies ahead.
If we love like Jesus taught us, indiscriminately and without judgement, there will always be sisters and brothers with us on our journey; we’ll find hope then, too, enough hope that we don’t doubt the day will come when we can sing the Lord’s song together again. For now we can lift our one voice in preparation for that time.
AMEN
What a minute! This is the United States isn’t it? Not that long ago, we celebrated Christmas with crowded stores, dinners with family and friends crowded around the table, and worship services with our best music, those Christmas pageants that always bring laughter and sometimes even a tear or two.
But life is different now. A fast moving, deadly virus that quickly spread across the world changed all that. Today our lives have become much more isolated and lonely. As a pastor I struggle with trying to help my congregation stay connected to each other and to God. When we can’t even see each other except on computer screens thanks to Zoom or other on-line meeting applications. For many people, even that isn’t possible.
I live an hour away from our little church. It’s in west Sonoma County two miles from Guerneville. Since the shutdown began in March, it has sat empty.
We are what is called a family sized congregation. Most Sundays we have 15-18 folks, although we do have visitors quite often. None of our regulars is under fifty and most are over sixty. At 74 according to the pandemic data, I’m in the population considered most vulnerable to the coronavirus. So is most of my congregation either by age or underlying health conditions.
Fear and anxiety are a natural response to a truly terrible time, one that we share with the whole world. Even though I don’t live alone, I feel the loss of connection; I miss the strength that we build when we share time with others. More than anything I miss smiles and shared laughter, a comforting hug, the sweetness of singing together.
How hard it must be to live alone now. Except for quick trips to buy food and supplies, single people are stranded at home alone, left to watch TV, read a book, play video games, walk for exercise, do housework, and for some, work via the internet.
Who would have guessed that the world could change so drastically and so quickly? Sometimes, when I think of the future, I have a hard time trying to imagine what life will be like even in a few months, not to mention next year or the next. Right now our country, our world, even my life, sometimes seem totally foreign, like a strange land.
Others say they feel the same. As the days pass, I hear the loneliness and anxiety when I talk with people on the phone or read their words on Facebook. Yesterday a friend told me, “Today I just wish I could stop crying.”
But then I think of how our own situation is much better than the lives of others. Tens of thousands of people have died all over the world, 85,000 here in the U.S. The world economy is in shambles and millions are without work or income, while even large businesses find themselves failing. Truly we are one world and right now the situation is dire.
This week I read the words of Psalm 137, “How should we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land” How do we find joy in a dark time? A terrible time. Certainly the worst time the world has seen for some time. How do we feel safe when the future is in such jeopardy? How do we keep hope alive when hope seems to have died, too.
Years ago, I learned that hope isn’t just a feeling, an emotion—when I stop and think about it, often hope happens in hard times. Years ago a spunky woman and a quiet, reserved young man showed me that hope is more like a verb, an action word.
For nine years I pastored Street Church. Each Sunday afternoon after traditional church, we met for worship and a meal at the county Park & Ride parking lot. Everyone was welcome and we shared communion every Sunday.
Many people who came lived down by the river when it was warm. When the winter came, some would stay under the bridge while others would sleep at the temporary emergency shelter that opened for three to four months. Some found shelter wherever they could. We were there whatever the season.
One of the folks who joined us many a Sunday was a short, dark haired woman named Theresa. She was a joy to have around. She was boisterous, always laughing and teasing, and knew almost everyone by name.
One day after everyone had taken their plates of food and found a place to sit, Theresa motioned for me to sit next to her. We talked for a while and I told Theresa how I admired her for finding the good in life, even when things were hard. She threw back her head and laughed, and said, “Hey, I made up a song.” And she began to sing.
And she sang a peppy little four-line song, “I found Jesus at the Park & RIde.”
When she began the song for the second time, one by one, almost everyone joined in. People were laughing, clapping their hands, and a few even shouted AMEN when the singing wound down.
There was another woman who had shown up the past few Sundays. Later that day, she sidled up to me and whispered loud enough for others to hear, “I think that woman’s on drugs. What has she got to sing about?… hmmmph.”
Before I could speak, a voice came from behind us. One of the young guys who never talked much but always stayed to help clean up and load our truck had heard. His words were soft as could be, but clear enough. “You can find Jesus anywhere. Maybe you should look a little harder.”
The woman’s face turned red. She threw down the paper towel she’d used to wipe off the table, stomped to her car and drove away, squealing the tires.
I hoped she’d come back, but we never saw her again. Mostly I was sad that there seemed to be so little joy in her life. I wanted to tell her that life is so much easier if we remember that our job is to love people without judging whether they’re worthy.
When we recognize that life itself is holy, there is a lightness, a joy that is present even when things seem so dark we can’t see the path that lies ahead.
If we love like Jesus taught us, indiscriminately and without judgement, there will always be sisters and brothers with us on our journey; we’ll find hope then, too, enough hope that we don’t doubt the day will come when we can sing the Lord’s song together again. For now we can lift our one voice in preparation for that time.
AMEN
Love One Another
Pamela J. Tinnin
John 13:34-35
May 10, 2020
Today bein’ Mother’s Day and all, I been thinkin’ bout my mama. Lot of folks had the wrong idea about Mama—thought she turned heathen, turned away from God. But that wasn’t it at all. What happened was, the tornado hit us. That’s when it all started, back in 1958.
Oh, you wouldn’t a known the town back then. We even had a Ford dealer, right there on Main Street, just north of the Post Office, a grocery store just across the road, and a Thompson’s Rexall with a soda fountain. After the tornado, that was all gone—most places didn’t build back. Too easy to drive into Enid for groceries.
Half the people in town, includin’ us, lost bout everythin’ they had. My daddy had took the boys and gone over to Oklahoma City with a load of chickens for the processin' plant. Mama was in the house ironin’ — she used to take in laundry and sew for folks. I was out back under the big elm playin’ house with MaeElla. She was fussin’ only three and all, when this roarin’ sound came out a the west. All of a sudden Mama was there, grabbin up the baby and yellin at me to get to the storm cellar.
I started to run, but I remembered J.C. That old dog had been mine since he was a pup. Mama yelled again, but the words were lost in the wind. I dragged that old dog by his collar and him just a whinin’ and draggin’ his feet. Finally we made it down the creaky board steps into the cellar.
MaeElla was cryin’. Mama shoved her in my arms, slammed the heavy pipe across the door, then took up this big chain bolted to the door and wrapped it round and round a iron post that was stuck there in the concrete. There was a terrible crashin’ and bangin’ outside and the thumpin’ of that door pullin’ against the chain. Mama pulled back as hard as she could. EllaMae and J.C. stuck to me like glue and I never moved, not even when a big old spider crawled cross my leg.
Suddenly it got real quiet. At first, Mama didn’t quit pullin’, wonderin’ if it was over. We just stayed there with the smell a the dog and the cellar and lightnin’ in the air. That’s when I saw the blood on that chain, saw where it had run down her arms.
When we went outside, there wasn’t a sound cept for a cow bellerin’ on and on. The house was plumb gone. Funny thing, though—Mama’s piano that she had got from her grandma didn’t have a scratch on it. Mama didn’t cry until she touched the keys and heard the notes soundin’ sweet as ever. She wiped her tears away quick then, talkin’ to herself, “Got nothin’ to cry about. Not a one of us hurt.”
Folks said later how it was a miracle. Tornado took 93 houses and not one person died cept my friend Cecie’s grandpa who had a stroke and just dropped dead right there in the cellar. I know Cecie cried and cried. She doted on that old man.
The south side a town was hardly touched. That’s where all the black folks lived and some of the poorest whites. Wasn’t long before a bunch a them showed up with picks and shovels and dug in. The women helped pick through the trash— they’d be as happy as Mama when they’d find her some treasure, like the baby pictures that was almost good as new after they wiped off the mud.
All the next week, the South End people came ever day. Daddy built a fire out in the yard. Mama did real well cookin’ out there. Some of our young hens met an untimely end, but it was kinda like a picnic every day—all of us would gather in a circle and one a the men would offer grace, sometimes even my daddy.
Word came that on Sunday there would be a special community church service at our church, First Baptist. We had new stained glass windows and a new preacher, both him and the windows all the way from Baltimore. He was young, just out of seminary.
Just after the bells rang that Sunday, the back door of the church opened and there stood some a the folks from the South End, the ones who’d been so good, helpin’ us and all. Pastor Arnold sort a gulped and quit talkin’. In Oklahoma 1958, integration and Little Rock was just words on the TV. The South End folks filed into the back pews, real quiet like, even the kids.
That’s when Pastor Arnold near shouted, his voice ringin’ loud as could be, “God did not mean for the races to mix.” He waited then, his arms crossed, his chest all puffed out, kinda proud lookin’.
I saw then that my Mama was waitin’, too. I didn’t know for what. She just kept watchin’ those five pastors lined up there on the platform, red-faced and silent. The South End folks stopped where they was, awaitin’ too I guess.
My mama usually so quiet and shy stepped out in the aisle, and lookin’ right at those pastors, she quoted John 13, near the end of the chapter, Jesus talkin’ to his disciples. She used that voice I’d heard before, the one that meant you’d better listen good. “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Then there was nothin’ but the tickin of the big clock. I was so embarrassed, I coulda died. Folks was turnin’ away from us, and I knew I was gonna catch it at school on Monday. Mama stood, tall and quiet, shakin’ all over, but I couldn’t tell if she was scared or just so mad she could spit.
That’s when a voice came from the back, deep and gentle, Preacher Mason from the African Methodist Episcopal Church. “Didn’t mean to start trouble,” he said, and the folks in the back started to leave, quiet as they had been comin’ in.
Mama grabbed up EllaMae and said to my daddy, “Henry, let’s go home.” We walked outta there, lookin’ neither right nor left.
She never set foot in a church again cept for weddings and funerals. Some folks never did make up with us. Mama paid no mind—she was first there when a new baby came, always took food to folks when they was sick and when they built the new nursin’ home, she used to go up there ever Sunday afternoon and play hymns for the old folks.
Sunday mornin’ she’d hold Bible study with us and some a the kids in the neighborhood. She’d read scripture and tell us stories and we’d sing all the old hymns with her at the piano. Just before she’d turn us loose to go off and play, she’d always tell us, “Remember now—faith ain’t no good unless you live it.”
I married at 17 and went to live up near Robert’s people outside of Lexington. They were Church of the Nazarene. I found out they were good people. Not perfect, but then who is.
The cancer took Mama the summer my youngest was born. Mama was 53 years old. Wash Jackson up at the funeral home asked how many folks we was expectin’ at her service. Most a her friends had died, and others had moved away. “Oh, no more ’n 40 or so,” I told him, same thing I told the ladies at church who’d provide the lunch.
Before the service, the family gathered in what Wash called “The Quiet Room”. The talking in the chapel got louder and louder. I opened the curtain a crack, and stood there gapin’—every pew was full with folks standin’ in the back, people from every church in town. Half the chapel held row after row of black faces.
When it came time for folks to speak about the deceased, first on his feet was Preacher Mason. It was quiet as could be as he made his way up to the front with his shiny black cane, slow and shakin’ all down the left side with the palsy. His voice was thin and raspy, but you could hear ever word…
He opened the Bible and read, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Then he closed the Bible and looked around that crowded chapel. He said one last thing, “Wherever Sister Loudean went in life, if you were there, you knew you were with one of God’s most special folks.”
I can still see her in the cellar, her pullin’ on that chain til her hands bled. Or at the First Baptist Church, speakin’ out the word a God when everone else was too scared to stand up for what was right. On a warm Sunday mornin’ with Mama leadin’ us in song, “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is callin’…, callin’ to you and to me…” oh, yes…
Oh, we had troubles like all folks do. But you know, through it all, Mama was right… faith ain’t no good unless it’s lived.…and when you do that, God will bless you… God will certainly bless you.
Oh, you wouldn’t a known the town back then. We even had a Ford dealer, right there on Main Street, just north of the Post Office, a grocery store just across the road, and a Thompson’s Rexall with a soda fountain. After the tornado, that was all gone—most places didn’t build back. Too easy to drive into Enid for groceries.
Half the people in town, includin’ us, lost bout everythin’ they had. My daddy had took the boys and gone over to Oklahoma City with a load of chickens for the processin' plant. Mama was in the house ironin’ — she used to take in laundry and sew for folks. I was out back under the big elm playin’ house with MaeElla. She was fussin’ only three and all, when this roarin’ sound came out a the west. All of a sudden Mama was there, grabbin up the baby and yellin at me to get to the storm cellar.
I started to run, but I remembered J.C. That old dog had been mine since he was a pup. Mama yelled again, but the words were lost in the wind. I dragged that old dog by his collar and him just a whinin’ and draggin’ his feet. Finally we made it down the creaky board steps into the cellar.
MaeElla was cryin’. Mama shoved her in my arms, slammed the heavy pipe across the door, then took up this big chain bolted to the door and wrapped it round and round a iron post that was stuck there in the concrete. There was a terrible crashin’ and bangin’ outside and the thumpin’ of that door pullin’ against the chain. Mama pulled back as hard as she could. EllaMae and J.C. stuck to me like glue and I never moved, not even when a big old spider crawled cross my leg.
Suddenly it got real quiet. At first, Mama didn’t quit pullin’, wonderin’ if it was over. We just stayed there with the smell a the dog and the cellar and lightnin’ in the air. That’s when I saw the blood on that chain, saw where it had run down her arms.
When we went outside, there wasn’t a sound cept for a cow bellerin’ on and on. The house was plumb gone. Funny thing, though—Mama’s piano that she had got from her grandma didn’t have a scratch on it. Mama didn’t cry until she touched the keys and heard the notes soundin’ sweet as ever. She wiped her tears away quick then, talkin’ to herself, “Got nothin’ to cry about. Not a one of us hurt.”
Folks said later how it was a miracle. Tornado took 93 houses and not one person died cept my friend Cecie’s grandpa who had a stroke and just dropped dead right there in the cellar. I know Cecie cried and cried. She doted on that old man.
The south side a town was hardly touched. That’s where all the black folks lived and some of the poorest whites. Wasn’t long before a bunch a them showed up with picks and shovels and dug in. The women helped pick through the trash— they’d be as happy as Mama when they’d find her some treasure, like the baby pictures that was almost good as new after they wiped off the mud.
All the next week, the South End people came ever day. Daddy built a fire out in the yard. Mama did real well cookin’ out there. Some of our young hens met an untimely end, but it was kinda like a picnic every day—all of us would gather in a circle and one a the men would offer grace, sometimes even my daddy.
Word came that on Sunday there would be a special community church service at our church, First Baptist. We had new stained glass windows and a new preacher, both him and the windows all the way from Baltimore. He was young, just out of seminary.
Just after the bells rang that Sunday, the back door of the church opened and there stood some a the folks from the South End, the ones who’d been so good, helpin’ us and all. Pastor Arnold sort a gulped and quit talkin’. In Oklahoma 1958, integration and Little Rock was just words on the TV. The South End folks filed into the back pews, real quiet like, even the kids.
That’s when Pastor Arnold near shouted, his voice ringin’ loud as could be, “God did not mean for the races to mix.” He waited then, his arms crossed, his chest all puffed out, kinda proud lookin’.
I saw then that my Mama was waitin’, too. I didn’t know for what. She just kept watchin’ those five pastors lined up there on the platform, red-faced and silent. The South End folks stopped where they was, awaitin’ too I guess.
My mama usually so quiet and shy stepped out in the aisle, and lookin’ right at those pastors, she quoted John 13, near the end of the chapter, Jesus talkin’ to his disciples. She used that voice I’d heard before, the one that meant you’d better listen good. “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
Then there was nothin’ but the tickin of the big clock. I was so embarrassed, I coulda died. Folks was turnin’ away from us, and I knew I was gonna catch it at school on Monday. Mama stood, tall and quiet, shakin’ all over, but I couldn’t tell if she was scared or just so mad she could spit.
That’s when a voice came from the back, deep and gentle, Preacher Mason from the African Methodist Episcopal Church. “Didn’t mean to start trouble,” he said, and the folks in the back started to leave, quiet as they had been comin’ in.
Mama grabbed up EllaMae and said to my daddy, “Henry, let’s go home.” We walked outta there, lookin’ neither right nor left.
She never set foot in a church again cept for weddings and funerals. Some folks never did make up with us. Mama paid no mind—she was first there when a new baby came, always took food to folks when they was sick and when they built the new nursin’ home, she used to go up there ever Sunday afternoon and play hymns for the old folks.
Sunday mornin’ she’d hold Bible study with us and some a the kids in the neighborhood. She’d read scripture and tell us stories and we’d sing all the old hymns with her at the piano. Just before she’d turn us loose to go off and play, she’d always tell us, “Remember now—faith ain’t no good unless you live it.”
I married at 17 and went to live up near Robert’s people outside of Lexington. They were Church of the Nazarene. I found out they were good people. Not perfect, but then who is.
The cancer took Mama the summer my youngest was born. Mama was 53 years old. Wash Jackson up at the funeral home asked how many folks we was expectin’ at her service. Most a her friends had died, and others had moved away. “Oh, no more ’n 40 or so,” I told him, same thing I told the ladies at church who’d provide the lunch.
Before the service, the family gathered in what Wash called “The Quiet Room”. The talking in the chapel got louder and louder. I opened the curtain a crack, and stood there gapin’—every pew was full with folks standin’ in the back, people from every church in town. Half the chapel held row after row of black faces.
When it came time for folks to speak about the deceased, first on his feet was Preacher Mason. It was quiet as could be as he made his way up to the front with his shiny black cane, slow and shakin’ all down the left side with the palsy. His voice was thin and raspy, but you could hear ever word…
He opened the Bible and read, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all men will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.” Then he closed the Bible and looked around that crowded chapel. He said one last thing, “Wherever Sister Loudean went in life, if you were there, you knew you were with one of God’s most special folks.”
I can still see her in the cellar, her pullin’ on that chain til her hands bled. Or at the First Baptist Church, speakin’ out the word a God when everone else was too scared to stand up for what was right. On a warm Sunday mornin’ with Mama leadin’ us in song, “Softly and tenderly, Jesus is callin’…, callin’ to you and to me…” oh, yes…
Oh, we had troubles like all folks do. But you know, through it all, Mama was right… faith ain’t no good unless it’s lived.…and when you do that, God will bless you… God will certainly bless you.
May 3, 2020
Hi, it’s Pastor Pam Tinnin and this is Kitchen Church, coming to you from my kitchen on Pine Mountain just outside of Cloverdale, California. Today we’re going to talk about a familiar story, the one where a man asks Jesus some hard questions. Let’s read the scripture first.
Luke 10:25-37
25 Just then a religion scholar stood up with a question to test Jesus. “Teacher, what do I need to do to get eternal life?”
26 He answered, “What’s written in God’s Law? How do you interpret it?”
27 He said, “That you love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and muscle and intelligence—and that you love your neighbor as well as you do yourself.”
28 “Good answer!” said Jesus. “Do it and you’ll live.”
29 Looking for a loophole, he asked, “And just how would you define ‘neighbor’?”
30-32 Jesus answered by telling a story. “There was once a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way he was attacked by robbers. They took his clothes, beat him up, and went off leaving him half-dead. Luckily, a priest was on his way down the same road, but when he saw him he angled across to the other side. Then a Levite religious man showed up; he also avoided the injured man.
33-35 “A Samaritan traveling the road came on him. When he saw the man’s condition, his heart went out to him. He gave him first aid, disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Then he lifted him onto his donkey, led him to an inn, and made him comfortable. In the morning he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, ‘Take good care of him. If it costs any more, put it on my bill—I’ll pay you on my way back.’
36 “What do you think? Which of the three became a neighbor to the man attacked by robbers?”
37 “The one who treated him kindly,” the religion scholar responded.
Jesus said, “Go and do the same.”
Who is our neighbor? That’s a question that has troubled people ever since the time of Jesus. I wanted to do something a little different today. When I was serving my first church in a tiny town in Kansas, I discovered that there was something called “Cowboy Church.” Every year at the fair, when Sunday morning came they had Cowboy Church on the fairgrounds.
Even when I was a little kid I was enthralled by cowboys and the whole culture that came out of the 1800s. I wanted to preach at cowboy church, but I never did because, of course, I preached at my church. This morning we’re going to have cowboy church. I wanted to think about what the people of those long ago days thought about the different stories and lessons in scripture. I hope this morning we may find out just a bit of that.
Part of this comes from my own family history, of how my own people set off to find a new home after the devastation of the Civil War. Let’s go to cowboy church.
Who’s Your Neighbor
Pamela J. Tinnin
May 3, 2020
You’d probably never guess when I was born—way back in 1860, just before the war, what the Yankees called the Rebellion; down south it was the War Between the States. Mama said my daddy didn’t even hold with ownin’ slaves, but he just couldn’t fight against his own people. I remember how Mama prayed ever night—“Oh, Lord, I trust you to keep him safe.” We didn’t know whether he lived or died til the summer of ’65.
One warm June morning I stood there on the porch watchin’ a man on a horse far off. He got bigger and bigger, stirrin’ up the dust on the road. Then I saw it was my daddy—every day my mama had showed me his tintype that set on the chest a drawers next to their big bed.
Us folks in Georgia saw some awful hard times after the war. Daddy did his best but with crop prices down and the drought years that come, he finally gave up. He traded our 80 acres for two mules and a wagon. We tied the milk cow on behind for my three baby brothers, and we set off for the free railroad land in Kansas.
We heard how Kansas was a wild place—overrun with riffraff runnin’ from the law and wild savages that’d bash your brains out for a tin of tobacco. But free land and a fresh start was enough to keep us goin’. Day after day we moved north, not stoppin’ til dark. Daddy’d light a fire and Mama’d make some biscuits and heat up some beans. If he wasn’t too tired, Daddy’d play us a tune on his mouthharp. Then Mama’d tell us a Bible story and listen to our prayers.
Just inside the Kansas border, down near a little town called Coffeyville, we was looking for a place to stop for our noon meal when up ahead we saw a whole some crows sittin’ on the ground, cawin’ and stirrin’ up a fuss. Close by, there was somebody lyin’ there in the road.
Daddy told us to wait and he rode on up. We was scared as all get out, the little boys cryin’ and hidin’ in the wagon. Then Daddy waved us to come on ahead. When we got close, I could see the man in the dirt was dark as the slaves that used to work the big plantations down home in Georgia—his face was swelled up and bloody and I could see he was old—his hair was as white as my grandpa’s.
We pulled up right there and set up camp, the sun as bright as anything. My daddy put the man under the shade of the wagon—one thing about Kansas—trees was awful scarce. We stayed there three days while Mama nursed the man.
On the third night, two men rode up. They looked mean and didn’t get off their horses. Course Daddy didn’t invite them either. They told him they were lookin’ for a thief who ran away before he’d finished out his sentence on the chain gang. Didn’t help they could see the old man right there under the wagon.
Mama sat down right by the wagon. Daddy stood there holdin’ his rifle easy, but ready. The men told my papa that if he knew what was good for him, he’d hand over the old man, but Daddy wouldn’t budge—they called Daddy names I ain’t gonna repeat in polite company. Finally they rode off.
For a long time, I couldn’t sleep. I listened to the cracklin’ of the fire and to Mama and Daddy talkin’ in whispers. “If they come back,” said Daddy, “there’ll be trouble.”
When she answered, Mama’s voice was shaky but determined. “No matter—if we don’t stand up for what’s right,” she said, “how can we call ourselves people of faith? Whatever happens, God will watch over us.”
Just like that story of the Good Samaritan, you gotta do what’s right even if it’s dangerous. When we get the chance to help someone, especially a stranger—that’s our chance to do God’s work. How can we say no to that?
I fell asleep with Mama readin’ the Bible squintin’ to see by the dim light of a kerosene lamp and Daddy sittin’ there with his rifle crost his lap. The next mornin’ Daddy was still there and Mama was stirrin’ up he fire. THe the old man was gone. Daddy said he walked off when it was still dark. We never saw him or the others again.
We finally found that farm—a section out in west Kansas near a place called Russell. A couple years later, when I was ten or so, I went out to look for one of the cows. She was a mean old thing, part longhorn and stupid as a post—always hid when it came time for her calf.
I rode and rode, went up this little draw. I found her—stuck up to her neck in mud. I leaned over and tried to toss my rope around her horns. Like a fool, I fell, face down. Mud in my eyes, my nose, my mouth.
I tried to get up, but couldn’t get up. Wearin’ a skirt didn’t help. Pretty soon the mud was up to my knees, then my waist—then my shoulders. Much as I fought made it worse. For a minute there, I’d feared the cow and me was both goners.
All of a sudden something grabbed me from behind. Hadn’t been an Indian in those parts for years—but here one was, throwin’ me up behind him on his horse. My heart was just apoundin’ and I kept my eye out for his scalpin’ knife. He dropped a loop around that old cow’s horns and chucked to his horse to back up—bit by bit that old cow was pulled out a the mud.
The Indian never said a word, but took me home, leadin’ that old cow—she bellered and bellered, not even grateful. My mama stood in the doorway, face white as a sheet, her eyes big. The Indian just plopped me down right there on the porch, muddy skirt and all. Mama said, “Wait, you wait.”
She went in the house and brought out some grub wrapped in a flour sack and handed it up. He touched his hand to his forehead, almost like he was tippin’ a hat, then took the sack and rode away. The cow dropped a big healthy bull calf durin’ the night.
I kept thinkin’ about how that Indian saved me. Oh, dear, how wrong I was about “wild savages.” Seemed the Good Lord decided to remind me that we’re all jest human beings.
It don’t matter that we look different or act different or talk a different language—God made us, and loves us, each and ever’ one—our job is to take care of each other—to be there for each other—to love each other.
I ain’t ever forgot those times. As many sermons as I’ve heard in all these years, and I’ve heard some good ones, the best ever was from my daddy and mama, that night out on the prairie with a thousand-thousand stars in the sky, and from that Indian who pulled me outa the mud and saved that onery old cow.
Maybe my stories don’t seem like church stories—sure ain’t from the Bible and we surely do learn a lot from the folks in the Bible—the shepherd boy who saved the day, Moses partin’ the waters, and a carpenter’s boy who was really the King of Kings. But I think the Good Lord teaches us all the time—who do we learn the most from but our folks and the people we meet? You know, us grownups all oughta remember that, don’t you think?
Hi, it’s Pastor Pam Tinnin and this is Kitchen Church, coming to you from my kitchen on Pine Mountain just outside of Cloverdale, California. Today we’re going to talk about a familiar story, the one where a man asks Jesus some hard questions. Let’s read the scripture first.
Luke 10:25-37
25 Just then a religion scholar stood up with a question to test Jesus. “Teacher, what do I need to do to get eternal life?”
26 He answered, “What’s written in God’s Law? How do you interpret it?”
27 He said, “That you love the Lord your God with all your passion and prayer and muscle and intelligence—and that you love your neighbor as well as you do yourself.”
28 “Good answer!” said Jesus. “Do it and you’ll live.”
29 Looking for a loophole, he asked, “And just how would you define ‘neighbor’?”
30-32 Jesus answered by telling a story. “There was once a man traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way he was attacked by robbers. They took his clothes, beat him up, and went off leaving him half-dead. Luckily, a priest was on his way down the same road, but when he saw him he angled across to the other side. Then a Levite religious man showed up; he also avoided the injured man.
33-35 “A Samaritan traveling the road came on him. When he saw the man’s condition, his heart went out to him. He gave him first aid, disinfecting and bandaging his wounds. Then he lifted him onto his donkey, led him to an inn, and made him comfortable. In the morning he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper, saying, ‘Take good care of him. If it costs any more, put it on my bill—I’ll pay you on my way back.’
36 “What do you think? Which of the three became a neighbor to the man attacked by robbers?”
37 “The one who treated him kindly,” the religion scholar responded.
Jesus said, “Go and do the same.”
Who is our neighbor? That’s a question that has troubled people ever since the time of Jesus. I wanted to do something a little different today. When I was serving my first church in a tiny town in Kansas, I discovered that there was something called “Cowboy Church.” Every year at the fair, when Sunday morning came they had Cowboy Church on the fairgrounds.
Even when I was a little kid I was enthralled by cowboys and the whole culture that came out of the 1800s. I wanted to preach at cowboy church, but I never did because, of course, I preached at my church. This morning we’re going to have cowboy church. I wanted to think about what the people of those long ago days thought about the different stories and lessons in scripture. I hope this morning we may find out just a bit of that.
Part of this comes from my own family history, of how my own people set off to find a new home after the devastation of the Civil War. Let’s go to cowboy church.
Who’s Your Neighbor
Pamela J. Tinnin
May 3, 2020
You’d probably never guess when I was born—way back in 1860, just before the war, what the Yankees called the Rebellion; down south it was the War Between the States. Mama said my daddy didn’t even hold with ownin’ slaves, but he just couldn’t fight against his own people. I remember how Mama prayed ever night—“Oh, Lord, I trust you to keep him safe.” We didn’t know whether he lived or died til the summer of ’65.
One warm June morning I stood there on the porch watchin’ a man on a horse far off. He got bigger and bigger, stirrin’ up the dust on the road. Then I saw it was my daddy—every day my mama had showed me his tintype that set on the chest a drawers next to their big bed.
Us folks in Georgia saw some awful hard times after the war. Daddy did his best but with crop prices down and the drought years that come, he finally gave up. He traded our 80 acres for two mules and a wagon. We tied the milk cow on behind for my three baby brothers, and we set off for the free railroad land in Kansas.
We heard how Kansas was a wild place—overrun with riffraff runnin’ from the law and wild savages that’d bash your brains out for a tin of tobacco. But free land and a fresh start was enough to keep us goin’. Day after day we moved north, not stoppin’ til dark. Daddy’d light a fire and Mama’d make some biscuits and heat up some beans. If he wasn’t too tired, Daddy’d play us a tune on his mouthharp. Then Mama’d tell us a Bible story and listen to our prayers.
Just inside the Kansas border, down near a little town called Coffeyville, we was looking for a place to stop for our noon meal when up ahead we saw a whole some crows sittin’ on the ground, cawin’ and stirrin’ up a fuss. Close by, there was somebody lyin’ there in the road.
Daddy told us to wait and he rode on up. We was scared as all get out, the little boys cryin’ and hidin’ in the wagon. Then Daddy waved us to come on ahead. When we got close, I could see the man in the dirt was dark as the slaves that used to work the big plantations down home in Georgia—his face was swelled up and bloody and I could see he was old—his hair was as white as my grandpa’s.
We pulled up right there and set up camp, the sun as bright as anything. My daddy put the man under the shade of the wagon—one thing about Kansas—trees was awful scarce. We stayed there three days while Mama nursed the man.
On the third night, two men rode up. They looked mean and didn’t get off their horses. Course Daddy didn’t invite them either. They told him they were lookin’ for a thief who ran away before he’d finished out his sentence on the chain gang. Didn’t help they could see the old man right there under the wagon.
Mama sat down right by the wagon. Daddy stood there holdin’ his rifle easy, but ready. The men told my papa that if he knew what was good for him, he’d hand over the old man, but Daddy wouldn’t budge—they called Daddy names I ain’t gonna repeat in polite company. Finally they rode off.
For a long time, I couldn’t sleep. I listened to the cracklin’ of the fire and to Mama and Daddy talkin’ in whispers. “If they come back,” said Daddy, “there’ll be trouble.”
When she answered, Mama’s voice was shaky but determined. “No matter—if we don’t stand up for what’s right,” she said, “how can we call ourselves people of faith? Whatever happens, God will watch over us.”
Just like that story of the Good Samaritan, you gotta do what’s right even if it’s dangerous. When we get the chance to help someone, especially a stranger—that’s our chance to do God’s work. How can we say no to that?
I fell asleep with Mama readin’ the Bible squintin’ to see by the dim light of a kerosene lamp and Daddy sittin’ there with his rifle crost his lap. The next mornin’ Daddy was still there and Mama was stirrin’ up he fire. THe the old man was gone. Daddy said he walked off when it was still dark. We never saw him or the others again.
We finally found that farm—a section out in west Kansas near a place called Russell. A couple years later, when I was ten or so, I went out to look for one of the cows. She was a mean old thing, part longhorn and stupid as a post—always hid when it came time for her calf.
I rode and rode, went up this little draw. I found her—stuck up to her neck in mud. I leaned over and tried to toss my rope around her horns. Like a fool, I fell, face down. Mud in my eyes, my nose, my mouth.
I tried to get up, but couldn’t get up. Wearin’ a skirt didn’t help. Pretty soon the mud was up to my knees, then my waist—then my shoulders. Much as I fought made it worse. For a minute there, I’d feared the cow and me was both goners.
All of a sudden something grabbed me from behind. Hadn’t been an Indian in those parts for years—but here one was, throwin’ me up behind him on his horse. My heart was just apoundin’ and I kept my eye out for his scalpin’ knife. He dropped a loop around that old cow’s horns and chucked to his horse to back up—bit by bit that old cow was pulled out a the mud.
The Indian never said a word, but took me home, leadin’ that old cow—she bellered and bellered, not even grateful. My mama stood in the doorway, face white as a sheet, her eyes big. The Indian just plopped me down right there on the porch, muddy skirt and all. Mama said, “Wait, you wait.”
She went in the house and brought out some grub wrapped in a flour sack and handed it up. He touched his hand to his forehead, almost like he was tippin’ a hat, then took the sack and rode away. The cow dropped a big healthy bull calf durin’ the night.
I kept thinkin’ about how that Indian saved me. Oh, dear, how wrong I was about “wild savages.” Seemed the Good Lord decided to remind me that we’re all jest human beings.
It don’t matter that we look different or act different or talk a different language—God made us, and loves us, each and ever’ one—our job is to take care of each other—to be there for each other—to love each other.
I ain’t ever forgot those times. As many sermons as I’ve heard in all these years, and I’ve heard some good ones, the best ever was from my daddy and mama, that night out on the prairie with a thousand-thousand stars in the sky, and from that Indian who pulled me outa the mud and saved that onery old cow.
Maybe my stories don’t seem like church stories—sure ain’t from the Bible and we surely do learn a lot from the folks in the Bible—the shepherd boy who saved the day, Moses partin’ the waters, and a carpenter’s boy who was really the King of Kings. But I think the Good Lord teaches us all the time—who do we learn the most from but our folks and the people we meet? You know, us grownups all oughta remember that, don’t you think?
WALKING THE ROAD TO EMMAUS
PAMELA J. TINNIN
APRIL 26. 2020
YOU KNOW, I’VE BEEN ON THE ROAD TO EMMAUS…NO, NOT THE ROAD CLEOPAS AND HIS FRIEND WALKED, BUT AN EMMAUS ROAD SURE ENOUGH. I’VE BEEN ON THE EARTH A BIT OVER SEVEN DECADES AND LIKE THESE TWO IN OUR SCRIPTURE, MORE THAN ONCE, I’VE FELT THAT MY WORLD HAD ENDED OR AT THE LEAST, BEEN TERRIBLY SHAKEN, NEVER TO BE THE SAME AGAIN.
IN 1993 I ENTERED SEMINARY AT 47 AND GRADUATED AT 50. AT LAST I FELT MY LIFE HAD PURPOSE AND MEANING BEYOND THE DAILY ROUTINE OF BEING MOM, WIFE, AND EMPLOYEE. I LOVE MY HUSBAND AND FAMILY, BUT HAD ALWAYS WANTED TO HELP PEOPLE. FINALLY THIS WAS SERIOUS STUFF, A CALL FROM GOD. FOR EIGHT YEARS I SERVED THE ONLY CHURCH IN A KANSAS FARM TOWN OF ABOUT 250 PEOPLE. THOSE WONDERFUL PEOPLE TAUGHT ME HOW TO BE A PASTOR AND I LOVED THEM. HOWEVER,
BUT IN THE SPRING OF 2008, I WENT TO A WORKSHOP HELD BY AN EPISCOPAI PRIEST, REV. DEBBIE LITTLE. SHE HAD STARTED A HOMELESS MINISTRY THAT GREW FROM THE SUNDAY MEETINGS AT BOSTON COMMONS TO MINISTRY AFFILIATES EVEN IN OTHER COUNTRIES. HER STORY REAWAKENED AN OLD DREAM OF MINE. I WANTED TO REACH OUT TO PEOPLE WHO LIVED ON THE STREETS, UNDER THE BRIDGES, OR IN CAMPS DOWN BY THE RIVER. THAT FALL, ALONG WITH VOLUNTEERS FROM MY CONGREGATION, I BEGAN AN OUTDOOR CHURCH. AFTER OUR REGULAR SERVICE, WE GATHERED AT 1PM ON THE PLAZA NEAR THE BRIDGE TO PRAY A BIT, SING A BIT, LISTEN TO THE WORD, AND SHARE A MEAL.
AT FIRST JUST A FEW FOLKS WANDERED IN, BUT WE KEPT GOING AND MORE PEOPLE CAME. SOON A DOZEN OR MORE WERE REGULAR AND SOME OF THE LOCAL BUSINESSES COMPLAINED. THEY SAID WHEN THE MEAL WAS DONE AND WE HEADED HOME, THE HOMELESS PEOPLE HUNG AROUND AND SCARED PEOPLE AWAY FROM THE SHOPS AND CAFES. ONE OWNER SAID, “THEY WALK PAST MY MOTEL EVERY SUNDAY AND PEOPLE WERE UNCOMFORTABLE.”
I UNDERSTOOD THE PLIGHT OF SMALL BUSINESSES AND ALSO THAT PEOPLE WHO ARE DIFFERENT CAN BE INTIMIDATING. WE STARTED HUNTING FOR A NEW LOCATION. FOR A WHILE, WE THOUGHT WE’D HAVE TO GIVE UP, BUT THEN SOMEONE SUGGESTED MOVING TO THE PARK AND RIDE. AFTER THAT, THINGS CALMED DOWN, UNTIL THE COUNTY SENT THE HEALTH DEPT. DIRECTOR TO CHECK US OUT. WHEN HE FOUND WE REALLY WERE A CHURCH AND THE MEALS WERE BASICALLY POTLUCK LIKE AT ANY OTHER CHURCH, HE GAVE US THE GREEN LIGHT. “I’M NOT DUMB ENOUGH TO TAKE ON EVERY CHURCH IN SONOMA COUNTY, THAT’S FOR SURE,” HE SAID, CHUCKLING.
SO WE CHANGED OUR NAME TO SIMPLY “STREET CHURCH”. EACH SUNDAY WE LOADED OUR PICKUP WITH TWO FOLDING TABLES, 15 STACKING PLASTIC CHAIRS, CROCK POTS AND CASSEROLES, AND AN ENORMOUS ICE CHEST. BUT I MUST ADMIT, I WAS SURPRISED WHEN I STARTED HEARING COMPLAINTS AND RUMORS FROM SOME OF THE TRADITIONAL CHURCH LEADERS WHO DIDN’T VOLUNTEER. “SHE SEEMS TO PREFER THOSE PEOPLE” OR “SURE WISH SHE COULD PUT AS MUCH ENERGY INTO GROWING OUR CHURCH.” I KNOW I MADE MISTAKES AND I TRULY REGRETTED WHATEVER I MAY HAVE DONE TO CAUSE ANY HURT OR HARD FEELINGS. BUT I STARTED QUESTIONING MYSELF, EVEN QUESTIONING GOD. IN FACT, I BEGAN TO THINK OF RESIGNING AND LEAVING.
SPRING CAME AND WITH IT, EASTER. I COULDN’T LEAVE THEM IN THE LURCH DURING EASTER, THE BUSIEST, MOST HOLY TIME OF THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH YEAR. LIKE EVERY YEAR THE FIRST EASTER SERVICE BEGAN WHEN THE SUN WAS BARELY UP AT THE GUERNEVILLE CEMETERY NEAR A LARGE WOODEN CROSS. WE ALWAYS INVITED THE LOCAL METROPOLITAN COMMUNITY CHURCH AND THEY GATHERED WITH EIGHT OR NINE OF US, SANG, PRAYED, AND READ THE RESURRECTION STORY. AFTERWARDS, EVERYONE DROVE TO OUR CHURCH FOR HAM AND PANCAKE BREAKFAST.
THAT EASTER THE SANCTUARY HELD LARGE VASES WITH CALLA LILIES. THE CHOIR SANG OUT, FACES SMILING AND EXCITED. QUITE A FEW PEOPLE BROUGHT THEIR EASTER GUESTS WITH THEM, SO WE HAD A FULL HOUSE. JUST AFTER THE SERVICE STARTED, A STRANGER WALKED IN, A MAN WHO HAD BEEN HANGING AROUND AT STREET CHURCH, NEVER JOINING THE GROUP, BUT PACING AROUND THE EDGES. HE HAD LONG BLOND HAIR AND QUITE A BEARD THAT HE HAD COAXED INTO A SPIRAL. I HAD TRIED TO TALK TO HIM SEVERAL TIMES, BUT DISCOVERED NOT ONLY WAS HE DEAF, HE WAS VOLATILE AND ANGRY. HE ALSO CLAIMED TO BE JESUS, SON OF DAVID, WHICH HE WOULD SHOUT OUT TO PEOPLE. MY STREET CHURCH FOLKS WARNED ME TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM AND HERE HE WAS, EASTER MORNING.
WHILE HE DIDN’T STAND UP AND DIDN’T SING PERHAPS BECAUSE OF NOT HEARING, HE WAS QUIET, SITTING THERE ON THE FRONT ROW WHERE NO ONE EVER SAT, MOSTLY WITH HIS HEAD BOWED. TIME FOR COMMUNION CAME. I PRONOUNCED THE WORDS OF CONSECRATION AND BLESSING, CLOSE TO THE SAME ONES THE SCRIPTURES SAY JESUS SAID, EXCEPT FOR THE SENTENCE I ALMOST ALWAYS END WITH. “THIS IS THE FEAST OF THE LORD. ALL OF US ARE INVITED. THERE’S A PLACE FOR EVERYONE, AND IF YOU’RE NOT IN YOUR PLACE, THE CELEBRATION ISN’T QUITE COMPLETE.”
I WALKED WITH THE CHALICE TOWARD THE FIRST PEW RIGHT ACROSS FROM ME. I CONFESS, I TURNED LEFT AFTER SERVING THE PEOPLE SITTING THERE BECAUSE THE STRANGER SAT TO THE RIGHT. SILENTLY I LECTURED MYSELF, “JESUS’S LIGHT IS IN EVERYONE, EVERY SINGLE PERSON. THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE ALWAYS BELIEVED, PAM.” WHEN AT LAST I STEPPED TOWARDS HIM, ALL I WAS THINKING WAS, “PLEASE GOD, DON’T LET HIM START SHOUTING.”
HE STOOD UP, A HEAD TALLER THAN ME, AND RAISED HIS HANDS AND CUPPED THEM AROUND THE CHALICE. IMMEDIATELY I FELT A PULL, STRONG AND STEADY. THE MAN WAS TRYING TO TAKE IT FROM ME. I HELD TIGHT, DESPERATELY TRYING TO THINK WHAT I SHOULD DO. HE NEARLY PULLED ME FORWARD AND THAT’S WHEN I EASED MY HANDS AWAY AND LOOKED UP AT HIM.
THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF JESUS WAS LOOKING AT ME WITH SUCH KINDNESS IN HIS EYES. HE HELD OUT THE CUP TO ME, HIS OFFER CLEAR. HIS HOARSE VOICE BROKE AS HE SAID, “THIS IS MY BLOOD SHED FOR YOU. EACH TIME YOU SHARE THE CUP, REMEMBER ME.”
LOOKING BACK AT HIM, I KNEW AS CERTAIN AS ANYTHING THAT IN THAT MOMENT, JESUS WAS IN OUR MIDST. I SIPPED FROM THE CUP WHILE TEARS RAN DOWN MY CHEEKS. HE RELINQUISHED THE CHALICE TO ME AND I OFFERED IT TO HIM. HE WAS THE LAST TO DRINK AND HE SWALLOWED DEEPLY, HIS FACE WET WITH TEARS OF HIS OWN.
MORE THAN ONCE IN OUR LIVES WE WILL WALK THE EMMAUS ROAD SOMETIMES FEELING SO LOST, SO HURT AND SO WOUNDED, WE MAY FIND OURSELVES WISHING THAT THE HOLY ONE WE YEARN FOR WOULD APPEAR. THE THING IS, JESUS IS WITH US ALWAYS …ALWAYS …AS NEAR AS OUR NEXT BREATH. SOMETIMES IT JUST TAKES US A WHILE TO RECOGNIZE HIM. BUT WHEN WE DO, OUR HEARTS WILL BURN WITHIN US, BURN WITH A NEW HOPE. ADDENDUM: THERE’S A ANOTHER PART OF THE STORY. I RETIRED FROM THE TRADITIONAL CHURCH MARCH, 2013. THREE YEARS LATER I HAD TO GIVE UP STREET CHURCH. BUT GOD WASN’T FINISHED WITH ME. ON THE FIRST OF MAY 2018 WHEN PASTOR REBECCA SCHROEDER WHO FOLLOWED ME AT THE GUERNEVILLE COMMUNITY CHURCH AS PASTOR BECAME TOO ILL TO CONTINUE, I RETURNED AS TEMPORARY PULPIT SUPPLY. ON AUGUST 1, 2018 THEY CALLED ME AS THEIR PASTOR. ATTENDANCE IS SMALL BUT THERE ARE PEOPLE FROM THE OLD CHURCH, SOME FROM STREET CHURCH, AND A FEW NEW ONES, TOO. IT’S BEEN NEARLY TWO YEARS SINCE MY RETURN. I PRAY THAT MY LITTLE FLOCK HAS BEEN AS BLESSED AS I HAVE BEEN BY THE NEW FAMILY THAT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TOGETHER. NOW WITH THE PANDEMIC, WE ARE ALL WALKING AN UNKNOWN PATH, A JOURNEY WE SHARE WITH THE WHOLE WORLD. WHILE IT IS A TERRIBLE TIME WITH MILLIONS STRUCK DOWN BY A DISEASE WITH NO KNOWN CURE OR VACCINE, EVEN IN THE FACE OF SOMETHING WE COULDN’T IMAGINE, IN A TIME OF SUCH DEATH AND LOSS AND SUFFERING, EACH OF US CARRIES THE LIGHT OF THE HOLY ONE. WHEN WE ARE TOGETHER THE LIGHTS BECOME ONE AND TOGETHER WE CAN PUSH BACK THE DARKNESS. STAY SAFE AND STAY WELL AND DON’T FORGET — LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE. AMEN
IN 1993 I ENTERED SEMINARY AT 47 AND GRADUATED AT 50. AT LAST I FELT MY LIFE HAD PURPOSE AND MEANING BEYOND THE DAILY ROUTINE OF BEING MOM, WIFE, AND EMPLOYEE. I LOVE MY HUSBAND AND FAMILY, BUT HAD ALWAYS WANTED TO HELP PEOPLE. FINALLY THIS WAS SERIOUS STUFF, A CALL FROM GOD. FOR EIGHT YEARS I SERVED THE ONLY CHURCH IN A KANSAS FARM TOWN OF ABOUT 250 PEOPLE. THOSE WONDERFUL PEOPLE TAUGHT ME HOW TO BE A PASTOR AND I LOVED THEM. HOWEVER,
BUT IN THE SPRING OF 2008, I WENT TO A WORKSHOP HELD BY AN EPISCOPAI PRIEST, REV. DEBBIE LITTLE. SHE HAD STARTED A HOMELESS MINISTRY THAT GREW FROM THE SUNDAY MEETINGS AT BOSTON COMMONS TO MINISTRY AFFILIATES EVEN IN OTHER COUNTRIES. HER STORY REAWAKENED AN OLD DREAM OF MINE. I WANTED TO REACH OUT TO PEOPLE WHO LIVED ON THE STREETS, UNDER THE BRIDGES, OR IN CAMPS DOWN BY THE RIVER. THAT FALL, ALONG WITH VOLUNTEERS FROM MY CONGREGATION, I BEGAN AN OUTDOOR CHURCH. AFTER OUR REGULAR SERVICE, WE GATHERED AT 1PM ON THE PLAZA NEAR THE BRIDGE TO PRAY A BIT, SING A BIT, LISTEN TO THE WORD, AND SHARE A MEAL.
AT FIRST JUST A FEW FOLKS WANDERED IN, BUT WE KEPT GOING AND MORE PEOPLE CAME. SOON A DOZEN OR MORE WERE REGULAR AND SOME OF THE LOCAL BUSINESSES COMPLAINED. THEY SAID WHEN THE MEAL WAS DONE AND WE HEADED HOME, THE HOMELESS PEOPLE HUNG AROUND AND SCARED PEOPLE AWAY FROM THE SHOPS AND CAFES. ONE OWNER SAID, “THEY WALK PAST MY MOTEL EVERY SUNDAY AND PEOPLE WERE UNCOMFORTABLE.”
I UNDERSTOOD THE PLIGHT OF SMALL BUSINESSES AND ALSO THAT PEOPLE WHO ARE DIFFERENT CAN BE INTIMIDATING. WE STARTED HUNTING FOR A NEW LOCATION. FOR A WHILE, WE THOUGHT WE’D HAVE TO GIVE UP, BUT THEN SOMEONE SUGGESTED MOVING TO THE PARK AND RIDE. AFTER THAT, THINGS CALMED DOWN, UNTIL THE COUNTY SENT THE HEALTH DEPT. DIRECTOR TO CHECK US OUT. WHEN HE FOUND WE REALLY WERE A CHURCH AND THE MEALS WERE BASICALLY POTLUCK LIKE AT ANY OTHER CHURCH, HE GAVE US THE GREEN LIGHT. “I’M NOT DUMB ENOUGH TO TAKE ON EVERY CHURCH IN SONOMA COUNTY, THAT’S FOR SURE,” HE SAID, CHUCKLING.
SO WE CHANGED OUR NAME TO SIMPLY “STREET CHURCH”. EACH SUNDAY WE LOADED OUR PICKUP WITH TWO FOLDING TABLES, 15 STACKING PLASTIC CHAIRS, CROCK POTS AND CASSEROLES, AND AN ENORMOUS ICE CHEST. BUT I MUST ADMIT, I WAS SURPRISED WHEN I STARTED HEARING COMPLAINTS AND RUMORS FROM SOME OF THE TRADITIONAL CHURCH LEADERS WHO DIDN’T VOLUNTEER. “SHE SEEMS TO PREFER THOSE PEOPLE” OR “SURE WISH SHE COULD PUT AS MUCH ENERGY INTO GROWING OUR CHURCH.” I KNOW I MADE MISTAKES AND I TRULY REGRETTED WHATEVER I MAY HAVE DONE TO CAUSE ANY HURT OR HARD FEELINGS. BUT I STARTED QUESTIONING MYSELF, EVEN QUESTIONING GOD. IN FACT, I BEGAN TO THINK OF RESIGNING AND LEAVING.
SPRING CAME AND WITH IT, EASTER. I COULDN’T LEAVE THEM IN THE LURCH DURING EASTER, THE BUSIEST, MOST HOLY TIME OF THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH YEAR. LIKE EVERY YEAR THE FIRST EASTER SERVICE BEGAN WHEN THE SUN WAS BARELY UP AT THE GUERNEVILLE CEMETERY NEAR A LARGE WOODEN CROSS. WE ALWAYS INVITED THE LOCAL METROPOLITAN COMMUNITY CHURCH AND THEY GATHERED WITH EIGHT OR NINE OF US, SANG, PRAYED, AND READ THE RESURRECTION STORY. AFTERWARDS, EVERYONE DROVE TO OUR CHURCH FOR HAM AND PANCAKE BREAKFAST.
THAT EASTER THE SANCTUARY HELD LARGE VASES WITH CALLA LILIES. THE CHOIR SANG OUT, FACES SMILING AND EXCITED. QUITE A FEW PEOPLE BROUGHT THEIR EASTER GUESTS WITH THEM, SO WE HAD A FULL HOUSE. JUST AFTER THE SERVICE STARTED, A STRANGER WALKED IN, A MAN WHO HAD BEEN HANGING AROUND AT STREET CHURCH, NEVER JOINING THE GROUP, BUT PACING AROUND THE EDGES. HE HAD LONG BLOND HAIR AND QUITE A BEARD THAT HE HAD COAXED INTO A SPIRAL. I HAD TRIED TO TALK TO HIM SEVERAL TIMES, BUT DISCOVERED NOT ONLY WAS HE DEAF, HE WAS VOLATILE AND ANGRY. HE ALSO CLAIMED TO BE JESUS, SON OF DAVID, WHICH HE WOULD SHOUT OUT TO PEOPLE. MY STREET CHURCH FOLKS WARNED ME TO STAY AWAY FROM HIM AND HERE HE WAS, EASTER MORNING.
WHILE HE DIDN’T STAND UP AND DIDN’T SING PERHAPS BECAUSE OF NOT HEARING, HE WAS QUIET, SITTING THERE ON THE FRONT ROW WHERE NO ONE EVER SAT, MOSTLY WITH HIS HEAD BOWED. TIME FOR COMMUNION CAME. I PRONOUNCED THE WORDS OF CONSECRATION AND BLESSING, CLOSE TO THE SAME ONES THE SCRIPTURES SAY JESUS SAID, EXCEPT FOR THE SENTENCE I ALMOST ALWAYS END WITH. “THIS IS THE FEAST OF THE LORD. ALL OF US ARE INVITED. THERE’S A PLACE FOR EVERYONE, AND IF YOU’RE NOT IN YOUR PLACE, THE CELEBRATION ISN’T QUITE COMPLETE.”
I WALKED WITH THE CHALICE TOWARD THE FIRST PEW RIGHT ACROSS FROM ME. I CONFESS, I TURNED LEFT AFTER SERVING THE PEOPLE SITTING THERE BECAUSE THE STRANGER SAT TO THE RIGHT. SILENTLY I LECTURED MYSELF, “JESUS’S LIGHT IS IN EVERYONE, EVERY SINGLE PERSON. THAT’S WHAT YOU’VE ALWAYS BELIEVED, PAM.” WHEN AT LAST I STEPPED TOWARDS HIM, ALL I WAS THINKING WAS, “PLEASE GOD, DON’T LET HIM START SHOUTING.”
HE STOOD UP, A HEAD TALLER THAN ME, AND RAISED HIS HANDS AND CUPPED THEM AROUND THE CHALICE. IMMEDIATELY I FELT A PULL, STRONG AND STEADY. THE MAN WAS TRYING TO TAKE IT FROM ME. I HELD TIGHT, DESPERATELY TRYING TO THINK WHAT I SHOULD DO. HE NEARLY PULLED ME FORWARD AND THAT’S WHEN I EASED MY HANDS AWAY AND LOOKED UP AT HIM.
THE MAN WHO CALLED HIMSELF JESUS WAS LOOKING AT ME WITH SUCH KINDNESS IN HIS EYES. HE HELD OUT THE CUP TO ME, HIS OFFER CLEAR. HIS HOARSE VOICE BROKE AS HE SAID, “THIS IS MY BLOOD SHED FOR YOU. EACH TIME YOU SHARE THE CUP, REMEMBER ME.”
LOOKING BACK AT HIM, I KNEW AS CERTAIN AS ANYTHING THAT IN THAT MOMENT, JESUS WAS IN OUR MIDST. I SIPPED FROM THE CUP WHILE TEARS RAN DOWN MY CHEEKS. HE RELINQUISHED THE CHALICE TO ME AND I OFFERED IT TO HIM. HE WAS THE LAST TO DRINK AND HE SWALLOWED DEEPLY, HIS FACE WET WITH TEARS OF HIS OWN.
MORE THAN ONCE IN OUR LIVES WE WILL WALK THE EMMAUS ROAD SOMETIMES FEELING SO LOST, SO HURT AND SO WOUNDED, WE MAY FIND OURSELVES WISHING THAT THE HOLY ONE WE YEARN FOR WOULD APPEAR. THE THING IS, JESUS IS WITH US ALWAYS …ALWAYS …AS NEAR AS OUR NEXT BREATH. SOMETIMES IT JUST TAKES US A WHILE TO RECOGNIZE HIM. BUT WHEN WE DO, OUR HEARTS WILL BURN WITHIN US, BURN WITH A NEW HOPE. ADDENDUM: THERE’S A ANOTHER PART OF THE STORY. I RETIRED FROM THE TRADITIONAL CHURCH MARCH, 2013. THREE YEARS LATER I HAD TO GIVE UP STREET CHURCH. BUT GOD WASN’T FINISHED WITH ME. ON THE FIRST OF MAY 2018 WHEN PASTOR REBECCA SCHROEDER WHO FOLLOWED ME AT THE GUERNEVILLE COMMUNITY CHURCH AS PASTOR BECAME TOO ILL TO CONTINUE, I RETURNED AS TEMPORARY PULPIT SUPPLY. ON AUGUST 1, 2018 THEY CALLED ME AS THEIR PASTOR. ATTENDANCE IS SMALL BUT THERE ARE PEOPLE FROM THE OLD CHURCH, SOME FROM STREET CHURCH, AND A FEW NEW ONES, TOO. IT’S BEEN NEARLY TWO YEARS SINCE MY RETURN. I PRAY THAT MY LITTLE FLOCK HAS BEEN AS BLESSED AS I HAVE BEEN BY THE NEW FAMILY THAT HAS BEEN BROUGHT TOGETHER. NOW WITH THE PANDEMIC, WE ARE ALL WALKING AN UNKNOWN PATH, A JOURNEY WE SHARE WITH THE WHOLE WORLD. WHILE IT IS A TERRIBLE TIME WITH MILLIONS STRUCK DOWN BY A DISEASE WITH NO KNOWN CURE OR VACCINE, EVEN IN THE FACE OF SOMETHING WE COULDN’T IMAGINE, IN A TIME OF SUCH DEATH AND LOSS AND SUFFERING, EACH OF US CARRIES THE LIGHT OF THE HOLY ONE. WHEN WE ARE TOGETHER THE LIGHTS BECOME ONE AND TOGETHER WE CAN PUSH BACK THE DARKNESS. STAY SAFE AND STAY WELL AND DON’T FORGET — LET YOUR LIGHT SHINE. AMEN
3-29-20
DEAD IS DEAD
Pamela Tinnin
DEAD IS DEAD
Pamela Tinnin
HI, IT’S TIME FOR PASTOR PAM’S KITCHEN CHURCH I’M THE PASTOR OF THE GUERNEVILLE COMMUNITY CHURCH. WE’RE A UNITED CHURCH OF CHRIST CONGREGATION IN NORTHERN CALIFORNIA. LIKE SO MANY OF YOU, WE ARE LIVING UNDER A SHELTER-IN-PLACE ORDER DUE TO THE CORONAVIRUS PANDEMIC THAT IS SPREADING ACROSS THE WORLD. WE BELIEVE THAT WHETHER WE CAN MEET TOGETHER IN A BUILDING ONCE A WEEK OR NOT, AS WE EACH CONTINUE TO FOLLOW THE WAY TAUGHT BY JESUS SO LONG AGO IN OUR HOMES, COMMUNITIES, AND THE WORLD, THE CHURCH IS ALWAYS ACTIVE. EACH WEEK WE’LL VIDEO A MESSAGE AND PLACE IT ON-LINE. SO LET US BEGIN. THIS WEEK WE ARE CONSIDERING THE LAZARUS STORY. MARY AND MARTHA, SISTERS OF JESUS’ FRIEND LAZARUS, HAVE SENT WORD THAT THEIR BROTHER LAZARUS HAS DIED. JESUS TRAVELS TO BE WITH THEM, BUT LAZARUS HAS BEEN BURIED FOR FOUR DAYS. IN JOHN CHAPTER 11, WE READ A STORY OF DEATH BUT EVEN MORE, A STORY OF LIFE. BEGINNING AT VERSE 38
THEN JESUS, AGAIN GREATLY DISTURBED, CAME TO THE TOMB. IT WAS A CAVE, AND A STONE WAS LYING AGAINST IT. 39 JESUS SAID, "TAKE AWAY THE STONE." MARTHA, THE SISTER OF THE DEAD MAN, SAID TO HIM, "LORD, ALREADY THERE IS A STENCH BECAUSE HE HAS BEEN DEAD FOUR DAYS."
40 JESUS SAID TO HER, "DID I NOT TELL YOU THAT IF YOU BELIEVED, YOU WOULD SEE THE GLORY OF GOD?" 41 SO THEY TOOK AWAY THE STONE. AND JESUS LOOKED UPWARD AND SAID, "FATHER, I THANK YOU FOR HAVING HEARD ME. 42 I KNEW THAT YOU ALWAYS HEAR ME, BUT I HAVE SAID THIS FOR THE SAKE OF THE CROWD STANDING HERE, SO THAT THEY MAY BELIEVE THAT YOU SENT ME." 43 WHEN HE HAD SAID THIS, HE CRIED WITH A LOUD VOICE, "LAZARUS, COME OUT!"
44 THE DEAD MAN CAME OUT, HIS HANDS AND FEET BOUND WITH STRIPS OF CLOTH, AND HIS FACE WRAPPED IN A CLOTH. JESUS SAID TO THEM, "UNBIND HIM, AND LET HIM GO."
DEAD IS DEAD
PAMELA J. TINNIN
I ONCE READ ANOTHER STORY THAT BEGAN WITH DEATH, A STRANGE STORY BY AUTHOR FLANNERY O’CONNOR. IT WAS ABOUT A SERIAL KILLER, A MAN CALLED THE MISFIT. BEFORE THEE THE MISFIT KILLS HIS VICTIMS HE TELLS THEM THAT HE BELIEVES THE WORLD IS A PLACE “WHERE THE LAME DON’T WALK, THE BLIND DON’T SEE, AND DEAD STAYS DEAD.” THE MISFIT’S WORDS REMINDED ME OF A MAN I MET A LONG TIME AGO. IN THE EARLY 70S I VOLUNTEERED AT A PLACE THAT OPENED DURING THE VIETNAM WAR TO HELP RETURNING VETERANS “RE-ASSIMILATE” THEMSELVES INTO SOCIETY. I DID SECRETARIAL WORK, SCHEDULED APPOINTMENTS, DROVE GUYS TO THE VA CLINIC, AND ORGANIZED SOCIAL EVENTS. MY FIRST DAY AT THE FRONT DESK, I MET BOBBY LEE. HE DRIFTED IN AND OUT OF THE OFFICE FOR A YEAR OR SO. BOBBY LEE CAME TO US FOR COURT-ORDERED COUNSELING. HE’D BEEN IN AND OUT OF JAIL, USUALLY ON DRUNK AND DISORDERLY CHARGES, SEVERAL TIMES FOR DESTROYING PRIVATE PROPERTY. HIS LAST CHARGE WAS FOR ASSAULT WITH A BASEBALL BAT. WHEN I READ THE CHARGES LISTED IN HIS FILE, I WAS FLABBERGASTED—YOU SEE, BOBBY LEE WAS IN A WHEELCHAIR AND I JUST COULDN’T BELIEVE HE COULD HAVE DONE IT. IN HIS FIRST WEEK BOBBY LEE WAS REFERRED TO OUR VOLUNTEER PSYCHOLOGIST. HE WAS ALSO ENROLLED IN AN ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASS, FORCED TO JOIN A VETS SUPPORT GROUP, AND ATTENDED DAILY AA MEETINGS. DAY AFTER DAY, I’D SEE HIM, TIGHT FACED AND ANGRY. HE’D WHEEL HIMSELF THROUGH THE DOOR, LET IT SLAM, AND THEN SIT GRIMLY UNTIL IT WAS TIME FOR ONE APPOINTMENT OR ANOTHER. NOW I WAS YOUNG AND NAIVE THEN AND I DECIDED I WAS GOING TO SAVE HIM—I WAS GOING TO MAKE THE WORLD BRIGHT AGAIN FOR THIS SLOW-TALKING KID FROM GEORGIA WHOSE EYES LOOKED SO FLAT AND LIFELESS. I DID MY BEST—I TRIED MY USUAL CHARMS—TEASING, JOKING, AND EVEN FLIRTING. I SAT NEAR HIM AT LUNCH, I OFFERED TO DRIVE HIM HOME, I BROUGHT HIM BOOKS TO READ. BUT NOTHING WORKED. HE WAS POLITE ENOUGH, PERHAPS AFRAID THEY’D SEND HIM BACK TO JAIL, OR MAYBE JUST REMEMBERING HIS SOUTHERN MANNERS. HE MANAGED TO MAINTAIN IN THE THREE YEARS I KNEW HIM—HE FOLLOWED THROUGH WITH THE PROGRAM THE COURT HAD ORDERED, KEPT A TIGHT CONTROL ON HIS TEMPER, AND HE DIDN’T GET ARRESTED ANY MORE. HIS COUNSELORS GAVE HIS PROBATION OFFICER POSITIVE REPORTS AND SEEMED WARILY OPTIMISTIC FOR HIS FUTURE. I WAS NOT—OPTIMISTIC THAT IS—WHENEVER HE THOUGHT NO ONE WAS WATCHING, HIS BLAND SMILE FADED AWAY TO A BLANK AND AWFUL EMPTINESS. I COULDN’T STAND IT, AND SO I REDOUBLED MY EFFORTS—SOMEHOW I WAS GOING TO REACH HIM. ONE DAY HE SURPRISED ME BY ASKING ME TO GO SIT ON THE PORCH WITH HIM, SAYING HE WANTED TO TALK TO ME. THIS IS IT, I THOUGHT, THE BREAKTHROUGH. BOBBY LEE LEANED OVER AND TOUCHED MY ARM. “SUGAR,” HE DRAWLED SLOW AND SOFT, “YOU CAN STOP TRYIN’ WITH ME. I DON’ BELIEVE IN NO MIRACLES—THESE LEGS ARE DEAD AND THEY’RE GONNA STAY DEAD. I’LL END MY DAYS IN THIS CHAIR AND THERE AIN’T ONE DAY I DON’T WISH I HAD DIED OVER THERE.” HIS VOICE WAS AS CALM AS IF HE’D SPOKEN OF THE WEATHER, BUT HAD THE RING OF TRUTH AND OF A TERRIBLE FINALITY. THEN HE WHEELED HIS CHAIR DOWN THE RAMP, AND TURNED LEFT ONTO THE SIDEWALK. I STOOD THERE ON THE PORCH BLINKING BACK TEARS AND WATCHED HIM UNTIL HE TURNED THE CORNER, UNTIL I COULDN’T SEE HIM ANY MORE. "UNBIND HIM,” JESUS SAYS, “AND LET HIM GO.” UNBIND HIM, AND LET HIM GO. AND LAZARUS LIVED. I CAN’T TELL YOU HOW MANY TIMES OVER THE YEARS I’VE WISHED I COULD WORK MIRACLES—WITH PEOPLE LIKE BOBBY LEE, WHEN MY BEST FRIEND WAS DIAGNOSED WITH TERMINAL CANCER, FOR MY SON WHO WAS LOST FOR SO LONG TO DRUG ADDICTION, WHEN I’VE SAT BY PEOPLE’S BEDSIDES IN THEIR LAST HOURS. I’VE WISHED I COULD LAY HANDS ON PEOPLE AND HEAL THEM, I’VE WISHED I COULD CALL THEM OUT OF THEIR WHEELCHAIRS, THEIR ADDICTIONS, THEIR SICK BEDS, AND BACK TO LIFE—BUT THE THING IS, RESURRECTION IS GOD’S BUSINESS. OUR PART IS TO BELIEVE THAT LIFE CAN BE FOUND WHERE THERE SEEMS TO BE NO HOPE OF IT AT ALL—WHEN WE’VE RUN OUT OF OPTIONS, WHEN LIFE SEEMS TO HAVE TURNED AGAINST US, SOMETIMES EVEN WHEN DEATH COMES. OUR JOB IS TO KEEP HOPE ALIVE, TO HAVE FAITH THAT IN WHATEVER CIRCUMSTANCES GOD CAN WORK MIRACLES—PERHAPS NOT THE MIRACLES WE ASK FOR, BUT MIRACLES NONETHELESS. WHEN I MOVED AWAY, BOBBY LEE WAS STILL HANGING AROUND. I DON’T KNOW—I GUESS HE WAS BETTER—AT LEAST HE STAYED OUT OF TROUBLE, BUT TO MY KNOWLEDGE HE NEVER MADE FRIENDS, HE NEVER MARRIED. BOBBY LEE WAS PARALYZED, BUT IT WASN’T HIS LEGS THAT WERE HIS PROBLEM—HE WAS BOUND UP AS TIGHT AS LAZARUS, UNABLE TO MOVE OR TO TRULY LIVE, BUT THE FATAL WOUND WAS THE ONE TO HIS HEART, THE ONE THAT HAD KILLED ALL HOPE—WITHOUT HOPE, WE BEGIN TO DIE A LITTLE EVERY DAY, UNTIL ONE DAY THERE ISN’T A WHOLE LOT LEFT. I WISH I COULD HAVE TOLD HIM THERE WAS ANOTHER WAY, ANOTHER WORLD, BUT I HAD NO FAITH THEN AND HAD NOTHING TO OFFER, NOTHING THAT COULD MEET HIS DEEP NEED. THE WORLD OF WHAT’S-DEAD-STAYS-DEAD IS NOT THE WORLD JESUS SHOWS US. I’M NO MIRACLE WORKER, BUT THERE IS ONE WHO STANDS OUTSIDE WHATEVER TOMB WE FIND OURSELVES TRAPPED IN AND CALLS TO US, “COME OUT—COME OUT, BOBBY LEE; COME OUT, COME OUT PAM TINNIN.” AND BY HIS GRACE AND THE GIFT OF LOVE, WHATEVER BINDS US WILL FALL AWAY AND WE WILL BE SET FREE—WHAT IS DEAD CAN BE REBORN—DRY BONES CAN LIVE AGAIN. HE IS THE ONE WHO BRINGS LIGHT FROM DARKNESS, HOPE FROM DESPAIR, AND LIFE FROM DEATH. AMEN
THEN JESUS, AGAIN GREATLY DISTURBED, CAME TO THE TOMB. IT WAS A CAVE, AND A STONE WAS LYING AGAINST IT. 39 JESUS SAID, "TAKE AWAY THE STONE." MARTHA, THE SISTER OF THE DEAD MAN, SAID TO HIM, "LORD, ALREADY THERE IS A STENCH BECAUSE HE HAS BEEN DEAD FOUR DAYS."
40 JESUS SAID TO HER, "DID I NOT TELL YOU THAT IF YOU BELIEVED, YOU WOULD SEE THE GLORY OF GOD?" 41 SO THEY TOOK AWAY THE STONE. AND JESUS LOOKED UPWARD AND SAID, "FATHER, I THANK YOU FOR HAVING HEARD ME. 42 I KNEW THAT YOU ALWAYS HEAR ME, BUT I HAVE SAID THIS FOR THE SAKE OF THE CROWD STANDING HERE, SO THAT THEY MAY BELIEVE THAT YOU SENT ME." 43 WHEN HE HAD SAID THIS, HE CRIED WITH A LOUD VOICE, "LAZARUS, COME OUT!"
44 THE DEAD MAN CAME OUT, HIS HANDS AND FEET BOUND WITH STRIPS OF CLOTH, AND HIS FACE WRAPPED IN A CLOTH. JESUS SAID TO THEM, "UNBIND HIM, AND LET HIM GO."
DEAD IS DEAD
PAMELA J. TINNIN
I ONCE READ ANOTHER STORY THAT BEGAN WITH DEATH, A STRANGE STORY BY AUTHOR FLANNERY O’CONNOR. IT WAS ABOUT A SERIAL KILLER, A MAN CALLED THE MISFIT. BEFORE THEE THE MISFIT KILLS HIS VICTIMS HE TELLS THEM THAT HE BELIEVES THE WORLD IS A PLACE “WHERE THE LAME DON’T WALK, THE BLIND DON’T SEE, AND DEAD STAYS DEAD.” THE MISFIT’S WORDS REMINDED ME OF A MAN I MET A LONG TIME AGO. IN THE EARLY 70S I VOLUNTEERED AT A PLACE THAT OPENED DURING THE VIETNAM WAR TO HELP RETURNING VETERANS “RE-ASSIMILATE” THEMSELVES INTO SOCIETY. I DID SECRETARIAL WORK, SCHEDULED APPOINTMENTS, DROVE GUYS TO THE VA CLINIC, AND ORGANIZED SOCIAL EVENTS. MY FIRST DAY AT THE FRONT DESK, I MET BOBBY LEE. HE DRIFTED IN AND OUT OF THE OFFICE FOR A YEAR OR SO. BOBBY LEE CAME TO US FOR COURT-ORDERED COUNSELING. HE’D BEEN IN AND OUT OF JAIL, USUALLY ON DRUNK AND DISORDERLY CHARGES, SEVERAL TIMES FOR DESTROYING PRIVATE PROPERTY. HIS LAST CHARGE WAS FOR ASSAULT WITH A BASEBALL BAT. WHEN I READ THE CHARGES LISTED IN HIS FILE, I WAS FLABBERGASTED—YOU SEE, BOBBY LEE WAS IN A WHEELCHAIR AND I JUST COULDN’T BELIEVE HE COULD HAVE DONE IT. IN HIS FIRST WEEK BOBBY LEE WAS REFERRED TO OUR VOLUNTEER PSYCHOLOGIST. HE WAS ALSO ENROLLED IN AN ANGER MANAGEMENT CLASS, FORCED TO JOIN A VETS SUPPORT GROUP, AND ATTENDED DAILY AA MEETINGS. DAY AFTER DAY, I’D SEE HIM, TIGHT FACED AND ANGRY. HE’D WHEEL HIMSELF THROUGH THE DOOR, LET IT SLAM, AND THEN SIT GRIMLY UNTIL IT WAS TIME FOR ONE APPOINTMENT OR ANOTHER. NOW I WAS YOUNG AND NAIVE THEN AND I DECIDED I WAS GOING TO SAVE HIM—I WAS GOING TO MAKE THE WORLD BRIGHT AGAIN FOR THIS SLOW-TALKING KID FROM GEORGIA WHOSE EYES LOOKED SO FLAT AND LIFELESS. I DID MY BEST—I TRIED MY USUAL CHARMS—TEASING, JOKING, AND EVEN FLIRTING. I SAT NEAR HIM AT LUNCH, I OFFERED TO DRIVE HIM HOME, I BROUGHT HIM BOOKS TO READ. BUT NOTHING WORKED. HE WAS POLITE ENOUGH, PERHAPS AFRAID THEY’D SEND HIM BACK TO JAIL, OR MAYBE JUST REMEMBERING HIS SOUTHERN MANNERS. HE MANAGED TO MAINTAIN IN THE THREE YEARS I KNEW HIM—HE FOLLOWED THROUGH WITH THE PROGRAM THE COURT HAD ORDERED, KEPT A TIGHT CONTROL ON HIS TEMPER, AND HE DIDN’T GET ARRESTED ANY MORE. HIS COUNSELORS GAVE HIS PROBATION OFFICER POSITIVE REPORTS AND SEEMED WARILY OPTIMISTIC FOR HIS FUTURE. I WAS NOT—OPTIMISTIC THAT IS—WHENEVER HE THOUGHT NO ONE WAS WATCHING, HIS BLAND SMILE FADED AWAY TO A BLANK AND AWFUL EMPTINESS. I COULDN’T STAND IT, AND SO I REDOUBLED MY EFFORTS—SOMEHOW I WAS GOING TO REACH HIM. ONE DAY HE SURPRISED ME BY ASKING ME TO GO SIT ON THE PORCH WITH HIM, SAYING HE WANTED TO TALK TO ME. THIS IS IT, I THOUGHT, THE BREAKTHROUGH. BOBBY LEE LEANED OVER AND TOUCHED MY ARM. “SUGAR,” HE DRAWLED SLOW AND SOFT, “YOU CAN STOP TRYIN’ WITH ME. I DON’ BELIEVE IN NO MIRACLES—THESE LEGS ARE DEAD AND THEY’RE GONNA STAY DEAD. I’LL END MY DAYS IN THIS CHAIR AND THERE AIN’T ONE DAY I DON’T WISH I HAD DIED OVER THERE.” HIS VOICE WAS AS CALM AS IF HE’D SPOKEN OF THE WEATHER, BUT HAD THE RING OF TRUTH AND OF A TERRIBLE FINALITY. THEN HE WHEELED HIS CHAIR DOWN THE RAMP, AND TURNED LEFT ONTO THE SIDEWALK. I STOOD THERE ON THE PORCH BLINKING BACK TEARS AND WATCHED HIM UNTIL HE TURNED THE CORNER, UNTIL I COULDN’T SEE HIM ANY MORE. "UNBIND HIM,” JESUS SAYS, “AND LET HIM GO.” UNBIND HIM, AND LET HIM GO. AND LAZARUS LIVED. I CAN’T TELL YOU HOW MANY TIMES OVER THE YEARS I’VE WISHED I COULD WORK MIRACLES—WITH PEOPLE LIKE BOBBY LEE, WHEN MY BEST FRIEND WAS DIAGNOSED WITH TERMINAL CANCER, FOR MY SON WHO WAS LOST FOR SO LONG TO DRUG ADDICTION, WHEN I’VE SAT BY PEOPLE’S BEDSIDES IN THEIR LAST HOURS. I’VE WISHED I COULD LAY HANDS ON PEOPLE AND HEAL THEM, I’VE WISHED I COULD CALL THEM OUT OF THEIR WHEELCHAIRS, THEIR ADDICTIONS, THEIR SICK BEDS, AND BACK TO LIFE—BUT THE THING IS, RESURRECTION IS GOD’S BUSINESS. OUR PART IS TO BELIEVE THAT LIFE CAN BE FOUND WHERE THERE SEEMS TO BE NO HOPE OF IT AT ALL—WHEN WE’VE RUN OUT OF OPTIONS, WHEN LIFE SEEMS TO HAVE TURNED AGAINST US, SOMETIMES EVEN WHEN DEATH COMES. OUR JOB IS TO KEEP HOPE ALIVE, TO HAVE FAITH THAT IN WHATEVER CIRCUMSTANCES GOD CAN WORK MIRACLES—PERHAPS NOT THE MIRACLES WE ASK FOR, BUT MIRACLES NONETHELESS. WHEN I MOVED AWAY, BOBBY LEE WAS STILL HANGING AROUND. I DON’T KNOW—I GUESS HE WAS BETTER—AT LEAST HE STAYED OUT OF TROUBLE, BUT TO MY KNOWLEDGE HE NEVER MADE FRIENDS, HE NEVER MARRIED. BOBBY LEE WAS PARALYZED, BUT IT WASN’T HIS LEGS THAT WERE HIS PROBLEM—HE WAS BOUND UP AS TIGHT AS LAZARUS, UNABLE TO MOVE OR TO TRULY LIVE, BUT THE FATAL WOUND WAS THE ONE TO HIS HEART, THE ONE THAT HAD KILLED ALL HOPE—WITHOUT HOPE, WE BEGIN TO DIE A LITTLE EVERY DAY, UNTIL ONE DAY THERE ISN’T A WHOLE LOT LEFT. I WISH I COULD HAVE TOLD HIM THERE WAS ANOTHER WAY, ANOTHER WORLD, BUT I HAD NO FAITH THEN AND HAD NOTHING TO OFFER, NOTHING THAT COULD MEET HIS DEEP NEED. THE WORLD OF WHAT’S-DEAD-STAYS-DEAD IS NOT THE WORLD JESUS SHOWS US. I’M NO MIRACLE WORKER, BUT THERE IS ONE WHO STANDS OUTSIDE WHATEVER TOMB WE FIND OURSELVES TRAPPED IN AND CALLS TO US, “COME OUT—COME OUT, BOBBY LEE; COME OUT, COME OUT PAM TINNIN.” AND BY HIS GRACE AND THE GIFT OF LOVE, WHATEVER BINDS US WILL FALL AWAY AND WE WILL BE SET FREE—WHAT IS DEAD CAN BE REBORN—DRY BONES CAN LIVE AGAIN. HE IS THE ONE WHO BRINGS LIGHT FROM DARKNESS, HOPE FROM DESPAIR, AND LIFE FROM DEATH. AMEN
3-22-20
WHEN JESUS CAME TO BLUE CRICK
PAMELA J. TINNIN
Let me tell you bout the time Jesus came to call, right here in Blue Crick, Kentucky. You know that little concrete block church on the old Ainsley Road, tucked right up there aginst the hill in them cottonwood trees? My family’s been at Blue Crick Primitive Baptist Church since my great-granddaddy’s time. We had some good preachers over the years, but don’t know as anyone would argue that one a the best was Robert T. Allen. Robert T. was a man a God—the church’d ring with his words ever Sunday mornin’ and night, and at Prayer Meetin’ on Wednesday evenin’s. Mostly he prophesied—that man was a prophet like them of old. Folks who heard him knew his words was true. One Sunday after service, Cecil and me had walked on home, and were just settin’ down to chicken and dumplins’, when who should walk up the path but Preacher Allen. He was goodly-sized man, and was just amoppin’ the sweat from his face with his bandana, his cheeks all red and shiny-like, his tie all pulled a cattawhampus. “Brother Cecil…Sister Elsie,” he said, puffin’ while he took some time squeezin’ himself into one of the porch rockers. I was surprised as could be to see him there—that mornin’ I had heard Mae Ella Watkins braggin’ how she had fixed ham hocks and greens cause the preacher was comin’ to share Sunday dinner with her and her mama—he was single and Mae Ella, bein’ a widow and all, had set her cap for him from the very first. The preacher hemmed and hawed and finally got to it. “I got a word for you… a word that Jesus has laid on my heart. Brother Cecil and Sister Elsie—you been chosen—he’s comin’ to be with you.” “Who?” yelled Cecil. Ever since the mine explosion in ’89, he’s deaf as a post. Page 2 • When Jesus Came to Blue Crick “Jesus,” the preacher yelled right back. “Jesus is comin’ to your house—comin’ next Saturday—I seen it—clear as any tv picture, or one of them magazine covers.” I started to laugh, but when I saw the preacher’s face, I quit real quick, cause you could see he was serious as a heart attack. Preacher wiped his face again, then pushed himself, inch by inch, up outta that chair. We was just a starin’, not knowin’ what to say or do, if we should take it serious-like, or maybe Brother Allen was gettin’ ready to tell us it was all a joke. We watched him march down the path. Just as he got to where it crosses the crick, he turned and yelled back, “He’s acomin’—you better get ready.” Tell the truth, we didn’t do nothin’ then, nor the next day neither. But by Tuesday, I us gettin’ nervous…started pickin’ up the house, mopped the front room, and got Cecil to clean up that mess a broken varmint traps that had been settin’ there all winter waitin’ for him to get to work fixin’ ’em. Friday I went down to the store and put some stuff on our account— a bit a sugar to make a cake and a 6-pack of RC cola—it had been awful hot and I figured, same as anybody, Jesus ’d enjoy a cold soda pop. Don’t tell Cecil, but I even paid a quarter for a length a shiny pink ribbon for my hair. By Saturday mornin’ we was ready—I had buffed up that old cracked lineolum til it shined; Cecil washed the windas’ inside and out. Why, he even gave his old huntin’ dog John Quincy Adams a bath. I put on a big pot a beans with the last a the bacon in it; made a double batch a corn bread, fried up three a the layin’ hens, mashed bout a bushel a potatoes, and boiled two quarts a snap beans. Settin’ right in the middle of the table was the biggest cake you ever saw—chocolate with boiled icin’ . Then we set down to wait. Long bout noon time, I hear somebody comin’ down the draw. Both a us got to our feet, but then I heard whistlin’ and knew it was old Charlie Henshaw…poor old man…he’s always been kinda slow and has outlived all his kin—gets by pickin’ up the coal that falls off the railroad cars comin’ down from Haysville—they used to give him a hard time, but with the Blue Crick Mine closed down, them company guards jes look the other way. Sure enough, Charlie stepped out from behind that lilac bush right over there. Page 3 • When Jesus Came to Blue Crick “Good day,” he said, tippin’ his old hat that had seen better days too. He was sniffin’ the air—I just knowed he could smell those beans and bacon. Charlie sorta scuffed his feet in the dust and talked to Cecil bout the weather and possom huntin’. When he turned to go, I don’t know what got into me, but I just couldn’t stop myself. “Charlie, you set right here and I’m goin’ to fix you a mess a beans.” He blushed then, like a young girl at her first dance, but he sat down quick enough. I think he was real hungry—for sure, wasn’t no extra meat on him. “Why, I thank you kindly for that, Missus.” Charlie’s mama made sure all her childern had good manners. He ate two big bowls full and three chunks a corn bread. It give me real pleasure to see him enjoyin’ ’em so. I sent him off with some cornbread wrapped in a clean dish towel. Heared him whistlin’ all the way down the mountain. We ate a little beans ourselves, just somethin’ to keep us goin’ while we waited. Near 2 o’clock, I saw Cecil yawn and his eyes got sorta glassy—past his nap time. Right bout then, I heard somebody comin’ up the path from town. Luanne Addison, goin’ home to check on her man John, been crippled since his tractor done rolled on him last spring. She got herself that part-time library job, but with no insurance and that no-count disability check, they sure do struggle with three kids at home. She saw us there on the porch, stopped and took off her hat. When she smiles you can still see the beauty that took her all the way to first runner-up to Miss Harlan County, 1991. She has the sweetest voice and sings at near every funeral—you oughta hear her on “Amazin‘ Grace.” She was talkin’ to Cecil, laughin’ at one a his stories. I went in the kitchen and cut her some a that chocolate cake to take on home to John and the kids. She kept sayin’ no, but I just wrapped it up in some wax paper, stuck some toothpicks in the middle standin’ straight up to keep the paper off the frostin’, and put it in a box. Seemed like she jes wouldn’t quit thankin’ me, kept lookin’ back and wavin’ til we couldn’t see her no more. We sat there on that porch til night come on. The fireflies was out and you could smell the honeysuckle Mama planted neath the bedroom winda right after she married Page 4 • When Jesus Came to Blue Crick Daddy. Bout a quarter to eight, Cecil said, loud cause he can’t hear hisself talk, “Come on, woman. Let’s go on in.” I was in the kitchen, startin’ to put the food away when there was a knock on the front door. I told Cecil to go on and get it. He come back trailed by the Radford boys. After their daddy run off and left their mama to raise them alone, the three of ’em set to work breakin’ out the coal left in the ground in some a the old closed-up mines round here. Dangerous work, but they’s good hands with the dynamite. Haul the coal on up to Smith Valley and sell it outa the back a their truck. The boys had stopped off for a drink a water. Seein’ ’em standin’ there, the youngest not yet 13, their faces black with coal dust, white circles round their eyes, I got to thinkin’ bout all that food. Jesus ain’t comin’, I told myself. Why would I think he’d come to this sorry place? I sent them boys out back to wash up at the pump while I stirred up the fire in the cookstove, put the chicken and potatoes and beans back on to heat, and cut some cornbread to hold them while they waited. It was good to have them round the table—been awful quiet since our own boys went off to Chicago to find work and our girl Daisy moved to live near her husband’s people up around Cincinnatti. Well, we had ourselves a little party—Cecil went and got his old guitar, and Tim, the oldest Radford, dug a rusty harmonica outta his pocket. He could make that thing sound like the wind on a dark winter night, or as soft as a baby’s cry. After the last song—my favorite “Barbry Allen” that near always makes me cry— I put some leftovers in a kettle for the boys’ mama. Cecil helped me clean up…even dried the dishes. I remember driftin’ off to sleep with the covers thrown back in that heat, watchin’ the moon rise til it looked like it was right over the house. That night I had the strangest dream…guess it was a dream. We was in the kitchen, puttin’ the dishes away, and Cecil was aclangin’ the pots and pans. There was a knock on the door and when I went to answer it, Jesus was astandin’ there—knew it was him—looked jes like the picture that hangs in the back of the Blue Crick Primitive Page 5 • When Jesus Came to Blue Crick Baptist Church—long, wavy hair and those dark eyes that seem like they know everthing. Well, I can’t believe what came outta my mouth…you’d think even in a dream I woulda fell to my knees, or at least bowed my head or somethin’…but what happened? I put my hands on my hips and said, “Well—what took you so long?” Mama always told me my mouth was gonna get me in trouble. Well, I went ahead and took Jesus on into the kitchen—I guess I figured to at least give him some beans and cold cornbread. Wasn’t much else left, cept for some a that cake. When Cecil saw him, he just stood there, his mouth agapin’, couldn’t say a word. To be polite, Cecil and I sat down, Jesus right across from us. Didn’ think I was all that hungry, but the beans was so rich and smokey flavored, the cornbread the best I ever made—and that chocolate cake—never tasted anythin’ that…well, might as well say it— sinful …downright sinful—and Jesus ate three pieces! Most of all, I ain’t ever forgot what he said in that dream… Me bein’ so smart with him and all, I kinda wondered why Jesus didn’t just strike me dead with a lightnin’ bolt or turn me to salt. Had to go and open my mouth. “What took you so long?” All he did was say real gentle, “But Elsie—I been by here three times today… didn’t you know me? Didn’t you know me?” Funny thing, too—he sounded just like a Kentucky boy. When I woke up, for a minute or two I couldn’t tell whether I was in that big old bed I have slept in ever night for thirty-three years, or sittin’ there at the kitchen table watchin’ Jesus lick boiled frosting off his fingers. But when I come to my senses, I knew one thing for sure—I knew as surely as I know my name is Elsie Ann Crocker that Jesus had been to Blue Crick, just like Preacher Allen had told it.