Notes from my Knapsack 3-13-2025
Jeff Gill
When philosophy is self-evident only if you think about it
___
This spring I've had the pleasure of being involved with a series of programs, and an exhibit still up for you to see, at the Denison Museum. One of the co-sponsors of this is the America 250-Ohio Commission, preparing for the 2026 celebration of our nation's founding, in the passage of the Declaration of Independence.
Todd Kleismit and his merry minions have been hard a work for a while, and rightfully so, getting us to think about what got started in 1776. It all warrants some deeper reflection, this year let alone next.
It all went into motion June 7, 1776, when Richard Henry Lee introduced before the Continental Congress a resolution "that these united colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent states." They appointed a Committee of Five to write an announcement explaining the reasons for declaring independence; John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Roger Sherman, Robert R. Livingston, and the primary drafter, Thomas Jefferson.
The delegates in Philadelphia had an idea of what they wanted to do, but they needed a clear set of arguments for why they could, in world where monarchs and moguls held tight to the reins of power.
Jefferson's intent in his initial draft was to establish the right of the United States of America to take a place "among the powers of the earth" as a free and independent nation. The Declaration immediately points to "the separate and equal station to which the laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them," setting up a case in which it could be said "Nature's God" had established a basis of truth beneath their rationale for independence from Great Britain.
To that end, they affirm: "We hold these truths to be self-evident." Before we get to those truths, let's look at how they are known: by being
"self-evident." Jefferson appeals to the potential reader of this declaration, and how any reasonable person might agree that it's beyond obvious "that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."
Here's what's interesting. How self-evident is it that all of us are created equal? You could make a case from experience that it's evident some of us start with advantages, and it's been argued that this is the state of nature. But if a reader is tempted to go there, Jefferson has set you up to be tripped by a return to "Nature's God," pointing out that each soul is "endowed by their creator with certain… rights."
In 1776, it was an open question, just as it is to many today: does every human person, even all life, have an essence which is attached to or intrinsic within or endowed with an equal right to just treatment? In 1776, the vote was to affirm this somewhat radical concept, and it turns out the world was ready to affirm it in many locations around the globe (even if it's still up for debate in many quarters).
Those equally endowed rights, under law and in the light of heaven? They would be life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. There is no natural cannon fodder or appropriate victim class. Life is a right. So is liberty, and Jefferson's own vexed and mixed record on slavery is complicated by how he tried to put a criticism of slavery in his declaration, but they were all removed by the time of final passage. A failure of nerve, a lack of consistency, which we also remember, and continue to wrestle with.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's been thinking about the 250th anniversary of 1776 for a while now, and you'll hear more about it. Tell him what you think an unalienable right is at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack77 on Threads or Bluesky.
Sunday, March 02, 2025
Faith Works 3-7-2025
Faith Works 3-7-2025
Jeff Gill
You can't go home again, at least the same way
___
For everyone involved with this past winter's Emergency Warming Center effort, the level of commitment from volunteers has been inspiring.
Over a hundred people gave at least one shift, some multiple shifts within any one activation, from setting up to closing down and all the midnight hours in between.
There are two kinds of conversations I've had with volunteers that stick with me as the daffodils bloom and warmth increases both day and night. One sort is with people who came to our training last fall (we'll do that again in another eight months or so), or who wanted to participate after the winter season of warming center nights began.
That first kind of conversation is with someone who wants to help but isn't sure how well they can handle the situation. It may be a practical question of their ability to stay up at unusual hours like midnight to 5:00 am or so, or it can be concerns over preparedness for talking to people who are the guests of this operation. In general, I have no trouble being very encouraging, and explain that between coffee and more experienced volunteers, little comes up that anyone couldn't cope with. If you've been a band trip chaperone, it almost seems familiar (shout out to band parents everywhere!).
The tougher one is with people who've done a shift with the warming center, and have encountered what I think may be the hardest part of volunteering with an effort like this.
Going home, yourself.
Many people who have done a first experience with the warming center as a volunteer say they knew homelessness was a problem, was real, and happens to people very much like you or me. But then you help serve meals to people who are dealing with homelessness, assign cots and pass out blankets, pour coffee and hot chocolate for appreciative guests . . . and when your shift ends, go home. But it gets hard, sometimes on the drive home, occasionally once you're back to your own secure, warm, often quiet house in the middle of the night. And it hits you, hard.
I don't have a simple answer to how you handle the strange feelings that wash over you in that moment. Some people, I know, have done a single shift, and didn't come back not because the work of volunteering was so challenging, but the trip home felt almost impossible.
In fact, your own home looks and feels different when you return to it after working closely with a basement full of people whom you know don't have a place to go when our activation is over. The next night it is "only" 22 degrees out, and we stand down. Those who are living unsheltered, even when there's a clear path ahead in a week or two or three to a place they can rent or borrow or be assigned to, they have in the interim no place to go but their car, or some stairwell, or (insert options I'm aware of but don't want to describe lest others move to close off: this has happened before).
For myself, it's often a time of prayer and reflection that late night or early morning after I've done my shift, and I'm back in my own home. I don't want to say I feel less secure, but the contingency of any one person's situation is much more real to me. I see the jagged edges of the cliff now that were fogged and invisible to me before. It's better to know where they are, right? In the fog you can't see the abyss, but it's there. Now that I see some of those hazards, it's also hard not to think about how you could help others avoid a fall.
But home does not look the same. Which is fine, if it leads to thankfulness. That's a good place to be, wherever you find yourself.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he knows there's no place like home. Tell him how you found your way to yours at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack77 on Threads or Bluesky.
Jeff Gill
You can't go home again, at least the same way
___
For everyone involved with this past winter's Emergency Warming Center effort, the level of commitment from volunteers has been inspiring.
Over a hundred people gave at least one shift, some multiple shifts within any one activation, from setting up to closing down and all the midnight hours in between.
There are two kinds of conversations I've had with volunteers that stick with me as the daffodils bloom and warmth increases both day and night. One sort is with people who came to our training last fall (we'll do that again in another eight months or so), or who wanted to participate after the winter season of warming center nights began.
That first kind of conversation is with someone who wants to help but isn't sure how well they can handle the situation. It may be a practical question of their ability to stay up at unusual hours like midnight to 5:00 am or so, or it can be concerns over preparedness for talking to people who are the guests of this operation. In general, I have no trouble being very encouraging, and explain that between coffee and more experienced volunteers, little comes up that anyone couldn't cope with. If you've been a band trip chaperone, it almost seems familiar (shout out to band parents everywhere!).
The tougher one is with people who've done a shift with the warming center, and have encountered what I think may be the hardest part of volunteering with an effort like this.
Going home, yourself.
Many people who have done a first experience with the warming center as a volunteer say they knew homelessness was a problem, was real, and happens to people very much like you or me. But then you help serve meals to people who are dealing with homelessness, assign cots and pass out blankets, pour coffee and hot chocolate for appreciative guests . . . and when your shift ends, go home. But it gets hard, sometimes on the drive home, occasionally once you're back to your own secure, warm, often quiet house in the middle of the night. And it hits you, hard.
I don't have a simple answer to how you handle the strange feelings that wash over you in that moment. Some people, I know, have done a single shift, and didn't come back not because the work of volunteering was so challenging, but the trip home felt almost impossible.
In fact, your own home looks and feels different when you return to it after working closely with a basement full of people whom you know don't have a place to go when our activation is over. The next night it is "only" 22 degrees out, and we stand down. Those who are living unsheltered, even when there's a clear path ahead in a week or two or three to a place they can rent or borrow or be assigned to, they have in the interim no place to go but their car, or some stairwell, or (insert options I'm aware of but don't want to describe lest others move to close off: this has happened before).
For myself, it's often a time of prayer and reflection that late night or early morning after I've done my shift, and I'm back in my own home. I don't want to say I feel less secure, but the contingency of any one person's situation is much more real to me. I see the jagged edges of the cliff now that were fogged and invisible to me before. It's better to know where they are, right? In the fog you can't see the abyss, but it's there. Now that I see some of those hazards, it's also hard not to think about how you could help others avoid a fall.
But home does not look the same. Which is fine, if it leads to thankfulness. That's a good place to be, wherever you find yourself.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he knows there's no place like home. Tell him how you found your way to yours at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack77 on Threads or Bluesky.
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