Faith Works 8-11-23
Jeff Gill
Nothing so invisible as what we don't see
___
In talking about lessons we might learn about race and racism from history, I've been spending a great deal of time one hundred years ago, in 1923, with the Ku Klux Klan as that organization steadily took over Licking County, and much of the Midwest.
To answer in part why this context is still important in 2023, I need to jump back even farther, 250 years ago in fact, to 1773.
History is in large part the study of the records of a period, and so for Licking County, our pre-history is deep and complex with artifacts and earthworks, but our written history begins in 1751.
Christopher Gist, friend and associate of George Washington, passed through the Ohio Country in 1750 and 1751: crucially, he left a journal. His party spends Christmas and New Year's Eve of 1750 in Coshocton, and he gives us our earliest written account of the legendary "White Woman" from which the main street of Roscoe Village and other sites along Walhonding Creek get their name.
Mary Harris was a child captive born in Deerfield, Massachusetts in 1696, seized in a 1704 French raid, and by 1750 a matriarch married to a Lenape, or Delaware man, and leader of a village along the Muskingum. She remembers dimly so-called civilization in New England, but says to Gist "she still remembers they used to be very religious in New England, and wonders how the White Men can be so wicked as she has seen them in these woods."
That was recorded on January 15, 1751; on the 16th and 17th Gist's party passes through today's Licking County, but he records salt licks and streams, nothing about people, on his way to the "great swamp" which they pass around on their way to Hockhocking, what we call Rock Mill today near Lancaster.
In essence, history as a written account begins for Licking County in 1751. A generation later, in 1773, we get history with characters to populate the scene. On Feb. 10, 1773, Rev. David Jones passes through going the opposite direction, from Standing Stone on his way to Newcomerstown. From the Hockhocking area up to what he calls "Salt Lick Creek," or the Raccoon Fork of the Licking River drainage, he notes "there were no inhabitants…" until they reach their destination. Jones goes on to tell us "Before night, came to the designed town, called Dan. Elleot's wife's; a man of that name was said to have here a squaa for his pretended wife. This is a small town consisting of Delawares and Shawannees. The chief is a Shawannee woman, who is esteemed very rich — she entertains travellers — there were four of us in company, and for our use, her negro quarter was evacuated this night, which had a fire in the middle without any chimney.* [Remember that asterisk.] This woman has a large flock, and supplied us with milk. Here also we got corn for our horses at a very expensive price."
Jones closes his "Licking County" sojourn by saying "The country here appeared calculated for health, fertile and beautiful." And in fact, there's good reason to believe it's Chaplain Jones who routes the earliest settlers of Licking County to this area, from Bowling Green to the Welsh Hills. He and those settlers are the dawn of most historical accounts of our area, after a passing nod to thousands of years of Native American residence and activity.
But note the dual historical significance of the asterisked note on the page: "* This woman has several negroes who were taken from Virginia in time of last war, and now esteemed as her property."
Do you see them now? I hope to sharpen the focus for us next week.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he knows it's a struggle sometimes to see what's in front of your face. Tell him what you've come to see at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, August 07, 2023
Monday, July 31, 2023
Faith Works 8-4-23
Faith Works 8-4-23
Jeff Gill
Historical memory in community life
___
When Steven Spielberg made his magisterial movie "Lincoln" in 2012, he and scriptwriter Tony Kushner made some changes to the strict history of the period they were depicting, in the first months of 1865.
There is much to praise, historically, in the narrative and the acting; politically, the story as we get it squishes together (as films always do) multiple conflicts with more complex issues behind them than you would get just from the story around log-rolling and patronage and moral suasion, even if Tommy Lee Jones's Thaddeus Stevens is the spirit of the man to a T. Dickinson College has some wonderful resources online in their "House Divided" webpage that helps to unpack what's historical and what's literary license.
A particular and peculiar set of changes the filmmakers employed was to obscure the names of most of the opponents to the Thirteenth Amendment, the formal and legal abolition of slavery in the United States.
With 183 House seats at the time, 122 would have to vote "yea" to secure passage of the resolution; with 8 Democrats abstaining, passage required 117. The amendment received 119.
Opposing the measure were Fernando Wood of New York City, and Ohio's George Pendleton, while the floor leader for the Republican majority was James Ashby. Ohio was strongly on both sides of the debate, in fact. The two Democratic leaders are given their own names and accurately their own words and demeanor. But for the dramatic final roll call, almost every "nay" vote was given to a fictional name.
Why? The filmmakers never said; there was controversy after it came out, but it was around descendants, politically as well as by actual lineage, who wanted their ancestor's "yea" votes more prominently featured.
Which would support the idea that they knew giving a "nay" to someone whose descendants were still around to object would raise some issues they could just as easily sidestep.
I know how they felt. If you've been reading my columns the last few weeks, let alone the series I put forth early in the spring, you know I'm trying to tell a painful story and seek modern day lessons from an often obscured part of our local history: how the Ku Klux Klan a century ago gathered thousands in Newark, a hundred thousand at Buckeye Lake from around the state, and in November of 1923 literally took control of county government, as well as the county seat's governance. It didn't last, but not because anyone thought better of their decisions or renounced hate and division. It would take the revelation of corruption by the movement's top leaders, and misuse of state and national funds, to cause the Klan to fold its hoods and tents and recede back into the darkness where their rallies by torchlight were held. The beliefs? Those didn't just vanish.
As someone said when I was showing earlier drafts of my writings on this subject: "you better be careful about calling someone's grandfather a Klansman." I've not done so, but after the first columns ran, I've gotten many messages from people whose grandfathers, in fact, were. And they've asked that I not use their names even when they invited me to retell parts of their stories, which I understand.
But you see the dilemma? There are organizations and institutions and churches, let alone persons, who gave themselves over to the Klan ideology and agenda, openly and avidly. In 2023, they would I think all disavow the Klan's perspective. Does that mean I should, like Spielberg in "Lincoln," keep their names out of historical consideration?
People yes; institutions, perhaps not.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's still wrestling with the ethics of past practice and present discrimination. Tell him how you would tell the story at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Historical memory in community life
___
When Steven Spielberg made his magisterial movie "Lincoln" in 2012, he and scriptwriter Tony Kushner made some changes to the strict history of the period they were depicting, in the first months of 1865.
There is much to praise, historically, in the narrative and the acting; politically, the story as we get it squishes together (as films always do) multiple conflicts with more complex issues behind them than you would get just from the story around log-rolling and patronage and moral suasion, even if Tommy Lee Jones's Thaddeus Stevens is the spirit of the man to a T. Dickinson College has some wonderful resources online in their "House Divided" webpage that helps to unpack what's historical and what's literary license.
A particular and peculiar set of changes the filmmakers employed was to obscure the names of most of the opponents to the Thirteenth Amendment, the formal and legal abolition of slavery in the United States.
With 183 House seats at the time, 122 would have to vote "yea" to secure passage of the resolution; with 8 Democrats abstaining, passage required 117. The amendment received 119.
Opposing the measure were Fernando Wood of New York City, and Ohio's George Pendleton, while the floor leader for the Republican majority was James Ashby. Ohio was strongly on both sides of the debate, in fact. The two Democratic leaders are given their own names and accurately their own words and demeanor. But for the dramatic final roll call, almost every "nay" vote was given to a fictional name.
Why? The filmmakers never said; there was controversy after it came out, but it was around descendants, politically as well as by actual lineage, who wanted their ancestor's "yea" votes more prominently featured.
Which would support the idea that they knew giving a "nay" to someone whose descendants were still around to object would raise some issues they could just as easily sidestep.
I know how they felt. If you've been reading my columns the last few weeks, let alone the series I put forth early in the spring, you know I'm trying to tell a painful story and seek modern day lessons from an often obscured part of our local history: how the Ku Klux Klan a century ago gathered thousands in Newark, a hundred thousand at Buckeye Lake from around the state, and in November of 1923 literally took control of county government, as well as the county seat's governance. It didn't last, but not because anyone thought better of their decisions or renounced hate and division. It would take the revelation of corruption by the movement's top leaders, and misuse of state and national funds, to cause the Klan to fold its hoods and tents and recede back into the darkness where their rallies by torchlight were held. The beliefs? Those didn't just vanish.
As someone said when I was showing earlier drafts of my writings on this subject: "you better be careful about calling someone's grandfather a Klansman." I've not done so, but after the first columns ran, I've gotten many messages from people whose grandfathers, in fact, were. And they've asked that I not use their names even when they invited me to retell parts of their stories, which I understand.
But you see the dilemma? There are organizations and institutions and churches, let alone persons, who gave themselves over to the Klan ideology and agenda, openly and avidly. In 2023, they would I think all disavow the Klan's perspective. Does that mean I should, like Spielberg in "Lincoln," keep their names out of historical consideration?
People yes; institutions, perhaps not.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's still wrestling with the ethics of past practice and present discrimination. Tell him how you would tell the story at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Sunday, July 23, 2023
Notes from my Knapsack 8-3-23
Notes from my Knapsack 8-3-23
Jeff Gill
250 years ago, across our landscape
___
There's work going on towards the year 2026.
I don't know about you, but that still looks odd to me. 2026 has a science fictiony sound to it, right up there with the year 2525, but here we are.
2026 is not just three years from now, it's 250 years after the Declaration of Independence. The words drafted by Thomas Jefferson, edited by John Adams and Benjamin Franklin, further amended and then adopted by the Second Continental Congress, brought our nation into being 250 years before 2026, in 1776.
Some of us recall vividly the many and various celebrations we had in 1976, the Bicentennial. In Newark, Ohio, we have a strong reminder of the Centennial of American Independence, any time we drive around Courthouse Square, and see the huge 1876 on each face of the building.
By way of preparation, though, for our America 250-Ohio events, or the "semiquincentennial" if you like the technical terminology, I thought it worth lifting up that our 250th anniversary commemorations begin in 2023, at least for Licking County.
While we have good solid data to show Native Americans have lived here in these valleys and hills for some 12,000 years (Burning Tree mastodon, Munson Springs, etc.), recorded history as in written records begins about 250 years ago for Licking County. We were peeled off of Fairfield County in 1808, true, but the earliest written accounts of these creeks and rivers and trails come to us indirectly by way of Christopher Gist in 1751, some 272 years ago. Gist passes quickly through here, and in his journal it's unclear where he's camped for a night, and which path he took from Coshocton to Lancaster, broadly speaking.
But in 1773, which is 250 years ago, Rev. David Jones rode through, on Feb. 10th & 11th, spending the night near to the heart of today's Licking County, possibly in the vicinity of the Ohio State Newark campus.
Of great interest in his publication, which was famous enough once published to be in Thomas Jefferson's library at Monticello, is the small detail that when Rev. Jones and his party came to a "middle ground" village along "Salt Lick Creek" where both European Americans and Native people lived in a trading post village, the female chief of a Shawnee band arranged that "her negro quarter was evacuated this night, which had a fire in the middle without any chimney." An asterisk at this point notes "This woman has several negroes who were taken from Virginia in time of last war, and now esteemed as her property," the "last war" being the French & Indian War of the 1750s.
After praising the chief and her hospitality, Jones goes on to note "The country here appeared calculated for health, fertile and beautiful." Then he leaves Licking County as we know it, on the way to Coshocton.
250 years ago, women were in leadership, and people of color lived here; in fact, the language of 1773 suggests they were "esteemed" as slaves, but not necessarily treated as such. It was a complicated place, Licking County was.
Which is why we turn to history, 250 years later. We learn things about our present in that light.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he is constantly surprised by history. Tell him where you've seen today differently because of yesterday at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
250 years ago, across our landscape
___
There's work going on towards the year 2026.
I don't know about you, but that still looks odd to me. 2026 has a science fictiony sound to it, right up there with the year 2525, but here we are.
2026 is not just three years from now, it's 250 years after the Declaration of Independence. The words drafted by Thomas Jefferson, edited by John Adams and Benjamin Franklin, further amended and then adopted by the Second Continental Congress, brought our nation into being 250 years before 2026, in 1776.
Some of us recall vividly the many and various celebrations we had in 1976, the Bicentennial. In Newark, Ohio, we have a strong reminder of the Centennial of American Independence, any time we drive around Courthouse Square, and see the huge 1876 on each face of the building.
By way of preparation, though, for our America 250-Ohio events, or the "semiquincentennial" if you like the technical terminology, I thought it worth lifting up that our 250th anniversary commemorations begin in 2023, at least for Licking County.
While we have good solid data to show Native Americans have lived here in these valleys and hills for some 12,000 years (Burning Tree mastodon, Munson Springs, etc.), recorded history as in written records begins about 250 years ago for Licking County. We were peeled off of Fairfield County in 1808, true, but the earliest written accounts of these creeks and rivers and trails come to us indirectly by way of Christopher Gist in 1751, some 272 years ago. Gist passes quickly through here, and in his journal it's unclear where he's camped for a night, and which path he took from Coshocton to Lancaster, broadly speaking.
But in 1773, which is 250 years ago, Rev. David Jones rode through, on Feb. 10th & 11th, spending the night near to the heart of today's Licking County, possibly in the vicinity of the Ohio State Newark campus.
Of great interest in his publication, which was famous enough once published to be in Thomas Jefferson's library at Monticello, is the small detail that when Rev. Jones and his party came to a "middle ground" village along "Salt Lick Creek" where both European Americans and Native people lived in a trading post village, the female chief of a Shawnee band arranged that "her negro quarter was evacuated this night, which had a fire in the middle without any chimney." An asterisk at this point notes "This woman has several negroes who were taken from Virginia in time of last war, and now esteemed as her property," the "last war" being the French & Indian War of the 1750s.
After praising the chief and her hospitality, Jones goes on to note "The country here appeared calculated for health, fertile and beautiful." Then he leaves Licking County as we know it, on the way to Coshocton.
250 years ago, women were in leadership, and people of color lived here; in fact, the language of 1773 suggests they were "esteemed" as slaves, but not necessarily treated as such. It was a complicated place, Licking County was.
Which is why we turn to history, 250 years later. We learn things about our present in that light.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he is constantly surprised by history. Tell him where you've seen today differently because of yesterday at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Faith Works 7-28-23
Faith Works 7-28-23
Jeff Gill
New arrivals, old hostilities, same problems
___
Who belongs in the United States of America? That's a question that continues to come up, from the colonies before 1776 to the present day, and one that rattles church life as well as civic discourse.
Who belongs in the United States of America? That's a question that continues to come up, from the colonies before 1776 to the present day, and one that rattles church life as well as civic discourse.
According to Pew Research, immigrants in 2020 accounted for 13.7% of the U.S. population, nearly triple the share (4.8%) it was in 1970; that figure actually decreased to 13.6% in 2021. It's short of the record high of 14.8% in 1890.
In fact, between 1900 and 1915, over 15 million immigrants arrived in the United States. That was about equal to the number of immigrants who had arrived in the previous 40 years combined. This meant that by the time of World War I, 75% of New York City's population was either immigrant or first generation (sons and daughters of immigrants).
Today, 77% of immigrants are here legally, with 45% naturalized citizens, in other words citizens like you and me, except they've answered a long list of questions many of us born here couldn't come up with. And yes, 23% are undocumented, here illegally. It is very hard to come up with a good comparison figure because of differences in the naturalization process between 1915 and today, but there were plenty here evading the rules back then, as there are today.
It was in the wake of this unprecedented surge in immigration, and a second peak just short of 14.8% in 1910, that the second era of the Ku Klux Klan took off. I mentioned Timothy Egan's new book "A Fever in the Heartland" last week as an excellent source for this troubling period in our nation's and local history.
The Klan of the 1920s hated just about anyone who wasn't Protestant, Anglo-Saxon (Aryan wasn't in vogue just yet), and middle class. In some areas, the Klan lived up to the image you likely have, certainly in the South terrorizing and killing African Americans, brandishing fiery crosses, but also in places like Tulsa, Oklahoma or North Platte, Nebraska, where they did the same, ordering a growing black community to leave town, as property was burnt, leaders beaten, and many killed.
Yet their numbers for recruitment were biggest in the Midwest, Ohio & Indiana at the forefront, and their hatred was aimed primarily at: the Irish, Italian, southern and central Europeans, and Catholics in general. The Klan arguments, boiled down to their essence, was that there were too many of them, they needed to stop coming, many should be sent back, and only those allowed to stay who would go to "our" churches, attend public schools, and live and act like "normal" Americans.
The Klonklave at Buckeye Lake one hundred years ago this month, some 75,000 Klan members from all over Ohio, had as a major theme the goal of both building up the public school system, and shutting down by law all parochial schools. That "Fighting Irish" mascot for Notre Dame, adopted by many other Catholic schools you may know of? It comes from the students in South Bend, Indiana literally having to fight off a Klan mob which came to burn the campus down (spoiler alert: they did).
In 1923, some folks looked around, saw too many people who looked different than what they were used to, and said "enough." They wanted no more immigrants, and those who were here to change and be more like them.
And both churches & elected officials chose to adopt that position as their own. Come November, 1923 it would prove to be a majority of Licking Countians, at least those voting in the general election.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; how to bring newcomers into existing communities is a question he's wrestled with. Tell him how you see that done at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Ohio State Klonklave at Buckeye Lake, July 12, 1923
Ohio Memory Klan photo archive, mostly 1923
Thursday, July 20, 2023
Re: earthworks column
Newark Earthworks column for the Newark Advocate – Summer 2023
Jeff Gill
Pieces adding up to a whole
___
There's a piece, or pieces of an ancient mechanism that's back in the news recently, thanks to that fictional archaeologist Dr. Henry Jones, Jr..
His so-called "Dial of Destiny" is loosely in some ways and very closely in others based on an actual find of the last century in the Aegean Sea, opposite the island of Kythera, or Antikythera as they called it.
Something over two thousand years ago, a mysterious Greek workshop created an amazing bronze mechanism, about the size of a hat box, with gears and a crank. You could set the device to your current date, or any future (or former) date, and see on the analog display where the planets were, when the next Olympic or Pythian games would be held, and even calculate when eclipses would occur, along with the more everyday (or every year) events of solstices and equinoxes, and the phases of the moon.
The Antikythera Mechanism is the name of this object, discovered in dives on a Greek shipwreck that was carrying treasure and attractions to Rome for a parade to honor Julius Caesar. The statuary was the main attraction, and the corroded pieces of bronze gears were considered an anomaly until their possible practical uses were considered in just the last few decades. Once looked at closely, these linked gears constitute a device of which a lead scientist said "This device is extraordinary . . . The astronomy is exactly right . . . in terms of historic and scarcity value, I have to regard this mechanism as being more valuable than the Mona Lisa."
It did not point one to fissures in the space-time continuum; its reality as a means to understand what was known long ago is to me even more interesting, and a time machine in its own right.
Built about the same time as the Antikythera Mechanism, and only truly appreciated about the same time as scholars realized what that gadget was really good for, was the geometric complex of earthen enclosures we call the Newark Earthworks. And in many ways, they are two means to the same end.
Not small and compact and metallic, but encompassing over four square miles and made of basket loads of earth, the earthen geometry was doing for observers in ancient Ohio much the same sort of calculation and prediction and recorded observation they were doing at that time in Greece. With better metallurgy and some inscriptions, the Antikythera Mechanism could be carried in a knapsack, or on a boat. The Newark Earthworks aren't portable: you had to come to them, make a pilgrimage of sorts, in order to work the "mechanism" and monitor the places now and upcoming of the sun, the moon, and perhaps other astronomical phenomena as well.
One other interesting parallel: the Antikythera Mechanism is today in about seven fused chunks, two of them big. We don't have all of it, and those gaps are a challenge to fully understanding what it was for, and how it was used. Likewise, the Newark Earthworks is no longer intact, and while we know mostly the two big pieces (Great Circle & Octagon), there are small bits and chunks which help us understand the whole all the better.
My landscape tours, one of which will happen again in October, are a chance to take people around to see how there are "gears" and fragments of the whole complex still hiding in plain sight along the streets and alleys of Newark. No fissures in time, other than the imagination that takes us back to when they were built here two thousand years ago.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he leads tours as a volunteer with the Newark Earthworks Center at Ohio State Newark and for the Ohio History Connection, and is a World Heritage Ambassador.
Sunday, July 16, 2023
Faith Works 7-21-23
Faith Works 7-21-23
Jeff Gill
Klans, concerns, and lasting questions
___
Back in February & March I wrote a series of columns marking the hundred years since Ku Klux Klan activities in Licking County and Ohio made the front pages of papers like the Advocate.
I tried to set the stage by noting two things: clearly the size of some of the public events and mass rallies meant the Klan had been quietly working for some time, so January 1923 is kind of an arbitrary date, and the Klan of the 1920s was different in some very confusing ways from the post-Civil War Klan in the South during Reconstruction, and the Klan some of us remember in resurgence responding to the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s & 1960s.
Historians refer to the "second era" of the Klan, which I think is accurate, in the sense that it was a very distinct sort of movement from the Klans which arose, or lurked, before and after the period of Klan activity in the 1920s. Nathan Bedford Forrest led a Klan in the 1860s & 70s which was a resistance movement, rooted in terror and assault and murder, against giving civil rights to people formerly enslaved, and Confederate officers led the group in a secretive, underground organization. The anti-Civil Rights Klan of the 1950s & 60s was a more decentralized movement, also highly secretive, also deeply invested in both psychological and physical terror, along with murder on many occasions.
The 1920s Klan was, well, more public. Yes, they wore hoods, which their literature called "helmets" and on some occasions they would hear the order "visors up" and the face of the hood might be pulled aside for parades. Their surprise appearances in church services were almost always fully masked, but there were times the Klan would strategically unmask to show off their support. Either way, they loved public events and staged their cross burnings with theatrical care.
And they ran for office. Which is where this ongoing centennial is going, and why I continue to think there are relevant issues for us in 2023 about what we said to ourselves and others about this community in that perhaps not so long ago era.
Rallies and parades and programs and statewide gatherings called, inevitably, Klonklaves, were aimed at building up membership and support towards political control of communities. Ohio and Indiana were arguably the core of this second Klan; the headquarters nationally were in Atlanta, but the Midwest Klan had the biggest numbers and the state organizations reported in the early 1920s to Indianapolis, and the Grand Dragon there, D.C. Stephenson.
After my earlier series ran, in April a book was published by noted journalist and author, Timothy Egan, titled "A Fever in the Heartland." For the Midwestern context of the second Klan, there's no better single read to get your head around the reality that, as Stephenson said before his fall in 1925, "I am the law." The Klan, Egan notes, owned the state, and Stephenson owned the Klan. He's talking about Indiana, but Ohio was in his hip pocket.
In the fall of 1923, the Indiana governorship was contested between Republican and Democratic candidates, but both were Klan endorsed: Stephenson couldn't lose. In a number of other states, Klan endorsed candidates won; in Ohio, the Klan choice for governor failed, but in dozens of cities and counties their slate won, including Newark and Licking County.
Having a rally for the state Klan, a Klonklave, at Buckeye Lake, with as many as 75,000 Klan members in attendance that July of 1923, certainly helped ensure the outcome three months later at the ballot box.
To what end? That's what I will come back to next week.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's been hearing stories about the Midwest 1920s Klan his whole life, and is still trying to make sense of them. Tell him what you've heard at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Klans, concerns, and lasting questions
___
Back in February & March I wrote a series of columns marking the hundred years since Ku Klux Klan activities in Licking County and Ohio made the front pages of papers like the Advocate.
I tried to set the stage by noting two things: clearly the size of some of the public events and mass rallies meant the Klan had been quietly working for some time, so January 1923 is kind of an arbitrary date, and the Klan of the 1920s was different in some very confusing ways from the post-Civil War Klan in the South during Reconstruction, and the Klan some of us remember in resurgence responding to the Civil Rights movement of the 1950s & 1960s.
Historians refer to the "second era" of the Klan, which I think is accurate, in the sense that it was a very distinct sort of movement from the Klans which arose, or lurked, before and after the period of Klan activity in the 1920s. Nathan Bedford Forrest led a Klan in the 1860s & 70s which was a resistance movement, rooted in terror and assault and murder, against giving civil rights to people formerly enslaved, and Confederate officers led the group in a secretive, underground organization. The anti-Civil Rights Klan of the 1950s & 60s was a more decentralized movement, also highly secretive, also deeply invested in both psychological and physical terror, along with murder on many occasions.
The 1920s Klan was, well, more public. Yes, they wore hoods, which their literature called "helmets" and on some occasions they would hear the order "visors up" and the face of the hood might be pulled aside for parades. Their surprise appearances in church services were almost always fully masked, but there were times the Klan would strategically unmask to show off their support. Either way, they loved public events and staged their cross burnings with theatrical care.
And they ran for office. Which is where this ongoing centennial is going, and why I continue to think there are relevant issues for us in 2023 about what we said to ourselves and others about this community in that perhaps not so long ago era.
Rallies and parades and programs and statewide gatherings called, inevitably, Klonklaves, were aimed at building up membership and support towards political control of communities. Ohio and Indiana were arguably the core of this second Klan; the headquarters nationally were in Atlanta, but the Midwest Klan had the biggest numbers and the state organizations reported in the early 1920s to Indianapolis, and the Grand Dragon there, D.C. Stephenson.
After my earlier series ran, in April a book was published by noted journalist and author, Timothy Egan, titled "A Fever in the Heartland." For the Midwestern context of the second Klan, there's no better single read to get your head around the reality that, as Stephenson said before his fall in 1925, "I am the law." The Klan, Egan notes, owned the state, and Stephenson owned the Klan. He's talking about Indiana, but Ohio was in his hip pocket.
In the fall of 1923, the Indiana governorship was contested between Republican and Democratic candidates, but both were Klan endorsed: Stephenson couldn't lose. In a number of other states, Klan endorsed candidates won; in Ohio, the Klan choice for governor failed, but in dozens of cities and counties their slate won, including Newark and Licking County.
Having a rally for the state Klan, a Klonklave, at Buckeye Lake, with as many as 75,000 Klan members in attendance that July of 1923, certainly helped ensure the outcome three months later at the ballot box.
To what end? That's what I will come back to next week.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's been hearing stories about the Midwest 1920s Klan his whole life, and is still trying to make sense of them. Tell him what you've heard at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Tuesday, July 11, 2023
Notes from my Knapsack 7-20-23
Notes from my Knapsack 7-20-23
Jeff Gill
A pause that refreshes in more ways than one
___
If you get a chance to take a walk, and it's further than your mailbox, there's something I'd love to invite you to do.
It only really works in the late spring through early fall, five months at most, but right now it's an opportunity waiting for you.
This is a practice that requires just two things: a path that gets you away from homes and traffic, ideally into the edge of a forest or creekside (but a grassy meadow will work, just not a mown lawn), and a place to sit.
You can sit cross-legged on the ground if you're comfortable with that, a log or stump if one's handy, and you can carry a bag chair of one sort or another if that's best.
Here's what I'd love for you to get the chance to experience. Walk your path into a quiet grove, or down alongside the stream bank. Find your place to sit, and do so.
For the rest of this experience, you only have to do one thing, which is I admit very difficult. Just sit still.
Supposedly Pascal said "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone." If it's hard for most of us to do this indoors, outside requires even a bit more of us. You need to keep your swatting at bugs or moving about to a minimum. Yet if you can, your stillness will be met with some new activity around you.
You may not notice it on a trail walk, but nature takes notice of you, and bird song and animal life changes as you pass. And normally, you two-legs person you, you pass on by. If you stop, and sit still, they slowly begin to go back to their business.
First, listen to the birds. You will notice the songs change. That's because they aren't letting each other know on down the line "trouble's coming." As you sit, they go back to chat about . . . whatever birds chat about. Food, weather, the birds and the bees?
Then you might even see some birds start to hop and glide past your position, where you're being still and unthreatening. They perch closer, or fly nearer. The bugs? You may have some that are persistent whether you're moving or not, but some now will be visible you hadn't noticed, dragonflies and butterflies and glossy green beetles. If one lands on you, stay calm.
Sit long enough, and you might hear the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks change. One might skitter past you; other movement in the undergrowth nearby can turn into a groundhog dragging some bedding back to their hole. Shuffle a foot in changing position, they scatter again; wait long enough, and they go back to their usual occupations.
You may think you know a stretch of woods, but you don't know it until you've sat very still in it for fifteen minutes or so. And then you start to realize how little you know about all that's going on around you.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he likes to sit by creeks when he can. Tell him what catches your attention when you sit still at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
A pause that refreshes in more ways than one
___
If you get a chance to take a walk, and it's further than your mailbox, there's something I'd love to invite you to do.
It only really works in the late spring through early fall, five months at most, but right now it's an opportunity waiting for you.
This is a practice that requires just two things: a path that gets you away from homes and traffic, ideally into the edge of a forest or creekside (but a grassy meadow will work, just not a mown lawn), and a place to sit.
You can sit cross-legged on the ground if you're comfortable with that, a log or stump if one's handy, and you can carry a bag chair of one sort or another if that's best.
Here's what I'd love for you to get the chance to experience. Walk your path into a quiet grove, or down alongside the stream bank. Find your place to sit, and do so.
For the rest of this experience, you only have to do one thing, which is I admit very difficult. Just sit still.
Supposedly Pascal said "All of humanity's problems stem from man's inability to sit quietly in a room alone." If it's hard for most of us to do this indoors, outside requires even a bit more of us. You need to keep your swatting at bugs or moving about to a minimum. Yet if you can, your stillness will be met with some new activity around you.
You may not notice it on a trail walk, but nature takes notice of you, and bird song and animal life changes as you pass. And normally, you two-legs person you, you pass on by. If you stop, and sit still, they slowly begin to go back to their business.
First, listen to the birds. You will notice the songs change. That's because they aren't letting each other know on down the line "trouble's coming." As you sit, they go back to chat about . . . whatever birds chat about. Food, weather, the birds and the bees?
Then you might even see some birds start to hop and glide past your position, where you're being still and unthreatening. They perch closer, or fly nearer. The bugs? You may have some that are persistent whether you're moving or not, but some now will be visible you hadn't noticed, dragonflies and butterflies and glossy green beetles. If one lands on you, stay calm.
Sit long enough, and you might hear the chatter of squirrels and chipmunks change. One might skitter past you; other movement in the undergrowth nearby can turn into a groundhog dragging some bedding back to their hole. Shuffle a foot in changing position, they scatter again; wait long enough, and they go back to their usual occupations.
You may think you know a stretch of woods, but you don't know it until you've sat very still in it for fifteen minutes or so. And then you start to realize how little you know about all that's going on around you.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he likes to sit by creeks when he can. Tell him what catches your attention when you sit still at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, July 10, 2023
Faith Works 7-14-23
Faith Works 7-14-23
Jeff Gill
Thinking about the unthinkable, unimaginably
___
Jeff Goldblum played Dr. Ian Malcolm in "Jurassic Park," a theorist of science and philosophy who gets invited to the ill-fated soft opening of a theme park filled with dinosaurs, and says to the over-optimistic impresario of the facility: "Yeah, yeah, but your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn't stop to think if they should."
There's a level of metaphor I'd argue running through the whole "Jurassic" franchise about the role and use of nuclear technology, specifically weapons. If you find that a bit of a stretch, go back and watch that first one. On the side of one of the control room computer terminals is a classic photograph of J. Robert Oppenheimer, pipe in hand, formulas on a chalkboard behind him, gazing almost too calmly at the viewer.
On Sunday, July 16, we mark 78 years since the Trinity test in the deserts of New Mexico. What Oppenheimer and his team of Los Alamos scientists put together as the first atomic bomb went off hundreds of miles to the south, but the light visible even on that northerly mesa for those not on the scene in the south. Top secret to the rest of the world, but much debated among the nuclear scientists rushed into seclusion and work as the world war raged: what are we doing? Is it right? The fictional Dr. Malcolm challenges Jurassic Park's designers, "your scientists were so preoccupied… they didn't stop to think." Not so for Oppenheimer.
That's what makes the human and technological drama of the Manhattan Project so compelling. In fact, they did stop to think a great deal about whether they should. It tormented all of them to varying degrees. There's a movie coming out later this month which centers on Oppenheimer, brings in the Los Alamos community, and sweeps through American society and government into the 1950s, asking again "should we?"
Except of course we did. Convinced by threats from Nazi Germany & the Japanese Empire that it was an existential necessity, they decided to complete the work. After Trinity, two were used on Japan to end the war. A few key spies made sure enough details got to Soviet Russia that the USSR was able to set off their own effective replica atom bomb four years later. From 1949, the Cold War was off with a vengeance, and we live still with the reality of hundreds of nuclear weapons, and decisions to made about their use.
Oppenheimer later recounted how at the Trinity site, on seeing the first atom bomb go off, "we knew the world would not be the same; a few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent." And he recalled a line from Hindu scripture, where Vishnu says "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." His personal faith was obscure, inscrutable in many ways, but he thought deeply about the larger implications of the science he was engaged in. The name of the Trinity site he took from a poem by John Donne, and he requested at his funeral George Herbert's "The Collar."
Christian or any other religion, there are ultimate questions for the individual, and then there are individual questions with implications for our families, our communities, our nations, and today it can be said without exaggeration, for our world. Are we being Oppenheimers as we decide how to use resources, purchase goods and services, simply to interact in our technologically complex world?
And what if we are wrong, for all our well-intended thinking? I will be curious to see how this movie deals with that inevitable question.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he has often thought about what Oppenheimer was thinking. Tell him your thoughts as you like at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Thinking about the unthinkable, unimaginably
___
Jeff Goldblum played Dr. Ian Malcolm in "Jurassic Park," a theorist of science and philosophy who gets invited to the ill-fated soft opening of a theme park filled with dinosaurs, and says to the over-optimistic impresario of the facility: "Yeah, yeah, but your scientists were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn't stop to think if they should."
There's a level of metaphor I'd argue running through the whole "Jurassic" franchise about the role and use of nuclear technology, specifically weapons. If you find that a bit of a stretch, go back and watch that first one. On the side of one of the control room computer terminals is a classic photograph of J. Robert Oppenheimer, pipe in hand, formulas on a chalkboard behind him, gazing almost too calmly at the viewer.
On Sunday, July 16, we mark 78 years since the Trinity test in the deserts of New Mexico. What Oppenheimer and his team of Los Alamos scientists put together as the first atomic bomb went off hundreds of miles to the south, but the light visible even on that northerly mesa for those not on the scene in the south. Top secret to the rest of the world, but much debated among the nuclear scientists rushed into seclusion and work as the world war raged: what are we doing? Is it right? The fictional Dr. Malcolm challenges Jurassic Park's designers, "your scientists were so preoccupied… they didn't stop to think." Not so for Oppenheimer.
That's what makes the human and technological drama of the Manhattan Project so compelling. In fact, they did stop to think a great deal about whether they should. It tormented all of them to varying degrees. There's a movie coming out later this month which centers on Oppenheimer, brings in the Los Alamos community, and sweeps through American society and government into the 1950s, asking again "should we?"
Except of course we did. Convinced by threats from Nazi Germany & the Japanese Empire that it was an existential necessity, they decided to complete the work. After Trinity, two were used on Japan to end the war. A few key spies made sure enough details got to Soviet Russia that the USSR was able to set off their own effective replica atom bomb four years later. From 1949, the Cold War was off with a vengeance, and we live still with the reality of hundreds of nuclear weapons, and decisions to made about their use.
Oppenheimer later recounted how at the Trinity site, on seeing the first atom bomb go off, "we knew the world would not be the same; a few people laughed, a few people cried, most people were silent." And he recalled a line from Hindu scripture, where Vishnu says "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." His personal faith was obscure, inscrutable in many ways, but he thought deeply about the larger implications of the science he was engaged in. The name of the Trinity site he took from a poem by John Donne, and he requested at his funeral George Herbert's "The Collar."
Christian or any other religion, there are ultimate questions for the individual, and then there are individual questions with implications for our families, our communities, our nations, and today it can be said without exaggeration, for our world. Are we being Oppenheimers as we decide how to use resources, purchase goods and services, simply to interact in our technologically complex world?
And what if we are wrong, for all our well-intended thinking? I will be curious to see how this movie deals with that inevitable question.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he has often thought about what Oppenheimer was thinking. Tell him your thoughts as you like at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, July 03, 2023
Faith Works 7-7-23
Faith Works 7-7-23
Jeff Gill
Things they never told you
___
"They never taught me that in school!"
It's a common enough refrain. Certain events, grim or ghastly, discreditable or discriminatory, you hear about as an adult and think "they didn't cover that in U.S. History class."
This comes up in discussion about media, including the paper you're reading whether online or in print as a paper paper: why wasn't such and such an event or program or celebration in the coverage? Is it just bad news that gets ink or pixels?
And church life has its own version of the problem. I was recently at an educational talk for ministers where someone said "the problem is people don't hear about that in their congregations."
So who is keeping the good stuff away from us? Which gatekeepers are controlling the flow of information? Why don't we hear it all, straight up?
This is where I'd be tempted to put a picture of someone drinking, or trying to, from a firehouse. You know the old saying. You can't. The force of the flow means you just can't get your sip of water from the foamy blast (plus risking having your lip ripped off). You want a drink of water, find a fountain or squirt bottle.
In reality, all education or news coverage or preaching and teaching in faith communities requires someone make some decisions about what gets covered in what order over which period of time. Call them teachers or administrators, editors or publishers, parsons or bishops or seminary teachers, but they all have to make choices, and to make choices includes what to not cover.
The word "decision" comes from a Latin root, "de-cisio" which is related to our word scissors. It means to decide is to cut off. Making a choice to do one thing always and necessarily means to not do other things. Decisions about teaching and training and narrative, even in a sermon, means as much work around what you won't get around to saying as it does to decide what to emphasize.
For a number of years, I taught at a small university the intro to American history course. Like most at the time, it was in the catalog as "From Columbus to Reconstruction." I struggled every semester I taught with both ends. To start American history without dealing with the Native American context that is most emphatically in place before 1492 is to miss out of sources of our Articles of Confederation and ultimately the U.S. Constitution (you can look it up!), and share in the injustice of describing North America as "wilderness" when the first colonists arrive, which is simply and sadly not true.
At the other end, I love to teach Civil War history, and I could spend a week of class time just on Antietam and Gettysburg. The period after Appomattox, from 1865 to 1877, usually got the short end of an already very short stick. But class after class I wrested time out of earlier portions (each edit I pang in my historical heart) to make sure I gave due credit to the significance of Reconstruction, and today I wish I'd done even more.
Preaching? How do you discern what to cover when you know you have a constant influx of new believers who still don't know Galatians from Genesis, Junia from Jonah, immersion from intinction? You are constantly teaching an intro class even as you try to encourage and inspire long time members who know their Bible.
Choosing what to include always includes hard choices about what to cut out. Otherwise, you never get around to teaching or preaching or communicating anything in particular.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he'd preach longer if he could. Tell him where something could be cut at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Things they never told you
___
"They never taught me that in school!"
It's a common enough refrain. Certain events, grim or ghastly, discreditable or discriminatory, you hear about as an adult and think "they didn't cover that in U.S. History class."
This comes up in discussion about media, including the paper you're reading whether online or in print as a paper paper: why wasn't such and such an event or program or celebration in the coverage? Is it just bad news that gets ink or pixels?
And church life has its own version of the problem. I was recently at an educational talk for ministers where someone said "the problem is people don't hear about that in their congregations."
So who is keeping the good stuff away from us? Which gatekeepers are controlling the flow of information? Why don't we hear it all, straight up?
This is where I'd be tempted to put a picture of someone drinking, or trying to, from a firehouse. You know the old saying. You can't. The force of the flow means you just can't get your sip of water from the foamy blast (plus risking having your lip ripped off). You want a drink of water, find a fountain or squirt bottle.
In reality, all education or news coverage or preaching and teaching in faith communities requires someone make some decisions about what gets covered in what order over which period of time. Call them teachers or administrators, editors or publishers, parsons or bishops or seminary teachers, but they all have to make choices, and to make choices includes what to not cover.
The word "decision" comes from a Latin root, "de-cisio" which is related to our word scissors. It means to decide is to cut off. Making a choice to do one thing always and necessarily means to not do other things. Decisions about teaching and training and narrative, even in a sermon, means as much work around what you won't get around to saying as it does to decide what to emphasize.
For a number of years, I taught at a small university the intro to American history course. Like most at the time, it was in the catalog as "From Columbus to Reconstruction." I struggled every semester I taught with both ends. To start American history without dealing with the Native American context that is most emphatically in place before 1492 is to miss out of sources of our Articles of Confederation and ultimately the U.S. Constitution (you can look it up!), and share in the injustice of describing North America as "wilderness" when the first colonists arrive, which is simply and sadly not true.
At the other end, I love to teach Civil War history, and I could spend a week of class time just on Antietam and Gettysburg. The period after Appomattox, from 1865 to 1877, usually got the short end of an already very short stick. But class after class I wrested time out of earlier portions (each edit I pang in my historical heart) to make sure I gave due credit to the significance of Reconstruction, and today I wish I'd done even more.
Preaching? How do you discern what to cover when you know you have a constant influx of new believers who still don't know Galatians from Genesis, Junia from Jonah, immersion from intinction? You are constantly teaching an intro class even as you try to encourage and inspire long time members who know their Bible.
Choosing what to include always includes hard choices about what to cut out. Otherwise, you never get around to teaching or preaching or communicating anything in particular.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he'd preach longer if he could. Tell him where something could be cut at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, June 26, 2023
Notes from my Knapsack 7-6-23
Notes from my Knapsack 7-6-23
Jeff Gill
While the days are still long
___
While I've not shied away from personal statements here in this space, I want to make a particularly personal plea. Or a number of them.
Yes, we've passed the summer solstice, and since June 24 days are getting shorter, first in seconds, then by minutes per day, to the shortest of all come December 21. Then from Christmas the days begin to lengthen again.
For now, though, the days are long. The sun rises around 6 am, our evenings still stretch with dusk past 9 pm. There are things we can do.
Friends, please, if you can at all, go take a walk. This is not a command to exercise, or a warning of losing muscle tone, though those all have their place. I'm just saying you need the air of the outdoors, the light of the sun (sure, hats, sunscreen, caution in exposure, but still…), the song of the birds. Please, take a walk. When it gets dark earlier, when the cold winds blow perhaps a bit too chill, you won't want to as much and I'll feel guilty about pushing you out the door. So do it now, please.
If you say "I'm not up to miles cross country" have no fear. Backpacking is a wonderful thing, but I've not done it for too long myself. This isn't about setting records. If you can walk around the block, but no more, do that. You're giving yourself a gift. Just to the mailbox and back? Good on you. Pause at the curb, breath it in, and back inside if you must.
And drink some water. Yes, hydration. No, not eight glasses or ninety-two liters or whatever the latest health craze is. Just drink some water instead of a bottle or can or jug of whatever. It's amazing, water is. I do put some lemon juice in my big bottle I take on the road, so I get wanting some flavor. But just consume a bit more water than you do now. Yes, you.
Finally, if you have someone you want to thank, or even more crucially, someone you have a grudge against, say something now. Maybe it has to be to a third party. But I'm in the middle too often of the sad situation of how a grudge can be one of the last things that leaves a failing mind. Sort it out, now, while you can both reason and perhaps be reasoned with. Do not wait.
Nor should you wait for that thank you; I am blessed to have been able to attend some special 90 and 95 birthdays and 40 or 50 and even 75th anniversaries. This summer, I'm missing the retirement celebrations for a number of friends and associates I'd really like to be present for, but pen and paper will have to do. And I have the memory of a thank you or two that I waited too long for, and now have to aim them at heaven for delivery.
One last such: Monsignor Paul Enke is retiring from Saint Edward the Confessor Catholic Church, and while I'm not one of his flock, I've been proud to count him as a colleague in ministry. He has built much in Granville, and I don't mean in architecture alone, but in human hearts turned towards heaven. Bless you, Paul, and thank you!
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's thinking about simple gifts and small wonders these days. Tell him what you're thinking at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
While the days are still long
___
While I've not shied away from personal statements here in this space, I want to make a particularly personal plea. Or a number of them.
Yes, we've passed the summer solstice, and since June 24 days are getting shorter, first in seconds, then by minutes per day, to the shortest of all come December 21. Then from Christmas the days begin to lengthen again.
For now, though, the days are long. The sun rises around 6 am, our evenings still stretch with dusk past 9 pm. There are things we can do.
Friends, please, if you can at all, go take a walk. This is not a command to exercise, or a warning of losing muscle tone, though those all have their place. I'm just saying you need the air of the outdoors, the light of the sun (sure, hats, sunscreen, caution in exposure, but still…), the song of the birds. Please, take a walk. When it gets dark earlier, when the cold winds blow perhaps a bit too chill, you won't want to as much and I'll feel guilty about pushing you out the door. So do it now, please.
If you say "I'm not up to miles cross country" have no fear. Backpacking is a wonderful thing, but I've not done it for too long myself. This isn't about setting records. If you can walk around the block, but no more, do that. You're giving yourself a gift. Just to the mailbox and back? Good on you. Pause at the curb, breath it in, and back inside if you must.
And drink some water. Yes, hydration. No, not eight glasses or ninety-two liters or whatever the latest health craze is. Just drink some water instead of a bottle or can or jug of whatever. It's amazing, water is. I do put some lemon juice in my big bottle I take on the road, so I get wanting some flavor. But just consume a bit more water than you do now. Yes, you.
Finally, if you have someone you want to thank, or even more crucially, someone you have a grudge against, say something now. Maybe it has to be to a third party. But I'm in the middle too often of the sad situation of how a grudge can be one of the last things that leaves a failing mind. Sort it out, now, while you can both reason and perhaps be reasoned with. Do not wait.
Nor should you wait for that thank you; I am blessed to have been able to attend some special 90 and 95 birthdays and 40 or 50 and even 75th anniversaries. This summer, I'm missing the retirement celebrations for a number of friends and associates I'd really like to be present for, but pen and paper will have to do. And I have the memory of a thank you or two that I waited too long for, and now have to aim them at heaven for delivery.
One last such: Monsignor Paul Enke is retiring from Saint Edward the Confessor Catholic Church, and while I'm not one of his flock, I've been proud to count him as a colleague in ministry. He has built much in Granville, and I don't mean in architecture alone, but in human hearts turned towards heaven. Bless you, Paul, and thank you!
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's thinking about simple gifts and small wonders these days. Tell him what you're thinking at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Faith Works 6-30-23
Faith Works 6-30-23
Jeff Gill
Traditional values and Biblical lifestyles
___
In Christian circles this summer we've been dealing with open splits and angry divisions both within church bodies and in a more ongoing sense between religious traditions. Many of the disputes have been framed as liberal perspectives versus conservative traditions, and the Southern Baptist Convention tension around women in leadership, or the United Methodist Church divisions over LGBT affirmation, have been intensified by political overtones.
I'll be honest. Both politically and theologically I'm a homeless moderate. A friend online suggested once there should be a "Homeless Moderate Party." That opens up the question whether such a movement would fill a stadium, a conference room, or a phone booth (old man, what's a phone booth?). It's an interesting question, and one I can't answer other than to say I run into a fair number of HMP sympathizers. But that could be observer bias.
What I can say is that I have tried in my stewardship of this space, aimed at a general audience as has been my editorial mandate since the beginning of this column, and in truth during my time as a parish minister in multiple church settings, to advocate something rather old fashioned, even traditional. I would speak up in favor of chastity, fidelity, and continence.
Chastity in that one should be chaste, which can be read in a number of ways. It has an association with purity, and there's a socio-political overtone that gives it an awkward ring today, but I'd like to restore it. Chastity simply means restraint, a simpler view of how one expresses oneself, emotionally or intimately.
Fidelity as in you keep your promises. Do people break promises? Between pastoral ministry and work in the court system, I'm pretty well aware of how common that is. But you try with all your might to let your yes be yes, your no be no, and your word is your bond. Trusting grace to carry you through the times you fail, and work to restore trust in your fidelity. But fidelity doesn't stop being a value when it is broken. Call it an aspiration worth fulfilling as much as you can.
Continence has all sorts of complicated associations in the modern era, not the least being better known in relation to incontinence. Perhaps it's too archaic; like fornication, auto-complete and spell check are momentarily baffled by those two words on some platforms. Again, I'd like to renew and restore continence as a value worth affirming: it means self-discipline in all things, not being seized by impulse or compulsion, but knowing the right time or place to speak or act. There is perhaps a reason why the word now is only used about a very narrow aspect of bodily life. We are too used to incontinence as a norm in how we say what we think or feel in the moment the thought occurs. To stop and wait for a better moment is not what society teaches, but it might be a good idea all the same.
I'm interested in how we as people of faith can best affirm what I would call Biblical values: chastity, fidelity, and continence. Really, there's nothing moderate in speaking up for those values, and they challenge all of us, single or married, female or male, LGBT affirming or traditionally oriented.
Gospel means good news, and my faith says that good news is the proclamation of God's love for each and all, made known in Christ Jesus. I believe chastity, fidelity, and continence are tools that make us better able to share that gospel in a world that needs hope and healing.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he trusts in grace for many things, including from his readers. Tell him what you can't forgive at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Traditional values and Biblical lifestyles
___
In Christian circles this summer we've been dealing with open splits and angry divisions both within church bodies and in a more ongoing sense between religious traditions. Many of the disputes have been framed as liberal perspectives versus conservative traditions, and the Southern Baptist Convention tension around women in leadership, or the United Methodist Church divisions over LGBT affirmation, have been intensified by political overtones.
I'll be honest. Both politically and theologically I'm a homeless moderate. A friend online suggested once there should be a "Homeless Moderate Party." That opens up the question whether such a movement would fill a stadium, a conference room, or a phone booth (old man, what's a phone booth?). It's an interesting question, and one I can't answer other than to say I run into a fair number of HMP sympathizers. But that could be observer bias.
What I can say is that I have tried in my stewardship of this space, aimed at a general audience as has been my editorial mandate since the beginning of this column, and in truth during my time as a parish minister in multiple church settings, to advocate something rather old fashioned, even traditional. I would speak up in favor of chastity, fidelity, and continence.
Chastity in that one should be chaste, which can be read in a number of ways. It has an association with purity, and there's a socio-political overtone that gives it an awkward ring today, but I'd like to restore it. Chastity simply means restraint, a simpler view of how one expresses oneself, emotionally or intimately.
Fidelity as in you keep your promises. Do people break promises? Between pastoral ministry and work in the court system, I'm pretty well aware of how common that is. But you try with all your might to let your yes be yes, your no be no, and your word is your bond. Trusting grace to carry you through the times you fail, and work to restore trust in your fidelity. But fidelity doesn't stop being a value when it is broken. Call it an aspiration worth fulfilling as much as you can.
Continence has all sorts of complicated associations in the modern era, not the least being better known in relation to incontinence. Perhaps it's too archaic; like fornication, auto-complete and spell check are momentarily baffled by those two words on some platforms. Again, I'd like to renew and restore continence as a value worth affirming: it means self-discipline in all things, not being seized by impulse or compulsion, but knowing the right time or place to speak or act. There is perhaps a reason why the word now is only used about a very narrow aspect of bodily life. We are too used to incontinence as a norm in how we say what we think or feel in the moment the thought occurs. To stop and wait for a better moment is not what society teaches, but it might be a good idea all the same.
I'm interested in how we as people of faith can best affirm what I would call Biblical values: chastity, fidelity, and continence. Really, there's nothing moderate in speaking up for those values, and they challenge all of us, single or married, female or male, LGBT affirming or traditionally oriented.
Gospel means good news, and my faith says that good news is the proclamation of God's love for each and all, made known in Christ Jesus. I believe chastity, fidelity, and continence are tools that make us better able to share that gospel in a world that needs hope and healing.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he trusts in grace for many things, including from his readers. Tell him what you can't forgive at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, June 19, 2023
Faith Works 6-23-23
Faith Works 6-23-23
Jeff Gill
Churches and culture in times of change
___
Any attempt to make general statements that include church bodies like the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC), the United Methodist Church (UMC), and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) (DoC), let alone adding a few more, is probably a fool's errand.
That's what you come here for, right? Okay, all kidding aside…
I've asked you to think and theologize along with me about the stresses and splits going on within some major Christian traditions in the last year, and I teach history and polity for my own tradition, which had a major split in 1968 which is both not over for us, and started long before that year. So there are aspects of church division in the US I see through certain lenses.
One factor is that there's a common story in the history of groups like the SBC, UMC, and my own DoC. They all came about more as a rural, and frankly poorer body, demographically, than the earliest Christian groups that dominate the colonial history of the US. Presbyterians and Anglicans, who become Episcopalians after the Revolution, are usually the more established, literally and figuratively, Christian traditions, with Congregationalists in New England, now the United Church of Christ (UCC) having an actual state sponsored or "established" role. Baptists began in American history as Congregationalist heretics; the DoC were apostate Presbyterians; Methodism is a revival movement from within then breaking from the Anglican church.
These rural rebels went their own way, but grew fastest and furthest on the frontier, the SBC into the Deep South and then due west into Texas, the UMC with circuit riders into all the gaps on the map between county seats, and the so-called "Disciples crescent" marks the highwater mark of this movement following their western Pennsylvania and Ohio and Kentucky beginnings across the Midwest and curving down into Missouri and Oklahoma and into north Texas, founding Texas Christian University among other institutions in their heyday.
What this all means, in brief for this installment, is that these movements were both countercultural on one level, but deeply aspirational, culturally, in others. We all were outsiders struggling to build farms and workshops and stature, culturally; class aspiration was a huge part of the history of each of these movements in ways Presbyterian or Episcopal church members never had to worry about. Work hard, do well, behave properly, move up.
Which has, I would argue, come back to bite us, after we so closely tied ourselves to the culture around us as the Civil War ended, and through three more martial eras of American life, Spanish-American and World Wars I & II.
As has been exhaustively discussed in many other venues, the "mainline" Protestant churches which for a long time held a hugely disproportional role in leading American culture have dropped far back in cultural significance. What I think that facile analysis misses is that in fact those Christian communions never really "controlled" the main flow of American culture, but they did intersect for a few generations. Somewhere in the wake of "The Ten Commandments" (1956) & "King of Kings" (1961) as mainstream Hollywood products, the culture shifted. We can debate how or why all day, but they did. It's usually shorthanded as "The Sixties."
Many churches had effectively handed their Christian formation over to the culture, because the culture of the country and of their church were seen as roughly the same. When the national culture changed, many churches tried to grab at the steering wheel, and at varying points realized "we don't drive this bus anymore, do we?"
To which many Christian bodies had different reactions, including those we're seeing play out this summer. I'll have one more installment of this series next week.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's seen a split or two play out, never in a good way. Tell him your experiences with division and separation at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Churches and culture in times of change
___
Any attempt to make general statements that include church bodies like the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC), the United Methodist Church (UMC), and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) (DoC), let alone adding a few more, is probably a fool's errand.
That's what you come here for, right? Okay, all kidding aside…
I've asked you to think and theologize along with me about the stresses and splits going on within some major Christian traditions in the last year, and I teach history and polity for my own tradition, which had a major split in 1968 which is both not over for us, and started long before that year. So there are aspects of church division in the US I see through certain lenses.
One factor is that there's a common story in the history of groups like the SBC, UMC, and my own DoC. They all came about more as a rural, and frankly poorer body, demographically, than the earliest Christian groups that dominate the colonial history of the US. Presbyterians and Anglicans, who become Episcopalians after the Revolution, are usually the more established, literally and figuratively, Christian traditions, with Congregationalists in New England, now the United Church of Christ (UCC) having an actual state sponsored or "established" role. Baptists began in American history as Congregationalist heretics; the DoC were apostate Presbyterians; Methodism is a revival movement from within then breaking from the Anglican church.
These rural rebels went their own way, but grew fastest and furthest on the frontier, the SBC into the Deep South and then due west into Texas, the UMC with circuit riders into all the gaps on the map between county seats, and the so-called "Disciples crescent" marks the highwater mark of this movement following their western Pennsylvania and Ohio and Kentucky beginnings across the Midwest and curving down into Missouri and Oklahoma and into north Texas, founding Texas Christian University among other institutions in their heyday.
What this all means, in brief for this installment, is that these movements were both countercultural on one level, but deeply aspirational, culturally, in others. We all were outsiders struggling to build farms and workshops and stature, culturally; class aspiration was a huge part of the history of each of these movements in ways Presbyterian or Episcopal church members never had to worry about. Work hard, do well, behave properly, move up.
Which has, I would argue, come back to bite us, after we so closely tied ourselves to the culture around us as the Civil War ended, and through three more martial eras of American life, Spanish-American and World Wars I & II.
As has been exhaustively discussed in many other venues, the "mainline" Protestant churches which for a long time held a hugely disproportional role in leading American culture have dropped far back in cultural significance. What I think that facile analysis misses is that in fact those Christian communions never really "controlled" the main flow of American culture, but they did intersect for a few generations. Somewhere in the wake of "The Ten Commandments" (1956) & "King of Kings" (1961) as mainstream Hollywood products, the culture shifted. We can debate how or why all day, but they did. It's usually shorthanded as "The Sixties."
Many churches had effectively handed their Christian formation over to the culture, because the culture of the country and of their church were seen as roughly the same. When the national culture changed, many churches tried to grab at the steering wheel, and at varying points realized "we don't drive this bus anymore, do we?"
To which many Christian bodies had different reactions, including those we're seeing play out this summer. I'll have one more installment of this series next week.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's seen a split or two play out, never in a good way. Tell him your experiences with division and separation at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, June 12, 2023
Faith Works 6-16-23
Faith Works 6-16-23
Jeff Gill
Methodists and Baptists and Disciples, oh my
___
My second big church fight (you do not even want to hear about my first) was in the 1970s, when I was a sort of ministry intern at my home Disciples of Christ church for the summer, and we were putting together a directory. I was the stalking horse, as it were, for a question a number of church leaders had been asking.
If you're 60 or older you'll nod, I think; if you're much younger you may not believe it. But the battle was over women's names. Apparently a few years earlier the step had been taken, but not without controversy, to go from Mr. & Mrs. John Smith, to Mr. & Mrs. John Smith (Jane). A great many older women, mostly widows, were listed as Mrs. John Smith, period, and they wanted to keep it that way.
The goal was to list everyone with their own name, with couples as Mr. & Mrs. John and Jane Smith. The result was chaos. A faction wanted to go back to Mr. & Mrs. John Smith let alone adding (Jane), and a few wanted to put all names in on separate lines: Mr. John Smith, Mrs. Jane Smith, etc.
I smiled one day and asked "what about using Ms. for adult single women?" It was not a smile I got in return. It would not be until 1983 that women would be allowed to serve as elders in that congregation.
Southern Baptists are in conflict this June at their annual meeting over women in leadership; the interesting thing to me is that while some frame this as a test of ancient tested principles, in 1960s there were as many women in Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) seminaries as there were in mainline Protestant seminaries.
It wasn't until 1984 the SBC passed a resolution asserting "women are not in public worship to assume a role of authority over men." In 1998 an official teaching passed saying a woman should "submit herself graciously" to her husband's leadership, as "the church willingly submits to the headship of Christ."
And then in 2000, SBC teaching was amended to say "the office of pastor is limited to men as qualified by Scripture."
Some will argue the new statements were because among 47,000 SBC churches, there had been by that point just a few hundred that had women serving in a pastor's role, so the issue had not been a public problem before. The rule was understood, and unstated; now it needs to be stated. I'd qualify that by noting there are many hundreds more women in the SBC serving as youth pastors or women's pastor positions. But the import seems to be when it was a .5% occurrence it was okay, but if it looks like it's heading towards 2%, it must be stopped.
As I've said in this space before, I'm the result of the powerful witness and work of women in pulpit ministry. I won't recount the whole story, but for me to agree that women shouldn't preach or be parish ministers would be to erase my own faith history. Rick Warren, the SBC minister in the middle of this debate, is using many such stories out of his tradition to make a similar point: when there weren't too many of them, we didn't really care. It was only when enough women came into those roles there was pressure to put up hard barriers across the board.
What Southern Baptists and United Methodists and my own Disciples have been dealing with are complex issues with common roots. I'll try to get to some of those in my next column.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's thankful for Rev. Myrtle Park Storm, ordained in 1908 to preach the gospel, who baptized his mother & married his parents. Tell him who indirectly shaped your faith at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Methodists and Baptists and Disciples, oh my
___
My second big church fight (you do not even want to hear about my first) was in the 1970s, when I was a sort of ministry intern at my home Disciples of Christ church for the summer, and we were putting together a directory. I was the stalking horse, as it were, for a question a number of church leaders had been asking.
If you're 60 or older you'll nod, I think; if you're much younger you may not believe it. But the battle was over women's names. Apparently a few years earlier the step had been taken, but not without controversy, to go from Mr. & Mrs. John Smith, to Mr. & Mrs. John Smith (Jane). A great many older women, mostly widows, were listed as Mrs. John Smith, period, and they wanted to keep it that way.
The goal was to list everyone with their own name, with couples as Mr. & Mrs. John and Jane Smith. The result was chaos. A faction wanted to go back to Mr. & Mrs. John Smith let alone adding (Jane), and a few wanted to put all names in on separate lines: Mr. John Smith, Mrs. Jane Smith, etc.
I smiled one day and asked "what about using Ms. for adult single women?" It was not a smile I got in return. It would not be until 1983 that women would be allowed to serve as elders in that congregation.
Southern Baptists are in conflict this June at their annual meeting over women in leadership; the interesting thing to me is that while some frame this as a test of ancient tested principles, in 1960s there were as many women in Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) seminaries as there were in mainline Protestant seminaries.
It wasn't until 1984 the SBC passed a resolution asserting "women are not in public worship to assume a role of authority over men." In 1998 an official teaching passed saying a woman should "submit herself graciously" to her husband's leadership, as "the church willingly submits to the headship of Christ."
And then in 2000, SBC teaching was amended to say "the office of pastor is limited to men as qualified by Scripture."
Some will argue the new statements were because among 47,000 SBC churches, there had been by that point just a few hundred that had women serving in a pastor's role, so the issue had not been a public problem before. The rule was understood, and unstated; now it needs to be stated. I'd qualify that by noting there are many hundreds more women in the SBC serving as youth pastors or women's pastor positions. But the import seems to be when it was a .5% occurrence it was okay, but if it looks like it's heading towards 2%, it must be stopped.
As I've said in this space before, I'm the result of the powerful witness and work of women in pulpit ministry. I won't recount the whole story, but for me to agree that women shouldn't preach or be parish ministers would be to erase my own faith history. Rick Warren, the SBC minister in the middle of this debate, is using many such stories out of his tradition to make a similar point: when there weren't too many of them, we didn't really care. It was only when enough women came into those roles there was pressure to put up hard barriers across the board.
What Southern Baptists and United Methodists and my own Disciples have been dealing with are complex issues with common roots. I'll try to get to some of those in my next column.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's thankful for Rev. Myrtle Park Storm, ordained in 1908 to preach the gospel, who baptized his mother & married his parents. Tell him who indirectly shaped your faith at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Monday, June 05, 2023
Notes from my Knapsack 6-22-23
Notes from my Knapsack 6-22-23
Jeff Gill
Just another Granville Fourth of July
___
It's coming again, the Fourth of July. The day we celebrate the birth of the United States of America, from the formalization of our Declaration of Independence in 1776.
We do well to note as we celebrate that birthdate that in fact we didn't have it all figured out at the start. It took until 1787 for us to cook up a Constitution; we had Articles of Confederation but they didn't get the job done. A committee on canals and waterways at Annapolis exceeded their brief and went on to Philadelphia, and we can all be thankful they did.
Yet they didn't get the job fully done, either. Who was included in "all men are created equal" wasn't sorted out for many years, let alone both men and women. Declaring our independence was a first step, and even once they had organized us "in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty," the Constitution required amendments, and we're likely not done with those.
What we celebrate is the idea of America. In the same year Denison University was established in the still rough settlement of Granville, Ohio, back on the Atlantic coast in Boston a Baptist minister named Samuel Francis Smith wrote in 1831: "My country, 'tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty, Of thee I sing…"
Those words were meant to displace the lyrics of "God Save the King." Keep in mind it was just eighteen years since Great Britain had burned the White House and Capitol building, and shot up Navy ships in Boston harbor. Loyalists had slowly come back to Massachusetts but there were still hard feelings with the old school Patriots, and patriotism needed reinforcement, or so Rev. Smith believed.
"I love thy rocks and rills," we sing with him, the very fabric of the country from stony shorelines to inland ridges, even to "Thy woods and templed hills," the prominences of our natural skyline all the worship architecture we need, to compliment simple American meetinghouses in the valleys below.
"My heart with rapture thrills," sounds very 1831, but it's a level of enthusiasm we might want to carry forward from that era. Denison's alma mater still sings about their school "The name that sets our souls on fire/ And makes our senses thrill."
We can be very modern and cynical and dispassionate, but I would submit there's something to letting our hearts thrill with rapture over the ideals of freedom and equality our nation was established to advance. Have we always made the most of those initial promises? Is there a ways yet to go? Certainly. No fair analysis can dispute either challenge.
Yet for all the drama and pageantry of the recent coronation, God save King Charles, but God send he not rule over me or mine. We left that behind, or at least for the tabloids to cover. We pledge allegiance to an aspirational symbol with stars of a new constellation and stripes of thirteen colonies willing to launch that experiment in liberty, not to a person born of a particular royal lineage.
I welcome a time and a community festival to celebrating my country, which is for me, a sweet land of liberty, and may yet be for many more, and would sing with deep emotion, rapturously or in rap or musically however, that I am thankful the experiment continues.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he has a special relationship with the Granville Fourth of July parade. Tell him what makes you rapturous at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Just another Granville Fourth of July
___
It's coming again, the Fourth of July. The day we celebrate the birth of the United States of America, from the formalization of our Declaration of Independence in 1776.
We do well to note as we celebrate that birthdate that in fact we didn't have it all figured out at the start. It took until 1787 for us to cook up a Constitution; we had Articles of Confederation but they didn't get the job done. A committee on canals and waterways at Annapolis exceeded their brief and went on to Philadelphia, and we can all be thankful they did.
Yet they didn't get the job fully done, either. Who was included in "all men are created equal" wasn't sorted out for many years, let alone both men and women. Declaring our independence was a first step, and even once they had organized us "in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty," the Constitution required amendments, and we're likely not done with those.
What we celebrate is the idea of America. In the same year Denison University was established in the still rough settlement of Granville, Ohio, back on the Atlantic coast in Boston a Baptist minister named Samuel Francis Smith wrote in 1831: "My country, 'tis of Thee, Sweet Land of Liberty, Of thee I sing…"
Those words were meant to displace the lyrics of "God Save the King." Keep in mind it was just eighteen years since Great Britain had burned the White House and Capitol building, and shot up Navy ships in Boston harbor. Loyalists had slowly come back to Massachusetts but there were still hard feelings with the old school Patriots, and patriotism needed reinforcement, or so Rev. Smith believed.
"I love thy rocks and rills," we sing with him, the very fabric of the country from stony shorelines to inland ridges, even to "Thy woods and templed hills," the prominences of our natural skyline all the worship architecture we need, to compliment simple American meetinghouses in the valleys below.
"My heart with rapture thrills," sounds very 1831, but it's a level of enthusiasm we might want to carry forward from that era. Denison's alma mater still sings about their school "The name that sets our souls on fire/ And makes our senses thrill."
We can be very modern and cynical and dispassionate, but I would submit there's something to letting our hearts thrill with rapture over the ideals of freedom and equality our nation was established to advance. Have we always made the most of those initial promises? Is there a ways yet to go? Certainly. No fair analysis can dispute either challenge.
Yet for all the drama and pageantry of the recent coronation, God save King Charles, but God send he not rule over me or mine. We left that behind, or at least for the tabloids to cover. We pledge allegiance to an aspirational symbol with stars of a new constellation and stripes of thirteen colonies willing to launch that experiment in liberty, not to a person born of a particular royal lineage.
I welcome a time and a community festival to celebrating my country, which is for me, a sweet land of liberty, and may yet be for many more, and would sing with deep emotion, rapturously or in rap or musically however, that I am thankful the experiment continues.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he has a special relationship with the Granville Fourth of July parade. Tell him what makes you rapturous at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Faith Works 6-10-23
Faith Works 6-10-23
Jeff Gill
Getting specific about challenging things
___
Over the last decade I've been asked if I have anything to say about the challenges facing the United Methodist Church, both asking me personally and also often hoping I might offer some thoughts in this column. Long-time readers will know I've basically avoided the issue like the plague.
That's on me, and as with many things in my life I'm trusting in the grace of Jesus for all the mistakes I've made, sins of omission as well as commission. There's quite a pile of 'em, but Jesus says it's all covered and carried away, for which I'm thankful.
Having said that, I have been torn in many ways, for multiple reasons. First, I'm not a Methodist, but I'm deeply invested in Methodism. I've taught on and off for years at MTSO, the Methodist Theological School in Ohio over in Delaware, a seminary a number of Disciples of Christ students have attended since we don't have one in Ohio. I teach, ironically, history and polity, but for my own tradition. Occasionally I'd get Methodist students signing up out of curiosity, but it was the Methodist ethos the students were immersed in that's ensured I've kept up with United Methodist Church (UMC) polity over the last two decades, along with my own.
And if you are any sort of Christian in central Ohio, you are working alongside of Methodists, I guarantee it. I've told my classes that in the Midwest, at least, when Methodists catch a cold, other churches get pneumonia. Most of the reading audience here is in the judicatory called the West Ohio Conference of the UMC.
Last week, Bishop Gregory V. Palmer presided over their first in person gathering for West Ohio's Annual Conference since 2019. His Episcopal Address is available on Facebook and well worth watching. When he said "Five minutes in the narthex of a church, and I can mostly name its health," I said an "Amen" out loud. He knows.
But last year there were around 950 congregations "in full connection" with the West Ohio Conference, but there were 80 congregations who asked to disaffiliate in that year; the 2023 Annual Conference just ended approved another 172 disaffiliations, leaving about 700 congregations. That's 26.5% of the conference's congregations choosing to depart, and looking at nationally reported figures, I'd suspect that will total around 30% or a bit more of membership.
However, looking at patterns nationally and in the Annual Conference book of reports for West Ohio, it was pretty clearly indicated that churches which were choosing to leave already paid their share of the conference budget at rates lower than "continuing" churches did; United Methodists know all about apportionments as their means of supporting their wider church structure, while the Global Methodist Church, where most of the disaffiliating churches are going, is making much of their not having an expectation of apportionment support, and it will be interesting to see how that works out in practice. The remaining UMC churches in West Ohio Conference may be losing 30% of their people, but it could be as little as 20% of their giving.
None of which deals with the hard reality that over the last few decades, United Methodist numbers in general, and for many Protestant denominational bodies, have been sliding south. If there was already a 5-10% decline per year in some categories, these losses intensify an already existing challenge for Methodism, but also for organized church bodies in general. We will be hearing later in June about divisions and separations in the Southern Baptist Convention, a church body formerly thought to be immune from some of the problems of the old-line Protestant communions.
Why are churches disaffiliating from the UMC? That and Southern Baptist divisions will both have to wait for the next column.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he tends to avoid specifics until he absolutely has to. Tell him about your specific concerns at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Getting specific about challenging things
___
Over the last decade I've been asked if I have anything to say about the challenges facing the United Methodist Church, both asking me personally and also often hoping I might offer some thoughts in this column. Long-time readers will know I've basically avoided the issue like the plague.
That's on me, and as with many things in my life I'm trusting in the grace of Jesus for all the mistakes I've made, sins of omission as well as commission. There's quite a pile of 'em, but Jesus says it's all covered and carried away, for which I'm thankful.
Having said that, I have been torn in many ways, for multiple reasons. First, I'm not a Methodist, but I'm deeply invested in Methodism. I've taught on and off for years at MTSO, the Methodist Theological School in Ohio over in Delaware, a seminary a number of Disciples of Christ students have attended since we don't have one in Ohio. I teach, ironically, history and polity, but for my own tradition. Occasionally I'd get Methodist students signing up out of curiosity, but it was the Methodist ethos the students were immersed in that's ensured I've kept up with United Methodist Church (UMC) polity over the last two decades, along with my own.
And if you are any sort of Christian in central Ohio, you are working alongside of Methodists, I guarantee it. I've told my classes that in the Midwest, at least, when Methodists catch a cold, other churches get pneumonia. Most of the reading audience here is in the judicatory called the West Ohio Conference of the UMC.
Last week, Bishop Gregory V. Palmer presided over their first in person gathering for West Ohio's Annual Conference since 2019. His Episcopal Address is available on Facebook and well worth watching. When he said "Five minutes in the narthex of a church, and I can mostly name its health," I said an "Amen" out loud. He knows.
But last year there were around 950 congregations "in full connection" with the West Ohio Conference, but there were 80 congregations who asked to disaffiliate in that year; the 2023 Annual Conference just ended approved another 172 disaffiliations, leaving about 700 congregations. That's 26.5% of the conference's congregations choosing to depart, and looking at nationally reported figures, I'd suspect that will total around 30% or a bit more of membership.
However, looking at patterns nationally and in the Annual Conference book of reports for West Ohio, it was pretty clearly indicated that churches which were choosing to leave already paid their share of the conference budget at rates lower than "continuing" churches did; United Methodists know all about apportionments as their means of supporting their wider church structure, while the Global Methodist Church, where most of the disaffiliating churches are going, is making much of their not having an expectation of apportionment support, and it will be interesting to see how that works out in practice. The remaining UMC churches in West Ohio Conference may be losing 30% of their people, but it could be as little as 20% of their giving.
None of which deals with the hard reality that over the last few decades, United Methodist numbers in general, and for many Protestant denominational bodies, have been sliding south. If there was already a 5-10% decline per year in some categories, these losses intensify an already existing challenge for Methodism, but also for organized church bodies in general. We will be hearing later in June about divisions and separations in the Southern Baptist Convention, a church body formerly thought to be immune from some of the problems of the old-line Protestant communions.
Why are churches disaffiliating from the UMC? That and Southern Baptist divisions will both have to wait for the next column.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he tends to avoid specifics until he absolutely has to. Tell him about your specific concerns at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
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