Faith Works 12-16-17

Faith Works 12-16-17

Jeff Gill

 

Simon lives! (part two)

___

 

[ital.] A story of the Christmas season [end ital.]

 

So, how is it that Simon is alive?

 

I had been Ernestine and Simon's pastor for some years now, and they had both been members of our congregation for most of their eighty-some years. He died last year right around Christmas, and this December strange things had happened to lead Ern to call me and ask if I could do some "snooping around" as she called it, to find some answers.

 

She was wondering if this spate of good deeds done around town the last few weeks was a well-intended gesture by their two sons, or a loving prank being played in Simon's memory by "The Golden Cuppers" he used to drink coffee with every weekday morning, or could a group of the men from church he'd done home repairs with be using his name for their helpful holiday actions?

 

Which is how I ended up at a layaway counter at one of our big stores, asking if anyone could remember who had left a note, saying "Merry Christmas, Simon" for a woman who had learned to her delight that the kids' Christmas gifts were paid for.

 

The clerk surprised me, calling me by name and then explaining she'd been a bridesmaid at a wedding I'd done last spring out at the Trout Club. When I told her what I was curious about, she immediately replied "Oh, I remember how happy that lady was! That made her year."

 

"But were you working when someone came in to pay off her account?" I asked.

 

She nodded. "I think so. We get lots of customers here, of course, but usually people are paying on their own stuff. It was an older guy, older than you I mean, and when he said what he wanted to do I couldn't think of any reason why he couldn't, like paying for the person behind you in the drive-up line, you know?"

 

I nodded, leaving alone the question of "older than who?" She tried to recall details, but her description could have been any of a few thousand men of a certain age in winter coats and grey hair who leave little or no impression on a young woman's memory. I thanked her, and invited her to Christmas Eve services.

 

"Thank you!" she said, surprising me with how surprised she seemed at the offer, and then added "Hey, that guy said the same thing. You just reminded me of that." She couldn't remember much more, but it was clearly our church, with the same times of service and all. Other customers came in, so after a few more Christmas wishes, I wandered back towards the main doors.

 

Heading into the parking lot, I passed the Salvation Army bellringer and his red kettle. Remembering they'd gotten some gold coins, wrapped in pieces of paper, and only found later when they were emptied, I paused to fish out a five, and as I put it in, asked "Do you know yet who put gold coins in your kettle?"

 

"Well, sir, they tell me the note said it was a fellow named Simon, but I'm pretty sure I remember who it was the day it happened," he said, pausing in his ringing.

 

"Really? You recall the piece of paper being tucked into the slot?" I asked.

 

"Exactly," he nodded. "Except the time I'm thinking of, it wasn't one guy, it was three of them." He explained one had the carefully folded note in his hand, but it was clearly three guys together, who went off among the parked cars as a group.

 

Interesting, I thought -- the Golden Cuppers had a core group of three who sat there the longest, even though it was an assembly that could end up four or five or even more some mornings. They'd been four until Simon passed.

 

Ern had given me the name and address of the person who had gotten assistance with their flat tire a few weeks ago; as I went to my car, I mentally mapped out my route from the store to the house. Yet another strange encounter, where an older man had shown up and helped with the jack and spare, saying as he left his name was Simon. Without the last name, how had they found Ern's home address to send a thank you to, if he'd just said he was Simon?

 

More questions to ask yet, and when I was done asking them, would I have an answer for her? How was it that her late husband was busy all over our community doing good deeds a year after we'd said our goodbyes? Now I wanted to know as much as his widow did.

 

(Part two of three, concluding next week!)

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your Christmas season surprises at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 12-9-17

Faith Works 12-9-17

Jeff Gill

 

Simon lives! (part one)

___

 

[ital.] A story of the Christmas season [end ital.]

 

"Simon is alive!"

 

It's not what I expected to hear Ernestine saying when I came to her door a few days before Christmas.

 

She and I had stood by his grave just twelve months earlier, after his sudden and unexpected death. As her pastor, there was a note in my pocket to check by her house this Advent to see how she was doing (the first anniversary of a death is often harder than the shock of the passing itself), but she had texted me a message asking if I could stop by, first.

 

We walked into the living room and sat, I admit with a quizzical look on my face. I am a Christian, and Simon's life with the Lord I did and do believe in, but what was she trying to tell me?

 

"Padre, I know this sounds crazy, and you and I both know we stood there together as they closed the casket, but things keep happening as if Simon were still alive. I know he's dead, but something is going on, and I need your help to figure out what."

 

Ernestine and Simon had been in their eighties, but both in good health; she was one of the last of that era who had never learned to drive. I knew there were many friends and two sons who lived locally who got her around to where she needed to go since Simon's passing, but while she wasn't reclusive, she did tend to be at home for the most part.

 

"What kind of help can I give you, Ern? Do you need a ride somewhere, or for me to contact someone?"

 

Her explanation made it clear it was something else entirely she was looking for. "No, I want you to go around and do some checking for me. I got this call from a lady who went to pick up her layaway, you know how they do it at those big stores, for Christmas: and there was a note, saying 'Merry Christmas, Simon' so she looked us up in the book – his name is still on the phone bill – and called to thank us!"

 

I nodded, thinking it was some sort of good deed from one of their many friends in Simon's memory, but she went on: "Then I got a letter in the mail from a man who said a fellow stopped when he had a flat tire, changed it for him, and said he was my Simon! On top of all that, I heard from the Salvation Army. They've gotten three gold coins slid into their red kettles, wrapped in a piece of paper, and all three said . . ."

 

"Merry Christmas, Simon," I finished for her, and she nodded vigorously. "But what can I do to help you?"

 

"Well, pastor, I have my suspicions. It could be one of the boys, it could be one of the guys in his coffee group – you know, the Golden Cuppers – or it might be one of the men from the church on the repair ministry team. Could you just, I don't know, snoop around and see if you can find out something for me? I'd love to thank them. Honestly, it's been a nice feeling: I was kind of dreading this Christmas, but now I'm just wondering what I'll hear Simon's up to next!"

 

Snooping around is not exactly something they teach in seminary. But I was delighted to help Ern, and indeed these little pleasant pranks were right up Simon's alley. He was always the one with a joke sign he'd put up on a classroom door during Sunday school, or would slip a buckeye into your pocket without your noticing, and he had a generous streak.

 

The difference between this Simon we were dealing with this year, and the one Ern and I knew, is that he was usually very careful not to let anyone know it was him – or he and Ernestine – doing the good deed.

 

"Ern, I can't promise anything, but I'll do what I can." What else can a minister say?

 

She gave me a big hug, and as she escorted me back out the door waved and said "I'm sure you'll find out something for me!"

 

(Part one of three, continued next week!)

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your Christmas season surprises at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Notes from my Knapsack 12-7-17

Notes from my Knapsack 12-7-17

Jeff Gill

 

A question of culture, and community

___

 

One of my most vivid memories of college was an anthropology class I took in my first year; I entered, and mirabile dictu, departed an anthropology major.

 

So a discussion of what "culture" was certainly makes sense, and our professor, who had recently returned from years above the Artic Circle living among the Sami people, herding reindeer, surely had much to tell us.

 

But maddeningly, at first, she would not tell us what "culture" was. She insisted we define it ourselves as a class. And across a week and a half, five class periods as I recall, we had at it. And found it a very difficult challenge, indeed.

 

My own horseback answer for now, since I'm not an anthropology professor rightly wanting to challenge my students, but a popularizer and columnator in these pages, is this: culture is that set of norms and values, often unspoken let alone unwritten, that frame the reception of experience in the thinking of the participants in that community, and guide them in actions of everyday life, and major life decisions.

 

No, I didn't get that from Wikipedia. I just wrote what I recalled coming to earth with after lots of airy speculation . . . and Myrdene, our teacher, as far as I recall never did choose to award any one definition with the prize of "rightness," she just pointed at various elements of different definitions we'd come up with and walked us through the strengths and weaknesses they each had.

 

Culture is amorphous, mutable, and also scalable, in the computer-based metaphors of today. There is such a thing as "American culture," but are we talking the 1950s or post 2000? Within that construct, you have Midwestern culture, and Eastern or Northeastern culture; inside those matryoshka dolls of meaning, you encounter some unique qualities to Philly culture versus New Yawk culture, and I had the change recently to catch a glimpse of Manhattan, where there may well be a different culture between streets and avenues of that city.

 

What I carry with me still from that class was the realization that culture, however defined, is how we filter experience. Culture tells us what we see, and what we don't see. Have you heard about some powerful men being powerfully brought low recently, in the news? Yes, I was twenty feet from Matt Lauer a few weeks ago, days before he lost his chair on TV. But I recall when men in authority hitting on young women in the office was . . . not seen. Not commented on. Women would warn each other, quietly, but officially, it was invisible. No more.

 

Because culture changes. Granville is wrestling with our own culture. We think of ourselves as a place where education is honored – heck, we put it up on a hill in the middle of town! – and where a certain New England . . . ethos? atmosphere? culture? is part of how we see ourselves.

 

How we celebrate, say, Christmas, and other ethnic or racial cultural observances is still new territory in Our Fair Village. Not long ago, they were invisible. We're starting to see them. And we look at our traditions with new eyes in the culture being contested, struggling to be born, today. And tomorrow.

 

This is not the Granville of 1855, he said all too obviously, and it's not the Brigadoon of 1955, either. What will the norms of 2055 look like, and could we see them from where we stand today? We might, because culture is a lens, not a hood. Well used, our culture helps us improve our focus both near and long-range.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about how you see our community culture in transition at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

 

Notes From My Knapsack 11-23-17

Notes From My Knapsack 11-23-17

Jeff Gill

 

And heaven and nature sing

___

 

We're heading into the Christmas season, or as we church folk often say, "Advent."

 

Advent begins on Dec. 3, traditionally four Sundays of preparation but this year Christmas Eve is actually on Sunday, making for some interesting scheduling decisions for those who normally hold Christmas Eve services.

 

As I think many of you know, I'm a Christian minister, and pastor a church in Newark; I also write a completely different column in the Newark Advocate that's every Saturday (I'm every other week here in the Sentinel). That column is captioned "Faith Works" and has appeared since 2005; my "Knapsack" column here has been and is intended to be more "general interest."

 

But recent events in Granville cause me to, as the Ghostbusters say I shouldn't, "cross the streams." Oh well! I wanted to talk a bit about religion here because I know some thought I would or should be a vocal advocate for keeping the word "Christmas" in our community candlelight walking tour.

 

And I know it began with the churches, and the Christmas spirit is not only at the heart of the event, but should be allowed to be expressed freely in the celebration of it. With all that, I agree. But the insistence on keeping this now wider, more complex, multi-party event a "Christmas" specific program . . . there, I'm not so sure.

 

I recall when, just as I was starting ministerial training, in fact, it became clear that Christmas season TV ads were assiduously avoiding music with any religious tone at all. "Deck the Halls" was okay, "Silent Night" not. "Joy to the World" became rarer, "Jingle Bell Rock" which I would happily never hear again, common.

 

About that same time, I learned that the swing choir I was so proudly a part of in high school, called the "Carolers" for their custom of singing, all 24 of us in green and white polyester matching outfits, Christmas carols through the halls of every elementary school in Valparaiso, Indiana… were no longer the "Carolers." Because they didn't carol anymore.

 

I didn't like it. Honestly, part of me still doesn't.

 

But with age comes, if not wisdom, a measure of perspective. I believe I'm no less a Christian than I was then; ideally, I'm a better one now with God's grace. And as a committed believer, I look at the lyrics of carols and ask myself "do I want to make people say or sing this just as a tradition, as hollow words?"

 

"Joy to The world! the Lord is come; let earth receive her King. Let ev'ry heart prepare Him room, and heaven and nature sing…"

 

That's quite a claim. I believe it, in fact, and if you don't, I have a case to make for it, but forcing you to say it as if you believed it won't make it truer. "Mouthing" it might make it seem less so. Or this:

 

"Christ the everlasting Lord; late in time, behold Him come, offspring of a virgin's womb. Veiled in flesh the Godhead see; hail the incarnate Deity…"

 

Those are radical statements of faith. They're not sweet nothings, nor are they empty phrases, and I'm sorry I ever sang them without really intending what they said.

 

This is why I'm at peace either way with the labels on the event. We could call it the "First Sunday of Advent Eve Candlelight Walking Tour" and be very in line with religious practice, but I think in the end it's for the faith communities of Granville to share their Good News as they best can within a larger village framework. What I don't want to do is weaponize the phrase "Merry Christmas," for or against anyone.

 

May the joys of this holy season be yours, whatever your faith!

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him about your seasonal joys and deeper hopes at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 12-2-17

Faith Works 12-2-17

Jeff Gill

 

We all have invented Christmas

___

 

 

The most influential and ignored work in Western literature, I would assert, is Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol."

 

A secular supernatural fantasia on religious themes, it engages with economic theory, social justice, holiday traditions, and the centrality of family life to community health and stability.

 

The story has been reimagined on stage and screen almost from its 1843 beginnings, with the lead characters played by actors as different as Albert Finney, George C. Scott, Bill Murray, Jim Carrey, even Mickey Mouse and the Muppets . . . though Mickey was Bob Cratchit, with Scrooge McDuck playing, of course, Scrooge.

 

Scrooge is the heart of the story, and his transformation is the point of the narrative, with a Romantic era catalyst of mysterious spirits making midnight visitations, and an Enlightenment framework of past, present, and future, with the rationalist question "can the future be changed, or is it fixed?" asked as the conflict which carries us along.

 

Dickens answers this question with a resounding, and I would say compelling, "yes" to the possibility of change. Yet we ignore not only how this transformation of "a" or "the" Scrooge takes place, we choose to go in the opposite direction more often than not, the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shaking a spectral finger at us as we approach.

 

There's a movie out now, "The Man Who Invented Christmas" which I've not yet seen, but I like the idea. It tells not so much the story of "A Christmas Carol" as the background of writing it – and I will be listening to hear if Ohio makes an appearance in the narrative.

 

Yes, Ohio. A year before Dickens sat down to write his Christmas tale in London, he had been in American. In the spring of 1842 his tour passed not far from us, traveling from Cincinnati to Lake Erie where he picked up a steamship to Buffalo. Midway, he spent a night in central Ohio. From Dickens' "American Notes":

 

"We reached Columbus shortly before seven o'clock, and stayed there, to refresh, that day and night: having excellent apartments in a very large unfinished hotel called the Neill House, which were richly fitted with the polished wood of the black walnut, and opened on a handsome portico and stone veranda, like rooms in some Italian mansion. The town is clean and pretty, and of course is 'going to be' much larger. It is the seat of the State legislature of Ohio, and lays claim, in consequence, to some consideration and importance."

 

Dickens and his wife had spent some time in Cincinnati previously, and on their way up from the Ohio River his last passage through stayed in Lebanon, another spot on the way north, and at Upper Sandusky after Columbus before concluding his Buckeye sojourn at Sandusky on the Erie lakeshore.

 

No, Ohio probably won't be mentioned in the movie about "A Christmas Carol." But the proximate cause of his writing that novella was because his larger novel at that time, published in sections as was the custom of the time, was not doing well at all. "Martin Chuzzlewit" was and is not one of Dickens' finer works, and it included an American sojourn that some suspect was inserted to spice up reader interest and sales… but it also reflected his largely ambivalent feelings about our land. Slavery was a big part of it, but there was much else – even in Ohio – that rubbed him the wrong way. It comes across both in "Chuzzlewit" and in "American Notes" as just enough unpleasantness to put one off, a bit.

 

What it all tells me, though, is that after six months in a different country, Dickens was ready to go home. He dreamt of home back in England, and his compared everything and everyone he saw in America to his home, and at a certain point he just wanted to go back.

 

A year later, the novel in progress was hobbled by his lasting discontent, and he knew he needed to go somewhere else. Dickens wanted to go… home.

 

Which is what I think "A Christmas Carol" is about. How we can alienate ourselves from where we are, what we're doing, even who we're with, and what it takes for us to go home even when we're already there. To be at home in our own selves, just as Tiny Tim somehow already knew how to do, and as Scrooge comes to learn with some spiritual assistance.

 

May we all find our way home right where we are this Christmas season!

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him what being at home means to you at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.