Faith Works 10-30-21
Jeff Gill
For all the saints, who from their labors rest
___
Given the usual civic fun and games, I will trust that we've put Beggars Night and most of the church-based Fall Festivals behind us.
The majority of those were Thursday; the admirable goal is to keep the kids from going door to door on a Friday or weekend night, which makes sense for all kinds of practical safety reasons.
As I believe can't be said too often, there's a reason to remember that underneath the seasonal and saleable side to Hallowe'en, there's the basis of how the costumed merriment got started in All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints, or "All Hallows" to be olde English about it. November 1 is a day to honor all those who have "gone on before." All Saints is a solemn and holy day in the Roman Catholic and Anglican traditions, and in less liturgical churches it's tricky to know how to mark it when the day is so close to a Sunday; Methodism tends to commend the first Sunday in November, but that's going to put you on forward to Nov. 7 . . . plus running into time change next weekend (you're welcome!) and falling back an hour.
So many congregations will honor those in particular who have died in the past year on this Sunday, October 31, in advance of November 1.
And just a couple of days ago, Methodists and Wesleyans of many sorts marked the 250th anniversary of Francis Asbury coming to America, and beginning a series of missionary journeys that have few parallels from Paul's day down to our own. October 27, 1771 is when he landed in Philadelphia and began a 45 year itineration up and down the original thirteen colonies and then some, thousands of miles on foot, by horseback, and occasionally by carriage in his later years.
In 1812, Asbury passed near Licking County though not through it; in September his journals record: "Wednesday 16. We came through the heat to Sherrock's, dined, and went forward towards Wills-Creek — logs, stumps, ruts, bushes — rough work: we arrived in the night at Waller's. Thursday 17. We set out in the rain, and came thirty miles to Zanesville; I retired sick to Spangler's. We have a meeting house here, and at Fairfields. It is a time of trouble on the frontiers — the Indians have killed and scalped some whites, it is said.
Friday 18. We attended Rush Creek camp meeting. The work of God during the night was awfully powerful. Many Germans present were deeply serious. Sunday 20. I preached. The whole night was spent in prayer. We had a sermon on Monday morning, and the sacrament followed: there might be two hundred and fifty communicants. I had been unwell, but an emetic, taken on Saturday night, prepared me for usefulness. I lodged with Edward Teel, aged seventy seven. I had known him forty years. On Tuesday we passed through New-Lancaster, to Jesse Spungeon's.
Wednesday 23. I preached at Stroud's chapel and we had an open, feeling, gracious season. I find that the mother of my host, Edward Stroud, went safe to rest last April; she was a disciple of ours, and a respectable widow in Israel. I suffer from chills — the nights are cold, and I have been much exposed. Thursday 24. We rode over to Judge Vanmeeter's On Friday I preached in the new house in Jefferson; we visited McDowell's and lodged with White Brown on Saturday. Sabbath 27. I preached: after meeting I gave up and stole to my bed. My rest has been much broken for the last month in various ways, and I am feverish and have the jaw ache. Could I be less earnest when I preach, I might have less bodily suffering; but it may not be.
The Ohio conference sat from Thursday, October the 1st, to Wednesday the 7th; we had great order. The writer of this journal laboured diligently, and was much assisted by the eldership in the business of the stations. He preached three times, was called upon to ordain twelve deacons, and also to ordain elders: upon the last day his strength failed. I want sleep, sleep, sleep: for three hours I lay undisturbed in bed, to which I had stolen on Wednesday; but they called me up to read off the stations. I have a considerable fever; but we must move."
It is difficult to read such passages and not be moved by such commitment and endurance in faith and ministry.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he's not a Wesleyan by background, but he's picked up a great deal of Methodism over the years. Tell him about saints you have known at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Sunday, October 24, 2021
Notes from my Knapsack 11-4-21
Notes from my Knapsack 11-4-21
Jeff Gill
Two hundred years ago
___
Halloween is behind us, but with time change this weekend, the shape of the evenings will change with the door of darkness swinging towards us an hour.
The barren trees claw at the night sky, and the new chill in the air reminds us winter is coming.
It's also a good time to recall stories of long ago times lit only by fire, candlelight and lanterns all the illumination there was once the sun went down. Travel on the roads, some of those paths old even in 1821, was a different sort of venture. Wolves were still in the hills, howling; two-legged wolves sometimes haunted lonely trails at the edge of settlement.
But two hundred years ago the Welsh Hills were fertile and productive for farming and stock raising, and the folk to the north and east of Granville were friendly with villagers, at least up to a point. Sometimes, they hired schoolteachers to come out and educate their young scholars in Latin and Greek (they handled Welsh themselves). A bachelor relative of one of the early settlers, one Ichabod Rose, was engaged in this work, riding out three days a week for classes.
He was smitten by the charms of a Welsh maiden, Catherine Philipps, for the sturdy farmers from Wales wanted all their children educated, female and male alike. The problem for poor Mr. Rose was two-fold: first, Miss Philipps was not interested in him as a husband, and secondly she had a suitor, Bram Jones who had distinguished himself in the War of 1812 and now at 26 was ready to settle down. Catherine did get excellent training in her Hesiod and Virgil from Ichabod's attentions that fall, but in truth he was not encouraged by her in any way.
The infatuation was obvious enough that certain young men around Bram's age decided a lesson should be taught to the schoolteacher. One late autumn evening, as Ichabod rode his aging gelding back from the Welsh Hills to the Thrall boarding stables on Equality Street in the village, turning west at Jones Road onto Centerville Street, he looked back down the long dark tunnel of overhanging trees to the east, and saw dimly silhouetted a single rider.
This was not itself unusual, but the distant rider was at a gallop, and nervously Ichabod Rose spurred his unwilling mount for a bit more speed to the west. It was a common superstition that crossing the dip of Clear Run, over the water, one was then safe within the village's implicit embrace.
Down the slope of Tannery Hill his mount clambered, and at the water's edge he looked back up, and saw a headless horseman, all in black, loom over him above, with a flaming face eerily held out to one side. The schoolmaster shrieked, and then fell from his horse in a dead faint as the separated head was flung right at him, narrowly missing the rocks in the stream bed.
Later that night, the horse walked loose reined into the stable alone; a search party found only a smashed pumpkin by Clear Run, and the next morning the parson's wife where Rose boarded found his room emptied of everything except a tattered copy of Chapman's Homer.
These mysterious events of 1821 may have inspired certain east coast authors, or perhaps it was the other way around, but even in 2021 we know the shadows and candlelights of fall can still chill our imaginations — along with the cold winds of impending winter, now on their way out of the hills to our north.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he knows he owes an apology to Washington Irving, who published the original legend in 1820. Tell him what other stories might adapt to our local landscape at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
Jeff Gill
Two hundred years ago
___
Halloween is behind us, but with time change this weekend, the shape of the evenings will change with the door of darkness swinging towards us an hour.
The barren trees claw at the night sky, and the new chill in the air reminds us winter is coming.
It's also a good time to recall stories of long ago times lit only by fire, candlelight and lanterns all the illumination there was once the sun went down. Travel on the roads, some of those paths old even in 1821, was a different sort of venture. Wolves were still in the hills, howling; two-legged wolves sometimes haunted lonely trails at the edge of settlement.
But two hundred years ago the Welsh Hills were fertile and productive for farming and stock raising, and the folk to the north and east of Granville were friendly with villagers, at least up to a point. Sometimes, they hired schoolteachers to come out and educate their young scholars in Latin and Greek (they handled Welsh themselves). A bachelor relative of one of the early settlers, one Ichabod Rose, was engaged in this work, riding out three days a week for classes.
He was smitten by the charms of a Welsh maiden, Catherine Philipps, for the sturdy farmers from Wales wanted all their children educated, female and male alike. The problem for poor Mr. Rose was two-fold: first, Miss Philipps was not interested in him as a husband, and secondly she had a suitor, Bram Jones who had distinguished himself in the War of 1812 and now at 26 was ready to settle down. Catherine did get excellent training in her Hesiod and Virgil from Ichabod's attentions that fall, but in truth he was not encouraged by her in any way.
The infatuation was obvious enough that certain young men around Bram's age decided a lesson should be taught to the schoolteacher. One late autumn evening, as Ichabod rode his aging gelding back from the Welsh Hills to the Thrall boarding stables on Equality Street in the village, turning west at Jones Road onto Centerville Street, he looked back down the long dark tunnel of overhanging trees to the east, and saw dimly silhouetted a single rider.
This was not itself unusual, but the distant rider was at a gallop, and nervously Ichabod Rose spurred his unwilling mount for a bit more speed to the west. It was a common superstition that crossing the dip of Clear Run, over the water, one was then safe within the village's implicit embrace.
Down the slope of Tannery Hill his mount clambered, and at the water's edge he looked back up, and saw a headless horseman, all in black, loom over him above, with a flaming face eerily held out to one side. The schoolmaster shrieked, and then fell from his horse in a dead faint as the separated head was flung right at him, narrowly missing the rocks in the stream bed.
Later that night, the horse walked loose reined into the stable alone; a search party found only a smashed pumpkin by Clear Run, and the next morning the parson's wife where Rose boarded found his room emptied of everything except a tattered copy of Chapman's Homer.
These mysterious events of 1821 may have inspired certain east coast authors, or perhaps it was the other way around, but even in 2021 we know the shadows and candlelights of fall can still chill our imaginations — along with the cold winds of impending winter, now on their way out of the hills to our north.
Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and preacher in central Ohio; he knows he owes an apology to Washington Irving, who published the original legend in 1820. Tell him what other stories might adapt to our local landscape at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.
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