Faith Works 12-30-17

Faith Works 12-30-17

Jeff Gill

 

The year of Our Lord, Two-thousand and seventeen

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Anno Domini. A.D. "The year of Our Lord…" as you can still read in old wills and legal documents.

 

Today historians and scholars in general prefer the more neutral CE, for "Common Era" (and BCE, "Before Common Era," versus B.C. for "Before Christ" and no, I don't know why the jump from Latin back to English on those older labels).

 

Turns out it's unlikely that Jesus was born in what's now 1 A.D. (or A.D. 1, in Latin usage – there is no "Year Zero"), with some students of Scripture reading Matthew 2 & Luke 2 to point more towards 4 B.C., meaning that Jesus would then be born four years before Christ, which does seem a bit odd.

 

"The year of the Lord," though, does ground a year in a benchmark date or era, and gives us a healthy sense of time past, and time passing. Ancient Rome dated years "A.U.C." for "ab urbe condita" or "since the founding of the city" and you shouldn't ask an ancient Roman which city they're referring to. Romulus and Remus in 753 B.C. hold the traditional honors for establishing Rome.

 

The Hebrew calendar puts us in A.M. 5778, "anno Mundi" or "the year of the World," adapted from the Hebrew for "to the year of Creation," measuring from a point determined a few thousand years ago by Biblical genealogies; the Orthodox Christians of the east sometimes use a Byzantine calendar which does the same sort of math differently, and states that we are in the year 7526 "from the creation of the world."

 

Inclusivity and diversity aside (and trust me, there are many more systems of numbering I could tell you about) we're likely to use our current Gregorian calendar for some time to come. There are other points in the year different cultures use for the turn of the year and the change of the annual number, but even in the west, even in our own country in pre-colonial days, January has not always been the day you change the calendar or almanac. To the early 1700s, March 1 or March 25 or Easter were used as the date for a new year to begin; since the advent of the Gregorian calendar generally, after 1750 (later in Russia and elsewhere, though), January 1 has been the big day.

 

What I think many of us can agree on is that we're ready to give the year 2017 back to our Lord. Take it, Almighty God, and store it where you will, and bless us with a truly new year. This may be purely personal pique, but 2017 has just been ugly and unpleasant and pestiferous and impudent and . . . Hallmark Channel will stop showing Christmas movies in the next day or so.

 

We need a new year.

 

And that's the hope, the blessing, whatever your faith perspective. Can we find a fresh start, a way forward, a possibility of being born anew? Or are we condemned to a steadily declining spiral of repeated futility down into the cosmic drain?

 

For me as a Christian and minister of that faith, this is where my beliefs keep me right through "New Year" to celebrating Christmas, as most Christians do through Epiphany, the celebration of the Magi arriving to honor the newborn King, on January 6 or twelve days after Christmas Day itself. You know, "on the sixth day of Christmas my true love gave to me . . ."

 

New Year 2018 and the season of Christmastide is a time for reflection, of remembering (even if in a chastened and rueful fashion) and of anticipating the year past and the one to come. They work together very nicely, I think, to remind us that as we take down the old calendar, we can put more behind us than we think. In putting up the new calendar, in switching our references and annotations to a new year, we have a fresher start than everyday life would lead us to believe.

 

We can begin anew. 2018 can be different. It may not be, but that's largely our choice; we are called to commit ourselves through prayer and faith and service to give the new year a chance to be the season of renewal God desires for all of us.

 

May your New Year celebrations bring you to a new appreciation of what's past, and a restored hope it what can yet be, in the year of Our Lord Two-thousand and eighteen.

 

 

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

Faith Works 12-23-17

Faith Works 12-23-17

Jeff Gill

 

Simon lives! (part three)

___

 

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

 

Simon is alive.

 

Now I understood, or thought I did.

 

Ernestine had been married to Simon for over fifty years when he died last Christmastime, and as their pastor, I'd officiated at his funeral, tears amidst the tinsel. Christmas week funerals are a very particular sort of grief and celebration, and no matter how many I've done you never quite feel at ease with them.

 

But now Ern was smiling at me, a year later, as I sat in her kitchen at the table, coffee in front of me and cookies near at hand (ah, temptation). She had asked me to "snoop around a bit," as if she thought I might find it a natural fit with my skill set, to find the answer to a puzzle, a mystery of this Advent season.

 

She had been getting "thank yous" by mail and phone about good deeds done around town the last few weeks, all supposedly the work of Simon. Who was deceased, as we both knew so well. But for a number of people in our community, he had just done them a favor, given a gift, offered aid. How was this so?

 

Her suspicion was that it was all a well-intended gesture from their two sons, or a gentle jests in Simon's memory by "The Golden Cuppers," his weekday coffee crew, or one of the men from church he'd done home repairs with. She had hoped I could find out who, so she could offer thanks of her own for the kind intention.

 

"If you'd told me last year, or six months ago, that someone would be using Simon's name this way, it probably would have irritated me a bit – I'm just being honest! – but I'm actually starting to enjoy this, pastor. It's like having him around again, but knowing he's with the Lord, all at once." Ern's eyes were bright as she poured me more coffee and went on with her reflections. "This is just like him, so whoever thought of doing it, I want them to know I appreciate it." She sat down opposite me.

 

"Well, Ern, first I have to tell you something." She leaned in expectantly. I went on: "You have only heard of about three of Simon's little good deeds, or in some cases, not so little?" She nodded. "Actually, as I was asking around, I found two or three more, places or people where something was given or done in the last few weeks, and the note with the cash or the greeting from the man at the door was that it was a Merry Christmas gift from . . ."

 

"Simon," she whispered. "Yes," I replied. "Simon has been busy this Christmas."

 

"But who is it?" she asked.

 

"That's the best part, I think…" As I started to finish my answer, she closed her eyes and smiled. "It's all of them," I concluded. Her eyes opened back up, wide and startled.

 

"All of whom?" she responded. "Well, remember you wondered if it could be your two sons, or if it was the Golden Cuppers at work, or the men from the church he worked with on home repair?" She nodded. "It was all of them. They all have been doing things in your husband's memory this Christmas, and putting his name to the good deeds." Ern nodded again, understanding.

 

"The flat tire he helped with; the man who worked the jack and got the lug nuts off said he was Simon, but the guy said there was another man back in the car . . . and he somehow traced the car back to your sons, and when he found the last name he put it with the first name he'd been given, not knowing Simon was gone, and mailed his thank you here. The Golden Cuppers have been going around to Salvation Army kettles with their coins, and the carpentry crew have been telling people their lumber was paid for by Simon. Simon has paid for people behind him in the drive-thru at breakfast, and he's paid off I don't know how many layaways, plus he's adopted a few kids through the Angel Tree. Simon has been busy this Christmas, Ern! But the answer to your question: it's all of them."

 

We had a prayer together of thankfulness there at the dinette table, and Ern gave me a big hug and through her tears said "thank you, you don't know how happy this makes me."

 

On my way out to the car, the cold wind made me shove my hands in my jacket pockets. Suddenly in one, I felt a cool, round . . . and pulled it out to find a buckeye there. Had Ern put it in when she hugged me? I almost turned to go back to ask her, and then I realized there was no need.

 

Because Simon put it there. Simon lives!

 

(Part three of three, and Merry Christmas!)

 

 

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 12-16-17

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

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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.