Faith Works 7-14-18

Faith Works 7-14-18

Jeff Gill

 

"Why am I still here?"

___

  

If you are going to call yourself a minister, if you serve in any pastoral care role, you are going to find yourself doing theology, whether you call it that or not.

 

I said a couple of weeks ago I wanted to talk more this summer about "what is aging for?" What does God intend for us to do with these years when mobility is limited, our physical skills may be less, and even our mental acuity is sharper in some ways, but a blunt instrument in others?

 

And I think often about this because beyond a shadow of a doubt, the most common theological discussion I've had in the last ten years has been in response to bedfast elderly people asking me, in exactly these words, more or less: why am I still here?

 

Sometimes I hear this asked anxiously, more often it's said very matter-of-factly, sometimes even with a smile and a twinkle in the eye . . . but still quite seriously said. It's really more of a statement of frustration than a question, but I've found that taking the question it is seriously is the best way for us to deal with the impatience and irritation and even sorrow that's behind those words.

 

"Why am I still here?"

 

You can go in a more philosophical direction if you want: it's the ultimate existential question. And that's part of my answer to the centenarians and nonagerians who ask me that: we can, and should, all ask ourselves that question. We have lots of ways of evading the question when we're younger and more active and mobile, but age and immobility take those screens away. The question is much more immediate, and you're forced to reflect more directly, on trying to understand why you are here.

 

Sometimes, we go on to talking about why you've been here. Trust me, elderly people are MUCH less uncomfortable talking about the imminence of death than the young are. Maybe even too comfortable at times! But they know there are more days behind them than before, and it's a worthy exercise to reflect on what they did or didn't make sense of about their years as a spouse, a sibling, a parent, a friend. What their work did or did not add to their lives; how their favorite activities were part of that meaning making that they only saw as amusement then, but see a purpose now.

 

Church and faith and those who have, as we say, "gone on before" are part of those holy conversations. And then back to the present, and the current conundrum: "why am I still here?"

 

Which I believe is always a good question, and like most good questions, there's a value to simply taking it seriously and wrestling with it honestly. I can't guarantee anyone a clear short answer to it. That often helps, just to put it out there.

 

Yet as a Christian pastor, I have to put two more things on the conversational table. One is, if God wanted you to go on into glory, you would indeed have already "passed on." And you have not. Therefore, I would argue, you must still have some purpose, some part of the bigger plan . . . or you'd have been called home some time ago. So let's try to figure out what that might be.

 

Sometimes we come up with a grandchild or adult child who still needs to hear something, or someone they'd like to see one more time. Well, that's an answer. Occasionally, I'm having this conversation with a person who literally has no one. They've outlived family, friends, colleagues, everybody. There's no one yet to speak to or influence.

 

Those conversations often happen in care centers, what we used to call (and still call) nursing homes. Or assisted living, or different arrangements with various names, but the same general idea. So we talk about the staff.

 

Yes, care center staff, we talk about you. The ones who care, the ones who make eye contact, the ones who talk to us – and the ones who do not. And I wonder out loud if there's some one here, working here, who needs to speak to you, on whom you might yet have some kind of impact or influence. And I hear then about guardians and inspectors and even people who got lost looking for someone else who come into your room and talk. And one's purpose seems to gather force from those interactions.

 

Or not. It's not unusual to find no clear resolution to the question, but there's always a certain sort of relief, a lifting of the spirits, from being able to ask it out loud. And as I leave, for I'm still young enough that I get to do that, the question echoes around inside of my head: "what am I here for?" Which might be part of the purpose of the person who asked that question out loud to start.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's already older than he was when he wrote this. Tell him about what you about aging and the elderly in society at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 7-7-18

Faith Works 7-7-18

Jeff Gill

 

A county of immigrants

___

 

So much has been said, and at a fevered pitch, about immigration and faith communities, that I worry about having anything useful or new to say.

 

Both as a pastor and as a citizen, I've been dismayed for years over many aspects of our national incoherence around immigration and a fair degree of social confusion about immigrants. As a historian, though, it's all too familiar.

 

My Native American friends get to smile, or snarl as the spirit moves them, about any European-origin Americans complaining about immigration and immigrants. "Tell us about it," they say. As we say often, but perhaps too quickly, we are all a nation of immigrants. It's just a question of when, and from where, and the cultural moment's choice of biases and discrimination that puts a frame on the snapshot. The first Gill in my father's line seems to have come from northern England with the British Army, deserting at the Battle of Saratoga in 1777 and becoming a US citizen before the end of the year, switching sides to fight for this country, then on getting bounty lands in central Pennsylvania, marrying a recent immigrant from Scotland.

 

In our early history in Licking County, we have the Welsh settlers whose hills still sit at the heart of the county. A strange language, alien customs, they were immigrants twice over. Jones and Philipps and Rees sound native now, but then…

 

After statehood but before the Civil War, Irish and German immigrants knew hostility and exclusion we associate today only with "people of color," but whiteness was still a loosely defined category in the 1840s and 1850s. A French migrant, Father Jean-Baptiste Lamy, came to establish the first Catholic parishes in the area before going on to New Mexico and an archbishop's hat. Father Lamy's people were German and Irish, often anxious about the reception they got on market day or from their neighbors, glad to have a community at St. Francis de Sales within which to feel some peace and acceptance.

 

Reinhardt Scheidler & Patrick McNamar left the Newark Machine Works and became the driving forces of the rapid growth of Newark's steam tractor engine industry; Scheidler, whose later independent business is the heart of "The Works" museum today, was born in Prussia, while McNamar was born in Ireland.

 

Wehrles and Moraths and Heiseys were German born families that became pillars of the community after the crucible of the Civil War. That was the melting pot of their day, and for Austrian and Italian immigrants who came to work in the glass factories and foundries that blossomed in and around Newark afterwards, it was service in the military during the Spanish-American War and World War I that marked their greater acceptance into the community fabric. If you read microfilmed copies of the Advocate in the late 1800s and early 1900s, you'll find racist bile spilled more about central and eastern Europeans than you will about African Americans, though there is sadly more than enough of the latter, as well.

 

In the 1920s, the Ku Klux Klan took over our community, and it will take more than a column to address that still unscrubbed stain on our history, but to read in the archived copies of "The Fiery Cross" (easily findable online) is to be confronted with a shocking degree of inflamed nativism which presumes that any Catholic, and certainly most Italians and Irish persons, cannot truly be considered American. Sadly, the Protestant churches of the day were not only silent in the face of this scandal, they were often complicit. The Klan's vile rhetoric collapsed in the face of its own corruption (secrecy of membership also leads to misuse of funds), and the weight of the Great Depression forced many to acknowledge a level of common cause which healed some, if not most wounds.

 

And then again a world war brought all races and ethnicities together, the response to Pearl Harbor and the draft both throwing into close proximity the children of other shores as men and women in service, who often brought home a new tolerance and acceptance which we greatly benefited from.

 

The aftermath of World War II also brought us refugees, "displaced persons" from Europe like Jan Michalek, twice imprisoned first by the Nazis and later by Communists, who brought to Licking County his Czechoslovak experience with fish hatcheries to rejuvenate what became the Trout Club, an enduring monument to his work and skills.

 

The fundamental Christian question is one asked of Jesus, "who is my neighbor?" In my faith tradition, we are called to wrestle long and hard with what his answer means, but it was a story, and it was about a man who was himself an alien in the land where the challenge was presented. The Samaritan was an immigrant before he was good, and his actions were Jesus' answer to the question as presented.

 

How do we answer that question in our Ohio home?

 

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's only been here since 1989, so is he really from here? Tell him about how our fences and gates and doorways make for good neighbors at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Notes From My Knapsack 7-5-18

Notes From My Knapsack 7-5-18

Jeff Gill

 

What kind of community we want to become

___

 

Carl Jung talked about the "collective unconscious" and Margaret Mead wrote about cultural patterns creating a community "state of mind." I'd just say we can become what we intentionally want to be. What kind of Granville do we want?

 

That may not seem very controversial to say, but there are so many assumptions we unconsciously work under that push back against that idea. Economic trends are seen as destiny, changes in social norms are a massive phenomenon in sum that no one place, let alone person, can resist them.

 

And I disagree. I may lack data for my argument, there may be little evidence that this stance is correct, but I plan to keep operating out of a belief that we can be the kind of place we want to live in, if we think about what that is, talk to each other about what it looks like, and take some simple steps to be more that sort of place.

 

Let me start with a simple step, if I can't make a global case for swimming against the tide. I think it self-evident that if you don't think about community, if you take it for granted, it will drift with the tide if not lapse into entropy and decay. If you drive a car without caring for it, you will run out of gas; if you keep up with the gas only, you'll run out of oil or coolant or rubber on your tires. You have to be intentional about maintenance on your car. Ditto a home, likewise a relationship. So why not a community as a whole?

 

Writing recently about community, I've gotten a number of emails and a few print letters from people expressing their concerns over what Granville is right now. Size is one common thread, that we've gotten too big to be the kind of place we (or they) want us to be, or at least that we've grown too fast. Another recurring theme is speed, which sometimes mentions growth as a spur. People in a hurry, on Broadway, in the checkout line, at events, or in general.

 

From hurry and speed grows another weed much mentioned: impatience and discourtesy. Now, I've only lived here about fifteen years, so I can't speak to the cordiality of eras gone by with certainty. I do know that you tend to be more friendly to those you know, and if you're a stranger you can be ill at ease in ways that comes across in strange ways. More turnover let alone new faces each year can surely create some social tensions. None of that explains what I think I have seen, of cars dashing hazardously through crosswalks and utterly impersonal gestures of rudeness. The social fabric has changed, how much I'm not sure, but the reality is there.

 

Which bids me ask: can we reweave it? Could we be gentler with each other, take our turn or even let someone else in front of us? Be less abrupt and insistent in person or behind the wheel, passing through town or in our face-to-face interactions?

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he hopes you'll indulge him further on this topic this summer! Give him your views at knapsack77@gmail.com or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

 

 

Faith Works 6-30-18

Faith Works 6-30-18

Jeff Gill

 

Advice, counsel, and the dangers of comparison

___

 

In this coming month, I will help an old friend celebrate a 90^th birthday.

 

I'm still not entirely used to having friends with 90^th birthdays.

 

Of course, I'm still not used to the ubiquity of Jay-Z and Beyoncé, the latter of whom I still recall seeing perform after a Columbus Clippers game at Cooper Stadium as part of "Destiny's Child," and who remembers "Destiny's Child"?

Okay, maybe I'm closer to 90 than I used to be, too.

 

There's not much advice I can give a 90 year old. We will celebrate their life, and tell stories of years gone by, but the uneasy reality is that there are unambiguously fewer years ahead than there are behind. For my friend, and for me, as a matter of fact.

 

Another friend much of my age said something about "middle aged" referring to us both, and my retort was "you really think either of us are making it past 115?" Middle age implies you are in the . . . middle. And I'm pretty sure I'm over it.

 

So along with much older friends and associates, I've got more retrospective than I do anticipation. Yet I anticipate much, even if it isn't for me, personally. This gets into the old "planting trees from which I will never harvest" adage. If I picked fruit from trees placed a century ago, there's an implied obligation to me for planting with a century hence in mind. I will not taste those apples or peaches or walnuts, but as I've enjoyed, so must I prepare, or the harvest won't be there in that distant day which I will never see.

 

Truth be told, like many pastors of the traditional churches in a community like ours, I spend a significant chunk of my time in ministry serving those who are in their eighties and nineties. During a couple of recent Sunday mornings, I did a quiet mental tally, and confirmed what I suspected: our church is about 25% those in their eighties and nineties, 50% in their sixties and seventies. All the rest of us fit into that last 25% of the total. Give me three more years and I'll join that majority above sixty.

 

Even so, a challenge for our wider church connections in the historic mainline/oldline faith traditions is seen in the district clergy meetings I attend, where back in 1989 I first attended as the youngest ordained minister in the room. Nearly thirty years later, when our student assistant minister isn't present, I'm still the youngest at our gatherings. And friends, I am not young. I'm not old either, of course. But I am . . . seasoned.

 

Which has me reflecting in a state which is aging, in a community where the median age is creeping upwards, preaching in an area where people tend to stay put and live in the home they first bought more than almost any other part of the country, about getting old. We are, that's just how it is, and we have lots of resources for the aging in our neck of the woods: the Licking County Aging Program being a wonderful asset in this area, and so many other fellowships and community programs and care center facilities.

 

But as a Christian pastor with a theological frame of mind, I ask myself, I mull and wonder and ponder and reflect: what is aging for? What are we to do with aging?

 

One common assumption is that aging and the aged are now able to share their gathered wisdom, the accumulated knowledge and experience of the years behind them, with those who have many years yet ahead of them. We can communicate mistakes we've already made that they can skip, and talk about opportunities we passed by which they might seize.

 

Or might not.

 

My dad, who turns 84 tomorrow, was wonderfully candid with his four children about his mistakes, the hope being that, having heard his, we could skip them and move past such setbacks and complications. He had no expectation we would make no mistakes, he just hoped we could make new ones. But youth has a deafness all its own, and sometimes the older of us hear more clearly the warnings ahead. Let's just say we repeated a few, and created some innovative ways to make the same errors along the way.

 

As I preach in nursing homes and speak at retiree events and minister to those who have the gift of years, I continue to ask myself "what is aging for?" What does God intend for us to do with these years when mobility is limited, our physical skills may be less, and even our mental acuity is sharper in some ways, a blunt instrument in others?

 

I believe it has a place, and a purpose. We'll speak more on the subject this summer.

 

Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's not as young as he used to be! But who is? Tell him about what you think aging is for at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Faith Works 6-23-18

Faith Works 6-23-18

Jeff Gill

 

Taking a break, making connections

___

 

We're in a stretch of the longest days of the year, the shortest nights. Summer began Thursday, and for a few days we get over 15 hours of daylight.

 

Add in an hour of dawn and an hour of twilight, and you have no more than seven hours of darkness. The long evenings are the heart of what most of us think about as summertime.

 

Sunday mornings the sun usually long precedes even our early activities. I get used to leaving for church in the starry dark much of winter, but now the sun is rising as I'm heading out.

 

But sometime soon I'll be on vacation, on the road. A number of roads, even!

 

I like going to church on the road. Worship is not something I take a break from; on vacation, I still breath and eat and circulate my bloodstream, so I don't see summertime as an interval when I pause in giving thanks, in seeking God. It's all a part of me, and a part I can cultivate and develop and grow.

 

Yes, I'm a parish pastor, so there's a practical side to these visits, not only spirituality. I learn from other congregations, different services, various locations. In amphitheaters in national parks, resort community meeting halls, churches on out of the way roads.

 

Sometimes, I learn that I'm glad my church does what it does, and am glad we worship as we do. Other times, I pick up a hint or a clue or some idea I can take home and try here in Licking County.

 

Not many years ago, I got up and snuck out of a hotel when my traveling party was sleeping in after a long night before, ducking into a nearby church. They weren't sorry I came, they weren't happy to see me. I felt . . . invisible. I thought "this is a great learning opportunity in how NOT to welcome a visitor!"

 

And on my way out, a member trotted down the path towards the parking lot to intercept me, to apologize. It was the darndest experience. She wanted to apologize for how everyone treated me in the post-service melee in the aisle and narthex (I had tried to greet the pastor, looked around to be sociable, and after staring at enough backs facing me, decided it was the better part of valor to depart).

 

"I saw how they behaved in there. They aren't bad people, but they're not used to visitors." Cruelly, I couldn't resist asking back "And they don't get many second time visitors, do they?"

 

She looked at me sadly. "No, we don't. And that's why, you're right."

 

I assured her I appreciated her outreach, and I might have tried one more time but was leaving town that afternoon – we agreed to pray for each other, instead, and I still do.

 

When my wife and I visited Los Alamos, New Mexico a few years ago (long story), we went to church and were literally swamped with hospitality, and in a desert environment that takes some doing! I honestly wished I could go back to the United Church of Los Alamos, and hope to one day. They had a number of things going on that I noted for future reference back home in Ohio.

 

Church on the road is both a ritual observance and a breaking of familiar patterns. Whether you go somewhere different than you usually do, or just pray on your own in a hotel room before packing, you get to look at the shape of a week, the start of it in thanksgiving and mindfulness, the act of worship itself in new and thought-provoking ways.

 

I would love to hear about your experiences of unfamiliar but connective worship this summer!

 

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