Today is the birthday of Martin Luther King, Jr.  I vividly remember his activities and witness even though I still was pretty young when he was assassinated.   

Civil Rights was a popular subject during my tenure as Executive Director of William Penn House, a Quaker seminar center in Washington, D.C.  It was my privilege to accompany some groups on visits to Rep. John Lewis (D-GA) in his Capitol Hill office.   I read a lot about John Lewis over the years in numerous histories of the Civil Rights Movement, as he was a significant leader.  

Congressman Lewis' courage was unquestioned during those very tense days in our nation.  He was the leader of SNCC, the Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee, spoke at the 1963 March on Washington, made famous by Dr. King’s “I Have A Dream” speech, played a huge role in the Freedom Rides, and was front and center during the 1965 march from Selma to Montgomery that became known as “Bloody Sunday.”   

He suffered incredible, life-threatening violence that day and others, was arrested more times than I can count, and in my mind, is a true American hero.  Probably no one imagined that this “dangerous person” one day would become one of the most-respected members of the House of Representatives, referred to by some as the “conscience of Congress.” 

I frequently saw Congressman Lewis around Capitol Hill, our paths intersecting as we walked here and there performing our respective duties.  I’ll never forget the first time I saw him.  It was outside the Cannon House Office Building as we waited to cross the street in opposite directions.  Before the traffic light changed I spotted him across the way, in a cluster of other pedestrians.  We made eye contact during our turn in the crosswalk, and he greeted me as we passed one another.  I was thrilled.  Over the years, the same scenario played out again numerous times. 

A memorable visit to his office occurred when a dozen or so high-schoolers from across the U.S., attending the annual WPH-sponsored Quaker Youth Seminar, were treated to Lewis’ personal recollections from Bloody Sunday.  He displayed enlarged photos showing the Alabama state troopers on horses running through the peaceful marchers.  One picture showed Lewis himself being beaten senseless by a law enforcement officer.  Lewis, of course, carried no weapon and made no threats against the officer.  He was leading a march. 

Congressman Lewis betrayed no bitterness or anger at the memory.  Granted, it was nearly thirty years after the attack occurred, but he and others I met who experienced so much hatred directed against them during those nightmarish years didn’t have time for negativity.  Their purpose was not to divide, but to unite, and unity doesn’t happen through anger, hatred or bitterness. 

Other highlights for me in seminar programs on Civil Rights included a visit to William Penn House at my invitation by Julian Bond, who met with a group of students from Carolina Friends School, and multiple visits to the office of Dorothy Height, a true matriarch of the Movement, who for many years, among other leading accomplishments, headed the National Council of Negro Women.  I recall Dr. Height describing the first time she met Martin Luther King, Jr.  He was fifteen years old, and she said even then she knew he was someone special.   

Dr. King certainly accomplished a lot of good during his short life (he has been gone as long as he was alive), and inspired greatness in others, as well.

As there is continuing discussion about faith and politics related to the current presidential election campaign, I thought I would mention an incident I witnessed in this regard.   

It was during the late 1980’s when several denominations and religious groups held weekly vigils on the steps of the U.S. Capitol protesting Reagan’s policies in Central America.   One week when I was there, several heads of denominations also were present for the rally, including Rev. Dr. John Humbert, the Disciples General Minister and President in those days, and Rev. Dr. Avery Post, then President of the United Church of Christ.   

Following the outside speeches and activities, Drs. Humbert, Post and others went into the rotunda.  The rest of us crowded around as the Capitol police became very interested in what they were going to do.  You see, it’s against the law to offer public prayers or conduct religious services inside the rotunda.  John Humbert, like some of the others, was wearing his pulpit robe, so he looked like a religious person about to do something religious.  He and the others began praying together the Lord’s Prayer. 

The warnings were polite but firm from the Capitol police.  Humbert, Post, et. al. received three opportunities to cease and desist.  When they failed to do so, large unsmiling men who carried revolvers broke up their prayer circle.  Perhaps some of the spoilsports were deacons in churches in the city.  

I’ll never forget the sight of John Humbert being hustled down a hallway of the Capitol by the cops, his robe flapping and fluttering.  Next stop – the D.C. jail.  The consequence was being booked and the option of a day or two behind bars or a fifty dollar fine. 

Shortly afterwards, I sent Dr. Humbert a note telling him I witnessed his arrest and that I was proud of his willingness to make a public stand.  I knew he was going to catch holy hell.  He wrote back and thanked me for my support, suggesting that my remarks to him didn’t necessarily represent the majority view. 

Almost twenty years later, when he was well into retirement and attended a worship service where I was installed as the pastor at a Disciples church, I told him “I was there when...” He laughed and took pleasure in hearing about it again.

You will never find agreement on the issues in churches, especially a church like the Disciples of Christ, but I think it is important to apply one’s understanding of the faith in forming opinions, drawing conclusions, or expressing a point of view.

Yesterday’s entry got me thinking some more about my days at Christian Theological Seminary, and the interesting people I encountered during that period.   

There were various students on campus that audited classes or just took them with no particular degree program in mind.  It seemed a high proportion of these folks showed up for the introductory “Christian” psychology class.  As the wise old professor droned obvious statements, auditors furiously scribbled and nodded, the insights preserved forever in notebooks that soon would be laid to eternal rest on a shelf or tossed onto the floor of a car.   

One time I wrote a paper criticizing a popular spirituality/ministry book of the day, suggesting a radical revision of the author’s points and the order in which they were presented.  Frankly, I’d had enough of all the hoo-rah.  The professor of the class, a kindly CTS-lifer was electrified.  He declared it one of the best papers he ever read in his long career and encouraged me to send it to the author of the book I shredded.   

While I was grateful for the jolt to my GPA, I elected not to pursue the matter.  A dozen years later, at a huge peace rally at the National Cathedral in Washington, at which we implored George H.W. Bush to keep his bombs to himself (we failed), I made lingering eye contact with the author.  I just gave him a small smile and polite nod. 

The professor who was so impressed by my work on the paper provided a memorable moment during a subsequent class discussion.  He was infuriated by the thought of some issue that now eludes my memory.  He sputtered as he searched for words strong enough to express his total disapproval and disdain. “That’s…just...(quivering anger rising along with blood pressure)…for the BIRDS!” 

Not all of his professorial colleagues were as mundane in their expressions.

Today I learned of the January 4^th death of Lester McAllister, a teacher, mentor, advisor, and friend.   When I was a student at Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis, Indiana, I spent time as an assistant minister at Wabash Christian Church.  In those days, the church hosted an event called the Master Teacher Program.  Each year, they invited a highly credentialed Disciple to come and present a special lecture program. One of the programs featured Lester, who was the Church History professor at CTS.  By that time, I had taken a course or two with Lester, without especially distinguishing myself. 

Lester wrote extensively on Disciples history, including as co-author of the authoritative Journey in Faith.   His career as a professor was lengthy and distinguished, at CTS, and before that at Bethany College, a Disciples-related college in West Virginia established by Alexander Campbell, the shining light among Disciples forebears. 

When Lester showed up in Wabash to be the Master Teacher, he poked his face into my office at the church and said in his high-decibel voice, “So, this is where the great man works!”  I scrambled to my feet, surprised by the greeting, and even more so by his seeming familiarity with me.  I thought I simply was a face in the crowd.  For some reason, that changed, beginning with his greeting.

When the lecture program was concluded, and the daily CTS routine rolled along back in Indianapolis, I found myself in a new position I never anticipated – firmly embraced under the wing of Lester McAllister.  What a blessing it was to have someone of his stature take a personal interest in me, my education and unfolding career in ministry.  To this day, I don’t know why he suddenly showed me such favor. 

Apart from a semester when Lester was on sabbatical, I think I took a class with him every term.  I wasn’t sure I really belonged in seminary, and his attention slowly wore away some of my defenses.  His seeming assumption that I really was OK, and that I actually did have something to offer made a big difference to me.

One Friday I encountered Lester in the hallway a couple of hours prior to a final exam in his class.  He tilted his head back and looked at me through his bifocals, eyebrows arched, in his best English school master pose, and said ominously at great volume, “And why aren’t YOU in the LIBRARY STUDYING?”  I kind of shrugged and he continued his role, “Are you operating under the 500 YEAR theory, that 500 YEARS from now this EXAM and your GRADE won’t MATTER ANYWAY?” 

Taking up his challenge, I replied, “No, I’m operating under the three hour theory.  Three hours from now I’ll be in my car driving down highway 31 on my way out of town and I won’t be worried about it.”  In spite of my lame attempt at humor he let out his big laugh.  

On an occasion or two, I was invited to Lester’s townhouse for a social gathering, and once when Mary was visiting Indianapolis he took the two of us to lunch at the downtown club of which he was a member.   It turned out I was one of the first people he told the shocking news when he accidentally discovered he was adopted.  He was in his late 50’s at the time, and was quite shaken.

A dreaded rite of passage for Master of Divinity candidates at CTS was the class numbered in the catalogue as X-815.  I think it was titled something benign like “The Christian Ministry,” but we all knew there was much to anticipate.  It was the culminating activity for us, in which we wrote a major paper basically summing up our understanding of ministry in light of EVERYTHING we learned and experienced at CTS. 

Writing the paper was daunting enough, but once the paper was accepted (following three rounds of reviews by fellow students and our faculty advisor, and the subsequent re-writes), the final horror was an oral exam by a panel of three professors.  Friends nervously hovered and paced in the hallways when a student entered the arena to approach the grim intimidating panel of lions.  Body language and facial expressions were closely observed and analyzed when he or she emerged for the break and at the end of the session.  Those whose date with destiny had yet to arrive desperately tried to glean every aspect of the experience from the brave souls who went before us. 

My own experience on the hot seat was positive.  Lester was one of my examiners, and when it was over, he and I hopped into his little red MGB convertible and zoomed off to lunch.  He bought. 

We never lost touch, even if some years only included an exchange of Christmas cards.    Lester participated in my ordination service, held at my home church in Virginia.  He visited us at a few points along the twisting journey inherent in many a ministerial career.  We saw him at numerous Disciples gatherings, on a couple of occasions unexpectedly.  He served as a personal reference, probably more than once, as I moved from one job to the next.  He sent me inscribed copies of his books as they were published.  Every once in a while we had telephone conversations.  So, he’s seemed to Mary and me a part of the family.

In August of 2005 I traveled to Claremont, California to visit Lester and two other favorite professors, T. J. Liggett and Davie Napier, all of whom were living at Pilgrim Place, a retirement community for church professionals.  When I arrived, Lester immediately assumed his role of teacher, with me as the student, and it continued for the three days I was there.  Within twenty minutes of arriving, as I sat in his favorite living room chair, I learned the history of Pilgrim Place, and I had an assignment.  I was to read an article about Billy Graham published in The New Yorker.  He handed me the magazine.

Lester told me about his latest writing project, an article about the person who published the earliest photographs of Jerusalem, and I learned the man’s life story and his connection to Disciples.  Lester questioned me about books I had read and made other suggestions.  He described a number of his trips from over the years to various continents and countries (“all ministers should travel”), he updated me on his health, talked about his years in youth work and ministry prior to teaching, filled me in on other Disciples residents at Pilgrim Place, told about the church he regularly attended, mentioned some of the visitors who recently had been to see him, presented a couple of options for sight-seeing and laid out my schedule for the next day. 

Later that night, when I was back in my room, I called Mary and said, “I’ve taken in a lot of information today.”  Then I did my homework before happily reflecting on my day and drifting off to sleep.

That visit was the last time I saw Lester, but I think he knew how much I appreciated his attention, friendship and guidance.  Everyone needs to have a person like Lester McAllister in his or her life. 

I will miss him.

I will be taking a break for a couple of weeks.  

Come back in early January, and I'll talk to you again!

In a number of meetings I attended over the years, as we worked to plan programs for clergy and lay church members in the area, someone always suggested we invite as a guest speaker some pastor or another who headed a large or even megachurch congregation.  I always spoke against that approach because I didn’t want to convey the notion that a megachurch was the standard to which congregations should aspire.  None of them would ever make it, so why waste time dangling that image in front of them?

Some of my colleagues weren’t so sure, and one, in fact, unabashedly told me one time that, “I want to be the pastor of a really, really big church.”  It was all I could do to not laugh out loud.  He may not have noticed, anyway, given the stars in his eyes as he envisioned the possibility.

Churches have deeper problems than figuring out how to fill gymnasium-sized worship spaces.  It turns out a lot of folks are leaving churches because they want a more authentic relationship with God and with fellow believers than they find in their traditional mainline and even megachurch experiences.

One person spoke of abandoning a megachurch he attended saying, “The person sitting next to you in the pew could be close to dying, but people don’t really know one another.”  He is looking for something different, because the modern church, as he phrased it, has become “like a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy of a photocopy.  It starts getting distorted and changed.”  So, he, like a growing number of Christians, became a part of a home church.

A home church is a gathering of believers in someone’s living room or den, perhaps following or preceding a shared meal, in which believers pray together, read and discuss scripture, and share communion.  There is no ordained leader, no established liturgy, no organizational structure, no building to maintain, or various other aspects familiar to churchgoers.   The man who gave up on the megachurch he attended remarked that in the home church the focus was on “deep friendships” and “helping one another grow spiritually.”

Proponents of home churches see it as following the example of the earliest Christians portrayed in the New Testament.  As religion pollster George Barna expressed it, “These are people who are less interested in going to church than in being the church.”

In my view, God is working in a variety of ways to bring about spiritual awakening and renewal.  There is no question for the need, as the human family fractures into fearful, suspicious, even hate-filled factions.  Despite what some claim, and despite how many couch their language in God-talk, fewer and fewer people know God, and if the church is failing in making God known in authentic ways, I have no doubt God can and will turn elsewhere.

But, I don’t think God is done yet with the church, for a church still can stand as a sign of God’s presence in a community and in the world.  There is a lot of good that can come about when Christians and churches join together in reaching out to those in need. 

I think it would help the church, though, to be less focused on “business,”  “success” and “church growth” and more focused on growing in faith and faithfulness.  We can learn from the home churches and their motivations.

We can benefit by the presence among us of some of the folks who are choosing to abandon us.

Christy McKerney shares the story of a woman who was called to a different form of ministry.  Deborah Little-Wyman had a busy career as a communications professional when a street person diverted her attention:  “I was stopped at a stoplight, and I think I was dictating into a tape recorder and making notes on my lap … and I just happened to look over on the steps of an apartment building beside the car. And there was this woman there who I’m sure I described at the time as a bag lady with her bags around her. I had this instant desire -- it just happened so quickly – just a whole-hearted desire to have a life in which I could go and sit down next to that lady and stay with her until she got whatever she felt she needed.” 

Her call unfolded – with resistance from Little-Wyman – over the next six years.  Eventually, she attended seminary and was ordained.  But, rather than seeking a position with a congregation, Little-Wyman gravitated toward a ministry with and among homeless folks.  God nudged her to “take the church to the streets.” 

There was no romantic notion at work, just a call from God.  In fact, Little-Wyman was hesitant and somewhat afraid to follow through.  Sometimes, though, God doesn’t take “no” for an answer.  From a communion service celebrated on Easter Sunday 1996 at Boston Common – which Little-Wyman assumed was a one-time occurrence – sprang Eccleisa Ministries and Common Cathedral.  Worship is held there each Sunday.  

Little-Wyman’s personal ministry expanded to the point that she travels the country to offer guidance and insight to those wishing to establish street ministries.  She senses that her purpose is “to help people in traditional churches make connections with people who are living outside, who are the people in my tradition, and in a lot of others, we’re called to draw close to in order to know God.” 

The example of Rev. Dr. Deborah Little-Wyman caused me to reflect on how we in the church sometimes try to keep Jesus right there with us – in the church.  Others can come and join us, if they want, if they conform, if they see things our way. 

All the while I have this feeling that Jesus is standing at the door, holding it open, pointing the other way as he looks back over his shoulder at us while we practice our learned behaviors or pose in our Sunday best, and saying  “If you’re looking for me, I’ll be out there.”

Many people follow traditions this time of year.  In churches there are Advent Wreaths, with candles that are lit at the beginning of each worship service, signifying various aspects of the season.  People decorate their homes with lights and greenery.  Some place huge inflatable cartoon characters in their yards alongside animated reindeer or polar bears.

Others travel in order to mail their Christmas cards with a Bethlehem postmark.  That’s Bethlehem, Maryland.

There is no mail delivery in this town of 150 residents, but upwards of 50,000 Christmas cards pass through the post office each year as visitors make the pilgrimage to get the coveted Bethlehem postmark.  They even have rubber stamps of the Three Wise Men for customers to print onto their envelopes.  One person, just to be sure her efforts are not overlooked, attaches stickers to the envelopes that point out, “I mailed this from Bethlehem.”

There are five other towns named Bethlehem in the U. S., and other towns with distinctive postmarks include Nazareth, Texas, and Wiseman, Arkansas.  One assumes their mail traffic spikes during the holidays, as well.

The Maryland Bethlehem rose to prominence following the initiative in 1938 of a teenager named Marjorie Ann Chambers.  She wanted her town to be noted during the holidays, as was Santa Claus, Idaho and others.  It so happened Marjorie’s father was the publisher of the local newspaper, and her concern found space among its pages.  The rest, as often is reported, is history.

And the tradition continues each year.

Former U.S. Senator George Mitchell yesterday issued a report of his investigation into the extent of the use of performance-enhancing drugs in Major League Baseball.  Over the course of a few hundred pages, Sen. Mitchell detailed evidence and accusations of which current and recent baseball players were sticking hypodermic needles in their hind ends in order to hit a ball further or throw it harder.  He mentioned the common lament of players who did not cheat that their jobs were taken by those who did.  I suppose some people will be surprised by the degree to which the situation exists, and by which of their heroes are cheaters.

It’s remarkable, though, the measures some people will take, even risking their long-term health and well-being, in order to be successful.  Of course, there is a mountainous pile of money on the baseball table, and on average, playing careers are brief.  (There are no dollars from me, though.  As much as I like baseball, I have a personal rule:  I don’t attend games if I have to pay to get in, and I don’t subscribe to baseball Internet, radio, or television packages.  Besides, I have difficulty just sitting around for three hours.)

Office politics, lying, manipulation and who-knows-what-else are vehicles for getting ahead in other professions, so moral slippages are not unique to baseball players.

In the church it often seems that “performance-enhancers” are avoided.  Worship attendance is spotty.  Participation in classes and study groups is regarded as if it were a form of punishment.  The pages of the best-selling book of all time generally remain safe from light-exposure.  Encouragement to faithful stewardship of one’s material wealth is resented.  Evangelism is someone else’s job, because “I’m not comfortable talking to people about my faith.”  Well, it’s no wonder, when there isn’t much to discuss.

At least, we aren’t cheating.  Or are we?  It seems sadly ironic that there is so much striving and climbing and looking for short cuts in order to grab hold of “bread which does not satisfy,” and at the same time such half-hearted (quarter-hearted?) attempts at living into the “peace that passes all understanding.” 

Martin Marty’s back page column in the current Christian Century describes the “sense of pathos about those who seek their place in the world by buying or renting a purse.”  He mentions name-brand handbags costing thousands of dollars that are purchased as status symbols.  The 25 Chanel bag sold for $25,000 a pop, and Neiman-Marcus had no difficulty unloading their inventory.  “For those who prefer to go slumming,” Marty reports, “or to look as if they are going slumming, there is a handbag called ‘hobo.’”  The prices range from $750 to $1,750. 

And yes, for those not willing to shell out outrageous sums for a handbag that will be passé in a few months, there are rentals available.  One coveted model can be carried about for a mere $6,010 per month for the rental.

I don’t even carry a wallet.

In the same magazine and elsewhere, I read about “Rev. Billy and the Church of Stop Shopping.”  They are featured in the film What Would Jesus Buy?    The good (and pretend) reverend is a person named Bill Talen, who traveled the country visiting stores like Target, Wal-Mart, the Disney Store (“Mickey Mouse is the Anti-Christ,” he declared), and Starbucks, making a spectacle of himself and the store, lamenting the effect of big chains on “Main Street America,” setting up a booth in which consumers can “confess your shopping sins,” “exorcising shopping demons,” interviewing independent shop owners, sharing disturbing facts of child labor used to produce much of our clothing and other items, and otherwise trying to convince consumers to avoid the “shopocalypse.”

As the Christian Century article reports, “The Church of Stop Shopping has fairly modest goals: it wants people to shop in ways that support the local economy; it wants businesses to be good for workers and not just for corporate shareholders; it wants just treatment of workers around the world.”

Rev. Billy wants people to have a “creative Christmas,” avoiding the “dread” that is part and parcel of the high expectations of gift giving imposed on people by themselves and others.

As I drove to work this morning, I passed a Baptist church with this message on its sign out front:  “What will you give Jesus for Christmas?”

Whatever it is, I doubt I can find it at the mall.