Peace, Grace, and Jazz!

Here’s another of those memories that is so deeply etched that I can tell you exactly where I was standing when I made a decision that changed my life. Sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? Well, it was.

First week of college. I’m standing at the bulletin board just outside the entrance of “Old Main.” (Full name: Old Main Memorial, because the original Old Main burned to the ground and the new Main was built on its ashes — built of stone.) There are the typical freshman sign-up sheets, and invitations to join campus clubs and organizations. There is a sign encouraging new students to try out for the Vesper Choir.

Now, I had sung in the adult church choir as a high school student, having been invited by Mrs. Loomis, my seventh grade home room and math teacher who was the church’s long-time choir director. And, though I remember very little about it, apparently I had sung some in the high school chorus, at least for an Easter concert. But I didn’t have a solo voice. I didn’t read music. But for some reason, when I saw that audition notice for the larger college choir, I decided to try out. And, as I said, it was literally a life-changing experience.

I’m thinking that someone had told me that there wasn’t much to the audition. If I had thought it would be a humiliating or personally threatening experience, this introvert never would have gone down to the Westminster Conservatory of Music to try out. I’ll bet that I had gotten the word that all we had to do was sing a verse of a hymn, something familiar, and in our range. That turned out to be the case, and Clarence J. Martin, professor of music, couldn’t have been less threatening. I sang a verse of a hymn or two while he accompanied me. He was warmly supportive, and he made me feel welcome. Later, when the new basses were posted on another bulletin board, there was my name.

And it turned out to be (ready?) “a life-changing experience.

The Vesper Choir rehearsed once (or twice?) a week to provide music for the Sunday night Vesper Services in the college’s Gothic chapel. There were well over a hundred voices in that group, and we sang from a rich catalog of classic anthems and serious religious works. The service was fairly liturgical for 1960s Presbyterians, with an introit (echoing from a hallway elsewhere in the building, various musical responses throughout the service, and, as I mentioned, some challenging choral classics.

The first year I sang with the choir, we rehearsed for and performed at a choral festival held at the Civic Arena in Pittsburgh. It was glorious! Not life-changing, but an unforgettable musical event. Later in my college years, we would sing the Brahms German Requiem, which remains one of my favorite choral pieces. And speaking of “glorious,” the annual Christmas Concerts absolutely made Christmas for me, and now and then, all these years later, I’ll hear a Christmas anthem we did in that Vesper Choir, and I feel as if I have found my old homestead after wandering aimlessly in a dark, thick forest. Almost life-changing…but not quite.

At this point, I have to credit Mr. Martin (whom many called Clancy, though students would not have done so to his face). It was he who let me join the choir in the first place, seeing perhaps some potential for growth. It was he who nurtured my musical vocabulary for the rest of my singing career in church choirs. It was he who chose for us great, lasting, serious, challenging, inspiring, and uplifting music. It was he who helped us grow in worship, and in music leadership of all those services. Plus, he was fun to be around, almost all the time. For example, I recall his telling the basses to help nearby tenors hit higher notes on pitch through this unorthodox method: “Goose ’em, basses!”  

Nested within the larger Vesper Choir, was the smaller “Concert Choir,” made up of  music majors and accomplished singers, all potential soloists, whose voices buttressed the more modest efforts of the rest of us. I mention that because of two things, one of which changed my life! First, the minor reason. Mr. Martin, as we were rehearsing some major work, once actually asked me to sing louder! “Jeff, let me hear more of you,” he encouraged. I may have overdone it, because a page or so later, he said, “OK, Jeff, that’s fine…a little less now, please.” But that meant that maybe I was bordering being “good.”

Now, here it comes, that cantus firmus of this entry. Because Mr. Martin let me pass that first audition, and because our singing for him was such a great pleasure week after week, and because his Concert Choir was within our midst, I was there, just outside the large rehearsal room in the Conservatory when Joan Maisch, a soprano voice major and Concert Choir member, was waiting for me. Or, was I waiting for her? Anyway, we met, we talked, we had a date, and we’ve been meeting, talking, and dating for almost 44 years.

Clancy, thanks for your affectionate tutelage of Joan as a voice major, for letting me enjoy singing in the same rehearsal room as she each week, and  for creating a sacred musical space where the God to whom we all sing moved Joan and me toward one another, truly a life-changing experience! It was a pleasure following your baton!

I have no doubt that almost any of the hundreds of alumni of the Presbyterian School of Christian Education would include Isabel Rogers on their list of people who touched their lives in a significant way.

Not having been a student of hers at PSCE, I never took a course from her. But learn from her I did. And find inspiration in her, yes, I did. She had been on the PSCE  faculty for many years by the time I went on staff there in the early 1980s. She taught Christian Ethics and Theology, and I listened and learned from her on many occasions, sometimes while holding a microphone or pointing a video camera, or just having a good conversation with her.

We all, students and faculty colleagues alike, called her Dr. Izzie. Except when we called her Madam Moderator. That was on the occasion of her elevation to the highest elected post in our denomination, Moderator of the General Assembly, in 1987. Serving in that position for a year, she became teacher and spiritual leader of the whole Church, not just its graduate school for church educators. We were sorry to lose her for that year, but so proud of her leadership and happy that her classroom became global during her tenure.

Dr. Izzie was an early advocate for gay/lesbian inclusion in the life of the church. Her previous advocacy for civil rights of African Americans and “liberation” of women fed her sense of justice for all, and was rooted in her understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. She was also an environmentalist, a hiker, and one who took seriously our stewardship of the earth. She preached passionately, taught fervently, and “walked the walk” in her own life.

My “media coverage” of this woman of faith included a radio interview we taped when she had been elected Moderator, plus a video interview that followed an academic Sabbatical during which she worked at a downtown YWCA women’s shelter, offering loving support to women who had been physically and psychologically battered and abused. (She had worked there as a volunteer every Thursday night for over four years, but the Sabbatical put her on staff full time.) Available on line, an excerpt of that interview is archived as a result of  Isabel Wood Rogers being honored in 2008 as a part of the Library of Virginia’s Virginia Women in History program. That honor came a year after her death.

PSCE Video also produced a half-hour resource for churches entitled “Controversy and Community in the Church.” With doctoral student David Hindman, Dr. Izzie discussed three topics that the church was finding divisive in the late 80s: abortion, homosexuality, and war tax resistance.  Her willingness to engage in such public dialogue was part of her determination to help students and church folk  form their own theological systems, in other words, to think for themselves.

Students loved her, of course. She was accessible, so open and engaging. Her classes were stimulating. And she honored the views of those who disagreed with her, never threatened by those views, but debating them honestly and fairly.

I was honored that she accepted my invitation to preach at my installation as Associate Pastor of Bon Air Presbyterian Church. Honored? I was thrilled.

 As I think about what her life means to mine, one memory off-campus stands out. I was an adult advisor at the Presbyterian Youth Triennium one year at Purdue University. Isabel Rogers was coming in to preach the sermon at the close of the week, to a “congregation” of 6000, most of whom were high school youth. I recall being a little nervous for her. Those kids were used to high energy, youthful leaders, and here came Dr. Izzie, an older woman, professor from a school most of them had never heard of, a tall, lanky woman named Isabel, in a suit with frilly white shirt and what appeared to be a string bow tie. I so wanted them to accept her, and for her to inspire them.

I needn’t have worried. Her sermon was perfectly on target, her communication skills went right to the heart, and her message included an admonition to openly express  our love for one another. I don’t know that she had quoted the Stevie Wonder song, “Love’s in Need of Love Today,” but had I known her topic and could have gotten to her before she spoke, I’d have made that suggestion. She didn’t need it. She had those teens in the palm of her hand.

As she was speaking, it occurred to me that there was one kid there in that crowd that needed to hear me tell him that he was loved. He had been a member of the break-out group that I was leading, and after our five days of morning group meetings, he had come up to me and thanked me “for being the one who isn’t here.” I was puzzled at that at first, but remembering what he’d  shared with our small group earlier in the week, I realized that he was thanking me for being in his life, when his own father wasn’t. In other words, he was thanking me for being like a Dad to him that week.

After Dr. Izzie’s benediction that afternoon, I walked out the stage door of the huge auditorium and walked into the crowds who were leaving the campus for home. How I wished I could find that boy among the masses.

Well, some wishes are prayers, I suppose. And there, walking toward me was the boy, Mark. What a coincidence. Well, what providence! Pure grace. So that I wouldn’t embarrass him in front of his friends, I guided him a few feet away and, telling him how much Izzie’s words had meant to me, I told him I loved him. Without flinching, he returned the blessing, and rejoined his friends. I think we corresponded by letter once or twice that summer, and then lost track of each other.

But I never lost track of Dr. Izzie’s guidance, her social conscience, or her friendship. A few years later (1996), after Joan and I had moved to Vermont, we came home from our son’s college graduation to find a note on the front door of the manse. It was from Dr. Izzie! She had found her way to Craftsbury, discovered our church, and left us a note expressing her disappointment that we weren’t home.  She promised that if she were ever in our neighborhood again…

A truly remarkable woman, and one whom I followed, along with quite a crowd of witnesses!

Bernice Smith wasn’t a colleague. She wasn’t one of my teachers. And she wasn’t my pastor at one time. Yet, she did pastor me, and taught me. As a Christian friend, I figure you could say she and I had a collegial relationship.

Bernice was a member of the last church where I served as pastor. By the time I got to town, she was on the frail side. She lived in a modest retirement community, and wasn’t really up to attending church. If she had been active at one time, that is, serving on committees or working on the rummage sale, or leading circle meetings, I wasn’t aware of it.

But here is the thing that made Bernice so special, not only in my life but in the lives of many other folks in that church. She still had the strength to dial a telephone, and she still had a heart that cared for people she could reach by phone. So, she called us. Not every day, but regularly. And ever so briefly.

I would be at the church office and would answer the church phone. This was before “caller ID” was so popular, so I wouldn’t know who was calling until I heard her crackily little voice: “Good morning, Jeff. This is Bernice Smith. I just called to ask how you were doing today. I hope you are well.” I would express my appreciation for her call, and assure her that I was fine.

“Well, that’s good. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you this morning. I won’t keep you; I have some other calls to make. Have a good day, all right?” Yes, I thought. Now that you have blessed me with your thoughtful call, I will indeed have a good day!

Such a simple gesture. Church members told me of her calls to them, and how much it meant to them. I hope they told her, too, how much it meant.

Her calls came for only a few months early in my pastorate. Her failing health stilled her calls, and then her life. I still tell people about Bernice, about how none of us, as we age or face some disability, can do all we used to do for folks. But as long as we are able to push the buttons on a phone and speak into it, we are able to pastor the lambs in our care. We are able to teach and act out simple kindnesses, and we are able to build a community of neighbors who remember to reach out and touch somebody’s heart.

Bernice taught me that. And now I am sharing her kindness with you. I wish I could have called you.

In my previous post, I mentioned going to hear William Sloane Coffin, Jr. with my friend Bill Lingelbach. When I first started thinking about this Lenten discipline of giving up time to write each day about my mentors, teachers, pastors, and friends — those whom I have followed along the path of faith and ministry — Bill Lingelbach was one whose name came to mind early on.

They say that pastors have few friends. We have parishioners and acquaintances, but perhaps because so many people in ministry are introverts, we lack close friends. (One caution is that getting too close to a member of the congregation negates one’s ability to shepherd or counsel that person objectively. At least I think that’s how it goes.) Especially in small towns, colleagues in ministry are few, and time constraints and miles keep us apart. That is why Bill Lingelbach was such a gift to me.

I first met Bill when we were active on the Northeast Kingdom Habitat For Humanity board. I was in my first “solo” pastorate, a rural church in Vermont.  Bill was a psychotherapist, in private practice, but also serving in schools. My first impression of him, one reinforced over the years, was that Bill was one of the most gentle spirits I ‘ve ever met. He was almost childlike, sometimes even seeming naive, I thought. It’s not that he wasn’t bright — because he was — but he had such an appreciation of wonder. Now, that word encompasses a number of meanings, and all fit Bill, from simple curiosity to genuine awe.

I saw in his work with Habitat a soul-stirring compassion, and sensed in conversations with him a free-hearted spirituality that I admired. I remember a visit Bill made to a broken-down house trailer, with  an old stove  filling the home with far more smoke than heat, evidence of a bad leak in the roof, the residents among the poorest of the rural poor of Vermont. As Bill described the visit, there were tears in his eyes. Not the best kind of wonder.

I think that at that time, Bill was the supply pastor of a nearby church, which was between ministers. Bill was a layperson, but had had some theological studies in his background. It was only a part-time position, yet he knew how to be a shepherd to a flock, and he was well-liked there.  

A few years after we became friends, Bill made the decision to take the necessary ecclesiastical examinations, and he was ordained and installed as pastor of a struggling little UCC church. I was privileged to join in the service that day, and I occasionally still wear the liturgical stole he gave me as a sign of friendship and gratitude. With a “regular” pastor on board, the church’s membership increased and the contributions Bill made there helped build the church’s spirit.

Even before his formal call to that church, he and I had been meeting every Tuesday morning at his house to consider the Lectionary texts for the week and share our study and ideas for sermons. More often than not,we would choose different readings to preach from, but just the idea of getting together every week was helpful. The wood stove would warm the room, and Bill’s dog would cozy up to one of us. Bill would make coffee with his French press, and I would search high and low for something sweet to put in my mug. (Apparently, refined sugar in the Lingelbach household was a rarity.)  Gosh, that coffee was bitter. (Not so, the cheap stuff I was used to.)

Often, we would trade our sermon manuscripts from the previous week, and I wondered (that word again) at the warm simplicity of Bill’s writing: the stories, the honest wrestling with the text, the people whose life situations he shared (while maintaining confidentiality I must add). My sermons rambled on, showing off my homework with the text, my words often in the way of the meaning. In fact, sometimes I admitted to Bill that I didn’t see much of the text in his sermons. He’d shrug and ask if that was a bad thing. I’d smile and say, no, not necessarily, but since we Presbyterians were people of the Word, I spent more of them trying to prove it!

During the years of our friendship, Bill’s marriage ended, he endured no little loneliness for quite some time, and then he met Jackie, whom he eventually married on a sunny afternoon amid a happy gathering of  folks who laughed and ate and drank there in his yard. The occasion reminded me of the scripture that said, “There was a wedding feast in Cana of Galilee…”

One other thing that was very significant in Bill’s life — he shared with me some times in his life when God intervened in very mysterious ways. Bill had seen what I considered more than his share of “signs.” I don’t mean little coincidences that we take to be “leadings” of some kind. I’m talking about visual appearances, faith informed by things seen with the eyes, and discerned with the heart. If anyone else had shared such things with me (well, of course, people did, but…) I would have been suspicious. But Bill I trusted. And I was relieved that God is (as the UCC reminds us even today) still speaking!

More than one Tuesday morning, on leaving his old Vermont house, I would drive home aware that he was just about my only close friend in town. When he told me in the parking lot of the Community Care Center one morning  that he had prostate cancer, it took my breath away. I remember the sound of his voice and the look on his face as he said it. It was as if he had just then gotten the news, and couldn’t quite believe it. He had had some tests, and the results didn’t look at all good.

He received treatment a couple of hours away in New Hampshire’s Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, and the many drives over there and back gave several of us some quality “drive time” with Bill. As his health declined, it still strikes me as strange, very strange, that we saw much less of each other. One would have thought that friendship be a healing bridge, but there was this mysterious gulf instead.

Bill  and Jackie had joined the church where my wife Joan was the church musician. I knew the pastor there, and I guess I must have unconsciously, but very appropriately, given Bill over to her pastoral care. I just can’t explain it now, but my visits with him were so very few toward the end.  His funeral came tragically soon after that joyful wedding afternoon.

Bill’s influence on my life path involved finding that friendship is (as one might expect but not often enough experience) a sure foundation for faith-sharing; that we who preach each week must work harder at wonder; that what we preach can be communicated most effectively when we speak from the heart, warmly, honestly, sincerely; and that holding to some decidedly unorthodox theological views is refreshingly freeing, a liberation from what is expected, to what is more surprising as the Spirit moves.

Bill: gentle friend, compassionate intellect, child-like faith, a bit of mystery, and very strong coffee.

When I began this exercise of reflecting on the people whose lives touched mine in significant ways, and who became my guides along the path of faith, I had in mind folks with whom I had a personal relationship: pastors, teachers, friends, colleagues. However, now and then a few people come to mind whose light shone from a distance. I will do my best to avoid certain authors whose art and theology have combined to bring spiritual growth in my life, for example Frederick Buechner.  But if our paths crossed more directly, they are fair game for this space. One of those would be William Sloane Coffin, Jr.

We met at least three times. Once was during the Worship and Music Conference at Montreat, NC. Coffin was the preacher for the week. Having enjoyed his writing and his powerful preaching style, and long in awe of his reputation for social action and peacemaking, I expected him to be inspiring there on the Montreat stage. And he was. But what I will always remember from that week was his loving and compassionate pastoral presence. A young woman, a conference participant, died suddenly mid-week. Joan and I hadn’t heard the news, but headed toward the huge auditorium that evening  for what had been scheduled to be a talent show. As we took our seats, we sensed that something was wrong.

Coffin led an impromptu memorial service, and preached to the thousand or so gathered in that space with a profound message of comfort and hope. He could well have distanced himself from the tragedy, letting the conference staff lead a service of scripture and song. But with a heart of compassion he warmly spoke to us of sorrow and resurrection. I don’t recall the date, so I can only assume that this service took place sometime after his own 24 year-old son had died in an automobile accident. (A month before that loss, Coffin’s mother had died.) It is clear to me now, however, that this former Yale chaplain, crusader against nuclear arms, fervent advocate for peace, and minister at New York’s Riverside Church — this man had the heart of a pastor, a good shepherd, and his grace that evening spoke to me as powerfully as his words.

[In a sermon preached at Riverside a week after his son’s death, Coffin proclaimed, “And of course I know, even when pain is deep, that God is good. ‘My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?’ Yes, but at least, ‘My God, my God’; and the psalm only begins that way, it doesn’t end that way.” And, “So I shall — so let us all  — seek consolation in that love that never dies, and find peace in the dazzling grace that always is.”]

Another time I encountered him was in Richmond. He was at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church for a Lenten series. My friends Bob Edwards and Bill Sachs and I were doing a weekly ecumenical cable TV show and Coffin agreed to sit down with us for an interview. I regret that my role wasn’t “on camera,” for I would love to have had the opportunity to sit beside him and conduct the interview. But that evening, my role was to run camera, and later to edit the tape (a copy of which I still have). Of course, considering the crew and the church, we were all pretty, um, liberal. so, Coffin was among friends and admirers. His personality was wildly winsome, his conversation full of exuberant candor and delightful (to me) wordplay. It was during the years of the Reagan presidency and the Iran-Contra debacle, and Coffin was loose in the room! I loved his heady confidence and appreciated his forthright and prophetic speech.

Pastor. Check. Prophet. Check. And sage. The third time I saw him was in Vermont, when my friend Bill Lingelbach and I drove to a church-sponsored program at which Coffin was speaking. He had aged so much since I saw him last. Feeble, and hard of hearing. But still, there was immeasurable strength of heart, and wisdom flowed from every sentence. I have a book that Coffin wrote late in life, and I’m sure a lot of the words in that book were spoken that night in Vermont. The book is entitled Credo, and I look in its pages almost every time I write a new sermon. I may not quote it, but it reminds me of the wisdom of a preacher I so admired. Sage advice, sometimes put into words too-clever, but always clear, honest, and deeply Biblical.

When it comes to people like William Sloane Coffin (there are so few, sadly), I am like Peter following Jesus on the night Jesus was betrayed. The scriptures say that Peter followed…at a distance. I never preached with Coffin’s courage, never, or rarely, with his conscience. I suppose my heart was as liberal in both love and politics, but I must admit that if he was one of the forty I followed, it was only at the greatest distance. I confess, and ask God’s (and my churches’)  forgiveness for that.

I’ve already written about my childhood pastor, Wilbur J. Kerr. But his successor at my home church also had quite a positive influence on my spiritual growth and vocational path.

Gerald Hertzog (“Gerry” I would call him nowadays) came to the Union Presbyterian Church in Endicott while I was in college. Our paths crossed almost immediately when it came time for me to go “under care” of the Presbytery of Susquehanna Valley. That is church polity language for beginning the official journey toward ordination as a minister. Rev. Hertzog drove me to that first Presbytery meeting where I must have answered some questions and received the body’s blessing, and then found myself under the guidance and oversight of what is called these days the Committee on Preparation.

One thing I remember about that night was how fast I thought Rev. Hertzog drove! The rest of that night’s process is a bit of a fog now; after all, it was almost fifty years ago! What I do recall was that Gerry Hertzog was very supportive, and not only that night, but throughout my less-than-stellar academic career. He was always approachable, easy to talk with, and helpful in my securing college and seminary financial help from my church, both grants and loans.

I grew under his preaching when I was home for vacations, but when my family moved south, a good career move for my IBM-employed Dad, my trips back to Endicott were few. The Presbytery and Rev. Hertzog kept up with me through letters, from late college years through seminary. But that didn’t build a very close relationship between my hometown pastor and me. When my seminary education was reaching its last months, it was necessary to begin the process that led to ordination to my specialized call. Gerry Hertzog was again my advocate and guide through that process, even at a distance.

I guess I should backtrack a bit here, to the unfortunate occasion of my flunking out of college. I’ve already belabored that situation in earlier posts, but I do need to express thanksgiving to Rev. Hertzog for his unending support during those sad days. I had every right to question my call, but he never did. Being at home during that spring semester meant that I could be in church each week, and that is where I especially appreciated his worship leadership style and sermons. I suspect that he spoke to a few church folk to make sure I was welcomed back to church, even when I should have been finishing out my junior year. He made sure my transition at my home congregation wasn’t too awkward for me.

 Even as he pastored me on site, he had two other church youth in college preparing for ministry, so I’m sure he had his hands full when it came to encouraging us all to stay the course. (Or in my case, to pass a course or two!)

I know Rev. Hertzog must have been quite relieved when I passed my “ords” (denominational ordination exams) on the first try, something many of my seminary classmates failed to do. I even passed the standard exam in Hebrew, surprising even myself. I have to smile now as I recall the letter I received from Presbytery — not from Rev. Hertzog — expressing downright surprise that I had passed the ords on the first go-round. I think one line began, “Needless to say, you gave us some reason to doubt your success during your academic career…” or something to that effect.

Gerry Hertzog was also very supportive when my vocational track led me into a ministry in media, rather than a pastorate. He helped design a special service of ordination based on my unique call, and I remember well that special day in my life.

In later years, Rev. Hertzog would move from the pastorate to an administrative position heading up the presbytery that ordained me. Joan and I have kept in touch with him at Christmas each year since those days. And not long ago (but now as I think about it, too long ago…) we drove to his home to visit him and Evelyn, his wife.  The conversation was warm and welcomed, and it was as if we had been getting together regularly. We were probably both relieved to find that we share a certain, shall we say, liberality in our theology and social consciousness.

He’s a good guy, and one of the forty I’ve followed in friendship and ministry.

This Lenten discipline of mine has been a fascinating experiment for me thus far. I am writing each day in Lent (except those non-Lenten Sundays) about a person who has been a spiritual guide along my life’s path. In some cases, that person may be more a vocational mentor, or someone who otherwise has had a significant influence on who I am still becoming as a child of God. I have refrained from calling this my personal “Top 40” list, since that might imply a ranking in one direction or the other. No ranking here. Just a daily discernment that brings to mind someone important to me.

Today it is Ed Willingham. Among the commemorative T-shirts I’ve collected through the years are two that carry the logo “NABS WACC.” I wear them to the gym now and then, but no one has ever asked me what the letters stand for. If someone did, I am prepared to sing the first line of the NABS-WACC jingle (the only line I can remember): “NABS-WACC, NABS-WACC, you gotta love a group with a name like that…”

Ed Willingham was the creative and administrative spark of the North American Broadcast Section of the World Association for Christian Communication. The year I was ordained as a Minister of Electronic Media in the Presbyterian Church, a NABS-WACC member who helped open the door to my specialized ministry, Clifton Dixon, encouraged me to attend the annual NABS conference. It was held each year in Fort Lauderdale, the week after Thanksgiving. (It didn’t take much prodding, that’s for sure!)

NABS-WACC brought together U.S. and Canadian church broadcasters, Protestant and Catholic. United around a different theme each year, we heard plenary speakers, learned about new developments in media, attended workshops, and shared our own productions. We learned the art of collegiality.  Most of each afternoon was kept free for beach and sun time, so that the convention afforded us all some r&r in which we engaged without shame.

Ed Willingham was the anchor of the NABS-WACC yacht. He helped scout locations for the conference, guided the annually-elected steering committee, and provided a decades-long continuity of leadership.  Wonderfully personable, earnestly committed to ecumenism, firmly grounded in his Baptist faith (American Baptist Convention), and a talented broadcaster in Detroit — that is Ed Willingham. His many gifts helped make the NABS-WACC conferences occasions for professional continuing education as well as personal spiritual renewal. 

That brings me to the point of my Lenten exercise. I thank Ed for his leadership and inspiration as I look back at how much those annual conferences provided encouragement and professional growth for me and hundreds of others.

Many of us who attended the NABS gatherings were involved with what I call Lone Ranger ministries. We worked alone, but under the auspices of various church agencies. Our media ministries may have been guided by committees, but essentially we wrote scripts, produced, directed, edited, and delivered our programming ourselves, or with a small group of volunteers. There was a time when my “boss” was an Executive Presbyter who told me following my annual evaluation, “Well, Jeff, I’m not quite sure what you do, but it looks as if you are doing a good job.” To go to NABS-WACC each year led us into a broad circle of folk with whom we had much in common. We didn’t feel alone anymore.

(That said, some NABS-WACC members did work with larger agencies and bigger budgets, and some produced programs for major broadcast networks. I always thought of them as the “big steeple” pastors to us rural parish folk. Not all of us wanted to ascend to the heights of their work, more content to remain where we were, knowing that our more modest resources still communicated the Good News and sometimes even worked miracles.)

It is not at all hyperbole to say that every single NABS-WACC conference gave me new ideas, renewed my call to that unique ministry, encouraged my own creativity, enriched my faith, and even affirmed my own modest efforts. It was one thing to hear from my listeners or supporting churches that my ministry was worthwhile and appreciated, but it was also heartening to hear from one’s peers that you had talents God-given and effectively utilized. I will always remember one official of a different denomination saying to me (after an excerpt of my radio program was played in the “Showcase”) “Kellam, why are you hiding your lamp under a bushel?” Not long after that, he made it possible for my program to be nationally distributed.

As I look back on what I’ve written I realize that there is a NABS-WACC conference component I’ve neglected to mention. We worshipped together each day. We were a group of ecumenical Christian broadcasters, and it meant so much for us as we joined together to pray, sing, and encounter the Word in creative worship that the wider Church is only now catching up to!

More than just a conference administrator, Ed was (and remains) a dear friend to us all, even a loving pastor to a very diverse flock. When I look back at my life and ministry, Ed Willingham has a special place as guide and colleague. Thanks be to God!

I write with deep affection for most of these folks who had contributed to my spiritual journey and to my various ministries. Certainly that is the case as I reflect on the ways Chuck Melchert has touched my life.

Chuck and I (and our wives) had dinner together just last week. Since we both left our positions at the former Presbyterian School of Christian Education, we see each other all too infrequently. But as is the case with the people we know and respect so well, when we do get together it is as if no time has passed at all. Conversation is easy. We all laugh a lot. But also share some serious conversation about the state of politics, the Church, and theological education.

Chuck and I met at PSCE, where he was professor of religious education and taught courses in Bible as well. I was on staff as Director of the Video Education Center. We worked together on courses and workshops that focused on the impact of television on contemporary culture. We’re not talking “educational TV” or “distance learning through video.” More like “Hill Street Blues,” “The Cosby Show,” and the “Simpsons.”

Chuck certainly deepened my own understanding of TV’s cultural values. I think we were a good team, with my providing a more pop culture approach and Chuck contributing deeper insights from the theaters of theology and pedagogy. Chuck’s gifts stretched my own, and his academic disciplines kept me honest. The  freedom and creativity of that special graduate school enriched the wider Church in its educational ministries, well beyond denominational bounds. Personally, I always considered it a privilege to have a place on that campus, not being much of an “academic” myself. But Chuck welcomed my input and encouraged my growth in the fruitful process of teaching/learning.

Chuck had a profound influence on my life beyond the academic. In one of those conversations that are so significant that you remember where they took place, even what the light was like in the room (I am not overstating this, by the way), Chuck invited me to join a “men’s group.” It was a Monday evening gathering of five or six men who would make their 90 minute meeting a priority for the week.

The men in the group were guys Chuck brought together from his own social circle, which included PSCE, but also his Lutheran church. We did not all know each other that first evening, but as the years went by, obviously we became a very close circle of friends. Chuck had made clear at the start that we’d have no agenda week by week, that is, no books to read, no announced topics to center on. We talked about national issues and personal lives, about marriage and about jobs, about God. I am so grateful for what that weekly commitment meant to me. If you ask me what it means to “bond,” I can speak from experience. A couple of decades later, I still miss the friendship we enjoyed in that group.

[I’ve often thought about starting one in Vermont where we lived for nine years, or in the Ithaca area where we lived after that. But even today, I’m hesitant to open that door, knowing how hard it would be to live up to what we had in Richmond. Still…]

Two stories related to that group… The first one is kind of silly. When we met the first time, Bob, at whose home we met, offered everybody a beer. I’d never actually had one before. So Bob came up with a can of V-8. Eventually the V-8 was replaced by a soft drink of some kind, while the rest of the guys had their beers. Years later, when the group had moved to Chuck’s house on campus, the guys were talking about some especially good English ale. I thought I’d take the leap, and this was quite a step for me. (In my mid-40’s and my first ale!) I didn’t expect to love it or hate it. I didn’t finish the bottle before the group ended, but I didn’t want to waste it, so I carried it back to my office at the school, drinking a little bit as I walked down the street. Someone told me later that that wasn’t a particularly acceptable practice. I should have had a brown bag, I guess. (Note: I haven’t had another ale, or beer, since.)

The other remembrance is far more profound. Word had come to campus that one of  Chuck’s sons, Mark, had been critically injured when a drunken driver had run into the back of his car on an Ohio highway. Chuck went to Ohio to keep vigil at Mark’s bedside. The men’s group met as usual, and though we didn’t routinely pray during our meetings, we certainly did that night. Chuck told us later that he had left Mark’s room for a short time, walked down a hallway and gazed out a window. In one of those holy moments that come to us in heart-stirring situations, Chuck felt the presence of our group and knew that we were keeping vigil with him. He happened to look at his watch and realized that we were meeting at that very time, and were very likely in prayer for Mark, for Chuck, and for the rest of their family. Bonding in spirit.

Yet, as was the experience of the Psalmist on many occasions, Chuck’s impassioned prayers were met with the stunning silence of God. With painful honesty, Chuck would write about that silence in a paper entitled “Suffering, Silence and Death.”

A few days later, the memorial service at First English Lutheran Church was a powerful celebration of a young man’s life and spirit, as well as a convincing (and dancing)  “witness to the resurrection.”  What comes to mind now as I write is something that William Sloane Coffin said: The abyss of God’s love is deeper than the abyss of death. If we don’t know what is beyond the grave, we do know who is beyond the grave. 

Though I could go on (as you well know), I express to Chuck my gratitude for his opening my eyes further to the wonder of wisdom. I so appreciated his lectures in classes and in seminars on the Wisdom Literature of the Bible, and I treasure his introducing me to one Jacob the Baker, whose stories I continue to tell to this day. I still have a manuscript of Chuck’s book Wise Teaching: Biblical Wisdom and Educational Ministry, and I have used its reflections in my own pastoral teaching situations, with deep respect for Dr. Charles Melchert’s scholarship.

Well, one more thing occurs. When my son Jim was a visiting professor at Franklin and Marshall College a few years ago, he found warm hospitality at Chuck and Anabel’s home, and just as importantly, at Chuck’s Lutheran church where Jim and Chuck sang together in the choir. (OK, suffice it to say that the formal name of the congregation is not “Chuck’s Lutheran Church.”) I am so glad they had a chance to know each other!

When we saw Chuck last week, I saw that the once full (very full!) beard was trimmed to a more modest cut, but his laugh was still robust and the light in his eyes still signalled friendship and affection. By the way, since this blog carries the title “Peace, Grace, and Jazz,” I must note that Chuck and I have that love of jazz in common. And I promised him a CD of some Chuck Mangione L.P.s now out of print. I’d better get on to that.

In the meantime, for his sage teachings,  I’ll toast him tonight with a glass of wine… from the Finger Lakes, of course.

I’ve been saving this entry for some day within the forty of Lent when I have little time to write. The time has come, and today there isn’t much of it. So… Mrs. Plymale.

And the reason I need not spend much space here is that I can barely remember what she looked like. I know no more than her last name. And I knew her when I was only 9 or 10. That was way more than half a century ago, so I can be forgiven if I don’t know many details about her.

Here is what I do remember: she was my “released time education” teacher. “Released time” was an hour each mid-week when children were “released”  from school in order to have voluntary religious instruction. Imagine public schools doing such a thing today. (Actually, I believe there may be some residual released time programs somewhere still.)

When I was in third grade or so, my parents had OK’d my participation in that program, and a group of us kids would walk over to a small Baptist church to be led in a song and some Bible teaching by one Mrs. Plymale.

The church happened to be right next door to my house in Vestal, NY. It took over the vacant lot I used to play in, where I remember picking “Indian Paint Brushes” for my Mom, and from which I could hear the high school band practicing in the fall. We were all very disappointed that this somewhat noisy Baptist church was built on that lot, especially because it was so close to our house, and when they met at night, their piano music and singing created quite a racket for little kids next door who had already been put to bed.

Yet, since that released time program was held right next door, and therefore right on my way home anyway, I attended. I recall meeting in the basement of the church, in a small room, with Mrs. Plymale, a big woman. I don’t remember any Bible stories, nor do any songs or hymns come to mind. But here is why I consider her one of the forty who had some influence on my Christian journey. Psalm 19:14. John 3:16.

They are the first (and for the longest time, the only) memory verses I learned “by heart.” Isn’t that an affective term for learning? By heart. From the time Mrs. Plymale repeated the words of those verses with children chanting along, and repeated them yet again and again — from those days so long ago to this very day, I not only know the “address” of the lines, but the very King James Version of the quotations.

We used to say the words of the verse and then the address. Imagine some third grade voices chanting in rhythm…”May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O LORD, my strength and my redeemer. Psalm 19, 14.”

“For God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. John 3, 16.”

Did Mrs. Plymale explain what “the meditation of my heart” meant? Or, what it meant to perish? I’m sure she tried. But the main thing is, and this is why I remember her last name all these years later, she taught me those two fundamental verses of scripture, and she taught me the value of learning others, too, “by heart.” Whenever I hear that verse from the Psalms, or find the Lectionary pointing the global church to using Psalm 19 as one of Old Testament readings for a Sunday, I recall not only the verse, but the woman who first taught it to me: a Baptist church volunteer who welcomed children in the middle of her week and told them, in one way or another, that God loves them.

[In junior high school in Endicott, released time education was held at another Baptist church, a block from my home, but all I remember from that ordeal was the pastor leading us in a kind of gospel marching song, singing through his nose, “V is for victory, victory through Christ our Lor-or-ord.”  That turned me off from old time gospel songs forever. In high school, while the Catholic kids were herded in large numbers to catechetical classes either at the Catholic church or its nearby school, a handful of us more pious Protestants were released to a neighborhood Episcopal church where films, discussion, and earnest teaching by the rector held sway — while most of our classmates stayed at school for study hall.]

God bless you, Mrs. Plymale, wherever you are. Jesus loves you, this I know; for the Bible tells me so.

I am “giving up” some time each day in Lent to write some words that express my gratitude for forty people whose lives have touched mine with peace, grace, and, yes, jazz. And love. As mentioned on Ash Wednesday, I have made no list in advance, and have not made any attempt at ranking these folks. All have contributed greatly to my faith journey.

Today I write about someone whose last name is beyond my spelling! I’ve spelled it phonetically. We who knew Father Stephen didn’t use his last name. I wouldn’t be at all surprised that many folk who valued his friendship and spiritual guidance never even knew that surname. What was important, all  important to Stephen, was that he was a Trappist monk, a member of the Benedictine Order, a Cistercian of the Strict Observance.

He was the Guestmaster for many years at the Holy Cross Abbey in Berryville, Virginia. He was the prototype for what we call in the theological trade, a “gentle giant.” He was a tall, husky guy with a quiet countenance. Quite quiet. He was, after all, a Trappist who had sworn a vow of silence. Yet, as the host at the old monastery guest house, the better part of a mile down the road from the Abbey’s antebellum main house, part of his vocation allowed him to engage in conversation with those who were making retreats.

I was one of those in retreat for a week each year for many years while I lived and worked in Richmond. I first went to Holy Cross Abbey as a seminary student in my senior year, part of our course work in ecumenism. Father Stephen’s predecessor (a Father Pascal, I think) extended an invitation to any of us to make an individual retreat at any time, and shortly after graduation I took a week to live with the monks. It was a very special time for me, a kind of transition between graduation and ordination, and my first call.

By the time those retreats became a summer routine for me (maybe habit is a better word), Father Stephen had been appointed Guestmaster and we struck up a warm friendship. I would write him each year to request a week’s stay, he would write a personal note back, full of good humor, and we would then enjoy the annual reunion as the house’s only Presbyterian showed up for “R & R,” retreat and re-creation.

For the most part, guests had only two rules to abide by. One was to be on time for meals; the other was to honor the silence of the monastery. Some conversation was allowed, of course, when necessary, among all the monks. When absolutely necessary. In the guest house, conversation was actually encouraged during meals, and while washing and drying dishes. Part of the value of the retreat was to build and explore community among the retreatants, while also respecting the need for solitude and silence.

Thus, Fr. Stephen would bring the prepared meals down from the main monastery kitchen and the six or eight of us visitors would set the table. Stephen would eat with us, engage us in conversation (something about our own vocations, the world news, some theology or doctrine), and inevitably tell us some jokes. Example: Stephen reported that the bike he sometimes rode between the guest house and the church was as Polish as he was — he called it a Schwinnski. You are allowed to groan. We all did.

Stephen’s expressive face would beam with delight over a good story, but after the meal that same face could express deep compassion, sympathy, or concern over something serious going on in a retreatant’s life.

Father Stephen loved to hear about my family, and I remember being quite impressed that he remembered Joan’s name, and maybe even our children’s names when I would return each year. He was always willing to talk about his own life, too, especially his monastic vocation. He loved it. On two occasions he sat down with me for interviews, one for my radio show, and one on videotape. The latter was never shown publicly; it was just for my own use. I still have it, of course, and my only disappointment with it is that I ran camera while another retreatant asked the questions.

Father Stephen loved his guesthouse gardens, though I remember his being allergic to bee stings. The only time I ever saw him quite angry was with the cows that managed to escape the fenced fields and trample his flowers.

More than a good host, Stephen’s influence on my spiritual life encompassed that ecumenical welcome, of a person of one faith expression embracing a person of another. But also, out of a deep understanding of the broader, even cosmic, Eucharistic table, Stephen confessed that even though the local bishop would most surely frown on the practice, he, as a priest, would never turn away someone who came to Communion with open hands. That is, if I had gone to Mass in the monastery chapel, and held out my hands for the wafer and cup, he would not withhold the Meal from this Presbyterian.

I had too much respect for the man to test him.

He loved that I often came to the guesthouse retreat with audio cassettes of Thomas Merton’s lectures. “Tell me what the most famous Trappist taught you today,” Stephen would kid. And I would say, “Tell me again about the bikini-clad Girl Scouts you entertained here one dark stormy night!” (It was true; some Girl Scouts had left their canoes on the banks of the nearby Shenandoah in a storm one evening, and sought shelter in what they thought was an old farmhouse. Imagine everyone’s surprise when they found a cloistered monk answering their knock! How Stephen’s eyes sparkled as he recounted the tale!)

I mentioned earlier that we visitors only had those two rules. There were some common sense restrictions that guided our behavior at the Abbey. No radio (there was no TV anywhere on the grounds), and no uninvited visits inside the monastery proper, such as sleeping quarters or library.

We were free to join the monks in any of the “hours,” or “offices.” I always skipped the first one (was it 4 a.m.?) as well as Mass at 7 or so. But I went to the others and was glad to see Stephen and Father Andrew leading the music, Gregorian chant, unaccompanied. Andrew was as diminutive as Stephen was large, so they were quite a pair. (I also have an audio recording of the monks’ singing the last office before retiring for the night. It’s a treasure.)

I have some additional stories about my stays at Holy Cross, including one about how a group of us Presbyterian seminary students hosted two monks and two newly ordained priests for supper on our graduation weekend. No one told us they were vegetarians! Forgive us, Father, for we have bologna. I’ll wait for after Lent, though, except to say that one of those new priests is now the Abbot at Holy Cross!

For now, it is enough to remember Father Stephen Usinowitz as my Trappist mentor, a loving, welcoming, Christian guide along my spiritual path. Thanks be to God!