When cleaning mental closets, it’s better not to hurry!

November 6, 2019

FCC 1 

A blogger using the name thebeerchaser commented on my recent column “Cleaning Out the Closets of My Mind.” Citing his own experience, he encourages me to proceed with due care as I dump boxes full of old records and writings.

Currently, he is sorting his files, discarding many of them, and then reorganizing those that remain. His final sentence makes sense: “Perhaps they will ultimately all be discarded, but one never knows and if they are organized and don’t take a lot of space, keep the ones that are most meaningful to you.”

Some of my old papers do mean a lot to me and I might even use them at some point in the future. Taking his advice, I’ve spent the morning sorting through one stack of folders about seven inches high and will carefully reread “Liberal-Minded Religion in a Downtown Church,” the 200-page, unpublished book manuscript I wrote in 2003 that is based on these files. I need to decide if with a little more work the manuscript can be published (for limited circulation) or simply filed with my papers that are headed to an appropriate archive sometime in the future.

In contrast with the relatively useless files I mentioned in my previous post, these Portland-based folders have materials that other people could use. I have rearranged a few of them and prepared a table of contents. They now are ready to be consulted by me or by someone else. During coming months, I intend to do limited copy editing to the book and find a suitable way for a copy to be given to the church that is described for its archival collection. Conversations with a few friends at the church will help me decide whether to do any more work than that on this project that started nearly two decades old.

Between 1999 and 2003 when I was collecting these materials and drafting the manuscript, I was also doing preliminary research on a second history project related to the churches of downtown Portland. Although I would still love to write the book that was in my mind, there are two reasons why that will not be possible. First, it would require an extended period of time in Portland, which I would enjoy but which is not feasible. Second, and more important, I feel myself lurching into old age.

I remain committed to cleaning out the closets of my mind. According to Martin’s book The Sage’s Tao Te Ching, that’s one of the things that sages do. Some of my closeted ideas and the resulting paper trails are ready to go away right now. Others, like this Portland project, are going to take a little time.


Cleaning Out the Closets of My Mind

November 1, 2019

Papers

In a little book entitled The Sage’s Tao Te Ching: Ancient Advice for the Second Half of Life, William Martin writes that there is no need to cling to the things than no longer identify you. “The closets of your mind can be cleaned of ideas no longer needed” (p. 62). For a retired church historian like me, the mental closets of ideas usually are accompanied with old paper files of research notes and partially written drafts of essays

Today, while purging obsolete tax papers, I stumbled across a folder three inches thick entitled “Notes on 19th Century Revivals.” Most of the material consists of photocopied chapters from books such as And They All Sang Hallelujah: Plain Folk Camp Meeting Religion, 1800-1845, by Dickson D. Bruce, Jr (1974), and The Posthumous Work of the Reverend and Pious James McGrady Late Minister of the Gospel in Henderson, Kentucky, Ed. James Smith (1837). A small portion consists of hand-written reading notes taken from similar essays and books.

I was doing this research during the late 1980s and drew upon it for a paper that I presented to a section of the North American Academy of Liturgy. Almost simultaneously, the definitive work on this subject was published, Leigh Eric Schmidt’s Holy Fairs: Scottish Communions and American Revivals in the Early Modern Period (1989). My paper was later published in Discipliana, the journal of the Disciples of Christ Historical Society (Spring 1994, pp. 2-19) with the title “The Sacramental Character of the Camp Meeting.”

What should be done with files like these? The easiest course of action, and on the gray, rainy day when I am writing this note the one that could easily be accomplished, is to dump them into a box of old papers to be recycled. Another possibility is to arrange them more carefully and include them in papers I hope will be kept permanently in my archives somewhere. From my own experience working with the archival papers of others, however, I cannot imagine that researchers in years to come would ever take the time to use these papers for their own research.

Maybe another idea concerning proper disposal will come to mind before I empty this thick file into a box already close to being full. In any case, the topic, 19th century revivals, already has been cleaned out of the closet of my mind. All that remains is to get rid of the paper trail.


A Scholar’s Life in Black and White

December 10, 2018

Ronald E. Osborn’s Papers at the Disciples of Christ Historical Society

Ronald E. Osborn, Ph.D. (1917-1998),was a church historian by training who spent most of his adult years as professor or dean in academic institutions related to his communion, the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). Secure in his ecclesial identity and scholarly attainments, he was able to devote much of his attention to leadership in his church and in ecumenical activities, especially the Consultation on Church Union.

Osborn was in demand as preacher in churches throughout the United States and as lecturer on topics related to his scholarly and ecclesial interests. During his lifetime, he published or edited more than a dozen books. He published a long list of articles on major topics that were related to denominational, ecumenical and broadly cultural activities of churches in which he was engaged during a period of more than half a century.

He developed his scholarly habits long before the electronic age, although he began using computers in later years. He was meticulous in his habits, using cards instead of spreadsheets for some of his records and made paper copies of nearly everything. Two examples are included in a large shipment of papers and other media that have recently been received by the Disciples of Christ Historical Society (DCHS) in Bethany West Virginia.

The first is his personal record of sermons and addresses delivered, baptisms and weddings performed, materials he read throughout his life, and some other activities—approximately 110 hand written pages, both sides. The second is his card index of books that he acquired throughout his life. He had developed his own numerical code as a way of recording pertinent information concerning his library.

Two of the boxes contain correspondence from May/June 1987 through May/June 1998. Another is identified as “Diary” and contains folders of material, beginning with one entitled “Ancestry,” that may have been intended to be the basis for writing his autobiography.

These boxes contain materials for two scholarly projects that could be thought of as the bookends for Osborn’s intended work as church historian. During his student days, he became interested in the life and career of Eli Vaughn Zollars, whom Osborn described as a “pioneer in the Southwest.” While in seminary, Osborn wrote a one thousand-page manuscript about Zollars, portions of which he used for his M. A. and B. D. theses at Phillips University. Two bound volumes of this material are in one of these boxes. Osborn’s first book was a biography of Zollars, published in 1947 when he was thirty years of age.

The bookend for the ending of his life’s work was to be a magisterial history of preaching from ancient times until now.  Many of the folders in these boxes contain materials for this project—lectures and essays by Osborn, papers written by students in his classes, essays on preachers drawn from scholarly journals and sources, and preliminary drafts of what might have become chapters in the three-volume book he hoped to write.

Volume 1, The Folly of God: The Rise of Christian Preaching, was scheduled to be published on September 1, 1998, but printed copies did not arrive until later. Although he did see galley proofs, Osborn died on October 1, 1998, without seeing a copy of this book which was to be the climax to his life as a devout and scholarly Christian. Fearing that he would not live to complete the remaining volumes, Osborn arranged with another Disciples scholar to finish the task, but this did not happen. Unless completed drafts of the two remaining volumes of the projected book are discovered, it is unlikely that we will ever be able to read the continuing story that Osborn wanted to tell.

The Osborn papers provide the source material for research and publication. He spoke and wrote extensively on the historical and theological aspects of actions that were being taken by his own church and by other churches as they sought to find a new unity in worship and work. He was a preacher of unusual depth and passion and prepared manuscripts for a high percentage of these discourses. Convinced that religious leaders needed to be well grounded in literature and the arts, he also lectured and wrote on these matters. Copies of several hundred sermons, lectures, and essays are now available in one place—the Disciples of Christ Historical Society—and now can be accessed by people interested in the liberal Protestantism during the second half of the twentieth century.

I hope that during the next few years a succession of scholars will make use of this unusually rich storehouse of documents by a scholar who loved his church and served it faithfully over a long and fruitful life.


The Great Migration

November 1, 2018

Responding to The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration, by Isabel Wilkerson (Random House, 2010)

The two cities where I have spent much of my life (Portland, Oregon, and Indianapolis) are alike in two respects: historically, they have been anti-slavery and highly resistant to settlement by African Americans. In parallel but distinctly different ways, both cities were strongholds for the Ku Klux Klan during the 1920s. One of my current research interests is to learn more about these racist social systems within which I have lived for nearly seventy years. My purpose, in part, is to do what I can to help shape a better future in cities like the two I have known.          

A chance conversation recently called my attention to a book that helps me understand race relations in the century that started around 1915, The Warmth of Other Suns: The Epic Story of America’s Great Migration by Isabel Wilkerson. She writes that beginning with World War I and continuing until the early 1970s, “some six million black southerners left the land of their forefathers and fanned out across the country for an uncertain existence in nearly every other corner of America. The Great Migration would become a turning point in history. It would transform urban America and recast the social and political order of every city it touched. It would force the South to search its soul and finally to lay aside a feudal caste system. It grew out of the unmet promises made after the Civil War and, through the sheer weight of it helped push the country toward the civil rights revolutions of the 1960s” (p. 9).

Black southerners left all of the states of the old South—Alabama, Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia—along with Kentucky, Oklahoma, and parts of Texas. They traveled to the former Union states—New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Illinois, Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Kansas, California, Nevada, Oregon, and the District of Columbia, along with the border states of Delaware, Maryland, and Missouri, and Washington, which was admitted to the Union after the Civil War (p. 556). Their numbers overpowered the size of earlier migrations across North America, the California Gold Rush of the 1850s, with 100,000 participants, and the Dust Bowl migrations of the 1930s with 300,000.

I became aware of the movement of African Americans into Portland, where I grew up, during my pre-teen years when many people, including black southerners, came to the Portland-Vancouver area to work in the shipyards during World War II. During my first three years in high school, I was aware of only one African American in my traditional college-prep school, and he, an upper classman, was one of the more popular students on campus. In 1948, the Vanport flood destroyed the homes of many people who had moved to the city during the war years and many families were relocated. As a result, approximately thirty-five African American students were transferred to my 1,200-student school. Although a tiny minority, they were a conspicuous presence because they stayed together as a group. Those of us already there, most of us white with a scattering of Asian American students, didn’t know how to respond to classmates with a different way of using our mother tongue and with different social mores. We kept to our separate ways. Read More ….Great Migration Wilkerson

 


Confronting the History of Racism

September 4, 2018

Responding to In the Shadow of Statues: A White Southerner Confronts History by Mitch Landrieu (New York: Viking, 2018)

Mitch Landrieu, the mayor of New Orleans,tells two stories in this memoir. One gives the book its title—the removal of four monuments in New Orleans that were erected some years after the Civil War ended to perpetuate false understandings of that war and the racist culture that had made it necessary. The second story contains key passages in Landrieu’s life that formed his character and led him to remove these civil war statues as the culminating action near the end of his eight years as mayor.

He describes his boyhood in New Orleans, education in Catholic schools, and political career in Louisiana prior to becoming mayor of his home city. Landrieu devotes a chapter to David Duke’s brief political career in Louisiana, pointing to the similarities between Duke’s techniques and those of Donald Trump.

The context for two chapters is Katrina and its devastating, lingering impact upon New Orleans. During the storm itself, Landrieu was lieutenant governor of Louisiana and, more than anyone else, responsible for managing rescue and relief activities and the rebuilding of the city. During the storm and its immediate aftermath, “the nation suddenly found a mirror, and we did not like what we saw. How could there still be such poverty and desperation—in America the superpower?” Clearly visible were the results of the century that “had passed between the Civil War and the civil rights movement, a century of disenfranchisement, political and economic” (p. 111).

Although Katrina had impacted people of all classes and colors, those least able to respond were the poor, and most of the poor were black. He concludes the Katrina chapter with a statement of what he and the nation learned during that time of distress. “Katrina taught us that while we had come a long way in civil rights, the inequities that still existed were a result of the lingering shadow of Jim Crow. Race was an issue we’d have to confront directly if we were ever going to move our city and country forward” (p. 123).

In a chapter entitled “Rebuilding and Mourning in NOLA,” Landrieu describes his work during two terms as mayor of the city. He began his time in that office during the disaster caused by the explosion of an oil rig in the Gulf and Mexico. He inherited a city government in shambles, much in debt, and in desperate need of reform in order to undertake the radical reconstruction of the city that had to take place if it were to resume its well-being. His primary challenge, he writes, “was to rebuild public trust, to restore credibility, and to heal a city that was broken—economically, spiritually, racially” (p. 135).

Landrieu devotes nearly half of this chapter to what he calls “the shadow story of my city’s stirring comeback”—”the horrific loss of human life through gun violence, most of which erupts in the poorest parts of town” (p. 143). These pages, perhaps the most heart-rending of the book, bear directly upon Landrieu’s decision to remove the Civil War monuments. Some of the people opposing his intention to remove the monuments insisted that he should focus on stopping the murders rather than upon the statues. None of them, however, helped him in his fights against murder, and his “record on murder reduction is unlike any other administration” (149). His conclusion leads inexorably to the climax of the book.

“Murder and violence are the poisonous fruit grown from the soil of injustice, racism, and inequality—fertilized by guns, drugs, alcohol, and disintegrated families. Hope fades, hate grows, people feel they have nothing to lose. To those who say it has always been this way, I answer: We made this problem by neglect; we can be proactive and fix it. All of this happens in the shadows of statues whose message has always been, as Terence Blanchard said: ‘African Americans are less than’” (pp. 153-4). Read more. . . In the Shadow of Statues

 


Sermons about God in a University Church

June 5, 2018

Late in the evening of June 5, 1968, Senator Robert Kennedy was shot at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles after winning the California presidential primary. He died the next day. Two months earlier he had consoled a mostly black assemblage in Indianapolis who were just hearing of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., earlier that evening. These murders were but two of the events during one of the most tragic years in modern American history.

They climaxed the academic year that my family and I spent in Seattle while I served as visiting minister-theologian at University Christian Church. Living and working in the vibrant, complex, controversial, and liberal university community was a life-shaping experience for me and my family. We went back to our ordinary lives in Indianapolis significantly changed.

As I remember that brief period of life half a century later, I realize that one of the most important aspects for me was learning how to present the Christian gospel to the increasingly skeptical, irreligious, anti-war, pro-personal-freedom constituencies who seemed to dominate the U-District where I spent most of my working hours during that academic year.

So, who is Jesus? And God…how can we talk seriously about a fatherly divine being in heaven above when the world that he supposedly created and cares for is in such a mess? What does the church, with its quaint ideas and fussy ceremonies, have to do with anything, anyway?

These issues consumed the mind, heart, and work of Robert A. Thomas, senior minister of the church, and in his sermons week after week he dealt seriously with the contemporary challenges to Christian faith and proclaimed its relevance to a world that seemed to be falling apart. I had never heard preaching like this before. Bob wrote his sermons in serious, declarative prose, long sentences, complete with dependent clauses. He frequently included quotations from the Bible, modern scholars, and current news sources. Dressed in his black academic gown with wide sleeves, he read the sermons word for word, standing tall in the high pulpit, full voice and animated style, his arms flailing the air.

His liberal theology had been formed during his studies in the divinity school at the University of Chicago, one of the nation’s most prestigious and influential seminaries. He believed that science, history, and the Christian faith could live together and unite in solving the social and personal crises of human life and society. Week after week, I could scarcely contain my sense of excitement as sermon time drew near.

Midway through the fall season, Bob invited three younger clergy related to the congregation to join him in planning and preaching a series of dialogue sermons during the Advent Season that would begin a few weeks later. He proposed that we choose a theme that was rooted in the Christmas story and relevant to the tempestuous world in which we lived. He invited the religion editor of one of the Seattle newspapers to join us for one or two of the planning sessions.

We agreed that Bob would begin the series on November 26, the Sunday between Thanksgiving and the beginning of Advent. He would explain the series, announce the theme, and spend most of the sermon describing the central challenge of our time that we believed the Christian gospel could overcome. During each of the next three weeks, Bob and one of the younger clergy would describe one aspect of our human condition and point toward the Christ-centered response that the Christmas story offers. On the last Sunday of Advent, which that year was on December 24, Christmas Eve, Bob would proclaim the miracle of new life that Jesus brings to the world.

The process was exhilarating for the four of us and well-received by the congregation, enough so that early in the new year, we decided to do it again on the Sundays in Lent, beginning March 3, 1968, and reaching their climax on Easter Sunday, April 14. We gave a general title to the two sets of sermons: Dialogues on the Incarnation. The Advent series we entitled Born to Set the People Free, and the Lenten series, The Tragic Vision.

Walter Hansen, the church’s business manager, typed the scripts for us each Sunday, and my carbon-copy set has been tucked away in my files all these years. As part of this year’s remembrance of that tragic year in American life, I have transcribed these sermons—all 30,000 words—and plan to spend the summer, which will include a two-week period visiting family members who live in Seattle, studying them and reflecting upon the form and character of this experiment in preaching. I look forward to conversations with the two colleagues from long ago who have maintained connections with University Christian Church all these years.

When the time seems right, I hope to write columns that highlight leading ideas in these two sets of sermons and then offer my comments, half a century later, on these sermons about God preached in a university church.


A Civilization Built on Slavery

May 18, 2018

Responding to Ebony & Ivy: Race, Slavery, and the Troubled History of America’s Universities, by Craig Steven Wilder (New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2013.

In the final paragraph of the prologue to Ebony and Ivy, Craig Steven Wilder makes a statement that could be looked upon as his thesis: “American colleges were not innocent or passive beneficiaries of conquest and colonial slavery. The European invasion of the Americas and the modern slave trade pulled peoples throughout the Atlantic world into each other’s lives, and colleges were among the colonial institutions that braided their histories and rendered their fates dependent and antagonistic. The academy never stood apart from American slavery—in fact, it stood beside church and state as the third pillar of a civilization built on slavery” (p. 11).

The portion of the Americas that this book treats is the eastern seaboard of North America, from New England through Georgia, the West Indies, and the eastern-most sections of the country across the mountains in Kentucky, Pennsylvania, and Ohio. The civilization discussed in the book was essentially English-speaking, Christian, Protestant (with strong rivalries between Puritan and Anglican colonies), and white. The academies included virtually all within this territory that were founded prior to the beginning of the Civil War: among them the most prestigious, including Harvard, Yale, and Princeton; some that became state universities, including University of Virginia and University of North Carolina; and smaller colleges such as Amherst, Dartmouth, Washington and Lee, and Transylvania.

Wiley mentions Hanover, a church college in Indiana close to the Ohio River, noting that its president was a slaveholder and that in 1836, when an antislavery association had begun meeting on campus, the trustees declared that it was “incompatible with the culture of the school [and] opposed by ‘at least nine-tenths of the students associated with the institution’” (p. 268).  The enslaved people whom Wiley discusses were primarily persons of African descent, but he gives some attention to the place of Native Americans in his historical account. He also shows that until late in the 1700s owning and working slaves was commonplace among northern and middle Atlantic academics and clergy (including John Cotton, Increase and Cotton Mather, Ezra Styles, Jonathan Edwards, and John Witherspoon).  Read more Ebony & Ivy