My Dear Sister

This time last year, I was on a plane bound for Manchester.  My long-awaited and much anticipated sabbatical was beginning, and I was filled with excitement.  In the days prior to my departure, I packed and re-packed, rolling clothes to be held together with a rubber band, cramming socks and hose into shoes, and forcing my two modest-sized bags to make room for a few essential books.  My heart was full; my expectations were high.  I could never have imagined just how wonderful and life-changing this experience would be! Charles and John Wesley taught and preached about prevenient grace, the grace of God that comes before we know anything about it, and indeed, the hallmark of the Wesleyan revival was an emphasis on grace.  Well, I received grace upon grace in the course of my sabbatical, being welcomed as a friend and even as family in many of the places I visited, and having opportunities I could never have planned for or expected.

While in Bristol, I practically became a fixture at the New Room, visiting the museum 3 different times, slowly looking, reading, and listening as the story of Methodism was presented by way of fascinating exhibits.  I spent several hours in the archive/research area, reading letters written by early Methodists and feverishly taking notes, and I attended an organ concert that filled that old and holy space with beautiful music.  Best of all, I was able to worship there twice, receiving communion both times, and the second time, there was one of those grace moments that came as pure gift, a surprise that left me almost in tears, the opportunity to read the gospel lesson for the communion service.  I wrote about this in an earlier post (Hospitality and Welcome to All), so I won't repeat myself. 

That was an obvious kind of grace, a very public moment that filled my heart with joy and linked me to the early Methodists, those women and men and children who once packed the New Room to hear John preach and to sing their faith with hymns fresh from the pen of Charles.  But there were quieter, less obvious moments, symbolized by the picture at the top of this page.  The life-size figure of John Wesley stands at the window of his bedroom.  The slanted sill, designed by him, hits at just the right point for him to write comfortably as he stood, while for taller people like me, it would induce backache and cramp!  It is so real that I felt almost like a voyeur stealing a glance at the behind-the-scenes history of this public figure who was also a very private person.  Dr. Richard Heitzenrater calls him "the elusive Mr. Wesley" with good reason because just when I think I might be getting a handle on him, I discover something else that makes it clear that Wesley was a complex and complicated man. 

I love this depiction of him doing something so characteristic -- he wrote massive numbers of letters, many of them to women whom he addressed as "My Dear Sister." It made it easy to imagine him pausing for just the right phrase, looking up from the page out onto the busy Horsefair, as he dispensed medical advice, asked searching spiritual questions, and urged his reader to go on to perfection.  It's one of my favorite images from the 10 1/2 weeks of my sabbatical journey, making our tradition come alive in the present in a way that I hope will inspire and encourage others, especially as we face an increasingly frightening world and an uncertain future with hope and holy boldness.  And so, let Mr. Wesley speak a word of grace to you, reminding you as he did Ann Bolton in a letter written February 13, 1768, "The best and most desirable thing of all is that you should live and die wholly devoted to God."  That is an aspiration that surely all Christians can unite around, even in the midst of other disagreements.  Let us, like John Wesley, live and die, wholly devoted to God.