Real People

When I first started thinking about my sabbatical, it was with vague thoughts of making some small contribution to the field of Wesley studies, but that probably isn't going to be the outcome of this venture.  I simply didn't have time to explore the masses of material held at the John Rylands, but being there whetted my appetite, and I learned new things, and perhaps I will write some sort of devotional rather than an academic piece.

One thing I discovered is real people.  Remember the TV show by that name in the late 1970's/early 1980's?  Well, these were real people who struggled with their health and worried about their children and prayed for God to be real to them.  John Wesley, while a gifted and Spirit-filled preacher, had a wretchedly unhappy marriage, and as is the case with most things, there was plenty of blame to go 'round.  Charles Wesley thought his brother was going too far with some of his actions that took the Methodist movement slowly but steadily out of the Anglican fold, and he blasted him in verse, and oh, yeah, he didn't exactly help with John's love life.  (That is perhaps the subject of another post sometime later.) 

Sarah Ryan had a bit of a checkered past, rather like the Samaritan woman, a bit like Charles and John's sister Hetty, and she became a leader of a class, a surrogate mother in an orphanage, a preacher, and a Mother in the faith to other preaching women like Mary Bosanquet Fletcher, who was before, during, and after her marriage an example of a woman exhibiting a gospel-changed, Christ-focused life.  She was half of a clergy couple before such things even existed, and between her preaching, pastoral care, and spiritual direction (especially of women), she became known as a "Mother in Israel," high praise from Wesley and other Methodist leaders indeed!  She left masses of written material, a treasure trove of letters, manuscripts of a sermon or two, an account of the life of her friend Sarah Ryan, and more.  Someday, perhaps, I will revisit the John Rylands and delve more deeply into the riches of her written legacy.

And then coming back again to John Wesley.  Here was a man whose passion for  God sustained him through threats of violence, pain and heartbreak, grief, loss, and spiritual uncertainty, taking him in directions he never imagined or even wanted. He sometimes gave rough, seemingly unfeeling counsel, yet he ruthlessly applied the same to himself.  Into old age, with fading eyesight, wavering hand-writing, quavering voice, and failing physical strength, he could write in a letter at age 86, a few months before his death,"But all is well:  I can still write almost as easily as ever, and I can read in a clear light; and I think, if I could not read or write at all, I could still say something for God."

His voice and hands are now stilled in death, yet he still has something to say for God.    Among his last words were these:  "The best of all is, God is with us."  And the epitaph on his tombstone, not written by him, contains these words, after several glowing, mellifluous phrases --
"Reader, if thou art constrained to bless the instrument, give God the glory."  To that, he would heartily agree because even in death, he is still pointing to the one his brother called the Lover of our souls.  And for that, and so much more, thanks be to God!

Living in the Midst of So Much History

If you have ever been to England or Scotland, you know that there's a lot of old stuff there -- houses, statues, graveyards, churches, castles, papers, etc.  It's always a bit of a shock to me as an American where "old" is anything 200 years old to come face to face with a parish church built in the 1400's (Theddlethorpe St. Helen's) or a document (Magna Carta) dating back to 1215 or a castle from the 1000's (Lincoln Castle).

When I was in Epworth, Lincolnshire, I stayed for twelve days at the Red Lion, a a coaching inn so old that it is mentioned in the Domesday Book of the 11th century, and it just happens to be where John Wesley slept whenever he returned to preach in his hometown.  After his father's death in 1735, the family had to vacate the Old Rectory, so when he came back to Epworth, this was pretty much the only place to stay. His first visit to the Red Lion was apparently in 1742, and this is commemorated by a blue historical placque next to the front entrance.  I jokingly suggested they add one that mentioned my first visit in 2017, but they see far too many odd Methodist types to take me very seriously.  ;-)

                            

Being surrounded by so many visible reminders of people who have gone before was exciting and maybe a bit intimidating, and I wondered how living in that milieu affected those who have never known anything different.  Might it be easy to be a little blasé about seeing venerable buildings day in and day out or to walk the same village streets once frequented by notable people who quite literally changed the world?

As I traveled, I posed that question to people living in various places, and they all stopped to give it some serious thought.  To a person, they all admitted that it's something they almost take for granted.  Scott and I laughed when the young man in Castlebay, Isle of Barra, told us in an offhand way to "have fun at the castle," like it was no big deal to take a small boat into the harbor to explore Kisimul Castle, but he's probably seen that tiny fortress every day for all of his 19 years, so it doesn't hold the mystique it surely did for us!

                              

It made me ponder the things back home that I don't really see or appreciate nearly often enough. I may not have an ancient cathedral in my backyard or own a chair that Susanna Wesley sat in, but what is unique and special in my life? And who is unique and special in my life?  Tragedies and accidents and losses usually make us stop for at least a moment, but it passes, and we go right back to acting the same old way.

But what if we made a conscious effort to remember how short and precious life is?  What if we developed a habit of not only thanking God for the blessings in our lives but of expressing our love and delight to those significant people who grace our existence?  What if we saw that we, too, live in the midst of history, common-place though it may seem?  With the Apostle Paul, let us pause to say, "I thank my God every time I remember you" whenever we reflect on the gifts of life and love and laughter shared with others.  Thanks be to God!

Homecoming

                   
                      The exterior of Theddlethorpe St. Helen's Church, Lincolnshire

Many years ago, a distant cousin on the Fowler side of the family researched and wrote a history of the family, tracing them back to Nansemond, Virginia, and someone else figured out that the William and Margaret Fowler who traveled across the Atlantic on the ship Abigail in 1621 almost certainly originally came from a tiny settlement called Theddlethorpe St. Helen in Lincolnshire, England.  As Lincolnshire just happens to be the county where the Wesleys lived in a market town called Epworth, I had hoped that I'd get to visit the spot for a homecoming of sorts, but given the difficulty of transportation, it didn't look likely.  However, my friend Louise Howard (mentioned prominently in another post) talked with the Rev. Stuart Gunson and his wife Marion who are very active at Wesley Memorial Methodist Church, and they took me on a whirlwind tour of the Lincolnshire countryside and into Lincoln itself.

Theddlethorpe St. Helen was originally built in the 14th century but was largely rebuilt in 1866, and it is located near Mablethorpe, not far from the coast.  Still in use, it offers a service of Holy Communion once a month and a service of Evensong the fourth Sunday of each month.  The interior shows inevitable signs of wear and tear from centuries of use, and there were tarps over some of the furnishings, but there were also fresh flowers in front of the baptismal font and paraments on the altar and pulpit.  We walked around and looked, and I took some pictures.

Then we went outside to poke around in the graveyard to see if we could locate any long-dead Fowler ancestors, but the headstones are so ancient that many have disintegrated into the earth or become impossible to read, but once we stomped down some of the high grass, we did find a couple of tombstones from the 19th and 20th centuries, so I figured they must be distant cousins and snapped a picture anyway.

Stuart offered to take one of me standing next to the church after jokingly asking me if I felt my heart strangely warmed, if I felt any sense of homecoming or belonging there.  I had to say that I didn't feel any particular pull towards the place, but it was undeniably beautiful in its faded Gothic splendor, set in the shade trees in a sea of green.  Even though I didn't find the graves of my great-great-zillions of times back great-grandparents or get some eerie sense of coming full circle, it satisfied a deep yearning on my part to stand where they might have stood, where they were probably baptized and almost certainly were married.

Everyone wants to feel part of a story bigger than her/himself, and this was more than likely a piece of my family history, a piece of ground into which my roots were planted, but you know what?  Even if it wasn't MY set of Fowlers, in a sense it doesn't matter because this was a church, a place of Christian worship, a sacred site where down the years, countless knees have bent in prayer, voices have been lifted in song, hands have been clasped in supplication.  These are my foremothers and forefathers, even if there is no genetic tie between us, and their faith is my faith, even all these centuries later in a land they could never have imagined.  And that is homecoming enough for me.

Wee Mr. Wesley

Several people have asked me what was my favorite thing about my sabbatical, and I can't narrow it down to just one thing because the entire experience was a gift from God, filled with such grace.  So I decided instead of trying to arbitrarily choose one thing, I would highlight several different aspects of my sabbatical in this blog, so here's the first one not covered in a previous post written while I was traveling.

When I was a teenager, like a lot of other teenagers, I had posters all over the doors of my closet, my walls, inside my locker at school, pretty much everywhere.  They featured cars I wanted to drive, perfume I hoped to wear, and singers I liked to listen to.  That's what you do when you're 16 -- you put posters of rock stars all over the place because you want everybody to know just how special the singer(s) are to you.  Well, in the 18th and 19th centuries, nobody put posters on the wall to show how big a fan s/he was, but after John Wesley's death in 1791, a lot of folks wanted to honor him, to have a little piece of Wesley in their homes, so thousands upon thousands of inexpensive pottery and ceramic and even bone figurines featuring him were created.  Many of these are collectors' items today, and museums like the John Rylands in Manchester have a varied selection, but occasionally, the average person can find one in an antique shop or online.

While I was in Manchester, I posted a picture on Facebook of some of the ones at the John Rylands, and a friend helpfully sent me a link where I could purchase one of my very own.  She convinced me that this would be the perfect souvenir of my sabbatical, and since it wasn't very expensive, I sent the seller my credit card information.  I was about to leave Manchester for 12 days in the Wesleys' hometown, Epworth, and I was staying at the Red Lion, the inn where JW stayed whenever he came back to town to preach, so with childish glee, I gave the seller that address and waited for my wee Mr. Wesley to be delivered.

A few days into my stay, after breakfast, I was sitting in the pub where the wi fi signal was the strongest, and the hotel housekeeper had gone upstairs to "do" my room.  I heard a voice calling, "Hello, hello?"  and since she wasn't back yet, I called out to let the guy know that she'd be right back.  It occurred to me that it might be the post, and when he came around the corner with a stack of mail in one hand and a small box in the other, I told him that it was for me.  "I'm Donna," I said, and after looking curiously at me (the accent gave me away, no doubt), he glanced at the package and said, "OK, sign here."  I did, and right about then, Leslie returned.  "What have you got there?"  "It's Mr. Wesley!"  She rolled her eyes -- but in a friendly way -- and fetched me a knife.  Between the two of us, we carefully cut through the tape, I gently unrolled the bubble wrap and pulled the figurine out.  "Isn't he beautiful?" I asked her.  She shook her head and mumbled something about crazy Methodists and then admired him, probably just to be nice.  I carefully rolled him back up and replaced him in his box and then looked at the address label.  Yep, there it was -- Donna Fowler-Marchant, c/o The Red Lion, Epworth, etc.

So there you have it.  One of the best and most memorable moments of my summer's big adventure, receiving a Staffordshire figurine of John Wesley, delivered to me in his hometown, in the very place he used to stay.  There are many other memories I will share in this space, but for now, I invite you to share with me the simple joy of that happy chain of circumstances.  The picture taken above is of his new home on our mantel.  I think he likes it, and I'm very pleased to have him there!

Labor and Rest

St Moluag's Episcopal Church (Teampall Mholuaidh), Europaidh 

Astronauts and deep sea divers and I have something in common.  We all have to be careful when we return to the point from which we started.  Otherwise we risk burning up in the atmosphere or at the very least, getting the bends.  I'm finding it difficult to re-acclimate to life at home, partly because of lingering jet-lag, partly because of this crazy allergy, and partly because, well, it's hard to think about getting back to work after having enjoyed an extended break from my usual ministry and everything that entails.

As you see, I'm writing this on my first Sunday back at First Prez.  It also happens to be Labor Day weekend, which turns out to be a very good time to return ever so slowly to the usual routine. Because it's a holiday weekend, there weren't many people at church, and I was able to re-enter the atmosphere, so to speak, without too much notice or noise. It was thankfully less overwhelming than I had feared.

This time last week, I was still in Stornoway, the Isle of Lewis, in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland.  It was Sunday, and that means something very specific there.   Many (if not most) people go to church, but even those who don't attend worship have to live into a particular rhythm of things in which pretty much everything stops for the Sabbath.   On the home front, you don't wash clothes that day, but if you do, there is an expectation that they NOT be hung outside to dry.  There is one gas station on the entire island that opens, all the stores are closed, the only open restaurant in Stornoway is attached to a hotel, and if there is any other food outlet doing business, it may be the Chinese takeaway place.  There is also only one ferry the entire day, and that has been operating on Sundays for less than 10 years.  

The stern Calvinists whose varied expressions of Presbyterianism have held sway over this area for a very long time are adamant that this be a day of rest, and if that used to be defined as a grim denial of pleasure and play, it is refreshing to hear a different perspective from one young woman.  She served us tea and coffee late Saturday afternoon, telling us that she was so glad the next day was Sunday.  "It's nice, you know, for everybody to have a rest.  You don't have to be anywhere or do anything in particular."

So, on Sunday, after I preached at St Peter's, Scott and I walked around the nearly deserted streets, watching the tide slowly come in, admiring the colorful flowers adorning the walkway along the harbor, and we took a drive up to Ness, the northern part of the island, to a tiny place called Europaidh.  There is a most unusual church there which dates back to the 13th century.  Dedicated to St. Moluag, a contemporary of St. Columba, it is associated with healing of various ills, including leprosy and mental disorders.  There is even a leper's squint built into the side where the afflicted could view the priest during Holy Eucharist and then partake after everyone else.  To reach it, you have to walk a 300 yard path between two sheep folds to this tiny stone church which has been buffeted by relentless wind and rain for centuries.  It has no electricity, no bathrooms, no running water, only the peaceful interior lit by oil lamps, a sanctuary where regular Christian worship still takes place at least twice monthly.

We walked slowly in and around the tiny church, marveling at the quiet within.  Even as the wind rose and fell outside, blasting into cracks in the stone, there was a sense of peace, of serenity, of rest from one's labor.  Thinking of the many who have bent the knee in prayer, been sprinkled with the waters of baptism, received the body and blood of Christ in holy communion, joined in holy matrimony, and been dispatched to their final resting place from here gave me a feeling of continuity, of belonging, of a kinship that lies beyond blood or adoption or location.  It was a reminder of that love which binds us together as children of the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer of all that is, and I felt a sense of thankfulness for this chance to rest, not only on this particular Sunday, but for the entire sabbatical that has refreshed my spirit, refueled my intellect, and re-energized my ministry. The rhythm of rest and labor, of labor and rest.  On this Labor Day, may we all have a renewed sense of how to hold those two things together in a way that is life-giving and holy.  Come to me, and I will give you rest, says Jesus.  And he surely will, if we but choose to respond.

The 4 "R's"

When I wrote up my request for this sabbatical, I mentioned three "R's" as part of its purpose or goal.  They were research, rest, and renewal.  Research as I took the opportunity to make use of the fantastic Wesley archives and other resources of the John Rylands Library in Manchester, rest as I took a break from the church and the demands of ministry, and renewal as I took time to feed my spirit and soul amidst some of the most beautiful places on God's green earth. And all of those things were of great importance over the course of nearly 11 weeks of traveling with Wesley around the UK, but it rapidly became clear that I had forgotten the most important "R" of them all, relationship.  

Relationship was and is at the very heart of my sabbatical and of life itself.  As I ventured forth in places as varied as London, Epworth, and Tarbert, whether on a train or tram or on foot, and no matter how sacred or secular the setting, I encountered sisters and brothers, other amazing and unique people created in the image of God.  I made new friends everywhere I went, got reacquainted with some old ones, and even had the chance to preach at St. Peter's Episcopal Church in Stornoway at the invitation of the Rev. Terry Taggart, a friend made on our last visit to the Outer Hebrides.

I made a wonderful discovery in my weeks of traveling as a stranger in a strange land. I found that the world is full of people who are kind and helpful to foreign visitors who may not look like them and certainly don't sound like them. I found that cities like London and Manchester are refusing to let fear or hatred or terrorism make them bitter.  Not surprisingly, a song by Manchester's Gallagher brothers of the band Oasis, "Don't Look Back in Anger" was one of the earworms that kept reverberating in my head as I pondered events in Charlottesville, Catalonia, and elsewhere.  I found that the more I traveled and the more I talked to different people, the more obvious it became that we have so much in common, no matter what our race or religion or country of origin happen to be.

And the risen Christ kept showing up in the middle of it all, even in people who claim not to believe in him as well as in those who do.   From the woman in the Bristol train station who shepherded me to the right bus to the man who carried my heavy luggage across Iona, from the home-cooked hospitality of the Worthingtons and Howards to the surprise birthday card and chocolates from people I met on the Oban-Castlebay ferry, there were moments of pure joy when nothing but sheer gratitude was an appropriate response. There were moments when silent tears of thankfulness were all I could offer in the face of such an overwhelming sense of God's presence. There were moments when I felt my heart would burst from the experience of so much inexpressible grace.

Please forgive me if today's musings are disjointed and incomplete. I'll continue musing on the continuing resonance of my travels with Wesley in this blog from time to time as it marinates in my heart and head, so stay tuned. The journey continues!

Between a rock and ... a violet?

It's been several days since I've posted an entry on the blog, partly because of majorly dodgy wi-fi availability and partly because I've been busy spending time with Scott after several weeks of being apart.  This picture was one he took today when we were walking on the vast sands of Uig in the northwest part of Lewis. You can see that it is yet another opening like so many others from this wonderful sabbatical that have captured my attention.  We peered into it, fascinated by this crevice caused by the action of water and wind over millions of years.  It's a pretty small space, not large enough for me to climb into (let alone climb out of), and to attempt to do so would be to illustrate perfectly the proverb about being between a rock and a hard place.  Rocks are known for being unyielding and not terribly comfortable, despite the legend that St Columba of Iona fame supposedly used one as a pillow, and they also are known for making pretty sturdy foundations and walls, which can be seen in various ancient buildings around the islands.

In contrast, this is a picture he took today of the beach being partially covered by the incoming tide of the Atlantic Ocean.  I assumed the sand was pretty compact and firm, and I confidently walked forward only to find myself sinking nearly ankle deep into soft, squishy sand -- and water. It wasn't a disaster, of course.  All I had to do was pick my feet up and carefully put them on more solid ground. But it was inconvenient and uncomfortable because I hate having wet socks and shoes, and I then had to deal with that yukky sensation of damp feet for a couple of hours.

Naturally, both of these experiences/pictures became grist for my theological mill.  The words from the hymn, "On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand" came to mind immediately, and I mused about the human tendency to take what looks like the path of least resistance, the easiest and least inconvenient route.  After all, wouldn't we all rather sashay through the beautiful white sand than shove our way through stone walls, even though we sometimes discover that the temptingly soft ground beneath our feet is giving way, forcing us to choose the more difficult path after all?  How then are we to go?

When I was in divinity school, I took a class on religion in American literature with Gayle Felton. We read, among other things, Tennessee Williams' play "Camino Real," and its triumphant cry, "The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks."  It's not easy to read or enjoy.  The themes of death and sterility and being walled off resound throughout the play, and not until the slow but sure work of the humble violet is accomplished do we see that the ultimate victory belongs to kindness and gentleness, not to stubbornness and stony-heartedness.  Love does in fact conquer all; the Light has come into the world, and the darkness has not overcome it.

In the uncertain days in which we live, when seeds of division are profligately sown and flames of hatred are stoked high, it can be difficult to believe that the violets have any power at all, let alone to break down the mountains.  The hardness of rocks is as nothing to that of the human heart when it remains untouched by love and compassion.  Seductively, the quagmire of sand and water beckon to us, appealing to our desire for the going to be easy, but for those of us who are called Christians, we are reminded that small is the gate and narrow the road that lead to salvation.  In other words, sometimes the going is going to be rough, and in those days and in those times, we cannot simply rely on our own strength but rather in the One who is himself the solid rock on which we stand, the one who will safely lead us through the shifting sand, difficult and lonely and dangerous though the way may be.

For the violets in the mountains have indeed broken the rocks!  Alleluia, Amen.