If you see a good fight, get in it.
When I was first ordained, the search process for new clergy was a little different from what it became. The parish in need of a rector or vicar would notify the bishop who would then look at the names of clergy made available by the national church office, choose three and give them to the parish for them to decide which they wanted. It was simple, quick, and functional. Naturally, The Episcopal Church decided to spend decades re-making the process complicated, slow, and almost useless. Not surprisingly, we're beginning to return to that original system.
There were variations, of course. For example, my bishop, when two neighboring parishes were each in need of a part-time clergyman, sent them just one name, mine, and said, "Here's your new vicar. Make him welcome." Ah, those were the days.
So, having never set foot in either parish, and not entirely sure where one of them was located, I decided to arrive the afternoon before my first Sunday and check out the scene by taking a leisurely ride through the rural roads on my venerable BMW motorcycle, clad in the standard gear of helmet and leather jacket. It took me awhile to find the church, as the signage was poor and there were no such things as GPS or cell phones in those days, but when I did I had a moments pause. It was small, unassuming, and caused me to realize that, whatever happened, this is where the productive portion of my life would begin.
Full of hope and wonder, I walked into the church [churches were unlocked in those days] and immediately frightened the members of the altar guild, who weren't sure who this large, scary-looking man with the helmet was and tried either to ignore me or guide me to the local shelter. Welcome to parish ministry.
It reminded me of how The Rev. Dr. Vernon Johns was introduced to what would be the final parish of his career. The deacons of the congregation were waiting for their new pastor when a scrubby farmer in overalls, carrying nothing other than a paper grocery sack that contained his good shoes and Sunday suit, walked down the dusty road to the church and, to the surprise of the very middle-class membership, was discovered to be he for whom they waited. They had tried to ignore and deflect him, too.
As he knew, and as I discovered, when one arrives unawares, one may learn a lot of what a congregation is really like.
They were certainly expecting someone different at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama. It was 1947, the war had ended, and this black neighborhood was more prosperous than it had ever been. In their search for a pastor, they had settled on one who, on paper at least, satisfied their middle-class expectations. Vernon Johns, while older than some [he was 55 at the time], was a graduate of Oberlin College in Ohio, an award-winning preacher, and a noted scholar of the classics.
However, when not on paper he was confrontational, passionate in his proclamation of the Gospel, and devoted to the advancement of the African-American community. That they would learn about over time; it was certainly foreshadowed by his uncommon arrival, necessitated since he owned no car and refused to sit in the back of the city bus as "Negroes" in the 1940's and '50's were supposed to do.
So, in addition to re-introducing praise music to the liturgy, creating a farm on church property so that they could model a black-owned business, and pushing for a greater voice in local politics, Johns reminded the membership that, while there is a time to celebrate a place in a spiritual Promised Land, there is always the struggle that is both behind it and to come. Neither Slavery nor the Wilderness are ever very far off.
When not in the pulpit, Johns would attempt to sit where he pleased on buses, order a meal at the counter of a white diner, and seek justice for those abused by a racially unbalanced legal system. He was aggressive, outspoken, and usually the smartest person in the room. He could be demanding with his congregation, pushing them not to be complacent with nor blind to the inequality that was always on the edges of suburban life. [Perhaps I should have mentioned that his middle name was Napoleon.]
After five years, the congregation decided that they had experienced enough of Vernon Johns' style of Christian witness and sent him back down that road in his overalls with his brown paper grocery bag. They thought his successor would be a much safer choice for a pastoral leader as he was young, held a northeastern education, wore a proper suit, and had a father who was a legendary preacher. Vernon Johns was replaced by Martin Luther King, Jr., so the history of confrontational Christian witness at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church would continue.
While he would never serve as an administrative leader in the civil rights movement, Johns would be recognized by many as its early voice, especially when one considers how Christianity fueled the campaign for civil rights in the United States. Every seminal moment in witness has its herald, as Jesus had the brief and dramatic work of John the Baptist, and so Vernon Johns served that role in what was the greatest cultural shift of the 20th century.
He would succumb to heart failure in 1965 at the age of 73, while supervising a nation-wide version of that simple farm in the church yard, thus enabling a model for black-owned businesses throughout the country.
There were variations, of course. For example, my bishop, when two neighboring parishes were each in need of a part-time clergyman, sent them just one name, mine, and said, "Here's your new vicar. Make him welcome." Ah, those were the days.
So, having never set foot in either parish, and not entirely sure where one of them was located, I decided to arrive the afternoon before my first Sunday and check out the scene by taking a leisurely ride through the rural roads on my venerable BMW motorcycle, clad in the standard gear of helmet and leather jacket. It took me awhile to find the church, as the signage was poor and there were no such things as GPS or cell phones in those days, but when I did I had a moments pause. It was small, unassuming, and caused me to realize that, whatever happened, this is where the productive portion of my life would begin.
Full of hope and wonder, I walked into the church [churches were unlocked in those days] and immediately frightened the members of the altar guild, who weren't sure who this large, scary-looking man with the helmet was and tried either to ignore me or guide me to the local shelter. Welcome to parish ministry.
It reminded me of how The Rev. Dr. Vernon Johns was introduced to what would be the final parish of his career. The deacons of the congregation were waiting for their new pastor when a scrubby farmer in overalls, carrying nothing other than a paper grocery sack that contained his good shoes and Sunday suit, walked down the dusty road to the church and, to the surprise of the very middle-class membership, was discovered to be he for whom they waited. They had tried to ignore and deflect him, too.
As he knew, and as I discovered, when one arrives unawares, one may learn a lot of what a congregation is really like.
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| Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in the 1970's |
They were certainly expecting someone different at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church in Montgomery, Alabama. It was 1947, the war had ended, and this black neighborhood was more prosperous than it had ever been. In their search for a pastor, they had settled on one who, on paper at least, satisfied their middle-class expectations. Vernon Johns, while older than some [he was 55 at the time], was a graduate of Oberlin College in Ohio, an award-winning preacher, and a noted scholar of the classics.
However, when not on paper he was confrontational, passionate in his proclamation of the Gospel, and devoted to the advancement of the African-American community. That they would learn about over time; it was certainly foreshadowed by his uncommon arrival, necessitated since he owned no car and refused to sit in the back of the city bus as "Negroes" in the 1940's and '50's were supposed to do.
So, in addition to re-introducing praise music to the liturgy, creating a farm on church property so that they could model a black-owned business, and pushing for a greater voice in local politics, Johns reminded the membership that, while there is a time to celebrate a place in a spiritual Promised Land, there is always the struggle that is both behind it and to come. Neither Slavery nor the Wilderness are ever very far off.
 |
| Johns in his most natural environment: The pulpit |
When not in the pulpit, Johns would attempt to sit where he pleased on buses, order a meal at the counter of a white diner, and seek justice for those abused by a racially unbalanced legal system. He was aggressive, outspoken, and usually the smartest person in the room. He could be demanding with his congregation, pushing them not to be complacent with nor blind to the inequality that was always on the edges of suburban life. [Perhaps I should have mentioned that his middle name was Napoleon.]
After five years, the congregation decided that they had experienced enough of Vernon Johns' style of Christian witness and sent him back down that road in his overalls with his brown paper grocery bag. They thought his successor would be a much safer choice for a pastoral leader as he was young, held a northeastern education, wore a proper suit, and had a father who was a legendary preacher. Vernon Johns was replaced by Martin Luther King, Jr., so the history of confrontational Christian witness at the Dexter Avenue Baptist Church would continue.
While he would never serve as an administrative leader in the civil rights movement, Johns would be recognized by many as its early voice, especially when one considers how Christianity fueled the campaign for civil rights in the United States. Every seminal moment in witness has its herald, as Jesus had the brief and dramatic work of John the Baptist, and so Vernon Johns served that role in what was the greatest cultural shift of the 20th century.
He would succumb to heart failure in 1965 at the age of 73, while supervising a nation-wide version of that simple farm in the church yard, thus enabling a model for black-owned businesses throughout the country.
