Entrance to our home on Crazy Possum during Christmas 2015. Christmas was often warm down south, so leaving the door open wasn’t a problem when expecting company.
The Love Feast is a worship service consisting of song, scripture, and prayer. During the service, the dieners (German for servers), provide the congregation a light meal which usually consists of a hot cross bun and a mug of sweetened coffee, tea, or some other warm drink. The feast has its roots in the Agape Meals of the early church. In the Book of Acts, the New Testament Church is described as a community that not only worshipped together but also made every meal a joyous celebration as they praised God.
Over time, the church moved away from the love feasts and emphasized communion, a meal in which the elements are more symbolic. Communion, also known as the Eucharist or the Lord’s Supper, is a sacrament celebrated only by those who are a part of a Christian community. The Love Feast, as it is known today, is not a sacrament; it can be celebrated by everyone and is appropriate for ecumenical and interfaith gatherings. It is a time of joy the hosts share with their guests.
The modern Love Feast originated with the Moravians. This small Protestant sect traces their roots back to the Czech reformer, John Hus. Hus was burned at the stake in Prague in 1415, more than a hundred years before Martin Luther began to reform the church in Germany. In 1457, some who followed Hus formed the Unitas Fratrum—the Unity of Brethren—which is still the official name of the church. In Europe, at the time, many of its members were persecuted.
Early in the 18th Century, the remnants of the sect found sanctuary on the estate of Count Nicholas Ludwig von Zinzendorf in the Saxony region of Germany. Zinzendorf had food from his manor brought to the starving refugees, who ate while praying and singing. Such meals grew into frequent celebrations known as Love Feasts, a distinguishing feature within Moravian worship.
In 1735, Moravians joined General James Oglethorpe’s colony in Georgia, celebrating their first Love Feast in the New World in Savannah. The church, always open to cooperate with other faiths, shared the festas with everyone, not just members of the Moravian Church. John Wesley, who was an Anglican priest in Savannah and would later found the Methodist movement, participated in a Love Feast while in Savannah. Moved by the service, he later suggested its observance to his followers. Through the 19th century, Love Feasts were regularly celebrated in Methodist churches.
For many reasons, the Moravian colony failed in Georgia. Chief among them was the church’s pacifistic stance at a time when Georgia was fearful of a Spanish attack. Other reasons included the sect’s desire to evangelize Native Americans, their work with slaves in South Carolina, internal disputes, and problems with other denominations. In 1745, the Moravian remnant in Savannah moved to Pennsylvania (where they established Bethlehem). At approximately the same time, another group of Moravians settled in North Carolina forming several towns including Salem (now Winston Salem).
Moravian Star at our home in Hastings, MI following a snow storm and very cold weather. No doors were left open for this photo!
Moravians were particularly enthusiastic observers of the Christmas holiday from their early days in America. Moravian musicians have crafted memorable Christmas music and named their adopted city in Pennsylvania after the birthplace of Christ. Bethlehem has come to be known “the Christmas City.” Love Feasts can be celebrated anytime.. The Christmas season Love Feasts are a highlight of the year.
The multi-pointed stars seen hanging on porches throughout the holiday originated within he church during the 19th century. These Moravian Stars, burning bright during the dark season of the year, signals the coming of the Messiah.
The highlight of the Candlelight Love Feast is the closing, when with joyous singing, the congregation raises candles in praise and celebration of Christ’s birth.
Ray Burke, a Moravian pastor from Clemmons, NC, describes the service as a celebration designed to engage all our senses. “We hear the marvelous music and familiar words of scripture that tell of God’s coming. We smell the warm, rich coffee and beeswax candles. We taste the coffee and semi-sweet buns. We touch the cups, the buns, the candles, and the hands of our brothers and sisters in Christ as we greet each other in worship. We see the joy, the excitement. But there is more… even beyond the engagement of all our senses, lies that mysterious communion of our spirits with the very spirit of God.”
Bluemont Presbyterian Church will hold a Christmas Candlelight Love Feast on Sunday, December 22, 2024 at 5 PM. Everyone is invited. Bluemont is located along the Blue Ridge Parkway, just north of Willis Gap Road and mile marker #192. This post originally appeared in a December 2015 issue of The Skinnie, in a slightly different format.
Bluemont Presbyterian Church at night during the Advent/Christmas season.
A good day of catching flounders off Masonboro Island (sometime in the 1970s or 1980s)
My dad, who died this past May, loved fishing. I have fond memories from shortly after the time we moved to the Wilmington area in 1966, of riding with him in a jon boat over to Masonboro Island. We’d camp and fish. It was an annual fall ritual, generally done in October, once the weather cooled.
During the daylight, we’d roam the surf with light tackle, looking for holes. Finding one, we’d cast a minnow, hoping to feel the bump of a flounder biting. We’d let the fish take it for a minute before setting the hook and reeling it in.
After dark, we’d sit in lawn chairs on the beach, with a lantern for light, and fish using cut bait. We’d stay on the beach late into the evening. With the sound of the surf filling the air, I’d watch the winter constellations or the moon rise. The moon always sent its rays glistening across the water straight at me. We’d catch a short night of sleep and be back on the beach before sunrise, fishing again as the birds took to flight as the sun peaked over the horizon. Breakfast might be a bluefish grilled on coals. In time, Dad started to spend more time on the deserted island fishing so that by the time I was in high school, he’d spend a whole week there, coming back every day or so to clean and freeze fish and take a shower.
Sadly, by the time I was in high school and working, it was hard for me to spend much time on the island fishing. But I still made it over occasionally, sometimes paddling a canoe or kayak over. Then I moved away and started my ramble around the country.
Cape Lookout Lighthouse has stood guard since 1859
Back in the 1980s, when I living in Nevada, my father started taking a weekly trip every year, right after Thanksgiving, to Cape Lookout. While he would have never called it “global warming,” the weather had changed enough so that the blues and trout wouldn’t be running in October. For the next twenty-five or so years, he made the trip to Cape Lookout. His brother, my uncle, along with my brothers and their kids and a few friends, would make the trip. Occasionally, my sister and I were able to join him for a few days, as we were both living in other parts of the country. After my mother became ill, a couple of times we took off a week and split out time between staying on the island and staying with our mom.
Heading out in my brother’s boat
I’m not sure how many times I’ve been to Lookout, but probably a dozen or so. Sometimes it was for a night, other times for several nights. I’ve been over on the island when it was warm and the mosquitoes were horrible. And I’ve been when it was frigid, and the wind chill made it bone cold. But I loved those nights camping on Lookout. Sometimes we’d fish in the surf like we did on Masonboro Island, other times we’d fish from the boat in the marsh or out on the jetty south of the Cape.
Six or seven years ago, they stopped camping on Lookout. It just became too big of a problem to haul everything over on the island. Instead, they rented a house on Harker’s Island and would ride over in a boat each day to fish. My dad’s last time on the island was in 2020, shortly after my mother’s death. That year, my sister and I split the week so that my dad would have someone in his boat. After 2020, my uncle kept up the tradition.
Now that my father’s no longer with us, one of my brothers and my sister joined my uncle and his brother-in-law for a week on the island. My youngest brother couldn’t make it as he’s currently living overseas. It was good to be together, but cold. I’ve even been over on a solo kayaking trip.
This year, we only had one decent day of fishing at the jetty. We all caught our limit on gray trout, but that’s nothing to write home about because the limit is one per person. But it was enough for a good fish fry on Wednesday night.
Thursday’s wind from the east end of Harker’s Island
The wind blew like crazy on Thursday, with gust over 50 mph. No one had a large enough boat to go out that day as there were large waves in the sound. Instead, I spent time in the Core Sound Museum. I’d been there before, but it was rebuilt after it lost its rough to a hurricane a few years ago. They were getting ready for their duck decoy festival and Christmas. While I never duck hunted in these waters, duck hunting is just about as big as fishing in the Core Sound area. Our last day on the island it was bitterly cold. We stayed inland and fished for nearly five hours. I only had two bites, but no fish were caught.
Fishing on Friday with Larry and Dale
Despite the weather, it was good to be on the water and to spent time with my siblings and uncle as we fished and prepared banquets at night while watching college football.
I arrived in Kungur early on Sunday afternoon, the day before, after traveling three days on the trans-Siberian from Ulan Ude, west of Lake Baikal. That afternoon, I took a tour of the city and asked the guide about church services. At the Tikhvinskaya Church, she learned there would be services the next morning which would include baptisms. On Monday, I was there shortly after the doors opened. This church had only recently resumed being a church. During the Soviet era, the government converted the church into a prison.
Statue of Lenin and an old water tower across from train station
When I arrived, only a handful of people were in the church. Mostly, the congregation was made up of older women, but I did notice one man who was about my age and who seemed as clueless as me when it came to Orthodox traditions. As is custom, we all stood. However, around the edge of the massive sanctuary, there were a few benches and at times, some of the women would go sit down for a break. Much of the service consisted of alternating chanting from the balcony (done by a man and a woman) and from behind the icons (done by a priest). The entire service, except for a few readings, was sung without accompaniment. Not speaking the language, I was mostly clueless as to what was happening. But the building and the voices were beautiful, and I just took it all in.
Tikhvinskaya Church, photo taken from the main dome above the church
I had been there about an hour when a man entered the sanctuary and approached me, speaking in Russia. At first, I wondered if he was a beggar, looking for money, but he was too well dressed for that. He got into my face, and I smelled alcohol. He seemed distraught. I shrugged my shoulders and whisper that I don’t speak Russian. After a few minutes, he left and walked over to a window where there were numerous candles. He lighted a candle and stood for a few minutes. Then he turned around and headed over to me and in perfect English said, “I’m sorry, my father died this morning.” Caught off guard, I expressed my condolences and asked if I could pray for him. “Yes,” he said. I placed by hand on his shoulder and prayed. “Thank you,” he said, as he turned and left the sanctuary. I never saw him again.
A little later in the service, the priest opens the door through the icons and prepares communion. I debated taking communion, if offered. A few people went over to receive the bread, but most did not, so I remained where I was at. Then, an older mousy woman who’d been helping with things brought me a piece of the bread and offered it to me. I wasn’t exactly sure what it all meant, but I decided that communion is at best a mystery and the polite thing to do was to be gracious. Humbly bowing my head, I accepted the bread from the woman, held it for a moment while I prayed for her and for the congregation who welcomed me, a stranger.
After communion, a man and woman with an infant that looked to be maybe 6 or 9 months old, walked up to the priest and presented the child. From a distance, it appears the priest gave the child a piece of bread soaked in the wine. I couldn’t really see the baptism. Then there were prayers said over the child and each parent lighted a candle, then left. After some more chanting in Russia, the service ended. It was nearly 11 AM and I ran back down the hill to the hotel and checked out and headed to the train station for my next leg of the journey.
A view of the city with the Kruger River flowing through it.
John P. Burgess, Holy Rus’: The Rebirth of Orthodoxy in the New Russia
(New Haven, CT: Yale, 2017), 264 pages including index and notes. Some photographs.
Burgess, a theology professor at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary, spent several sabbaticals in Russia learning about the Russian Orthodox Church. He worshiped in Orthodox Churches, attended Bible Studies, befriended members and priests. While Burgess roots are in Reformed Tradition, his inquisitive and open mind provides a unique insight into the Orthodox tradition.
While Burgess goal is not to give the reader a history of the Orthodox tradition in Russia, he does provide a history of the church in the 20th Century,. Much of this decade, the church lived under a dictatorial communist regime who sought to exterminate religion in Russia. The church struggled to survived as the government converted the church’s property into museums, theaters, and even prisons. The early years were the worse. The church strove to survive by supporting the government as they followed the Apostle’s Paul’s commands. During World War II, even Stalin saw the church as useful in the defense of the nation and the worse persecutions waned. But it wasn’t until the 90s, after the breakup of the Soviet Union, that the church was free to openly participate in society. Much of the book explains the rising role of the church during this era.
Holy Rus is a vague concept that see’s the Russian Church link to the nation for the purpose of the advancement of the gospel. While the idea was established during the age of the Czars, it has found its way back into the mainstream. Putin has embraced such ideology as he attempts to place Russia, and not the West, as carrying on the gospel traditions. While Burgess doesn’t say so, Holy Rus to me seems to be a Russian version of Christian Nationalism.
While this book attempts to explain the role of the church in modern Russia, it also part travelogue. Burgess takes us along with him as he travels Russia and meets with leaders and priests and laypeople within the church. This is a valuable book for those looking to understand the Orthodox Church’s role in modern Russia, but because of the expanded war in Ukraine, I sensed that the book was a little dated.
(2003, audible published in 2004), 27 hours and 41 minutes).
This Pulitzer Prize winning book has been on my TBR list for several years. I have previously read two of her books: Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine and Twilight of Democracy: The Seductive Lure of Authoritarianism. Both books seemed more important to understanding the world we live in than old Soviet history. However, a few weeks after I finished this book, Mike Davis, of Trump’s lawyers mused about building Gulags for liberal white women. Sadly, I realized it might be a good thing I have some knowledge of what he was talking about. Gulags aren’t necessarily tied to communism. They’re tools totalitarians use to create fear within society to keep people in line. In the old Soviet Union, any minor infraction could end you in a Gulag, which helped maintain control over the masses.
I started listening to his book in early October, knowing I had long road trips ahead in which I could listen to large sections of the book (I drove to Hilton Head, SC, then to Wilmington, NC, and then home). With over 15 hours in the car, and my regular walks, I was able to finish the book in less than two weeks.
Applebaum begins discussing how the Gulag took shape from the beginning under Lenin and on through the 70s and 80s. Over the course of the decades, the Gulag changed. Lenin used the prison system to put away “enemies” who had different ideas about government. This included many communists who saw things differently. One of the interesting things about the Gulag is that many of the prisoners remained loyal to the Soviet ideals. Early on, the Gulag was seen as a way for economic gain. Attempts to profit from prison labor included building the White Sea Canal and lumbering in the north and mining in the vastness of Siberia.
Stalin took the Gulag into more extremes and in the late 30s, during his purges, the most horrific atrocities occurred (both within the Gulag system and general executions). During World War 2, the Gulags in the east had to be moved to avoid capture by the Germans. Some prisoners, unable to be moved, were summarily executed. Applebaum spends some time discussing the differences between the Soviet Gulags and the Nazi Concentration Camps. As bad as the Gulags were, at least the Soviets weren’t attempting genocide against a particular race of people.
After the war, life improved slowly in the Gulags and things never returned to how bad it was in the late 1930s. However, many captured Soviet soldiers found themselves, upon being released from German POW camps, in the Gulag. Upon Stalin’s death and Khrushchev obtaining power, things slowly improved. But still, the camps continued to the fall of the Soviet Union.
One of the surprising things about the Gulags were the corruption, both by the camp leadership and the prisoners. Gangs often ruled the prisoners, especially those prisoners who were in the system due to criminal (as opposed to political or religion) crimes. These gangs terrorized other prisoners and sometimes even the guards.
The Gulags were also a training ground for those who would eventually lead to the breakdown of the Soviet system. The non-Russians often created their own gangs and many of those within the prison system learned leadership skills they would use to help throw off the communist governments in Poland, Ukraine, the Baltic States, and Georgia. In this way, the abuses of the Gulag created a time-bomb which helped undo the Soviet Union.
This is a long book, but worthwhile. Hopefully we won’t see any Gulags in our country. But Applebaum’s book serves as a warning.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich
(1962, Audible 2013), 5 hours and 5 minutes.
This short novel is set in a Gulag during the early 1950s. The prisoner wakes in his bed and begins to plan his day (or how to get out of work). It’s cold but not cold enough for them to call off work. Soon, they are all awake and begin their morning routine. He wraps his feet for warmth and worries if he will be discovered with extra cloth. They are not to hoard, but everyone does. This morning, he visits the infirmary hoping to be sick enough to avoid work. With his temperature only slightly elevated, he must work. He eats breakfast, where he’s given bread for lunch. Does it eat it all or save it and hope it isn’t stolen before lunch? Then everyone assembles for the morning count before marching off to their various jobs. Denisovich is a mason. He finds where he has hidden his trowel. He has a favorite one and is supposed to turn in the tools at the end of a shift, but he doesn’t. Laying block with the weather being well below zero means they must melt snow and warm the sand and mortar. At least it requires a fire. They work through the day. In the late afternoon, they march back for an assembled count. Standing in the cold, he hopes everyone is present and there would be no need for a recount. Then there is dinner and bed.
The story is grim. I felt the cold, the hunger, and the foreboding existence within the Gulag. There, the prisoners are not called comrades. Inside the prison camp there are those who faithful to the Soviet Union and others, like Ukrainians, who are not. There’s the Baptist who hides his New Testament and who has a different hope. But most people exist without hope. The day ends, the light in the barrack goes out, and the reader is left to understand that the next day will be the same.
The novel takes place in the early 1950s at a time when Stalin was still alive. Interesting, Khrushchev as Premier, read a copy and allowed it to be published. At the time, he attempted to move the Soviet Union away from Stalinism. The book publication occurred just before the “Neo-Stalinists” booted Khrushchev and replaced him with Brezhnev.
I was amazed the way this book highlights the quotidian events in the life of a prisoner in the Gulag. The writing (or translation) is stark and amazing. I started listening to this book immediately after finishing Anne Applebaum’s Gulag. I highly recommend reading it and wish I had read it earlier. The book will go back on my TBR pile as it is as worthy of rereading as Hemingway’s Old Man and the Sea.
Early last month, I spent four days on Hilton Head Island attending a Theology Matter’s Conference. It was good to be back in the land of good seafood. I saw several sunrises (the only day I missed was when we had tropical storm winds and rains). The only downside to the trip was missing a wonderful show of the Northern Lights. While I was able to see them faintly on Hilton Head (see photo), from what I heard and saw from friends’ photographs around home, things were amazing in the sky in the mountains.
Aurora over Hilton Head
Despite not seeing an amazing aurora, the lectures were stimulating, and it was good to meet up with old friends. I especially enjoyed after hours with Jeff Newlin and Steve Crocro at Hinchey’s Chicago Bar and Grill. (If you ever go there, be aware they serve a stiff drink and one an evening was more than enough.). It was also good to introduce Jeff and Steve, as I was the common contact. Jeff was our consultant for church building campaigns when I was in Hastings. While he’s now retired, I think our campaign remains the largest (membership/funds raised) campaign he conducted in his career. Steve started as the librarian the year I began seminary at Pittsburgh. He would go on to later serve as the theological librarian at Princeton and Yale as well as an interim librarian at the United States War College.
Jim Miller lecturing inside Providence Presbyterian Church (where the conference was held).
In Wilmington
When the conference was over, I drove up to Wilmington, NC, where I stayed with my sister and preached at Cape Fear Presbyterian Church’s 80th Anniversary service. It was good to be away for a week and to see old friends both at the conference and in Wilmington and eat some good seafood along with Vietnamese and Indian food. I also helped my sister by going through 1000s of photos from my parents (and we have yet to tackle the slides). I found a photo I thought was long lost, which I took of my grandparents on my mother’s side on Christmas Day 1966. This was the first photo taken on my first camera (Kodak 126) and probably the last taken on my grandfather, who died three weeks later. A few years ago, I wrote this poem about him and this photo!.
The anniversary service went well, and it was nice to see such a crowd in the church where I attended with my family from the fourth grade through college. I got to spend some time out with my brother on his boat. And then, on Monday, before driving home, I had coffee with Wayne, a friend from High School, and dropped by to see my parent’s grave.
Highlights of the conference:
Instead of giving a run-down of all the speakers and preachers, I am going to highlight three speakers and an idea they presented.
John Burgess, “For the Next Generation”
John is a professor at Pittsburgh Theological Seminary (from which I graduated a decade before he arrived). In his first lecture, he combined two of his interest: Christian formation and the Russian Orthodox Church. John has published books on both. I reviewed his book, After Baptism: Shaping the Christian Lifea few years ago and have just read his book Holy Rus’: The Rebirth of Orthodoxy in the New Russia. You can look for a review in a few weeks when I review three recent books I’ve read about Russia.
In his first lecture, John introduced us to Pabel Floresky, a Russian Orthodox priest and scientist killed during Stalin’s purges in the late-1930s. While he was in the Gulag, Floresky was interested in passing on to his family what he valued. These letters are available in a book (in Russian) titled; All My Thoughts are about You. Floresky felt an obligation to three areas.
His family’s unique heritage
To familiarize his children with important cultural achievements
And to encourage them to spend as much time as possible in creation.
While he was deeply devoted to his faith, he knew writing about God would catch the eyes of the censors and his letter would never make it home, so he used coded words for God and faith. Interestingly, all five of his children became major scientists in Russia.
John ended his lecture by asking what God has prepared us to pass on? What is our legacy?
Han-Luen Kantzer Komline, “Augustinian Insights on the Law of Double Love”
Kantzer Komline is a professor at Western Theological Seminary in Holland Michigan. The Double Love Law comes from Jesus’ command to love God and our neighbor (Matthew 22:36-40 and Mark 12:38-41). I particularly enjoyed her lecture having devoted much of the past summer to Augustine’s City of God.
She speaks of Augustine as a man on the margins (in time, space, politics and the church) as he wrote during the collapse of the Western Roman world. Love mattered for Augustine for three reasons:
You are what you love
Love makes Christians, Christan
All you need is love (with a nod to the Beatles)
Augustine believed that everyone loves, but sometimes our loves are misdirected. The question is the object of our love. Is it toward God or toward self? The later creates a destructive environment while the love of God allows us to properly love ourselves and our neighbors. Love makes us Christians, for if we do not love, how can we be a follower of Christ? And finally, although Augustine was a theologian and interested in knowledge, knowledge is not enough to make us Christian. We must show love and charity.
Richard Burnett: “Learning to Say No for the Sake of God’s Yes”
The evening sessions at the conference were more sermon-like than the day sessions. Richard Burnett spoke on the second evening using Mark 2:13-17, the call of Levi” as his text. As he worked through the text, Richard emphasized the need for parties when we say yes to Jesus (as did Levi). In these parties, we celebrate God’s love. But then Richard changed direction and spoke how saying Yes to Jesus means there are things to which we must also say no. Of course, saying no is never fun, but is necessary. Richard then began drawing upon the Barmen Declaration, a part of the Presbyterian Church USA confessions.
The Barmen Declaration was made by a group of German Churches at the time of Hitler’s rise. It addresses the idolatry of nationalism (Christian nationalism), which attempted to place the allegiance to the state over the church’s allegiance to her Lord. Barmen is unique in that it not only professes what it believes (Jesus is Lord, etc.), it also has a series of negations. These deal with things we can’t accept because we accept the Lordship of Christ. While Richard focused on one an overture from the General Assembly being currently debated within the presbyteries of the denomination, I couldn’t help but think of the upcoming election and why I could never support one candidate for President. “Our ‘No’ is only for the gospels and God’s yes,” he proclaimed, “not to be hateful or spiteful.”
Once back home, I began watching the comet that was faint in the evening sky.
I have been working on a post, but just didn’t have time to finish it. As I’m coming up this week on the 7th anniversary of Trisket’s death, I decided to pulled this post from an older blog and reposted it.
Trisket lying on the kitchen floor on the night before his death, November 2017.
Over the past year, I often watched you sleep. At times, your legs twitched. I imagined you dreaming of when you were younger and ran with grace. In your sleep, were you still circling the house at full speed, stopping only to chase squirrels back up into the trees?
Over the past year, on our walks, I took the lead while you moped behind. As I slowed down to your speed, I wondered if you recalled dragging me as we headed into Hastings or up the canyon by Cedar Creek.
Over the past few months, I watched in sadness as you bumped into walls and furniture. Your cataract eyes glassed over, and I wondered if you remembered the hours we played in the kitchen. Your sharp eyes followed my hand as I tossed popcorn. You’d snap each kernel out of the air, seldom missing. And how, I could never make banana pudding without you being under my feet. While you never turned down a strip of steak, you loved banana pudding. I even tested you once, putting a dab of banana pudding on one plate and a strip of steak on another. When I let you go, you headed straight for the pudding, then the steak. Always go for dessert, first, you taught. And let’s not forget how much you loved pineapple!
When we moved to Skidaway, near Savannah, you struggled in the humidity and heat. I wondered if you recalled snow. Could you remember running through it as you scooped it up with your snout and tossed it in the air, snapping at the falling flakes as if it was popcorn.
I am thankful that to the end, when you stood beside me, pressing your neck on my lower thigh. You were atthe right height for my fingers to bury themselves in your beautiful mane. And I always loved how you stood in the wind. The tufts at the end of your ears flew back, as you sniffed and enjoyed the breeze. Sadly, I miss our long walks around town, our hikes in the wood, and how you sat like General Washington in the middle of the canoe as we floated down river.
You were so gentle with that little girl, the one who picked you out of the litter and named you for a cracker. You always looked out for her and for that reason alone, I am eternally grateful. The two of you grew up together, but you grew old much too fast. Seventeen years is a long time for a dog, they say, but not nearly long enough. The house is way too big, lonely, and sad tonight. I keep listening for the sounds of your clanking tags and the tap of your toenails on the hardwood, but only hear the cold rain splattering on the deck out back. We’re all going to miss you, Trisket. You were such a good boy, a pretty boy, a big furry fluffball!
My favorite photo of Trisket and me. On the Thornapple River in Michigan in 2007. He would have been around 7 years old at this time.
When I was in Wilmington two weeks ago, I spent a lot of time with my sister going through my parents photos and came up with these photos of my soap box derby cars. This is the story of building and racing these cars.
I sat in my car on the starting platform. The platform had been installed at the top of what might be the tallest hill in New Hanover County. They had closed a section of 16th Street for the Saturday running of the 1971 Soap Box Derby. Gripping the wheel and leaning back as far as possible to cut the drag, I glanced over at my opponent. His car was sleek, constructed of fiberglass, but with lots of metal inside. I knew it would be fast, but I had registered good time during the practice trials and had easily won my first race.
The starter, holding high the flag, let it fall. The gates dropped and the cars eased down the plywood ramp and onto the pavement. I concentrated on staying low and keeping my car straight in its lane. The cars began picked up speed. I saw the other car pull slightly ahead as we shot toward the finish line. The checker flag fell. He won and my days of racing had come to an end. Later that morning, the car which beat mine became the overall winner. He got to go to Akron, Ohio, for the nationals.
I’m sitting on the “hood” of the my second car with my younger brother sitting inside the car with a friend of his on the back. My other brother stands behind the car.
This was my second year of building a soap box derby. Both years I lost in the second round of a single elimination tournament.
The Wilmington Jaycees held the event. They provided participants with a basic kit which included wheels and axles, a steering wheel, wire, and brake assembly. The sponsors of our event cover the cost and provided a small amount of funds (I think it was $35, which wouldn’t today purchase the plywood) for everything else. I used two sheets. I cut the floorboard and the bulkheads out of ¾ inch plywood. The body I fashioned out of ¼ inch plywood. The metal axles went inside a 1-inch board. Cutting a channel half way through the boards, I chiseled out a channel for the axle. Then I planed down the front side to make the axle cover streamlined.
Those of us who were drivers were to build our own cars with only adult supervision. The first year, I built my car under the carport at our house with David Hunter. David’s father had recently died, so my father served as both of our supervisors. We were to build our cars ourselves, which my father ensured except for the rough cutting of the ¾ inch plywood, which required a circular saw. My father insisted we were too young but allowed us to use jig saws to cut out the bulkheads. Each of these he had us file down to make smooth. I remember lots of stokes using a half-moon file.
The floorboard also had a wooden cutout for a brake. The pedal was made of plywood left over from the center of the bulkheads. A wire ran from pedal to the break in the back, where a wooden 2×4 with a piece of tire on the bottom served as the brake.. When pressed, the brake descended to the road and slowed the car.
Then I attached the bulkheads with angle braces. This was in the day before power drivers, so we drilled pilot holes and used screwdrivers to fix the screws and bolts.
The rear axle and cover were attached with bolts to the back of the floorboard. The front axle was attached with a single bolt, allowing it to move two inches. This was for safety since we were running a straight course. If we could have steered any more, there would probably be cars running into each. This was just enough movement to allow us to make minor adjustments to our path. I then installed the steering wheel between the first two bulkheads in the front. A wire wound around the steering wheel shaft, threaded through pulleys, ran out to each side of the front axle. This allowed us, when racing, to turn the axle slightly to adjust for bumps in the pavement.
At this point, we attached ¼ inch plywood over the bulkheads. The sides were rather simple, but the top required us to use a circular saw with the blade set about 1/8 of an inch to cut strips underneath the plywood, allowing it to bend. With barely any blade showing, my father decided to let us use the saw ourselves.
Once all the plywood was attached, we installed a seat, covered screw holes with putty, and painted the car. My first year, I chose orange with a blue racing strip. For my second year, I used purple with a white stripe. Since we could have a professional do the sponsors lettering on the car, my father volunteered to do it.
My first car. I’m sitting inside, flanked by my two brothers and sister. Behind is my father, my grandparents on my father’s side and my grandmother on my mother’s side.
When the car was done, we hauled them on a flatbed trailer the day before the race to a warehouse which had been reserved on 13th Street. There, they checked our cars to make sure they weren’t too heavy, and everything was safe and to regulation. My car the first year was about 30 pounds lighter than it had to be. When they checked us in, they kept our cars impounded until race day.
That evening, after the race, the Jaycees threw a banquet for us. We were presented with medals and endured motivation speeches by a couple of the Jaycees.
In building my second car, I mostly worked by myself since David didn’t sign up to build another car. Moving my radio out to the carport, I remember repeatedly hearing that summer Three Dog Night sing “Joy to the World” as I worked.
I had learned a few things from my first car. I wanted the car to be more streamlined and heavier. Trying to figure out how to add weight, my father suggested that instead of buying lightweight angle braces, we use ¼” steel angle iron. Someone he knew cut them into 2-inch-long angles. At the front and back, I used six-inch-long angle iron. This was overkill, but it added weight. Drilling through the iron was difficult, but it was worth it for the weight. I also added more ¾ plywood in the bracing and using solid pieces at the front and back. By the time I completed the car, it was only about 2 pounds under the maximum. The added weight and the sleeker design created a faster car than my first traditional design. In the end, it didn’t matter. The fastest car knocked me out in the second heat.
These two books provide examples of women making a difference in a changing world. If interested in such books, check out a recent post in which I reviewed Beth Moore’s memoir, All My Knotted Up Life.
Stephanie Stuckey, Unstuck: Rebirth of an American Icon
(Dallas, TX: Matt Holt Books, 2024), 220 pages, some photos.
Stuckey’s used to dot the highways of America, especially in the Southeast. As a kid, I remember passing them as we drove to Baltimore for my father’s company annual summer picnic. And then there were the long road trips we took to St. Louis and to Atlanta, passing Stuckey’s at many of the interstate exits. Of course, we seldom stopped. Instead, we ate peanut butter or bologna sandwiches made from the cooler in the trailer my father pulled. But Stuckey’s, like Howard Johnson’s, was an icon of the road trip.
I picked up this book after following Stephanie Stuckey on Twitter, a connection I made through a pecan farmerfrom Georgia. Her post focused on her road trips as she strove to rebuilt Stuckey’s, her family business. I have to admit a bit of envy as she able to spend a lot of time traveling and, like me, enjoys the backroads.
After years of working as an attorney and a Democratic State Legislator in Georgia, Stephanie Stuckey decides to save her family’s business. Her grandfather had started Stuckey’s in the 1930s, with a $50 loan from his mother. The nation was in a depression, but “Big Daddy” went to work buying pecans from local farmers and selling them along with candies his wife made from the nut. He set up shop along the highways which ran to Florida. World War II could have been a disaster with the decline in travel and rationing of gas and sugar, but he continued. He served truckers and soldiers. When the war was over and America returned to the roads, his business grew. Toward the end of his life, he sold the company for a fortune.
Stuckey’s father, having learned from working at Stuckey’s, made his own mark on the travel scene. He started a company that established Dairy Queens along the interstates of America. He also spent a decade in congress, and Stuckey grew up in Washington, DC, traveling in the family’s station wagon back and forth to Georgia. Now in her 50s, having served as an attorney and running nonprofits, Stephanie Stuckey brought back the company which bears her family’s name.
This book is more than just the story of Stuckey attempting to resurrect her family’s business. She provides a history of the company and her family’s involvement within the business. As a Southerner, she also deals with the issues of race, acknowledging the help her grandfather received from African Americans. While Stuckey’s was a southern business, it was never segregated. Stuckey’s even appeared in the “Green Books,” which told Black travelers safe places to eat and buy gas as they traveled across the Jim Crow South.
This is a delightful read of a brave woman setting her own path in the world.
Clare Frank, Burnt: A Memoir of Fighting Fire
(Audible 2024) 11 hours and 43 minutes, narrated by the author.
I always shop the 2-for-1 sales on Audible. Generally, there is at least one book I’ve been wanting to read, and I will have to shop around for the second (free) book. That’s how I came across this book by Clare Frank. She’s the first (and so far, only) woman to serve as Chief of Cal Fire, the largest firefighting organization in the nation. Cal Fire handles large wildfires as well as providing fire protection in more urban parts of the state.
Frank followed her brother into the fire service. She was only 17! Emancipated from her parents, she left her birthday blank on her application since the minimum age was 18. After doing well in her training, they offered her a seasonal position. From there, she rose up the ranks. Starting in 1982, just as women were beginning to become firefighters, she retired without ever having served under another woman.
Her track is a little unusual. While working as a firefighter, she pieces together course work to obtain an associate degree. It takes her a longtime to finish her bachelor’s degree because of being deployed around the state. But she does. She also obtains a law degree, which becomes easier as she has infection in her feet after a fire along the Mexican border. She had to take a five-year break from firefighting because she couldn’t wear boots. When her feet recover, she resumes her career. With a law degree, she rises even higher in the ranks, leading the fight to recoup cost from utilities and others who have caused fires.
The fire along the Mexican border is interesting. It’s the first time that the fire map only half covers the fire, as it was burning on both sides of the border. The fire also requires cooperation with the border patrol. Sadly, there were deaths within the fire of those trying to illegally enter the United States.
I appreciated how Frank broke up her story. She jumps back and forth, from her last 22 months as chief of Fire Cal to her beginnings. This kept the book from being just a linear line of stories and built anticipation as she advanced through the ranks. Along the way, we learn about the tradition and the requirements of fire service. She tells of a few harrowing experiences, such a large multi-vehicle accident which killed several people and left one woman blind. This is one of the scenes she speaks of being engraved in her memory and she wonders about it being the last thing the woman saw before her world became blind.
The stress which came from the horror sometimes experienced by first responders takes a toll on the relationships among firefighters. Many of the firefighters have gone through multiple divorces. The departments are not above scandal. She recalls wearing her dress uniform too many times at funerals for fellow firefighters. The last being a pilot of an air tanker which crashed around Yosemite a few months before she retired. Running such a large organization, she acknowledges that she had never met the pilot. Others she didn’t know also bothered her, such as the 19 Granite Mountain Hotshots killed on a fire in Arizona. This was a bit personal for me as one of those firefighters was a member of my church’s youth group when I was in Utah.
While Frank mostly focuses on her work in firefighting, she also provides background to her personal life, from growing up, to her husband and dogs. This helped humanize her for in much of the book she came across as a “bad ass” who got things done. But there are things left out such as how she became interested in writing, which she speaks of perusing in retirement. Her talent with words comes through in this book.
Her story within the book ends with her and her husband retiring to Genoa, Nevada, where they experience the other side of the fire as they had to evacuate their new home. Thankfully, they didn’t lose their home, but the experience gives her the opportunity to close with a warning about how fire, as a part of nature, will continue to be a challenge.
I will first share a story from the spring of my junior year of high school, followed by a review of a new religious biography of Richard Nixon.This is my last planned post till October 6. I am on vacation and will be away some from the computer. From the looks of the weather, I picked a heck of a time to take a week off!,
John T. Hoggard High School, Spring 1974
It all came to a head in Coach Fisher’s economics class. I took my seat in the class and when he saw me, he fumed.
“You are not allowed in my class,” he yelled, staring at me.
“I’m not leaving,” I said.
“Yes, you are,” he said, pushing desks with students sitting in them out of the way to get to me.
Scared, I stayed in my seat, thinking that if he physically harmed me, which he could easily do, I’d have a class of witnesses for an ensuing lawsuit.
Standing over my desk, he ordered me out into the hallway. I had spent the past two weeks sitting in the hallway, working chess puzzles in a magazine. This started when I challenged one of his diatribes about Richard Nixon. Nixon was in the news a lot in the spring of 1974.
The day before, at the end of the class, Coach Fisher told me I would fail his class because I had missed so much of it. I told him that I better not, because he was the reason I was missing his class. The class really had nothing to do with economics. Most of the 50 minutes was spent discussing basketball and other sports. What little had to do with economics was more about consumer spending than the relationship between price and demand or an understanding of macroeconomics. Fisher was a coach, who had been given a teaching position.
I decided it was time to end my exclusion from class, so the next morning, I returned.
After a few moments of a standoff, I told Coach Fisher that if he wanted me out of the class, we could go together to Mr. Saus’ (the principal) office. His anger grew and he started to drag my chair outside.
“Fine,” I said. “I will go to the principal’s office,” I said, getting up. He ordered me to sit in the chair outside his door, but I walked down the hall and turned toward the office. I expected him to follow, but he didn’t. Mr. Saus wasn’t available, but I was sent into Mr. McLaurin’s office. He was an assistant principal. I told him my story. He listened and had me remain in his office while he disappeared for a few minutes. When he came back in, he told me to go back to class, that Mr. Fisher would let me back in.
Fisher didn’t fail me for that six-week period. I passed the class with a decent grade without having to do anything because Fisher essentially ignored me for the rest of the semester. I just sat there. I would have to wait till college to grasp economics.
Richard Nixon was president during the formative years of my life. I was in the sixth grade when he was elected president in 1968. At the time, Nixon, to me, seemed to be the best choice.
I would continue to support Nixon throughout my junior high and early high school years. Why, I’m not sure. Why did I believed him when he said he didn’t do anything wrong? This belief was strong enough to encourage me to speak up for Nixon in Coach Fisher’s class, which led to our encounter. Later, after he resigned from the Presidency the summer after the above incident, I felt embarrassed. Some of that shame remains. How could I have been so naïve?
There were two events that happened in high school which my mom always blamed on me losing all respect for authority. And they happened about the same time. The first was a wreck. A young woman (she was 21) turned in front of me from the left-hand lane on Shipyard Boulevard. I hit her in the front quarter panel and both cars were totaled. Thankfully, my mom was seated right next to me and saw it all. I was knocked out and sent in an ambulance to the hospital. The young city police officer, whom my mother witnessed flirting with the other driver after the accident, charged me with following to close. From the damage to her car, that was an impossibility. Thankfully, a neighbor who was a state highway patrolman, came to our aid and helped prove my innocence. Click here for a sermon where I share more about the wreck.
I don’t think my mother even knew about the incident in Coach Fisher’s class.
The accident in which I was wrongfully charged occurred within a year of Nixon’s resignation. Mom was right. Both probably contributed to my cynicism when dealing with authority figures. And Coach Fisher became the icing on that cake.
Daniel Silliman, One Lost Soul: Richard Nixon’s Search for Salvation
(Grand Rapids, MI: Eerdmans, 2024), 317 pages including an index, bibliography and notes on sources.
One Lost Soul is a religious biography of our 37th President. Silliman begins with a brief overview of Nixon’s early life, after which he jumps from one critical injunction to another to show the role religion played in Nixon’s political career. These include Nixon’s anti-communism work as a young congressman, the run with Eisenhower as Vice President and his “Checkers Prayer,” the role of religion in the 1960 election, his holding “church” in the White House, the Vietnam War, his outreach to China, the Watergate Coverup, his resignation as President, and a bit about Nixon’s life after his presidency.
Silliman’s theme is that Nixon spent his life, from childhood, with a desire to find acceptance and love. Such desire began in his father’s grocery story but continued throughout his life. His obsession led him to work hard. He believed in the “great man” theory of history and wanted to be such a man, as seen in his reaching out to China. He had a hard time accepting God’s love or the love others. On the night before his resignation, Henry Kissinger, the Secretary of State visited with him. On Nixon’s suggestion, the two men got on their knees and prayed. Nixon cried as he asked, “What have I done?”
Kissinger shared this moment with his staff members before Nixon called him to ask that he not tell anyone that he had cried. Kissinger later asked, “Can you imagine what this man would have been had somebody loved him?”
I had always wondered about Nixon’s background as a Quaker. I still remember a Mad Magazine from the time with a cartoon-like article about religion. When they got to the section on Quakers, one panel said something like, “There are 100,000 Quakers in the United States. The next panel said that Quakers don’t believe in war. The third panel featured Nixon saying that he was a Quaker. The final panel read, “That makes 99,999.
Silliman points out that California Quakerism differed from the East Coast variety in several manners. In some ways, it was more like a Methodist tradition, with focus on working out one salvation. Nixon saw military activity as a way toward peace, so instead of seeking a consciousness objector status during World War 2, he joined the navy. Even during Vietnam, Nixon maintained hope the bombings would bring the North to the negotiation table. While this upset many Quakers, the decentralized structure of the denomination meant that any church disciplinary actions would have to be taken by his home church in California. While Nixon continued to claim to be a Quaker, he had not been active in the church since a child.
As President, Nixon created White House worship services. For these, he would import ministers to preach. Interestingly, Nixon maintain total control of the service down to the hymns. The services served a political purpose as Nixon often invited those to attend as favors. These services were Protestant, but on one occasion was led by a Jewish rabbi.
Nixon could also be impulsive. In the middle of the night during the anti-war protests, he takes his valet (and some secret service agents) to the Lincoln Memorial. There, he talks to anti-war protestors who are camping out on the steps. He asks questions of them. When they depart, he expresses his hope their opposition to the war won’t turn into hate for the country.
Silliman points out many good things Nixon did. Certainly, his work with China stands at the top. But he also refused to play the religious card against John Kennedy in the 1960 election. While it would have probably worked at the time, he didn’t feel it appropriate. He was also deeply concerned with Civil Rights, even though for political reasons, he refused to make a public statement on Martin Luther King’s arrest during the 1960 election. In 1968, he tried to play it both ways, reaching out to Strong Thurmond and other who supported segregation. This was the beginning of the Republican “southern strategy.”
While this is a sad and tragic story, I can’t help but to have hope that at least Nixon had a conscious that bothered him. I didn’t come away from this book thinking he was a psychopath. There were times he had empathy for others and instead of thinking too highly of himself, he doubted his own self-worth. In a way, it was his lack of self-worth that made him so desperate to win and to prove himself.
This is a good book not just for understanding Nixon, but also understanding the difficult many people have in accepting grace.
This biography is a part of the “Library of Religious Biography” series. I have read several others in the series including Aimee Semple McPerson: Everybody’s Sister, Billy Sunday and the Redemption of Urban America, and Harriet Beecher Stowe: A Spiritual Life.
I’m reviewing three books. One a faith memoir, another a humorous travelogue, and one a classic work that has probably influenced our society more than we can image while also being a work few can claim to have read. There’s something here for everyone
Beth Moore, All My Knotted-Up Life: A Memoir
(Carol Stream, IL: Tyndale, 2023), 295 pages plus 8 pages of color prints.
Beth Moore has been on my radar for at least twenty years. Women groups at churches I’ve served have used her Bible Study materials. Over the past eight years, I have witnessed from afar her challenges within the Southern Baptist and evangelical community as she boldly spoke out against Donald Trump after his remarks about grabbing women in private places were made public in 2016. And later, I watched from a distance as she both challenged the Southern Baptist for covering up sexual abuse of leaders within the denomination. Yet, while I have read some of her articles, I had not read any of her books until I picked up this memoir. I recommend it.
This is an honest and can imagine how painful the book was to write. In a way, it’s more of an autobiography than a memoir. She tells stories from her childhood and admits how the family tried to hold on to respectability while harboring dark secrets. The darkest was her father’s unwanted touching. She also writes about how she was drawn into church and even the pastor who affirmed her going into ministry as a teenager. Starting out leading women’s ministry classes and acrobatics, she grew a business into a major organization. Coming from a Southern Baptist background, she always stayed with women’s ministry and avoided any leadership position which would undermine pastors (whom she assumed should be male).
Moore: politics and leaving the Southern Baptist Church
Moore also avoided politics until Bill Clinton had his White House affair. This caused her to leave the Democratic Party for the Republican Party. In this manner, she followed the crowd as evangelical leaders across the county openly condemn Clinton. She expected the same response after the release of Trump’s Access Hollywood tapes. It shocked her that instead, many evangelical leaders circled the wagons around Trump.
This memoir tells the story of her coming of age, her marriage, her relationship to her parents, the building of a ministry, and how she came to the decision to leave her the Southern Baptist Church. It was a hard break as she loved the denomination who had nurtured her. The book ends with her and her husband finding a new home within an Anglican Church. While there have been many knotted-up challenges in her life, through it all she always found solace and strength in her Savior, Jesus Christ.
While there are troubling events described in this memoir, Moore’s writing is a pleasure to read. And amongst the pain, there is also laughter. The reader will meet a woman of faith and conviction.
Tony Horwitz, One for the Road: An Outback Adventure
(1987, audible 2020).
I picked up this book from an Audible Sale. Having read and enjoyed three of Horwitz’s books, I thought it would be something nice to listen and laugh while driving. Years ago, I had read Bill Bryson’s, From a Sunburnt County, and was thinking this book might further expand my knowledge of Australia, while providing humorist distractions. It didn’t take long for me to realize the book I was listening to was written long before Bryson’s.
Horwitz was a funny writer. The first book of his I read was Confederates in the Attic. I read most of that book on a cross-country flight. I kept trying, but without much success, to muffle my laughter. Everyone seated around me wanted to know what book I was reading! While this book provides many funny moments (along with a few crude jokes told my travel companions while he’s on the road), it’s not nearly as funny as his later works. As I said, I thought this book was a newer book. After listening just a bit, I found myself googling Horwitz and discovered the book was his first, published in the late 1980s. His writing became tighter over time! Sadly, I also learned that Horwitz had a massive heart attack and died in 2019. He was only 60 years old, just a little younger than me.
First journey into the Outback
In this book, Horwitz has moved to Australia, his wife’s home. It’s in the mid-1980s and they both take positions with a newspaper in Sydney. But Horwitz’s wanderlust doesn’t fade and after a year, he obtains permission from his editor to head out into the bush to see Australia. It’s 1986, and Haley’s Comet is big in the news. Obviously, the comet wasn’t any brighter in Australia than it was here in the states. But the place to see the comet was supposed to be Alice Springs, in the center of the continent. Horwitz sets off by hitch hiking (in the summer, no less). He’s later assigned an article on the conflict between natives and tourists at Ayer’s Rock (now known as Uluru). Renting a car, he drives over to the site and on this way back rolls the car. Luckily, he is bruised, but okay. He flies home, but a little later works out a deal for a month traveling and sets off again.
A month in the Outback
Hitchhiking in Australia is a bit different. Instead of using one’s thumb, the hitch hiker sticks out a finger. But it’s the same in that one must be careful. While he’s traveling there are reports of people killed by hitchhikers, which makes his attempt to get a ride even more difficult. He travels across the country to Perth and then heads along the coast to Darwin. While he has been warned to avoid the Blacks (abiogenies), he finds them hospitable. In one case, they trust him enough to hand him the keys to their junker car along with a handful of bills and have him drive into town to buy beer! In places it was against the law to sell bear to abiogenies, and at other establishments, proprietors refuse to sell to them.
It seems Horwitz’s travels focuses on drinking. In remote areas, people measure distance not by miles or kilometers, but the number of beers consumed. The amount of alcohol consumed while driving is frightening. And people also drink at home and in pubs. Darwin, at the time, had the highest beer consumption in the world, 58 gallons per person! In another town, the authorities tried to reduce drinking on Sundays by passing a law that a pub could only be open for five hours. So, the pubs came together and staggered their hours so that the day was covered. This created a weekly “pub crawl,” as folks went from one to another, every five hours.
While traveling, Horwitz encounters those who work with livestock, in mining and oil exploration, fishermen (and he even spends a day fishing for crayfish) and pearl divers. In places he finds lots of prejudice against natives and immigrants, but in other places find people working together and getting along with one another.
Passover in the Outback
One of the more interesting stories occurred in Broome, a town along the northwest coast. Horwitz, who describes himself as a secular Jew, realized Passover was coming up. Wanting to share the feast with other Jews, he asks around. No one knows of any Jews, but someone suggests he speak with the local Catholic priest. The priest points him to a Jewish government physician. Horwitz meets the physician, who invites him to his home for Passover. Later, when there is a day of remembering those who had died in wars, Horwitz attends. The priest gives the keynote speech and mentions his encounter with a wandering American Jew, which brought a smile to Horwitz. This story, told near the end of the book, allows Horwitz to reflect on his cultural background and his desire to wander.
Recommendations
I don’t think this book is up to the standard of Horwitz’s other books. In addition to Confederates in the Attic, I have also read A Long and Dangerous Journey and Spying on the South). However, I still enjoyed it and recommended it. It’s a great first book and in it one sees Horwitz’s potential to become a laugh-out-loud travel writer. The narrator for the Audible edition is one of Horwitz’s sons.
St. Augustine, City of God
(427, Penguin Books, 2003 edition), 1097 pages, Audible translation narrated by David McCallion, 46 hours and 32 minutes, 2018.
There is one reason why I am behind on my readings for 2024. I had set a goal of 48 books and am currently six books behind thanks to slogging through this classic. I’ve listened to it all and went back and reread interesting parts. Maybe I could count this as 22 books (as Augustine did) and then I’d have already exceeded my goal! I had an old copy of this book from seminary, but it was abbreviated, with just the best parts, so I had to purchase a new copy.
City of God is a classic. In it, we see Augustine’s keen knowledge of the world. He knows the myths and legends of the pagan gods, the history of the world up to his time, and is well versed in philosophy and science. He understands astronomy including how eclipses occur. While he discounts numerology as a tool for understanding scripture, he is knowledgeable on mathematics. He discusses botany and biology, including knowing of some animals who live super hot environments which he uses as support for his ideas on hell. And he has a great grasp of the history of the world and can parallel what occurred in the Bible to what was happening at the same time in Rome, Greece, or Persia.
First half of the work
The first half of this massive work defends Christianity from the charge that Rome’s fall was due to Christians abandoning the pagan gods. Augustine spends 12 books showing how the pagan gods failed to protect other cities such as Troy. Augustine shows a keen knowledge of the pagan world in his defense. In this section of the book, he also advises Christians on how to act during such a tragedy in which many had committed suicide seeing it as preferable to torture and/or rape. Augustine encouraged his readers to trust in God even in the face of torture and death.
Second half of the work
In the second half of the book, Augustine follows the development of the two cities. He links the earthly city to Cain, which is the city for reprobate. The early city is identified with Babylon and Rome. Working through the Scriptures, he makes a case for a parallel city planned by God for the faithful, the elect. In addition to showing the development of the two cities, he also parallels much of what happens in scripture to what was happening in the rest of the world during the same period.
In this half of the work, Augustine shows his keen insight into the scriptures. While he acknowledges there is no mention of Christ in Old Testament, he lays out how Hebrew Scriptures points to Christ. It is in this section he also ties Hebrew history to the history of the larger world. Augustine makes a strong case against those who think they can predict Christ’s return. His writing on this subject makes it clear that there were many who seemed to think they knew God’s mind with their elaborate schemes plotting out the end of time. Not much has changed, has it?
Conclusion of the work
The last chapters focus on the end of history. Augustine makes a case for hell but suggests life in hell would be preferable to total annihilation. He discusses the final judgment. He also writes about the heavenly City of God coming in fulness but is reluctant to make to suggestions of what it might be like beyond what’s found in Scripture.
Augustine seems to value the body and our experiences in this world. I was surprised when he addressed praying for our enemies. While he endorses such prayers, he suggests we should not pray for those spirits (demons) who have no bodies! Augustine obviously writes from a patriarchy society, I didn’t find his writing to be anti-female, as I sometimes see him interpreted.
Conclusion
While at times this book seems to slog along, there is much to discover in it. I found myself realizing how my limited knowledge of Roman culture and history made it more difficult to fully appreciate Augustine’s insights. I don’t think the 21st Century can nurture another Augustine. Could you image today someone what could discuss history, theology, religion, along with advance astronomy, physics, biology with the brightest in these fields? This work has greatly influenced Western Culture, from politics to theology. It inspired Martin Luther and John Calvin, two of the leading thinkers of the Protestant Reformation. It should be studied.
In 1899, the C & O railroad began building a line running north alongside the Greenbrier River to tap into the rich timberlands of West Virginia. The next year, the railroad reached Cass, 80 miles north of the mainline which cut through White Sulfur Springs and Lewisburg. A few years later, the line continued north until it connected to the Western Maryland. The Greenbrier division consisted of a little over 100 miles, most of which was along the river. Of course, the success in cutting the timber led to the demise of the railroad.
By 1920, most of the virgin timber in the lower section had been cut and the line began to financially struggle. But it kept going, providing an outlet to the larger world for communities in Greenbrier and Pocahontas County such as Anthony, Spring Creek, Beard, Hillsboro, Seebert, Marlinton, Clover Lick, and Cass. Except for Marlinton, which is the seat of government for Pocahontas County, most of these communities today are a shell of their former selves.
Green Banks Observatory (one of several large antennas)
One of the more interesting pieces of freight for the railroad were sections of a large antenna for the Green Bank Observatory. This observatory has several radio telescopes, including the largest radio telescope which can track a point in space. Because of the sensitive antennas, the area is in a radio restrictive zone. This limits the height of antennas and the power of transmitters. If you visit Green Bank Observatory, you had to turn your cell phones off! Much of the area along the rail trail has no cell phone service and there is limited radio stations cover the area. The designer of the antenna had a mockup built to ensure it could be transported to near Green Bank, as it had to pass through two tunnels.
Passenger service along this branch of the C&O ended in 1958. In the late 1970s, freight traffic, which had dwindled to a weekly run, ended and the tracks removed. As the logging company which owned Cass Railroad had done when it closed in 1960, the C&O turned 80 miles of the right of way over to the state. The Cass Railroad is operated as a tourist train state park
A Cass “Shay” locomotive
Today, the old railroad bed is a trail is a linear park enjoyed by hikers, bicycles, and horses. Adjacent to the trail are several other state parks: Cass Scenic Railroad, Watoga, Droop Mountain Battlefield, and Beartown. Additional land is held by both state forest and the Monongahela National Forest. These parks and forest provide ample opportunity for camping or staying in cabins, many of which were built by the Civilian Conversation Corps during the Depression.
Monday mornings were quiet in Cass
This past Sunday, my brother and I headed up to a cabin in Watoga State Park. We spent Monday and Tuesday riding 60 miles of the Greenbrier River Trail, from Cass to Spring Creek. We had two idea days to ride. Both mornings, we left the cabin with temperatures in the 30s, but my mid-day we were in t-shirts.
Trestle at Sharp Tunnel
We started at Cass, at the northern end of the trail and road south. Highlights included the town of Clover Lick, which has one of the few remaining stations (others are in Cass and Marlinton. 14 miles south of Cass, we passed through the Sharp Tunnel, which exits on a trestle, taking us to the east side of the river. Below the trestle were ropes hanging from a river birch. I could imagine on warmer days, children swinging out into the river. Nearby were some camps with fire rings that may have seen a few hobos in earlier days.
With my brother at Sharp Tunnel
My brother in Marlinton
Just before you get into Marlinton, there was an old water tower, the only one which remains on the river trail. In Marlinton, there is a bike repair stand, which allowed me to put my bike up and adjust the gear changing lever. While I had enough tools with me, the stand also had such tools attached to a cable (so they’d remain for other bikers in need of a repair). We ate our picnic lunch at a table along the trail in Marlinton.
After Marlinton, we had about 12 more miles to ride before we arrived at Seebert. I had left my vehicle there, so we loaded up our bikes and drove back to Cass to pick up my brother’s vehicle. Afterwards, on the way back to Watoga, we stopped again in Marlinton for dinner at the Greenbrier Grille and Lodge. If I had known they had rooms, I might have stayed here. Then we could brag about staying at the Greenbrier (there is another 5-star Greenbrier in White Sulfur Springs, a place visited by 28 Presidents).
West Virginia Original
We ate outside on the porch overlooking the Greenbrier and a hoard of ducks waiting to be fed scraps. They had a meal titled “The West Virginia Original” and is probably not on the menu at the other “Greenbrier.” But as we were there, we had to try it. There were lots of fried potatoes, along with kielbasa sausage, sautéed onions and mushrooms. It was served in a cast iron frying pan and included sides (I got pinto beans and cole slaw), and a slice of cornbread. I downed it with a local IPA.
me at Droop Mountain Tunnel
We decided not to try to ride the rest of the trail on Tuesday. We both had places to be on Wednesday. After shuttling cars, we rode our bikes to Spring Creek. This section passed a state prison, the Droop Mountain tunnel along with idyllic scenery of hayfields being cut and baled. The Droop Mountain tunnel runs under the site of a Civlil War battle up on the mountain . We finished up and had the cars shuttled by mid-afternoon, said our goodbyes and headed toward our respective homes. It had been a good trip and was nice to catch up with my brother in person for the first time since our father’s death.
I planned to stop at the Pearl Buck’s birthplace at Hillsboro on my way home. Buck was a missionary to China and a wonderful author. Her book on China (The Good Earth) won the Pulitzer Prize. She also wrote another good book on Korea titled The Living Reed. Sadly, the place was closed. This is the third time I have tried to stop there, and it seems to always be closed. So I drove on home.
