Travel Letter …

JESSE JAMES COUNTRY

I am not sure that northwest Missouri is especially Jesse James Country. for the legend of that folk hero covers the entire state, with caves here and there designated as his hideouts. But St. Joseph is the place where he spent his last years, living clandestinely, until Robert Ford put a bullet in his back and collected the rich reward that the railroads and banks had on his head, “dead or alive.” The hole in the wall can still be seen in the house where the demi-hero was shot by one of his own men, giving place to a ballad that is still spun by disc jockeys across the land. Morris Ball, my host in St. Jo (Nobody says St. Joseph), a preacher of many fine qualities, took me to the museum at a local mortuary, where I saw Jesse’s funeral listed in the ledger for 1882, along with others. His was by far the most expensive, costing 350.00, while some were as low as 5.00. He was only 35 when his tragic life came to an abrupt end.

Tom and Maxine Jethco invited me to share their lovely home while I ministered to the Central Christian Church. Despite the fact that winter was reluctant to surrender its place to spring, laying on us some rather nasty weather, we all had a good time with each other and the Lord. Since I quit drawing lines on folk, no longer demanding that they see “the issues” my way if I had anything to do with them, I have been blessed with more and more brothers and sisters in various segments of the Restoration tradition. So far this year I have had appointments with three different kinds of Churches of Christ, who have no fellowship with each other, and with Christian Churches and Disciples of Christ, who are also estranged from each other. Since they are all God’s children, they are all my brothers and sisters, and I accept them all, while not necessarily agreeing with any. Among all these groups I find some of the best people in the world, and beautiful Christians they are. Jesse James country was no exception, even though Jesse James might have been, the ballads to the contrary notwithstanding.

The folk at St. Jo wanted me to draw upon some of the values of our own history as well as from the scriptures, so I pointed out that our roots reach all the way back to Abraham and the Old Testament, as well as the New Testament, and that “the Sun of Righteousness” is who it is all about, and that our pioneers recognized this when they saw Christ as their tradition. “We have no creed but Christ” and “Let Christian unity be our polar star” are slogans handed down by our pioneers that are rich in biblical tradition. Everywhere I go I find that people are interested in learning more about their roots, and they nearly always feel more liberated by what they hear. We have a great heritage that we have either ignored or betrayed.

The second balf of my eight-day stay in northwest Missouri was with the Christian Church in Clearmont, only a few miles from the Iowa line, where I was the guest of Alvin and Maryinez Reed,

who have ministered in that village of but 250 people for 22 years. Maryinez is a multi-talented woman, for apart from being a busy and efficient housewife she is a nurse, organist and singer, ministering at-large from home to hospital to church. Never did an organ seem so innocuous, as well as impressive, as when played upon by Maryinez. The folk back in Texas, I thought, would at least concede that there are two sides to that question if they could witness Maryinez’s life and her demeanor at the organ. I lost complete control of myself a time or two and thanked her for her glorious renditions.

Alvin Reed is a man for all seasons and for all people, and he has the rare trait of being relaxed as well as busy. Many’ preachers are in constant tension, but not Alvin. Even rarer is his hobby of tinkering with Mercedes-Benz (I don’t know how to make that plural, which is needed here since he has three in his back yard). He is handy with tools as well as books, and when he bails somebody out of a jam who has a mechanical problem, he waves off any pay with “Give it to the church”so they told me, not he. Besides, he has been driving a school bus for 20 years up and down those hills and vales, in and (not always) out of mud holes. One morning he permitted me to go along with him, and that was the most fun of the entire trip, except for those homemade cinnamon rolls, topped with ground nuts, that a dear sister brought by the parsonage.

We really got out into the boondocks, picking up kids all the way from kindergarten age to senior high. Each one eyed me with suspicion, a rare intruder I was, perhaps an inspector of some description. But I eyed them right back, wondering what kind of a world they stepped out of when they left their homes that morn, knowing all I needed to know about the world a lad and lassie steps into when they are hauled off to school. One mother could be seen through the door her hat and coat already on and ready to take off herself once Alvin came to relieve her of her little one for another day. But what is more American than a yellow school bus, filled with kids, sometimes happy and sometimes awake?

At one stop out in the boondocks I asked Alvin if he ever went that way, pointing to a low-lying stretch of narrow road made hazardous by wintry capers. “We’re going that way right now,” he assured me. It was a dangerous place for two preachers to be, not to mention thirty kids, but off we went, and only because the night’s freeze had made the road passable.

Alvin also helps to run his little town, serving on the council as its treasurer. It must be the only town in the country where the people read their own water meter and pay their bills accordingly! I’d like to see New York City try that. That would bankrupt them for sure! There is also a Methodist and a Baptist church in the village, whose preachers come and go. The Christian Church joins them for special occasions through the year. The people are typical middle America, with the Protestant work ethic and conservative Republicanism. As I was teaching a class on Sunday morn and had cause to refer to some of our ills as a nation, one brother was quick to blame the whole thing on one Jimmy Carter. A sister, who had taught school all her life, rejoined with “Now let’s don’t get off on that!” I averted any confrontation by becoming adamantly nonpartisan. Besides, one can teach the Bible without having to talk about Jimmy Carter, even if it is difficult.

My first discourse to the congregation of some 60 persons (100 on Sunday a.m.) was about them, their history, what their forebears believed when they moved to that village and built the Christian Church over a century ago. “Our people were united then,” I told them, and then went on to explain how it all got started and how and why that Movement to unite all Christians had become itself so divided. On another evening I spoke on “Will a man rob God?,” and showed how we rob him by withholding our children, our time, our talents, as well as our money. A man from Dallas was there, reared in the area, who was touched by what the old prophet had said, and the Spirit used the message to bring the dear man back to his Lord and to the church. His relatives figured that only Providence could have brought two men together from the same part of Texas to a small Missouri town for such an important occasion. He and I are now going to be friends in these parts.

After our Sunday a.m. meeting, where I sat with simple trusting Christians around the Lord’s table and then exhorted them to look to the day when the New Jerusalem will come down out of heaven from God, I walked a few hundred yards over to the Baptist Church and met those people as they filed out of their building. I was not trying to be burlesque, and probably would not have done so except that I was having dinner in a home next door to the Baptists, and it didn’t seem appropriate to pass them by when I was almost within their shadow. I figured I had some brothers and sisters over there too. They thought it unusual that a visiting preacher at the Christian Church would bother to come over and meet them, but they seemed to appreciate it, and the Baptist preacher and I had a pleasant, constructive visit. As I walked toward the Christian Church that evening, I heard someone yelling Leroy!, Leroy! It was the Baptist preacher on the way to his meeting. We had a few more minutes together, and he confided that he would like to bring his folk over to the Christian Church to hear me, but it could not be arranged all that easily. For a few moments that Lord’s day he and I, and a few others, reached across the dividing wall and found each other’s hand and heart.

One afternoon I went with Alvin to the hospital in Maryville. While he called upon some of his people, I worked “cold turkey.” In one room I sat a few minutes with parents comforting their burned baby; in another with an old sister with a broken pelvis; in another with a man afflicted with I don’t know what besides being lonely. When it seemed appropriate I prayed with these people and gave a word of encouragement from the scriptures. As I was leaving one room, a lady in the other bed that I presumed to be asleep, called to me, “Father, Father!” Her priest had not yet come to be with her, and she was frightened. Serious surgery awaited her and already she was under some sedation. She kept calling me Father as I held both her hands in mine, reassuring her. She spoke in a foreign accent, perhaps Czech. She was unusually beautiful, like Ouida, and about the same age, and she kept smiling. I asked her if she would like for me to pray for her. “Yes, Father, please!” So I prayed to the Father for his frightened and lonely child. When I took my last look, she was still smiling, and I think less fearful. I hope she made it!

The most rewarding experience of all, I think, were three morning sessions at a Maryville restaurant in which folk from all three of our major wings were present in an effort to better understand what has happened to us and what we might do about it. A fine spirit prevailed, with no untoward incident. I was especially pleased to have been joined in one session by Teng Champey, minister of the Broadway Christian Church (Disciples) in Wichita, Kansas, who was also in the area for special services. He is a well informed, irenic person who would like to see our people recover their sense of mission as peacemakers among the churches. I think the Christian Church fellows were surprised to see a leading Disciple with such a zeal for the Bible, evangelism, and unity. He and I were glad to have discovered each other, and we are hopeful of further contacts.

I find that it is of great value for our people simply to get together and to become better acquainted. We always discover that we have much more in common that we supposed. So long as “they” are there and “we” are here it is difficult for brotherhood to have a chance. The Spirit can do more with us and for us when we come within loving range—not firing range. —the Editor