I wanted to turn around. I so wanted to turn around. 

The road wound its way through the hills and hollers of the dark Appalachian valley. It followed the curve of the creek, past fields of sleeping cows, soggy rows of corn, and double-wide trailers. It was after midnight.

I was driving. Next me was a young 20something counselor. She was a white, middle-class, middle-American college student from some liberal arts school. 

In the back seat were three black teenage boys. It was one of the longest drives in my entire life.

We were winding our way, in the middle of the night, through a darkness that was only three lumens brighter than how I felt. We were headed to city hall in Irvine, Kentucky, to the sheriff’s office. 

The three boys had been accused of stealing. But they refused to confess. And so the Camp Director made the decision that these three boys had to go to the police. 

And so here I was driving them in the middle of the night, in southern Kentucky, through the hills of Appalachia, to a good ol’ boy sheriff that was some amalgam of Boss Hogg and Barney Fife. 

I have never, ever wanted to turn around more than on that drive. And I have never ever felt my naked Whiteness more than at that moment. 

This all went down at Aldersgate Camp, a United Methodist Church camp nestled in a fertile valley of Needmore Hollow along the banks of the Finchburg branch of one of thousands of little creeks snaking through those rolling hills.  

I grew up going there. It was the place where my heart was first strangely warmed by the flame of the Holy Spirit. It was, for me, one of the safest, most beautiful, thin places on earth. A place where the divine and God’s good creation meet in a sloppy wet kiss. 

But here I was all these years later, leading a week of camp for high school students. The week had been going well, until things started go missing. First it was little things like ball caps and watches, but then wallets and laptops. There were a couple hundred kids at camp that week. But about 30 were from one of the church’s urban ministries. Most of these campers were black, while the entirety of the camp staff, counselors, leaders, and all the other campers were white. 

When it became apparent that these missing items weren’t just misplaced but likely being taken I remember hoping against hope that it wasn’t one of the campers from the projects. But all evidence seemed to point to these three young black teenage boys. 

I wanted the whole thing to turn around… but it was like this slow motion juggernaut that was propelled forward by 400 years of bias and prejudice and mistrust. It was painful.

So, campers were questioned. Accusations made. And then the bag was found. 

A black duffle bag filled all the things that had gone missing. The bag belonged to one of these black young men. But they still would not confess. They had all been seen together wandering off from the group. And so the Camp Director made the call that all of them had to go to the police station. In the middle of the night. And I had to take them. 

I don’t remember being required to go, but I had to go. I owed it to them. 

So we drove and drove those 30 minutes to town that felt like 30 hours. We didn’t talk much. I had no idea what awaited us on the other side. Their youth director had been called, she was on the way. All I wanted to do was turn around. 

How it all turned out matters less than the journey we took to get to this naked place. I don’t remember if charges were filed or mugshots taken… I just remember feeling like this should not be the way of things. 

We didn’t turn around on that midnight journey as we etched our way through the steamy, verdant hills of southern Kentucky. We didn’t solve any problems or fix any injustice or heal any wounds. If any thing we probably carved a few of those deeper into the souls of these three young black men.

But something turned in me. Something is still turning. And my prayer, my deep, anxious longing is that something, somehow keeps turning. 

– Aaron Klinefelter

Poetry to be our guide

All Soulsian and writer Jane Vandenburgh wrote this poem in the midst of the grief that shook so many in our community after the Ghost Ship fire, while still looking expectantly towards Christmas. It was originally published in the San Francisco Chronicle.

 

 

Advent, Awaiting Word From the Ghost Ship Fire

Since November

I’ve tasted smoke

as a bitterness on the

tongue, the fra-

grant tang of

being despised!

rejected! for who

and what we

are. Since Saturday

we’ve awaited

news from the ware-

house fire

where Nick went

dancing after

texting his friends

to meet him

there. Twenty-

five, a bowler,

last seen on the

collapsing

makeshift stair-

case  And who

shall tell of His 

coming or how

our fate now finds

such proximate

disaster, our kids

huddled in

splendid, defiant

squalor in

buildings with-

out lighted

exits? Since

November I’ve

smelled smoke,

faint at first, now

persistent.

December, a

cathedral lit by

seven thousand

candles. Wonderful!

the choir

swells, Counselor!

voices soaring to

Comfort ye,

my people as we

pray for a

recount or a

hero, or a

savior, waiting

for those we now

know will never

come.

FROM THE ARCHIVES

The Beginnings of All Souls, Chapter 4

It did not take long for pews to replace the bentwood chairs and for an altar to be added. The rood screen did not appear until later It appears that at first it was only a partial on both sides, then a piece across the center was added. The final rood screen, with the inscription “All Souls are Mine Saith the Lord” was consecrated 1919. The picture below was taken between July 1908 and July 1912, as can be determined from the fact that the American flag had only 48 stars. All Souls was quite a patriotic congregation in those days, as we will see when World War I began.

Note that there is still no rood screen, but the parish was (and still is) using silver and brass from the earliest days. The oldest items being two 16″ brass vases inscribed, with uncanny foresight, “All Souls Church – Easter 1906″, although not often used these days. On the other hand, a large silver chalice, engraved “Memoriam – All Souls’ Chapel, St. Mark’s Parish, Easter 1909″ is used regularly. Also in regular use in our chapel is a missal stand, engraved “All Souls Chapel 1907″.

– Thomas Burcham

PHOENIXES 20s and 30s CHRISTMAS PARTY

Join the 20/30s group on Saturday December 17th, 7:00 – 9:00 pm, in the parish house for our Christmas party! Guaranteed cookie consumption and perhaps some karaoke? Either way it’ll be a fun way to close out 2016. Bring some snacks and drinks to share. Contact Holly Quarles or Erica Clites for more information.

Advent Ingathering

During the Season of Advent, as we prepare for the coming of the Christ child, we have the privilege of bringing gifts each Sunday to be blessed and shared with those who are in need. This final Sunday, December 18th, we support the Berkeley Food Pantry. Please bring:

• peanut butter
• canned soups
• canned beans
• gluten-free grains and pasta
• low-sugar breakfast cereal

Calling all Christmas Treats!

One of the ways we welcome the many, many people who will visit All Souls at Christmas is by offering abundant hospitality in the receptions that follow each service. As you make cookies and other treats in the coming days, can you double your recipe and set some aside to bring to church? Can you pick up an extra bottle of cider or wine? Or, can you lend a hand pulling it all together on Christmas Eve and Day? Please sign up here so the Hospitality Team can breathe easy knowing that we’re all going to help make this happen together. Let sharing the story and warmth of Christmas bring you joy.