|
The Chicago Memoirs:
Our Redeemer Lutheran Church, 1967-1972
Chicago, South Side, 1970 (Part One)
“The only way open to the white Christian in the ghetto was the way of the servant; only service and self-denial might establish some basis for credibility. You simply have to pay your dues. No way around that. Ever after, my experiences on the South Side of Chicago taught me that the only credible authority in the church is that of the suffering servant.”
— Joel Nickel, The Chicago Memoirs
Joel Kischel and his wife brought a group of teens from Cleveland to visit Chicago and Our Redeemer during the first week in January. Over the years we had a number of groups come for a visit — to get immersed in the city and to become acquainted with the urban church’s ministry. Previously we had hosted a group of college students from Concordia, Seward, Nebraska (Holy Week, 1969) and pre-ministerial sociology students from Concordia Senior College in Ft. Wayne, Indiana. Like the other groups, the teens from Cleveland slept in sleeping bags on the attic floor in the parsonage despite the cold, and during the day we provided a Chicago urban experience. These visits were our investment in the “white church” and helped create understanding and support for the ministry of Our Redeemer.
But we were always a bit up tight, because it looked to our black neighbors like here was another white sight-seeing tour to observe how black people lived. While often complex and changing, our neighborhood wasn’t a zoo for tourists to gawk at. Kischel’s group was interested in “witnessing in the neighborhood,” but I wasn’t about to turn them loose with only their naivete to protect them. “Don’t tell me about Jesus, white man, until you start living like him!” That was the evangelism challenge in the ghetto. Churches in white segregated areas, naive in their comfort and self-satisfaction, created a situation of “collective guilt” from the black community’s point of view, which made evangelism by individual white people, including whitey preachers, extremely difficult if not impossible. The only way open to the white Christian in the ghetto was the way of the servant; only service and self-denial might establish some basis for credibility. You simply have to “pay your dues.” No way around that
Ever after, my experiences on the south-side of Chicago taught me that the only credible authority in the church is that of the suffering servant. Authority isn’t a matter of how many votes you can collect or what position you hold or what your academic credentials are; authority is only earned by how you serve people in Christ’s name. In the Church there is no legitimate authority other than the way of a servant. This wasn’t an easy point to make with Joel Kischel. All weekend long I explained our work to his group, work that is Christ-centered and Spirit-led. They sang their folk songs and spoke to our congregation on Sunday morning, but a week later I received a letter from him thanking us for our hospitality, but wishing that we would have had more time “to share our faith.”
Otis, Don Marxhausen and I enrolled in a course on “Community Organization” taught on Saturdays at the Lutheran School of Theology — Chicago in Hyde Park. The course was taught by Leon Finney, a Saul Alinsky-trained organizer from TWO (The Woodlawn Organization). The course provided some very practical suggestions for Otis as he organized EWRO and tried to get the “Englewood Community Congress” off the ground. While I marveled at Finney’s “sometimes democracy needs help” tactics, I came to realize that the role of community organizer was not for me. It was difficult for me to suspend ethical qualms, justify manipulative pressure techniques, and I began wondering just how different TWO was from the Daley Democratic machine. Alinsky taught that “there is a bit of larceny in every man’s heart”, that economics is at the heart of self-interest, and that self-interest is always therefore to be the organizing principle.
Finney smiled and seemed amused at my reluctance to enthrone selfishness as a human nature “given” in planning for community action. Leon Finney was an interesting man: action oriented, pragmatic, dynamic, and intelligent. He seemed to have a low opinion of the church and its clergy, but gave us credit for being open to the Alinsky style of community organizing even if we didn’t have much “staying power.” This last critique loomed large when, in 1972, I received a call which meant leaving Our Redeemer. One of the best organizers in Finney’s opinion was St. Paul: “If it wasn’t for his organizing abilities, Jesus Christ would have just been Roman crucifixion #531 in the year 33 A.D.” It was something to think about: the forgotten Jesus, except for Paul’s conversion and preaching and cross-centered lifestyle, living the way of the servant.
The bitter cold winter created more problems with the furnace in the boiler room. Something was always breaking down and we had to fire “the monster” by hand. The seminary never offered a course on managing church heating systems. It was also a challenge to drive around the city in our VW van with its underperforming heater. I purchased a catalytic heater and rigged it up in front of the passenger seat, but this also meant that we had to vent the heater through a small “crack” in the side window so the fumes wouldn’t overcome us. Sue especially suffered from the cold van. This winter we had two basketball teams entered in the Lutheran Athletic League and this meant much driving on the weekends. Elmer Pierce was again coaching because his two sons were playing on both teams. He also brought in some “ringers” from Woodlawn where he worked at the Parkway Community Center. Elmer liked to win.
We tried the seminar series again. Neighboring Lutheran (ALC) pastor, Sherwood Nelson led a study of “the role of the white Christian in the black community.” Sherwood, Norm Theiss, and I all came to Englewood at about the same time, Norm at St. Stephens (NID, LCMS) and Sherwood at Bethel (a church moved a few blocks north by the parking lot “ring” development around the 63rd & Halsted shopping mall (or “maul” as we spelled it). That meant that Bethel had a new building, where Sherwood stayed put even after Norm and I left Englewood. Sherwood died of a heart attack while in his 50’s, ministering at Bethel through the cocaine epidemic — a “shepherd” giving his life for the flock. Like someone we all know. Pastor Bill Griffen led another seminar topic on “the Black Revolution and Biblical History.” Bill was by this time the “senior black pastor” to all of us, and one of the leaders with Karl Lutze of the Lutheran Human Relations Association of America, the first organization in Lutheran circles to deal with race. When Bill and Karl spoke, we all listened. They had paid their dues.
I accepted a speaking engagement one Sunday evening at Ashburn Lutheran Church on “the Church and Racial Change.” I tried to be as honest as possible without turning people off, and what complicated this task was the fact that in the audience were a number of former members of Our Redeemer. Though not intentionally, I confronted them with their lack of courage in joining the “white flight” from Englewood and Our Redeemer. In the past Our Redeemer had a considerable influence in the lives of many people; it provided status, friendships and business connections; an informal group, made up primarily of former Ladies Aid members calling themselves “the old Redeemerites”, still met together. They use the name for identity purposes but not the mission; in other words their witness is sterile. I once came across an old newspaper ad for the church which read: “Hear ‘Jesus Only’ at Beautiful Our Redeemer Church.” That was the old presumptuous style which never rang true to me.
Our average church attendance continued to slide, now averaging in the mid-50’s primarily due to unpredictable furnace malfunctions. One Sunday the temperature dropped down to 39 degrees and when we sang there was a cloud of white frost billowing up around each person’s head. Blankets from our “community clothes closet” were passed out and we huddled together through the liturgy. I kept the sermon short. Bill Schmidt flew in from Detroit to spend a week with us, and we finished our first quarter lessons for Mission:Life up in the cold attic using an electric heater. Those were good days — working with Bill on a creative project, using our ghetto experiences and language to present the gospel in a fresh manner, sort of like the “Cotton Patch Bible” would do later on from a southern, Bible belt point of view. Pastor and friend, Arnie Hilpert, led another seminar on “the Theological Basis for Change” and the usual remnant turned out for the Sunday discussion and pot luck dinner. But uncharted change had already happened to us and many people felt victimized by change. Happenstance had made us reactive rather than proactive, scurrying around picking up the pieces, trying to keep the “ship of the church” afloat.
Weddings and baptisms at Our Redeemer were always times for celebration. June Feipel and George Zoellick were married on February 21st and it was an event for the whole congregation. June and George were a faithful, helpful, young white couple who staffed Sunday School, youth group programs, and assisted many elderly members with transportation and physical assistance. Les and Betty Armstrong also renewed their marriage vows a week later, which was a quiet, private, and personal victory. Only their immediate family knew that they were divorced although they lived together and kept their family intact (their children: Deborah, Denise, Greg, and Valori years later adopted African names). Denise was our baby-sitter of choice who often cared for Philip and Joy when their parents were out and about. The reconciling love of Jesus has power!
Hospital calls would take me all over Chicagoland, and it was nothing to put 150 miles on the VW in one afternoon. Our Redeemer had a metropolitan membership, all spread out, especially when they went into a hospital. Sadie Zink had terminal cancer and was a patient at a hospital out on 95th Street. Her devoted husband, Walter, our head usher, was always at her side. Because of her chemo treatments, none of the hospital food tasted good, and one afternoon she confided in me that she would really like a White Castle hamburger, which I went out and obtained, with an extra one for Walter. It was a form of eucharist. I can never pass a White Castle hamburger joint without thinking of Sadie, one of God’s saints.
Cleo Lake, Will McCluster’s nephew, had taken over janitorial duties from Will. He lived in the neighborhood and was experienced enough to handle the assorted requirements of maintaining an aging building with help from Will. I gave Cleo a $100 loan to pay off some of his debts, not wanting to have a repeat of Will’s garnishments. He never repaid the loan, though at first Cleo made a good attempt to impress and please us. In March another group of students came from Concordia, Seward, and we split the group between Our Redeemer and George Hrbek’s house church, “the Mansion,” in Hyde Park. They had a rather stimulating urban experience: they met with our congregations, visited city hall and sat in on a hunger hearing at which Jesse Jackson testified. They attended a meeting of the Chicago “Peace Council” at the Lawson YMCA with Sidney Lens, a community organizer. They visited the NBC studios in the Merchandise Mart, and wrapped it up with a Maundy Thursday Eucharist.
Rogate
Don Marxhausen digs in the ground, part of Our Redeemer’s Rogate Sunday celebration of Earth Day.
On April first Don Marxhausen began a five month stint, working with Otis and myself, assisting with EWRO and later started laying the ground work for our neighborhood housing renewal program. Don had worked for the Cook County Department of Public Aid as a caseworker and with the State of Illinois Drug Abuse Program. Don had “street smarts.” He was “between jobs”, and as a member of Our Redeemer was committed enough to take a drastic cut in salary to work as Otis’ assistant. Pastor John Porter’s Methodist church gave a testimonial dinner for him at a south-side restaurant. John was the moving force behind the School of Human Dignity and would soon leave his congregation to direct a black theological studies program near the University of Chicago. It was a sobering experience to see a “radical” of John’s experience leave Englewood. There had been some turmoil in his congregation as they wanted more stability and tradition than John provided. John provided a more relevant tradition of a deeper sort than his people desired. If John couldn’t generate lasting change, how were we whitey preachers dedicated to neighborhood self-determination going to hold things together?
Philip started attending Ancona School, a Montessori school in Hyde Park. It was our attempt to provide him with a balanced peer group experience in a multi-racial, creative educational environment. He was at a distinct disadvantage as the lone white child on Our Redeemer’s parking lot, surrounded by curious black children all eager to stroke his straight blond hair and play with some of his toys. Thanks to Sue’s persistent prodding, I made an appointment to see Paula Buchwald, assistant dean at the Chicago Academy of Fine Arts (the poor man’s Art Institute School) and enrolled as a part-time student for the fall semester. I needed a creative outlet to keep my sanity and ward off depression, even though I had doubts about my artistic abilities.
Operation Breadbasket held their second follow-up meeting at Our Redeemer on April 16, hanging their banner from the side balcony: “DECLARE HUNGER ILLEGAL”. Jesse Jackson spoke from our home-made free standing altar/pulpit, and despite some throat problems and a high fever, spoke with passion. It was good to see Our Redeemer’s pews full again, and to hear the Breadbasket choir rock the walls. The agenda again addressed the lack of health care for poor people and included “testimony” from neighborhood residents about the negligent or non-existing care they experienced at local hospitals and clinics. Some aldermen were “summoned” to respond, obviously on the Breadbasket “hot seat.” Jesse strongly urged all community groups to get their voices united to make an impact on the planning for the new Englewood Health Clinic that was proposed for 63rd Street, planning that was locked up by a “citizen’s advisory group,” a Daley machine rubber stamp that met under city health department supervision at the Englewood Urban Progress Center. As it eventually turned out, the Health Center was built, in part to negate the work of a free Health Center just a block east of the Dan Ryan in the Salvation Army building.
The Daley machine had a way of placing new city health centers in the vicinity of the free neighborhood clinics so as to stultify local autonomy and keep his political base under control. There had to be community participation in order to obtain federal money, and Daley wasn’t one to permit local control of federal money. Don and Otis worked hard to set up the Breadbasket meeting, which also gave voice to the few struggling doctors and dentists in Englewood who had a difficult time turning a profit and earning a living. The Breadbasket meeting was a big shot in the arm for the EWRO, which started to picket St. Bernard Hospital again. I had the distinction of making the picket signs. Englewood was the Chicago neighborhood with the highest per-capita birth rate, and St. Bernard was closing its obstetrics ward. The doctors who ran the hospital saw maternity care as a financial liability with so many mothers on welfare.
The afternoon of the St. Bernard picketing, Don set up a meeting for us with Rev. John Fry, pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Woodlawn and confidant of the Blackstone Rangers. We finally got to meet the person whom the police warned us not to imitate. Don figured we might pick up some ideas from John, and also improve our feel for what was going down in Woodlawn. John Fry was a very tired, discouraged man. He told us his whole story about their work with the “Stones” and his appearance before the McCullan committee in Washington DC, and how his congregation was forced to recently install a “police alarm system” to warn them of police break-ins. Their church’s safe had been “policed”, with tapes and records of their Washington hearing destroyed and confiscated. It was a sobering interview. John Fry would not remain in Woodlawn long after our meeting. The church’s funds from social welfare sources, both public and private, had been cut off; their work with the “Stones”, closely allied with TWO, was dealt a severe blow by propaganda from Washington DC and from the Chicago police. There was a shift going on. The gang leaders were systematically being imprisoned, but the decline of the gangs was only temporary; other gang leaders appeared, this time intent on making money through the drug trade. Ghetto violence remained high.
Bill Schmidt was in town again to finish up our Mission:Life curriculum. We took some of the Our Redeemer teens to a Saturday morning Breadbasket meeting at a theatre on Ashland Ave. near the demarcation zone between white and black communities. Jesse preached about the “three boys in the fiery furnace” and how their Babylonian oppressors took away their Hebrew names and gave them Babylonian names (Daniel 1:6-7) as a way of instigating control, much as black slaves from Africa were given white names, sometimes even biblical ones, to keep them under the plantation owner’s control. This was the beginning of the move by some blacks to take African names as a sign of resistance — with Casius Clay, Lew Alcindor, and eventually the Armstrong children among them. Breadbasket always provided a catharsis for me; it was easy to pick up on all the positive, personal affirmation and the dynamic biblical preaching connected to political realism. Try as I might, my cerebral style had a tough time picking up the emotional content of the black struggle in my sermons. My lack of “soul” showed through, like one Sunday morning when greeting people at the door after the service, a young male visitor shook my hand and wishing to be complimentary, said, “Nice speech.” What he heard me doing was public speaking, not preaching. I needed to step it up.
Next: The Chicago Memoirs of 1970 (Part Two)
|
