Antietam, September 17th

(Midweek Meditation September 2024)

Fingers of mist hang in the hollows. The orange orb of the sun is edging above South Mountain. Sam, Chico, and I head off across the wildflower meadow, a riot of color a month ago, now a buffet of seed heads. The only sound crickets signaling the approach of fall.

Suddenly, cannon fire, commemorating the opening salvo of the bloodiest day in American history. A flock of tree swallows leap from the power line in alarm. Sam and Chico stop midstride, alert to danger. Was it a morning just like this 162 years ago when thousands of young men awoke to their last dawn?
 
Peace returns. The swallows settle. The dogs step forward warily. I send up a prayer of gratitude for this beautiful place and remind myself that even in these fields that once ran with blood, evil did not have the last word.
 
We walk past the cemetery where the Mumma family rest. On that terrible day, Samuel Mumma Sr., his wife, and eight children, members of the “Dunker” peace church, fled the mayhem only to return to find their farm destroyed, home and barn burned to the ground. But their story didn’t end there. They received no compensation for their loss because it was the Confederates who did the damage, but they rebuilt with hard work and the help of their neighbors. Forty-four years later, James F. Clark, formerly of the 3rd North Carolina Infantry, wrote to the Mummas to beg forgiveness for his role in the devastation. Samuel Jr. forgave him wholeheartedly. “As to your burning our house, we know that in doing so, you were carrying out orders,” he wrote. Evil did not have the last word.
 
We head towards the Roulette Farm. On one side a field of peacefully grazing cattle, on the other a bank of brilliantly yellow goldenrod. I think of Nancy Camel who sheltered with the Roulette family during the battle. Born into slavery in 1817, she was freed in 1859, by her enslaver, Andrew Miller, and went to work for Miller’s neighbor, William Roulette. After the battle, she returned to the farm with the Roulettes and spent the rest of her days with them. When she died in 1895, she left the bulk of her estate -- $867.04 and her own home -- to the children of her enslaver and her employer. One account said these families “treated her as kin, not as a possession.” Evil did not have the last word.
 
The mist has dissipated and the sun is above the horizon when we drive home through Sharpsburg. We pass campaign signs and I feel rising beneath the surface calm of this small town angry echoes of that day in 1862. I realize there is no “last word.” There is just the next word, and the next, and the next. I ask myself, what can I do in the “next” of my time, to help ensure that evil does not have the next word for the generations to come?
 
I told [the Commonwealth Commissioners] I lived in the virtue of that life and power that took away the occasion of all wars… I told them I was come into the covenant of peace which was before wars and strife were.  – George Fox, 1651

Committing to the Path

Thirty years ago this month I first crossed the threshold of Goose Creek and began my journey with Quakerism. I was a young mother of two little ones, unsure of which parts of the Christian story I believed but wanting to give my children some sort of spiritual grounding. I have always been a spiritual seeker. Over the years my search had taken me through some strange and interesting places, but nothing had stuck. As a young adult I left all of that behind and for a decade or so devoted myself to having fun and getting ahead. Then I had children.

I first tried the local Methodist church and it was everything you could want in a church – lovely people who were my neighbors, a big jolly Sunday School, and within walking distance of my home. But I just couldn’t bring myself to unquestioningly pass on what I thought of as “boilerplate Christianity” to the tender minds of my children. However, while I was no longer a practicing anything, I still took religion very seriously. Curious about Quakerism, I asked my dear friend, Catherine, to take me to Goose Creek.
 
My first Meeting for Worship was completely silent. Friends sitting quietly, the clock ticking, the fire crackling. I loved the simplicity of the meeting house, the beautiful surroundings, and the friendly people. In spite of the long distance from my home, I came back the next week with my children, and the next and the next. A year or two later, I became a member.
 
Now, 30 years have passed, my children have grown up, and I am still driving 55 minutes each way to worship at Goose Creek. What keeps me coming back? If I was hoping for peace and serenity (as I think I was), I have been sadly disappointed.
 
To be a member of a faith tradition that values spiritual integrity above all is very challenging. In the silence and in the absence of imposed doctrine, there is no place to hide. To be a Quaker, I discovered, is to be permanently experiencing metanoia, usually translated as “repentance,” but more accurately described as the process of undergoing a "change of mind" so as to have a wholly new perspective on the world, life, and humanity. This is slow, difficult work, but I will always be grateful for the Quaker crucible through which God leads me in this lifelong process.
 
Becoming a member was an important part of my journey. It was like a marriage. Once the shine of Quakerism had worn off and inevitable disappointments and frustrations came along, I remained faithful to the commitment I had made. The fruits have been of infinite value: membership in a loving and imperfect faith community that continues to love me in spite of my imperfections, a school of life among deeply wise teachers past and present, and, above all, an awareness within the spaciousness of Quaker practice of the Spirit guiding me.
 
Will I always be a member of Goose Creek? I cannot say. One thing I have learned on my Quaker journey is that the label doesn’t matter – being faithful to the leadings of the Spirit does. Lead me onwards, Holy One, lead me onwards.