On The Way: Ten Years, Nine Souls, and Eight Kids from Mahoning

Ten years ago, I was co-pastor of St. John’s Lutheran Church of Mahoning, near Lehighton. We had a large confirmation group that year – eight of them – and we took a weekend field trip to Philadelphia, with the theme “Faithful Philly.” On Friday, we visited and worshipped with a Muslim school and mosque. On Saturday, we attended services at a reformed Jewish synagogue. And on Sunday morning, we accepted the warm invitation to worship with Mother Bethel African Methodist Episcopal (AME) Church.

Everywhere we went that weekend, we were treated graciously, respectfully and with great hospitality and joy. But nowhere more so that at Mother Bethel AME Church. Before we walked in the front doors, we were greeted so warmly and sincerely – like we were honored guests and old dear friends. They walked us in and escorted us to a pew reserved just for us. Leaders and members kept coming over to meet and greet us. I tried to ready the kids by suggesting they dress up a little – but they were hardly prepared for all the women in fine dresses and big hats, and the men with coats and ties. When we opened our printed bulletins, inside we found special mention of each of us, by name. At the start of the service, our names were read and we were asked to stand in turn, each to rousing applause.

And then, the service itself! The music, the singing and dancing, the readings and the sermon –that enthusiastic “call-and-response” between preacher and assembly. It was all so warm, wild and wonderful. And to their credit, though a bit overwhelmed at first, these German Lutheran teens got into the groove. Back on the bus, they still overflowed with the energy and excitement and emotion of it all.

But two things really stuck out for them, and for me. How kind and welcoming everyone was. And how much their sanctuary looked almost exactly like ours, back in Mahoning Valley! Other than being a lot bigger, it had the same architectural and liturgical structures – the wooden pillars and pews, the altar and baptismal font and the pulpit, the organ pipes and the stained glass windows, the upfront painted mural – all in the same places. In this big room full of well-dressed and Spirit-filled Black people – they felt right at home.

The year was 2015. And just a few months later, on June 17, a young man not much older than they, walked into an evening bible study at another AME Church – Mother Emanuel in Charleston, South Carolina – and shot ten members of the group, killing nine. Those who were murdered in the midst of their own church became known as the Emanuel 9, and their massacre shocked the nation. But it hit particularly hard, my eight confirmation students. As they heard the details in the news – how the lead pastor and another pastor who were killed studied at our own ELCA Southern Seminary; how the shooter was a member of an ELCA congregation; how he was greeted warmly when he entered the church that night, the same way we were greeted at Mother Bethel – it became all too real and all too close for these kids.

I made sure to give them pastoral care, and we talked well into the months that followed, about what happened and how they experienced this quite differently from their friends, other church members, even their families. I have not been able to keep track of all of them since leaving that call and becoming bishop; and I imagine some of them may read this and recall those moments – and I welcome them to reach out to me or their pastor – especially as the news around this Juneteenth will likely return to what happened in Charleston ten years ago.

But I knew at the time, something meaningful and important and faithful was also happening with these young people. They were able to share not just the horror and sorrow, but the heart and soul connections they felt with those who died and those who live and love God – and them – at Mother Bethel, Mother Emanuel, and St. John’s Mahoning. Over the past ten years, they have passed on that connection to that congregation, to their friends and family – including, I hope, their own children today and tomorrow.

Black History is more than a month. It’s a connection we have in Christ, and a call to action to love and heal and engage like Jesus. It’s more than just the long-gone past – it’s ten years ago, and the past ten seconds, and all the moments ahead, where God invites us to seize the day. And the hospitality God is always showing us; the place Christ is preparing for us, where Black lives matter as much as Whites’ – this home is more than in some heavenly future, “light years away.” It’s right here. It’s right now.