HEROES AND OROPHILES

HEROES AND OROPHILES

BY JOHN TUFT

Bunny Gilgore lives in the mountains. Mountains are where she feels most at home, where her spirit soars with little prompting, where the slopes and streams, ravines and rivers, flora and fauna seem to connect her to the larger wonder that is this world. Bunny lives in a small mountain community where the houses are terraced into the rise of the slopes and no street goes in a straight line for more than a quarter mile. Getting anywhere that has more shopping or restaurants is a bit of a journey. Bunny worked at a religious conference center that sits perched atop the mountain as a cook for the people seeking a retreat into the peaceful beauty of the mountains.

Religious organizations are not known for their high pay rates, but Bunny took the job and did her best at it because she felt a sense of duty and service. “Folks gotta eat,” was her characteristically direct explanation. “God didn’t put us here on his green earth to not be able to take care of ourselves. And if you can’t be helping, don’t be hurting.” Bunny made up the menu for the folks coming in for a week of trying to focus on their spiritual journey apart from their everyday lives. The problem is that we carry our everyday lives with us wherever we go, and Bunny knew this better than most. When the center ran into financial problems, Bunny suggested that they hire folks willing to work for less, namely migrants coming to this land seeking a new life. She took them at their word and hired dishwashers, cleanup crews, grounds keepers, repair and maintenance.

Eventually, as in all organizations, and religious or otherwise, human organizations act like, well, human organizations, whether or not they use Jesus-color paint to try to make them look otherwise. Egos enter in, some feel left out of power, some try and conserve the old ways, some feel that they and they alone have the one true way of doing things, and on and on. The governing body of this religious group decided at one point that the way of organizing and paying for this conference center had to change. From now on, jobs at the conference center had to be filled by fellow believers. To make matters worse, the higher ups insisted that Bunny be the one to inform the migrant workers that they were being let go.

Bunny could not sleep the night after being informed of what was expected of her as a loyal worker for the center. By the dawn she had made her decision. She gathered the workers in the dining room and then sent for the board of directors and the denominational oversight committee because, of course, there’s always a committee. After all, didn’t the Good Lord himself form a committee at the very beginning of his ministry? For that matter, the major creeds of the faith espouse a Creator by a Committee of Three. But I digress.

Bunny got up in front of all the assembled. “When I was a young woman,” she began, “my daddy remarried after he divorced my momma. They had a couple of kids together. By that time, I was in my late teens, and I left home. About ten years later, my daddy died. My step momma fell apart and them kids were needing someone to look after them. My daddy had hurt my momma something powerful when he left her and took up with the momma of those two. But somebody needed to do some looking after these kids. What’s a body to do?” She stopped and looked around, expecting that such learned people of faith, at full committee strength, would catch her meaning. They did not.

Bunny called up some of the migrant workers. “I don’t care what the politics of the country or of the church are saying is the thing to do. I don’t care what you label these people. Mercy and grace are nonnegotiable. If you aren’t solving the problem you are part of the problem. Maybe I’m a simple woman but I know my own mind. This is where I stand.” Now, wouldn’t it be nice if the story went on to say how the consciences of all those there were touched, and they united in purpose and commitment. But alas, this is a story about human perishables, as all real stories are. The kinds of heroes we choose tell a lot about us. Not idols, mind you, but heroes. People we would like to emulate if we could but muster the courage.

I have been upfront with you about one of my heroes being Roberto Clemente. Other heroes include two little old women who both happen to be named Margie. One was a tiny quiet woman in my home church who prayed me right into the ministry. The other Margie became a fast friend as I regained my physical and emotional health in recent years. I have a current hero named Bridget and maybe I’ll tell you more about her one of these days. I try very hard to not have any idols, however. Idols expect us to surrender ourselves to them, even worship them. Idols ultimately destroy. Families, communities, even entire nations. As we all move through this new year, may we be mindful of the difference. If you can’t be helping…

Words are magic and writers are wizards.