From Florida family visits and Pensacola beaches, bicycling along its miles of fine white sands–considered some of the best in the world, we set sail for the last eastward leg to the Atlantic. Before reaching that direction-changing-point we overnighted at Suwannee River State Park, of the the famed song, “Down upon the Suwannee River, Far far away. That’s where my heart is yearning, Home where the old folks stay.” Carla and I had an enjoyable and vigorous bike trail-ride along the river, saw defensive embankments made long ago by Civil War soldiers against encroaching gunboats, Spanish Moss hanging from oak trees, palm plants over seven feet tall, and exotic tropical birds calling one to another. The air was warm and more than a touch of humidity that made taking a sauna unnecessary!
The next day we completed our eastward trek that had begun on the shores of the Pacific Ocean, and came complete when we reached the Atlantic Ocean. We skirted Jacksonville and changed to a northward direction. We soon reached the Georgia boundary and the eleventh state we travelled in so far since leaving in January–the historical garden city of Savannah was in our sites. We arrived at Skidaway Island, home of the wealthiest populace in the country, however, we are humbly situated in the State Park amongst evergreen pines and deciduous trees hanging with more Spanish Moss. We soon ventured into the city.
One of our discoveries was the location where John Wesley gave his first sermon in the new world in 1736. I grew up in the Methodist Church and John Wesley is largely given credit for its formation–although he was never a member. Not the first or last, he made some unwise moves when he moved here based on passions of the heart. Then, because of his integrity, he became a target of a powerful and ruthless “boss” of Savannah. John eventually left America and went back to England–feeling a complete failure. Later in life he gave permission for the breakaway colonists to form the Methodist Church–as all had been members of the Church of England, headed by the King of England. The previous members were now citizens of the United States of America, they could not marry or bury with sanctioned ministers and John felt it necessary for them to form their own institution. John’s brother Charles, who wrote many of the hymns sung in the Methodist Church, never spoke to his brother again after he gave permission for the breakaway Methodist Church.
On his original trip to America John Wesley had been on a ship that was assaulted by immense waves that ripped the mainsail, broke the mast and poured water through the decks. Deeply afraid he noticed a group of Moravians (a group of Czech/German Protestants who broke away from the Catholic Church one hundred years before Martin Luther). This small group sang to God without break both before and during the gale force winds. Later Wesley asked the leader if he, the men, women or children had been afraid during the storm; he replied they were not afraid of death. In their conversations the pastor for the Moravians asked John, “Have you the witness within yourself? Does the Spirit of God witness with your spirit that you are a child of God?” These questions made Wesley aware there were deeper levels of God’s Presence; he valued their company for all the time he was in the colony of Georgia and he continued keeping their company upon his return to England. Deeply depressed, John had a most significant experience during a service when he felt his “heart strangely warmed.” This changed the young man from making a list of rules governing every hour of his life, and to be daily graded based upon a grid he created for himself, to the notion that one could achieve a state in which the love of God reigns supreme in one’s heart, leading to outward holiness. He departed from the Moravians on the issue of quietism, that is through inner stillness one could reach a perfected state, and went on years later to be said, “The best loved man in England.”
From the spot of John Wesley’s first sermon we made further pilgrimage to the beautiful Savannah Cathedral. Having roots back to 1779 (Catholics were not allowed to have congregations any earlier in Savannah due to the fear they would side with the Catholic Spanish). The current church came about in 1899 after a fire destroyed much of a previous structure. Today’s Cathedral has impressive art, from its huge stained glass windows crafted in Austria, immense murals covering the soaring walls, to the 3D 14 stations of the cross carved in Munich–it is truly worth a look for its art treasures. As we made our way around the 14 stations I was deeply touched by the drama of the Christ going through various stages of the crucifixion–not for himself, but for all mankind. These stations marked three times Jesus fell under the weight of the cross–it seemed encouraging that even he fell, and recovered, and so might we. It was a fitting devotional during this Lent season.
However, after making a bicycle tour of several outstanding churches it was the Jewish Synagogue that both Carla and I noticed had the most powerful spiritual feeling. We arrived after the doors had closed, but it was while standing in front of the Mickve Israel Synagogue established in 1878–noted as the oldest congregation now practicing Reform Judaism in the United States–that we so clearly experienced its pure uplifting vibrations. These early Jewish settlers arrived in 1733 and were mostly of Spanish-Portuguese extraction. They worshipped in various temporary quarters for many years until after the American Revolution when they were given permission to have an official place in society. It is interesting how certain houses of God can have a dulling effect, some feel alright but not very powerful, then without fanfare you are uplifted in the One true God; such was our experience as we were rooted in front of this lovely Synagogue.
And so we continue on our spiritual journey, chanting His Nam wherever we go, looking for His Presence in places big and small, known and obscure. Today we were in one of the many parks in Savannah on our bicycles when a deep vibrant voice called out, “Hello young man!” Well, you have to like being called that on occasion. I turned to see a man whose body matched the size of his lovely voice–sitting on a park bench easily weighing in at 300 pounds. With delicate hands he was weaving palm fibers together into flower creations. He asked where I came from, I said Washington State. He said, “Home of Jimi Hendrix!” I affirmed he was from Tacoma. He said he met Jimi in New York–this large black man announced he was 75, though he didn’t look it, and his name was Jimmy, aka James. I liked him immediately and felt a greatness of God in him. He said he didn’t charge for his creations, he did it as a service, but I could donate something if I liked. We made an agreeable exchange and he said, “God bless you”, and I replied with a depth of feeling in kind. Truly, here was a God-man, who came in a thinly veiled disguise–I was blessed that he had called out to me–as it was God who was doing the calling.
