Radical Disciple: Father Pfleger, St. Sabina Church, & the Fight for Social Justice - Hardcover

McClory, Robert

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1569765286 ISBN 13: 9781569765289

Verlag: Zephyr Press, 2010

Inhaltsangabe

During the past twenty-six years, Reverend Michael Pfleger, a white Catholic priest who pastors a black Chicago parish, has never been far from the spotlight. His aggressive, innovative leadership has empowered thousands, making St. Sabina church one of the largest and most active black Catholic congregations in the country. At the same time, Pfleger has been continually criticized as a trouble-making maverick, a renegade cleric, and a publicity hound.

This biography concentrates on Father Pfleger’s work at St. Sabina from his earliest days there and covers his efforts to build up the parish, his activism, his work to rejuvenate the community, his battles with church leaders, and his strong relationship with his parishioners. It provides a fascinating look at the inner workings of the Catholic Church, the traditions of the black pulpit, and what it takes to change the laws in a major American city.

Radical Disciple will be essential reading for anyone interested in social change and how a dynamic preacher and an involved church community can transform a city.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Robert McClory is an author, a journalist, a professor, and a former Roman Catholic priest. He is the author of six books. He is a former staff writer for the Chicago Defender and the Chicago Reader and is a regular contributor to Chicago Magazine, National Catholic Reporter, and U.S. Catholic Magazine. He lives in Evanston, Illinois.

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Radical Disciple

Father Pfleger, St. Sabina Church, and the Fight for Social Justice

By Robert McClory

Chicago Review Press Incorporated

Copyright © 2010 Robert McClory
All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-56976-528-9

Contents

Acknowledgments, 
Prologue, 
1. Sunday Morning, 
2. Deep Roots, 
3. A Series of Coincidences, 
4. The Paraphernalia Wars, 
5. Painting the Town Red, 
6. Victory and Beyond, 
7. Challenges from Above, 
8. Basketball and Racial Tension, 
9. It Takes a Village, 
10. Advisers: Friendly and Otherwise, 
11. The Theology of St. Sabina, 
12. Preelection Meltdown, 
13. Guns and Children, 
Epilogue, 
Notes, 
Index, 

CHAPTER 1

SUNDAY MORNING

When you understand the kingdom, you feel compelled to become kingdom builders, to be agents of change, to transform society.

— Reverend Michael Pfleger

It's twenty minutes before the start of the 11:15 A.M. mass on a beautiful, fall Sunday morning at St. Sabina, and the parking lot across the street is filling rapidly. The church is a large, gray stone structure with a flight of concrete steps rising to an expansive entranceway. Other lesser entrances line the sides of the building. It was built in the early 1930s in the midst of the Great Depression. Though the times were hard, the congregation obviously spared no expense in erecting a place of worship that has a solid, down-to-earth look. The single bell tower, flat on the top, rises up about eight stories. Today white-gloved greeters are at every door handing out orange sheets so worshippers can take notes on the sermon. Parishioner Terrence Marshall Haley, an energetic man in his mid-fifties, moves around to check the entrances, ensuring that every door is covered by a smiling greeter. This is one of his many volunteer jobs, though he is better known as the man who has taken part in virtually every march or public action the church has ever sponsored.

Early arrivals tend to fill the pews up front, in contradiction to the practice at many Catholic churches where the back half of the church fills first. Almost everyone seems to be in high spirits, greeting and God-blessing neighbors and friends with hugs, handshakes, and good-natured banter. Mattie George, a short, rotund woman with a head of blond curls, is in her usual seat in the front pew. She has her Bible and her small tambourine in hand, ready for the praise and worship segment of the service. In the vestibule, Debra Campbell is at the visitors' booth ready to answer questions and provide a free CD of information about the church, a sampling of the choirs singing, and words of welcome from Pastor Michael Pfleger. Campbell, a widow, is one of the many all-purpose volunteers at Sabina, assisting where she's needed. She frequently helps serve the breakfast (eggs, sausage, toast, sometimes pancakes) in the lower-level McMahon Hall for those who stay after the 8:30 service or come early for the 11:15.

Many who are moving steadily into the church carry well-worn Bibles; some also have notebooks for comments or inspirational thoughts that occur to them at the service. It is certain that at some point Pastor Pfleger will call on the congregation to open their Bibles to a certain passage and read it aloud along with him.

Little in the décor of this church is gaudy or ostentatious. The cushioned dark oak pews and carved oak wainscoting have weathered the years well. The stained glass windows, each with a dozen or more intricately designed miniature scenes from the Bible and church history, show few signs of age or wear. When Pfleger wanted to adapt the interior to African American culture, he sought an artist who could blend old and new. After a considerable search, he found such a one in Jerzy Kenar, an exile from Communist Poland who works in black walnut, a wood that easily blends with oak. Kenar came to St. Sabina to meet with the people and church leaders before undertaking his task. He produced the stately altar shaped like a massive African drum, the baptismal font in the middle of the church, the pulpit, podium, carved African scene sculptures behind the presider's chair, and the visitors' booth. Kenar also created the large sculpture of the Holy Family in the sanctuary that depicts an African Joseph with his arm raised high in the air in thanksgiving, holding the tiny, newborn Jesus in the palm of his hand. Beside him is the figure of an African Mary, not bending low in humility but dancing for sheer joy.

The most striking feature in the body of the church is a beautifully lit, twenty-foot-high mural on the front wall. It portrays a young black Jesus in a long robe standing in the immense, open hands of God the Father. One of Jesus's hands has an open palm, as if to say, "Here I am for you" the other is beckoning the viewer to come forward. First-time visitors often find the painting riveting, almost hypnotic. The one art piece that has not been universally well received is a neon sign hanging over the sanctuary and spelling out in stark, red letters, "Jesus." It was a Christmas decoration years ago, and some have suggested it looks cheap and kitschy. But it stays because, according to Pfleger, it is a reminder that when St. Sabina was created in 1916, it was in a storefront church on Ashland Avenue — and many Sabina members today began their own spiritual journeys in such humble places.

Randall Blakey, the church's director of ministry, found the mural so powerful the first time he entered the church that it led to a renewal of his faith and brought about a sharp turn in the direction of his life. On this morning Blakey, an intense, purposeful man, is wearing a green dashiki and white pants as he prepares for the start of the service, during which he serves as an unofficial minister of ceremonies and sometime troubleshooter. He is the founder of the St. Sabina armor bearers, so named for the Israelite men who carried the armor and weapons of King David when he marched into battle. At this mass, the armor bearers, some twenty Sabina men in dark suits and bow ties (not to be confused with the ushers, in dark suits and conventional ties), are stationed around the church in designated spots to assist ailing or disabled worshippers and to insure that nothing unexpected occurs. The armor bearers constitute a body of volunteer bodyguards. One or more armor bearers often accompany the pastor when he travels to give a talk or attend a meeting. During several lengthy periods in Pfleger's pastorate, armed Chicago police have been in the pews at the 11:15 due to threats and the possibility of violence, but not this morning.

This, the faith community of St. Sabina, defies economic and social categorization. There are men in three-piece suits and women in high-fashion hats and dresses along with middle-class folks in jackets and jeans and some bedraggled-looking souls perhaps just a few steps from homelessness. The majority of the congregation is female, though not overwhelmingly so. Those who think all young black men are gangbanging thugs would be surprised at the respectable showing of well-dressed teens and twenty-somethings who seem as intent and interested as anyone else.

Sitting halfway back in the center aisle is Lonnie Washington, a senior citizen and the first person to move from a homeless shelter into St. Sabina's Samaritan House, an apartment rented by the church to provide full financial support, health coverage, and rehabilitation for a person or family for one year. The program, started in 2000, has proven successful for its participants. Washington, who admits his one-time addiction to "drugs, alcohol, and wild women," said it saved his life; he never misses the 11:15 mass these days.

Neither does Bill Hynes, a hopeless addict until he started coming to Sabina. He now heads Jesus the Next Step, the parish's version of All Addicts Anonymous. He also organizes large regular revivals for recovering addicts. Hynes is white, as is about 10 percent of the St. Sabina membership. Augustine Colon, a cheerful man who makes his way around the church before the service chatting with friends, was born in Puerto Rico. He was an activist for many years in his heavily Latino North Side neighborhood. He admits he became a "backslider" until he encountered St. Sabina and experienced activism on a scale he never knew before. That's when he decided "here's where I belong." He brings his wife, daughter, and granddaughter every Sunday.

Slipping quietly into a pew toward the middle of the church is Jacqui Collins, who worked for CBS radio and television before volunteering as communications director for St. Sabina. One day in 1992, Pfleger phoned her out of the blue and invited her to run for the Illinois senate. She agreed, won the election, has been reelected, and has become a powerhouse in the state for the kind of socially progressive legislation St. Sabina stands for.

In the cavernous rooms behind the sanctuary, the St. Sabina Levites choir, about twenty-five members on this day, are tuning up under the leadership of musical director Michael Drayton while artistic director Rickey Harris is assembling eighteen members of the Spirit of David liturgical dancers. The dancers are mostly young women, and they have to be in good physical condition for what lies ahead. Harris, who has been an intensely active church member since high school, rehearses with the dancers for three hours every Saturday.

Up in the balcony at the rear of the church, Vince Clark is readying the recording equipment as he does every Sunday. With him are his wife, Cheryl, and his young son, Chazz, who accompanies the musicians during the service (quietly) using sturdy cardboard drumsticks supplied by his father. Clark, Pfleger's closest aide, records the sermon every Sunday, and CDs of it are available for purchase after the service, which is also streamed every Sunday via the Internet to a national and international audience.

The musicians, known informally as the minstrels, are assembled to the right of the altar with their instruments — two keyboards, two drum sets (one bongo, one conventional), a saxophone, trumpet, flute, and violin. They are a mixed group of players, including a Jew and an immigrant from Bulgaria, whose weekly dedication to this long service seems boundless.

By 11:18, the church is beginning to look full. But easy to spot is one deacon, Len Richardson, a tall man with a prominent patch of white hair. Richardson and his family go all the way back to the mid-1960s at St. Sabina when black families were just beginning to move into Auburn Gresham. Another longtimer, Dolores Johnson, is also a regular at the service. She and her husband Elbert, since deceased, were among the contingent of early black leaders who longed to see St. Sabina become a proud, African American Catholic parish. She has lived to see it and is active among the lectors who proclaim the Scripture readings at the 11:15.

* * *

Now the commentator for today's mass takes the microphone, calms the crowd, reads off a lengthy list of announcements, and the service begins. Suddenly, the old church rocks with the full power of the minstrels' instruments. The choir seems to appear out of thin air and is swaying, clapping, and singing, "Halleluiah, power and glory, honor and power unto the Lord our God. He is able! He is able, and he is our God!" They sing the words over and over and many in the pews join in with the singers' words or their own variations, "Thank you, Lord, for everything!" The dancers, all attired in red tops with flowing sleeves, are out in front of the pews in fast, perpetual motion, raising their arms to heaven, bowing low, and rising up again and again, as leader Rickey Harris, moving with the agility and grace of an NFL wide receiver, sets the pace. Most of the congregation are on their feet too, lifting arms in the air, clapping, rocking back and forth rhythmically, calling out, singing, "Yes, Lord, you are able!" "Thank you Jesus!"

This intense, nonstop celebration of sound and motion continues under full power for almost ten minutes, and just when it seems to be slowing a bit, the pace picks up with renewed vigor. Coming up the main aisle is a procession of lectors, altar servers, and Eucharist ministers. And standing tall and proud in their midst is their leader, "the Reverend Doctor Michael L. Pfleger," as he is identified at the beginning of every service. He is wearing a bright green, flowing chasuble, which contrasts with the dancers' red outfits. He is holding a microphone, and raising his arm he shouts, "If we had a thousand tongues we would praise the Lord! Use your tongue, use your tongue, praise the Lord!" The music grows louder, the motions of choir and dancers stronger still. They are singing one of Drayton's own compositions. It goes on for perhaps another fifteen minutes: "Clap your hands, all ye people, and give God praise. From the outer courts to the inner courts, into the holy place. Sing your song, all ye people, and give God praise ... Do your dance ... Leap for joy, all ye people, and give God praise."

To newcomers and visitors, there is an undeniable initial incongruity here. In this classic, African American liturgical ritual, the revered leader is white! Not just ordinary white, says Cathleen Falsani, a journalist who has followed Pfleger's career for twenty years. "No one is whiter than Pfleger; no one is whiter than this blond, blue-eyed, movie-star-handsome Catholic priest raised on the white South Side of Chicago." Yet here he stands in his twenty-eighth year of pastoring St. Sabina, building it up, baptizing, marrying, and burying these black parishioners. And it matters not to them what his race is. How is it possible that this white man has been so embraced by these church members?

One part of the answer is right here now before everyone's eyes and ears. It's this long, energized outpouring of praise and thanksgiving. In traditional Christian churches, there is a prayer called the Gloria. ("Glory to God in the highest. We praise you, we bless you, we worship you, we give you thanks for your glory," etc.) When recited, it takes probably thirty seconds; when sung, it might require three minutes. At St. Sabina, praise and thanks are not only said, they are performed, and not just by the choir and dancers. It is meant to be, and is for many, a lengthy, nourishing, spiritual experience that involves the mind and the whole body.

And it's not over yet. The music becomes softer now, the movements of choir and dancers slower. The mood shifts, and Pfleger calls on the congregation to worship God, not for what he's done for us but simply for who God is. "Come on, raise your hands. You are supreme, you are the Holy One, you are the Lord."

"Holy, holy, holy, Lord God, almighty," sings the choir. "Heaven and earth are full of your glory ... Hosanna in the highest." Exhortations from the pastor are fewer as time passes, the music slower still, more meditative. By the time the choir and dancers finally depart and only a single instrument, the violin, is left playing, one full hour has passed. Even the most active, exuberant worshippers in the congregation look a bit fatigued as they sit down. The first meaning of the Greek word for liturgy is "work," the holy work of the people, and that is precisely what it has become at St. Sabina.

When Pfleger first introduced this concentration on praise and worship, some — especially those raised in traditional Catholic parishes — objected that it was too unsophisticated for their taste and way too long for anyone's taste. Others, Pfleger in particular, found it life-giving and wanted more. It has become a staple of the Sunday service, attracting people from well beyond the neighborhood for the effect it has on their lives. Lisa Ramsey, director of the St. Sabina Employment Resource Center, calls praise and worship the most important part of the Sunday service for her. "Isn't that what it's all about?" asks Ramsey, who attends the 11:15 every Sunday. She insists she needs it to cope with the three hundred or more unemployed persons her agency seeks to help every month.

Standing on the left side of the sanctuary and closely observing everything is Kimberly Lymore, who has been involved in liturgy planning since she first came to St. Sabina in 1983. She has since earned several degrees in theology including a doctorate and left her lucrative position as a systems analyst for several large firms to become an associate minister at the church. She is thus next to Pfleger in terms of ecclesial authority, although titles are not rigidly adhered to at St. Sabina. Lymore's special interest is the relationship between praise and worship on the one hand and social activism on the other.

* * *

The Scripture readings for the day concern prophecies about the end of the world, and when Pfleger goes to the podium to preach, he passes over them rather quickly. His topic is not about the future but the present. His subject is from Matthew's Gospel, chapter six, verse nine: "Thy kingdom come," and he asks the congregation to open their Bibles to that location and read the whole verse with him. It is Jesus' famous prayer, the "Our Father."

Pfleger's sermon will be shorter than usual today, only fifty-five minutes, but he will make up in energy and volume for what may be lacking in length. As always in his sermons, he speaks in an informal style, with a Southern dialect indistinguishable from that of black Protestant preachers. He begins by presenting "the perspective" of the king: "People sit in church all their life," he says, "and never even know the king. In this day of prosperity teaching, God becomes their bellhop, their Santa Claus." They fail to understand, he explains, that in the kingdom God has established, "everything is in submission to the king." The king makes the rules, "and it's got nothin' to do with what you like or whether you agree or what you want. There's no cafeteria menu here. ... You don't go through this book [the Bible] and decide what you like or don't like. ... When you come under the kingdom, you come under authority."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Radical Disciple by Robert McClory. Copyright © 2010 Robert McClory. Excerpted by permission of Chicago Review Press Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Zephyr Press
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2010
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 1569765286
• ISBN 13: 9781569765289
• Einband: Tapa dura
• Anzahl der Seiten: 240
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar