Three African American bishops offer guidance and offer pastors a model of spiritual leadership.Edsel A. Ammons, Ernest S. Lyght, and Jonathan D. Keaton, through personal story, sermons, articles, prayers, and meditations, ground leadership in humility and self-denial. Giving practical advice for church pastors and leaders, the book will inspire many spiritual journeys.

The Confessions of Three Ebony Bishops

By Ernest S. Lyght

Abingdon Press

Copyright © 2008 The United Methodist Publishing House
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-687-64847-4

Chapter One

My Spiritual Journey

My Faith Journey

Edsel A. Ammons

There is a story of a man who went to see the famous psychiatrist Carl Jung. The man suffered from depression and wanted help. Jung told him to cut back his fourteen-hour workday to eight, go directly home after work, and spend evenings in his study, quiet and all alone. So the man tried. He went to his study, shut the door, read the books of famous authors, and listened to the music of well-known composers. After some weeks of this, he returned to Jung complaining that he could see no improvement. On learning how the man had spent his time, Jung said, "But you didn't understand. I didn't want you to be with famous authors and composers. I wanted you to be all alone with yourself." The man looked terrified and explained, "I can't think of any worse company." Jung replied, "Yes, but this is the self you inflict on other people fourteen hours a day."

I confess to you that the same thought crossed my mind as I began to write. But this is my story and my faith journey, and I wish to share it with you. There was little reason for anyone to suspect that a shy child named after the president of an automobile company would be drawn to any kind of career in the public arena—surely not a career in a most public place like the church. From earliest memory, I was a private person who found comfort in doing what Jung recommended to the man struggling with his depression, in being all alone with myself. Conversation with me was an exercise in verbal brevity—an economy of speech tending toward silence at every opportunity.

An equally decisive factor in my development was the ethos of the home into which I was born. There were no preachers around to compete for our attention. From the beginning, I can recall the sights and sounds of jazz musicians, their shiny and interesting instruments, their different forms of speech, and their music. Our modest apartment was literally a way station for those immersed in a world devoted to the entertainment of others whose dialogue was saturated with words and phrases like "augmented," "diminished," "four beats to the bar," "play it simple," "syncopation needs better expression," "fade out," "fade in," and other colorful but less familiar speech. I knew what "dissonance" was almost before I could reach the keys on the piano. My mother and father were musicians—both pianists. She was trained. He was not, having taught himself to play by listening to piano rolls and placing his fingers into the depressed keys. Years later my father and brother would become famous, my father as creator of the boogie-woogie piano style and my brother as a celebrated tenor saxophonist. I was thrilled by the music and those who played it with such effortless skill in our living room. And I remain a jazz buff to this very day. It would have surprised no one had I chosen to devote my life to a career in popular music. There was never a time, however, when I felt strongly inclined to follow in the footsteps of my father or my mother.

The pull on my life in another direction was starting to lodge in my spirit. Indeed, before I could begin to rationalize it or give any logical answers to anybody's questions, including my own, I started to reveal to my family and a few friends my very early and unformed interests in the ministry of the church, specifically, the preaching ministry. Among the earliest influences was the family physician. He occasionally chatted with me about what career future I was considering. The church was not what the doctor wanted to hear as my answer. With no effort to conceal his disappointment, he grunted: "Why would you do a thing like that, forsaking both medicine and money?" I had no answer to his question because I really did not understand my feelings myself. What I felt and shared was as much a mystery to me as it was to my doctor and others. I could not have known then what I am utterly clear about today: that the Holy Spirit has its own way, works its own timetable, and was bearing witness even then to my spirit, long before I possessed the capacity for reasoned insight. Dag Hammarskjöld, former Secretary General of the United Nations, said it best: "I don't know Who—or what—put the question. ... I don't even remember answering. But at some moment I did answer Yes to Someone ... and from that hour, I was certain that ... my life, in self-surrender, had a goal."

I did not know and could not have explained to anybody what was but a faint glimmer of awakening self-awareness. Even if I had known, talking about myself would have demanded more than my fragile ego could have abided. Again, my early confession of interest in a public-service career was nothing short of miraculous, for nothing frightened me more than public discourse. Grade school simply extended the period of personal trauma, and I sought refuge in studying, reading, and maintaining good grades. Although teachers and parents applauded my good efforts and impressive scholarship, they did not realize that a deep estrangement and distance from community were my daily companions.

I must also acknowledge my profound indebtedness to my family. Though preoccupied most of the time with trying to keep life and limb together through the dark days of the Depression, my family was warm and accepting. I sensed their affection for my brother and me and their delight as I made my way through those early years without causing them pain or embarrassment. My brother and I never had to wonder if we were cared about. It was the undramatic yet steady affection of my family— mother, father, even though he was divorced from my mother and not living in our home, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—that was the unassuming but primary influence in my life. Early on, in fact, I began to reflect their warmth in my own tenuous relationships with the few close friends I did have. As I have tried to sort out and understand the influences that ignited in me expressions of those early instincts about ministry and bring to harvest the seeds planted by the Holy Spirit, I have identified the generous heart of my family. And I am convinced that their graciousness was due to the unquestioned importance of the church.

The greatest influence helping to shape my future, after my family, was the church and its importance in our lives. There was little talk about it and fewer arguments about matters of doctrine and belief. Christianity was not an issue for intellectual haggling in our home. No one questioned the faith that Grandfather shared with us in song and poetry. It was the power underneath the stubborn resolve of a Depression-smitten family. It was simply assumed that we would attend and participate in the life of a congregation nearest to where we lived. (We were urban nomads who changed addresses often in search of affordable rent.) Nor did we limit ourselves to a particular denomination. During the first decade of my life, we worshiped with Baptist, Congregational Community, and several Methodist groups, and had learned to appreciate all of them. Grandmother, who usually made the decision where we worshiped, had decreed that we would avoid places that were "noisy and too emotional." Authentic spontaneity in response to word and song was acceptable. But, "I want to worship," she...