This convergence has led me to share a story that I recently wrote down for the first time.
It's part of an introductory chapter in a book I am writing on the distinctiveness of Wesley's communion spirituality in our times of divisiveness.
Attached is a picture of Rev. John Rutland and his wife Mary.
He and my dad had been colleagues in ministry, and John loved to tell of a time he gave me a quarter when I was a child and he was my father’s District Superintendent. Apparently, I got up in his lap and said “Brother Rutland, when you go to that place …” He said, “you mean Annual Conference?” “Yes, and you see that man …” He responded, “you mean the bishop?“ “Yes, will you tell him to send my daddy to Disney World?”
John had told me plenty of stories, though his communion story brought them all together. My wife and I had become associate pastors at the same church he served in his retirement, and he told me numerous tales from his years of preaching in the middle of Birmingham civil rights history and his uncanny tendency to step into it. He once took me to the pulpit area of the old Woodlawn United Methodist Church and pointed to a seating section on the far right, near the exit. “That’s where Bull Conner used to sit … when he was sitting, that is.” I knew, of course, that “Bull” was the infamous commissioner in Birmingham that oversaw the police and fire departments, enforcing segregation and becoming a national symbol of police brutality with police dogs and fire hoses. Conner had been a member of that church during the Civil Rights era when Rutland pastored there. “Sometimes, when I would preach that Jesus loved all people, regardless of the color of their skin, he would stand up, huff, and storm out.”
Standing by the pulpit that day, he told me the colorful story of the time he walked up to Conner and his deputies standing on the front steps of the church with their arms crossed. After he asked what they were doing, Conner said, “we’re making sure only the appropriate people come to church today.” John got up in his face and said, “let me tell you something, Mr. Conner. I’ve been appointed by the bishop to be pastor of this church, and I will decide who can come in for worship. And if you get in my way, I’ll call your own police department and have you removed.” He then walked away, his legs feeling like limp noodles. As he turned the corner, he heard Conner whisper to his deputies, “let’s go boys. He’ll do it.” John Rutland must be one of the few people that Bull Conner backed down from.
On another occasion, John told me of a letter he had once gotten from Alabama Governor George Wallace. He had been with a group of preachers who had met with Wallace a few weeks prior to his first inauguration, a meeting when he had made all sorts of promises to these pastors who were in favor of integrating schools. Then at the inauguration, Wallace made the infamous speech with the words, “segregation now … segregation tomorrow … segregation forever!” John was perplexed and wrote Wallace a letter asking how he could possibly change his tune so dramatically in such a short period of time. Wallace wrote back to him saying, “I’ve been out-segged and I’m not going to be out-segged again … you fancy-pants preachers had better watch your back in Alabama.”
So, you can imagine how I felt when Rutland walked in my office one day and said, “I wish you’d been here yesterday.” I had been visiting the hospitals, and boy was I sorry. “I dropped by to see if you wanted to go with me to serve communion to George Wallace.” He then told me one of the most compelling stories about Holy Communion I have ever heard.
Our bishop, Lloyd Knox, had called John Rutland to ask if he had a portable communion set. George Wallace, still a Methodist, had called Bishop Knox from his death bed and asked if he would come serve him communion. The bishop had been busy preparing to move away from the Annual Conference at the end of his term, so his was already packed. “John, I want you to go with me to serve communion.”
“Um, bishop, I’d be glad to loan you my communion set, but I really don’t think you want me to go visit George Wallace with you.” As John put it, the bishop could be very persuasive, as bishops can be. He went after all, just hoping that since it had been so many years, Wallace would not recognize him. But as soon as he walked in the room, Wallace looked at him and said in a booming voice, “John Rutland!”
He sheepishly walked into the room. The bishop gathered them around the hospital bed and asked why he wanted to receive communion. Wallace said, “I asked you to come today because for so many years, I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things.” He shared that he needed to make his peace with God. Bishop Knox went and got the nurse out of the hallway, and she happened to be African American. They all shared the holy meal together.
John finished his story with words I will never forget, “Here we were, Bishop Knox, George Wallace, a black nurse, and the ‘fancy-pants preacher’ sharing communion together. Now that’s the kingdom of God!” It certainly is.
Communion has a way of shedding light on both who we really are and who we are called to be. It is an honest meal. We come to the table being real with God through confession, and Christ comes to us in real ways though his presence, hospitality, and grace. The Lord’s Supper binds us together in mysterious ways, for it is a sacred act of both receiving the grace of God and being the body of Christ with one another.
John Rutland’s story has stuck with
me during the remainder of my life and ministry. It was not just a tale about
race relations. It was a crystallized moment in time that sheds light on the holy
meal. We taste and see the goodness of the
Lord. We get an honest look at who we are, experience how incredibly beloved we
are, and get a glimpse of life in the kingdom of God while we are at it. No, it’s
not magic. A better word for it would be mystical.
Copyright 2021 Stephen P. West, all rights reserved