Millennium - Part 1

In the autumn of 2017 my daughter Chloe was for several weeks fascinated by Jesus of Nazareth—and small wonder: his story has fascinated believers and unbelievers alike for two millennia. We spent a lot of time reading her children’s Bible together and on the first weekend of November watched “Jesus Christ Superstar,” seated side by side on the couch in the den, with Chloe raising her hand every five minutes to ask a question. We’d pause the DVD. She’d ask the question, which was usually quite perceptive, and I’d answer it. So by the time I put her to bed on the night of Sunday, November 5, and had a chance to go work on the dreaded Promotion Book, I was so absorbed with Christianity that I decided just to go with that.

Previously I hadn’t given religion much thought—okay, any thought—in connection with the dreaded Promotion Book, which henceforth I will call “The Year of Decision: Lincoln’s America in 1864.” But I retrieved three books on the religious history of the Civil War from my library shelves and started going through them. I spent just enough time to see that this was a promising line of inquiry. Then I paused to read the “New York Times,” saw that 26 Christians had been slaughtered that morning in their rural Texas church, and that was that. I couldn’t re-focus on work.

The next day I itched to get back to work on “The Year of Decision”—I always enjoyed working on “The Year of Decision,” as opposed to the Promotion Book. But instead I had to deal almost constantly with other stuff. That evening I opened the writing journal I used to keep track of my progress on “The Year of Decision”—I keep a writing journal to support every important manuscript project, a practice I first developed while researching my doctoral dissertation. Reflecting on my lack of progress that day, I looked for periods of wasted time that could instead have been used to work on the book.

“The only three things I could have done differently were 1) not watch the evening news; 2) not call my brother this evening; and 3) not contact my pastor and offer to research how to deal with an active shooter situation in a church. After yesterday he had been thinking along similar lines, so he was happy to take me up on the offer. A quick Internet search revealed that there are quite a few sites that address this very issue, and by and large they appear sound. I was very impressed with one site that drew upon Dave Grossman’s work consulting with law enforcement on lethal engagement situations. Every would-be hero who imagines himself taking out the bad guy ought to read ‘On Combat’ and learn how powerfully a lethal engagement situation fucks with your mental and sensory perceptions. Only extensive and realistic training prepares you for that unforgiving minute.”

I wrote a couple of paragraphs about the problems involved with protecting my church against an Active Shooter—I quickly realized that the church floor plan gave us an excellent chance to employ lockdown/lockout tactics in the children’s Sunday school area, but that it would require lethal force to defend the sanctuary. Then I remembered the journal’s purpose.

“Well, I’m supposed to be thinking about the book,” I wrote. “Ok, so here’s one for you: Church safety when you are an African American church and there is a clear and present danger that Union soldiers will wait for Sunday services to end and commandeer your able-bodied men as they emerge from the building. Or worse—and this actually happened—invade your sanctuary and grab men straight out of the pews.” I inserted an illustration to make my point.

The African American men depicted were being impressed to construct fortifications to defend Nashville against Confederate General Braxton Bragg’s summer/early fall offensive 1862 that actually drove into Kentucky (triggering a similar frenzy to construct fortifications to defend Cincinnati). But while the event itself occurred in 1862, the engraving appeared in 1864—the year on which my book was focused.

I first heard the expression at a faculty meeting, although in what connection I’ve long since forgotten. “Maybe this isn’t an either/or,” one of my female colleagues said. “Maybe it’s a both/and.”

Since then, on several occasions in my life, I have found “both/and” to be a liberating phrase.

To those previous occasions, I now add this one: I’ve figured out a substantial aspect of the dreaded Promotion Book that requires attention, and this same substantial aspect is also an important element in “Struggle for Peace.” And this aspect is extensive enough to warrant a semester’s release time, because it will require travel to archives as well as a good deal of work at home.

So there seems a good chance the department will get what it deserves and I will get what I need.