Uncle Johnny

This past Thursday night we had our first dinner for the community on Highland Park. Those of us preparing the meals, being the base of the work, whatever, had met three times before, getting to know each other. I think it is going to take some time for the neighbors to see that we mean it, that we are actually doing it every Thursday at my place, that it really is open, that we’re not the stereotypical church folk (i.e. me and Andy making plans to see Gov’t Mule), etc. As it was, Ann and her granddaughter came (thanks Maggie!) and then a whole pile of kids showed up early. One of them, Chance, told me that he would like to be a pastor. I think he thinks it’s all partying and wrestling…. Which isn’t far from the truth!

I have been doing some reflection about this whole community dinners thing, why it is that I like it so much. As I reflected, some things were obvious—the 12^th Street Girls do a good job of making an open and inviting space, and who doesn’t like that? But then, some buried things cropped up. I am always surprised when theology shows up so practically. The Parable of the Great Banquet in Luke 14 and the celebration at the Prodigal Son’s return in Luke 15 are probably my favorite parts of the gospel. When you see them happening, that’s what gets me. It really is this simple: “They’ll know you’re my disciples if you love one another.” And then, to paraphrase, “invite them to eat at your house. Where a few of you gather in My Name, I’ll be there, too. Let My Kingdom come.”

It’s so quiet, so simple and finally so subversive. The world changed because of the dinners and parties Jesus showed up at.

Then there’s my uncle, John Gill. He was a successful farmer in California. He and his cousins had a huge operation. Still do. But Johnny was always a farmer first, and I think that dealing with too much business or knowing that he had a software engineer was weirding him out. So he bought some acreage out towards Jolon, CA and planted grapes, had his own wine label. He was looking for a simpler life. He built a huge house. That doesn’t sound simple until you realize that most of the space was a huge living room and kitchen. Johnny was an awesome cook and grill master. The house was built for parties.

I can remember calling during Monday Night Football, knowing that he would be there and so would half that part of Monterey County. Someone would answer the phone and I’d ask to talk to Johnny. They’d ask who was calling. Sometimes someone would say, “I knew your old man,” or “I was your mom’s friend in third grade.” To know and be known… Maybe the one answering the phone did not know me and they’d holler “Do you want to talk to Aaron Mansfield?” And Johnny would holler back, “That’s my nephew, Nina and Bobby’s boy…” Half the time the phone would get passed around to people who wanted an update on where the heck were we—my mom and dad left a small farming town and never went back, but it’s still home.

Johnny died of ALS in summer of 2000. We named my oldest boy, John, after him. I did not get to go to too many of the parties. I remember going when he was ill, and you can’t recover from ALS. Somehow, there was still great joy in getting together. I heard about one time that Nessen killed a wild boar and Johnny grilled it. Talk about pot-luck!

Everybody knew they did not have a lot of time with Johnny, so they made the most of it, because, really, the times are evil. We live in this world full of violence, sickness and death. When we can transcend it, we jump on it. So, something theological, desperately theological, can happen when there’s a party with great joy. When I think of Johnny nowadays, I usually think of it in terms of the Last Supper. Friends and family were there with him. I don’t doubt that there were some folks there for the wrong reasons-- because it was a party, because the liquor was top shelf. But that’s the amazing grace of the Kingdom—when I came to the Cross, how selfish was I? How fawning and seeking? Not fully aware of this Jesus, I was just there to get what He had, what He so liberally spread out before me.

So hear this lesson they did not teach me in seminary, but rather that I learned from my uncle Johnny: if you pour it all out, a new life forms around you. In some way, Johnny hated his life in this world. He gave so much of it away, and he keeps it for eternal life. This is what makes me so wildly content when my house is full.