Epworth

The man with the fluffy white wig, buckled shoes, and a lit candle tells us that if John Wesley were hanging around now, he definitely would have an iPod. We are following him through Epworth, the birthplace of John Wesley, and we follow the dual lights of his candle and that of his companion, a woman in an 18th Century dress who trails behind us.

As a Christian, a Methodist, and a Wesley scholar, this is a site of pilgrimage for me: the site of the original rectory which, burning down in an unfortunate and suspect fire, saw the six year-old John escape just before the house collapsed, plucked from the second-story window "like a brand from the burning"; the kitchen in which Susanna, his mother, began a church meeting for over 150 people when the local vicar, who was replacing her husband while he was away, was stilted and ineffective--and over which, when the replacement wrote to Samuel [the father] to complain that this woman was undermining him, Samuel told her to cease and desist, to which Susanna replied, basically: "He's not doing it. If you want to restrict the Lord's work, then sure, I'll stop, but that will be on your head." She was a cool lady.

This is the place where John and Charles received much of their schooling, experienced their fireball of a mother who laid the groundwork for all of the organizing work they would later do. Where Charles wrote the first of his 6000+ hymns. Where, when John was barred from the Anglican Church, he ascended the only place he was legally allowed to do so--his father's grave--and preached the Good News to the common folk in the open air and drew great crowds.

About the only thing I remember from my last visit here in 2003 is the dressy Madame Toussade's wire-based figurine of Wesley, and how short the man was. He's still just as short, but I am surprised now by how much open space there is in the Old Rectory, that is to say, the house. Samuel was a chronic debtor, which meant that upon his death the house and everything in it was quickly scattered to the four winds in repayment. Epworth itself, a family home at least since the Wesleys moved in in 1695, then remained a family home until the 1950s when it became the preserved site it is nowadays, though the wide rooms and short carpet remind me less of the period furniture scattered well about than the days of one-TV-families, "Leave it to Beaver", and Frigidaires.

But it's not about whether it looked exactly the same in Wesley's day. It's about being the presence of a history that has changed the history of the world. That changed the face of Christian ethics. That called the Anglican Church to task and reminds us to love people who don't look like us, because they are just as much God's children as we are. That brought hope to the lower classes, which, some folks are telling me over here, prevented a second Civil War in England, sparked by the French Revolution.

Looking at Samuel's commentary on Job in Latin and his novelization of "The Life of Christ" in heroic couplets, Charles' music stand that saw so many uses, I taste and am challenged by that history. I learn more: not only was John a preacher, ethicist, organizer, activist, hymn-writer, and diarist, he also wrote a book for a time when physicians were scarce and health care was nonexistent. "Primitive Physic" offers simple, natural remedies to common maladies, which very well may heal a person, though, if it didn't, the solutions would do no harm. It's simple stuff, like "Please eat well and exercise, and don't drink beer or liquor when you're pregnant," but it was positively revolutionary when most people couldn't get such knowledge elsewhere... and the proceeds from the book paid for clinic costs Wesley started at at least three different churches where people could receive free health care.

As we leave, I think about that book, which I never came upon in all of my Wesley research, and was shocked to find, as it's so different from everything else he's written. How much time do I spend on the things that I find fascinating, and how much time do I sit still, waiting for the rain of life to stop so I can go back to being productive? I know that life is not all about productivity, but I have been given a great curiosity for languages, a strong desire to jot down poems as they randomly come to mind, wherever I am, and abdominal muscles that would love to see the light of day, among other things. While Wesley may or may not have had a six-pack, and certainly had a hard time sitting still and enjoying a place before he moved on, he was very good at carving out time to be a good steward of all of his interests; all of his diverse publications support that thought.

I want to be like that. I want the Dewey Decimal System to find my name scattered all across the various sections of the library. I want Google to fall into tears of frustration as it pulls up: "Poet, Playwright, Minister, Filmmaker, Friend, Father, Son, Brother, Lover, Musician, Journalist... can this all be the same guy?!" Yes, Google, cry your tears because I have much to be a good steward of, and too much zest for life to let you compartmentalize me.