Note: If you are queasy and do not want to read about animal slaughter, I would avoid this post.
While we were at Jesse’s farm we participated in a rabbit slaughter. This was particularly hard for me. We went down to get three rabbits to slaughter so Jesse could demonstrate and Jaimie and I could slaughter one on our own and the first thing you have to do is sex the rabbits; she keeps the female rabbits for breeding and kills the male rabbits for meat. Jesse kills her rabbits using a pellet gun so it’s very quick and relatively painless for them but honestly the gun was really hard for me. Jesse pulled out the first rabbit to slaughter and show us how to use the gun properly and quickly, and I knew instantly that I couldn’t do it. I decided to stay out there during the slaughter out of respect for the rabbits and a desire to know the whole process but when we went up to do the processing and I had to leave. It was a purely physical reaction, my body wouldn’t let me stay and participate. The thing I found most interesting was the fact that ideologically I have no problem with backyard meat. I want to support farmers who grow and kill their own meat and I’ve thought about doing that myself one day. But agreeing with the idea of it did not make it any easier to actually do the killing.
This is the exact reason why I wanted to participate in the rabbit slaughter, to fully understand what it means to eat meat. We have come to a place where we can see meat in a package in the grocery and not have to make any connection with the fact that this used to be a living creature. Now, I want to make it clear that I am not writing this blog post as an argument to be vegetarian or vegan, I am writing it out of a desire to understand where we are as a society and a desire to actually engage with this issue of eating meat. What does it mean for the majority of a country to have absolutely no connection or care for the meat they are eating? It has become a mechanized and callous system, out of sight, out of mind, that we should, quite honestly, be ashamed of. If we are going to eat meat we should at least know the cost of this choice out of respect for ourselves and respect for the lives we are choosing to end. I do not believe there is anything wrong with eating meat every once in a while that has been raised in a sustainable system and killed in a humane and peaceful manner. I do believe there is a lot wrong with turning animals into numbers, seeing them as their end result, and focusing on efficiency and low monetary cost, not to mention the horribly excessive consumption of meat in this country. There is always cost when death is involved, but our society has merely pushed the cost onto the environment, the consumer, and, quite often, those in the lower income bracket who cannot be so picky about the jobs they must choose or the places they must live all for the sake of convenience and comfortability. I wanted to participate in the rabbit slaughter to remind myself of the weight of the choices that are so easy to make in this society, and it was a really hard day, as it should have been.
In an ideal world, when we ate meat we would know exactly where it came from, exactly the process the animal went through, and we would be a lot more grateful and aware. We shield ourselves so regularly from any impact we may have on others and dismiss such thoughts as too emotional or weak. Interestingly enough, it takes a lot of strength to be fully aware of what you are doing and then make a choice from that, strength that I clearly do not have yet. I hope to work up to a rabbit slaughter, not out of some sick desire to kill but out of the desire to fully participate in a the complete cycle of life. If I am going to eat meat I need to know exactly what that means, not the pretty version of happy animals on green, fluffy pasture but the actual participation in the life and death of a creature that will help to continue my life. This is a hard road to go down, in Maine one of the farms we will visit slaughters chickens every Wednesday and I am planning on being a part of that. I have to see the value of life in each creature and out of this is blooming an incredible respect for animals, plants, the whole environment we live in which provides life for us through the consumption of food. We cannot deny how connected we are with everything around us, the only choice we have is to participate and participate well.
On New Zealand Whites by Jaimie
I.
I promise it’s not a thirst for blood.
It’s no craving like Arlo’s,
As he whimpers and barks
Over and over and over
At the gate, me inside with my
fingers on the first trigger I’ve
met in a long, long time.
My mind was made; we both calm.
I promise it’s not a thirst for blood.
Two racing hearts align for a single moment
And I can’t help but watch in awe as
That translucent red hue leaves his fair blue eyes and
Stains the fur between his two large, patient ears.
I wish I could say I was hesitant,
But what difference would five more seconds have made?
My mind was made; we both calm.
I promise it’s not a thirst for blood.
II.
I have caught, filleted, and eaten countless fish in my life.
A second nature kill, if you will.
But if I believe that all beasts of the land, water, and sky are created
Equally, belonging on earth,
Loved for their niche,
Why could I kill a fish
But not a mammal?
Vegetarian. Pescatarian. I’ve paid my days.
Today I’ll say, “At least I’m selective (picky sounds worse),
Only eating the meat of animals
raised by the respected
rotated through pasture,
gifted to the table.
And I’m willing to kill it in order to eat it.”
Sounds swell, quintessentially sustainable, when in Boone!…
Maybe in theory, but in practice?
My mind was made; we both calm.
I promise it’s not a thirst for blood.
Now before you blame, object, or cry for their furry, sentient life, know this:
This breathing ball of fur became my beast of burden—
A cross to carry up the hill
From the hutch to the house.
I couldn’t merely put him in the bucket, ready for the knife.
With one shot to his head I made a covenant
To be kept, my hands ‘round his ankles
Til death, blade, brine, and pot do us part.
My mind was made; we both calm.
I promise it’s not a thirst for blood.
There was nothing easy about it—
cracking vertebrae
stripping a hide only to reveal a meager mass of pearlescent muscle
the blood on my skin
Do you think that feels good?
No, friend.
With blood on my hands
My own blood will never smell as it once did.
Hands and mind and heart, I am stained.
My mind was made; we both calm.
I promise it’s not a thirst for blood.
III.
But only by your blood can I thirst
For the breadth of life
Found in the breasts of beasts.
Maybe it’s too soon to say how sweet you were that night
Or the next morning atop a medley of salad greens—yes, salad for breakfast.
But only by your flesh can I taste
What this world has to offer.
Heart wrenching as it is, I had to kill you first.
And by grace alone I find divine appreciation for your life and Jesse’s instruction.
From here I walk on with more love
to give and receive,
Keeping life on the table to share among us.
Yesterday morning I woke up very early and thought about what my “off day” would entail: There aren’t any sheets of treacherous ice on the roads, I could go for a run; I could read a whole book; I could finish my larger, current book; I could paint; Lauren and Lindsay are off in Nashville—I could jump on their bed…
I had my breakfast and eventually watched the Vardens hustle off to Hannah’s basketball game this morning around 9 o’clock. From downstairs I heard John call up, asking if I wanted to go to the game. From the top of the stairs I hesitated, clinging to my day’s great mental demands, and John, standing there with two eager beavers Miriam and Virginia, said, “Well maybe some other week.” It didn’t take me a moment more to consider my whole reason for living here, rooted here, with this family and what it may mean to Hannah if I changed my unspoken mind. Good thing. The girls’ delight was enough to make me glad—as if the rest of the day was not enough for harmony to resound in my mind.
. . .
Thinking it would be comparable to my old days in church league, I quickly realized how much this league was a community affair: Every person there was a volunteer, a participant—whether they were the Refs, Coaches, players, supportive parents in the stands, folks running concessions, or even the high schoolers selling today’s game tickets which fundraise for their own athletics—and many were there from start to finish, 9am to 6pm, every Saturday. Sure concessions at 10am were everything I oppose, with the sugar, food dye, and who knows whats kind of cheese dip, but everyone (a “membership” as Jayber Crow would call them) was present. This matters most, “progressive” community gardens or none at all. There I noticed my growing familiarity of the “Major” family name, thinking that the Mississippi must run through their Major veins. Nancy introduced me to friends and fellow parents as one of the three Green Hill farm interns and I fancied their confused looks as they wondered why we three North Carolinians had estranged our way to Hickman, KY just to dig in the dirt. Well, my reason is this game, these family names, the smiles on the girls’ faces—and any farming that happens in between. My height of respect for this community arose there in that gym, Vardens, Taylors, and Majors around me.
Unfortunately, Hannah’s team lost by four points—26 to 30—but they play the same team next Saturday…and the next, and the next.
We came back to the house and before I could even reach the door, Miriam had her scooter out and was ready to show me the proper way to scoot along the sidewalk, uphill and downhill and over the cracks where spring grasses eagerly sprout. Watching her ride off, all I could do was look up to the sky and think about how disappointed someone might be if they knew my heart intended to read at my desk on a day like this. So I dropped my agenda there, once again, and let a four year old tell me what to do. Well, a few sisterly arguments arose, having three intense scooterers on a single sidewalk, and Miriam disappeared while I reassured Hannah that there was plenty of sidewalk for the three of them. With slight worry and slight admiration for her independence, I walked up towards the church and around the corner. I found her sitting on the sidewalk in front of the church, almost tucked into the hedge, watching the sky. “Hi Miriam, whatcha doin?” “I’m waiting for the birds,” waving her hand overhead. “Dad says they come by here.” So I sat with her and we waited for the birds.
Eventually back in the house, John suggested us all to head to the farm for a fun day instead of a workday. I went up and put my ambitions in my bag—that book I wanted to read, that book I wanted to finish, a third paintbrush I had forgotten the other day. I knew I wouldn’t likely get a run in so I didn’t bother with my tennis shoes. And as fast as one can get three youngins out the door, we headed off to Green Hill.
Thinking back to a Koinonia study session reading and discussion regarding our treatment of the Sabbath day, I found myself revisiting the meaning of a Sabbath and what I have adopted for my own Sabbath practices since then. On Sundays at Koinonia, an assortment of interns gathered for breakfast to read an essay from Moral Ground and I began baking bread for communion at the potluck dinner and gathered worship that night. Since Koinonia, Sunday being my assumed Sabbath day, I still make bread, read an essay from Moral Ground, and more recently I’ve taken to doing “Examen” with Matt (reflecting upon and sharing our consolations and desolations of the week) on Sundays. Farm chores accompany the day, of course, by late afternoon, and with eight people in a household, there always dishes to be washed. Those two work activities do not cease any day, even on the Sabbath day. Many consider that a Sabbath day is supposed to be void of work—the Hebrews poured themselves over Sabbath laws to distinguish activity from work: if one scattered grain on the Sabbath for the chickens and some seed germinated, it would be no different than sowing and any fruits would be evidence of work; if a peg-legged man ran from his burning home on the Sabbath and did not detach his peg-leg, it would be no different than carrying wood, which is considered work (Jordan 162). Such rules Jesus disregarded as he went about his work on the “Holy Day.” After reading from Clarence Jordan’s Substance of Faith while at Koinonia, I have understood Jesus’ unrelenting work on the Sabbath as his demonstration of the need for “tremendous activity” on the Sabbath (164). Such “coordinated” activity brings us into harmony with God’s intentions; we can seek partnership with those around us just as God sought partnership with creation. “The Sabbath that God had been aiming at was to cease from his own private, individual activities, for now he had a partner” (164).
With or without Green Hill, I know that there is no shortage of work on a farm any day—in the least, there are animal chores. And being one eager to work, to accomplish a task or act in service to another, I do not have trouble finding work that the early Hebrews would have shamed on the Sabbath day. Easily, I remind myself that this work is acceptable. Just as easily, I remind myself that the point is not to avoid work; the point is to seek meaningful, fruitful time with others, even if it means “working” with them…
Yet yesterday afternoon, despite all of the morning events demonstrating the potential of a Sabbath day and the true need to plant seedlings sooner rather than later, I caught myself desperately wanting to hull myself up and read on the farm porch swing. It wasn’t Sunday, so I didn’t have my “normal Sabbath” activities to do; it was a declared free-of-work day—I could do as I pleased, though with more reason than a four year old may have. But reading alone wasn’t coordinated activity, in harmony with anything. It was nowhere near participating in an all day, county-wide basketball affair, or scootering uphill to watch for the birds. So I believe God thought better, presenting me with tremendous activity that never allowed me to pick up my book yesterday, much less sit in that porch swing:
– A localish man, Lawrence, had come to check out June, the donkey that had been limping this week, and John summoned me in case I’d be interested in seeing her hoof treated.
– The Girls “rescued” a mole that Leo dug up, and provoked, it bit Virginia.
– Virginia found one of the chickens with a broken leg.
– Germ Test seeds had sprouted, and the sun landing just right on the porch made for great conditions to sow the ones desperate enough for soil
– Hannah was there, ready to learn, record data, and try it herself. Even Miriam took an interest.
– John and the Girls had taken a liking to ‘Treasure” and Monet (?) so obviously we had an impromptu dance party when the music played.
– Preparing for the big Snow Ball at the house back in Hickman, Miriam wanted her fine, curly hair braided.
– And finally, I finished the bread John had started—and baked it.
This was my tremendous Sabbath Day—not Sunday, but Saturday, as she came.
Among the many trades of the Varden Family, there is a clock tinkerer. John’s great great grandfather oversaw construction of the Fulton County Courthouse and his grandfather later restored the Courthouse clock. With this family line and the simple convenience of living nearby, John maintains the eight-day clock. Once every week he walks the half-block to wind it, oil any components needing a slick, and perhaps delight in the sounding bell, as striking from below as it is 5 miles away, so they say. This morning, after the girls were off to school and Lauren was rallying, John asked if Lindsay and I would want to accompany him to the clock. Despite the blustery freeze, we left the house. And I will never forget standing in that clock tower, that hour being one of the best I’ve ever counted.
.
Leo came along and I thought for a moment that he was coming up with us, but John told him to “wait” outside at the steps. Think Lassie, but slightly less attentive. Everyone inside greeted John, which is very telling of his life here. Born and raised and returned. With older generations passing and the younger coming then going, not to mention the void that inter-connective technology has ironically created, it would be fair to assume that not everyone knows everyone in their hometown anymore than they know their immediate neighbor. But for at least this mere moment, that does not seem to be the case here; we were like characters set in a 1940s story of a small river hamlet.
We passed through a private office to get to the stairwell. So hidden, I figured visitors must be infrequent. The air had a shy sense of shame, like that when Adam and Eve knew their nakedness; something up there had once been great but those days were lost and now we were intruders evoking the painful memory of its prime. John, Lindsay, and I climbed up the clocktower—up the spiraling stairs; up a metal ladder to reach the trap door to the platform where the bell and hammer hang; and finally up the wooden ladder to the height of the tower, where the wheels and cogs quietly turn between each hour.
John began winding the clock, which had read somewhere in the hour of 1pm. The minute hand neared 2 o’clock and a lever began swinging round and round, like a weather vane in a strong wind, only vertically. An iron weight dropped a notch on a cog, and the bell hanging right beneath us rung out for the hour, mulled by the walls and the its ceiling, but strong all the same. We shared stories of both of our Grandfathers having been clock tinkerers as he used the key to wind the minute hands towards 3 o’clock. Again the lever began to swing and John stopped winding the cog to watch the oiled mechanisms move round and wait for the sounding bell to follow. Just as the sound from one ring began to fade, the hammer struck the bell again, deafening any chance of quiet until it finished its sequence, a force unstoppable by even perhaps a clock tinkerer. John continued to wind the clock, turning the cogs, slowly bringing the hands of the clock around towards the 11 o’clock hour but stopping at each even hour for the bell to ring accordingly.
His patience was a performance that no computer-automated clock can match, and I found myself glad in that moment that someone under the age of 75 today knows how to care for such mechanical art. And I found myself grateful for the bell’s silencing act; at each o’clock we three stopped chatting and I admired every ring in that silence provided, as if it rung for someone or something, I just had no idea for who or what.
At 10:55 we climbed down the top ladder from the mechanics to the floor below to watch the mallet ring the bell, the mystery of the sound following a swinging lever and a dropping iron weight resolved. I heard the lever swing and knew it was coming. I was so excited to see the scene behind the scenes that I didn’t think to cover my ears. None of us did. But be assured that we did not delay once one ring sent our ears reeling. 11 o’clock. Through the open window frames I gazed out over the Missip, my hands still cupping my ears, and imagined how far 5 miles might stretch once across the river and if indeed the bell could be heard in that spot. The bell gave me this silence as it rang its sequence, an unstoppable force that would only finish by laws of matter and gravity that I hardly fathom. Finally then, the last ring could fade with peace until the next hour came around, when it would ring for everything, living, waiting, or dying, here in this town.
.
John Varden—father, pastor, farmer, hunter, clock tinkerer. And that’s not to mention his other half, Nancy—mother, pastor, food security advocate; and their three young minions—one a public speaker, one an artist, and one a mermaid/Diana Price. So far I take it that John and Nancy are deeply involved, living within this landscape for the mere sake of it. Already I have seen this involvement range from hunting local game, bringing legal accountability to hog house licensing, implementing a public children’s arts program, and pastoring churches with ever more dwindling congregations, and even clock winding. Living with the Vardens, I think I am beginning to understand the complexity of vocation and I am quite fond of this idea—dedicating my life to make a living, and I don’t mean in the destroyed individual sense of the phrase. With this curiosity of “vocation,” I know I will be learning much from the daily components of their life as I seek how I should weave all of my work into a single, shared life pursuit.
Looking out from a bluff over the town of Hickman, KY
As you may have figured by now, we are quite settled here; we are one month into our three month internship at Koinonia Farm. Lauren, Lindsay, and I have shared stories, estranging encounters, poems, and even the smallest moments of light, all centered around this place; though, we have yet to share where its identity lies—identity in the past and present. So, this is for all of those who have heard us say “Koinonia,” those who have tried to spell it, those who have tried to pronounce it, and the rest of those who want to know…”Is it really just a nudist colony set amidst the red clay roads in southwest Georgia?”
Koinonia [pr. Koy-nohn-ee-ah] (origin, Greek) :: communion, commune
Koinonia’s mission statement:
“We are Christians called to live together in intentional community sharing a life of prayer, work, study, service and fellowship. We seek to embody peacemaking, sustainability, and radical sharing. While honoring people of all backgrounds and faiths, we strive to demonstrate the way of Jesus as an alternative to materialism, militarism and racism.”
Wait a hot minute. “We are Christians.” Who sighs with relief from a sudden, unexpected sense of solidarity overwhelming them, and who cringes, gritting their teeth at my mention of religion? Go ahead, grit your teeth. But, bear with me. How often does “Christians” appear with the same language as “sustainability,” “radical sharing,” “alternative to militarism?” That has to strike some chord of curiosity. For my friends and mentors that don’t hold this faith, I know for a fact that many of you cherish personal values with some regard to social justice, ecological resilience, and/or economic vitality. Thus, I very well think my experience in this community, despite being identified as Christian, shares common ground with what you believe, study, teach, or how you seek to live. For those of you that I do not know—yes, we have poetry enthusiasts, a Romanian, and friends of friends following our blog—conversations centered about “new monasticism” are liberating “the church” around the world. Suddenly, it is a lamp that I will put on a stand. So consider this my input to the conversations. I hope you find it worth reading and sharing…or at least may it be a conversation piece at your next potluck. For today (possibly more than ever), everyone of any or no belief should be working together for a “heaven” on earth, painted with all of our individuals stories to create a whole picture.
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And if you are still gritting their teeth, a DISCLAIMER:
Speaking about my faith has always been an EXTREMELY vulnerable subject for me; any mention of it in the classroom would leave me feeling like I was sitting there amidst everyone, stark naked. But as friends/peers/mentors/professors/strangers who have lived to seek equality, live honestly, and respect anyone IN SPITE of her/his beliefs, I hope that you can respect the history of my own faith that I want to share with you and that you would also receive it with openness—despite the word “Christian” appearing. I need this. For, there’s even more substance to my creed: While in almost all Appalachian State University circles I felt respected for my morals/ethics, never did I feel like this respect was for their rootedness in Christianity. In fact, any association of such morals/ethics with a Christian religious figure, like Jesus, seemed like grounds for being written-off by those opposed or once-hurt by organized religion…surely Jesus cannot be associated with today’s principles of justice and sustainability. And more: while my peers directly or indirectly renounced Christianity in discussion, many revered religions with doctrine for peace and equality (such as Buddhism), within the same discussion. Could there not be a common root, or purpose to live for, not matter one’s understanding of “God?” Well,I understand: first, Christian faith is often spoken of without much graciousness; second, the mainstream, but misconstrued, personification of [American] Christianity has really made it difficult for me to find mutual identity within this faith.
So for the sake of evading judgment from peers in those aforementioned spaces, my faith often went unmentioned, especially in Sustainable Development classes and social justice circles. I preferred to only live it, defending not, saying nothing. Now, by habit, I could omit this vocabulary below entirely, but then I would be sacrificing a large portion of my own authenticity for the sake of popular comfort. And frankly, I want to be in a figurative place where I can call myself Christian and not quietly glance around to see who cringed. So I will ask you, would you sacrifice your personal convictions for the sake of your voice always being music to another’s ear? I hope not, my friends! So, I may use some jargon below in my description of Koinonia that even I still struggle to say; however, I am learning how to share what I believe in the context of the Bible and not what a televised body of politicians, preachers, and other instigators have told me to say about our “shared” faith. Basically, Jesus did not live only for the white and American and privileged. So if this makes any sense or you want to make sense of it, please read on!
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Koinonia Farm
The Jordan family
Koinonia Farm was founded in 1942 by two families, Clarence and Florence Jordan and Martin and Mabel England, though it was steered through tumultuous cultural and community turmoil by a single man’s vision that went on to influence thousands of lives. Clarence Jordan (pronounced “Jer-din”), an UGA graduate in agriculture but a Doctor of Theology (greek and new testament), wanted to live in a way that demonstrated a life dedicated to living out the way of Jesus…in the 1940s, in southern Georgia. Based on stories from his childhood, I reckon seminary was not the only experience that determined his theology. In a journal entry, he recalled hearing “Jesus Loves the Little Children” and making the connection that it is sung to the same tune as an American battle hymn. Not only do I find significance in the way he recognized such discrepancy as a young child, questioning the ethic of the song in his formative sunday school years, but also by the way he made a conscientious objection to it. His young adulthood was filled with similar instances, instances of objection to the so-called “Christian ethic” he witnessed. Eventually, he came to this conclusion: rather than imaging Jesus as a religious man roaming in the Middle East in biblical times, he imagined him here living amongst the most marginalized people, seeking full equality on the dirt clay roads of Americus, GA, pre-U.S. civil rights. Simply put, he believed that Jesus (regardless of your understanding of him as being the son of God or not) was not a religionist, but a revolutionary worth following. Further, the Bible is not a “diagrammed formula,” but a collection of stories that depict a spirit by which we can live accordingly. So from 1942 onward, Clarence sought to live this VERSION of the Gospels and along the way he wrote and preached his depiction “The Cotton Patch Gospels.” Such were the means to share and invite others to live in the same spirit. Yet, Jordan and others associated with his demonstration plot in Americus, Georgia were never mentioned in a U.S. history class or any lecture on Civil Rights advocacy in the South…in my experience, at least.
From its beginning in 1942, this farm was a “demonstration plot” for racial equality and conscientious objection. “Koinonia,” named for it’s meaning of “communion,” was a farm where black and white both lived, worked, and ate together with functional harmony. More than an issue of black and white, Conscientious Objectors (C.O.’s) sought refuge at Koinonia, shamed by the majority of society as those unwilling to fight in “God’s war” for their homeland. With such diverse presence, Clarence “was determined to fight fascist-like oppression in Georgia with something that Southerners were almost as familiar with as they were their guns: Christianity.” For, Clarence wanted lives in the Southeastern U.S. to be changed by grace, not laws. In this case, he would question which is worse, segregation or forced integration? Though he was not ignorant to the risk their demonstration plot would face. For indeed, local people found this conglomeration of people enraging, and conflict escalated as word of the counter-culture lifestyle here reached further out of town. Regional church officials suggested that Koinonians were “ill-advised.”
Florence Jordan remained at Koinonia until her death in the 90s, being the voice for Clarence’s vision of sustained communion
One of my favorite Koinonia-congregation conundrums involved Florence Jordan representing the whole Koinonia community at a Rehoboth Baptist Church in 1950: the deacons held a business meeting to decide if Koinonians should be asked to leave the church as they caused “disunity” in the congregation and questioned the Baptist doctrine and policies. When the deacons’ recommendations were read aloud, suggesting that “representatives of [Koinonia] have brought people from other races into the services of the Rehoboth…and have disrupted the Christian unity and spirit which had previously prevailed,” Florence stoodup and said, “I move that the recommendations of the deacons be accepted as read.” There was “gaping, confused silence,” as she basically pleaded guilty. Florence later reflected, “They supported the motion but they didn’t want to vote with me.”
At this point, most members stopped seeking discipleship in area churches until a hopeful day when reconciliation was desired though a select few still persisted in finding a congregation that considered themselves akin to Koinonia’s ethics. These few found home in the Episcopal church, though even this congregation became afraid that their wooden church would be targeted by the KKK. So the “church” was no longer a sanctuary for Koinonians; they sought spiritual direction from one another, affirming that their pursuit for justice was indeed righteous. However, opposition continued to strain the community, growing more violent by January of 1957. The KKK and anonymous others repeatedly rode by with armed motorcades, shot at their houses day and night with machine guns, beat up community members in town, and spoke endless threats. They deliberately decided to remain unarmed by have a rotating watchman at the road, thinking, “No one will shoot a man or woman only armed with a flashlight. One night, the flashlight was shot right out of farm resident John Eustice’s hand. In many cases, Koinonians woke up to 300 of their fruiting trees chopped down, the beehives destroyed, their farm stand bombed, the welcome sign burned down. On Easter Day, a large motorcade passed and Koinonian children found a piece of a church bulletin on the road side: on one side it read, “Blessed is the man whose words and deeds are day by day and every day a witness to the living and loving Lord,” while on the opposite side, “Get out, You Mongrels!” was scribbled. Koinonian children were banned from the Americus public schools or were removed by their parents for safety’s sake. Farm product boycotts instigated by the KKK put the farm in a financial crunch, growing more severe as not only local customers participated but general suppliers also cut their ties with Koinonia out of fear from public pressure. There was support, though few and far between, from sympathetic intentional communities in the north and Koinonia product customers around the U.S. The mail-order farm products and promisory notes (to cover the farm’s insurance, which was all repealed in 1957) from over two thousand supporters actually became the bread-winners when the local market for their meats, eggs, nuts, and sweets was staunched by the boycott. But despite being asked to leave the community, the Jordans and most everyone remained here, painstakingly deciding that to live the faith they claimed, they had to demonstrate and advocate for justice by living it together…even if it meant dying in such a pursuit. However, not a single person was killed, despite trace bullets riddling through car and house walls, right past their heads on more than one occasion.
Jordan is now publicly honored as a peacemaker who believed not in creating public disturbance for one’s cause, but rather for standing one’s ground for justice—simply living out a Christian life with as little contradiction as possible. When asked if he had ever been on a freedom walk, Clarence commented, “No, but I always walk freely.” While honor today may seem obvious, it has come from a long period of redemption, for at his death in 1969, he was still a man whose life was rejected by even the coroner. Members wondered how Koinonia would continue without his spiritual guidance, but much direction came from Florence and the Fuller family, and thus the Koinonia spirit continued. The recreation here led to the creation of Habitat for Humanity, the Fuller Center for Housing, Jubilee Partners (a refugee living community rooted in agriculture to ease transition into American society), the Prison Project, and many other community-based initiatives. Of course, the community has had its issues. In the 1990s, there was a huge transition in mission, involving a new non-profit structure which led to financial squandering and residential flight. Koinonia then faced a period of questioning, for leadership, spiritual direction, and financial stability.
Today, this community has come full circle; while still centered around partnership, it has swung back to its agricultural roots under the guidance of many “Stewards” (long-term collaborators), which includes Director Bren Dubay; a courageous novice; and contributing interns. These members and interns today have the conviction that living out Christian ethics to seek a “kingdom on earth” means reconciling and living with the land, not just people, as they always have. They asked, “How is a sign with a skull and cross bones hung in the orchard inviting?” Since then, they have made slow changes for agrarian reconciliation, like using biological pest control in the pecan orchards (the main crop) rather than conventional pesticides; using fair trade ingredients in the chocolate made for their product industry; involving a homeschool cooperative to peak youth interest in agrarian life; and using a permaculture model and attitude for developing the farm’s practicality within this plot. While membership is far less today than its peak of 42 in the 1950s , those here embrace each others’ expression of the individual and collective faith, and hope that their hospitality is inviting for others to visit or join. For, in continuity with Clarence’s vision, all are invited to the table for “koinonia.”
The Koinonians today, minus some partners, local friends, and us new seasonal interns!
With so many people engaged here, Koinonia takes on more than the meaning of “communion.”
Norris excitedly says it is, “1324 GA Hwy 49 South—Americus, GA.”
Hannah, our German roommate uses a translation website that defines it as, “We can be human only in fellowship, in community, in koinonia, in peace.”
And I? For now I am calling it “taking root.”
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So, if you cannot tell, I love this place. I wake up at dawn, awaiting the sun—which tells me I will face joys and tribulations this day. And then I go to sleep by the sweet lullaby of the Milky Way, at the brightest I’ve ever felt it. Everyone here has such rich heritage, laden with joy and sorrow and despite their nerves, they still chose to share their story with us. Then they listened to my story. There are two bright-eyed, tree-climbing, swing-setting children that ask me, “Can you play with us?” and despite how tired I am or how bad of a headache I have, I can hardly ever say “no, not today.” The pigs are happy to eat the weeds I pull, in preparation for a wintering garden. We eat Malabar spinach and sweet potato greens in our salad at lunch. We have pickle parties, complete with grape leaves. I find focus in daily thought and prayer in both solitude and community, a sounding bell reminding me three times a day to pause for this (unless we interns forget to ring the 8 o’clock bell…which we often do). I get to read for discussion and my sole pleasure. We read short stories aloud on our porch and when the light is on, the community interns know to come over for reindeer games like “telephone-pictionary,” “writey-drawey,” “a fat lady sings in a garden,” or what have you. And what would it be without Capture the Flag at “O’dark:30?”
Yes we CAN have a pickle party! 40 quarts, with ease when you’re in good companyWhen cats come into the garden, put them into your overalls
The daily expressions of life here at this plot bring us consolation and even desolation, and these, my sisters and brothers, are what we find worth sharing with you as we live in koinonia.
In the meantime, DELIGHT in your own celebration of authentic community!
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Jaimie
*All historical facts were compiled from various sources: Dallas Lee’s The Cotton Patch Evidence, the film “Briars in the Cotton Patch,” our Study Sessions on Koinonia Farm, and www. Georgiaencyclopedia.org.
Leaving Caitlin and Garrett’s in Decatur, I really didn’t feel like we’d gone far from home. Actually, we ALL felt like we were still in North Carolina. Compared to some friends who are traveling the country as I speak, like Bobby Lee and Chris Barker, Amy Marion, and Sydney Williams, we have hardly ventured. For those friends, half the adventure lies in the journey, and of course if their destination is Half Dome in Yosemite, then yes the other half of the adventure righteously lies in the destination. For us however, on our Grand Farmventure, the adventure lies almost completely in the destination-where we’ll settle to live for months at a time, meeting neighbors, exploring the depths of intentional community, and service to one another as visitors to a whole.
When would the difference seep beneath our topsoil, bringing teeming life into our clay body, breaking up burdensome clods, all to soon lay a garden for our season here in the Southeast? Well, the two armadillos were a fair start. Lauren saw two on the side of I-85 and was like, “What the—Well, we’re not in North Carolina anymore.” In the backseat though, my mind ran along the roadside ditches at sixty miles per hour, looking for traces of familiarity. I spotted yellow blossoms that at 60 might have been Cutleaf Coneflower. But I know I saw Blazing Star, clearly, for it blazed, reminding me of the times I picked it along the New River in Todd, NC. This seemingly insignificant recognition of wildflowers I assumed only found in Appalachia was so pleasing. They were a piece of that place I could carry out of there to have as a reminder of the sweet blessings from my former home.
And then the rain came; not the kind of rain I’ve learned to expect after living in the mountains. Yes ma’am. The bottom drops out and it rains cats and dogs down here in the pine savannahs.
The rows upon rows of pecan branches overhanging the one-lane mimicked the shadows cast by live oaks that I fondly recall from my coastal birthplace, almost fooling me into believing so. But swaying in the heavy, uncensored air left by rain, their leaves could be distinguished, long and bracketed. By their massive size, I wandered off thinking about their long-withstood history. What atrocities have they seen, leaves seeped and branches laden? Are their cores so hardened to our slave act that now they twist their faces away in discretion, or do they lean to the light, reconciled, celebrating with new bright growth? This imagery astonished me, but soon I’d be walking through 90 acres of the pecans, far from the North Carolina oaks. I just hope that graceful imagery replaces my assumption of history here, the pecans serving a renewed purpose today in this surrounding community, a purpose that has always been pursued at Koinonia.
Speaking of, after many rolling hills that I was not expecting, we arrived onto the Koinonia campus. It was deserted. We drove around, not knowing where we were supposed to be, but saw no one. And we were already a few minutes late past our 4pm expected arrival time. Everyone’s comments about us going off to Georgia to join a cult streamed through my mind and I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Despite not knowing what the heck we’ve gotten ourselves into (besides a few letters written with expectations of this internship) I was elated; my name was being written into this clay, and spelled correctly, to boot.
…..And don’t fret, we were soon met by Bren and Amanda, the Director of Koinonia and the community Novice, respectively, with warm welcomes and some needed direction for the rest of the day.
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Jaimie
Jubilee House, our new home!A gift awaited each of us in our room: The Cotton Patch Evidence and Sleeping with Bread…homework to readStill think we joined a cult?
Well, I’ve left Boone; I’ve left Wilmington, all within the week. The goodbyes, I love you’s, until-thens, and later alligators can leave one numb. Numb from the emotions clouding overhead, capsizing the boat I’ve always weathered. Have the winds and changing tides at the full moon turned me under? Not completely. There is a murmur of excitement growing with each mile as I get closer to Raleigh, where Lindsay and I will leave to meet Lauren in Asheville. There it begins. Or maybe it already has, just by leaving the first of our collective three homes. All I know is, I cannot believe this is it. We are leaving and complacency is no longer an option as I join each of the women with whom I will spend this next year, finding where (literally and figuratively) our souls yearn to rest.
“Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting-over and over announcing your place in the family of things.” Oh Mary Oliver, you always keep the breadth on the table.
Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you.
Jaimie
Here are some images from our many legs of the trip to Americus, GA:
Sherman the stud muffin wanted to come!Jaimie and Lindsay leaving Raleigh“Ducks say Quak.” But, what does a fox say?
Lindsay, Jaimie, and Lauren leaving Fletcher for Decatur, GA
Thanks Mrs. Kim for letting us stay over!The party hat, of course Jaimie brought it.Lauren and Norton the Notorious…So we made Lauren walk…
Words of wisdom from various contributors along the way:
“TJMax is my spirit animal.” – Sam Gale
“Everybody comes from the same source. If you hate another human being, you’re hating part of yourself.” Elvis (yes, he’s alive and we met him…on a coaster)
“Sometimes not getting what you want is an amazing stroke of luck.” Dalai Lama
“I found my contribution to the group: I’m the tallest.” Lauren Wilke
Three curious women embarking on a farming adventure, here are our thoughts and experiences.
The Grand Farmventure 