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Page One<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Introduction<br /><br />
<br /><br />
In May 201815 the POWELTON Baptist Society for foreign missions was formed with Jesse Mercer as it's president. Today. Powelton, Georgia is a village no miles south of interstate 20 leading from Atlanta to Augusta. In 1815 it was larger than either city. The stated purpose of the society was, "to evangelize the heathen in other lands." At the conclusion of the meeting establishing the society, Jesse, Mercer, William, Rayburn, and others, all slaveholders, prayed earnestly for it success. This story has to do with an oblique answer to their prayer; long time passing. Like an echo that ricochet is through Groves and mountain peaks and returns an octave higher than what was uttered. <br /><br />
<br /><br />
In May 1845 another meeting was held in Georgia, this time in Augusta, also having to do with missions. John L Dag, Mercer's third president, met with 325 other delegates and organized the southern Baptist convention. Although it is well known that the real issue with slavery, the stated reason was a difference in methods of mission. The existing national Baptist body, called the triennial convention, had refused to approve James E Reeve, a slaveholder, as a missionary. 118 years later, Sam Oni, an African convert, was admitted to Mercer university, the first black issue of the southern Baptist missionary enterprise to be enrolled.

First page of the manuscript for The Stem of Jesse.

Cover of the book The Stem of Jesse: The Costs of Community at a 1960s Southern School.

Note attached to working copy of the book Soul Among Lions: Musings of a Bootleg Preacher

Some a while back the producer of the television show news Odyssey asked me to do an occasional comment commentary. Some of the essays in this volume were written for those telecasts. I am grateful to use Odyssey for asking me to do them and for granting permission for their use here. <br /><br />
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This is, simply put, a medley of little Diddy's. They have no particular theme and followed up, determined order or arrangement. They reflect whatever I might have been mad at, glad about, exalted in on a given day. Some of them expressed the Chafing of an old man grown weary of what he sees as institutional nonsense. Sheer evil. Other pieces celebrate the glory of God revealed in some event or person.<br /><br />
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They are all highly subjective, bubbling from the depths of one man's soul. A soul that for the adult years of 3/4 of a century has been aroused to anger by the roaring of the lions, but also refreshed and comforted by the tenderness of the little lambs. The antecedent, for some of the iron may be rooted in my own restless temperament, and patience with things what is expected to accept as, after all, only human. But it is my hope that the anger reflects at least a mild flirtation with the radical Christ movement. <br /><br />
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The fragments of compassion, flow, in my mind, from an abounding joy in the miracles God has rot in the lives and deeds of some of his creation. Although they are bits and pieces from the Diddy box of one follower of the way. Albeit from afar.

Manuscript, Soul Among Lions: Musings of a Bootleg Preacher

A page from the preface of the pre-published manuscript of Soul Among Lions: Musings of a Bootleg Preacher.

Cover of the book Soul Among Lions: Musings of a Bootleg Preacher.

The role of white liberal Southerner in the upheavals of the 60s and winding down at the 70s was a cross between fifth column and declaw. Neither is a comfortable stance. Fifth column has a traders ring to it. That vestige of a toe on the feet of something is totally worth worthless <br /><br />
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Accepting the function of fifth column carries the burden of betrayal of one's own people, and it is not lightly carried. Not even in the pursuit of an ideal as noble as the rectification of human owning human. There was no question where the cause of the justice lay as the fledgling civil rights movement of the late 50s feathered out in the 60s. Yet, as itinerant missioners such as I moved from place to place, encouraging White participation in the struggle, acting as propagandist to friendly and unfriendly media, occasionally infiltrating, the established structures of power, offering solace and sanction to black victims of bigotry, there was a nine and indefinable phantom riding along. you weren't raised like this. You are a betrayed your kind. <br /><br />
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The covert aspect of the mission was but one troubling piece of his predicament. And his head there was no coral. But in the gut, there was the fencing with numerous cultural considerations: family ties, regional loyalties, generations of things, being in the way Things were, tendons and sinews, blood and bones reaping with unspoken notions of class, cast and clan. I might a victory from an effort which took months to achieve might be felt as a major.<br />

A page from a draft manuscript of 40 Acres and a Goat: a Memoir by Will D. Campbell.

Cover of the book Forty acres and a goat: a memoir by Will D. Campbell.

First, he must be sure to start the fire directly in the middle of the fireplace. Fires in a well-built fireplace or so cozy, and pretty the flames, dancing and swirling, frolicking, and cracking inside the brick space meant for them. But never, never, are there to be started anywhere else.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Mr. Trimble split some small splinters of heart pinewood he had brought from Georgia. Next he added some sticks of Oak broken into short pieces. Finally, he stacked some larger split hickory he had stored in his woodshed, leaving space for air, so the fire could<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Just as he was about to strike the match on the soul of his boot, two of his young neighbors knocked on the door of his cabin. Come on in. He called.

Interior pages from the book The Pear Tree That Bloomed in the Fall.

The pear tree that bloomed in the fall<br /><br />
<br /><br />
It was mid September and Mr. Trimble was alone in the cabin where he worked on model airplanes. That was his hobby. It was unusually cold for September and he was about to build the first fire of the season. He knew how to build a fire by using just one match. Never more than one match. He had watched his parents build a fire that way when he was a little boy and never forgot it. They did it that way because a box of wooden matches cost a nickel in those days and nickels were scarce. They did not waste. <br /><br />
<br /><br />
First, he must be sure to start the fire directly in the middle of the fireplace. Fires in a well built fireplace are so cozy and pretty, the flames, dancing and swirling, Frolicking and cracking inside the brick space meant for them. But never, never, are they to be started anywhere else.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Mr. Trimble split some small splinters of heart pine wood he had brought from Georgia. Next time sticks of oak broken Into short pieces. Finally, he stacked some large larger split hickory he had stored in his woodshed, leaving space for air, so the fire could breathe.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Just as he was about to strike the match on the soul of his boot, two of his young neighbors knocked on the door of his cabin. Come on in he called. Mary, Virginia Sharkey.<br />

Manuscript page from the book The Pear Tree That Bloomed in the Fall.

The Pear Tree That Bloomed in the Fall

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