Wednesday, November 13, 2019

A Day in DC with DC


It had been some time since I, DC (Don Clymer) visited our nation’s capital (DC), so when the chance arrived to take our Swiss relatives there, I was eager to return. We had many interesting experiences during our day-and-a-half there.


We started at the Lincoln Memorial continued along the reflecting pool until we arrived at the Washington Monument. Everywhere I looked, there were veterans with their button-decorated vests and hats. It wasn’t until we reached the WWII memorial that I realized that it was Veteran’s Day. The wreaths set up within the memorial were dedicated to relatives who had lost their lives during the great war.

From the Washington Monument, we headed north to the White House. It was time for lunch, so we stopped at one of the food trucks and found some Asian owners who spoke NO English. We could barely communicate with them except for hand motions. Too bad we didn’t realize that just two blocks away there was a much larger variety of food trucks. Who knows if they spoke English or not—during our stay for nearly every server in every food service location English was their second language. At least there would have been more variety in food selection.

On my tour around the White House I encountered a handsome, distinguished black man in a light tan suit and tie. I needed to ask him some directions, so I approached him and asked him if he was FBI. He looked the sort. He grinned and said, “No, I’m a lobbyist.” He was super friendly and provided me with the needed information. I didn’t ask him for whom/what he was a lobbyist.

In fact, every person I stopped to ask for information was extremely polite and helpful. Since there were so many tourists around us, I always prefaced my questions with this statement: “Are you from here or just visiting?” I was overwhelmed with the hospitality I was offered by Washingtonians. Perhaps they were just in a good mood because their Nationals had recently won the World Series.

In front of the White House, I encountered a Hispanic family trying to take group pictures in front of the iconic building. They kept taking turns, but never was there a group shot with everyone in it. I approached them and asked them in Spanish if I could take a picture of them with everyone in it. Their smiles of delight carried over to their group picture. In my conversation I discovered that they were from Oaxaca, Mexico. We had a delightful conversation discussing their trip of a lifetime and my own experiences in Mexico.

From the White House we took the metro to Arlington Cemetery. This would not have been my choice, but one of our Swiss visitors really wanted to see all the graves lined in patterns along the hills. I did get to see the eternal-flame memorial to John F. Kennedy as well as a memorial to his brother Robert. That made the visit worthwhile. I discovered that some 400,000 people are buried there. What a sobering thought.  We also saw the changing of the guards.

By the time we were finished with our visit to the cemetery, we had put countless steps on our pedometers, and were bone tired, yet still wanted to see the capitol at the other end of the mall. I decided to use an Uber for the first time in my life. I was walking out of the cemetery grounds looking at my cell phone to order the Uber when I encountered a step I wasn’t expecting, and immediately fell to the ground. Anticipating the fall, I rolled in order to protect my bionic knees and
ended up sprawled out on the pavement. I was immediately surrounded by a group of people suspecting the worst—an old man breaking a bone or suffering a heart attack. An Asian couple was the first on the scene, then two security people from the cemetery facility. They helped me up and asked over and over again if I was all right. I assured them that I was and walked away with the only an injury to my ego. Again, the hospitality and helpfulness of strangers impressed me of the goodness of humanity.

Our Uber driver was a delightful man from West Africa who spoke excellent English as well as French, Arabic and his native tribal language. He had been a diplomat in Morocco for his country and learned Arabic there. My niece, one of the Swiss visitors with us, was able to speak with him in French. To imagine him going from diplomat to Uber driver was a stretch for me. I can’t imagine what made him want to (or have to) emigrate, especially with our current political situation, and I didn’t have time to ask. Our ride was a very pleasant one.

Our evening meal provided another chance to experience the international flavor of DC. It also provided an additional friendly local. We were looking for a place to eat, and as I checked out the menu on a restaurant door, a local woman entered. I stopped her and asked her opinion of the restaurant. She told me they served the best pizza in DC and her family was frequent clients of the locality. Later, after we were settled in our seats, she came over to us with her whole family and we had a nice chat while we were waiting for our food. For some reason which I cannot remember, I said something to them in Spanish.

Our waiter who was from Honduras, the very country I had lived in for nearly three years, picked up on my use of Spanish and began speaking to us in his language. A wonderful conversation about his life ensued. He was quite surprised and flattered about how much I knew about his country.

The following day, we took the Georgetown-Union Station Circular bus route to explore the city. On K Street, just before we came to the White House, a motorcade with tens of police cars escorting a very important official screamed by. Locals on the bus remarked that it was the president. Since he was in New York for a Veteran’s Day speech, it probably wasn’t, but it was interesting to speculate.

My Swiss relatives were impressed, if not disheartened, by the contrast of extreme wealth and power exhibited by the buildings and the homeless sleeping on park benches in frigid weather as well as those seen in Union Station.

DC had a great visit to DC. Reminded me not to wait too long to go again.

Monday, September 23, 2019

A Great Cloud of Witnesses


There are still Klemmers around Friedelsheim,
Palatinate, Germany, where our ancestor Valentine's
 brother lived. I took this picture in Sept. 2018.
The resident didn't want to meet with me.  

Thomann Klymer (also Clymer, Klemmer, Clemmer) was born in 1554 in Montbéliard, France, 37 years after the beginning of the Protestant Reformation, and 29 years after the Anabaptist beginnings in 1525. At some point he became a Huguenot, the French version of Protestants, and along with as many as 300,000 others, fled France under severe persecution for their beliefs. He settled in Affoltern am Albis, Switzerland sometime before 1580, where his son Hans Jacob Klemmer’s birth was registered.

It is interesting to note that Anabaptists, many of them Amish, returned to Montéliard in the early 18th Century, fleeing persecution from the Swiss! What comes around goes around? There is a Mennonite congregation there to this day. 

Mennonite Church in Montéliard ca. 1954
source
The Clemmer immigrant who arrived to the USA in 1717, was born in Affoltern am Albis, Switzerland in 1665. Many of his siblings joined the Protestant Reformed movement under Zwingli, but Valentine became an Anabaptist, the more radical wing of the Reformation. Like his forebearers from France, he fled his homeland for Germany under heavy persecution, and eventually came to the USA.

I have traced my Clemmer/Clymer heritage back 11 generations (465 years) and through four countries: France, Switzerland, Germany and the USA. I am grateful for the heritage of faith that they passed on to me. I represent the twelfth generation of radical faith, sometimes called the “third way,” an alternative between Catholicism and Protestantism. The longest period of time spent in any one country is 300 years in the USA. The second-most time was in Switzerland, 137 years.

I have been able to research the family lines of all four of my grandparents; the Clymers, as outlined above, the Wineys, the Horsts, and the Sensenigs. I have been able to find the towns in Germany and Switzerland where each of them came from, and in one case was able to see the farm where my Horst ancestor lived and labored as a tenant farmer. All of them came from the radical
The farm house in Mauer, Germany,
where my Horst ancestor lived.
Anabaptist/Mennonite wing of the Reformation and ended up in the USA searching for freedom from the persecution and harassment that they had experienced in Europe. All of them passed their radical faith on to their children. All of them were “witnesses” to their faith.

Hebrews 12:1 mentions a “great cloud of witnesses” in exhorting us to remain faithful to the radical message of Jesus (Matthew 5-7). In the previous chapter, the writer mentions over 20 Old Testament individuals who remained faithful to God, in spite of the fact that most of them never saw the outcome of the promises that God had given them (Heb. 11:39). Many of their contemporaries saw them as fools; but this didn’t deter their faith. They had the “assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen” (Heb. 11:1). My ancestors in Europe were not only considered fools, but also heretics and traitors.

As my granddaughters grow up around me and my family, I hope that we are “witnesses” to our rich and faithful heritage as well as to the radical teachings of “Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith” (Heb. 12:2). May we “run with endurance the race that is set before us” (Heb 12:1).

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

A New Creation


This touching story was originally published in The Mennonite in their April 2014 issue. 

“I love [US] Americans,” Pedro announced to the small group gathered for the Wednesday evening Bible study. “I love your music, your language, your people.”
My wife Esther and I were leading a group of 18 students from Eastern Mennonite University (EMU), Harrisonburg, Va., and were visiting a small Mennonite congregation on the north side of sprawling Mexico City. They were hosting us during Holy Week for a time of working, worshiping and playing together.
Pedro with our student who gave him his English-Spanish Bible
Photo Credit: Brent Anders
I was immediately put off by Pedro’s announcement. His speech was slurred, his eyes glazed over and he wore beads around his neck and on his wrists while stuffing his ears with white ear buds. I had been frequently accosted by similar statements and people in my years of learning and serving in Latin America. What was his agenda? He had to have one, I assumed, because he was too effusive and I was pretty sure he was inebriated.
The following day the church had planned a day for the group of us to enjoy the many activities available in Chapultepec Park in central Mexico City. There were museums, a zoo, a castle, rowboats and an amusement park to name a few. We were to divide up into groups and chose our activity. At the end of the Bible study, the pastor asked for a show of hands of those who were willing and able to accompany us for the excursion. Pedro was the first one to raise his hand.
After a wonderfully harrowing ride navigating Mexico City’s public transportation system with a walk, two bus transfers and the metro, we emerged out of the bowels of the subway system into the bright, crisp air of the park. Five students along with my wife Esther and me, chose the zoo. So did Pedro. Probably with the same misgivings about Pedro as I, the five students hurriedly dashed off to the entrance of the zoo disappearing among the multitudes. Esther and I were stuck with Pedro. Three hours until we were to reunite with the rest of the group for the next activity. Three hours with Pedro. I dreaded every minute.
The human tendency is to “pre”-judge someone by their outward appearance. This is where the word “prejudice” comes from. We decide what someone is like by their race, their age, their sex, or any of a number of other factors without bothering to get to know them. My prejudgment of Pedro was that he was a drunk and would be a difficult person to relate to because he “had an agenda,” and probably wanted something from me. I didn’t want to be bothered by him. By prejudging him before getting to know him, I denied his God-image and likeness, and by so doing reduced him to something less than human.
I was not the only one to prejudge Pedro. “I made a quick judgment about him as being someone I did not want to relate to, and I did not want anything to do with him,” wrote one of my students in her journal. “I was judging him for what I saw and the little I knew of him.” Because of the scene at the Bible study, I’m sure many of our students felt the same way.
God knows our tendency to judge a person by how they look on the outside, so when Samuel was looking for a king to replace Saul, God warned him: “Do not consider his appearance or his height, for I have rejected him. The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart” (1 Samuel 16:7 NIV).
Israel had already been fooled by a tall and handsome Saul, the man who had the stereotypical physique of a king but the heart of a pagan. Even in spite of this disaster, Samuel began to look for these same qualities in the sons of Jesse. He had to be straightened out by God. What is in one’s heart is more important than the way one looks.
Paul, in acknowledging his own prejudices before he had an encounter with the risen Christ writes in 2 Corinthians 5:16-17 (CEV),  “We are careful not to judge people by what they seem to be,” or as The Message puts it, “by what they have or how they look.” I certainly judged Pedro by the way he seemed to be and the way he looked, I didn’t look at his heart.
As Esther, Pedro and I proceeded through the zoo, Pedro wanted to know the English name of every animal we came across. We became friendlier as the day wore on, enjoying his unbounded, childlike enthusiasm for all the animals and their English equivalents.
We decided to leave the zoo and have lunch together. As we ate, he told us his long, torturous story. He was studying biology at the university when he got into a bad crowd and started doing drugs. Up to that point he was doing well enough that he had several offers to continue his academic career in graduate studies or to work with some government agencies; offers that would have set him financially for life.
The deeper he got into the drug scene, however, the more distracted he became from his studies. It wasn’t long until he had to live on the streets full time to support his habit. He dropped out of school and has never returned. What had been a promising career was left shattered on the rubbish heap beside a pile of syringes. He tried to earn a living selling candy and chewing gum from a portable stand he carried through his neighborhood.
After many failed rehabilitation programs, he wandered into an evangelical church and accepted Christ. He had been clean for over a year when we met him. “The only thing that saved me was Christ,” he testified. Because of his abuse of all sorts of drugs, his brain was literally fried. This explained his somewhat slurred speech and his halting behavior—making us jump to the conclusion that he was drunk.
The passage from 2 Corinthians 5 continues, “Anyone who belongs to Christ is a new person. The past is forgotten, and everything is new.” Other versions call this a “new creation.” In spite of his outward appearance, Pedro was a new creation. He had a new heart. Before I got to know his story, I could only see his outward appearance. 
Pedro accompanied our entourage from EMU everywhere we went. As the week wore on, he endeared himself not only to Esther and me, but also to all the students. When we went to see the reenactment of Jesus’ trial and crucifixion in his gang-infested neighborhood on Good Friday, Pedro led the way. Everywhere people greeted him. Since we were with him, in spite of sticking out like sore gringo thumbs, we felt safe and in good hands. He was the first to give out specially prepared invitations to attend his church in his neighborhood. His own transformed life was an even more powerful testimony to his old friends.
“As I started to hear his story, I started to understand him more and not have a total fear of him,” wrote the same student. “His story is a powerful story and shows what Jesus can do in people’s lives. I wish I hadn’t judged Pedro so quickly.” Another student gave Pedro his English-Spanish Bible. Pedro’s face radiated his gratitude. We were slowly beginning to see his heart, to see his God-image, to see his new creation.
When we left Mexico some three weeks after our time with this fascinating and hospitable Mennonite church, Pedro was among the people to show up at the airport to bid us farewell. Many of the church members brought parting gifts. Pedro brought his candy stand and passed out candies to the group with his huge toothless smile.
Our final church service together was Easter Sunday. During that service we circulated around all the members of the church greeting them with the phrase, “Christ is risen,” to which the other responded, “He is risen indeed!” When I came to Pedro and looked him directly in his eyes, an emotion came over me and I said to him, “Christ is risen, and I see him in your face.” This was the same face that I had rejected just a few days earlier. Without hesitation, he replied, “Yes, I was dead and now I am alive. I have risen from the dead like Christ.” I could not hold back the tears as I hugged him. Pedro was a new creation. So was I.