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By Dr. Bruce T. Marshall
December 13, 2009
This morning I would like to tell a story of the season. It’s a
little bit of a Christmas story and a little bit of a Hanukkah story
and also there’s some Kwanzaa and solstice in there too. But mostly
it’s a December story. It’s about something that happened in
December, something unlikely that occurred as the cold and darkness
of winter settled in.
The main characters are two guys, ordinary people, really. We would
never have heard of them, except that we all have. We’ve heard of
them because of something they did 106 years ago, December, 1903. I
love this story and think about it from time to time because it
reassures me. It reassures me that sometimes things happen that
surprise us, that defy the odds, that all the smart money would bet
against. Yet, they do happen, and in the process, change our lives.
In these days when we seem pummeled by crises, when whatever good
news we find is quickly drowned out by something worse, when the
consensus seems to be that we are plodding toward our eventual
demise—then it brings hope when something occurs that lifts us
beyond what we thought was possible—which is what this story is
about.
• • •
Orville and Wilbur Wright were the third and fourth of seven
children born to Milton and Susan Wright. Milton Wright was a
minister in the Church of the United Brethren in Christ. Susan had
been a literature student when she met her husband and was daughter
of a carriage maker. She had a natural mechanical ability and
encouraged her children to make things for themselves. Both of the
Wrights were intellectually curious and endowed their children with
a love of learning.
The Wrights lived in a succession of communities in Ohio, Indiana
and Iowa as Rev. Wright moved to different church assignments.
Wilbur was a good student who planned to go to college, but the
family moved again—this time to Dayton, Ohio. When his mother fell
ill with tuberculosis, Wilbur delayed college to care for her.
Orville tended to be an indifferent student who had a penchant for
mischief. With his mother’s illness and then death, he lost interest
in school altogether and dropped out to start a printing business,
using a press he made himself with materials he found lying around,
including old buggy parts and a damaged tombstone.
As children Wilbur and Orville formed a close bond. They played
together, owned their toys in common, talked through just about
everything, even seemed to think together. Later Wilbur Wright said,
“nearly everything that was done in our lives has been the result of
conversations, suggestions, and discussions between us.”
Wilbur abandoned his plans to go to college and joined Orville in
the printing business. Together they published a weekly and then a
daily local newspaper, as well as printing items for individual
clients. As they formed a partnership in this business, Orville and
Wilbur began to refer to themselves as the “Wright Brothers.” Now,
instead of playing together, they worked side-by-side, often on
mechanical problems. First, they improved the original press that
Orville had made. Then they designed a new press capable of running
at much faster speeds. Others heard about it, and there’s a story
that a printer came from Chicago and asked to see it in action. He
looked at it for a long time, then climbed underneath, then sat down
and continued to watch. Finally, he said, “Well, it works, but I
sure don’t see how.”
At about this time, the nation was swept by a craze, a fad,
something that just about everybody wanted to get into. This
national craze was bicycling, and Wilbur and Orville were swept up
by it too. They bought their own bicycles, took long rides together,
began tinkering with them, and then others asked them to repair
their bicycles. This became a successful sideline to the printing
business, and after a while, the Wrights opened their own shop—the
Wright Cycle Company, where they repaired, sold and then
manufactured bicycles of their own design. Business was going very
well indeed, but the Wrights’ restless intelligence was drawn
elsewhere.
Orville had been stricken with typhus, and while taking care of him,
Wilbur came upon an article about a French glider pilot who had
recently died when his craft crashed. This rekindled an interest in
flying that Orville and Wilbur traced back to their childhood when
their father brought home a gift from one of his trips: a helicopter
toy that was lifted into the air by a spinning propeller.
It occurred to Wilbur that the problem of flight was less that of
getting a craft into the air than of controlling it once it became
airborne. It was an issue of balance, he thought, balance like,
well, riding a bicycle. And so the Wrights were bitten by a bug that
afflicted many in their time: the yearning to solve the problem of
flight by human beings in a heavier than air machine.
The Wright Brothers were dreamers, but they were also careful and
systematic. They wrote to the Smithsonian Institution for everything
then available on aeronautics. They studied books and articles, then
they made models, then kites to experiment with and then a glider.
But a problem: where to test the glider? They needed open space,
substantial winds, and soft ground for crash landings. Wilbur wrote
to the United States Weather Bureau for a list of windy places, and
among the recommended spots was a remote location on the Atlantic
Shore in North Carolina called Kitty Hawk.
They spent the summer of 1900 in Kitty Hawk, working on a glider and
then testing it and then working on it again. And then the summer of
1901, and then the late summer and fall of 1902. The bicycle shop,
well, they hired a manager and let it run itself. They had bigger
things on their minds. And by the end of their Kitty Hawk
experiments in 1902, they had made significant progress on the
problem of controlling a glider in flight. The next step, fitting
the glider with an engine and a propeller and getting it off the
ground.
They contacted several engine builders, but no one could provide one
to their specifications, so they made their own. They also designed
and built their own propeller. In late September, 1903, they arrived
in Kitty Hawk with everything in place for them to get their flying
machine into the air.
But things rarely go smoothly, especially when you’re entering
uncharted territory. There were problems with the propeller shaft
which they sent back to their bicycle shop in Dayton to have
repaired, but that didn’t work, so Orville boarded a train for Ohio,
made the alterations himself and then returned. Now it was December.
Time was running out if they were to get a test run before winter
set in. Meanwhile, others in the United States and Europe were
conducting their own experiments with flying machines. Somebody was
going to get there first. The question: who?
December 14. The winds were lighter than the Wrights had hoped, but
with time running out, they decided to try. Wilbur won a coin toss
to see who would pilot the airplane first. He lay down prone on the
flyer, the engine was started, the propeller began to whirl, the
restraining wire was released and: nothing happened—the wire was
stuck. Orville removed it, the plane jerked forward, started
rumbling down the track they had constructed, raised to a height of
about 15 feet, stalled and then dived back to earth, embedding the
skids deep in the sand, cracking and twisting them.
Wilbur had misjudged at the controls and let the plane rise too fast
to sustain flight. You couldn’t really call this attempt a success,
but now the Wrights knew. They knew this was going to work. They
repaired the parts that had cracked in the crash and made ready to
try again.
December 17. A storm had moved in the night before, pelting their
camp with icy rain. It stopped by morning, leaving puddles frozen in
the sand, but the wind continued to blow in gusts of up to 30 mph.
Figuring in the wind chill factor, they were facing temperatures of
4 degrees Fahrenheit.
These were not ideal conditions, but it was time.
The Wrights and several Kitty Hawk neighbors dragged the 600 pound
flying machine out of its shed to the launching track. Today, it was
Orville’s turn to be at the controls. The engine was started, Wilbur
loosened the wire restraining the machine, and it began to move down
the track, Wilbur running alongside. About 2/3rd of the way down the
track, the plane lifted up, and the crew broke into cheers. As with
the previous attempt, it went up too fast, then dived, but Orville
managed some control—enough to keep it in the air for 12 seconds,
going 120 feet before landing, pilot and plane intact. It was a
tentative, wobbly first flight, but flight it was.
They made three more flights that day. The second covered 175 feet;
the third 200 feet. The final flight, with Wilbur piloting, started
the same way as the previous three with the plane bucking up and
down when it became airborne, but then Wilbur began to sense how to
fly the thing, and he passed the 300 foot mark, 400 feet, 500, 600,
700, 800, landing at 852 feet from the track. On this final test,
the plane stayed in the air for 59 seconds. The era of manned flight
had begun.
One of the crew, Johnny Miller made the first announcement to the
world of what had just occurred. He ran into the village of Kitty
Hawk shouting, “They done it! They done it! Damned if they ain't
flew.”
The thing is, that plane should not have flown. First of all,
weather conditions were terrible for these initial awkward flights.
And the plane itself was flawed. A computer simulation of that first
flyer concluded that it was virtually uncontrollable, an assessment
confirmed by veteran flyers. Only an expert pilot with razor quick
reflexes could have kept it from crashing.
But the Wrights weren’t experts, were they? How could they be?
Nobody had ever flown an airplane before. How did they manage what
seasoned pilots today probably couldn’t? And besides, who were these
Wright Brothers? They were bicycle mechanics, minister’s sons, they
didn’t have graduate degrees, they hadn’t even gone to college, they
didn’t have backing from anybody other than themselves. They had no
credentials to be doing what they were doing. How was it that they
solved the problem of manned flight that had been but a dream
throughout the ages?
Well, maybe there isn’t a logical explanation. Maybe this was one of
those moments when we’re taken beyond what the sensible world says
is possible. Maybe it was just time.
• • •
You know how it is when you’re on an airplane that’s taking off? It
rolls down the runway, picking up speed. It rolls and rolls and
rolls—and if you’re anything like me, you may find yourself
wondering, “Will we actually get off the ground, this time?” And
then it rises: miraculously, it seems. This big heavy machine filled
with people leaves the ground, and immediately it feels different.
What had been a bumpy ride as it sped along the runway now feels
smooth. Some invisible force lifts us into the air.
There are experiences in life that feel the same way: starting a
project, working on a job, reading a book, or, in my world, writing
a sermon. In the beginning, you have to force yourself to do it, and
you feel every bump along the way. Until you reach a certain point
and then you’re engaged, and you don’t have to force yourself to it
anymore because it seems to glide along on its own.
Before Amy and I left Cleveland, I painted most of the rooms in our
house. When we arrived here, I painted most of the rooms in our new
house—then I painted the outside too. On days when painting walls
was my lot in life, I rarely woke up in the morning thinking, “Oh
boy, today I get to paint.” I forced myself to get started, using a
variety of tricks. Drinking coffee. Eating toast, bagels, donuts,
sweet rolls—anything with starch and sugar in it. Putting on music
and playing it loud. Telling myself that the sooner I got started,
the sooner I could stop. None of these worked really well, but they
worked well enough, and I would begin. I would bump along that
runway a while—and then I would notice that the music had stopped
and I hadn’t thought to put on anything new, and my coffee had grown
cold, and I might have forgotten to eat—because I had become fully
engaged: the muse of painting walls had made herself known, and now
I didn’t need any of that other stuff. Now the problem was stopping
for the day; I just wanted to keep on painting.
It doesn’t always happen that way. Finding that moment of lift-off
when working on a project is not as reliable as an airplane taking
off. I write sermons just about weekly—I have for a long time—and,
believe me, I’ve seen a number of them crash and burn. Sometimes,
they don’t ever get off the ground.
But still, this process of sticking with whatever you’re doing until
it gathers its own energy works much of the time. Finding success is
often a matter of sticking with a project as it bumps along the
runway until, finally, it takes flight.
• • •
In the first church I served after graduating from seminary, we had
a monthly coffee house. It was probably a lot like Café Florian here
at Davies. I remember one performer—his name was Andy—who appeared
every once in a while, singing and playing his guitar. Andy always
struggled. He had a hard time maintaining a consistent key. He had a
hard time getting his singing to go along with his guitar-playing.
He labored through a song, and we applauded politely, mostly because
all of us—Andy included—were glad it was done. Listening to him was
a bumpy ride.
And then one night. Some of you might remember the song, “American
Pie” and you might also remember that it’s long. Well, Andy swung
into “American Pie” and his airplane took off. Suddenly and for no
apparent reason, it took flight and was smooth and effortless and
brought the rest of us along with him. Everybody in the audience
came to attention.
I remember watching this happen, and Andy had this look on his face
that was a combination of surprise and delight and just a dash of
what seemed to be fear. He didn’t know what was happening either,
but for that one song he soared. When it ended, we had shared an
exhilarating ride.
I wish I could report that Andy then forever found his groove and
became a rich and famous performer or at least an accomplished and
appreciated amateur. But no. Andy continued to appear at our coffee
house, but I never saw whatever happened that night happen again. He
even went back to singing “American Pie” from time to time, but the
moment did not repeat.
Yet, though I saw and experienced many, many performances at that
coffee house—most of them really pretty good—I have only the vaguest
memories of them. What I recall most clearly is that night—that one
song—when Andy’s airplane unexpectedly took flight. I remember it,
and I smile.
• • •
We are now well into December. The cold of winter is upon us. The
days shrink, the nights grow longer. We yearn for warmth. We seek
out light. We long for something to give us at least a little hope:
hope for our own lives, hope for our nation and our world, hope for
the future.
And yet, surveying the horizon: it can be discouraging. Here in the
Washington area, we watch up close the messy process of trying to
make laws and policies that address the challenges facing us. We
find ourselves embroiled in two wars that even an anti-war president
can’t seem to get us free of. We see an economy that, despite
announcements of its imminent recovery, still has put millions of
people at risk: people who have lost homes, jobs, savings, whatever
security they had built up. We see this week’s conference on global
warming, and despite the need for all to work together and address
an imminent threat to life on this planet, we get distracted by
debates on whether the problem is real. We see the continued power
of religious organizations which—more often than not, it seems—stand
up against love, against compassion, against improving the lot of
humankind on this earth.
Maybe it’s always been that way in December. The specific issues
change from year to year, but the underlying feelings are the same.
Christmas carols speak of a weary world, seeking a thrill of hope.
The winter’s solstice observances seek to bring back light, as
darkness envelops our world. Hanukkah celebrates the persistence of
light, when it would be more logical to expect it to be
extinguished. And on the seven days of Kwanzaa, candles are lit that
remind participates of life-giving principles that have been passed
through the generations and ought not be lost.
This might be why—come December—my thoughts turn to the Wright
Brothers and their unlikely flight. Their story inspires me and
reminds me that sometimes things happen that I don’t think are
possible, yet they do and the world changes as a result.
Some examples:
Thirty-five years ago, I was a student in theological school, the
Unitarian Universalist theological school in Chicago. My entering
class had one woman, the rest were men. That one woman was viewed as
an anomaly. I remember her reporting that a well known and well
regarded and well loved Unitarian Universalist minister sat down
with her and said, essentially, “What are you doing here?” “Have you
thought this through?” His point was that there wasn’t much of a
place for women in the Unitarian Universalist ministry. He did not
think that ever would change.
Twenty-five years ago, I was one of the few clergy on Long Island to
officiate at marriage ceremonies for same-sex couples. We didn’t
call them marriages—we called them “services of union.” When I met
with a couple, I would apologize that these were not legal. I could
offer a religious ceremony, but not a legal ceremony. I did not
expect to see that change in my lifetime.
I came of age during the Civil Rights movement and absorbed the
ideals expressed by Martin Luther King, Jr., a nation of equal
opportunity for all, a nation that reached toward the dream of the
beloved community. And while there were many changes leading toward
the kind of society Martin Luther King had envisioned, what struck
me mostly was how little really had changed. If you had asked me
even two years ago, “Would an African American ever be elected
president of the United States,” I would have said, “Someday, but
not in my lifetime.”
Two weeks ago, if you had asked me, “Will there be significant
change in our nation’s terribly flawed health care system, I would
have said, “No. The forces arrayed to keep things the same are too
powerful to be overcome.”
But today, it seems that, well maybe. It might just happen. And
though the plan that has emerged won’t be to everyone’s liking, it
still marks a significant change—change I didn’t expect to see. Sort
of like another change I didn’t see coming: we do have an African
American president who—despite intense diatribes directed against
him—seems to me to be succeeding in much that he’s taking on. And
marriage equality—I didn’t think I’d ever see that. But now there
are several states in which same-sex couples can be legally married,
with the District of Columbia showing signs of being next and a
battle here in Maryland worth fighting.
Maybe working for justice, for compassion, for a better and more
humane life—maybe that too works like the early Wright Brothers
plane. It bumps along the surface looking like it never will get off
the ground—and then it does, surprising just about everyone.
So in the darkness and cold of December, it helps to be reminded.
Lamps burn for eight days with one day’s worth of oil. Following a
star can sometimes bring us to new life. Darkness does not grow
forever, justice is not forever stalled. Sometimes, even when it
seems entirely unlikely, something new breaks into the world,
something new enters our lives.
And then we might recall the immortal words of Johnny Miller who
raced to the village of Kitty Hawk to tell what he had seen, “They
done it! They done it! Damned if they ain’t flew.”
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