http://weeklypress.com/default.asp?smenu=1&sdetail=2006
23.JUN.10
By Thom Nickels
Woodmont is not only a world set apart, it is a world with a history.
Located in Montgomery County, this 72-acre estate is the home base of
The Peace Mission Movement, started by Father Divine in 1919 in
Sayville, New York.
The mansion itself is a multi-room French Gothic masterpiece,
designed by Quaker architect William Price for Philadelphia
industrialist Alan J, Wood, Jr., in 1892. After the demise of the
Gilded Age and the selling off of many of Philadelphia's old
mansions, it was sold to Father Divine for a relatively humble $75,000.
Woodmont then became the headquarters for the Peace Mission Movement.
As the rush of 21st century events seems to pummel the world towards
some kind of catastrophe, Woodmont has remained outside the fray.
Since the passing of Father Divine in 1965, the Peace Mission
Movement has been under the direction of Father Divine's second wife,
Edna Rose Ritchings, a white Canadian woman he met in 1946.
The Peace Mission Movement began as a force for peace and goodwill
between the races, as an incentive to make peopleas Mother Divine
notes in her small book, "The Peace Mission Movement""industrious,
independent, tax-paying citizens instead of consumers of tax dollars
on the welfare rolls." In the area of theology, many of Father
Divine's followers believe that he was/is God. In the past, this fact
has annoyed many members of the press and resulted in bad publicity
for the Movement.
Father Divine's greatest contributions are probably in the area of
civil rights. As early as 1951, he advocated for reparations for the
descendents of slaves and for integrated neighborhoods. Decades
before the Civil Rights Act, before the NAACP, before Stokley
Carmichael, Angela Davis or the Black Panthers, Father Divine
preached peaceful, non-violent social change. Unfortunately, Father
Divine's "preaching" work on behalf of civil rights is a mostly
understated fact.
Father Divine's marriage to the second Mother Divine (the first was
an African American woman named Peninniah, who died shortly after the
Woodmont purchase) was a celibate affair, as members, both married
and unmarried, are prohibited from having sex, or using alcohol and tobacco.
An invitation to attend the monthly Sunday banquet at Woodmont, which
the Peace Mission Movement considers a Holy Communion service, was
extended to me and Philadelphia artist Noel Miles because of a book
we are working on. Miles had gone to Woodmont before, with brush and
canvas, to capture the marvelous interiors for our project when
Mother Divine extended the invitation.
When the day of the pilgrimage arrived, we boarded the R5 for Bryn
Mawr, and then hailed a cab to Gladwyne, where Woodmont is located.
Our cabbie, a rather youngish urban type who seemed more suited for a
city taxi than navigating the lost vistas of Montgomery County, had
no idea where Woodmont was, but, like a true shyster, he tried to
hide this fact by driving fast.
When it became apparent that he was winging it, Miles made him get
his bearings. By happenstance or miracle, we happened to notice the
Woodmont address etched simply and unobtrusively on a stone wall. The
taxi then took the long rustic driveway through a corridor of trees.
A wide clearing in the brush brought the mansion into view.
At this point, the cabbie could barely suppress an "Ahhhhh!"
A small woman in a beret and white gloves with a "V" embossed on her
blouse, waved to us as we approached the mansion. The formality was
pure Buckingham Palace. Inside the grand reception room, we saw
museum quality gilt framed paintings, lush carpets and oak woodwork.
Miss Faith explained the history of the house.
We noticed a mammoth framed portrait of Mother and Father Divine
hanging over the reception area like an iconostasis in a cathedral.
"May I tape our conversation?" I asked Miss Faith.
"Oh no, you may not," Miss Faith said, looking at me in disbelief.
I later discovered that in years past, journalists have delighted in
taking advantage of Mother Divine's generosity, and then went on to
butcher her in print.
My eyes were drawn to a woman in a long, white beaded dress who was
being escorted down the central staircase by an elderly woman in a
beret. It was one of those cinematic moments, half Royal Family, half
an exciting 'new' story that has yet to be told.
"Who are these people?" I heard Mother Divine whisper to the aide.
When she was reminded who we were, Mother approached Miles first,
extending a hand.
When Mother turned to me, I took her hand and said that it was an
honor to meet her.
After all, this was the brave woman who, in 1972, issued the Rev. Jim
Jones and his followers their marching orders. Mother Divine ordered
Jones to leave the Woodmont estate after he attempted to take over
the Peace Mission Movement, claiming that he was the reincarnation of
Father Divine. Some 200 of Jones' followers had arrived from
California, "pretending," as Mother states, "a sincere desire to
fellowship with members of the Movement."
Mother asked them to leave when "his distaste for the government of
the United States and the establishment, and the prosperity of the
followers in general, began to be expressed in casual, then more
deliberate remarks he made to Mother Divine and others."
Several years later would come the insanity of the People's Temple in Guyana.
In my quest to find out more about the Mission, I asked Miss Faith
"where the chapel was, the place where you have services." My
question was met with puzzlement. "The banquet is the holy communion
service," Miss Faith said.
I would understand the mechanics of this very soon, once the banquet
got underway.
The lush, white banquet table sat about 60 people. A swan on a "lake"
of glass was the centerpiece, in addition to fresh flowers. Women
outnumbered men about 10 to one. Mother sat at the head of the table;
beside her was a setting for Father Divine. An attendant stood behind
my chair and Miles' ready to assist us during the meal.
Dinner began when Mother rang a large hand bell. A female cook in a
white uniform produced the platters from a small kitchen directly
behind Mother. Numerous platters of salad items, including a wide
assortment of vegetables, condiments and sauces, set the pace for
more complicated platters offering meats and fish, rice, potatoes,
breads, more vegetables and meats until at last diners could devote
their entire attention to the business at hand, eating, rather than
the elaborate ritual of passing platters.
When platters are passed from one diner to another, they must never
touch the table. Diners must also not hold two platters at the same
time, so the entire synchronization of the plates had the movements
of a dance. While this was going on, diners listened to an old audio
tape of a Father Divine sermon. The mostly elderly crowdmen in suits
and women in Peace Mission uniformsberet, and a jacket embossed with
a Vcombined eating with the singing of hymns. A few elderly white
women, European by birth, clapped their hands in sing song fashion in
between mouthfuls.
The plate passing started up again when dessert was served: huge
cakes, pies, jello molds and ice cream were passed in the same
fashion, all homemade, all luscious, and yet not a single person at
the table looked to be overweight.
With synchronization worthy of the Rockettes, additional platters
kept being delivered to both sides of the table. Diners were expected
to take only what they could eat. I ate all of what I put on my plate
except for a little bit of Salmon skin. The food was marvelous, the
vegetables among the best I've ever tasted.
After dinner, Miles and I were asked if we wanted to say a few words
to the assembly. I mentioned that the dining experience reminded me
of the time I spent in Catholic monasteries, when you would eat in
silence while listening to a monk read from scripture or the lives of
the saints.
The Catholic connection, as it turned out, was not that far fetched.
A woman from Saint Paul's parish in South Philadelphia told me to
look out for a lineup of Catholic saint statues around the parameter
of the Peace Mission dining room.
I counted ten or more Catholic saints positioned some ten feet above
the heads of the diners.
For me, the hymns and hand-clapping that occurred during the banquet
raised a red flag: "Here's where biting journalist types like
Christopher Hitchens have a really wicked time ripping into Mother
and all things Divine," I thought.
But Woodmont, in a rapidly deteriorating world, is actually more of a
treasure than not. It's quiet, isolated, beautiful, a mansion with
many rooms and good food, an empire with its own benevolent queen, a
masterful lady with a piercing glance.
After dinner, Miles and I were told that Mother wanted to see us
alone, in Father Divine's office.
The office, as it turned out, is a dead ringer for the Oval Office in
The White House. Miles and I stood with Mother by Father's desk, an
aide not far away. Directly in front of the window was Father
Divine's shrine and tomb. For a few moments things were very quiet,
then sunlight hit Mother Divine's face.
We both agreed, on the train ride home, that here was the real
Philadelphia story.
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