I have only been underground once in all
the years I was pastor in Virginia, but the experience
etched in me a lasting respect for those who dig coal.
Tours of the mines are not as common as
trips to museums, so one of my parishioners in management
cleared the way to show me a new machine purchased from
France. The year was 1977.
I donned the white overalls that designate
a visitor underground and crouched as low as possible
in the shallow man car that took us into the mine. My
parishioner, as my tour guide, drove the vehicle, his
head rhythmically bobbing for every low beam. After fifteen
minutes we abandoned the man car and the well-lighted
main shaft, and walked the final stretch with the darkness
only pierced by the light from our helmets.
At the face of the coal where the cutting
is done, I began to walk stooped under the five-foot ceiling.
I saw the new longwall machine near the middle of the
wall of coal. The cutting mechanism, an intricate knot
of steel bits, was controlled by a large chain which pulled
it from one end of the wall to the other, much the same
way a typing ball moves against its carriage. In front
of the wall stood a colonnade of jacks that supported
the ceiling under which men scampered around attending
to the various parts of the operation.
Just before the cutting began, I positioned
myself between two jacks where I could see the coal being
cut and loaded onto a conveyor belt. A young miner cautioned
me to stay behind the first row of jacks because the large
chain that pulled the machine could possibly slip out
of its casing and catch someone who was too close. I moved
back an extra few inches, squatting safely under the umbrella
provided by the jacks, and waited.
The longwall machine roared as it started
to chew against the seventy-foot wall of coal. Fine dust
particles streamed by my face like droplets of water in
a hazy drizzle. I felt secure in my little hutch, admiring
the talent and technology at work before me.
Suddenly, I glanced at the huge chain
with links the size of my fist and realized that it was
slowly working its way free. Aware, yet unable to act,
I watched the heavy links take on a life of their own
as they shimmied their way to the top of the casing. A
feeling of terror gripped me. Then with a sudden jerk
the chain jumped free lunging at me, vibrating like a
rubber band pulled taut. The chain stopped eighteen inches
from my face!
Immediately, the man controlling the machine
raised his voice over the noise asking if everyone was
all right. Looking around I saw the pained face of the
man beside me shaking his head, his helmet light scanning
the darkness back and forth in a gesture of ‘no.’
There beside him, about ten feet from me, was the slumped
body of a man who had been caught by the chain.
With the machine shut down there was no
panic as a half dozen miners moved to the fellow with
deliberate purpose. Two men lifted the head of the man
from the dirt, and in the intense light from their helmets
I saw that the right side of his skull had been torn away.
“My God!” I prayed, “Give him back his
face!”
Stunned, yet composed, I continued to
pray as experienced miners bandaged the head, listening
all the while to the labored breathing that sounded like
snoring. No consideration seemed too great for the injured
man, no effort too arduous as the team strove to prepare
their imperiled brother for the long journey back to the
entrance of the mine.
I stood by as the stretcher carried by
six men began to move. The scene resembled the Easter
Vigil. The light from the helmets of the six miners parted
the darkness of the mine like candles held by believers
as they process into a darkened church on Holy Saturday
night. This time, however, the symbolic paschal candle
was not being carried, but the real bleeding body of a
brother stricken in the line of work. “Father, forgive
this man his sins,” I prayed, “and be with him.”
The procession passed me while I continued
to pray and think. For his family Easter joy would be
postponed, I reasoned. For them, today could only be Good
Friday. Four hours later the man was dead.
My attention snapped back to the rally
when I heard my name mentioned. For a half hour musicians
had warmed the crowd with folk tunes and country songs.
Union hymns like “Which Side Are You On” and
“Solidarity Forever” transformed the crowd from
passive listeners to grand chorus. The musicians finished
and the emcee announced the program would begin.
He asked all the men to remove their caps
because Father Rausch, a Catholic priest and former pastor
in St. Paul, would say an opening prayer.
I timidly mounted the scaffolding and
looked over the crowd with honor and humility. I pulled
out my folded envelope; the written words did not fit.
I closed my eyes and trusted the promptings of the Spirit.
In a few seconds words flowed effortlessly as I prayed
from my heart for the dignity and safety of all miners,
for justice in their struggles and for a full life with
their families and their community.
