In the fall of 1979, about a year after being elected to the papal chair, Pope John Paul II made his first official visit to the Western Hemisphere, traveling to all of the Three Amigos.
The Pope pointedly traveled first to Mexico, where he was greeted by an ecstatic crowd of over 1 million. Highlights of the trip included Masses said at both the Cathedral of the Assumption in Mexico City and at the pilgrimage site of Guadalupe.
A triumphal trip through Canada began in Montreal, in the heart of the strongly Catholic French-Canadian community, before proceeding to ten cities including Halifax, Toronto, London, Winnipeg, Calgary and Vancouver. Some of the largest crowds yet seen in Canadian history turned out for the visit, wherein John Paul II thanked the Canadians, Mexicans and Americans for their efforts to shelter Pope Pius XII during the persecution of the Nazis during the Second World War.
Finally, the Pope made a six-city visit to the United States, arriving first in Philadelphia, where he was greeted by John Cardinal Krol, along with the mayor of the city and the Governor of Pennsylvania, Richard Thornburgh. A crowd estimated at almost 2 million swarmed into the area of Logan Circle, where the Pope said an outdoor Mass. A visit to Des Moines, Iowa, followed, and then the tour moved on to Chicago, New York, and Boston, before wrapping up in Washington, D.C., where John Paul II became the first pope to visit the White House, there meeting President Reagan along with former President John Kennedy and his younger brother Robert, newly elected to the Senate.
The United States had the lowest proportion of Catholics among the Three Amigos (though the largest population, since the nation’s population was the largest), but this papal visit, while not the first a pope had made to the United States, was greeted with respect and honor throughout the country, even among non-Catholics. Even the iconoclastic late-night comedy show Saturday Night Live limited itself to some gentle ribbing carried out by Don Novello as the character of Father Guido Sarducci, who offered to the audience a contest to “find the popes in the pizza” – a photograph of a pizza which he insisted depicted all 435 pontiffs, with the winner being the person who found the most popes. (“Here’s a clue,” he said: “Most of the popes have red faces.”)
The reactions that ranged from respectful to ecstatic, but swung to hostile only among an isolated few, underlined as clearly as any event could have one of the most important and influential phenomena of the times: the Third Great Awakening was in full swing. Society in the Three Amigos had defied conventional wisdom, which held that as material comforts increased, the interest of individuals in spiritual matters decreased. The generation that had come out of the Sixties, the “Born for This” generation, in particular, had stood that wisdom on its head; steeped in a tradition of service that had come in part out of the Second World War, influenced by figures like the Rev. Martin Luther King, they appreciated their material comforts but also sensed a certain lack of meaning in pure possessions. Searching for answers, many sought deeper meaning in life, and turned to the concept of serving a Higher Power with an enthusiasm no one could have predicted.
This search for answers had led individuals down many paths. Sadly, some were exploited by charlatans. But others, like the popular New Light Church, had arisen alongside the traditional faiths, nearly all of which blossomed as they were flooded with new converts. Mass attendance, after slowly declining in the 1950s and 1960s, was up throughout the Americas; and traditional Protestant denominations, along with synagogues of the various strains of Judaism, also had the happy experience of many new faces.
These new faces had a salutary effect on the old churches, in many cases that being the effect of blowing old cobwebs out the door, sweeping up dusty corners, and letting new light shine in. This generation frowned on the sort of “faith” that reduced itself to judgmentalism and self-righteousness. This was not the way, they insisted. They were steeped in a sensibility, as the Beatles’ John Lennon once put it, of avoiding reverencing “the [holy] book for the name that’s on the cover and not for what it says.” Instead, their approach was to tear into their chosen scriptures looking for love, mercy and forgiveness, and to emphasize what those scriptures taught – the Golden Rule being put into practice, not just as a nice ideal one might aspire to but not actually achieve, but rather as a cornerstone of daily life.
This paradigm – really, a refreshment of what it was supposed to be about in the first place, as many declared – began slowly but surely to manifest itself in all sorts of ways. And as it did, even those who did not choose to belong to a church were inspired by their friends and colleagues, who had entered a world that seemed foreign but clearly seemed to make them better people. This, in turn, led even those outside the churches to make their lives more meaningful, by seeking opportunities to serve others – and they in turn further inspired the converts, who more and more turned their local churches into centers of service toward their communities and the world at large, working with organizations both spiritual and secular and across ecumenical lines that in an earlier era would have divided them utterly, and spreading their love across the world.
The growth in material wealth that continued to flourish throughout the lands of the Three Amigos and ultimately in the countries that felt their influence turned out to be no impediment to this. Indeed, it turned out instead that the more wealth individuals had, and the more leisure time they had away from work, the more resources they had available for service.
In time, these values even came to define their work, as said values entered the workplace. Businesses came to place a higher premium than ever before on the simple act of doing the morally right thing, as opposed to simply doing the profitable thing. Over time, in fact, profitability came to be associated with doing the right thing, as those companies who acted with morality (real morality, not simply window-dressing – hypocrisy fooled no one) found that they were rewarded financially for their behavior. This came to include everything from discharging employees only as an absolute last resort – CEOs who insisted that “we’re all a family here at XYZ Company” came to be expected to put their money where their mouth was – to honesty in advertising to avoiding damage to the environment to the greatest extent possible – and to taking responsibility when things did go wrong.
The churches did the same. The Catholic Church in the 1970s, not long before the Pope’s visit, was rocked by a scandal – but it weathered the scandal through honest behavior. It had come to be the case, unfortunately, that the Church’s requirement that priests be celibate, coupled with the many youth organizations around the churches including but not limited to parochial schools, had made the priesthood seem a safe haven for pedophiles. At first, as instances of priests abusing were reported in various dioceses, the Church was uncertain how to react. Some experts at the time held that pedophiles could be treated. But ultimately the advances in understanding of mental health that had come out of the Second World War in the Three Amigos made clear that pedophiles were essentially untreatable and should be kept away from children. Now the Church had a dilemma, as cases of abuse were reported that had gone back as much as two decades. The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, spurred by the Archdiocese of Boston, made the bold decision to take action. The USCCB as a whole issued a statement on behalf of churches in the United States openly admitting to the instances of abuse and further stating that many had likely gone unreported. The bishops took full responsibility: “we can have no excuse before the Lord and before those whom the Lord has instructed us to bring to Him for our failure to protect them.” The Church set up a Victims Assistance Office under the Archdiocese of New York – soon extended worldwide by the Vatican – to assist through counseling all who had suffered abuse, and those who had not yet reported such abuse were urged to come forward. The Vatican also adopted a zero-tolerance policy toward priests accused of abuse; any such accusations were thoroughly investigated, and if found to have merit, the priest in question was laicized (dismissed from the clerical state, or “defrocked,” although the Catholic Church doesn’t normally use that particular term) and turned over to the secular authorities if there was evidence of an outright crime. The Vatican also went all-out to train all staff, whether clerical or lay employees, on how to spot a potential abuser and how to go about reporting him. The Church’s open handling of the scandal was admired throughout the wider society for its example of honesty in admitted one’s own failings.
But it wasn’t just the churches, of course, who were inspired by the new generation to move in new ways. The rediscovery of the values of the Golden Rule, of love and mercy, and of service to others, filtered throughout the society, even acting as an inspiration to the older generations, who of course had been taught these words but hadn’t always seen them acted upon. An early instance of just how far this thinking had penetrated was seen in the summer of 1972, in Pennsylvania’s fourth-largest city, Wilkes-Barre.
The fourth-largest city in the state had (since the consolidation of 1937, which had vastly expanded the city by absorbing neighboring communities) shared a border with the third largest, Scranton, and together they were the leading cities of the anthracite coal region. The use of anthracite coal for home-heating fuel had driven their growth in the late 19th and early 20th Century, with both cities exploding in population; but as anthracite had begun to give way to oil and natural gas for home heating, the market for anthracite had fallen, and population growth had leveled off (part of the reason why the consolidation was seen as a good idea). It wasn’t until the Oil Crisis of the late 1950s that the situation began to improve once again for anthracite, which would emerge as a more stable but smaller industry. In the meantime, though, Wilkes-Barre had successfully stabilized its population, luring a variety of other industries, including Studebaker, Miller Brewing, IBM, RCA, Eberhard Faber, Certain Teed, Campbell Soup, Foster-Wheeler, and many others, giving the industrial base of the region a diversity it had not enjoyed while it was strictly tied to coal. In particular, the region came to have a new image: as the leading national center for the design and manufacture of children’s toys and games, spurred initially by the growth of Roth American, a company which had taken off when a former postal worker named Herb Schaper, who had been transferred by the Post Office to Wilkes-Barre in 1946, had come up with a series of toys and been hired by Roth. Their designs had snowballed, and led to other leading toy manufacturers, including Mattel, Parker Brothers, and Kenner, to locate design facilities and plants in the Wilkes-Barre-Scranton region.
Wilkes-Barre’s greatest vulnerability had always been flooding, with the city’s downtown and its most heavily populated neighborhoods in perennial danger of the overflows of the Susquehanna River, a large but shallow river that nevertheless flooded on a fairly regular basis. The city had experienced a major flood in 1936 (another spur to the consolidation vote the following year), which had caused severe damage and led to a federal project to construct a levee system.
A hydrologist at Wilkes University, however, after studying the initial plans for the levees, became concerned, because the levees only protected the city against a flood like that of 1936, which was a spring-thaw flood. A hurricane moving up the East Coast could potentially produce a much larger flood, one well beyond the 33-foot crest of the 1936 flood, he argued. Enough local officials were convinced by this argument to lobby federal officials for a more extensive levee system, and it was ultimately decided that the levees, originally intended to be built to a height of 37 feet, should instead be built to a 43-foot height.
For nearly 36 years, no major flood threatened the Wyoming Valley, the valley in which the city of Wilkes-Barre sat. But in the second week of June 1972, Hurricane Agnes formed off the coast of Yucatan. The hurricane battered its way through Cuba and the Florida panhandle before rapidly losing strength over Georgia. It appeared to be dying – but then it unexpectedly strengthened over the Carolinas. It was not an especially windy storm, but its energy was dissipated in the form of heavy, intense rain, which caused flash flooding throughout the Carolinas and Virginia. The storm appeared to be making its way out to sea on June 21, but the following day it turned inland again, prevented by a high-pressure system over the Atlantic from moving eastward. Instead, it looped over the southern tier of New York and the state of Pennsylvania – a movement that took until June 25 for the storm to finally resume its northward path, meaning that it was effectively stationary over the watersheds of the streams and rivers of Pennsylvania and New York for three days, dumping its torrential rains. As if this wasn’t bad enough, two other factors aggravated the situation: the grounds were already saturated from high rainfall earlier in the month, meaning that the rainwater ran directly into the streams; and another storm system, moving from the west, combined with Agnes and added its rain to the hurricane.
Small towns and cities throughout the state were hit hard by the flooding, especially in the watershed of the Susquehanna, whose tributaries – the Chenango, the Genesee, the Chemung, the Lackawanna, as well as countless creeks and small streams – were filled to bursting and poured their floodwaters into the main stream. The little town of Shickshinny, a suburb of Wilkes-Barre, suffered heavy damage when a dam on Shickshinny Creek collapsed under the unprecedented heavy weight of the water and the stream’s flash flood cascaded through the downtown area, even before the river rose to inundate the town the next day. Bloomsburg suffered severe damage as the river flooded the Magee Carpet plant and the nearby fairgrounds. Towanda, to the north near the New York line, saw the river sweep away bridges and flood the downtown area. Perhaps worst of all was the state capital, Harrisburg, where the water was eight feet deep on the floor of the brand-new governor’s mansion and rose deep into adjoining neighborhoods.
In Wilkes-Barre, the crisis made itself felt by the afternoon of June 22, when Civil Defense (the predecessor of FEMA) learned that the river would crest at 40-43 feet, which made it an open question whether the levees would hold. It also created an immediate situation of danger for the Plymouth section of the city. Plymouth, like much of the valley, had been a separate town before the 1937 consolidation. Over the years, it had found a niche as the antique district. Plymouth was vulnerable to flooding, but because of a quirk of geography its dike system was separate from the rest of the city’s. That separate Plymouth dike was now in trouble. In March, a 50-foot section near the pumping station at Vine Street had been excavated to fix a broken sewage drain. That gap had not yet been repaired, and with the river rising, that meant that Plymouth was in grave danger.
In the evening hours of June 22, with the river rising rapidly – it had gone from only four feet or so the day before to nearly 17 feet by late afternoon – Civil Defense director Frank Townend took the great risk of making a series of important decisions. First, he ordered the immediate evacuation of Plymouth, and the evacuation of the rest of the city’s vulnerable neighborhoods, including the central city district, by no later than 5 am. “We don’t know how far this is going to go,” he said on an announcement carried on local radio and TV, “and we can’t afford to take a chance with the lives of our citizens by understating the danger.”
Second, Townend asked for two sets of volunteers. One group was needed to immediately try to fill the hole in the Plymouth dike as rapidly as possible, with fill and sandbags. But beyond that, Townend warned that the predicted crest would strain the levee system throughout the rest of the valley to its very limits. There was no assurance, given the possibility of shifts in the surface beneath the dikes over the years, that the river’s great height would not be enough to overflow the dikes. So he asked for volunteers to reinforce the valley’s dike system – up and down both sides of the river for nearly 15 miles – with sandbags. “If we do this,” he said, “this is not a job for 100 men or 500 men or a thousand men. If we do this, if we make it work, it’s going to take at least 10,000 people.” He had already contacted Wilkes-Barre’s powerful local congressman, Dan Flood (“this will be one Flood against another,” the latter would tell the media), who had close connections with the Pentagon and who was able to promise – and deliver – a sufficient number of sandbags from military stockpiles, rushed to the Wilkes-Barre/Scranton Airport by Army and Navy helicopters and airplanes and hauled to the dikes by Pennsylvania National Guard vehicles. But all would depend on whether enough volunteers would show up at the levees. While the local hospitals in the flood plain raced their evacuees by ambulance to safer hospitals, and while the police and fire departments focused on evacuating the elderly and others who were most vulnerable, the question remained: would the local residents focus on securing the safety of their personal belongings first – thereby neglecting the dikes, and possibly bringing about the very flood they hoped to avoid – or would they respond to Townend’s call?
The answer astonished even the most optimistic of the Civil Defense staff. Thousands of local residents showed up at the dikes, fanning out from the Market Street Bridge both north and south, on both sides, all the way to the Solomon’s Creek pumping station and the courthouse on the east side, and to the area around the Swetland Homestead and the Page Street pumping station on the west side – in other words, covering the entire levee system. It was a mix of young people – many of them hippies, with long hair and “groovy” clothing – side by side with middle-aged, cigar-smoking factory workers who were accustomed to wearing hard hats at their jobs and professional types who had in many cases come home and changed from suits into work clothes before heading to the dikes. Everyone was impressed by the gusto with which the young people attacked the hard work – a comment by one man to a local paper was typical: “I sure as hell don’t understand the young people today, but I’ll never say a bad word about them again.” But everyone worked together, performing the back-breaking work of shoveling sand into bags, tying them, and passing them up to the top of the dike in a spirit of camaraderie. It seemed later that out of the city’s population, only those truly unable to work had heeded the evacuation order: everyone else was at the dike, with even the residents of the Heights and other sections that were out of danger coming down to help. Meanwhile, the local churches and schools organized evacuation centers out of the flood zone.
For three tense days, the volunteers remained at the dikes, relieving each other in shifts once the initial work was done, strengthening the sandbag walls atop the dikes, keeping careful watch on any potential danger spots. No official count was taken of the numbers, but they were believed to well exceed Townend’s original call for 10,000 volunteers. Local restaurants brought food and drink free of charge, and Hotel Sterling and the dormitories at King’s and Wilkes colleges, at Wyoming Seminary, and even in some private homes were opened to the exhausted volunteers who stayed to the limits of their ability and finally needed rest.
The tensest moment of all came around 6 am on Saturday, June 24, as the North Street Bridge, low to the water, rickety, and swamped by the river, tore loose from its piers, finally unable to bear the pressure of the relentless water in the river and the debris that crashed repeatedly into the side of the bridge. Shrieks rose from the volunteers along the dikes, and Civil Defense held their breath; the fear was great that the loose bridge would float into the dikes, puncturing them, with a horrendous loss of life and devastation resulting. Fortunately, the bridge was too heavy to float, and sank into the river some 50 feet from the piers. Around 7 pm that night, the river finally crested at just below 41 feet – lapping at the very top of the dikes, splashing against the sandbags, but ultimately held in place.
Not until June 26, when it was clear the river had receded below flood stage, did the volunteers begin to leave. The valley had been saved from major flooding, virtually alone in the Susquehanna watershed.
But the Wyoming Valley was not known as “The Valley with a Heart” for nothing. And the new values of volunteerism, of serving others, that had sunk their roots deep into the local community, showed up a second time, as the undamaged cities of Wilkes-Barre and Scranton now turned to the task of helping those around them. Hundreds of residents of both cities took vacation time from their jobs to go to Bloomsburg, Shickshinny, Harrisburg, and all the other devastated communities in the region to help the residents of those regions clean up their damaged homes. A huge outpouring of donated food and supplies came from the Wilkes-Barre and Scranton area to the communities in the surrounding region and states, where so many needed immediate help. An editorial in the Wilkes-Barre Times-Leader thanked the people of the region for their efforts, saying, “It’s not until a crisis like Hurricane Agnes comes along that we realize just what we are capable of and how much we can do.”
Conventional wisdom said that this shouldn’t have happened at all, that people living in an increasingly affluent world would become more selfish and insular. But the societies of the Three Amigos had, as they had so many times before, proven the so-called experts wrong.
And by the 1980s, that paradigm of love, mercy and service, and just what it could accomplish, would spread worldwide in dramatic fashion, highlighted on a weekend in July 1985, and an event called "Live Aid."