"JESUS LOVES YOU ... but ... I'M HIS FAVORITE"

       

    

                In his morning intercessions, our pastor prayed in behalf of those "scorned by neighbors and cast aside as having no further worth."  A dictionary defines scorn as "the feeling or belief that someone or something is worthless or despicable, contempt."

        In my opinion, there has been much scorning of late  . . .

and much of  it has been disguised in the garb of religiosity.

Witness just the latest . . . this week, Indiana's became the twentieth state to adopt a "Religious Freedom Law".  On last Thursday, March 26, 2015, bills were introduced in the North Carolina State legislature to establish the "N.C. Religious Freedom Restoration Act".

    Ms Susan Ladd, a columnist for the Greensboro (NC) News and Record, in her March 29, 2015, article wrote "the agenda behind many of these state laws is to provide an exemption for businesses that don't want to provide services for same-sex couples, but the language is broad enough to permit discrimination based on gender, race, religion, disability, and citizenship.  The way these bills are written, there's almost nothing out of bounds . . . .  These bills ... do not restore freedom. They promote oppression."

       An on-line dictionary defines bigot as "a person who is intolerant toward those holding different opinions, especially a person who hates or refuses to accept the members of a particular group --such as race or religion."

      Intolerance and oppression in the name of 'Religion' are hardly new. Nor do we need to go as far back as the Crusades or the Inquisition for illustrations.  Contemporary examples abound.  One of my former students, pastor in a church for over twenty years, preached his final sermon there today (Palm Sunday) because he could not concur in the congregation's mandate that none of their clergy could officiate in a same-sex marriage nor could any of their facilities be used for such. Recently in his sermon, "Turning Over the Tables: My Last Sermon Before My Suspension", the Rev. Dr. John D. Copenhaver indicated his faith motivated reasons for performing such a ceremony. (Google this by title, if interested.)  For an extreme illustration, listen to what happened to young Ben Wood at church and the ultimate disastrous outcome.  (YouTube: "Impact of UMC2")

     Recently, in Chapel Hill, three young Muslims were murdered by an equal opportunity neighborhood bigot, allegedly about a parking dispute.  There have been assertions of religious bigotry as well.

    There is, sadly, a sense of deja vu.  In 1966, a racial bigot won election to his state's governorship largely on his "fame" for enforcing segregation at his restaurant by ax handles.  When Lester Maddox won the gubernatorial election, he said that God had been his "campaign manager."

     It would be easy to dismiss all religious persons as narrow and bigoted.  Gandhi once said something to the effect that "I admire your Christ but not many of his followers."  God has been "used" to justify biases, political and economic interests, as well as prejudices, often a dominant group in a society.  Indeed, Jesus got into difficulty by challenging the religious authorities who legitimated their oppression with religious language.

    As a boy, I knew of a man nicknamed "Shorty" Eubanks.  My dad told of how members of a nearby church were insisting that "Shorty" join their congregation.  That particular group was frequently in turmoil about some 'religious' topic.  Seeing that, Mr. Eubanks, who apparently had a way of slurring his words but not his opinions, told dad that "if that's 'ligion, I don't want any part of it."

      From a high school literature class, I remember a poem that went something like this : "The British say 'God bless England'; the Germans say 'God strafe England'. 'My God,' said God, 'I don't know which side I'm on !"

      Honestly held differences of opinion will not be eliminated.  What seem in grave danger of disappearing are civility and humility before the reality that none of us has all the Truth.

     Satchel



       

     

      

"You have to give a Speech"

      . . . "Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears . . ."
           Mark Anthony
      . . . "Four score and Seven years ago . . ."
           A. Lincoln
      . . . "Give me Liberty or give me Death . . ."
                 Patrick Henry


         "Just the idea of having to speak in front of a crowd fills me with unbearable anxiety," my client said.  He is a graduate of a venerable university, has a Master's Degree even.  But to imagine having to speak to more than a half  dozen persons reduces him to a blathering mass of monosyllabic grunts.  Another client, an accomplished IT executive, recently told me that he had joined a local Toastmasters group in order to overcome his near-terror of public speaking.

       What makes public speaking such a frightful prospect for them and countless others?  One estimate claims that perhaps as many as 75% of people have the fear.  It even has a formal name: Glossophobia, from Greek words for 'speech' and 'fear'.  The comedian Jerry Seinfeld reportedly said that at a funeral, a majority of the attendees would prefer to be in the casket rather than delivering the eulogy.   As already noted, the tipping point is not formal education; nor is it a matter simply of Introversion/Extroversion.  (I can attest to that truth.  As a 'card carrying Myers-Briggs introvert', I have never been particularly traumatized by speaking to crowds.  A certain degree of anxiety is to be expected but not of paralyzing  proportions.)

      While perhaps begging the question of which came first, the chicken or the egg, I wonder if  a contributing factor may just be lack of experience, perhaps beginning in the early years.  According to Wikipedia, "gaining experience in public speaking often results in it becoming easier for the person."

      Keeping our collective fingers crossed, we are anticipating the imminent arrival of Spring here.  Letting free association have its sway, I remembered the first line of a   
'Recitation' I memorized in the third grade as part of our school's annual ' Recitation Contest':  "My mamma says I've got Spring Fever."  Whatever profundities followed that introduction are long-forgotten.  As I progressed through the grades, there were other memorized 'Declamations', as they were called, including the above referenced Patrick Henry fiery oration.  On a couple of occasions I made it to the 'Final Four' , or whatever the High School competition was called. On my initial attempt, my friend Phil Tillerson won the medal, outscoring my rendition of a speech by Sen. Karl Mundt.  When I was a Sophomore, on the 'Big Night', a thunderstorm hit, knocking out all electric lighting in the school auditorium.  'But the show must go on', and I won First Place with a not so stirring rendition of Mr. Lincoln's Gettysburg Address.

     Our family moved to a new town prior to my Junior year and this school had a long tradition of 'The Horton Contest', named for a once prominent citizen who had served as the State's Lieutenant Governor.  My classmate, Bill Griffin, gave a stirring oration about horrendous highway fatality statistics.  While this occurred approximately sixty years ago, I remember that intermittently he intoned 'but this is
 normal ! '.

     I wonder how many college and university curricula today require a course in "Speech", as it was called at my undergraduate institution.  Class size was limited to approximately 25 students each of whom was  required
to make 3 or 4 speeches of varying lengths during the semester.  About the only thing I now recall from that class is the often repeated admonition: "The moving object attracts the eye."

     To my knowledge, the Horton Contest, required Public Speaking courses and other comparable endeavors are relics in the educational past.  There are exceptions;  for example, our local high school drama group produces two or three excellent productions annually.  And, sometimes a student's "nervousness" may cause muffed lines.  But, stage fright still is not quite the same as an individual alone in the spotlight.  

     But the 'picture' would be incomplete if I omitted those for whom the 'gift of gab' comes easily.  When my friend Bob was taking a Homiletics (Preaching) course at Duke Divinity School, the Professor dryly noted his verbosity with the observation, "Bob, you say Nothing well."  Alas, that could apply to the utterances of many . . . politicians, preachers, or pundits of all stripes . . . for whom addressing an audience brings no fear.

    How would it  be for you, then, if someone told you that "You have to give a Speech" ?

    Satchel

KA-BOOM !!

         From 1991 until 2000, I spent nine good years in the central North Carolina village of Coleridge as minister for three United Methodist Churches in the area.  "Downtown" Coleridge had once been a thriving mill village, but like with many of its counterparts, the post-World War II era marked the end of the mill's operation.  Consequently, the once thriving village with its mill, company store, company houses, bank, school with grades 1-12, volunteer fire department, at least two churches, including the United Methodist Church with its stained glass windows and  pipe organ settled into a kind of shadow of its former self.

     Many small towns have their lore about hush-hush happenings in the not too far removed past.  So it was in this  particular town.  One dark Winter night, there had been a HUGE explosion on the high school baseball field.  It opened a crater large enough to enclose a small automobile.  During my tenure there, one of the perpetrators trusted me with the story, as well as identifying several of his cohorts.  Although those men are now well past 70 years old (Now in 2017 some are in their 80's),  I have not divulged their identities . . . except to one other person who knows the story even better than I.  For his column in an area newspaper years ago, he interviewed (without attribution) yet another person who had been present that evening.  (Coincidentally,  two of the participants are now each other's brother-in-law; but that's all I will say about that.)

     Warren Dixon has given me permission to retell the story here, quoting extensively from a column he wrote for an area newspaper 15+ years ago :

   "The biggest New Year's celebration in Randolph County undoubtedly occurred in Coleridge on Dec. 31, 1954.
   The reason you've never heard about it is that the perpetrators have kept their silence over the years better than Mafia hitmen.
And even though the statute of limitations has run out on these festivities, the men still don't like to talk about it.  It's like they still fear that their Mommas might find out about their activities that night.  But one man has wilted under pressure and has consented to give this columnist a short version of what happened that New Year's Eve.  He wishes to remain anonymous and use only his initials, 'K.B.' which, as you will discover later, stands for 'Ka-Boom'.

    The boys involved were mostly high school students living in Coleridge.  It started innocently enough when they built a cabin in the woods (perhaps  of appropriated materials) near Deep River.
  
    Someone decided that the path to the cabin needed to be graveled and the boys set out to borrow some gravel from a local quarry.  They sneaked onto the property in a pick-up truck and while there noticed a shed at the edge of the property.  Being of a curious nature (and the door being unlocked), they went inside to check things out.

    There in the corner of the shed was a box of dynamite.  As one of the youths said later, the boys didn't want to leave it unattended and have it fall into the wrong hands.  So they took it back to the cabin for safekeeping, along with at least one load of gravel.  Later an older friend who worked at a  hardware store procured them some blasting caps and fuses.

    They pounded the caps on the dynamite with their pocket knives, not a real bright idea one boy later  admitted.  It seems that they also tested it on Deep River to make sure it would explode.  Then they decided to bring in the Coleridge NewYear in style.

     Someone located a 55-gallon drum, which they set in the middle of the pitcher's mound on the Coleridge ball field.  The boys started filling the drum with dynamite.  It was dark and none of them could see what the others were doing.

   'I put in  six or eight sticks,' K.B. admitted. 'Someone else said they stuck in 10, another  one said six.  We probably had 24 sticks in there when someone came up with a fuse.'

     The problem was the fuse was only about  two feet long   or at least that's how it looked in the dark.  But just as an alert kid was noticing this discrepancy, someone produced a cigarette lighter and the next sound they all heard  was a rapid 'whoosh.'

    They all ran with all the speed they could muster. The flash, said K.B., looked like '5,000 bug lights going off.'  The entire woods lit up like daylight.  Both dugouts on each side of the pitcher's mound were blown out, and shrapnel stuck in what was left of them.  All that remained of the mound was a Volkswagon-sized hole.

     Townspeople ran out of millhouses left and right.  One complained that the blast had knocked out 50 years of dust and soot from his ceiling.  Another said all his wife's whatnots had been knocked off their shelves.  One of the boy's mother exclaimed the next day that she thought Ft. Bragg was shooting off its artillery that night.

    Some of the shocked instigators didn't wait for a ride back to their houses, but walked (or ran) all the way home.
    It was a New Year's Eve that will forever live in the lore of Coleridge, the night the ballpark went up in smoke."

     I know that at least one of those ordnance experts of long ago reads these posts . . . and 'you know who you are.'  Fear not, your identity is safe.  

     Satchel

ADD ANOTHER CANDLE . . .

            "So, what's it like to be 77?" someone asked.  "I'm unsure, having just arrived here" was my reply.  I am sure, however, that it happened VERY quickly.  Have you seen the post going 'round on the internet: "I thought growing old would take longer."  It is a constant challenge to continue looking ahead while also remembering . . . and reminders abound about the speed with which life moves.  Example:  I find it helpful to maintain a log recording the date on which I terminate client charts.  Reviewing that recently when a former client reactivated, I was more-than-surprised to note that ten years had passed since he was last at my office.  Ah!, the accumulation of "yesterday's".

            "That's in the past. Get over it" is an often heard admonition.  Only one problem there . . . the past is alive in and informs the present.  Consequently, our opportunity and challenge is to learn from the past and grow into the now.  Back to the Future (the movie) notwithstanding, no one has yet developed a time machine that enables us to go back and rework previous experiences.  What can be altered is how we understand those times and events and how those new understandings might guide how we live now.  Such, in my opinion, is not pollyanna-ish .  Do you now understand some pivotal event in your past differently than how you interpreted it at the time of occurrence ?

     For example, one of my brothers has lived in New Hampshire since the early 1970's.  That's a long walk from his native North Carolina.  He's there in large part because he needed a summer job after his freshman year at UNC- CH and it happened like this:
In the Spring of my freshman year (three years earlier), quite by chance, Mr. Whicker of the Placement Office met me as I was strolling through the Admin Building (not part of my regular routine)  and asked what I would be doing that Summer.  "There's a man in my office I'd like you to meet." Enter "Doc" Sobel, co-owner of Camp Winaukee in New Hampshire, on a recruiting trip for  counselors. I had a job!  And, three years later, I asked Doc to hire my brother.  While there, he met a co-ed from Syracuse University whose parents had a lakeside cottage nearby.  A few years later they were married.  Would he have practiced his medical profession in New Hampshire had he not needed summer work in 1959? 

     Second example:  In 1991, needing to make a vocational change, I returned to the United Methodist ministry and was scheduled for a specific location appointment.  Then a 'hitch' developed . . . the person at that location balked about being assigned to a new parish, ostensibly because the parsonage there had but one bathroom and he had several children.  At what seemed at the moment to be a significant upheaval in life, I had little option but to accept the assignment the other person had refused.  No one could have convinced me at the time of the view that I now have . . . it was one of the best things that could have happened for me.  Much of the course of my subsequent years has been positively influenced by that move.  After nine years in that  parish, there was a new appointment.  On my last Sunday, I reflected with the congregation my appreciation for the time there and noted that it had all  come about because the parsonage had had but one commode.

      Often, then,  there is a flow in our narratives that can best be understood by subsequent developments.  So it is for me as I now enter my 78th year.  Behind me are achievements, failures, near-misses, lost opportunities, 'dumb-luck' happiness as well as sadnesses. On it goes and the same is perhaps the case for most  persons in our society.  Life Review reflections can be a helpful engagement for older people . . . (and that does not mean we are ready to check out).  A few years ago, I led a small group of folks through a 'guided tour' of their history.  Various topics were selected, e.g., formative education, the role (or lack) of religious practices, family members, vocational and professional choices, significant losses, etc.  On each topic, they wrote a reflective three or four pages.  At our sessions, they had the option of reading these aloud (obviously there was a high degree of trust and confidentiality among the members).  At the end of the course, they had a short autobiography which some of them wanted to pass on to their progeny as a kind of legacy as surely as other heirlooms.  Would that I had such from my parents and other family. (See an article of January 19, 2014, in the New York Times about the benefits of writing one's story "Writing Your Way to Happiness")

      Whether or not a document is written, such reflections can enrich us as we move into 'next chapters'.

     As a timely coincidence, my wife who did not know that this post  was being written, showed me a poem written by one of her Facebook 'friends'.  With Larry Pickard's permission, I am including it here:
          
        "Aging

  "As I grow older from twig to tree
   I realized age doesn't bother me

    When I was young time went by so slow
    One thing about time ...you'll never     
     outgrow

   Now I've aged quite well it seems
   My restful sleep brings me  restful dreams

   My grandkids are grown and my pill
    intake too
   Thank God I can still remember my
     friends like you 
  
    I don't read the funnies in the paper
    anymore
   I check the obituaries to find out the  
     score

    Of how many friends and people I knew
    And how they died ... these stories are
     true

   I'm thankful for the time I have left here 
    on earth
   Everyone's countdown ...Begins at
     birth

   You can always love life regardless of
      age
   Like reading a life's book ..A time passing
     page

     So enjoy your ride while you're still here
     Your time will come ..there's no need to
        fear

     When your name is called and the time
       you must go
     That's when you really walk ever so slow

     Your not quite ready to checkout of the
       game
     But like all your past friends ... they all felt
      the same

     Oops false alarm  it's not checkout yet
     They gave you a reprieve ..something not
        to regret

    Another twenty years they tell you quite
      clear
     Countdown again ... this time is in years "



  




                              "I started out as a child"


  
    





So I am grateful for yet another candle on the cake . . . and for those who have been part of 'the ride'.  

    Satchel


    

One more Dean Smith Story

      The younger of my two brothers is something of a 'Renaissance Man' with many interests and talents.  As a graduate of the School of Journalism at UNC-CH, he is formerly editor and still columnist for our local weekly newspaper.  In his early-mid 30's, he went to seminary and is also an ordained minister.  In addition to serving as pastor at his boyhood church, he also works part-time with a nearby Funeral Home.  Additionally, he and his son have a cattle herd.  He stays busy.

    With his permission, I am posting an excerpt from the column that he wrote this week in which he tells of his meeting Coach Dean Smith.

   "He also touched the not-so-famous and lesser known in significant ways as well. I know; I'm one of them.
   In September of 1966 I was a college freshman at UNC, convinced I would be the world's next great sports writer. . . .
Before that could come about, though, I had to first graduate and that meant going to class and turning in assignments and doing well on exams. At first, that entire concept was lost on me, which is one reason I was a freshman for  three years . . .but that's another story for another time.

     Anyway, given my state of mind at the time I reasoned it would be a good idea to interview Dean Smith.  The only problem was that he was as busy as a one-armed paper hanger and I was a run-of-the-mill college student--not one of his basketball players or managers, not a staff member, not a member of the press, not someone who could do anything for him.  I was just an almost 19-year old kid. But not knowing anything but try to make it come about I went on with my plan. . . .
     Finally early one evening I finagled an opportunity to make the call . . . and pulled the Chapel Hill telephone directory from the shelf, thumbed through the pages and came to 'Smith, Dean .....929-or 942-something something.
   With hand and heart shaking, I dialed (yes, 'dialed') the number. After a few rings, it was answered and the voice on the other end was Mr. Smith.
    That threw me for a modest loop; I guess I wasn't expecting him to answer but he did and I stumbled through my memorized speech.
'Is this Dean Smith, the basketball coach at a UNC?'
   'Yes it is . How can I help you?'
     What I wanted to say was something like 'well, for starters you can get my heart to start beating again' but I didn't . Instead I went on with my pre-planned remarks, telling him I was a journalism student at UNC and was wondering if 'I might have a few minutes of your time,'
  'Certainly. When would you like to do it?' (Notice that 'when would you like to do it".)
   'Uh...whenever it's convenient with you, sir.'
    'How about tomorrow morning in my office at 9:00?'  
      By the time 9:00 tomorrow morning rolled around, I had dressed in whatever little bit of best I had and was wanting outside the door to the basketball office in Carmichael Auditorium. 
   My knock on the door was answered by the department receptionist, who welcomed me in, went to  Smith's door, knocked on it and said, 'Your 9:00 is here.'
    Coming out from behind his desk, he walked over to me, stuck out his hand and said, 'Good morning, Bob. Glad to see you.  Would you like some coffee?'
   The fact that I had told him my name only once and he remembered it ranked right up there with breathing at the moment.  I graciously (I think) declined and he offered me a seat and pulled up one beside me rather than sitting behind his massive desk.
   That story is all well and good and so forth but the kicker and what really impressed me to remember the entire scene almost 50 years later is that in his office that day he gave me two hours of uninterrupted time to answer my questions and for those two hours I was the most important thing he had to do. . . .

     The day of his funeral service in Chapel Hill I had the opportunity to be one of the limousine drivers for the Smith family as part of the part-time work I do.  And because of that I had the opportunity to tell that story to his wife and children.
  
    'I never did become that sports writer,' I said to the family. 'But for almost 35 years I've been a minister and I've tried to do like Coach Smith did to me that day - to treat everyone with courtesy and dignity and respect.'

     It would be a lie to say that  I've always been successful in doing that  . . . but I've never forgotten the example and role model that was put before me that day long ago.
   I think that's more important than any of the wins and championships.  Folks who knew Dean Smith well say he thought that himself."

   Bob might have received a scholarship offer that day had he told Coach Smith that when he  played Jayvee basketball, his teammates nicknamed him "Lightning" for his slow locomotion on the court.

     Good story, 'Little Brother'.
          Satchel

INFLUENCES OF NOTE. .

               While listening to Mozart's 13th symphony this week, I wondered about the origins of my appreciation.  In my formative years, there was little classical music in my environment . . . except
Public School Music.  For maybe an hour or so per week, our Fourth Grade class (as I remember it) would go to Mrs. Mary Frances Morgan's classroom where she would extol the virtues and beauty of various pieces of classical music.  While she likely introduced  us to several composers and their work, two are locked in my mind . . . The William Tell Overture (which  every man my age knows as the theme music for The Lone Ranger) and Grieg's Peer Gynt Suites.  With the high school students, she even produced  Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado, which her husband, the Coach, called The Mickey-Do.  {Still unsure why trivia like that is stored away in the brain folds while 'important' matters are not always readily retrievable.}

       In an earlier post ('Music to My Ears'), I acknowledged my unsophisticated and subjective approach to music . . . I just know what I like.  I am unable to converse in depth about what makes 'good' music.  But, unlike another coach/teacher who told us that he did not enjoy music by "sympathy orchestras", I have my favorites.
I think the Second movement of the aforementioned Mozart 13th
ranks as one of the most beautiful ever composed.

       In that Mrs. Morgan's classes were almost seventy years ago, I assume that she has  since taken her 'final curtain call'.  I wish that I had recognized her influence earlier and thanked her.  That being no longer possible, I make it a  point to say my appreciation to those whose music I find enriching.

      John is Organist at the Presbyterian church my wife and I attend. For many years he was Organist at a large Chicago church but has now returned to North Carolina, living near his hometown.  His influence here is evident in many ways.  Members of the choir speak appreciatively of his insistence upon excellence. Thus far, we have been unable to convince him to play a Sunday afternoon recital/concert.   Each Sunday, in addition to appreciating how his talent enhances the worship service,  I look forward to his Postlude.  At times like that,  I hear echoes of my parents telling me that the time would come that I would wish I had been diligent in practicing my piano lessons.  Sure enough, I wish that I had allowed them more influence about such matters  . . . or maybe I just recognized my limitations.    

     Seventy years later, Mrs. Morgan, "Thanks".

        Satchel    

          

        
        

MOVIES, CINEMAS AND 'PICTURE SHOWS'

     We decided to do something today that is out of the ordinary for us . . . we went to a movie.  And the one that we  selected is somewhat controversial with mixed reviews.  Is it a 'true story' or 'based on a true story'?  (The academic historian in me knows that there is quite a difference. )

     One of my throw away lines when asked about the last movie that I have seen is "Gone With the Wind".  There is a nearby cinema which we have patronized less frequently than in earlier times.  When we pass it, my wife will say, on cue , 
"What is that building there?". And, on cue, I will reply that I think is is a skating rink.

    "The movies are great medicine. Thank you, Thomas Edison for giving us 'The Best Years of our Lives' " . . . so sang the Statler Brothers in The Movies.  I am unsure why we now attend less frequently.  Was not always so.  Guess I could claim in part the fact that there is no theater in our home town.  'Once upon a time' almost every small town had at least one. In the town where I grew up, the building burned one Sunday afternoon in 1954.  Fire trucks came from even as far away as Raleigh . . . 15 or so miles.  The town where I now live lost its downtown movie house by fire many years ago.  And the 'Drive In Movie' out on the By-pass gave way to 'progress' many years ago.

     Strange as it may seem to some who are accustomed to paying today's admission and concession prices, I have vivid memories of using my full 25 cents allowance for admission (10 cents), a box of popcorn (another dime) and a drink (a nickel).  Now that I qualify for 'Senior Rates', I am amazed at  what that can do to a portrait of Andrew Jackson ($20 bill) .
Maybe therein lies at least a clue for the decrease in 'going to the show' (as it was once called).  Doesn't make sense (almost an unintended pun) in that that we spend comparable sums for other entertainments, as well as for 'eating out'.

    Just this week, I saw a video clip on YouTube that had a segment with one of my boyhood heroes, Gene Autry.
He and Roy and Hoppy always wore  white hats.  These days, I like: Baseball stories such as Trouble with the Curve; Humor and Comedy; Historically- based such as Unbroken; and, while the last title does not fit, I usually prefer 'light hearted' stories, where the 'good guys' still win. 

   And the  previews shown today were an unending stream of egregious murder, mayhem, and other forms of chaos.  Perhaps it has to do in part with the fact that I hear ample hurt, strife, conflict, etc in my office that I want entertainment  at the movie.  In that the last two movies we have seen have been 'intense', when we left the theater this evening, my wife  commented that our next one needs to be a 'Chick Flick'. Uncertain of the precise definition of that genre, I still almost agreed.

    An often heard comment is  'the movie is not as good as the book'.  Each time that I hear that statement, I remember that when  Cecil B. DeMille's  blockbuster The Ten Commandments was released, someone asked my fraternity brother, Bob Little, if he planned to see it.  He answered, "No. I read the book."   Maybe that's part of my reason . . . while not all good movies have gone with the wind,  I frequently prefer reading  a book to much that is now on the 'silver screen'.
           Satchel

    

IMPORTANT BOOKS THAT I HAVE MET

         At the end of a counseling session last week, a client asked if I would think about and list for him the "five most influential books" that I have read.  Quite a request but it piqued my interest and curiosity.  Part of that is easy . . . for reasons long since forgotten, in 1961, I began keeping a list of books that I had completed. (No, I plead innocent to any insinuations of  Obsessive Compulsive tendencies.) So, I located the list and that is when the request became a challenge.

      I made two columns ... fiction and non-fiction ... and began identifying 'nominees'.  There are more of the latter than the former.
And, the fiction was easier. ( I probably might have created a third section...historical fiction ... and therein included the writings of my fraternity brother, Charles F. Price, who writes eloquently.)  And, in that category would also go McKinley Kantor's Andersonville which I read as a college freshman and likely influenced my decision to major in History.  

    For fiction, I have enjoyed several of John Steinbeck and Reynolds Price's books.  I have 'benefitted' from reading: All Quiet on the Western Front; Arthur Miller's Death of a Salesman; Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five; Pat Conroy's Prince of Tides; and Ferroll Sams's trilogy: Run With the Horsemen; The Whisper of the River; and When All the World Was Young.

    But for now, I want to reflect on the non-fiction titles.  I quickly made three sub-categories: First tier, Second tier, and 'fun'.  Here, my various professions likely have influenced several choices but personal predilections have also had their 'say-so'.  So far, I have been unable  to choose a 'top five'.  While I am pretty certain of the top  two, there are others that cannot be eliminated.  "The Envelope, please". . .   Runners - Up include Charles Wells, Dear Old Man: Letters to Myself on Growing Old; David Halberstam, The Teammates: Portraits of a Friendship; Gail Sheehy, Passages: Predictable Crises of Adult Life; Martin Marty, A Cry of Absence; Father Thomas Keating's Open Mind, Open Heart; and various titles by Frederick Beuchner and Barbara Brown Taylor.

    In second place but not by far, because as I have noted elsewhere in these posts, I annually reread Parker Palmer's Let Your Life Speak: Finding the Voice of True Vocation.

    Marcus Borg died this week.  As a member of the Jesus Seminar, he was often vilified as 'Liberal' by more-'orthodox' and conservative Christians.  I first became aware of him and his writing in 1996 when he addressed the Council of Ministers at a nearby college.  My friend gave me a copy of Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time. Since then, I have re-read it several times, as well as reading several of his more recent writings. On two subsequent occasions, I heard him preach at Wake Forest University and  attended another lecture at High Point University. For some time, I had known that there were Understandings and Interpretations of Christianity that were at variance with my own but was unclear as to how to articulate these.  While there are points of differing understanding, because of him and his written and spoken words, I now without apology consider myself 'Christian'.

     Some time back, a client frequently railed against Borg and other "Liberals".  As a psychotherapist, my ministry is not 'evangelism' in the sense of trying to proselytize persons to my beliefs.  However, in the spirit of encouraging her be less judgmental and stereotyping, without identifying the speaker, I played Borg's YouTube sermon, What's Christianity.  After she indicated that she concurred with everything the speaker had said, I told her it was Borg.  Imagine her surprise.

    I have absolutely no interest nor intention to engage in theological debate in this space.  I am grateful that I encountered Dr. Borg and for his assistance in Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time.

     Satchel

FALLOW GROUND

    "I had reached the point that I had nothing to say and no great desire to say it," a then prominent Episcopal priest wrote me in the 1960's while on his vacation.  Many who write, preach, teach, and others who rely on their creative 'juices'  fall upon fallow ground from time to time.  

   Farmers know about fallow ground. .  . land that has been used and now for a season is plowed but nothing is planted.  Well, the muses of creativity sometimes go into hiding and 'the well is dry'.

   My younger brother writes a weekly column for our local newspaper.  Perhaps because I have known him for 60+ years and because I have been reading his material for almost 30 of those years, I frequently can tell when he is 'on' and when he just is grinding it out.  When he is 'good', he is very good . . . like the time that he won a North Carolina Press Association First Place Award for his story of Aunt Bea's funeral. (She of the Andy Griffith Show renown and who retired to our hometown.)  The funeral was by invitation and he was not an invitee.  How did he do it? As an ordained minister, he has conducted numerous funerals; he knew something of her 
story, and he talked with the priest who led the rites. Plus, I am convinced that somewhere along the way, he kissed the Blarney Stone.  Even so, he acknowledges that on occasion, he hits a fallow patch.

   'Papa' Ernest Hemingway when asked the secret of successful writing replied something to the effect of having the seat of one's garment adhere to the seat of a chair for extended periods of time.  (But is he not reputed to have written while standing? I digress.)

    I have come to enjoy . . . the word is too mild . . . writing blog posts.  Sometimes, topics will almost present themselves; at other times, there is nothing.  Gratefully, unlike Hemingway, I do not rely upon my prose for a livelihood.  Still, it is more than a bit frustrating to want to write, but creativity does not respond well to coercion.  As I wrote that last sentence, I remembered a term paper that I wrote for Professor Waldo Beach at Duke Divinity School in the Spring of 1963.  Though my grade was an acceptable "B", he sized it up well with his comment : "Signs of haste and imminent deadline".

    Perhaps the moral of this musing might be along the lines of  "What's the hurry? There's no deadline."  But, then, maybe my brother will tell me where to find the Blarney Stone.

    Satchel

A VOICE FROM THE PAST . . .

       Last night I heard a 'voice from the past'.  Amazing, isn't it , what technological 'gadgets' can provide.  The 'voice' that I heard was that of my Mentor and Academic Father, the late Reverend Doctor Harrell F. Beck.  In the Spring semester of 1961, I enrolled in his course "Hebrew Wisdom Literature" at Boston University School of Theology.  Easily the most academically challenging and gratifying class that I took during my year there, I remain proud of the "A" that was earned.  And while his status as a scholar was impressive, what most endeared him was his human warmth and 'approachability'.  (Harrell's scholarly credentials and achievements can be viewed at www.Facebook.com/HarrellBeck. The site was set up by some of his proteges as a way of remembering and continuing his legacy.)

    Well into that semester, I knew that I was "in the wrong pew, in the wrong church, at the wrong time in my life."  And while I hardly had vocational clarity (after all, I was 23 years old -- Time to 'get on with it' !), I felt that to leave school would have been a betrayal to many who had supported my matriculation.  Hardly knowing the man but sensing his integrity, I made a lunch appointment with Dr. Beck.  He listened carefully, then expressed his opinion that I was not being remiss but rather was attempting to be honest and find my way.  How liberating; how affirming!

    From May, 1961 when I departed Boston until Harrell's death in December ,1987, we saw each face to face perhaps on a half dozen or so occasions.  The most memorable of those visits occurred in the Summer of 1985 when he preached at my installation as Minister of a North Carolina congregation.  (God does have a sense of humor !)  Beyond the memory of those times together, I have a thick file of the correspondence we maintained over those years.
His letters abounded with humor, wisdom, encouragement, affection, and his humanity.

                                (With Harrell Beck, Summer, 1985)

     In late November, 1987, I wrote to him extensively about the vicissitudes of life as a parish minister and still seeking (at age 49, after an extensive tenure as college professor) the vocational path of fulfillment.  His response was, as usual, supportive and encouraging: "I am sure you have talents and gifts that are not being used and I think it is important to be specific about one or two of those and see that they are brought into use."

     I bemoaned that he was soon to depart for Hong Kong where he would again have a teaching appointment.  He responded: "I too lament the fact that we meet so seldom. . . . At least we can write.  We can be present to each other without either geographic presence or writing, but both of the latter are much better.  . . . Surely heaven is a place for the fullness of relationship."  Before that day ended, Harrell was dead from acute myocardial infarction.

    After his death, I learned of this prayer he had written:
   
  "I'd like to be a flower in the garden of God.  I'd like to take my
chances in the wind and the rain, in the storm and the sunshine. I'd like to be planted  among a variety of species in the midst of an assortment of colors--and sizes--and shapes; and to grow among the lilies and the lilacs, the crocuses and the chrysanthemums, the poppies and the  pansies, and yes even the dandelions.  I want to be part of an absolute riot of color and beauty.

    Pray God I might last long enough to blossom. And, then, Lord, early if you want to, late if you can, I want you to pick me.  And if I must be alone in a solitary vase, I'll take it.  I'd rather be in a bouquet. But could I be something beautiful, Lord, and placed on your table at somebody's covenantal mement, when they're bringing their child or when they're burying their beloved or when they are sealing a vow? That could be joy enough, God, but could I ask one more thing?  Could it be possible that someone would say, 'That reminds me of a flower I once saw, a rose in Sharon, a lily of the valley, who was once picked by God and gave up his life --to add beauty and significance to the lives of others.' "

    Last night, he was much on my mind and I did a Google search, and that is where I heard his voice.  There are two of his lectures on 
'SoundTheology.org/speaker/speaker-beck-harrell' . I heard just one of them  . . . 'Escape to Reality', apparently addressed to a group of United Methodist Ministers in Spokane, Washington, at an unspecified date.   It's a tad long . . . about an hour . . . but most substantive.

   I was delighted to hear his voice again with his depth of insight and faith and his warmth of  expression.  I invite you to listen.

     Satchel

LEFT- OVERS

     The late Reverend Doctor Peter Marshall upon facing left over holiday turkey for the umpteenth time told his wife that she would have to say the pre-meal grace because God knew that he was not grateful for turkey hash.

    Not all left-overs merit our scorn; rather, before we move on into the post-holiday period, there are a few things to remember that can offer soul nourishment.  High on my list are 'Christmas programs', especially those presented in small congregations.  My mentor, the late Reverend Doctor Harrell Beck, noted that probably every church has three bathrobes hanging in a closet somewhere for use by the 'three Wise Men'.

     In writing this, I remember one such program in which I had a bit part ...probably when I was 10 years old.  I was given a white cassock at rehearsal and I was so proud of it that I wore it on the  six block walk home that December afternoon.  The t.v. movie, The Homecoming, (if I remember the title correctly)(which was the pilot for the subsequent series, The Waltons) had a poignant scene of the 'program' at the neighboring Black church.

     This year, we attended what I consider to be among the best that I have ever experienced.
The church members whom we know well seemed remarkably unselfconscious in their various costumes and coming's and going's.  The sequencing of narrative, costumes, and music formed a unity that  powerfully conveyed the message.  Only after it had concluded did we learn that it had been written by Jeff, a gifted member of the congregation.  'Written'...well, he had considerable assistance from Luke, John and a few other Biblical authors.  But he wove it all together in a beautiful symmetry. Thanks, Jeff and members of Maple Springs for your offering.

    By contrast, on Christmas Eve, we attended a service at a church near where we have spent the week.  While there were spots for congregational participation, I left feeling that I had been at a 'performance' rather than at a worship service.  Perhaps I am more of a liturgical traditionalist than I had realized but music with a rock beat does not assist in my awareness of the Holy One.

   And, I did say left-overs.  Facebook, like many other things, has its benefits as well as its banalities. This year we have appreciated exchanging greetings in real time with several persons important to us.  I hope that the warmth of these exchanges remains through the coming Winter.

    Do memories qualify as 'left-overs' ?  Not all are 'turkey hash'; instead they maintain a zestful taste that can provide sustenance without exhaustion.  Not all the 'ghosts of Christmas past' are haunting.  While the past is not a good place to live, occasional visits can provide perspectives worth having.

    What's in your left-overs that you can give thanks for . . . with due respect for Dr. Marshall's candor ?
     Satchel

THE SHORTEST DAY OF THE YEAR

December 21, 2017. . . This was originally written three years ago.
Having  watched several sunrises and sunsets at the beach this year, I have again been reminded of how short the days are just now.  Today is the Winter Solstice . . . the shortest day of the year.  Which means that now the days will again lengthen --- a positive experience for those of us for whom 'cold' and 'dark' are not preferences :

      For the next 182 1/2 days, the 'trend' is positive  . . . at least for those of us who prefer more daylight.  A local meteorologist reminded viewers that yesterday was the shortest day of the year.  From here til June 21st, the days grow incrementally longer. Daylight lasting well past 8 p.m. (with the assistance of Daylight Savings Time) remains my preference.  Darkness at 5 p.m. can be, well, depressing, and not just in the clinical sense.

      'Dark' and 'cold' are a mean combination for many.  Often the former carries an undertone of things dangerous or evil or depressing. SAD ... Seasonal Affective Disorder . . . complicates life for many and if often treated by use of a 'light box'. 

    Along with the dark winter of the calendar, there can also be a dark winter of the spirit that begs for more light.  The American theologian, Martin Marty, wrote powerfully of such in his A Cry of Absence:Reflections for the Winter of the Heart. Barbara Brown Taylor, an Episcopal priest and teacher, recently offered some different perspectives on benefits of darkness in her  book, Learning to Walk in the Dark. (No book reviews offered here.  I found substance in both.) 

    Now it is almost Christmas.  Christian theologians who note that the  actual date of Jesus's
birth is unknown maintain that a time near the Winter Solstice is a fitting symbolic dating for the advent of One considered by many to be 'the Light of the World'. That the dating was an appropriation of non-Christian cultures's traditions does not negate the symbolism.

    Yesterday, a friend posted a poem by Edward Hays, a Catholic priest.  I had never known of him or his writing. His website looks interesting and I have bookmarked it for further reading of his blogposts.
But his poem captures much that I had felt stirring within as the seasons change and evidences of 'darkness' proliferate :
  
 "The dark shadow of space leans over us . . . .
We are mindful that the darkness of greed, exploitation, and hatred
also lengthens its shadow over our small planet Earth.
As our ancestors feared death and evil and all the dark powers of winter,
We fear that the darkness of war, discrimination, and selfishness
may doom us and our planet to an eternal winter.

May we find hope in the lights we have kindled on this sacred night,
hope in one another and in all who form the web-work of peace and justice
  that spans the world.

In the heart of every person on this Earth
burns the spark of luminous goodness;
in no heart is there total darkness.
May we who have celebrated this winter solstice
by our lives and service, by our prayers and love,
Call forth from one another the light and the love
that is hidden in every heart.
   Amen.
     
   Although the writer of the Gospel of John insisted that people love the dark because their deeds are evil, what of that 'spark' that craves greater clarity of understanding and action?  Maybe all the Christmas lights are pushbacks against enveloping darkness.
To me, the dying words of American short story writer O. Henry (William Sydney Porter) "turn up the lights, I don't want to go home in the dark" and those of Goethe, "Do open the shutter of the bedroom so that more light may enter"  are human echoes of God's "Let there be Light".

     An ancient prophet promised that "the people who walk in darkness shall see a great light". Another: "Arise, shine, for your light has come !"

     May the darkness and the cold not overwhelm us!
Perhaps that comes close to what Christmas is about.
    Satchel

   

LET THEM EAT [FRUIT] CAKE . . .

         'tis the Season !  For fruitcakes, that is.  And for those who enjoy making bad jokes about the delicacy.  (On the long-shot chance that you do not know about 'fruit cake', consult Wikipedia.)

       When did the bad rap begin?  Perhaps with Johnny Carson's often repeated  'joke' that there really was but one fruitcake in the entire world and it was passed around and re-gifted from year to year.  And, in Manitou Springs, Colorado, there is an annual post-Christmas "Great Fruitcake Toss", with participants vying for the longest fling.

    Not all fruitcakes are created equal.  Some, undoubtedly, are atrocious .  I have met a few that were much too sweet, too gooey, and just 'too much' to suit my palate.  However, fruit cake per se has a long and honored place in my Christmas memories and associations.

    The late author, Truman Capote, wrote a nostalgic short story, A Christmas Memory, about how his child-like aunt, Sook, and he 
made thirty fruitcakes each year during the days of the Great Depression.  Sometime in November, Sook would raise her kitchen window and, sniffing the brisk air, exclaim "Oh, my, it's fruitcake weather."  Their adventures in gathering the ingredients are too rich  to attempt summarizing here.  It's a great read.

    A key ingredient in Buddy ( her name for young Truman) 
and Sook's fruitcakes was the liquor, obtained from a local bootlegger.  For many, that part of the tradition lives on, especially with those cooks who bake their own.

     Berta Scott's recipe does not include 'spirits' but, then, it's not the stereotypical 'fruit cake'.  At Christmas when a hairdresser, Mrs. Scott gifted her  customers with fruitcakes made from her mother's recipe.  After many rave responses, she and family members began 'mass producing' them in their garage.  In 1984, the family began what has become an internationally successful business, selling not only fruitcakes but a wide assortment of 'goodies'. (Google the website for Southern Supreme Fruitcake for an overview of the Scott family's remarkable success story.)

     (Though she and her husband and their business are nearby and we are personally acquainted, I want to stress that this is neither a solicited nor paid endorsement.  We just like their  fruitcakes.)

     However, as much I enjoy the Southern Supreme fruitcake, my all time favorite, never again to be enjoyed, was my mother's annual production.  (Does anyone in the extended family have her recipe?)  And, it was a 'production' and similar to Sook and Buddy's, it was liberally soaked with 'apple jack', or apple brandy.  Mom would wrap these precious items in a cloth, keep them in  tin containers ,  and at intervals add a touch of the brandy.  When she deemed them 'ready', it was a grand occasion.

   Like many families,   we have stories that are told and retold whenever there is a gathering. . . a favorite involved mom's fruitcake.  One Christmas season as the masterpieces were unveiled, Bob Hultman, our parents' pastor, happened by for a visit.  He accepted mom's offer for cake and coffee.  When he had finished, she asked if he would like more.  His response has become part of the family's lore: "I think I will drink another slice."

     By the way, fruitcake at its best contains lots of nuts as well.
Probably you have heard of someone's being called 'as nutty as a fruitcake'.  One person wrote that 'the fruitcakes in my family were of the human species.'

       Whether your fruitcake is on or seated around the table, 
enjoy !
                Satchel