Spiritual column for Sept 12

Chaplain Brings the Lucky Charm

I'm not a superstitious person, but during the years I served as an Air Force chaplain, I was occasionally passed off as the spiritual equivalent to a lucky charm.

One of those occasions happened at Patrick Air Force Base while I served as the launch crew chaplain at nearby Cape Canaveral (1999-2002). In that role, I gave the official prayers for most launches, which included shuttles and satellites.

In military tradition, my prayers were more ceremonial than a legitimate attempt to court God's favor. They were generic in nature, seeking good weather, safety and success.

It's normal for technical difficulties to delay launches, but in the late months of 1999, we had favorable results in launching on our first attempt. Crews began to tie these successes with the arrival of their new chaplain. Their thinking became so ridiculous that one superstitious commander actually checked with my boss to confirm that I'd be the chaplain delivering "their prayer."

These were the same folks who, in good fun, wore something for good luck on every launch day. They brought everything from lucky socks to coins or even a piece of a failed rocket. Now I'd suddenly become their "lucky charm chaplain."

But my luck wasn't going to hold.

One evening, after I'd been there for about six months, I composed a fervent prayer for a 2 a.m. launch. At the last minute, the mission was scrubbed because of weather but rescheduled for the same time on the next morning.

"God speed," I said, with a dismissive assumption that my job was done.

They looked at me as if I'd hung them with their lucky necktie. "You're coming back tomorrow night, aren't you Chaplain?"

"Uh, sure."

The next morning, I reported for duty, bleary-eyed, hoping to pass off the same crumpled prayer from the previous evening.

Same result. No launch.

As I offered condolences to the disappointed crew, Brigadier General Donald Pettit, the Wing Commander, barked at me. "Chaplain, your prayer didn't work! You need to write a new prayer."

It's possible that what I said next might explain why I had to finish my military career in the reserves.

"You're kidding, sir."

He assured me in general-like terms that he wasn't kidding.

I still thought he was ribbing me, but I was too new to our spacy business to be sure. So, a few days later, I brought a new prayer. Unfortunately for all concerned, I was forced to repeat the rewrites for the next three weeks.

When our rocket finally soared on our sixth attempt, I reached across the consoles to exchange handshakes with the ground crew. One engineer in his lucky sweater, slapped my back and said, "You finally did it, Chaplain."

"Did what?" I wondered, as I drove home on that early morning.

I wasn't the lucky horseshoe in this arrangement. I simply offered a prayer — not as a magical incantation, but as a reminder that God comes where he is invited.

It's the same idea I share in premarital counseling.

"I'm not the lucky god charm," I tell the couple. "I don't bring God's presence into your marriage. You must do that."

The next morning, I was walking across the base courtyard, when Gen. Pettit motioned me over to him.

I offered him a salute weakened by fatigue.

"Your prayer didn't work!" he said.

"But, sir, I saw it launch."

"We launched it, but it never reached the intended orbit," he said.

"That'll be all," he added, before returning my salute with a smirk that told me he really was ribbing me.

Nevertheless, that was the day their lucky chaplain lost his lucky charm.

 

-------------------------------------

Column excerpted from my book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving."

All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

Retire column Oct 3 weekend

Editors,

 

After 24 years of writing this column for syndication, I am retiring the column on Oct 3, my birthday. I will make this decision public to my readers in my last three columns.

 

All is good with me so I look forward to going out on a good note. I am touched by the many recognitions this column has earned and most especially how it has helped Chispa Project.

 

If you plan on looking for a replacement writer, let me know and I might be able to help. You are always welcome to reprint anything from the website too.  www.thechaplain.net

 

Perhaps I may write an occasional piece and send it for your consideration.

 

Blessings to all of you who have personally encouraged me along the way.

 

Norris

 

Sept 5 weekend 2025 spirituality column

What if You Knew How You Were Going to die?

 

If you knew what you were going to die from, would that change the way you live?

 

That's the question I faced in my next assignment in 1999 at Patrick Air Force Base, That's the year my Air Force doctor, a graying 50-something flight surgeon brought me in for my pre-deployment physical.

 

I had mixed emotions about the physical. After all, if he pronounced me healthy, I'd leave my family to go to Saudi Arabia for four months. If he declared me unhealthy, I might face a medical evaluation board and soon find myself unemployed.

 

During my 15-minute office visit, he hammered on my boney knees, peered into my uncertain brown eyes and shined his flashlight into the airfoils I call ears. He'd put a tongue depressor in my upper orifice and a gloved finger in its southern cousin.

 

Just as I was refastening my shiny belt buckle, his assistant knocked on the door.

 

"Enter," the doctor barked.

 

A balding young airman appeared, handed the doctor a manila folder and was quickly dismissed with a perfunctory, "Thank you."

 

"Ahh. Your test results," he said.

 

The doc put on the eyeglasses dangling from his neck and flipped through pages of blood tests, pee tests and vision tests. All the while he was nodding, spouting numbers and mumbling approving words like "good" or "OK."

 

He closed the file with a smile, so I ventured a guess.

 

"Am I good to go to Saudi?"

 

"Yes, but there's been a recent increase in your blood pressure, so I'm prescribing some medications."

 

My face flushed with obvious concern, so he took a more optimistic tack.

"Look at it this way," he said. "At least you know how you're going to die."

 

"Excuse me?" I begged.

 

"Most likely a doctor will one day write 'hypertension' on your death certificate," he declared.

 

I rubbed my eyes, in hopes of dismissing the grim reaper I saw draped in a white lab coat.

However, not to be dissuaded by my shaking head, Doc assured me that any thoughts I was having of an early demise were "greatly exaggerated."

With some enthusiasm, he added that my problem would be defined as "service-related. That means that one day your wife, Becky, will get a nice death benefit – all because of your hypertension."

 

"Bless your heart!" I said. (Southerners know what this means.)

 

He was predicting a silver lining in my death, but I didn't want to hear it. After all, I was planning to live a long life in a beachside home with my officer's retirement.

My thinking was much like the greedy farmer Jesus mentioned in the parable found in Luke 12:16– 21.

 

The farmer was so successful that he built new barns to store his abundant crops. With his retirement set, the farmer told himself, "Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry."

 

The story concludes with God prematurely calling the farmer to the pearly gates, leaving all his crops to spoil in the cavernous barns.

 

Then Jesus added his punch line: "That's what happens when you fill your barn with Self and not with God."

 

These days, nearly every time I strap on a blood pressure cuff, I think about the survival odds quoted by that doctor. That cuff reminds me that although my earthly life is finite, God's love is infinite, and God always gives better odds.

 

However, knowing how I might die has changed the way I live. I exercise regularly, eat better and take my medications. But most importantly, Becky no longer has to see me as a potential dollar sign from a VA pension.

 

 

 

CORRECTION:

 

Last week, I misspelled the Amazon website where you can donate supplies to Chispa Project. Our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season is https://go.chispaproject.org/supplies (Do not use "WWW.) Email me with questions or comment at comment@thechaplain.net. 

 

Sept 12 weekend 2025 spirituality column

What if You Knew How You Were Going to die?

 

If you knew what you were going to die from, would that change the way you live?

 

That's the question I faced in my next assignment in 1999 at Patrick Air Force Base, That's the year my Air Force doctor, a graying 50-something flight surgeon brought me in for my pre-deployment physical.

 

I had mixed emotions about the physical. After all, if he pronounced me healthy, I'd leave my family to go to Saudi Arabia for four months. If he declared me unhealthy, I might face a medical evaluation board and soon find myself unemployed.

 

During my 15-minute office visit, he hammered on my boney knees, peered into my uncertain brown eyes and shined his flashlight into the airfoils I call ears. He'd put a tongue depressor in my upper orifice and a gloved finger in its southern cousin.

 

Just as I was refastening my shiny belt buckle, his assistant knocked on the door.

 

"Enter," the doctor barked.

 

A balding young airman appeared, handed the doctor a manila folder and was quickly dismissed with a perfunctory, "Thank you."

 

"Ahh. Your test results," he said.

 

The doc put on the eyeglasses dangling from his neck and flipped through pages of blood tests, pee tests and vision tests. All the while he was nodding, spouting numbers and mumbling approving words like "good" or "OK."

 

He closed the file with a smile, so I ventured a guess.

 

"Am I good to go to Saudi?"

 

"Yes, but there's been a recent increase in your blood pressure, so I'm prescribing some medications."

 

My face flushed with obvious concern, so he took a more optimistic tack.

"Look at it this way," he said. "At least you know how you're going to die."

 

"Excuse me?" I begged.

 

"Most likely a doctor will one day write 'hypertension' on your death certificate," he declared.

 

I rubbed my eyes, in hopes of dismissing the grim reaper I saw draped in a white lab coat.

However, not to be dissuaded by my shaking head, Doc assured me that any thoughts I was having of an early demise were "greatly exaggerated."

With some enthusiasm, he added that my problem would be defined as "service-related. That means that one day your wife, Becky, will get a nice death benefit – all because of your hypertension."

 

"Bless your heart!" I said. (Southerners know what this means.)

 

He was predicting a silver lining in my death, but I didn't want to hear it. After all, I was planning to live a long life in a beachside home with my officer's retirement.

My thinking was much like the greedy farmer Jesus mentioned in the parable found in Luke 12:16– 21.

 

The farmer was so successful that he built new barns to store his abundant crops. With his retirement set, the farmer told himself, "Take life easy; eat, drink and be merry."

 

The story concludes with God prematurely calling the farmer to the pearly gates, leaving all his crops to spoil in the cavernous barns.

 

Then Jesus added his punch line: "That's what happens when you fill your barn with Self and not with God."

 

These days, nearly every time I strap on a blood pressure cuff, I think about the survival odds quoted by that doctor. That cuff reminds me that although my earthly life is finite, God's love is infinite, and God always gives better odds.

 

However, knowing how I might die has changed the way I live. I exercise regularly, eat better and take my medications. But most importantly, Becky no longer has to see me as a potential dollar sign from a VA pension.

 

 

 

CORRECTION:

 

Last week, I misspelled the Amazon website where you can donate supplies to Chispa Project. Our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season is https://go.chispaproject.org/supplies (Do not use "WWW.) Email me with questions or comment at comment@thechaplain.net. 

 

August 29 weekend 2025 spirituality column

Don't Judge a Pastor's Books by Their Covers

"Be careful who you allow in your library," was the advice given me years ago by my pastor/dad.

"Parishioners may judge you by your book titles," he warned.

I followed his pastoral advice for years — until I became a columnist.

Now, for the past 15 years, I've used this Labor Day column to share the books I've read this past year.

Considering that I don't read many religious books, I'll take the risk that a few of you may judge me.

Let's start with John Green, a former pediatric chaplain and author of one of the most popular books of all time, "A Fault in our Stars." But I rarely read fiction, so I direct you to his most recent book, "Everything Is Tuberculosis." (2025)

Green explores the persistent global crisis of tuberculosis (TB), a preventable and curable disease that continues to claim millions of lives annually. The book asserts that TB thrives because of systemic inequities, neglect, and prioritization of certain lives over others.

Through vivid storytelling, Green begins with his visit to Lakka Government Hospital in Sierra Leone, where the devastating impact of TB becomes starkly evident in the personal story of Henry Reider. The narrative intertwines public health, global equity, and human resilience, urging readers to confront the moral and structural failures that allow this disease to persist.

As a chaplain, I've always been fascinated how some folks survive tragedies and others randomly die. That's why I checked out Amanda Ripley's book, "The Unthinkable: Who Survives When Disaster Strikes - and Why." (2008.)

Ripley traces the human response to some of history's epic disasters. She interviews brain scientists, trauma psychologists, and other disaster experts to help understand how victims overcome the effects of extreme fear.

Ripley undergoes realistic simulations to see what it might be like to survive a plane crash or escape a raging fire. Her insights might well help people to do much better in the worst of situations.

Now, if you judge yourself a sleuth, check out, "The Mysterious Case of Rudolf Diesel: Genius, Power, and Deception on the Eve of World War I" by Douglas Brunt, Scott Brick, et al.  (2023.)

On September 29, 1913, Rudolph Diesel, inventor of the internal combustion engine, disappeared off the steamship Dresden, halfway between Belgium and England. Was his disappearance, an accident, suicide, or murder?

With this Sherlock Holmes narrative, you can play Dr. Watson with Brunt as he reopens this old case of political intrigue.

Continue your sleuthing role in "The Art Thief," where Michael Finkel writes one of the most remarkable true-crime narratives of the world's most prolific art thief, Stéphane Breitwieser. 

Stealing over 300 priceless artworks from European museums, Breitwieser says he was driven not by greed but by an obsessive love for beauty. The book delves into his audacious heists, his complex motivations, and the relentless pursuit by law enforcement to bring him to justice. It also explores the psychological and emotional dimensions of his crimes, offering a fascinating look at the intersection of passion, compulsion, and criminality in the art world.

And finally, you can judge me to be a "nerd," but I loved "Ten Birds That Changed the World," by the naturalist Stephen Moss.

Moss explores the profound impact of ten bird species on human history, culture, and society. Each chapter weaves ornithology with historical narratives, showcasing how birds have shaped human thought and progress.

For instance, Moss shows how the Great Chinese Famine was caused by the mass killing of pesky sparrows. Another chapter traces the beginning of the Audubon Society out of the mass killing of waterfowl for their feathers.

In several more examples, the book highlights how these birds have influenced art, science, and politics. From sparking scientific revolutions to inspiring cultural movements, Moss delves into the intricate connections between bird life and humanity.

Finally, I'm sure you'd judge the 100 libraries established by Chispa Project in Honduras as top notch. Help Chispa equip those libraries with essential supplies by shopping our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season at www.go.chispaproject.org/supplies  Email me with questions or comment at comment@thechaplain.net.

 

 

 

 

 

August 22 weekend 2025 spirituality column

Chaplain has 3-Alarm Guilt Fire

"I'm going to have to get some bike shoes to ride my new electric bike," I told my wife Becky.

Knowing my propensity to buy shoes for all occasions, Becky asked me to consider using a pair of my running shoes.

"Since we moved to the foothills, I know those shoes haven't seen much mileage."

I recognized her M.O. She was trying to make me feel guilty for spending good money on shoes I probably didn't need.

It wasn't going to work this time I thought as I headed downtown to the biking store.

Gladly, I was pleasantly greeted by a very nice clerk who quickly straddled one of those funny shoe stools with a little loading ramp.

With my foot placed firmly onto the ramp, she began to fit me with a half dozen pairs of shoes. I felt like the princess looking for her CinderFella to fit a glass Nike.

The problem was that her attention was focused over my shoulder where her colleagues were busy collecting lunch orders to the local sandwich shop.

From her perch on the wooden shoe horse, she misspoke her first diagnostic question.

"What do you usually eat?" she asked.

I heard the unintentional question directed toward me and it set off my guilt alarms.

I wondered if her shoe ramp contained some kind of gizmo capable of measuring the fat in the soles of my feet.

At any moment, I expected a latex-gloved co-worker to pinch the donut sack from my bag and declare, "We got him now. This is all we'll need. Book him on charges of 'stuff and run.'"

Without knowing anything about my eating habits, the clerk didn't mean to imply judgment, but it was too late.

Flaming guilt had already engulfed my face, and by the looks of things, it was going to be a three-alarm response.

But this kind of guilt — the kind of guilt that only fears exposure — is almost as unhealthy as are my eating habits.

Unhealthy guilt will invest an incredible amount of energy into concealing things. As we make the effort to hide our guilt, shirk it, or ignore it, serious mental health concerns can result.

The energy we expend to blanket a problem often shapes a silhouette plain enough for all to see. The impression left from hiding guilt is often as plain as the angel pattern left by children playing in snow.

As I worked to suck in my gut, my unhealthy guilt had me assuming that this hapless shoe clerk was my accuser.

The situation reminded me of the conversation Jesus had with a woman whose murder he interrupted.

Jesus faced her accusers as they readied stones to execute her for adultery.

He sent the executors packing with a single qualification: "He who is without sin may cast the first stone."

With the sudden disappearance of her accusers, Jesus assured her, "No man condemns you and neither do I."

People like that part of the story but often forget Jesus then turned the tables a bit by introducing her to healthy guilt.  With a dismissive mandate, Jesus added, "Go and sin no more!"

In life, healthy guilt can inspire us to strive for healthier lives. It can push us to mend relationships, work hard, and commit to charity. But good results only come as we commit to taking our life forward and "sinning no more."

When the clerk rang up the sale, the damage was almost $150, and I had only one thought: "I shouldn't be spending this kind of money on shoes. I'm going to have to bike 100 miles a week to justify this purchase."

The guilt was back.

---------------------------------------------

Not to make you feel guilty, but if you're looking for an easy way to help Chispa Project, shop our Amazon Wishlist for the back-to-school season at  www.go.chispaproject.org/supplies  Email me with questions at comment@thechaplain.net

 

 

 

 

Finance Your Projects / Loan

--
Greetings,

I hope this mail finds you well.

Our investors are seeking new business opportunities and projects for
possible funding and capital financing. We are open to further
discussions, If you are looking for a loan to finance your on going
projects.

Regards,

Bahaa Sultan

August15 weekend 2025 spirituality column

The Pending Deportation of Roger Williams

By Jeffery Jones and Norris Burkes

 

With all the recent swarm of INS arrests, I feel fortunate they aren't deporting any white male Baptists such as myself.

 

I can hear you saying, "Oh Norris, don't be ridiculous. You're 'America's Favorite Chaplain' – a National Treasure."

 

Trustfully, I felt safe until my new friend, Professor Jeffrey Jones shared a story he wrote called, "The Attempted Deportation of Roger Williams." 

 

Jones is a Baptist like me, so Roger Williams is our main guy.

 

According to Jones, Williams arrived February 5,1631 in the Boston harbor on the Lyon. He came with other migrants seeking to escape the religious and political oppression of English Puritans. He had feared his unorthodox religious views would get him arrested in England.

 

He hoped to find greater freedoms in Boston but was soon forced to migrate again, this time to Salem. Even there, however, he encountered religious restrictions imposed by both church and state.

 

That summer he migrated to Plymouth. He spent a year there before his growing family found bigger accommodations back in Salem, Massachusetts.

 

At first, the town welcomed his return. A local church asked him to be their teacher and the Williams family settled into a comfortable house.

 

While Roger served the church, he simultaneously sought to develop relationships with local Native Americans. However, political leaders back in Boston Massachusetts expressed concern over Williams' unorthodox beliefs and most especially on his view of Native American land ownership.

 

Town leaders met with him on several occasions demanding his silence on these controversial topics.  At first, Williams agreed to accommodate their wishes. but it wasn't long before he found that silence in the face of oppression is not a viable option.

 

Most significantly, he opposed the government's attempt to enforce the first four of the Ten Commandments. Willaims believed that government had no role to play in one's personal faith.

 

Williams objected with succinct clarity, "Forced worship stinks in God's nostrils."

 

His protest threatened the puritan arrangement of joining the church with the state, an essential part of the Puritan vision of the "City on the hill."

 

Willaims would not go unchallenged.

 

Religious and civic leaders saw him as a threat to colony unity and demanded Williams' banishment. The magistrates agreed.  And on a frigid November day, Williams received a removal order telling him to self-deport within six weeks.

 

Williams happened to be very ill at the time, so the magistrates permitted him to stay until spring, provided he did not speak publicly. With no official church position, he wisely agreed to silence.

 

However, Willams continued to meet with a small group of friends in his home. The magistrates saw those meetings as a clear violation of their agreement and immediately sent agents to deport Williams on the next ship.

 

Warned of his pending arrest and near certain death if he remained in Salem, Williams risked life and limb as a fugitive in the wilderness.

 

Nearly dead, he stumbled into sanctuary with the Native Americans he had befriended and whose language he knew. The food and shelter they provided enabled him to regain his strength.

 

He then established a colony in Providence Rode Island where his religious freedom became a reality with the creation of the first Baptist church in America.

 

Jones and I see how Williams' story offers challenging insights about oppression and freedom, brutality and compassion. Today, few can really say they aren't next, even a Baptist dude such as myself.

 

Disclaimer: Roger Williams was an "American Treasure." I'm not. But there is talk about sending me back to Texas.

 

--------------------------------------

 

Send comments to comment@thehaplain.net

 

Jeffrey Jones is retired pastor who has served on the faculty of Andover Newton Theological School and the American Baptist national staff. His most recent book is Being Church in a Liminal Time: Remembering, Letting Go, Resurrecting.