Update on the movie FIREPROOF

Last week, Fandango reported that 40% of all ticket sales - ALL TICKET SALES - were Fireproof. They were blown away!

The Love Dare, the book in the movie, had already shipped out 600,000 copies before it officially hit the market this morning, and was ranked #11 on Amazon.com. A 7th printing is already underway with tens of thousands backordered.

The box office numbers are $6.8 mil for opening weekend on 839 screens, putting FIREPROOF at #4 at the box office, just narrowly behind Lakeview Terrace which was #3. To help with perspective here, the movies ahead of Fireproof had 3 or 4 times the number of screens and most of the films behind it did too. The per screen average, a major indicator in Hollywood, was only a few dollars less than Eagle Eye, the #1 movie.

Fireproof's box office take is the largest of any film that has opened on less than 1000 screens this year (except Hannah Montana's 3-D concert).

But the real evidence of success is in all of our inboxes. We've received an avalanche of email from people who have seen the film, and whose lives and marriages were affected. MANY people in desperate circumstances have written to say they have hope. Others have said, their marriage was literally snatched from divorce in the movie theater. One woman wrote that she babysat for a couple who was certainly headed for divorce so they could go. They called her from the theater and asked if she would stay over, that they wanted to go to the mountains after the film, and try to work things out so they could save their marriage.

While making films that are financially viable is important, Sherwood Pictures, an outreach of Sherwood Baptist Church, measures their success in changed lives. Today they are rejoicing!

Lessons learned across the nation

BY NORRIS BURKES
FLORIDA TODAY

Since leaving my hospital chaplain job last spring to pursue full-time writing, my teenager thinks I'm on some kind of extended summer vacation. She even asks her mother why I don't work anymore. Ouch.

So, if you'll allow me a moment of personal indulgence amid a busy travel schedule, I'll depart from my usual column to write about what I did with my summer vacation.

I call it, The Summer of My Best Intentions.

My intention was to spend the summer writing a new book, but everything changed when Andy and Laura Petruska invited me to speak before their Unitarian Universalist church in Melbourne.

My Baptist friends warned me that UU congregants don't believe in God. They were partly right; some UU congregants don't believe in God. However, they are engaged in a deeper search for things outside themselves. I have immense respect for that.

They also believe in warm hospitality. They welcomed me with open arms and heard my speech on what born again really means, not just how the televangelists explain it.

More invitations followed from readers in Colorado, New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia.

In Colorado, I spoke in a conservative Lutheran church. I didn't mention my speaking experience at the UU church, but they listened intently as I shared how they might become a listening presence in the lives of people who are hurting, no matter what their theological beliefs.

I spoke in colleges, hospitals, libraries and community groups. Yet nowhere did I approach with more reticence than I did at a lunchtime lecture to a newspaper staff. Journalists are stereotyped more for their cynical disbelief than their belief. What does a chaplain share that could remotely interest reporters? I wondered.

Yet the folks at the Star Gazette in Elmira, N.Y., munched on sub sandwiches and listened patiently as my talk went into double overtime. Just as I had challenged the previous churches, I encouraged the staff to tell the faith stories of various groups in such a way as to foster understanding.

Wherever I went to share the various stories from my book, "No Small Miracles," people came forward with stories of their own: war stories, love stories and childhood stories.

They talked about their losses: losing a job, losing a marriage, losing a child, losing a spouse, losing a premature baby.

They told me how my column stories related to their life stories. I was humbled to hear how they post these columns in their work cubicles, discuss them in their Sunday school classes, read them from the pulpits, paste in their organizational newsletters and tack them up in the teachers' lounges.

So, what did I learn on my summer vacation? you might ask.

I learned several things:

I learned New York isn't always cold, Colorado has deserts and Florida isn't always humid.

I learned I may have been wrong in a column last summer when I called Mount Mauna Kea on Hawaii's Big Island the quietest place on Earth. That designation likely may belong to River Street in Galeton, Pa., where it was so quiet that I had to turn on a white noise machine and bring guest crickets in for the evening.

I learned stereotypes never are an effective way of knowing people. I learned sea captains aren't always crusty, preachers aren't all preachy, newspaper editors aren't all cynics, librarians aren't all stuffy, college professors aren't always professorial and Sunni Muslims sometimes become Christians and faithful column readers.

Finally, in Elmira, I learned as hard as you might try, you can't get everyone to like you. Bailey was my teacher of that truth.

Next week, more about Bailey.

Don't wallow in guilt

The perp is a gray-haired Caucasian, 6-foot-2, 180 pounds. I'd add "devilishly handsome," but I'm modest.

It was a self-mugging, and I'm the perp. It's the kind of mugging we tend to give ourselves after doing something stupid.

It happened last month when my youngest child, Nicole, 17, was scheduled to have her wisdom teeth removed.

On the day of the surgery, the perp was observed eating breakfast.

"Aren't you taking me?" she asked.

"No, you're mother is taking you."

"I thought you were both going with me."

"Uh, no," was my heartfelt response.

Trapped in the gravitational pull of my own self-importance, I told her I needed to work at home. And with great sensitivity I added, "I'll come if you really need me."

My pajama-clad appearance lacked credibility, and she declined.

Not long after they left, the mugging commenced. No ammunition was off limits. I fired off the shouldas, couldas and wouldas. It was a masterpiece mugging that left no outside disfiguring marks.

I slammed my palm into my forehead enough times to leave what I call duh-prints. I wish I could tell you that I raced after them.

Nope. I was enjoying the mugging too much.

"What's so enjoyable about a guilt mugging?" you ask.

"Where's the payoff?"

The guilt whipping becomes all about paying penitence and keeps the focus on yourself instead of the person you should be helping. It's a way of convincing yourself that you've paid the price for the incident and suffered enough.

The problem with that kind of thinking is that faith isn't about guilt. Faith is about redemption. This was a lesson Peter learned as a young disciple of Jesus. At first, I think Pete was just looking for an intern position. On more than a few occasions, he'd expressed interest in Jesus' job. He could be a real hothead.

On the night Jesus was betrayed, Pete went looking for him. Folks in the bloodthirsty crowd asked three times whether he and Jesus were buds.

"Nope, not even close" Pete told them angrily. The only way he knew to deal with anger was to deny it. So deny, he did.

Now, here's the spooky part. After Jesus was executed, he came back to take Pete on a beach walk.

Peter was horrified. Jesus, no doubt, saw Peter's duh-marks. And beneath those self-mugging marks, there was immense shame remaining.

Jesus asked Peter three times whether he still thought the two of them could be buds. That's a Norris paraphrase. The original language spells it out more like: "Peter, do you love me?"

Three times Pete said, "yes!"

Three times Jesus replied, "Then feed my sheep."

Like me, Pete was so wrapped up in his own guilt that he failed to see what he really needed to do. Jesus was trying to teach him that guilt stops when you get outside yourself and help people.

"Go feed my sheep, Pete."

Loosely paraphrased, "Be my Little Bo' Pete."

Jesus was explaining that to escape your own gravitational pull, you must find a way to be a blessing to those who are in need.

Jesus was telling Peter, "It's not about you anymore. It's about the people who need God. It's about the people who need you to give them God with skin on."

The ring of the phone pulled me from my trance. It was my wife telling me the surgery was over and they were coming home.

"Did she complain about me being absent?" I asked.

"Why would she do that? I was there."

Not all my duh-prints are self-inflicted. Sometimes God lets my wife apply them.

Don't wallow in guilt

The perp is a gray-haired Caucasian, 6-foot-2, 180 pounds. I'd add "devilishly handsome," but I'm modest.

It was a self-mugging, and I'm the perp. It's the kind of mugging we tend to give ourselves after doing something stupid.

It happened last month when my youngest child, Nicole, 17, was scheduled to have her wisdom teeth removed.

On the day of the surgery, the perp was observed eating breakfast.

"Aren't you taking me?" she asked.

"No, you're mother is taking you."

"I thought you were both going with me."

"Uh, no," was my heartfelt response.

Trapped in the gravitational pull of my own self-importance, I told her I needed to work at home. And with great sensitivity I added, "I'll come if you really need me."

My pajama-clad appearance lacked credibility, and she declined.

Not long after they left, the mugging commenced. No ammunition was off limits. I fired off the shouldas, couldas and wouldas. It was a masterpiece mugging that left no outside disfiguring marks.

I slammed my palm into my forehead enough times to leave what I call duh-prints. I wish I could tell you that I raced after them.

Nope. I was enjoying the mugging too much.

"What's so enjoyable about a guilt mugging?" you ask.

"Where's the payoff?"

The guilt whipping becomes all about paying penitence and keeps the focus on yourself instead of the person you should be helping. It's a way of convincing yourself that you've paid the price for the incident and suffered enough.

The problem with that kind of thinking is that faith isn't about guilt. Faith is about redemption. This was a lesson Peter learned as a young disciple of Jesus. At first, I think Pete was just looking for an intern position. On more than a few occasions, he'd expressed interest in Jesus' job. He could be a real hothead.

On the night Jesus was betrayed, Pete went looking for him. Folks in the bloodthirsty crowd asked three times whether he and Jesus were buds.

"Nope, not even close" Pete told them angrily. The only way he knew to deal with anger was to deny it. So deny, he did.

Now, here's the spooky part. After Jesus was executed, he came back to take Pete on a beach walk.

Peter was horrified. Jesus, no doubt, saw Peter's duh-marks. And beneath those self-mugging marks, there was immense shame remaining.

Jesus asked Peter three times whether he still thought the two of them could be buds. That's a Norris paraphrase. The original language spells it out more like: "Peter, do you love me?"

Three times Pete said, "yes!"

Three times Jesus replied, "Then feed my sheep."

Like me, Pete was so wrapped up in his own guilt that he failed to see what he really needed to do. Jesus was trying to teach him that guilt stops when you get outside yourself and help people.

"Go feed my sheep, Pete."

Loosely paraphrased, "Be my Little Bo' Pete."

Jesus was explaining that to escape your own gravitational pull, you must find a way to be a blessing to those who are in need.

Jesus was telling Peter, "It's not about you anymore. It's about the people who need God. It's about the people who need you to give them God with skin on."

The ring of the phone pulled me from my trance. It was my wife telling me the surgery was over and they were coming home.

"Did she complain about me being absent?" I asked.

"Why would she do that? I was there."

Not all my duh-prints are self-inflicted. Sometimes God lets my wife apply them.

Honoring the memory of those who have died can be painful

Hey readers!

I'm off to Elmira NY and Staunton VA to speak this week in churches, hospitals, colleges and women's groups. If you are from that area, watch your local paper for a schedule.

Honoring the memory of those who have died can be painful

BY NORRIS BURKES
For FLORIDA TODAY

"Chaplain, I need you to talk to a patient," the social worker began, hesitantly. "Her husband died."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said as I searched the hallway for the typical entourage of family members that assemble after a death.

However, there was no family present that day. Apparently, the man had died the previous month, but the patient was just now realizing this.

Noting my confused expression, the social worker explained that dementia had caused the patient to repeatedly forget her husband's death.

At first, I thought that this could actually be a good thing. I marveled at the convenient beauty of amnesia as a painkiller.

No, the social worker explained, this was bad. With each forgetful moment, the patient would ask for her husband and need to be reminded of his death. And with each reminder, she grieved as if she'd heard the news afresh.

I agreed to help break the news to the patient, and just as the social worker had predicted, the patient cried as if hearing it for the first time. We tried to explain to her that she had simply forgotten, but this distressed her more as she wondered how she could have forgotten the death of the one she loved so long.

Then, the fear that she had forgotten his death gave way to a second fear. If she had forgotten he died, then, logically, she must have missed his funeral.

"How could I have missed it?" she asked. "We were married 52 years!"

We assured her she had not missed his funeral, but she continued the argument saying that she had to return home and tell her kids about their father's passing. It was a terribly sad moment again and again for her.

Two conclusions were barreling down on her from opposite ends of the train track. First, her loved one died, but second, she didn't remember him dying. Her reasoning went something like, "If I had truly loved him, I'd have remembered his dying."

We all find ourselves in a similar predicament as we relive another anniversary of an event that we'd like to forget, 9-11.

We loved all those who died that day, but we'd also like to forget the horrific event. It makes us repeat this woman's question: Does wanting to forget the event mean we didn't care? The question sends us headlong into guilt. The more we force the amnesia, the darker our world becomes.

In the exhilarating year of Olympic wins and a presidential race, we'd like our media to bury this anniversary. The truth is that the guilt that comes from wanting to forget will collide with the debt we owe to the heroes and survivors.

The guilt of forgetting will far surpass the pain we will feel from remembering. We needn't fear we'll become like the pitiful picture of this woman who tried to call her children and tell them afresh of her loss. We must embrace pain.

We embrace the pain not so that it can become our battle cry or our badge of grief. We do so to honor the memory of those who died. We do this to honor the survivors who keep living. But most of all, we do this to seek peace. 

Burkes is a former civilian hospital chaplain and an Air National Guard chaplain.
E-mail norris@thechaplain.net or visit www.thechaplain.net.