Coming to CO next week & my last two columns

Next week, I'll be speaking at

First Presbyterian Church at 7pm

531 South College Ave
Fort Collins, CO 80524

AND

I'll be preaching at
10:30 a.m. on Sunday 28 Feb @
American Baptist Church
600 S Shields St, Fort Collins
Call (970) 482-2173 for questions


Hope to see some of you.

Blessings,

Norris

Here are mylast two columns below:



Avoid wrong assumptions
with right questions

BY NORRIS BURKES • FLORIDA TODAY •
February 13, 2010

"What do you get when you assume?" goes the
common riddle.

The answer comes when you divide the word
assume down the middle: You make a you-know-
what out of "U" and "Me." (Hint: Synonym for
donkey.)

"The Donkey Syndrome," as I like to call it, explains
why the biggest theme in my hospital chaplain
training was the admonition to avoid assumptions.

That's because it's very easy to make damaging
assumptions, but most especially in the hospital.

For instance, it was easy to assume that the lung
cancer patient who asked me why God gave him c
ancer had likely brought it upon himself. That is,
until I learned he was like the 10 percent of lung
cancer patients who have never smoked.

On another occasion, it was easy for our emergency
room staff to assume that the mother who brought
her son to us hadn't been watching closely enough
to prevent his electrocution. That is, until we
discovered it happened inside the locked tennis
court of a gated subdivision.

Assumptions can be damaging, but most especially
when assessing relationships.

When my training supervisor advised us that we
could avoid many relationship assumptions by
simply asking people how they know each other, I
discarded the advice as awkward.

Instead, I just assumed the relationship between a
visitor and a dying woman by asking, "Does your
mother have any particular religion?"

"She's Buddhist," and, he added with some distain at
my assumption, "this is my wife."

Assumptions hurt.

Recently a chaplain colleague visited a gravely

injured man and quizzed the nurse about the
whereabouts of his wife. The nurse replied, "Which
wife?"

Awkward.

But that's what happens when we make assumptions
about people based on our preconceived notions
about their color, their piercings, their accent or
their tattoos. I think we can shed our donkey tails
when we learn to squelch our assuming closed-
ended questions.

What are "closed-ended" questions?

They are questions that assume a single-worded
answer, like yes or no. The inquisitor reveals his
assumption that the issue is black and white.


One example of a closed-ended question is when
the television reporter asks a family devastated by a
hurricane, "Don't you feel awful?"

When we discard our closed-ended questions and
pose open-ended questions, we invite people to
share their spiritual journey.

Open-ended questions usually begin with "how?"
and "what?"

Better still, avoid the 20-question game and use a
sentence that starts with "Tell me." "Tell me what you
are thinking." "Tell me what that feels like." "Tell me
what you might do next."

Like many world religions, some of Christianity's
most profound teaching springs from the answer to
an open-ended question. For instance, when Jesus
was asked, "What must I do to be saved?" or when
Jesus asked his disciples, "Who do men say that I
am?"

As a chaplain, I see one of the worst assumptions
we put onto people is our closed-ended
assumptions about faith.

The Apostle Paul challenged some people in the
early Christian church when they thrust their
assumptions on new converts, telling them that they
must carry the mark of circumcision to be people of
faith.

"Don't you see?" he asked. "It's not the cut of a knife
on your skin that creates a person of faith, it's the
mark God puts on your heart."

Paul was warning that the assumptions we put onto
people about faith can be like using a knife to
extract God's grace from them.

Bottom line: Don't assume you know what's best for
people. Get close enough to ask them open-ended
questions and read the writings, not on their
appendages, but on their hearts.




Blessings of a middle finger

BY NORRIS BURKES • FLORIDA TODAY •
February 6, 2010

Facing an extended middle finger is not a side I care
to be on, but most us living in this culture have
seen it a time or two.

During my childhood years, however, my father
gave me a much different view of that digit.

His viewpoint came from a factory accident he had
while working part time to pay for theological
school.

That evening, he came home to my mother with his
left hand wrapped tightly in a bloodied bandage. He
had been processing books into a binding machine
when he got too close and severed half of his
middle finger. There was no reattaching a finger in
the rural town hosting the plant, and he would have
to adapt to the loss.

After he died, I reflected on the many ways in which
he learned to adapt, and even thrive, with his minor
physical impairment.

Professionally, he knew his oddly shaped hand
might distract a church parishioner, so his gestures
minimized the obvious gap.

Socially, if someone expressed sympathy and asked
about his missing finger half, he never skipped a
beat joking that my mother bit it off.

Physically, he thrived, because the finger worked
like a second thumb, which gave him a vicelike grip
for his part-time work as an electrician.

And spiritually, he used it best to love his children.

The love usually began on Saturday night after
watching WWF wrestling on our black-and-white TV.
My siblings and I would leap onto my father's back a
nd entangle him with 12 skinny arms and legs. I
usually began the ambush by hopping on his chest,
while my brother twisted his arms and my sister
yanked on his prematurely balding head.

Pretending to be overwhelmed with us, he'd
suddenly announce the arrival of his secret weapon.
That's what he called his dwarfed middle finger

when deploying it as the most pernicious tickling
device known to kid-kind.

"No! Not fair!" we'd scream as he zeroed in on our
most vulnerable ticklish spots with his stealthy,
stubby, silly weapon. When he grew tired of the
tickling, he'd morph the "weapon" into a thumping
device upon our chest, "torturing" us with it until we
rolled off his side.


Was it really a secret weapon? Or was it a just a half
of a finger? Or was it a communication device that
delivered a spiritual connection of love for his
children?

I guess the answer to that question is at the
fingertip of the user, but on my father's hand, it was
a weapon of endearing love that he used to amuse,
engage and disarm people.

In the grown-up world that I must now live, people
routinely use that finger to curse the existence of
another. They use it as the gavel of random
judgment. They use it to dehumanize another. They
use it to offend.

There's an interesting verse in the Christian
Scripture commanding us to cut off any body part
that offends. "If your right hand offends you," Jesus
says, "cut it off."

While interpretations vary, no scholar would
suggest literal amputation. But, oddly enough, when
I read that Scripture, I sometimes think of my father's
finger.


When a youthful accident removed half of his
cursing finger, he created something that was a
source of humor and strength, and more important,
he transformed it into a pipeline that delivered his
love into the souls of his giggling children.

At the end of his life, 18 years ago this month, his
middle finger had been transformed into something
less a curse and much more a blessing. It's a view of
the finger the world could use more of and I still
sorely miss.

Burkes is a syndicated columnist, speaker and
author. He also serves as an Air National Guard
chaplain and is board-certified in the Association
of Professional Chaplains. You can e-mail him at
norris@thechaplain.net or visit his Web site at
thechaplain.net.