New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
May 3-5 2019 column


Column:

Editors,
There is a photo of Sgt Stucki at Photo at http://fortcampbellcourier.com/news/article_cdbb5c3c-9b85-5274-879d-a23fce4c4360.html


Chaplain-Columnist Wears Two Hats

These days I often hear journalists being compared to a dishonest used car salesman or sleazy bill collector. Ten years ago, I experienced that mistrust firsthand while serving as the chaplain for the Air Force Theater Hospital at Joint Base Balad, Iraq.

One afternoon, I approached the charge nurse on duty to inform him that I would be interviewing one of his patients for this column, Sgt. Robert Stucki. The soldier had been airlifted to the hospital with a leg nearly torn off by the shrapnel from an exploding grenade outside his driver's window.

"I can't let you do that," Major John Norris said. My first name was his last, but that made no impression on him.

Military nurses are sworn to protect their patients, and my attention fell to Norris's sidearm. I assured the protective nurse that the interview was blessed by commander, public affairs and, most importantly, the patient.

"You can enter as a chaplain, but not as a journalist," he declared. "There's a big difference between the two."

I paused to formulate my response. Ever since receiving duel degrees in Journalism and Religion from Baylor University in 1979, I've grown accustomed to changing hats.

"Ordinarily that's true," I said, "but maybe not so different in this situation."

Norris slowed his resistance long enough for me to make three brief points.

First, I described how a journalist and a chaplain should listen to someone without showing judgment. If a chaplain is disproving toward a confessor, that person will abbreviate her story. If a journalist shows contempt for his source, that interviewee will color the story to make himself look better.

Then I explained how both a journalist and chaplain help liberate the truth folks want to tell. A chaplain helps a patient uncover the holy in his story, while a reporter may help folks clarify the truths known only by the silent minority.

I concluded by declaring that both professions are committed to speaking the truth to power. A chaplain must be able to confront her commander when he or she is wrong. A journalist must endure the storm of criticism as he seeks to expose injustice.

Why tell you this? Is this a thinly disguised hint that you wish me a happy, but badly belated, National Columnist Day from April 14th? Possibly.

But much more seriously I write this to honor World Press Freedom Day on Friday May 3. Many themes dominate the day, but it primarily honors those journalists who have given their lives in the pursuit of truth.

As a chaplain, I ask that we pause to remember writers/people/reporters like Lyra McKee, the 29-year-old Northern Ireland journalist and LGBT activist. She was shot dead last month in Londonderry for her coverage of the untold stories from three decades of Northern Ireland's troubles.

And don't forget Jamal Khashoggi, the Washington Post columnist who was ferociously murdered by a hit squad inside the Saudi embassy in Turkey for his criticism of Saudi Arabia.

Even while writing my column last month from Honduras, my daughter, Sara, cautioned me that journalists disappear in Central America. A few days later, TV reporter Leonardo Gabriel Hernández joined 77 other Honduran journalists shot dead since 2001 for their criticism of social issues.

Finally, it's not been that safe in the US where five employees of The Capital were murdered last year in their Maryland office for their coverage of a criminal harassment case. (Gerald Hiassen, Rob Fischman, Wendi Winters, John McNamara and Rebecca Smith.)

So, I seek a little respect these days for the journalists who've worked hard to get an education, get the stories and report them to you. Especially since 2016, they've withstood a torrent of criticism, persecution and disparagement. Many have lost their jobs and careers with the advent of online news and the rise of journalistic impersonators.

Eventually, Nurse Norris relented, and I was allowed access to hear the story Stucki was so anxious to tell. Next week I'll share his story with you, but for now, I ask you to pray for the journalists who remain on their beats. Pray for those who are just beginning. Pray that they and all the others find courage to face the storm and tell us the truth, no matter the lives it will continue to cost them.

_______________________
Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd Auburn CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for 26-28 April


Column:

Taking a Pivotal Spin on the Altar

Imagine taking a virtual plane ride today and meeting me in San Francisco for a 30-minute drive south to Moffett Federal Airfield, formerly known as Moffett Navy Air Station.

With my military ID we easily slide past the Smokey-Bear-hatted federal guards. A quarter mile in, we pull curbside and walk across the lawn to the Moffett Chapel, built in the style of the Spanish Colonial missions.

I'm comfortable here because this is where, in 1994, I took my first Air Force active duty chaplain assignment.

Come inside. There's something I want to show you.

We walk into the foyer and you pause, breathless before walls of stained-glass windows. But I didn't bring you here to admire the windows.

I motion you onto the podium and past the Protestant altar holding an open Bible, candles and offering plates. From there, we step into an alcove where a larger cross is affixed beside banners proclaiming faith.

Oddly, I ask you to push on the alcove wall.

You're astonished that it moves.

With my assistance, we rotate what seems like a jumbo version of the lazy Susan in your kitchen cabinet. This is what you're here to see.

Suddenly, we're standing under a crucifix surrounded by saintly statues.

Voilà, there it is, revealed as if by the moving wall of a military safe house. We're standing in a Catholic church.

I push again to expose what's behind "door number 3" -- a Jewish altar with the Torah.

You say, "This is nice chaplain, but I'm undecided about faith. I'm spiritual, but not really religious."

"No problem," I say. "Give that wall another shove."

You do and are relieved to find yourself in neutral space. Nothing on the walls. No religion here.

Why have I brought you for a ride on the "lazy-Susan" altar?

To illustrate how one might make a choice for faith.

No, it's not as simple as turning the Wheel of Fortune or spinning the theological bottle to determine where your doctrinal affections will lie.

You start your search at the beginning, perhaps on one of the traditional altars of your forefathers. Or take a spin in another direction, landing beside that of your spouse. It's also possible to spin faith into something that represents your own journey. Or maybe you don't see faith as having finite definitions, so you blend the moving altars.

But whatever you choose, deciding on faith will require you to make peace with the tensions that faith presents.

For instance, how does one explain the love of God in the midst of so much tragedy? Can you deal with the discrepancies of faith and the hypocrites inherent in all faiths and philosophies? Can you repent of the sins of organized religions while at the same time reinforcing the humanitarian good they do?

I believe it's possible to keep the faith of our parents while changing out the theological accessories. For me, I follow the protestant faith of my father, but my worship isn't confined to a hymnal or a pew. While I accept his faith, I reject the bigotry sometimes found in evangelical faith.

For others, it might mean keeping the faith in the Crucified Christ displayed on the crucifix, but soundly rejecting the sins of the Fathers. It might involve rebuilding a place of worship that holds all women in high regard and safely shelters the children.

But if you must lean away from religion and toward the "spiritual," all I ask is that you find a welcoming faith, not a generic faith that can turn cold, politically correct and emotionless.

Finally, if your faith journey ever takes literal flight toward the San Francisco Bay Area, give me a call. We'll take a real drive to Moffett Field where together we can take our faith for a spin.

_______________________
Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd
Suite 6643 Auburn CA 95602 orvoicemail (843) 608-9715

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
photos with column of 26-28 April 2019


Column:

This link will take you to Air Force photos you can use for the column I will be sending within the hour. They are public access photos


https://www.129rqw.ang.af.mil/Media/Photos/igsearch/chapel/

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Easter column 2019


Column:

IS EASTER REAL?

While Easter Sunday is the day we celebrate Jesus' biggest miracle – the resurrection – I have friends who jokingly suggest I attempt one of his lesser miracles.

For instance, a dinner guest might humorously propose that I turn a glass of restaurant water into wine. Or a hungry friend will ask if I can transform stones into bread.

I often come back with a flippant apology. "I'm sorry, I can't. I cut seminary class the day those miracles were taught."

I might receive a charitable chuckle, but I don't usually hear any levity from them when the subject is the resurrection phenomenon.

That's because people want to believe the Easter story. If they are true to their own mortality, they make little space to jest about their own death.

However, this Easter I ask you to consider the serious odds that Jesus was actually resurrected. Did it really happen?

Will you admit that the odds of Jesus exhuming himself from his tomb are infinitesimally low?

No. Of course you can't. That assertion would be dishonest.

It would be more candid to say the odds are nil, nonexistent. In Vegas terms, "There is no bet on the table."

No, the chaplain hasn't gone rogue agnostic. I remain a Christian, counting myself among millions who put their faith in the impossible.

Why?

Is it because I reside neck-deep in denial? Am I the sort who declares a blackened sky to be blue? Would I dare call the oceans dry? Am I one to declare a circle to be square?

No, of course not.

Then why do I still believe in the resurrection?

Like many of you, the resurrection testifies to an afterlife where I will one day see my father, resolve my wrongs and pains healed. The resurrection assures me that I am never alone, now or in the afterlife.

My belief is built on my observations in the here-and-now, more than it is on the by-and-by of someday. My conviction comes from what I have experienced in my everyday life as a chaplain in both the hospital and on the battlefield.

For instance, as a pastor,
I stood with those who hurt with unimaginable pain.
I watched hope restored to the penniless.
I celebrated the reunifying of broken families and saw marriages reborn.
I experienced the forgiveness offered by a congregation.

As a chaplain,
I saw a child resuscitated from the bottom of a pond.
I was present when soldiers were pulled from the battlefield and returned to duty.
I sat with hospice patients as they described a world far beyond mine.
I served with many commanders who made selfless and brave decisions.

As a parent,
I saw hope restored in my son.
I rejoiced over the breathless resuscitation of my daughter.
I celebrated the daughter that turned from homeless to homeowner.
I watched the healing restoration of another daughter after a divorce.

The resurrection is all around us. Open your heart. Stop counting the long-shot odds and you will see endless examples.

This Easter I offer this prayer to help you begin your journey into belief:

Lord of the Resurrection,

I confess I have failed you in many ways.
There are hopes I have crushed.
There are dreams I have buried.
There are those whom I've crucified with my criticisms.

I ask your help in burying my old self.
Inter my hurts.
Entomb my anger.
Bury my selfish desires.

Today I seek a resurrection.
Grant a new hope to rise within me.
Bestow a new dream to inspire others.
Confer in me a humility that seeks the resurrection of all.

I ask these things because
Your resurrected Son knew betrayal.
Your resurrected Son realized his mortality.
Your resurrected Son conquered death for all.

Amen.
______________________________

Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd
Suite 6643 Auburn CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for 12-14 April


Column:

"Bored Again" From a Fish Tank

Last month I pushed the boundaries of my Spanish-language skills while helping the Chispa Project build libraries in Honduras. Honestly, the only Spanish I know is how to exchange names and greetings with the children.

Eventually, I had to admit that I didn't speak Spanish or "No hablo español." However, each time I'd say that, the kids erupted with laughter at my miraculous ability to suddenly speak their language.

They heard irony in someone who insisted he didn't know the very language he was clearly speaking.

I dare say you will experience this same sort of irony if you attempt to speak a language of faith that you don't really know.

I first learned this principle as a 10-year-old while attempting to convert my neighbors, brothers Bobby and Jerry Lusk.

The Lusks were both enrolled in Catholic school, so they weren't an easy mark for this Baptist. They needed softening.

One day after school, I encouraged them to visit the Baptist church where my father was the pastor. They were naturally curious to see their first Southern Baptist church, so the Catholic siblings agreed.

My dad greeted us at the front door, but excused himself to take a phone call. We then stepped inside the sanctuary where the brothers' probing gazes searched the plain walls for artwork or statues. They saw none.

If you were not Baptist, you wouldn't know that Baptists often referred to their sanctuary as an "auditorium." So, to the brothers' Catholic thinking, they likely considered the art-deprived expanse as a bingo hall.

Within a few minutes, the boys shifted into free-roaming casual mode. They crisscrossed the building, examining the hymnals and removing the little rubber o-rings that held the communion cups in place on the seatbacks.

Eventually, Bobby found the pulpit where he did a pretty good Billy Graham impression while Jerry tested the piano keys.

Suddenly feeling I was sharing the "House of the Lord," with Thing 1 and Thing 2, I redirected their attention to a closed curtain behind the pulpit.

I vaguely recall a conversation that may – or may not – have sounded something like this:

"What's this?" Jerry asked, pulling the curtain back.

"That's our baptistry," I proudly announced. My voice echoed down into the six-foot sunken receptacle that Evangelicals use to totally immerse their converts.

Bobby leaned in to swirl the water with his hand. "Where are the fish?"

"What?"

"Isn't this a fish tank?" Jerry said.

"NO! This is where my dad would baptize you."

"You mean if we came here, we'd be dunked in a fish tank?" asked Bobby.

"No. I mean, yes."

"Nope," Jerry insisted. "We were baptized as babies."

"But Jesus taught 'you must be born again,'" I said in a tentative tone.

"Bored again?" Jerry asked. "Jesus never said that!"

"No, 'born again!' That's what happens when you ask Jesus in your heart."

"Jesus comes inside us when the priest gives us communion wafers," Bobby said.

At some moment, like the kids puzzled at my Spanish incompetency, the Lusks and I became aware that we were speaking different religious languages but talking about the same God.

The problem was that I wasn't sharing my faith with my friends; I was discounting theirs. Mine were the foolish steps of a child mimicking what he thought to be his father's faith.

Years later, this sort of experience lent understanding to the cryptic statement of Jesus in John 10:16: "You need to know that I have other sheep in addition to those in this pen."

Meaning, Baptist isn't the only game in town. God has plans for us all. Love wins, no matter what language people speak or what faith they practice.

Or put another way, not all of God's followers will surface through the fish tank.
_______________________________

Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd
Suite 6643 Auburn CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715

 

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New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for April 5-7 2019


Column:

Is it Ever Too Late to Talk to God?

My career as a healthcare chaplain often leaves me feeling like I'm pastoring a parade. That's because, by definition, my chaplain relationship with patients is a temporary one.

I suppose that's why I am relieved when a patient asks if they can call me "Pastor" instead of "Chaplain." I hear their request as an invitation to assume the more personal role of their family pastor.

However, that's not quite how it started with a patient I first knew as "Mr. Penny." I call him "mister" because that's how he introduced himself when I entered his room at Houston Northwest Medical Center in 1992.

I reciprocated his formality by introducing myself as "Chaplain Burkes."

At first I thought he was using titles in recognition of our age difference. But, eventually I decided he wanted to distance himself from the three-piece-suited chaplain who matched his stereotypical idea of the "preacher."

Penny had been advised that he had inoperable brain cancer, but he didn't want to talk about that. The balding, bony man just wanted to chat.

During his next several hospitalizations we talked sports – either the Houston Oilers or my lunchtime basketball games with local clergy. For Penny, the greater the emotional distance we could maintain from reality, the better.

Finally though, on his last hospitalization, his nurse summoned me from lunch to tell me Penny had a favor to ask. Thinking this sounded like the call to a deathbed confession, I made a quick exit from the cafeteria toward the ICU.

I walked into his room to find his wife stroking his fevered head.

"Oh good," she said. "I'm glad you're here today and not playing basketball."

"Knee problems," I said, patting my left knee.

"He wants to ask you something."

I looked at the figure on the bed, twisted and ghostly. His raspy breathing suggested he wouldn't have much strength for this conversation, so I leaned over the bed and called to him as if announcing my presence through a dense fog.

"Mr. Penny, it's Chaplain Burkes," I said. "Is there something you want to ask me?"

He nodded. "Teach me…" he said, his voice trailing.

He took a fuller breath and added, "Teach me to pray."

Confused by his sudden approach to an intimate moment, I searched his wife's face for context.

She was chewing on her thumbnail. "He's embarrassed."

"Embarrassed?" I asked.

"He's afraid he's being hypocritical to wait until his death to talk to God," she added.

I nodded. It's a common reasoning I hear from patients.

Jesus summarily dismissed this poor logic in his conversation with two revolutionaries occupying crosses on either side of his.

The first man spent his last hours mocking Jesus and goading him to use his power to save everyone.

But the other guy was quite the opposite. He felt shame for his past life, so he asked Jesus, "Remember me when you enter your kingdom."

Jesus swiftly responded. "Today you will be with me in paradise."

Instead of disqualifying the dying man for being hypocritically tardy, Jesus assured him that he would be rewarded in the promptest fashion.

"Mr. Penny," I said. "I think you'll find that God cares very little about your past.
He mostly cares about what you'll do with the next minute of your life."

Penny nodded.

"Prayer is just talking to God," I added. "It's not theologically complicated. Just talk from your heart."

Penny closed his eyes and began moving his lips. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but when he opened his eyes his expression told me that he'd heard God's voice.

I know this because the "mister" who had been so dependent on titles to gain distance from spiritual matters shifted his heart to say one last thing to me.

"Thank you, Pastor. Thank you."

_______________________________

Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd
Suite 6643 Auburn CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715

 

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