New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for October 4-6 2019


Column:

MY BIRTHDAY PRAYER

I celebrated my birthday this week with six decades of candles atop a cake. Fortunately, we safely executed what is known in California as a "controlled burn."

Lately, I find myself checking the birth dates of hospice patients I visit and wondering if the patient is too young to die.

For the longest time, I assumed that anyone born in my decade is "too young to die." I made that assumption in my twenties and I'll probably feel the same way twenty years in the future.

On the opposite side, I often consider if the patient is really old enough to die. I mean, can one ever be considered "old enough" to die? At what age do we grow into the idea of dying?

Most people would rather die when they get "old." But when does "old" happen? 65? 75? 90?

My experience with hospice patients is that most feel they still have things to do. I meet folks in their nineties that imply they are too young to die because they want to go back to driving, cooking or traveling.

On the other hand, I've heard a few patients question God as to why he's allowed them to live so long. I know several patients beyond 80 who say they want God to "get on with it already."

Sometimes, no matter how young or old the patient, he or she wants to die quickly. In California, they ask hospice to help them exercise their right to die by prescribing end-of-life medications.

As a chaplain, I've attended a lot of deaths of people too young to die --, infants, children, young mothers, and soldiers. Seeing those early deaths, I can only guess what my reaction would be if I contracted a terminal illness now. Would I consider myself of qualified age and be grateful for the years I had? Would I be selfish or ungrateful to pray for more time?

I suppose all this musing gives rise to the scripture from Hebrews 9:27, "It is appointed unto a man, once to die and after this the judgment."

But the judgment I want to redirect us to is self-judgment, now, in the present tense. It's here on this side of the dirt we must answer what we are doing with our lives.

With that in mind, I wrote the following birthday prayer asking God for just enough birthdays and just enough chances:

Help me seek forgiveness from those I've wronged
Guide me to grant forgiveness to those who need your healing touch
Help me sow seeds of love in those who feel unloved.
Show me how to infuse joy in those who are joyless.
Give me understanding to share with those who thirst for it
Most of all, help me be authentic in my witness for you.

Of course, I think the best birthday prayer is the Serenity Prayer written by the American Protestant theologian Reinhold Niebuhr.

Most of you know the first verse…

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

…but you might not be as familiar with the remaining verse:

Living one day at a time;
enjoying one moment at a time;
accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
taking, as He did, this sinful world
as it is, not as I would have it;
trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
that I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
forever in the next.
Amen.



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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 27-29 Sept


Column:

Finding Authenticity in a Fake City

I spend a lot of time in Sin City.

I know Las Vegas isn't the place where you'd think a chaplain should visit, but business and family often send me there.

Truthfully, I'm never really comfortable there and often feel like something is amiss. Still, I go because my disabled brother who lives there needs my help.

Last week, I went to "Glitter Gulch" to accept a writing award from the annual assembly of the Religion News Association (RNA). Despite having such a good reason to go, I still felt out of place.

To be clear, RNA members report on religion, but they aren't necessarily religious. They are a mixed group of conservatives and liberals and a few would admit to being atheist.
With that diverse crowd, some of you might credit my uneasiness to mixing with liberal journalists.

Perhaps, but I am from California. Liberal is part of my regular landscape, so it wasn't that.

Was it the pervasive "sin" of Las Vegas?

I'll admit to feeling a bit awkward staying in a hotel that touted the "most erotic show in Vegas." At times I was choking on cigarette smoke, stuffed by gluttony, and overwhelmed by the sheer number of gaming tables. (Vegas euphemistically calls it gaming, not gambling.)

Possibly the "sin" made me uncomfortable. But, sin is everywhere you look, and believe me, we all have a tendency to search for it, not just the clergy.

No, it wasn't the sin that had me discombobulated.

Honestly, I think it was the overwhelming presence of "fake." I felt surrounded by bogus happiness and counterfeit winners.

That got me thinking -- maybe "fake" and sin are synonymous.

Being fake in your spirit or your presence is wrong (sin) because it doesn't reflect who God made us to be. And that's definitely not where we want to be.

That's when I asked myself where do we want to be? What's the opposite of sin, the farthest from fake?

Quite possibly, the contrast of fake is authenticity.

If so, that would mean that the missing component I was searching for was authenticity.

Instead of looking at the sin everywhere, I started searching for genuineness.

And you know what? I found it.

I found it in the smile the restaurant server returned when I smiled at her. I found it in the airline lounge host when I complimented him on the cleanliness of the area.

And yes, I found genuineness at the Fountain of Hope African Methodist Episcopal Church where I attended with my brother. I heard it in the young soloist, the choir who rocked the house, and the pastor who spoke trustworthy words.

At the conference, I heard it in pastor Lyvonne Proverbs, founder of Beautiful Scars. After surviving incest, she now calls herself a "sur-thrivor."

I heard realism in the afternoon session where journalists described covering the faith angle in a half dozen mass shootings this year.

Authenticity was everywhere in Sin City, but as in any city, you must look for it.

However, I will admit to feeling uneasy over the money I lost.

No, I didn't gamble it away. I really lost it. Somewhere between giving my acceptance speech and walking back to my seat, I lost my award check.

No worries, the RNA told me that I will recover my missing money.

But I suppose that's what everyone believes when they lose money in Lost Wages, er, I mean Las Vegas.

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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:
Sep 20-22 2019


Column:

Knowing How You Will Die May help You Live

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

It's a question I faced in the summer of 1999, when my Air Force doctor, a graying 50-something flight surgeon at Patrick Air Force Base, brought me in for my pre-deployment physical.

Talk about mixed emotions. If he pronounced me healthy, I'd go to Saudi Arabia for five 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 frightened 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 uniform's 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, and I ventured a guess.

"So, am I good to go to Saudi?"

"Yes, but there's been a recent increase in your blood pressure, so I'm placing you on 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.

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There are four slots remaining for Chaplain Norris' humanitarian trip to Honduras in March 2020. For more information visit www.chispaproject.org/thechaplain or 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 13-15 Sept 2019


Column:

The Chaplain Goes to Church

I'm a chaplain who doesn't always like to go to church. Truthfully, some churches make me uncomfortable.

Such was my discovery last week when my wife Becky and I visited Chicago, covering the town for museums, shows and restaurants.

Our tour took us in close proximity to the historic Lincoln Park Presbyterian church. So, feeling a need to step outside our comfortable Baptist tradition, we attended the 10:30 service.

Walking inside, we heard the wood floors creak and felt dwarfed by the high ceiling bending in sharp angles. Stained glass framed a cross above the altar. The pipe organist played, "''Tis so Sweet to Trust in Jesus."

The church's website identified the congregation as "multi-generational, diverse and open," but like a lot of city churches these days, they filled only about 35% of the sanctuary. My first impression was that it felt like money, an Up-and-In church – the antithesis of the Down-and-Out Baptist churches I'd pastored in my youth.

The greeters thrust bulletins into our hands and tossed a friendly nod toward hardwood pews. We made a soft landing onto velvet cushions and settled for the 90-minute duration.

That's when I heard the dogs barking -- inside the church.

Clearly the musical question of the hour was, "Who, who let the dogs out?" Or in? The pastor, Dr. Beth Brown, took the pulpit to explain the animal kingdom.

A 40-something pastor, she wore a white blouse, slim blue jeans and baby blue sneakers. With a green priestly stole around her shoulders, she stood in perfect posture.

A warm smile measured her words, and with professorial diction, she declared the day to be the annual "Blessing of the Animals." Before my wife elbowed me with disapproval, I reminded her that we'd seen the practice in military catholic chapels.

With that, the pastor invited a soloist on stage to sing, "If We Could Talk to the Animals" from Dr. Doolittle. I loved the rendition, but the secular shift surprised me.

My comfort meter was pegging toward "uncomfortable."

Yet, as awkward as I felt, I had to admit in my judgmental heart that these Presbyterians would probably find my home church unnervingly different too.

After all, my pastor once tossed beach balls into the sanctuary to illustrate Easter joy. Our worship leader inspired us to action by leading us in singing, "Taking Care of Business." Once, our pastor did a reverse offering, giving people cash to invest back into the community.

I glanced at one wall to see a banner that encouraged congregants to be "Living in Faith. Caring with Courage."

From perusing their website earlier, I was aware that the church was on an 18-month mission to explore how they might revitalize the Lincoln Park neighborhood by creating partnerships. They were drawn to the idea of compassion as something needed in their neighborhood, city, country and the world.

I took a second look at the bulletin and saw how the church was assisting the down-and-out by helping them find affordable housing and taking meals to the homeless shelter. They were finding ways to unite their community that included holding a vigil against violence. Wow. These folks weren't taking a break. Full Godspeed ahead.

Maybe my worship tastes were different than theirs, but they were taking care of business, answering many of the same community needs my church addresses.

For instance, my home church provides worship for a large community of special needs kids. We help resupply the local shelter. Our members volunteer in libraries, women's shelters, and the downtown mission. We are hip-deep involved in disaster relief, sending folks into the aftermaths of fire, earthquakes and hurricanes.

That day's service concluded with the pastor blessing all the dogs and cats, as well as some pet pictures. Again, not my personal taste.

However, in a day where some folks work hard to loudly enunciate their political differences, I found some inspiration a church who was ministering to both the Up-and-In and the Down-and-Out.

To that I will always say, "Arf, arf, and amen."

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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 6-8 September


Column:

Not Especially Privileged

I took my first airplane flight out of California when I was 17. I still remember the astonishment I felt over magically emerging three hours later into the southern culture of Baylor University.

That was a different day when passengers breezed through metal detectors and were divided into smoking and nonsmoking seating.

These days, speaking engagements and family visits have put me on more planes than I could have imagined back then. But no matter how much I travel, I'm not sure I'll ever become comfortable with the security checkpoints.

On a flight some years ago, I entered the security line huffing and puffing for a flight that was to leave in the next 20 minutes.

Shockingly, the security agent raised a halting hand to my chest and said, "You've been randomly selected for special screening," he said, as he directed me into a cubicle. In other words, specially selected to "hurry up and wait."

With military ID in hand, I insinuated he might let me pass as a way to "thank me for my service."

But he wasn't persuaded. He pointed to the squiggly line the gate agent had slashed on my boarding pass. Military service didn't matter. I was a marked man, to be treated like every other suspected terrorist.

My heart was thumping with anxiety. I wanted to tell him that my mother didn't raise a highjacking fool. I wanted to explain that I was a chaplain and a retired lieutenant colonel, but I could see he wasn't the kind to grant a colonel kernel of sympathy.

Inside his walled world, the officer instructed me to raise my arms while he buzzed my torso and procreative parts with his search wand. He wasn't granting me any special passage.

Inside my head, my privileged voice was telling me, "You're above the rules," and "Rules are made for bad people." I know that's crazy, but sometimes the voice sounds so completely trustworthy that I'm sure it's OK to adjust the rules for my benefit. That voice can sound so honorable that I'm sometimes sure everyone else will trust it too.

It's the same privileged voice recounted in Matthew's gospel when a group of religious leaders sought special placement in the Eternal Security Line.

The men came to the Jordan River seeking baptism from Jesus' crazy-eyed second cousin, John the Baptist. They were seeking baptism, not for its life-changing possibilities, but because they'd heard it was the cool thing to do. Moreover, they assumed J-the-B would welcome the notoriety of dunking such a holy entourage.

Instead of being honored by their presence, the Baptist dude exploded on them, calling them a "brood of vipers."

"What do you think you're doing slithering down here to the river?" he asked. "This is about your life. Is it green and blossoming? Because if it's deadwood, it goes on the fire."

If you are honest with yourself today, I suspect you sometimes recognize the deceptive voice of privilege. It's the voice we use when we insist that people accept us simply because we're a Christian, or because our family is rich, or because we speak English or because we are tall white men. Or because we are a chaplain.

We use this voice when we need to believe that we are extraordinary. When the voice works well, it becomes self-perpetuating. We believe that our ability to escape consequences only proves how exceptional we are.

But as my Baptist friend said more than 2,000 years ago, there is no special privilege before God, where all of our self-justification becomes deadwood.

In fact, "deadwood" is a most apt description, because that's exactly how I felt knocking on the locked jet-way door.

I was astonished to find that the pilot was also feeling privileged as she exercised her option of leaving without me.

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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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