The language we all speak

UPDATE: The group I'm taking to establish libraries in Honduras next month is full. However, we have added another trip, March 29 – April 5. For details see, https://www.chispaproject.org/volunteertrip.  Donations still accepted at www.chispaproject.org/thechaplain    A Universal Language Spoken by the Eyes   If you watched the presidential impeachment trial last week, it may have seemed as if you'd tuned in to a virtual Tower of Babel with multiple dialects of political-ese.    Frankly, I don't understand polispeak, but when the news cycle was abruptly interrupted with the crash of Kobe Bryant's helicopter, everyone was suddenly speaking a language commonly understood – that of grief and tears.    When it comes to understanding grief, I can tell you from my years as a hospital chaplain, that there are no political, ethnic or cultural barriers. Everyone understands loss. Most profoundly, I remember this lesson from an encounter several years ago in our emergency-room lobby. An ER nurse asked me to be on the lookout for a family of Indian decent. Our patient was currently under CPR and not expected to live.   As I stood in the ER lobby searching for dark-skinned people, I felt like I was participating in racial profiling for the most tragic reason. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, two young men fitting that description entered, but it wasn't their skin color or clothing or hair that made them obvious to me.   I recognized something I often see in the eyes of families in the ER, no matter what their culture.   As quickly as I told them I was the chaplain, they asked, "Do you have our mother?"   I nodded.   "Can we see her?" they pressed.   I ushered them into a small family room where the doctor joined us. The sons peppered her with questions, but they didn't have to wait for answers. They could read them in her eyes.   Tears welled. Their noses reddened. The doctor confirmed their worst fears with a nod and a conclusive sentence: Their mother was dead.   The sons asked if they could see her, so I took them into the trauma room where she laid under a sheet. A nurse gently pulled the sheet back to reveal the mother's face. I glanced at the battle-hardened ER nurse and saw glistening eyes betraying her emotional involvement.   The sons focused on their mom. They could no longer enjoy her protective watch. It had been replaced by a vacant stare. Disbelief erupted from their hearts and vocal cords.   Just then, a security guard appeared at the door with an expression intended to query my need for help. I nodded negatively. These days, emotional gatherings can be subject to suspicion.   The guard left, but quickly returned escorting the patient's sisters and daughters. They exchanged knowing stares with their brothers and soon the women began caressing every part of their mother's body.    They adjusted her mouth as if to hush its pain, brushed her hair as if adjusting her crown, but most frequently, they stroked her eyelids to redirect her glance to another world. The family was inconsolable, filling the room with a cacophony of dialect tangled with heartache. As foreign as it was to me, I was astonished to feel like I understood every word.   Soon, like an outgoing tide, the tears receded. As acceptance gained a brief toehold, talk shifted to finding the best funeral homes    I left the ER that day with a new appreciation for grief as the great equalizer between language, culture and religion.    And while it may be difficult to understand the political speech of our current environment, the loss of Kobe Bryant and his passengers reminds us that we all share the common frailty of life and the language of grief that follows its loss.   If we will see the eyes of those who grieve, I think we come closer to uniting our world under the watchful, anguished, and often grieving eyes of God.    Contact me at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.      Copyright © 2020 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for First weekend of Feb 2020


Column:

A Universal Language Spoken by the Eyes

If you watched the presidential impeachment trial last week, it may have seemed as if you'd tuned in to a virtual Tower of Babel with multiple dialects of political-ese.

Frankly, I don't understand polispeak, but when the news cycle was abruptly interrupted with the crash of Kobe Bryant's helicopter, everyone was suddenly speaking a language commonly understood – that of grief and tears.

When it comes to understanding grief, I can tell you from my years as a hospital chaplain, that there are no political, ethnic or cultural barriers. Everyone understands loss. Most profoundly, I remember this lesson from an encounter several years ago in our emergency-room lobby.

An ER nurse asked me to be on the lookout for a family of Indian decent. Our patient was currently under CPR and not expected to live.

As I stood in the ER lobby searching for dark-skinned people, I felt like I was participating in racial profiling for the most tragic reason. Nevertheless, within a few minutes, two young men fitting that description entered, but it wasn't their skin color or clothing or hair that made them obvious to me.

I recognized something I often see in the eyes of families in the ER, no matter what their culture.

As quickly as I told them I was the chaplain, they asked, "Do you have our mother?"

I nodded.

"Can we see her?" they pressed.

I ushered them into a small family room where the doctor joined us. The sons peppered her with questions, but they didn't have to wait for answers. They could read them in her eyes.

Tears welled. Their noses reddened. The doctor confirmed their worst fears with a nod and a conclusive sentence: Their mother was dead.

The sons asked if they could see her, so I took them into the trauma room where she laid under a sheet. A nurse gently pulled the sheet back to reveal the mother's face. I glanced at the battle-hardened ER nurse and saw glistening eyes betraying her emotional involvement.

The sons focused on their mom. They could no longer enjoy her protective watch. It had been replaced by a vacant stare. Disbelief erupted from their hearts and vocal cords.

Just then, a security guard appeared at the door with an expression intended to query my need for help. I nodded negatively. These days, emotional gatherings can be subject to suspicion.

The guard left, but quickly returned escorting the patient's sisters and daughters. They exchanged knowing stares with their brothers and soon the women began caressing every part of their mother's body.

They adjusted her mouth as if to hush its pain, brushed her hair as if adjusting her crown, but most frequently, they stroked her eyelids to redirect her glance to another world.

The family was inconsolable, filling the room with a cacophony of dialect tangled with heartache. As foreign as it was to me, I was astonished to feel like I understood every word.

Soon, like an outgoing tide, the tears receded. As acceptance gained a brief toehold, talk shifted to finding the best funeral homes

I left the ER that day with a new appreciation for grief as the great equalizer between language, culture and religion.

And while it may be difficult to understand the political speech of our current environment, the loss of Kobe Bryant and his passengers reminds us that we all share the common frailty of life and the language of grief that follows its loss.

If we will see the eyes of those who grieve, I think we come closer to uniting our world under the watchful, anguished, and often grieving eyes of God.


UPDATE: The group I'm taking to establish libraries in Honduras next month is full. However, we have added another trip, March 29 – April 5. For details see, https://www.chispaproject.org/volunteertrip. Contact me at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

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What can I say to the grieving?

Say Less. Do More I am a professionally employed chaplain. I'm schooled, ordained and certified. I've even been to war.   But last week, I attended three funerals that reminded me how I can feel as helpless as anyone when trying to comfort a heartbroken friend.   The first funeral was for Joe Feld, a Pearl Harbor survivor. The hardest part was squeezing into my old uniform. The easiest part was honoring his military service and sharing his humor. At 96, Joe saw death as more relief than grief.    Things got harder the next day when my wife and I sat bleary-eyed during the funeral of 29-year-old Kirsten Nichols. Kirsten's dad is a long-time chaplain friend, Dennis Nichols.   What do you say when death comes out of order? An old proverb suggests that, happiness comes when "grandfather dies, father dies, son dies."    What could we say to Dennis and his wife, Sue? What do we write in a card, what do I whisper during the condolence hug? I can only hope I gave Dennis the sacred space he needed to tell me how lost he found himself.   But I felt the most consternation about speaking for Rebecca Yule's funeral. She was the sister of my best friend of 44 years, Roger Williams. Just before Christmas, Becky developed a sudden terminal infection.   Becky has lived with Roger and his wife, Belinda for the past two years. Our lives often intersected over the delicious meals she cooked, all the while exchanging funny stories and political views.   Still, I struggled with inadequacy. After all, Roger manages a department of hospital chaplains. He sits with families as their tragedies unfold in the ER. He prays with patients as cancer ravages their bodies. He holds babies after they die. How do you bring comfort to someone who has heard and seen all this?    While every situation is different, I can list the things I did not say at these funerals.   1. I did not preach, "Everything happens for a purpose." That's because if there's a purpose for drunk drivers, cancer, or tornadoes, I haven't found it.   Instead, I tried to show my friends, "God is here. I am here. We will walk through this together."    2. While I believe in heaven, I certainly did not tell anyone that their loved one went to a better place.    As a novice minister, I said that only a few times, before being asked, "How is that 'place' better than being with me?" Or the grieving relative would say, "Then God can take me there, too!"   Instead, I asked my friends what they think happens after this life. Roger answered by telling me of a dream Becky had about heaven and her certainty that she would see her loved ones.    3. I surely didn't tell the grievers, "I know how you feel." Instead, I may have said something like, "I have a sister whom I couldn't imagine losing. I'd love to hear what your sister meant to you."   4. I can assure you that I never promised, "God won't give you more burdens than you can handle." This is a misquote of the Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 10:13 which says, "God will not allow us to be tempted beyond our ability to escape." Its most logical interpretation is that God will help us resist temptations, not death.    It seems people use that verse to speak for God, but I've found it more helpful to say something like, "God must have loved you very much to have given you a sister like that."   5. Finally, I absolutely avoided using the word "if." As in, "IF there is anything I can do, just ask."   I learned from my sister not to say that to anyone unless you're ready to back it up. At my father's funeral, my sister Julie stood ready to accept all offers.    When people asked IF there was something they could do, she had a sign-up sheet for them to answer phones, drive relatives to the airport or bring meals during the following month when people tend to forget the survivors. It will forever warm my heart to remember the man who signed up to mow my mother's lawn for a year.    Not everyone will know what to say to the anguished, but deep down, most us don't need my sister's list to help the grief-stricken. So, my best advice when you find yourself at a loss for words is this: "Say little. Do much."   The doing will say more than you can ever imagine.   —————————————————————— Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.            Copyright © 2020 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:



Column:

Editors:

This column is over 750 words, If you need to reduce it, I'd suggest you remove item 4.

Say Little – Do Much.

I am a professionally employed chaplain. I'm schooled, ordained and certified. I've even been to war.

But last week, I attended three funerals that reminded me how I can feel as helpless as anyone when trying to comfort a heartbroken friend.

The first funeral was for Joe Feld, a Pearl Harbor survivor. The hardest part was squeezing into my old uniform. The easiest part was honoring his military service and sharing his humor. At 96, Joe saw death as more relief than grief.

Things got harder the next day when my wife and I sat bleary-eyed during the funeral of 29-year-old Kirsten Nichols. Kirsten's dad is a long-time chaplain friend, Dennis Nichols.

What do you say when death comes out of order? An old proverb suggests that, happiness comes when "grandfather dies, father dies, son dies."

What could we say to Dennis and his wife, Sue? What do we write in a card, what do I whisper during the condolence hug? I can only hope I gave Dennis the sacred space he needed to tell me how lost he found himself.

But I felt the most consternation about speaking for Rebecca Yule's funeral. She was the sister of my best friend of 44 years, Roger Williams. Just before Christmas, Becky developed a sudden terminal infection.

Becky has lived with Roger and his wife, Belinda for the past two years. Our lives often intersected over the delicious meals she cooked, all the while exchanging funny stories and political views.

Still, I struggled with inadequacy. After all, Roger manages a department of hospital chaplains. He sits with families as their tragedies unfold in the ER. He prays with patients as cancer ravages their bodies. He holds babies after they die. How do you bring comfort to someone who has heard and seen all this?

While every situation is different, I can list the things I did not say at these funerals.

1. I did not preach, "Everything happens for a purpose." That's because if there's a purpose for drunk drivers, cancer, or tornadoes, I haven't found it.

Instead, I tried to show my friends, "God is here. I am here. We will walk through this together."

2. While I believe in heaven, I certainly did not tell anyone that their loved one went to a better place.

As a novice minister, I said that only a few times, before being asked, "How is that 'place' better than being with me?" Or the grieving relative would say, "Then God can take me there, too!"

Instead, I asked my friends what they think happens after this life. Roger answered by telling me of a dream Becky had about heaven and her certainty that she would see her loved ones.

3. I surely didn't tell the grievers, "I know how you feel." Instead, I may have said something like, "I have a sister whom I couldn't imagine losing. I'd love to hear what your sister meant to you."

4. I can assure you that I never promised, "God won't give you more burdens than you can handle." This is a misquote of the Apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 10:13 which says, "God will not allow us to be tempted beyond our ability to escape." Its most logical interpretation is that God will help us resist temptations, not death.

It seems people use that verse to speak for God, but I've found it more helpful to say something like, "God must have loved you very much to have given you a sister like that."

5. Finally, I absolutely avoided using the word "if." As in, "IF there is anything I can do, just ask."

I learned from my sister not to say that to anyone unless you're ready to back it up. At my father's funeral, my sister Julie stood ready to accept all offers.

When people asked IF there was something they could do, she had a sign-up sheet for them to answer phones, drive relatives to the airport or bring meals during the following month when people tend to forget the survivors. It will forever warm my heart to remember the man who signed up to mow my mother's lawn for a year.

Not everyone will know what to say to the anguished, but deep down, most us don't need my sister's list to help the grief-stricken. So, my best advice when you find yourself at a loss for words is this: "Say little. Do much."

The doing will say more than you can ever imagine.

——————————————————————
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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Norris' column

What is my Name?

What is my name? You Never Call Me By My Name   During my adolescent years, I rarely introduced myself with verbal clarity. My soft introductions were hard to hear and communicated more doubt than any kind of confident identity. I'd try to tell people that my name was Norris, but they'd often respond with a one-word question. "What?"   If I repeated my introduction, my inquisitors only became more frustrated.   "What? Did you say Morris?"    Even if they heard "Norris," they might say, "Yes, but what's your first name?" The assumption was that Norris could only be a surname.    So, by the time I graduated from high school in 1975, I'd had enough of the confusion. I anticipated opportunity to end it when I accepted a summer job at a church camp outside Santa Fe, New Mexico.   A few weeks later, I entered the campground ready for a change. The first person I met introduced himself and I responded with the first syllable of my middle name, "Ed." I was not only using my middle name, but I'd adopted the abbreviated version.   I still remember his reply – "What? Did you say Fred?"   It was quickly apparent that my lack of confidence was still causing me to mumble my name. "Ed" left my mouth with no more clarity than did "Norris."   By the end of the summer job, I'd already received a lot of grief from my mother who constantly reminded me that she wouldn't have named me Norris if she had intended for me to go by Ed. I returned to Norris.   Out in Northern, the name experiment seemed harmless enough. After all, it was only a summer job. Since I was headed for Baylor University in Texas, I resolved to leave my AKA-Ed life in New Mexico's high desert.   Not so fast. I wouldn't be the only staff member from the camp headed for Baylor.   Imagine the surprise on the face of the freshman girl I escorted to the homecoming bonfire when we were greeted by two girls calling me "Ed."   In the weeks that followed, my old camp friends continually called me Ed, compounding the confusion among my new Baylor friends. My roommates were further puzzled when they brought in mail addressed to "Ed Burkes."   During my sophomore year, David Allen Coe's, "You Never Even Call Me by My Name," became a favorite song. By my senior year, I'd persuaded all of my friends to call me Norris once again – with only one exception.   That exception was the especially spirited blonde I'd met in that New Mexico camp named Becky. Through four years of college, my roommates teased me at every mail call. "Yoo-hoo, Ed!" they'd croon in a falsetto voice. "She wrote you another letter."   It took a lot of persuasion to get this girl to call me Norris. She preferred the name Ed and it seemed as though she'd never concede. However, on Jan. 5, 1980, she finally made a pledge to forever call me Norris.   "Norris," she said, "I take thee to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."   Happy 40th anniversary, sweetheart. You've always known who I am, even though I often lack a clue. Your love changes me because it honors the best in me.   It is a love for the person God created me to be, not what I should, could or would have been. And in that love, I find the most cherished reminder of the love of God.   And that is something Ed and Norris will cherish forever.   —————————————————————— Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.                    Copyright © 2020 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
17-19 Jan column


Column:

You Never Even Call Me By My Name

During my adolescent years, I rarely introduced myself with verbal clarity. My soft introductions were hard to hear and communicated more doubt than any kind of confident identity.

I'd try to tell people that my name was Norris, but they'd often respond with a one-word question. "What?"

If I repeated my introduction, my inquisitors only became more frustrated.

"What? Did you say Morris?"

Even if they heard "Norris," they might say, "Yes, but what's your first name?" The assumption was that Norris could only be a surname.

So, by the time I graduated from high school in 1975, I'd had enough of the confusion. I anticipated opportunity to end it when I accepted a summer job at a church camp outside Santa Fe, New Mexico.

A few weeks later, I entered the campground ready for a change. The first person I met introduced himself and I responded with the first syllable of my middle name, "Ed." I was not only using my middle name, but I'd adopted the abbreviated version.

I still remember his reply – "What? Did you say Fred?"

It was quickly apparent that my lack of confidence was still causing me to mumble my name. "Ed" left my mouth with no more clarity than did "Norris."

By the end of the summer job, I'd already received a lot of grief from my mother who constantly reminded me that she wouldn't have named me Norris if she had intended for me to go by Ed. I returned to Norris.

Out in Northern, the name experiment seemed harmless enough. After all, it was only a summer job. Since I was headed for Baylor University in Texas, I resolved to leave my AKA-Ed life in New Mexico's high desert.

Not so fast. I wouldn't be the only staff member from the camp headed for Baylor.

Imagine the surprise on the face of the freshman girl I escorted to the homecoming bonfire when we were greeted by two girls calling me "Ed."

In the weeks that followed, my old camp friends continually called me Ed, compounding the confusion among my new Baylor friends. My roommates were further puzzled when they brought in mail addressed to "Ed Burkes."

During my sophomore year, David Allen Coe's, "You Never Even Call Me by My Name," became a favorite song. By my senior year, I'd persuaded all of my friends to call me Norris once again – with only one exception.

That exception was the especially spirited blonde I'd met in that New Mexico camp named Becky. Through four years of college, my roommates teased me at every mail call. "Yoo-hoo, Ed!" they'd croon in a falsetto voice. "She wrote you another letter."

It took a lot of persuasion to get this girl to call me Norris. She preferred the name Ed and it seemed as though she'd never concede. However, on Jan. 5, 1980, she finally made a pledge to forever call me Norris.

"Norris," she said, "I take thee to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."

Happy 40th anniversary, sweetheart. You've always known who I am, even though I often lack a clue. Your love changes me because it honors the best in me.

It is a love for the person God created me to be, not what I should, could or would have been. And in that love, I find the most cherished reminder of the love of God.

And that is something Ed and Norris will cherish forever.

——————————————————————
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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Norris Burkes' column

Stop the Hatin' . Stop the hatin'; it ain't helpin'!   Ten years ago, I wrote a column that probably cost me more readers than any column I've written during my 18 years as a spirituality columnist.    "What could you have possibly said?" you ask as my editors gulp hard air.   I came out against hate speech and gave examples from both sides of the right/left spectrum. I named people like Rush Limbaugh on the right and Howard Stern on the left.    I still remember the "fan" who claimed that my column was no longer fit to line his bird cages. But today, at the risk of weeding out more readers, my message bears repeating.   In 2020, more than ever, hate talk fills the Internet and airwaves. On the far right, web sites like InfoWars deny the reality of mass shootings. And yes, Rush has moved to the Internet where he is still screaming at people.   On the hard left, people like Bill Maher are fond of calling opponents morons. So-called comedians like Samantha Bee spew late-night vitriolic sarcasm at everyone who won't parrot her opinion.    Some of these talking heads may be among your heroes, but as I said ten years ago, it's time that people of faith unmask these opportunists.   They are much the same type I saw on Saturday night wrestling shows I watched as a kid. I idolized those masked wrestlers and their amazing physical agility.    But as I matured, I realized that my idols weren't true to what they were selling. Their matches weren't really a contest of strength; they were a fixed contest for ratings.   Late-night haters are no different than those "athletes." They are intellectually agile, but they use their intellect to accomplish dizzying acts of circular logic.   They don't seek honest dialogue. They want to drop a match in your tank and then charge you admission to watch the explosion.   It doesn't matter to me how left or right you are, but if you think these wise-guys are about politics, you don't understand the game. They have found a self-sustaining source of wealth called hate, and they are laughing all the way to the bank.   These money-grubbing pundits have infected a broad range of carriers: our pastors, teachers and journalists. The result is that college campuses are being marked with swastikas, churches are being torched and people are toting guns to coffee shops.   So once again, I'm calling on people of faith. No matter what your religion, it's time we declare, "Stop the hatin'; it ain't helpin'!"   Let's encourage these hate mongers to stop promoting causes and start prompting conversations. Let's peel off our divisive bumper stickers. Turn off our TV and think for ourselves. Pundits such as Rush may be right, as he says, but there are more righteous ways to be right. Maher and his camp may be brilliantly clever, but there are smarter ways to bring change.   After you've kicked these showmen out of your home, invite a neighbor over for coffee and start conversations that speak to people's needs and seek solutions. Then listen. Really listen.   Honestly, I don't want to lose even a single reader, So I'm asking people of faith to stop the hate talk and ignite the wisdom in the words offered by the Apostle Paul in Colossians 4:5-6.   "Use your heads as you live and work among outsiders. Don't miss a trick. Make the most of every opportunity. Be gracious in your speech. The goal is to bring out the best in others in a conversation, not put them down, not cut them out" (The Message).   In the meantime, please share this column with someone who holds differing opinions than yours. I'm hoping it'll help me replace some of the readers I lost ten years ago.   —————————————————————— Sign up to receive my column by email every week at www.thechaplain.net Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.      Copyright © 2020 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for second week of 2020


Column:

Stop the hatin'; it ain't helpin'!

Ten years ago, I wrote a column that probably cost me more readers than any column I've written during my 18 years as a spirituality columnist.

"What could you have possibly said?" you ask as my editors gulp hard air.

I came out against hate speech and gave examples from both sides of the right/left spectrum. I named people like Rush Limbaugh on the right and Howard Stern on the left.

I still remember the "fan" who claimed that my column was no longer fit to line his bird cages. But today, at the risk of weeding out more readers, my message bears repeating.

In 2020, more than ever, hate talk fills the Internet and airwaves. On the far right, web sites like InfoWars deny the reality of mass shootings. And yes, Rush has moved to the Internet where he is still screaming at people.

On the hard left, people like Bill Maher are fond of calling opponents morons. So-called comedians like Samantha Bee spew late-night vitriolic sarcasm at everyone who won't parrot her opinion.

Some of these talking heads may be among your heroes, but as I said ten years ago, it's time that people of faith unmask these opportunists.

They are much the same type I saw on Saturday night wrestling shows I watched as a kid. I idolized those masked wrestlers and their amazing physical agility.

But as I matured, I realized that my idols weren't true to what they were selling. Their matches weren't really a contest of strength; they were a fixed contest for ratings.

Late-night haters are no different than those "athletes." They are intellectually agile, but they use their intellect to accomplish dizzying acts of circular logic.

They don't seek honest dialogue. They want to drop a match in your tank and then charge you admission to watch the explosion.

It doesn't matter to me how left or right you are, but if you think these wise-guys are about politics, you don't understand the game. They have found a self-sustaining source of wealth called hate, and they are laughing all the way to the bank.

These money-grubbing pundits have infected a broad range of carriers: our pastors, teachers and journalists. The result is that college campuses are being marked with swastikas, churches are being torched and people are toting guns to coffee shops.

So once again, I'm calling on people of faith. No matter what your religion, it's time we declare, "Stop the hatin'; it ain't helpin'!"

Let's encourage these hate mongers to stop promoting causes and start prompting conversations. Let's peel off our divisive bumper stickers. Turn off our TV and think for ourselves. Pundits such as Rush may be right, as he says, but there are more righteous ways to be right. Maher and his camp may be brilliantly clever, but there are smarter ways to bring change.

After you've kicked these showmen out of your home, invite a neighbor over for coffee and start conversations that speak to people's needs and seek solutions. Then listen. Really listen.

Honestly, I don't want to lose even a single reader, So I'm asking people of faith to stop the hate talk and ignite the wisdom in the words offered by the Apostle Paul in Colossians 4:5-6.

"Use your heads as you live and work among outsiders. Don't miss a trick. Make the most of every opportunity. Be gracious in your speech. The goal is to bring out the best in others in a conversation, not put them down, not cut them out" (The
Message).

In the meantime, please share this column with someone who holds differing opinions than yours. I'm hoping it'll help me replace some of the readers I lost ten years ago.

——————————————————————
Sign up to receive my column by email every week at www.thechaplain.net 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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Did you fumble the ball?

God Loves Us Even When We Fumble the Ball   By the time you read this, I'll be home from New Orleans where – hopefully – I've watched my alma mater, Baylor University, beat the stuffing out of the Georgia Bulldogs at the New Year's Day Sugar Bowl game.  But now that the season is over, I have a New Year's confession: I don't really understand football. In fact, I failed my 2019 New Year's resolution in which I promised I'd learn more about the rules and strategy of football. Not a life-changing resolution, but I made it because I love the game and I wanted to be conversant with my friends. It's a hard thing for a man of my age to admit, but I know almost nothing about football. When guys circle around after church to talk play-off chances, I nod and mumble. Usually, I can't even recall the standing of my favorite team, the San Francisco 49ers. Why would a learned and manly man (also modest) such as myself know so little about this testosterone-filled game? I suppose I could blame elementary school for my shortsighted ignorance. During a crucial time of my education, between third and fourth grade, I transferred from Balboa Elementary to Alvarado Elementary. Balboa taught football in fourth grade while Alvarado had already taught football to the third graders. As a result, I was trapped in an educational gap, arriving at my new school completely ignorant of football. You've heard of "No Child Left Behind." Well, I was left behind and quickly labeled as a pigskin-illiterate fourth-grader. I have learned a few things in the fifty-plus years since. For instance, I know each team gets four chances, called "downs," to advance the football 10 yards across a 100-yard field toward their goal line. If they are successful, they get four more, etc. Until eventually, they attempt to score a touchdown. Since making my 2019 well-meaning resolution however, I have yet to learn more significant details. I don't know what a play-action pass is. I don't know the difference between a fullback and a halfback. I still find the rules a bit confusing, and no one has been able to successfully explain why one touchdown should equal six whole points.  But here's what I absolutely know for sure about football: I know that I love to watch it. I love to see the aerobatic catches of the receivers and the acrobatic gyrations of ball carriers as they dance through a tough defense. And despite my ignorance, my love for football keeps me watching season after season. Because love doesn't need details. If you love someone, you needn't have a detailed schematic of his life. If you love ice cream, you don't need the recipe. You simply know what you love. I guess that's what is so amazing about the love of God. For you see, God does have a schematic of our lives. He knows the details. He made the recipe. He knows the rules. He knows the players. Most especially, he knows our important stats. He knows how many resolutions we've failed to complete. He knows how many of his passes we've missed. He knows how many times we've fumbled the ball. He knows all of this and yet he still loves us. So this year, as you review your stats and accomplishments, take it easy on yourself. You've had some failures, you've had some dropped balls, but God knows that. He's still at work in your life. He still loves you. As for football, I'm going to try and learn a little bit more this year — even though it might involve calling my friends to ask what night "Monday Night Football" comes on. ——————————————————————————————————————————— Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.      Copyright © 2020 Norris Burkes, All rights reserved. You signed up to be on Norris' list! Our mailing address is: Norris Burkes 10566 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 Add us to your address book Want to change how you receive these emails? You can update your preferences or unsubscribe from this list.

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By the time you read this, I'll be home from New Orleans where I'vewatched the Georgia Bulldogs defeat my alma mater, Baylor University at the New Year's Day Sugar Bowl game.

 

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