Just sayin' Thank You

"O Chaplain, My Chaplain." It was an icy morning this week when I trudged the uphill sidewalk that skirts the University of Nevada, Reno campus. Behind me, I heard the huffing of a fellow student approaching on his bicycle and moved to my right to yield for faster traffic.   However, I unwittingly detoured the bicyclist already approaching my right and sent him onto a muddy knoll. Still, he managed to stay upright as he passed me. Then, with his tires spitting mud and his voice dripping sarcasm, he yelled, "Thank you SO much!"   Unlike the rider, our thanks will often have some basis in sincerity. Yet most of the time, we express it in an automatic manner as a throw-away nicety. We use the polite "thank you" for people who hold a door open, serve our food, or give us a printed program.   Occasionally, beyond this level of mannerly gratitude, we venture deeper by offering a thankful tone for the mindful effort someone makes specifically on our behalf. For instance, before I run in a local 10K, I thank race organizers and volunteers. During the race, I will break from my runner's mental zone to yell, "Thank you, Sacramento PD," or I'll give a running applause to the roadside musical entertainers.    I do this because I am sympathizing with the laborious effort, they're making to help my cause. Their sheepish, smiling response often tells me they are humbled that I've interrupted my runner's focus to salute their work.    But "thank you" goes deeper when the person receiving the thanks echoes your remark. By returning your expression they are acknowledging your effort to be present with their life difficulties. This week I was visiting a hospice patient when I was blessed with this deeper expression of gratitude.    I arrived at the man's house to find him better dressed than on recent visits. He wasn't wearing the typical attire of hospice patients, which is often pajamas, sweatpants or blue jeans. My new friend was sporting slacks, a collared shirt and loafers.   "You are looking dapper today," I told the 90-year-old.    "Thank you," he said. "I told my family that I wanted to look nice today because my chaplain was coming for a visit."   "Ah, thank you," I said, gushing sincerity.    My gratitude centered around two things. First, the nonagenarian paid me a high compliment through his words, "My chaplain." He is well respected in the religious community for his humanitarian efforts, so he's likely had many "pastors." But that day, he singled me out as "MY chaplain."    But more than that, I was thanking him because he knew that I knew the honor of being invited into the home of a dying person. He was reflecting that honor by dressing in the attire that made him feel most like the person he remembered himself to be.   Through our mutual recognition of gratitude, he found a safe place to express himself. In the next hour, we shared some laughs, some tears, some heartaches and some celebrations.   As I left, he thanked me for coming. Gratefully, his last expression was nothing like I'd heard from the cyclist.   You're likely wondering how I responded to the two-wheeled weaver. Well, in a tone that matched the morning frost, I simply shouted, "You're welcome!"    It's unlikely the guy will ever come to know me as "my chaplain."   —————————————————————— Reader Note: Next month's volunteer trip to Honduras is full. Contact me about a second trip from March 29 – April 5 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:
Last column Feb 2020


Column:

"O Chaplain, My Chaplain."

It was an icy morning this week when I trudged the uphill sidewalk that skirts the University of Nevada, Reno campus. Behind me, I heard the huffing of a fellow student approaching on his bicycle and moved to my right to yield for faster traffic.

However, I unwittingly detoured the bicyclist already approaching my right and sent him onto a muddy knoll. Still, he managed to stay upright as he passed me. Then, with his tires spitting mud and his voice dripping sarcasm, he yelled, "Thank you SO much!"

Unlike the rider, our thanks will often have some basis in sincerity. Yet most of the time, we express it in an automatic manner as a throw-away nicety. We use the polite "thank you" for people who hold a door open, serve our food, or give us a printed program.

Occasionally, beyond this level of mannerly gratitude, we venture deeper by offering a thankful tone for the mindful effort someone makes specifically on our behalf. For instance, before I run in a local 10K, I thank race organizers and volunteers. During the race, I will break from my runner's mental zone to yell, "Thank you, Sacramento PD," or I'll give a running applause to the roadside musical entertainers.

I do this because I am sympathizing with the laborious effort, they're making to help my cause. Their sheepish, smiling response often tells me they are humbled that I've interrupted my runner's focus to salute their work.

But "thank you" goes deeper when the person receiving the thanks echoes your remark. By returning your expression they are acknowledging your effort to be present with their life difficulties. This week I was visiting a hospice patient when I was blessed with this deeper expression of gratitude.

I arrived at the man's house to find him better dressed than on recent visits. He wasn't wearing the typical attire of hospice patients, which is often pajamas, sweatpants or blue jeans. My new friend was sporting slacks, a collared shirt and loafers.

"You are looking dapper today," I told the 90-year-old.

"Thank you," he said. "I told my family that I wanted to look nice today because my chaplain was coming for a visit."

"Ah, thank you," I said, gushing sincerity.

My gratitude centered around two things. First, the nonagenarian paid me a high compliment through his words, "My chaplain." He is well respected in the religious community for his humanitarian efforts, so he's likely had many "pastors." But that day, he singled me out as "MY chaplain."

But more than that, I was thanking him because he knew that I knew the honor of being invited into the home of a dying person. He was reflecting that honor by dressing in the attire that made him feel most like the person he remembered himself to be.

Through our mutual recognition of gratitude, he found a safe place to express himself. In the next hour, we shared some laughs, some tears, some heartaches and some celebrations.

As I left, he thanked me for coming. Gratefully, his last expression was nothing like I'd heard from the cyclist.

You're likely wondering how I responded to the two-wheeled weaver. Well, in a tone that matched the morning frost, I simply shouted, "You're welcome!"

It's unlikely the guy will ever come to know me as "my chaplain."

——————————————————————
Reader Note: Next month's volunteer trip to Honduras is full. Contact me about a second trip from March 29 – April 5 at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Attachment:
{Attach File:2}

 

 

A Snowball in Hell

It's Hell to Be Poor Marvin Zindler was a Houston news broadcaster in the 80s and 90s whom viewers loved to hate, or maybe more accurately, "hated to love."  He was a consumer champion of Houston's poor. He was a consumer champion of Houston's poor. He was famous for concluding his commentary with a grating, ear-splitting, moniker – IT'S HELL TO BE POOR! (YouTube videos available).   Back then, my young Baptist self was affronted with his on-air "profanity," but I've come to learn that the poor of this nation live an existence too profane to express in words. This is especially true when the poor run afoul of the criminal justice system.   For instance, years ago I was a chaplain on the pediatric ward where a patient's mother asked me if I could drive her to a vehicle impound yard.    She was in school, working, and has two kids. She let her boyfriend drive her car to the hospital without a license, so police impounded the car. Her impound fees were $300 a day. Bad to worse, it was closing time on Friday. The couple lost their car because it wasn't worth the cost of removing it from the impound.   Impound can be a license to steal from the poor. In fact, according to a Sacramento Bee story in 2014 that's literally what police did in King City, Calif., when they "…impounded cars of migrant workers in a kickback scheme to sell the cars."    The incident helped me see how easily problems snowball for the poor.     Imagine if you were a single working mom, or a minimum-wage worker or on disability like my brother. You were arrested on a misdemeanor. You couldn't afford bail, so you remained in jail. This meant you lost your job at the coffee shop and couldn't make rent. Quickly you were out on the street with no way to feed your young child. All before guilt was ascertained.   When a poor person is arrested or becomes ill, their problems grow exponentially.    Last week, I saw a friend face similar issues when his daughter was arrested. He needed financial help to hire a lawyer to get his daughter out of jail. Now before you start chanting, "Lock her up," you should know that this case is a complicated maze of circumstances.    I attended the arraignment hearing where I watched the woman stand in a cage with five other women. Those women were dependent on an overloaded public defender they were meeting for the first time.    However, my friend's daughter had a private attorney. Within a few minutes, the attorney convinced the prosecutor that the problem was alcohol, not crime. As a result, after three nights in jail, the woman was freed on her own recognizance, free to take care of her son and begin attending AA meetings.   The other women in the cage, one pregnant, were not free to go. My guess is that they were hellishly poor.   This is an election year in which we face questions about healthcare for all, education and benefits for the poor. I won't tell you how to vote, but I will ask you to consider the hellishness of being trampled upon in the economic disparity of our system.   Jesus said, "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.'"   My friend's daughter returns to court next month. I'm praying that when the District Attorney realizes that the "star" witness is the man who regularly beats the woman, the charges will be dropped.   Yup. It's hell to be poor!    On election day, if people of faith are really interested in keeping people out of hell, let's start by helping people climb out of the hell of poverty.   —————————————————————— Reader Note: Next month's volunteer trip to Honduras is full. Contact me about a second trip from March 29 – April 5 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:
important copy change


Column:

Editors,

Out of an abundance of caution, I've reworded the third paragraph from the end to remove any reference to abuse.



It's Hell to Be Poor

Marvin Zindler was a Houston news broadcaster in the 80s and 90s whom viewers loved to hate, or maybe more accurately, "hated to love." He was a consumer champion of Houston's poor. He was famous for concluding his commentary with a grating, ear-splitting, moniker – IT'S HELL TO BE POOR! (YouTube videos available).

Back then, my young Baptist self was affronted with his on-air "profanity," but I've come to learn that the poor of this nation live an existence too profane to express in words. This is especially true when the poor run afoul of the criminal justice system.

For instance, years ago I was a chaplain on the pediatric ward where a patient's mother asked me if I could drive her to a vehicle impound yard.

She was in school, working, and has two kids. She let her boyfriend drive her car to the hospital without a license, so police impounded the car. Her impound fees were $300 a day. Bad to worse, it was closing time on Friday. The couple lost their car because it wasn't worth the cost of removing it from the impound.

Impound can be a license to steal from the poor. In fact, according to a Sacramento Bee story in 2014 that's literally what police did in King City, Calif., when they "…impounded cars of migrant workers in a kickback scheme to sell the cars."

The incident helped me see how easily problems snowball for the poor.

Imagine if you were a single working mom, or a minimum-wage worker or on disability like my brother. You were arrested on a misdemeanor. You couldn't afford bail, so you remained in jail. This meant you lost your job at the coffee shop and couldn't make rent. Quickly you were out on the street with no way to feed your young child. All before guilt was ascertained.

When a poor person is arrested or becomes ill, their problems grow exponentially.

Last week, I saw a friend face similar issues when his daughter was arrested. He needed financial help to hire a lawyer to get his daughter out of jail. Now before you start chanting, "Lock her up," you should know that this case is a complicated maze of circumstances.

I attended the arraignment hearing where I watched the woman stand in a cage with five other women. Those women were dependent on an overloaded public defender they were meeting for the first time.

However, my friend's daughter had a private attorney. Within a few minutes, the attorney convinced the prosecutor that the problem was alcohol, not crime. As a result, after three nights in jail, the woman was freed on her own recognizance, free to take care of her son and begin attending AA meetings.

The other women in the cage, one pregnant, were not free to go. My guess is that they were hellishly poor.

This is an election year in which we face questions about healthcare for all, education and benefits for the poor. I won't tell you how to vote, but I will ask you to consider the hellishness of being trampled upon in the economic disparity of our system.

Jesus said, "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.'"

My friend's daughter returns to court next month. I'm praying that the district attorney will drop the charges.

Yup. It's hell to be poor!

On election day, if people of faith are really interested in keeping people out of hell, let's start by helping people climb out of the hell of poverty.

——————————————————————
Reader Note: Next month's volunteer trip to Honduras is full. Contact me about a second trip from March 29 – April 5 at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Attachment:
{Attach File:2}

 

 

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
column for 21-23 Feb


Column:

It's Hell to Be Poor

Marvin Zindler was a Houston news broadcaster in the 80s and 90s whom viewers loved to hate, or maybe more accurately, "hated to love." He was a consumer champion of Houston's poor. He was famous for concluding his commentary with a grating, ear-splitting, moniker – IT'S HELL TO BE POOR! (YouTube videos available).

Back then, my young Baptist self was affronted with his on-air "profanity," but I've come to learn that the poor of this nation live an existence too profane to express in words. This is especially true when the poor run afoul of the criminal justice system.

For instance, years ago I was a chaplain on the pediatric ward where a patient's mother asked me if I could drive her to a vehicle impound yard.

She was in school, working, and has two kids. She let her boyfriend drive her car to the hospital without a license, so police impounded the car. Her impound fees were $300 a day. Bad to worse, it was closing time on Friday. The couple lost their car because it wasn't worth the cost of removing it from the impound.

Impound can be a license to steal from the poor. In fact, according to a Sacramento Bee story in 2014 that's literally what police did in King City, Calif., when they "…impounded cars of migrant workers in a kickback scheme to sell the cars."

The incident helped me see how easily problems snowball for the poor.

Imagine if you were a single working mom, or a minimum-wage worker or on disability like my brother. You were arrested on a misdemeanor. You couldn't afford bail, so you remained in jail. This meant you lost your job at the coffee shop and couldn't make rent. Quickly you were out on the street with no way to feed your young child. All before guilt was ascertained.

When a poor person is arrested or becomes ill, their problems grow exponentially.

Last week, I saw a friend face similar issues when his daughter was arrested. He needed financial help to hire a lawyer to get his daughter out of jail. Now before you start chanting, "Lock her up," you should know that this case is a complicated maze of circumstances.

I attended the arraignment hearing where I watched the woman stand in a cage with five other women. Those women were dependent on an overloaded public defender they were meeting for the first time.

However, my friend's daughter had a private attorney. Within a few minutes, the attorney convinced the prosecutor that the problem was alcohol, not crime. As a result, after three nights in jail, the woman was freed on her own recognizance, free to take care of her son and begin attending AA meetings.

The other women in the cage, one pregnant, were not free to go. My guess is that they were hellishly poor.

This is an election year in which we face questions about healthcare for all, education and benefits for the poor. I won't tell you how to vote, but I will ask you to consider the hellishness of being trampled upon in the economic disparity of our system.

Jesus said, "Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.'"

My friend's daughter returns to court next month. I'm praying that when the District Attorney realizes that the "star" witness is the man who regularly beats the woman, the charges will be dropped.

Yup. It's hell to be poor!

On election day, if people of faith are really interested in keeping people out of hell, let's start by helping people climb out of the hell of poverty.

——————————————————————
Reader Note: Next month's volunteer trip to Honduras is full. Contact me about a second trip from March 29 – April 5 at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Attachment:
{Attach File:2}

 

 

Happy Valentine's Day

That's the Way The Cookie Crumbles Dear Readers -- See the video with me and my Valentine -- Sharing the Love with Honduras. www.chispaproject.org/burkes "Mission First" was the Air Force mantra during my beginning years of military service.   So it seemed fitting that during my first Valentine's Day on active duty in 1995, our chapel staff was tasked with an essential morale mission – Operation Cookie Craze. The plan called for our chapel parishioners to bake cookies that our six-person staff would deliver the love to every office on our small base.     Chaplains gave congregants careful instructions to bring cookies to the chapel office on Valentine's Day. Our super-efficient office manager, Janet issued strict guidelines that baked goods must arrive prior to 10 a.m. on Friday.     Mission day revealed Janet's true logistic genius. She sorted the cookies by their destinations: dishes of brownies to the flight line and plates of peanut-butter delights to the clinic.    Janet directed me to visit the guard gates, the headquarters building and even the small Army contingent on our air base. Most of the goodies found their intended targets, but a few landed in my personal collection. Hey, wasn't I an "troop" too?   I was the last chaplain to return to the office. Soon we were regaling Janet and the senior chaplain with stories of smiling sergeants and happy airmen. "Mission accomplished!" I announced. "Defending Democracy with Snicker Doodles."   With that, our boss returned to his office, leaving us to engage in holiday banter.   A few minutes later, a woman and her daughter came gliding down our newly carpeted hallway, carrying plates of cookies – let's call them "Mrs. Fields and her daughter Mary."    We welcomed them into our office, but Janet quickly asked them, "What this?"   "Cookies for the Airmen," the woman proudly announced.    "Oh, it's too late for that. Mission deadline was 10."   The two bakers looked at each other.     "But we spent the morning baking them," little Mary muttered.    "Can't you still find a place for them?" her mother asked.   "I'm afraid not," Janet said. "I'm sorry, but you missed our deadline."   The dejected duo left quietly, looking much like they were going to "toss their cookies."   Janet took a breath, allowing the pair to gain some distance before she proceeded to educate her chaplains.    "These people!" she called them. "Can't they read? Don't they know deadlines are deadlines?"    She complained for several minutes, asking "What did they expect me to do with their late cookies?"    Suddenly we were all silenced with the stealthy reappearance of the woman at our open office door. She'd returned to retrieve a forgotten coat, but she exited quickly leaving us to wonder whether she'd heard Janet's raving.    We didn't wonder long. Mrs. Fields was a squadron commander's wife and a few minutes later our boss's phone rang.    If you know the military, you know how these things grow exponentially. Soon, our base commander made a house call.    With military bearing, Janet called the office to attention at his arrival.    "There are two places on base where I expect exceptional customer service – the clinic and this chapel," he roared.   After he departed, our senior chaplain added to the commander's point by asserting we had "robbed the woman of her blessing when we rejected her work. Had we simply accepted the platter with a simple thanks, we would have all been blessed."   Our staff learned a valuable lesson that day – our people were our mission. It's an idea that should have been familiar from the teachings of our "spiritual commander" centuries before when he said, "Do to others as you would have them do to you."   Oh, and you might be interested to know that eventually the Air Force would learn something too. Two more words were added to their mantra – "Mission First – People Always."   —————————————————————— 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:
Valentine's Day column 2020


Column:

That's the Way the Cookie Crumbles

"Mission First" was the Air Force mantra during my beginning years of military service.

So it seemed fitting that during my first Valentine's Day on active duty in 1995, our chapel staff was tasked with an essential morale mission – Operation Cookie Craze. The plan called for our chapel parishioners to bake cookies that our six-person staff would deliver the love to every office on our small base.

Chaplains gave congregants careful instructions to bring cookies to the chapel office on Valentine's Day. Our super-efficient office manager, Janet issued strict guidelines that baked goods must arrive prior to 10 a.m. on Friday.

Mission day revealed Janet's true logistic genius. She sorted the cookies by their destinations: dishes of brownies to the flight line and plates of peanut-butter delights to the clinic.

Janet directed me to visit the guard gates, the headquarters building and even the small Army contingent on our air base. Most of the goodies found their intended targets, but a few landed in my personal collection. Hey, wasn't I an "troop" too?

I was the last chaplain to return to the office. Soon we were regaling Janet and the senior chaplain with stories of smiling sergeants and happy airmen. "Mission accomplished!" I announced. "Defending Democracy with Snicker Doodles."

With that, our boss returned to his office, leaving us to engage in holiday banter.

A few minutes later, a woman and her daughter came gliding down our newly carpeted hallway, carrying plates of cookies – let's call them "Mrs. Fields and her daughter Mary."

We welcomed them into our office, but Janet quickly asked them, "What this?"

"Cookies for the Airmen," the woman proudly announced.

"Oh, it's too late for that. Mission deadline was 10."

The two bakers looked at each other.

"But we spent the morning baking them," little Mary muttered.

"Can't you still find a place for them?" her mother asked.

"I'm afraid not," Janet said. "I'm sorry, but you missed our deadline."

The dejected duo left quietly, looking much like they were going to "toss their cookies."

Janet took a breath, allowing the pair to gain some distance before she proceeded to educate her chaplains.

"These people!" she called them. "Can't they read? Don't they know deadlines are deadlines?"

She complained for several minutes, asking "What did they expect me to do with their late cookies?"

Suddenly we were all silenced with the stealthy reappearance of the woman at our open office door. She'd returned to retrieve a forgotten coat, but she exited quickly leaving us to wonder whether she'd heard Janet's raving.

We didn't wonder long. Mrs. Fields was a squadron commander's wife and a few minutes later our boss's phone rang.

If you know the military, you know how these things grow exponentially. Soon, our base commander made a house call.

With military bearing, Janet called the office to attention at his arrival.

"There are two places on base where I expect exceptional customer service – the clinic and this chapel," he roared.

After he departed, our senior chaplain added to the commander's point by asserting we had "robbed the woman of her blessing when we rejected her work. Had we simply accepted the platter with a simple thanks, we would have all been blessed."

Our staff learned a valuable lesson that day – our people were our mission. It's an idea that should have been familiar from the teachings of our "spiritual commander" centuries before when he said, "Do to others as you would have them do to you."

Oh, and you might be interested to know that eventually the Air Force would learn something too. Two more words were added to their mantra – "Mission First – People Always."

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

 

Attachment:
{Attach File:2}

 

 

Friends in Hell?

To Hell with My Friends As a hospice chaplain, I've had more than one adult caregiver attempt to enlist my help in keeping their dying parent out of hell.    In my best compassionate voice, I often tell them it is not a chaplain's role to persuade the dying that they are off track. I'm tempted to add, "I'm not the Reverend my father was."   My father was a Southern Baptist pastor who could spin a dramatic sermon about hell. He often told stories of his efforts to divert folks off their road to perdition.   I remember how he'd lean his 6-foot frame over the pulpit and smooth the air with the dismissive gesture of downturned palms. "People often tell me, 'Preacher, I don't want to go to heaven. I want to go 'to hell with my friends'." (Hence my headline)   My father paused, cuing his congregation with a headshake, as if to say, "That ain't gonna happen." Mumbles from his parishioners told him they were ready to hear how he'd outsmarted his skeptics.   "I tell them, 'When you get to hell, your friends will desert you'." Then mixing bass into his punch line, he'd say, "And that'll be your hell."   During my 30 years of ministry, I've encountered similar logic, but I believe the rationale illustrates people's misunderstanding of heaven more than it does their understanding of hell.   The problem comes when people see heaven as a place where they'll be forced to behave. Given that assumption, eternity becomes a simple choice. People will ditch the saints in heaven and go to hell with "a better class of losers" – as Randy Travis says.   Not long ago, I was talking to a hospice patient who was considering the choices he'd made with his life.    "I'm dying," he told me. "I have cancer throughout my body."   "I'm sorry," I managed to say.   "Don't be," he said. "Just pray that I'll make better choices during my last months."   "OK." I accepted the hand he'd thrust into mine. "I'll pray."   I prayed for everything he'd requested: forgiveness for his rough life and a chance to reconcile with his family. When I finished, I heard him clear his throat to speak. I was certain he had an addendum, so I bowed my head again.    "Lord!" he began as if God is hard of hearing. "You know me, and I know that I can't have sex or alcohol in heaven."   I opened one eye to see if he was having fun with his chaplain, but it quickly became obvious that he was just getting wound up.   "And Lord, that's going to suck big time! But I still want to go."   I was impressed. I wasn't sure I'd ever met a man who was willing to give up so much to see God.   Now I'm not a theologian. I'm not even on the Celestial Entertainment Committee, but whoever taught this man that following God is about giving up his joy was dead wrong.   The good news is that God created all of us, and we will return to him one day. Death will become the means for this man's repatriation where he will be restored to his country of origin.    He will shed his notions of what he has to give up and will encounter a being much more loving and accepting than anyone had ever dared tell him.   I don't know about heaven or hell because I've never been to either, but I do believe that my father was right when he preached that most eternal questions will be answered in the "sweet by-and-by."    Sorry, I know that must be a major disappointment to those of you who have plowed your way to the end of this column in hopes you'd find out if there'll be sex in heaven or beer in hell.    Maybe we should just keep reading the Good Book. I'm sure the answers are in there somewhere.   --------------------------------------------------------- This column was excerpted from Norris' book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving." 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:
correction


Column:

Please remove the word "member" from the first graph

 

Attachment:
{Attach File:2}

 

 

New Column From Norris Burkes

Subject:
Column for weekend of Feb 7


Column:

To Hell with My Friends

As a hospice chaplain, I've had more than one adult caregiver member attempt to enlist my help in keeping their dying parent out of hell.

In my best compassionate voice, I often tell them it is not a chaplain's role to persuade the dying that they are off track. I'm tempted to add, "I'm not the Reverend my father was."

My father was a Southern Baptist pastor who could spin a dramatic sermon about hell. He often told stories of his efforts to divert folks off their road to perdition.

I remember how he'd lean his 6-foot frame over the pulpit and smooth the air with the dismissive gesture of downturned palms. "People often tell me, 'Preacher, I don't want to go to heaven. I want to go 'to hell with my friends'." (Hence my headline)

My father paused, cuing his congregation with a headshake, as if to say, "That ain't gonna happen." Mumbles from his parishioners told him they were ready to hear how he'd outsmarted his skeptics.

"I tell them, 'When you get to hell, your friends will desert you'." Then mixing bass into his punch line, he'd say, "And that'll be your hell."

During my 30 years of ministry, I've encountered similar logic, but I believe the rationale illustrates people's misunderstanding of heaven more than it does their understanding of hell.

The problem comes when people see heaven as a place where they'll be forced to behave. Given that assumption, eternity becomes a simple choice. People will ditch the saints in heaven and go to hell with "a better class of losers" – as Randy Travis says.

Not long ago, I was talking to a hospice patient who was considering the choices he'd made with his life.

"I'm dying," he told me. "I have cancer throughout my body."

"I'm sorry," I managed to say.

"Don't be," he said. "Just pray that I'll make better choices during my last months."

"OK." I accepted the hand he'd thrust into mine. "I'll pray."

I prayed for everything he'd requested: forgiveness for his rough life and a chance to reconcile with his family.
When I finished, I heard him clear his throat to speak. I was certain he had an addendum, so I bowed my head again.

"Lord!" he began as if God is hard of hearing. "You know me, and I know that I can't have sex or alcohol in heaven."

I opened one eye to see if he was having fun with his chaplain, but it quickly became obvious that he was just getting wound up.

"And Lord, that's going to suck big time! But I still want to go."

I was impressed. I wasn't sure I'd ever met a man who was willing to give up so much to see God.

Now I'm not a theologian. I'm not even on the Celestial Entertainment Committee, but whoever taught this man that following God is about giving up his joy was dead wrong.

The good news is that God created all of us, and we will return to him one day. Death will become the means for this man's repatriation where he will be restored to his country of origin.

He will shed his notions of what he has to give up and will encounter a being much more loving and accepting than anyone had ever dared tell him.

I don't know about heaven or hell because I've never been to either, but I do believe that my father was right when he preached that most eternal questions will be answered in the "sweet by-and-by."

Sorry, I know that must be a major disappointment to those of you who have plowed your way to the end of this column in hopes you'd find out if there'll be sex in heaven or beer in hell.

Maybe we should just keep reading the Good Book. I'm sure the answers are in there somewhere.

---------------------------------------------------------
This column was excerpted from Norris' book, "Thriving Beyond Surviving." Contact Chaplain Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

Attachment:
{Attach File:2}