Hope in the Victory Vax

I'm Not Gonna Miss my Shot

Here's the latest column from Norris Burkes! View this email in your browser Hope Returns with the Victory Vax   Working for a small county hospice in rural northern Calif., I've been privileged to get my first COVID vaccine.   The "Victory Vax," as I call it, emboldened my wife to send me out for a haircut. "The peach fuzz around your collar is beginning to bear fruit," she said.   I set course for the discount barber. This is the place where a man cites his preferred size of clipper guard (#2 on the sides, #4 on the top) and receives a facsimile of his old Air Force haircut with a half-inch top.   I'm not a big talker in the barber's chair, but my twenty-something stylist soon had us talking about vaccines in muffled tones from under our masks.   "Will you get one?" I asked her.   "No," she answered, as if broadcasting to her manager pacing outside on a smoke break.   "I don't trust vaccines. I've even heard that some nurses are refusing them."   "Maybe that's because they know how to wear a mask." I mumbled.    "What?" she asked shutting off her razor.    "Yes, um, I've heard that too," I said.   When she stooped to cover my knees with my apron, I saw the tattoos that covered her arms.    She obviously had no fear of needles, so I pressed her to say more.    "I have a great immune system. I never get sick."   Funny, I didn't notice that she had a superman tattoo.   "I'll do what's required," she allowed. "I'll wear a mask, do the distance, but no shots."   Like some in my foothill community, she was no-vax to the max.   At such a young age, she'd built up her personal knowledge base and had no room for more.   Her thoughts reminded me of a heresy that troubled the early church called Gnosticism. The "g" is silent, giving us our word "knowledge."    Gnostics distrusted the world, believing that all earthly authority was corrupt. They believed that their salvation came only through the acquisition of secret understanding.   Subversive in nature, Gnostics whispered a "clandestine truth" by which only a small group of elite knowers had the ability to see through the so-called shams.   Sadly, this group was very self-satisfied in their belief that their opponents would be banished to a clueless hell.   I'm sure you recognize this thinking among some of today's intolerant churches. But have you noticed the thinking isn't exclusive to them?   Anti-vaxers, like most conspiracy theorists, share the same quasi-religious sensibility as did the Gnostics. In this secular age, they use their secrets and their exclusive discoveries as a substitute for faith.    The world is full of these secret-keepers of health and philosophy. They'll gladly share their secrets if only you'll buy their merchandise or books. They'll only share their remaining secrets when you bring your family into their pyramid scheme.    So, what could I say to my barber?   Should I tell her that, in service to my country, I'd taken every vaccine the military required of me? Should I mention that I restrained my small children while they took the same?    Should I tell her that my brother had just expelled his last breath expressing his faith in this bat guano pseudoscience?   No. Instead, I calmed myself long enough to share the moldy old joke about the woman who sat on her rooftop as the flood waters rose around her.    Soon a man pulled up in a small motorboat and offered to rescue her.    "No thank you." She replied. "I'm waiting on the Lord to save me."    Not long after that, a woman repelled from a helicopter offering to save her.    She said, "No thank you. I'm waiting on the Lord to save me."    Eventually, the floodwaters rose above her home and she drowned.    While standing at the Pearly Gates she asked, "Oh Lord, why didn't you save me?"    The Lord replied, "I sent you a boat, I sent you a helicopter. What else did you want?"   The barber gave a hiccup laugh, telling me she understood my meaning. Properly worn, the CDC-approved mask was our rescue boat. Properly tested, the vaccine can be our helicopter.   Take the Victory Vax, people. Despite the current shortage, my barber made me aware that there'll be at least one extra dose out there. --------------------------------------------------------------------   Visit www.thechaplain.net or https://www.facebook.com/theChaplainNorris. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.   I feel this a balanced article, pros and cons, about the Vaccine. Click here.       Copyright © 2021 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 unsubscribe from this list    update subscription preferences

New Column Norris Burkes -- (c) 916-813-8941

Subject:
photo option for column 29-31 Jan


Column:

Editors,

If this photo isn't the right resolution, let me know and I'll email a better one.

 

 

 

New Column Norris Burkes -- (c) 916-813-8941

Subject:
Column 29-31 Jan 2021


Column:

Hope Returns with the Victory Vax

Working for a small county hospice in rural northern Calif., I've been privileged to get my first COVID vaccine.

The "Victory Vax," as I call it, emboldened my wife to send me out for a haircut. "The peach fuzz around your collar is beginning to bear fruit," she said.

I set course for the discount barber. This is the place where a man cites his preferred size of clipper guard (#2 on the sides, #4 on the top) and receives a facsimile of his old Air Force haircut with a half-inch top.

I'm not a big talker in the barber's chair, but my twenty-something stylist soon had us talking about vaccines in muffled tones from under our masks.

"Will you get one?" I asked her.

"No," she answered, as if broadcasting to her manager pacing outside on a smoke break.

"I don't trust vaccines. I've even heard that some nurses are refusing them."

"Maybe that's because they know how to wear a mask." I mumbled.

"What?" she asked shutting off her razor.

"Yes, um, I've heard that too," I said.

When she stooped to cover my knees with my apron, I saw the tattoos that covered her arms.

She obviously had no fear of needles, so I pressed her to say more.

"I have a great immune system. I never get sick."

Funny, I didn't notice that she had a superman tattoo.

"I'll do what's required," she allowed. "I'll wear a mask, do the distance, but no shots."

Like some in my foothill community, she was no-vax to the max.

At such a young age, she'd built up her personal knowledge base and had no room for more.

Her thoughts reminded me of a heresy that troubled the early church called Gnosticism. The "g" is silent, giving us our word "knowledge."

Gnostics distrusted the world, believing that all earthly authority was corrupt. They believed that their salvation came only through the acquisition of secret understanding.

Subversive in nature, Gnostics whispered a "clandestine truth" by which only a small group of elite knowers had the ability to see through the so-called shams.

Sadly, this group was very self-satisfied in their belief that their opponents would be banished to a clueless hell.

I'm sure you recognize this thinking among some of today's intolerant churches. But have you noticed the thinking isn't exclusive to them?

Anti-vaxers, like most conspiracy theorists, share the same quasi-religious sensibility as did the Gnostics. In this secular age, they use their secrets and their exclusive discoveries as a substitute for faith.

The world is full of these secret-keepers of health and philosophy. They'll gladly share their secrets if only you'll buy their merchandise or books. They'll only share their remaining secrets when you bring your family into their pyramid scheme.

So, what could I say to my barber?

Should I tell her that, in service to my country, I'd taken every vaccine the military required of me? Should I mention that I restrained my small children while they took the same?

Should I tell her that my brother had just expelled his last breath expressing his faith in this bat guano pseudoscience?

No. Instead, I calmed myself long enough to share the moldy old joke about the woman who sat on her rooftop as the flood waters rose around her.

Soon a man pulled up in a small motorboat and offered to rescue her.

"No thank you." She replied. "I'm waiting on the Lord to save me."

Not long after that, a woman repelled from a helicopter offering to save her.

She said, "No thank you. I'm waiting on the Lord to save me."

Eventually, the floodwaters rose above her home and she drowned.

While standing at the Pearly Gates she asked, "Oh Lord, why didn't you save me?"

The Lord replied, "I sent you a boat, I sent you a helicopter. What else did you want?"

The barber gave a hiccup laugh, telling me she understood my meaning. Properly worn, the CDC-approved mask was our rescue boat. Properly tested, the vaccine can be our helicopter.

Take the Victory Vax, people. Despite the current shortage, my barber made me aware that there'll be at least one extra dose out there.
--------------------------------------------------------------------

Visit www.thechaplain.net or https://www.facebook.com/theChaplainNorris. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.

 

 

 

When are we too young to die?

Are we ever to old to live?

View this email in your browser Too Young to Die or Too Old to Live?   It's a harried morning in my hospice office as I prepare for my daily home visits. I organize papers, make phone calls and update patient charting notes.   I print patient "face sheets" that give me their home address, family names and diagnosis. Through phone calls, I've scheduled three home visits and I'm almost ready to set up my GPS.   Before standing, I take a second glance at the info sheets and take note of the patient's date of birth.    It's here I will often pause to consider the unthinkable. Is this patient too young to die?   I don't know what "too young" is, but I usually know it when I see it. For instance, I knew the baby I visited a few years back was too young to die. I knew the 48-year-old father of four I saw last year was too young to die.   But who am I to make that judgment? Like you perhaps, I see anyone younger than me too young to die.   I lean back in my chair and take a reflective breath. I say a prayer asking that I become a source of hope and a reflection of God's presence. Amen.   I drive to my first visit knowing that the 50-year-old is definitely too young to die.   I park at his home as I imagine that, like many patients his age, he'll be mourning the loss of his potential happiness.    His face sheet says he has school-age children, so I know he'll likely be pleading with God: "I've got so much more to do. I want to see my son graduate from high school. I want to walk my daughter down the wedding aisle."   The visit goes as expected.   I return to my car to read the next face sheet of a 103-year-old woman. As a centenarian, she introduces the opposite end of the issue. "Am I too old to live?"   "It's not fair" she tells me. "I want to die now. I have no purpose left in my life. I can't even enjoy ice cream," she adds with a smile. But her smile doesn't cover the fact that she's mourning a loss of significance.   Nevertheless, her remarks give us a shared chuckle before I return to my car.   "Has she lived long enough?" I wonder.    Will her death seem tragic to those who love her? Or will her family know that strange combination of grief and relief? They will be sad to see her go, but grateful she has no more pain.     After a quick lunch stop, I drive to see my final patient. At 92, Theresa is not too young to die. (Not her real name.)   We spend the afternoon talking about her travels, the business she started with her husband and the children she bore.    She asks me what heaven is like, which gives her a chance to talk about the grief she still carries for a lost child.   But through it all, I hear gratitude. She knows she's been privileged to have what she's had. She's happy that she's had a chance to live. She tells me she's known all along that it would come to an end someday.    As I drive back to the office to complete my charting, I consider how COVID has us all thinking about dying. Most of us pray that we can just live until that "ripe old age" – whatever that is.   But Theresa has given me insight on how we might know the right time to die. The perfect time to die. And it's not connected to a number.   I call it the age of gratitude.    It's the age when you finally see that you've had fullness in your life. You know you've lived some dreams and you are thoroughly grateful.    It occurs to me that we really can't control when we die, so I hope whenever my end comes, I can be like Theresa. I hope to say that I'm grateful for the years I've had and not count the moments I've lost.     _______________________________________   Visit www.thechaplain.net or https://www.facebook.com/theChaplainNorris. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.       Copyright © 2021 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 Norris Burkes -- (c) 916-813-8941

Subject:
22-24 Jan 2021 column


Column:

Too Young to Die or Too Old to Live?

It's a harried morning in my hospice office as I prepare for my daily home visits. I organize papers, make phone calls and update patient charting notes.

I print patient "face sheets" that give me their home address, family names and diagnosis. Through phone calls, I've scheduled three home visits and I'm almost ready to set up my GPS.

Before standing, I take a second glance at the info sheets and take note of the patient's date of birth.

It's here I will often pause to consider the unthinkable. Is this patient too young to die?

I don't know what "too young" is, but I usually know it when I see it. For instance, I knew the baby I visited a few years back was too young to die. I knew the 48-year-old father of four I saw last year was too young to die.

But who am I to make that judgment? Like you perhaps, I see anyone younger than me too young to die.

I lean back in my chair and take a reflective breath. I say a prayer asking that I become a source of hope and a reflection of God's presence. Amen.

I drive to my first visit knowing that the 50-year-old is definitely too young to die.

I park at his home as I imagine that, like many patients his age, he'll be mourning the loss of his potential happiness.

His face sheet says he has school-age children, so I know he'll likely be pleading with God: "I've got so much more to do. I want to see my son graduate from high school. I want to walk my daughter down the wedding aisle."

The visit goes as expected.

I return to my car to read the next face sheet of a 103-year-old woman. As a centenarian, she introduces the opposite end of the issue. "Am I too old to live?"

"It's not fair" she tells me. "I want to die now. I have no purpose left in my life. I can't even enjoy ice cream," she adds with a smile. But her smile doesn't cover the fact that she's mourning a loss of significance.

Nevertheless, her remarks give us a shared chuckle before I return to my car.

"Has she lived long enough?" I wonder.

Will her death seem tragic to those who love her? Or will her family know that strange combination of grief and relief? They will be sad to see her go, but grateful she has no more pain.

After a quick lunch stop, I drive to see my final patient. At 92, Theresa is not too young to die. (Not her real name.)

We spend the afternoon talking about her travels, the business she started with her husband and the children she bore.

She asks me what heaven is like, which gives her a chance to talk about the grief she still carries for a lost child.

But through it all, I hear gratitude. She knows she's been privileged to have what she's had. She's happy that she's had a chance to live. She tells me she's known all along that it would come to an end someday.

As I drive back to the office to complete my charting, I consider how COVID has us all thinking about dying. Most of us pray that we can just live until that "ripe old age" – whatever that is.

But Theresa has given me insight on how we might know the right time to die. The perfect time to die. And it's not connected to a number.

I call it the age of gratitude.

It's the age when you finally see that you've had fullness in your life. You know you've lived some dreams and you are thoroughly grateful.

It occurs to me that we really can't control when we die, so I hope whenever my end comes, I can be like Theresa. I hope to say that I'm grateful for the years I've had and not count the moments I've lost.

_______________________________________

Visit www.thechaplain.net or https://www.facebook.com/theChaplainNorris. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.

 

 

 

Onward Christian Soldiers

Maybe Not

View this email in your browser Onward Christian Soldiers -- Maybe Not So Much   In 1976, I cast my first vote in a presidential election for Jimmy Carter.   My vote was the naive choice of a 19-year-old ministerial student. As a Baptist attending Baylor University, I assumed I should vote for a fellow Southern Baptist.    It made sense to me that our government could use a little help from Jesus – help in the form of a Sunday school teacher from Maranatha Baptist Church in Plains, Ga.   That was a long time ago. This past week, some Mob-O-Crats found a more direct route to bring Jesus into government by storming the US capitol.    The "Christian Soldiers" onwardly marched waving placards that insisted, "Jesus Saves" as well as crosses emblazoned with "Jesus Saves." Some literally wore religion on the sleeves of letterman-styled jackets that said, "You need Jesus." Others became cheerleaders yelling, "Shout if you love Jesus!"   I believe, as it turns out, Jesus was a no-show. Jesus wasn't with these protesters, nor did they represent him.    In the vernacular I'd say, "Jesus ain't got no time for that."   How do I know?   Because of what happened to Malchus.   "Who's that?" you ask.   OK, short break for a Jimmy-Carter-like, Sunday school lesson:   Malchus was a part of the arresting party that came in the middle of the night to haul Jesus off to a trial and crucifixion.   He was a servant for the High Priest. That priest would be the prosecuting attorney for the trial.   Stay with me.    Luke 22:49-51 describes the moment when the lynch mob approached Jesus:    "When those around him saw what was going to happen, they said to him, "Lord, shall we strike with the sword?"    Matthew 26:52 gives the full answer:   "And suddenly, one of those who were with Jesus stretched out his hand and drew his sword, struck the servant of the high priest, and cut off his ear. But Jesus said to him, "Put your sword in its place, for all who take the sword will perish by the sword."   That's one of those hard sayings of Jesus, especially for military chaplains like myself.  Some read it as an endorsement for pacificism.   But in context, Jesus was rebuking those who wanted to force God's Kingdom into promoting an earthly government. As he'd said earlier in John 18:36, "My kingdom doesn't consist of what you see around you. If it did, my followers would fight…. But I'm not that kind of king, not the world's kind of king."   Why so many scriptures today?   Because I believe our faith can inform us about current issues. And often those issues will lead us to vote for a specific candidate. However, that candidate should never become the issue and that person should never be mistaken for Jesus' right hand man.   A candidate cannot declare himself to be on Jesus' side just because he holds a bible for a photo op, attends mass, or even teaches a Sunday school class. If he or she tries to mix religion and politics, religion will always lose. Jesus didn't put your candidate in office any more than he did mine. But he does admonish us to pray for our leaders.    Nevertheless, if folks persist with Christian Nationalism, (combining the kingdom of God with the kingdom of man), then I'm sorry to say that like four of the insurrectionist, they may literally have picked the wrong hill to die on.   When Carter lost to Ronald Reagan, I thought, well, there goes Jesus. He won't be welcome in the White House anymore. Of course, that wasn't true. He's always welcome.   So, if you must join a "Christian march" on DC or wherever, I recommend plagiarizing the slogan I recently saw on a church sign -- "No matter who is my president, Jesus will always be my King."    _______________________________________   Visit www.thechaplain.net or https://www.facebook.com/theChaplainNorris. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.       Copyright © 2021 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.