Column for syndication for first weekend in Sept 2021

 

Readers:  For the past ten years, I've used my Labor Day weekend column to review books I've read this year. Stay tuned. That column is postponed until next week.

 

 

Supersizing Your Order with Gratitude

 

I suspect my neighborhood is much like yours, where folks use social media to share thoughts and gripes with anyone who will take the bait

 

Lately, I've read several posts tying the lack of local service workers to California's substantial unemployment benefits.

 

"They are getting too much money," one post said. "If you cut their benefits, they'll be glad to bus dishes or pump gas," claimed another. The notion persists despite the fact that study after study continues to debunk such classist tripe.

Well, I have another theory I'd like to propose this Labor Day weekend.

 

Perhaps the lack of help can be traced to the bankruptcy of thankfulness among those people posting such jabber.

 

I began testing my theory early last spring and I think I'm spot on.

 

In one example just last month, I stepped into McDonald's to order their breakfast BOGO sandwich deal. Yup, I can eat two.

 

The shift manager kindly took my order while simultaneously relaying bilingual orders over her headset.

 

Ten minutes later, I returned to the counter to apply my theory.

 

It was a message I've been sharing with pretty much every minimum-wage worker I meet – service-station cashiers, dressing-room attendants, and car-wash crews.

 

With a focused expression, I told her, "I just want to say thank you.

 

"Thank you for working now and being here through this whole damn mess."

 

Her eyes took on a soft glisten. We both knew what I meant by "this whole damn mess."

 

"I've been here this entire time," she said, pride soaking through her mask. "I never left."

 

"That's amazing!" I said, adding a BOGO dose of thanks.

 

Ironically, early in the pandemic, the woman found herself among service workers in America called "heroic" and "essential." Now, she's at risk of being attacked, harassed, or even killed for asking customers to put on a mask. She's labored long hours through supply shortages and lax safety protocols.

 

I couldn't help but wonder if these food workers were famished for gratitude. Had even 1 in 10 of their daily customers returned to voice a genuine thank you?

 

There's a Biblical story about Jesus considering the same odds when he was approached by ten men inside the Samarian border. They all suffered from leprosy, so they immediately placed their order for a Grande cup of healing.

 

Jesus answered their pleas and sent them off to their priest to obtain their back-to-work clearances.

 

But when only one of them returned to thank the Son of God for supersizing his grace, Jesus asked, "Were not ten healed? Where are the nine? Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?" Then he said to the one, "Get up. On your way. Your faith has healed and saved you."

 

In a day in which our world is looking for a healing, this story from Luke 17:11-19 demonstrates that nothing heals like gratitude.

 

I witnessed this truth firsthand as I turned to leave Arches. 

 

The supervisor yelled back to her kitchen crew. "El hombre dice que le da las gracias por su arduo trabajo durante la pandemia."

 

Applying the context, I understood her to say, "The man says thank you for your hard work during the pandemic."

 

From my exit door, I overheard her crew respond with warm tones of surprise.

 

I don't speak Spanish, and perhaps neither do you, but this Labor Day, we can all speak Gratitude. It's a universal language. Say it. Express it. And teach it. It will forever heal.

 

 

Read past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Column for syndication, last weekend in August

Written in Stone

 

Not long ago, I was walking near a construction site when I noticed that somebody had the conviction to scratch a two-word message in the freshly laid sidewalk.

 

"Jesus Saves."

 

"Wow," I thought. "Did this Christian vandal think themself to be Moses? So confident that they wrote their truths in stone."

 

Certainty can be good a thing. We need to board an airplane with some assurance it will take us safely to our destination. We need certainty when we employ medical treatments. We confidently expect love from a spouse or parent.

 

But when it comes to faith, I don't need my doubts to be completely dispelled. I depend on a faith that will help me excel in the midst of uncertainty.

 

Whenever I witness the certainty of faith proclaimed in sidewalk graffiti like "Jesus Saves," I want to scratch my cynical response alongside it --"Do you know what you need saving from?"

 

When placards pop up in football bleachers touting "Jesus is the answer," I want to shout, "Yes, but do you know the questions?"

 

That's because real faith thrives with questions.

 

My father was raised in a church that didn't tolerate too many questions. They were called Primitive Baptists, but I'm not really sure how primitive they are today. After all, they do have a website, www.primitivebaptist.org.

 

They preach an altered form of predestination that teaches God predestines some of us for heaven while he's handpicked other folk for the eternal barbecue. That means if your afterlife has been pre-prescribed by God, then your fate is written in stone. After your destination has been divinely appointed, I guess there's not much room left for questions.

 

Fortunately, my father favored a faith that allowed a bit more leeway. Nevertheless, this kind of preaching can still be heard if you are channel surfing on late-night cable. And honestly, it's easy to take potshots at these groups, because we are so certain we bear no resemblance to this egocentric faith.

 

But I'm not so sure.

 

We may not be Primitive Baptists, but we are capable of displaying our primitive faith when we wave a flag declaring God is on our side. I think we show our primitive roots whenever we say God favors the red or blue states. I even think we attempt a twin-like appearance when, coincidentally, our God seems to love or hate the same things we love or hate.

 

At the end of the day, you can claim your God is well defined, but if that's true, then I think he's ceased to be God. If faith is something you've confined to a space or a place, then you've lost the mystery and awe of faith. You have no faith.

 

Pema Chodron wrote the book "Comfortable with Uncertainty." In it she points out that the problem with certainty is that "certainty always leaves people behind." This kind of faith, whether it's a journey to a Tibetan wise man or a visit with a televangelist, always will be what Chodron calls "a faith of personal escape."

 

Real faith requires us to extend ourselves into uncertainty. It's the kind of stretch the controversial theologian Karl Bart called "a leap of faith." It's the kind of reach Jesus described in one of the most widely known stories in Christian scripture.

 

In Matthew 17:20, Jesus said, "Truly I tell you, if you have faith like a grain of mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you."

 

Jesus knew that the mustard seed is so small and insignificant that it has no other option but to give all its faith to God or die trying.

 

It goes to show you that Jesus was certain of at least this one thing – real faith requires the surrender of the certainty we have in ourselves.

 

Now, I don't presume to add an 11^th commandment, but it may be a certitude you can write in stone.

 

Read past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

 

 

 

Column for August 20-22

Sparking Celestial Conversations

 

Becky and I have been baking in our 104-degree summer, and the heat sparked a deepening desire to get cold, chilled, and maybe even a bit wet. So last week we left our home in the fire-prone California foothills in search of chill-lax.

 

Four and a half hours later, at the end of a winding highway, we found our weekend retreat on California's Mendocino coast. Where water temperature and air temperature came to an agreement at 52 degrees, we discovered the intersection of beauty and chill.

 

It's here the coastal waters accelerate their Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation from the still waters of the Santa Barbara coast to the ship-crushing waves of the Oregon border.

 

After we checked into our hotel room, we sat staring at the ocean blue until the hypnotizing waves of the Pacific lulled us into a long afternoon nap.

 

Rest was important if we hoped to fulfill the nighttime mission I had planned. We'd come to glimpse the falling stars of The Perseids, the annual meteor shower, peaking in mid-August.

 

To see them, only the blackest of midnight would suffice. Our celestial treasure hunt sent us up a narrow road, out of the foggy coast and deep into the coastal redwoods.

 

The roadway darkened quickly. It was the kind of dark that could make it easy to lose one's soul if it weren't divinely anchored. The kind of void that Harry Potter and his classmates would seek.

 

Our car's adaptive headlights swung from side to side, searching for signs of life. Foxes darted deeper into the forest and a masked bandit dove for ditch cover. An ambling black bear moved like a shadowed tumbleweed, giving no hints he would yield. We did, however, and gave a skunk a wide berth while braking for deer silhouetted by the forest glow.

 

Just before midnight, we pulled into a clearing and stepped from our car. As our passenger-compartment lights faded, a meteor scratched the night sky like someone cutting diamonds.

With the giddiness of celestial prospectors, we scurried out to set up beach chairs and blankets. During the next 75 minutes, we watched icy droplets rip the heavens open like a zipper. We counted 30 of the little sky-scratchers as they etched straight lines across the near moonless night, flying a perky 18 miles per second. It was as if God was busy sketching architectural plans for another universe.

We "ah'd" and "ooh'd" and "whoa'd" like children watching a circus act and, at times, jumped in startled wonder as if someone had dropped an ice cube down the back of our shirts. Eventually, we quieted. Speaking only in whispers, fearing we'd be unable to hear God's voice otherwise. Nothing manmade could ever match the stunning show God gave us from the frosty slivers sailing across the night sky.

As we drove back to our hotel that morning, I reflected on what I'd heard God say.

"Wait," you ask, "does God really talk to you, Chaplain?"

No, not in audible tones. However, I do think I heard something divine that night. Something detected only in stillness and quiet. 

That is to say, up there on that clearing, nothing ever sounded so sacredly wonderful. It was as if I could hear the planets spin, as if I could hear myself aging, as if I could hear the stars greeting each other. I held the hallowed moment in my heart and heard the scripture, "Be still and know that I am God."

Suddenly, I knew once again that I'm not alone. God is with me.

 

 

Portions excerpted from Norris's book "Thriving Beyond Surviving."  Read past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Column for second weekend of August 2021

I would like to use this photo with this week's column about meteor shower. 

Can you use this copy.  Or do you want another version

Column for second weekend of August 2021

Becky's Choice

 

I know readers worry about my wife, Becky, and me living so close to the fires here in Northern California. Hopefully, they do more than worry – they pray – because the flashing strobe on my iPhone emergency notification is blinding!

 

"This is the County Sheriff's office issuing an evacuation ORDER for a fast-moving wildfire affecting the following zones: NCO-E050, NCO-E102...."

 

The home Becky and I share nestles snuggly in the foothills, but I have no clue what our assigned zone is.

 

Smoke swirls on the horizon, so I jump on the Internet, searching furiously for our zone. At last, good news. And bad. I can hardly tell the difference.

 

The fire is five miles away, so we needn't evacuate. But the fire is only five miles away!

 

Departure feels imminent. I rush down the garage stairs to retrieve suitcases.

 

The long-timers in this gold country tell me to always keep a go-bag packed. Ours isn't exactly packed.

 

We are doing that now.

 

So, what goes in the bag after toiletries and a few blue jeans? Surely my laptop used for writing my columns.

 

I walk circles around Becky, searching for clues while she loads the family photo albums she's artistically compiled over recent decades.

 

I return to the garage for more suitcases but pause to check the gas level in our car. 

Local authorities advise maintaining a full tank during fire season. I'm caught with a fourth of a tank.

 

I return upstairs where Becky is loading some vintage toys from her childhood, to share with our newest grandson.

 

I grab my military files and tax records and throw in iPads for good measure.

 

Becky focuses on personal items, and I grab more mechanical things. She wants priceless representations of the life we've lived; I'm morbidly attracted to the replaceable.

 

My greedy arms fill, like a kid whose overloaded hand is stuck in the candy jar. If I withdraw my hand, I'll have to let some stuff go.

 

Which of us is the better packer?

 

I recall reading about Jesus visiting with a man who felt his life was well packed. The man claimed he'd kept the laws of his religion and had done all the right things since childhood. But he still sensed something lacking at his spiritual center, so he asked Jesus how to become whole.

 

Jesus suggested he might – "go and sell all your stuff and give the proceeds to the poor and your treasure will be in heaven."

 

The man leaves sorrowfully because he can't give up his stuff – even if it means saving his soul.

 

How can I make a similar decision to give up my stuff in the face of this fire?

 

Becky reaches for a painting on our wall, one she commissioned from a Honduran artist. It's a quiet seaside landscape with a rowboat in the bay. Across the bottom, the artist inscribed folk-song lyrics she had requested:

 

"The river is wide, we both shall row, my Love and I."

 

I load the painting in the car, Becky nearby, and I reach for her hand – the same one I first took 41 years ago.

 

"No worries," I say, as the tears well. "We have each other. I think we have everything we need."

 

------------------------------------

Gratefully, Becky and I never had to evacuate, but many others lost everything in the fire. 

 

You can help victims of the River Fire. Send checks payable to: Nevada County Relief Fund c/o SNMH Foundation, P.O. Box 1810 Grass Valley, CA  95945. Email info@NevCoRelief.org.

 

Help fire victims statewide with donations to "Disaster Relief Ministry," California Southern Baptist Convention, 678 East Shaw Ave., Fresno, CA 93710.

 

Fire survivors can seek help at www.riverfiredonationhub.com.

 

Read past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact Norris at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715.

 

 

JPEG version

Some papers are requesting a jpeg version

 

 

This is the photo of the painting described in upcoming column I'll send in a few hours

 

 

Photo for second weekend of August 2021

This is the photo of the painting described in upcoming column I'll send in a few hours

Do we need each other?

Spiritual Lesson from Little Golden Book

Feeling Helpless? Let's Help Each Other   A long, long time ago in a land called Waco, I began my freshman year at Baylor University inside the dilapidated off-campus housing reserved for penny-pinchers.   Fortunately, the Student Affairs Office mismatched me with two seniors, Tommy and Ken. Both were at the top of their class. Tommy was a ministerial student already pastoring a church. Ken was the co-pilot for the university plane, flying every weekend to help recruit Baylor sports talent.   They both graciously offered their guiding wisdom, and, in return, I gave them the If-ever-I-can-do-anything-for-you speech. The upperclassmen only laughed.   Ken politely informed me that there was little, certainly nothing, really, that a frosh could ever do for him.   I responded by asking, "Ever heard of Aesop's fable about the lion and the mouse?"    "You mean, 'Androcles and the Lion'," he said, referencing the 2nd century folktale.   "No," I said with freshman certainty. "Pretty sure it's a lion and a mouse," recalling the Little Golden Book version I knew from childhood.   It seems that a hungry lion captured a mouse and was preparing to eat him, when the rodent begged to be spared.   The mouse promised that if he were released, he might someday return the favor.   The lion roared in laughter at the one-sided equation, the ludicrous possibility that the pipsqueak could be helpful.   Nevertheless, the not-so-ferocious feline let him go.    Weeks later, the mouse again encountered the hungry carnivore. But this time, the King of the Jungle was dethroned with an agonizing thorn stuck in his paw.   The mouse, anxious to prove his worth and fulfill his promise, struggled with the thorn until he extracted it from the lion's paw.   Soon the lion was free and the two became the closest friends.   "I haven't really heard that version," Ken said, just before heading to bed in preparation for an early morning flight.   He left wearing the same smirk the lion must have worn. It's the one I would often see on folks before the pandemic. They proclaimed they didn't need anyone's help. They considered themselves to be independent and self-reliant.    They were. That is, right up until they needed toilet paper and food. Right up to the time they cashed the stimulus check and/or took unemployment and rent assistance.    Working as one nation, one world, to defeat this virus doesn't turn us into 20th century socialists. Needing help from each other doesn't make us weak. It makes us human.   If this pandemic has made you feel like a helpless mouse, there is one thing you can do to make a huge difference – get the vaccine.     My column today seeks inspiration from the opening line of John Donne's eighty-word, 17th-century poem: "No man is an island entire of itself."   The poet's point is aptly illustrated with over 4.25 million covid deaths worldwide. My own brother, Milton, was one of those deaths.   That's why Donne's conclusion rings heavily within me,   "…any man's death diminishes me…."   A few weeks after my discussion with Ken, I was alone in our apartment when the phone rang.   On the other end of the phone, Ken began with just two words.     "Hello, Mouse?"   He had just returned from a recruitment trip and said he'd locked his keys in the car on the far side of our darkened campus.   Since AAA membership was outside a student budget, Ken asked if I might take a 15-minute bicycle ride to bring his extra key.   After grabbing his key off his dresser, I returned to the phone. "Sir," I reported, as I'd called all pilots. "Mouse enroute in two minutes."   From that day forward, Ken never let me call him "sir," but when he needed something he would often call me "mouse."      ------------------------------------------------------------   Read Norris's past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.

This email was sent to burkesn.norris@blogger.com why did I get this?    unsubscribe from this list    update subscription preferences Norris Burkes · 10566 Combie Rd · Suite 6643 · Auburn, CA 95602 · USA

Column for first weekend of August 2021

Feeling Helpless? Let's Help Each Other

 

A long, long time ago in a land called Waco, I began my freshman year at Baylor University inside the dilapidated off-campus housing reserved for penny-pinchers.

 

Fortunately, the Student Affairs Office mismatched me with two seniors, Tommy and Ken. Both were at the top of their class. Tommy was a ministerial student already pastoring a church. Ken was the co-pilot for the university plane, flying every weekend to help recruit Baylor sports talent.

 

They both graciously offered their guiding wisdom, and, in return, I gave them the If-ever-I-can-do-anything-for-you speech. The upperclassmen only laughed.

 

Ken politely informed me that there was little, certainly nothing, really, that a frosh could ever do for him.

 

I responded by asking, "Ever heard of Aesop's fable about the lion and the mouse?"

 

"You mean, 'Androcles and the Lion'," he said, referencing the 2^nd century folktale.

 

"No," I said with freshman certainty. "Pretty sure it's a lion and a mouse," recalling the Little Golden Book version I knew from childhood.

 

It seems that a hungry lion captured a mouse and was preparing to eat him, when the rodent begged to be spared.

 

The mouse promised that if he were released, he might someday return the favor.

 

The lion roared in laughter at the one-sided equation, the ludicrous possibility that the pipsqueak could be helpful.

 

Nevertheless, the not-so-ferocious feline let him go.

 

Weeks later, the mouse again encountered the hungry carnivore. But this time, the King of the Jungle was dethroned with an agonizing thorn stuck in his paw.

 

The mouse, anxious to prove his worth and fulfill his promise, struggled with the thorn until he extracted it from the lion's paw.

 

Soon the lion was free and the two became the closest friends.

 

"I haven't really heard that version," Ken said, just before heading to bed in preparation for an early morning flight.

 

He left wearing the same smirk the lion must have worn. It's the one I would often see on folks before the pandemic. They proclaimed they didn't need anyone's help. They considered themselves to be independent and self-reliant.

 

They were. That is, right up until they needed toilet paper and food. Right up to the time they cashed the stimulus check and/or took unemployment and rent assistance.

 

Working as one nation, one world, to defeat this virus doesn't turn us into 20^th century socialists. Needing help from each other doesn't make us weak. It makes us human.

 

If this pandemic has made you feel like a helpless mouse, there is one thing you can do to make a huge difference – get the vaccine. 

 

My column today seeks inspiration from the opening line of John Donne's eighty-word, 17^th-century poem: "No man is an island entire of itself."

 

The poet's point is aptly illustrated with over 4.25 million covid deaths worldwide. My own brother, Milton, was one of those deaths.

 

That's why Donne's conclusion rings heavily within me,

 

"…any man's death diminishes me…."

 

A few weeks after my discussion with Ken, I was alone in our apartment when the phone rang.

 

On the other end of the phone, Ken began with just two words. 

 

"Hello, Mouse?"

 

He had just returned from a recruitment trip and said he'd locked his keys in the car on the far side of our darkened campus.

 

Since AAA membership was outside a student budget, Ken asked if I might take a 15-minute bicycle ride to bring his extra key.

 

After grabbing his key off his dresser, I returned to the phone. "Sir," I reported, as I'd called all pilots. "Mouse enroute in two minutes."

 

From that day forward, Ken never let me call him "sir," but when he needed something he would often call me "mouse."

 

 

------------------------------------------------------------

 

Read Norris's past columns at www.thechaplain.net. Contact him at comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail (843) 608-9715. Twitter @chaplain.