Altar Ego: August 2022

Chaplain's Labor Day Weekend Column --2022

The Best Book I Read This Year

Normally my Labor Day column consists of my annual list of book recommendations. But before I share my literary advice, allow me a momentary story detour.

On Valentine's Day 1992, I began my first job as healthcare chaplain at Houston Northwest Medical Center. During my orientation tour, my supervisor proudly showed me our beautiful, well-appointed chapel. She made careful mention of the altar that held the Qur'an, the Hebrew Bible, and the Holy Bible.

I was impressed with the multifaith display, but on closer look, I noticed something odd. There was a chain that ran through the book bindings and was attached to the altar. The shackle allowed visitors to turn pages but prevented anyone from holding the books.

Noting my surprised look, my boss said, "If we don't secure them, they walk off."

These days, hospitals rarely exhibit religious books. They avoid the theft risk by encouraging their patients to obtain their own religious literature, either online or from a chaplain.

Still, I worry that the Bible remains a target for thieves. These robbers aren't deterred with chains because their thievery isn't a physical act.

These robbers are out to steal meaning from the Bible. The thefts are perpetrated by Bible illiterates who misquote the Bible for their gain. They fleece the scripture of its context in a far-stretched effort to prove their political or theological ideals.

These are the folks who quote apocalyptic scripture to justify storming the capital. They are the ones who paste scriptures on placards and bumper stickers to support their medical opinion.

The best theft deterrent against these thieves isn't a chain, it's education. That's the reason I'm using this annual book column to recommend the world's best seller -- the Holy Bible.

While many of you read the Bible, some of you find its reading a daunting task.

If the latter describes you, the reading might become enjoyable if you'll first, exchange your grandmother's King James Bible for a contemporary version. (Find multiple versions online at https://www.biblegateway.com).

If you want the best accuracy, grab a "New International Version."

However, if you're looking for readability and understanding, I suggest the one I often use in this column.

"The Message" Bible was published by Eugene H. Peterson in 2002. Peterson was a scholar, pastor and poet who brought the Bible alive in ways never done before.

Don't worry, you needn't read the whole Bible. I suggest you begin with a few of the 66 books contained in the religious library called "The Holy Bible" (add 14 if you're Catholic).

Start with the table of contents and find the book of John.

You can learn a great deal about the teaching of Jesus in this two-hour read. You'll also find the most quoted Bible verse in John 3:16. "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life."

Afterwards, supplement your John reading with the active account of Jesus' ministry in the book of Luke.

Then turn to the Acts of the Apostles to uncover the story of the early church and help you frame the Jesus story with its impact on the known world.

The book of James is the one I encourage all new Christians to read. It's a practical and powerful how-to guide for faith.

The book of Job (pronounced Jobe) is the one to read if you ever philosophize about the problem of pain in this world. It's a literary masterpiece that poet Alfred Tennyson called "the greatest poem of ancient or modern times."

Of course, don't miss Psalms. Originally written as a songbook for the Hebrew people, the book advises that the safest place to keep your Bible will always be in your heart. Psalm 119:11 NIV says, "I have hidden your word in my heart that I might not sin against you."

Multiple books in one collection – the Bible. You can't beat a deal like that.

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If you like books, consider joining Chispa Project in 2023 to help start libraries in Honduras. February 12–19 or March 12 - 19.

Details at https://chispaproject.org/volunteertrip

Finally, see the books I wrote at thechaplain.net. Please share your reading recommendations in email to comment@thechaplain.net or leave a voicemail at 843-608-9715.

Chaplain's Column --Sept 16

Rites are Rarely Wrong

In the Baptist church where I grew up, Deacon Bob taught that rites and rituals were of Catholic origin and therefore had no place in the Baptist faith.

As a chaplain, I can tell you that rites are rarely wrong.

Deacon Bob was wrong. Our Sunday services was full of rituals.

The worship service always began with a prayer, followed by three songs. The congregation usually stood during the first and the third songs, and a soloist or choir anthem transitioned the worship into the offering time.

Immediately after the offering plates were collected, our pastor delivered a three-point, 25-minute sermon that concluded with an altar call hymn.

Rituals and rites are intrinsic parts of life. As a healthcare chaplain, I have found this especially true in the death and dying process.

I've helped deliver rites and rituals to people of all faiths. While these rites would mean very little to mainstream Christians, they still demonstrate the power of rituals and rites in the moment of death.

For instance, I've helped bedridden patients do such things as tape a crystal to their wrist, rotate their bed into a Feng Shui position, put a healing blanket on their bed or garlic underneath it. I've collected bones of the dead, feathers for the living, and even the placenta of a deceased baby.

Of course these rites don't represent mainstream patients. The majority of the patients I visit are exemplified in someone I'll call Mr. Stanley; a 76-year-old Korean veteran I met in the VA hospital three years ago.

Stanley's heart was failing, and he was struggling to find breath as his tearful wife of 50 years kept trading glances between him and his heart monitor. At some point, she asked me to bless him. I thought back to my Baptist upbringing. We prayed for the sick but blessing someone was not a rite we practiced.

However, chaplains bring a nonjudgmental presence and deliver what people need in their moment of crisis, I wrote a blessing for him. I began by placing one hand on Stanley's shoulder and holding the other open before me, as if I was expecting something to be placed in it.

"May God place you in his hand and hold you there.

May he pull you close to his heart."

Cupping my outstretched hand over my own heart, I added:

"May you know the beating of God's heart.
May your heart match the rhythm of his heart.
May his spirit fill your lungs with the healing breath of life.
May you know the calling of his direction.
May you hear his voice and find a peace that passes all understanding.
I pronounce this blessing on you in the name of the Father, son and Holy Spirit."

As I looked across at Mrs. Stanley, I saw a certainty forming on her face that wasn't previously there. She knew and I both knew that God had brought some dignity of purpose to the moment.

My blessing wasn't terribly creative, and it might not have been BC (Baptist correct), but its power in the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Stanley shouldn't be disputed – even by Deacon Bob.

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Parts of this column were excerpted from Norris's book, 'Thriving Beyond Surviving." His books are available for purchase on his website, www.thechaplain.net Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715.

Chaplain's Column --Aug 26

Extreme Prejudice is Met with Extreme Forgiveness

The retired engineer who occupied our ICU bed knew he was dying. He'd known for a long time.

He told his doctor not to take any heroic measures to prolong his life. His only wish was to share his last words with his family.

So, I called his family out of the waiting room and assembled them around his bed.

It was a tender moment as he thanked his wife for being such a hero. He thanked her for helping raise his kids and expressed his deep and eternal love for her.

She answered only with streaming tears.

Then he turned to his son to repeat much the same sentiment. But before I could gage the son's response, the doctor summoned the family into a consultation room, along with myself and a social worker.

The doctor began her meeting by confirming the patient's wishes.

"He says he doesn't want to be kept alive with a machine."

The son spoke for the family with quick certainty.

"Good. He deserves nothing."

A moment later the family dispersed, leaving the doctor to ask her team, "What just happened?"

"Terminate with extreme prejudice," the social worker replied.

"What?" asked the startled doctor.

As a veteran, I recognized the phrase popularized by the 1979 film "Apocalypse Now" in which a Secret Ops captain is ordered to use "extreme prejudice" to kill an errant American colonel. The order allows for an irrational level of violence that gives no chance of survival.

I shook my head at the term's use here. Was the son only present to make certain his dad died?

I excused myself from the meeting to find the 30-something man. In our near empty waiting room, he sat slumped over in his seat keeping watch over our stained carpet.

As I approached, he removed his hands from his face and gave me a pensive nod to sit beside him.

"Your dad said some nice things," I observed, fishing for answers.

"My dad's an…." He paused, thinking better. 'Sorry, Chaplain, but you know."

No, I didn't know.

"Can you say more?" I asked. "I'm OK with the language."

"Then you'd have liked my dad," he said. "In between chugging the beer, my father swore nonstop.

"Dad kept sober work hours, but just long enough to collect his check. He wanted everyone to think that he's this loving father and husband. No one knew he slapped our mother around."

"I can see why you'd call him an …."

"Yes!" he said, bleeping my sentence short. "We won't miss him."

"You didn't care for his words today. What would you like to hear him say?" I asked.

"I'd like to hear him say, 'I'm sorry, son. Forgive me for being such an a-hole!"

And with that, the man stood, leaving to rejoin his family.

"See you later," I told him.

"Later," he said, both of us knowing that wasn't true.

Our patient died during the night, so ten years later, I'm not able to tell you how the son resolved his feelings.

It's been said chaplaincy is like pastoring an airport runway, because we don't often see the end of the stories. So sometimes I imagine this ending.

The son would return to our patient's room in evening light, saying to his now comatose father, "Dad, you said your piece so now you have to listen to mine."

He would unload the things he'd shared with me and then lean close with a whisper,

"I forgive you."

And because those words often need practice before they become truth, the son would find it redeeming to repeat the same over his father's grave for several years until he uncovered peace.

I imagine that he would have done this not for his dad, but for himself. Because the only resolution to his feelings of "extreme prejudice" would be extreme forgiveness.

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Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715.

Chaplain's Column --Aug 19

A Rising Creek Drowns Opportunity

As the 1970s ended, I began classes at Golden Gate Seminary as a less-than-serious student.

On a sprawling campus perched in the prosperous hills of Marin County, California, I focused on one thing – and it was not my theological studies.

I was determined to make Becky Nuckolls my wife.

Gratefully, she felt the same way about me and we announced it to the world.

My mom hoped we would wait until we were older, but we were unwavering. We'd not be deterred by her wishes, nor my full-time seminary schedule or Becky's student teaching. The lack of jobs and the unavailability of campus housing would not keep us apart.

After a six-month engagement, we became Mr. and Mrs. and moved into a 17-foot camping trailer a few miles from San Quinten State Prison. (No connection implied by this columnist between incarceration and matrimony.)

After reaching the marriage goal, I shared with Becky that I'd like to find a student pastorate. Again, nothing would stop me, not the lack of reliable transportation, not the demanding schedule of exams and term papers, not the 1.9 grade average of my first grad school semester. Not even the joys of married life.

So I was thrilled to become the pastor of a rural congregation in Hopland, California.

Every Saturday, Becky and I drove 90 miles north from our seminary Shangri-La to stay in the "honeymoon suite" at the Hopland Motel, where the decor reflected the destressed surroundings of the town.

Each Saturday night after dinner I began calling members hoping to rally them for a record Sunday attendance.

After some chit-chat, I'd ask, "Will we see you in church tomorrow?"

My telemarketing reflected a Southern Baptist strategy called, "Constant Contact Consciousness."

The plan reasoned that by contacting a certain percentage of people I'd be guaranteed a pew-filling crowd of 40 parishioners.

But the congregants didn't read the play book. Few could read at all.

Most respondents replied with one of two conditions:

"If I wake up on time, I'll be there, Pastor," was their first requisite.

"If you set your alarm clock, you'll certainly wake on time," I'd say.

Their second precondition was, "I'll be there if the Good Lord's willin' and the 'crick' don't rise."

"I just don't want you to miss an opportunity," I'd say. "You have a chance to be encouraged and encourage others. Besides, I've checked the weather report. The creek is doing fine."

My teasing was a gentle plea not to let opportunity drown in that rising creek.

Their answers told me that they were trying to hide their fear of commitment with expressions like, "I'll pray about it," or "God willing."

In the months that followed, Becky and I began using those words, "If the crick don't rise" as a way of spoofing our own reluctance to do things.

For instance, if I asked Becky if she planned to attend her exercise class, she would playfully mimic a tired voice, "Well, if the crick don't rise, I'll probably go."

Her response told me that she had a natural reluctance to exercise, but she would attend the class because she knew it was the right thing.

As a couple of faith, we learned that the Good Lord is always willing to break through our reluctance to accomplish what needs to be done. Sometimes we simply need to be resolved that, if the creek begins to rise, we'll build a bridge or buy a boat. If that doesn't work, we'll hire a helicopter.

That reminds me how earlier this year, we hired our first helicopter. In celebration of our 42^nd anniversary, we flew over the bright orange lava fields of Hawaii.

Again, no connection is implied by this columnist between a boiling caldron of magma and a happy marriage.

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Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715.

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Column rewrite requested by a few editors --Aug 12

A few of my editors have asked that I remove a few graphs that repeat many of the lies Jones told. If you want to use the rewrite, you can find it below. Rewrite highlighted in yellow.

"Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!"

"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" belongs on the list of things my mother taught me to never say.

Never tell somebody to "shut up."
Never call someone "stupid."
And finally, never accuse anyone of being a "liar."

I consider that good spiritual advice. Most of you likely agree with banning "shut up" and "stupid." The words are often used by frustrated people who are unable to tolerate debate.

Liar is a more complicated label. I prefer not to use that title without video proof, fingerprints and other forensic evidence.

When I hear something that sounds untruthful, I try to assume the person is repeating what they were told. I tell myself they truly believe what they are saying and are not trying to deceive me personally.

Some might call me naïve, but perhaps that's why I didn't become a prison chaplain. Every week, I'd be campaigning for a prisoner's release. "Honest, warden, he promised me he didn't do it."

So I want you to know, I've been a good son and rarely if ever used the word for anyone – that is, until today.

Alex Jones, whose prominent radio show, "Infowars," is worth more than $200 million, is an unequivocal liar.

You may not know him, but Jones has personally affected my life and perhaps yours, too.

The most heinous lie he's repeatedly told is that the killing of 20 children and seven educators at Sandy Hook Elementary School never happened. Within hours of the 2012 event, he claimed the parents were liars, just "crisis actors" who portrayed a role for the news cameras.

But the most heinous lie he's repeatedly told is that the killing of 20 children and seven educators at Sandy Hook Elementary School never happened. Within hours of the 2012 event, he claimed that the parents were liars, just "crisis actors" who portrayed a role for the news cameras.

Because of these atrocious, libelous statements, a Texas court last week ruled against Jones and awarded the first of three families $45 million. He's now filed for bankruptcy, but he passed moral bankruptcy long ago.

Jones's internet radio show demonstrates how anyone with a microphone can produce a "news show." The liars can say nearly anything they want. They aren't trained to find the facts nor are they disposed to telling you the facts.

They lie about who the liars are. They confuse us so much that it's hard to know if our truth is true.

My dual training as a journalist and a chaplain has taught me to seek both spiritual truths and hard factual truths.

Real journalists aren't liars and they sure aren't stupid. Moreover, I know many of them to be of strong faith.

Please learn to trust your local journalists again. They report the news involving their families and yours. They live in your community. They were trained in your schools and their work is checked by their peers and editors.

As for people in the national news, I put my faith in American competition. If these folks lie, they're quickly replaced by someone else. Notice how easily NBC's Brian Williams and CBS's Dan Rather were fired when they bent the truth.

Local and national journalists, like myself, are accountable to an editing team. People like Alex Jones are not.

Jones's lies have personally affected my family. My late brother, Milton, believed every word Jones said.

When Jones disparaged doctors and promoted his own brand of health supplements, my brother threw away his insulin and blood pressure medicine, bankrupting his family to buy Jones's phony snake oil.

Milton contracted COVID in December 2020. He died two weeks later, all the while repeating the Jones lie -- Covid was only a hoax.

And because of that, I ask that you please join my mother and me in telling Jones and others like him to "Shut up, you stupid liar."

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For the past 21 years, my weekly column has been meticulously checked for grammar and truth by a few dozen people. Thank you to my volunteer proofreaders: Becky Burkes, Davalynn Spencer, Marcè Musser and Ed Kinberg.

Thank you to all who edit my column in 35 papers around the nation. You keep me accountable.

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Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net or 10556 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602 or via voicemail (843) 608-9715.

PS

PS:

To all my local and national editors. I would love it if you could insert your name on the last paragraph.

My column runs in 35 papers nationwide. Special thanks to (INSERT EDITOR NAME) who keeps me accountable to you (Newspaper name) readers.

Column for syndication --Aug 12

"Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!"

"Liar, liar, pants on fire!" belongs on the list of things my mother taught me to never say.

Never tell somebody to "shut up."
Never call someone "stupid."
And finally, never accuse anyone of being a "liar."

I consider that good spiritual advice. Most of you likely agree with banning "shut up" and "stupid." The words are often used by frustrated people who are unable to tolerate debate.

Liar is a more complicated label. I prefer not to use that title without video proof, fingerprints and other forensic evidence.

When I hear something that sounds untruthful, I try to assume the person is repeating what they were told. I tell myself they truly believe what they are saying and are not trying to deceive me personally.

Some might call me naïve, but perhaps that's why I didn't become a prison chaplain. Every week, I'd be campaigning for a prisoner's release. "Honest, warden, he promised me he didn't do it."

So I want you to know, I've been a good son and rarely if ever used the word for anyone – that is, until today.

Alex Jones is an unequivocal liar.

You may not know him, but he's personally affected my life and perhaps yours too.

Jones is a far-right conspiracy theorist whose prominent radio show, "Infowars," is worth over $200 million. He first surged to fame as a "truther" saying that Bush was behind the 9/11 attacks. Candidate Trump lent him legitimacy when he made an appearance on the show.

Sadly, Jones shows a much darker side by promoting Pizzagate, the lie that said Hillary Clinton ran a child sex ring from a New York Pizzeria. He was physically front-and-center in the attack on our capitol and became the first to publicly blame Antifa for the attack.