Spiritually column for June 2

My Wedding Rules

 

Next week, my wife, Becky, and I fly to Peoria, Illinois, to attend a celebration with my newlywed niece and her husband.

 

Fortunately, they didn't ask me to perform their ceremony.

 

I say "fortunately" because most ministers I know would rather officiate a funeral than a wedding.

 

No, it's not because we'd rather see someone die than get married. Funerals allow us to demonstrate sympathy, something that well suits our ministerial personality type.

 

Funerals bring us kudos while weddings seem boobytrapped for mistakes. If you don't believe me, ask your minister which one she'd rather do.

 

For instance, I once presided over a funeral where I mistakenly called the deceased by his father's name. The father kindly whispered the correct name into my ear, and we moved on.

 

But at a wedding that same year, I mispronounced the bride's middle name, and she replayed the videotaped faux pas for months to family and friends.

 

My father, also a minister, was not fond of performing weddings. During the drive to the ceremony, he would jokingly pretend to fumble his lines. 

 

He'd ask my mother, "Does this sound right? 'Dearly beloved, we're gathered here to mourn the loss of our dear brother in holy matrimony.'"

 

My dad had a point. Weddings are complicated. That's why I have a few rules that I'd like you to share with any couple you know getting married this year.

 

First rule: "No alcohol before the wedding."

 

I don't have the rule because I'm Baptist, but because I once did a home wedding where the best man had to prop up the inebriated groom. 

 

Not long after that, another groom drove his truck into our church parking lot with a keg in the truck bed. "Don't worry," he said with a wink, "that's for after the ceremony." He made sure to place air quotes around "after."

 

Next rule: "Prepare your minister's honorarium before the wedding."

 

Two incidents inspired this requirement. In the first instance, the groom stopped our procession from entering the sanctuary because he suddenly remembered that he'd forgotten to pay me.

 

"Wait," he cried. He pulled a $100 bill from his wallet and extended it toward the end of my nose, saying, "Here ya' go, Bud!"

 

At another wedding, I knocked on the bride's dressing room to signal we were ready to begin. The not-yet-dressed bride, opened the door a crack and passed me a damp check from her bra.

 

Last rule: "Keep the vow revisions to a minimum."

 

Last-minute edits complicate things. I remember one bride-to-be who requested to change the vows to "till love do us part."

 

I declined that change and referred the wedding to another clergy friend. Five months after the wedding the groom shipped off on a Navy cruise.

 

With her love she did 'part,' choosing to run off with a landlubber.

 

However, one bride gave me no choice about changing the traditional wording of the vows. My wife, Becky, was not going to promise to "obey" me.  Nor was she going to allow herself to be "given away."

 

"I'm not somebody's property," she told our pastor dads. Instead of being given away, she would kindly 'give' them both a moment to publicly pledge their support of our marriage.

 

And those were Becky's rules.

 

And finally, I encourage you to share with your bride-and-groom friends and their clergy the lesson my mother taught me about wedding grammar.

 

She was a stickler for the proper wording, so whenever she heard me say I "married a couple," she stopped me in my tracks.

 

"You couldn't have possibly married them. That wouldn't be legal."

 

I always allowed her a respectful moment to deliver her usual line:

 

"They married each other," she'd say in boldface type. "You were only there to 'perform the ceremony.'" (If you missed the distinction, read it over again, slowly.) 

 

I really don't care to do weddings anymore.

 

But I have to say congratulations and best wishes to Mr. and Mrs. Robert and Melissa Messenger of Peoria, Illinois.

 

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Visit Norris' website at www.thechaplain.net to read past columns and buy his books. Email comments to comment@thechaplain.net or snail mail 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spiritually column for Memorial Day weekend

Only the Grieving Know the True Cost of War

 

I can hardly attend a Memorial Day service without remembering the true cost of war.

 

It is a cost I learned to count while serving as the chaplain on death notification teams that delivered news no one wanted to hear.

 

Movies often depict these teams visiting a three-bedroom house where Mom is making dinner and Dad is helping a younger sibling with homework.

 

Television dramas cast the teams in a four-man role as they approach the door in dress uniforms, knock, deliver a brief announcement and then retreat to a government sedan.

 

Occasionally, that's an accurate picture, but that wasn't my usual experience in the 30-plus homes I visited before I retired in 2015.

 

That's because our servicemembers come from all socioeconomic and racial backgrounds. That means that nearly every one of my visits was different from the last one.

 

For instance, during one appointment, we almost called for police support when an anguished father pummeled the kitchen table so hard that I thought we'd be his next targets.

 

Fortunately, we didn't have to call the police that time, but we did call law enforcement for help with an uncooperative landlord. Unbelievably, the man refused to give us the forwarding address of a tenant who had lost his daughter on Christmas Eve.

 

On the occasions we found the home unoccupied, we asked neighbors if they knew the current location of the residents. While they answered our questions politely, they curiously asked us if we were recruiters.

 

Our blank stare gave them the only answer possible. They slapped a hand over their mouth at the unspoken horror of their next guess.

 

Still, each family was unique. In one home, I answered insensitive questions from a soldier's stepfather about life insurance while his mother bent over sobbing. In quite a different scenario, I resisted the nausea I felt from a cat hoarder whose home was covered with feline fecal droppings.

 

One visit began like a police stakeout as we hoped for the parents to return before our military orders required us to make a midnight retreat. Then, just before midnight, the soldier's parents returned from a winning bingo game to discover they'd experienced the loss of a lifetime.

 

As I attend our local Memorial Day service this year, I'll be remembering the time I drove six hours to tell a father there would be no miraculous recovery for his son.  After nearly a year of praying, the soldier finally died of the brain injury he'd received in an IED explosion.

 

But most of all, I think I'll recall the children of the fallen. I will remember the birthday party we canceled when we told the boy his father drowned. I'll never forget 9-year-old twins who exchanged vacant stares as our team was legally required to deliver the notification directly to them.

 

In short, I'll consider all the dark sidewalks I walked until we were illuminated by porch lights. Often from behind a fluttering living room curtain, we'd hear screams that can't be removed from my brain.

 

If you've not known anyone lost to war, then count yourself fortunate.

 

And on this Memorial Day, as you see the old soldiers standing on the parade sidelines, you should know that they are not blessed with the innocence of ignorance. They know what it's like to see a comrade fall.

 

All they ask this Memorial Day is that you attend a service, sing "God Bless America" and extend to them a grateful hand.

 

And one more thing.

 

With all your heart, promise them that you will never forget the true cost of war.

 

 

Go to Norris' website www.thechaplain.net to see his Memorial Day interview on the Web broadcast, Conversations in Christ. You can also read past columns and purchase my books on the website.

Some of this column is borrowed from my book, "Hero's Highway."

 

Email comments to comment@thechaplain.net or snail mail 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715.

 

 

 

 

Spiritually column for May 20 2023

Only the Grieving Know the True Cost of War

 

I can hardly attend a Memorial Day service without remembering the true cost of war.

 

It is a cost I learned to count while serving as the chaplain on death notification teams that delivered news no one wanted to hear.

 

Movies often depict these teams visiting a three-bedroom house where Mom is making dinner and Dad is helping a younger sibling with homework.

 

Television dramas cast the teams in a four-man role as they approach the door in dress uniforms, knock, deliver a brief announcement and then retreat to a government sedan.

 

Occasionally, that's an accurate picture, but that wasn't my usual experience in the 30-plus homes I visited before I retired in 2015.

 

That's because our servicemembers come from all socioeconomic and racial backgrounds. That means that nearly every one of my visits was different from the last one.

 

For instance, during one appointment, we almost called for police support when an anguished father pummeled the kitchen table so hard that I thought we'd be his next targets.

 

Fortunately, we didn't have to call the police that time, but we did call law enforcement for help with an uncooperative landlord. Unbelievably, the man refused to give us the forwarding address of a tenant who had lost his daughter on Christmas Eve.

 

On the occasions we found the home unoccupied, we asked neighbors if they knew the current location of the residents. While they answered our questions politely, they curiously asked us if we were recruiters.

 

Our blank stare gave them the only answer possible. They slapped a hand over their mouth at the unspoken horror of their next guess.

 

Still, each family was unique. In one home, I answered insensitive questions from a soldier's stepfather about life insurance while his mother bent over sobbing. In quite a different scenario, I resisted the nausea I felt from a cat hoarder whose home was covered with feline fecal droppings.

 

One visit began like a police stakeout as we hoped for the parents to return before our military orders required us to make a midnight retreat. Then, just before midnight, the soldier's parents returned from a winning bingo game to discover they'd experienced the loss of a lifetime.

 

As I attend our local Memorial Day service this year, I'll be remembering the time I drove six hours to tell a father there would be no miraculous recovery for his son.  After nearly a year of praying, the soldier finally died of the brain injury he'd received in an IED explosion.

 

But most of all, I think I'll recall the children of the fallen. I will remember the birthday party we canceled when we told the boy his father drowned. I'll never forget 9-year-old twins who exchanged vacant stares as our team was legally required to deliver the notification directly to them.

 

In short, I'll consider all the dark sidewalks I walked until we were illuminated by porch lights. Often from behind a fluttering living room curtain, we'd hear screams that can't be removed from my brain.

 

If you've not known anyone lost to war, then count yourself fortunate.

 

And on this Memorial Day, as you see the old soldiers standing on the parade sidelines, you should know that they are not blessed with the innocence of ignorance. They know what it's like to see a comrade fall.

 

All they ask this Memorial Day is that you attend a service, sing "God Bless America" and extend to them a grateful hand.

 

And one more thing.

 

With all your heart, promise them that you will never forget the true cost of war.

 

 

Go to Norris' website www.thechaplain.net to see his Memorial Day interview on the Web broadcast, Conversations in Christ. You can also read past columns and purchase my books on the website.

Some of this column is borrowed from my book, "Hero's Highway."

 

Email comments to comment@thechaplain.net or snail mail 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715.

 

 

 

 

Spiritually column for May 20 2023

Surprised by Forgiveness

After working 30 years as a hospital and military chaplain, I was surprised more than anyone by my return to parish ministry last year.

And the word "surprise" has become a regular part of my strategy with my unsuspecting little congregation.

Each Sunday, I try to keep them guessing. That's because I don't think memorized prayer or rote liturgy always gets the job done.

For instance, we began our Mother's Day service with Paul Simon's music video of "Love Me Like a Rock." I then gathered the congregants into five groups, allowing them five minutes to share something about their mother, good and difficult.

And we even had time for a serious sermon on "The Motherly Qualities of God."

Given what I did a few weeks earlier on Easter, I doubt that I can surprise them much anymore. We kicked off the service by bouncing a beach ball through the crowd. The "Happy Dance" video by Mercy Me had everyone busting a move or two, but mostly I just busted that dance.

I managed to shock a few first-time visitors, but the idea was that Easter should be celebrated as a wonderful surprise. After all, I don't think there's a bigger surprise than Jesus coming out of the grave.

But it's what I did on the Sunday before Easter that still has a few of them talking.

I began by telling them the story of a wounded soldier who asked me to help him forgive the insurgents that killed his squad leader. I confessed how the story had inspired me to forgive a fellow chaplain of a long-time hurt.

I paused for a moment, carving a silent space to honor the holy. I then asked them to consider their own stories and those who've hurt them in perhaps unforgiveable ways.

"Today, I hope it's time to let that go," I suggested.

I motioned them into a circle around the edges of the sanctuary and then distributed a responsive reading that I've shared with dozens of churches around the U.S.

From a half sheet of paper, I challenged them to respond to a litany that my father-in-law, Wil, wrote to help me deal with past hurts.

He titled it, "A Litany for Our Deepest Hurts."

Leader: Because there are pains that do not heal as physical pain does with time, surgery, or medication, we are engaged in this spiritual covenant in anticipation — now or soon — of eventual healing of our spirits.

Response: I accept and enter this covenant as if I were beginning a brand new journey in life.

Leader: The deeper the hurt, the longer the journey, whether in minutes, hours or days to that healing destination brought about by forgiveness and release.

Response: I promise to move in that direction. I may not move as fast as you think I should, but today or daily I will release and surrender either all or some part of this cumbersome weight.

Leader: These hurts have many names such as bushwhacked, waylaid, back-stabbed, slandered, deceived, etc., and none hurt like that received from a perceived friend.

Response: I will cease giving it a name and simply reject anything in my mind and spirit that is counterproductive to what God has planned for me.

Leader: Ceasing to dwell on this matter is not a matter of weakness, for it will free your time and mind. Therefore, if you are willing to stop looking back and instead face a forward direction, then our mighty God will be better able to bless and direct a forward-moving life.

Response: Because I know you are right, I hereby give up to God my so-called "rights" I have attached to my hurts, knowing he will deal with those involved while also leading me "in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake."

I've shared this litany with many audiences during the talks I've given in past years. No one has said that it's a magic pill. Yet, most have found it useful as a strong first step toward being surprised by forgiveness.

Perhaps you too can find it helpful. Take this column and litany back to your church, small group or family reunion. Challenge them to let go and walk into the "forward-facing life."

In the meantime, the words are my daily touchstone, reminding me to never be surprised by the power of forgiveness.

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Snail mail received at 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715. Visit my website at www.thechaplain.net where you can read past columns and purchase my books.

 

 

 

 

 

Spiritually column for Mother's Day 2023

High-Risk Mom and her High Maintenance Son

 

My wife, Becky, and I made a recent trip to see my elderly mother whereupon she revealed a surprising something about my beginnings.

 

"You were a high-risk baby," Mom said.

 

"And he still is!" Becky added, puffing at a strand of hair.

 

"No," I protested, "She said, 'high risk' – not 'high maintenance.'"

 

Since my chaplain history includes five years working in the High-Risk Pregnancy Unit of a local hospital, I appreciated my mother's ordeal and her doctor's order for bed rest so she wouldn't lose me during the pregnancy.

 

For weeks on end, she struggled to keep life within her. And with all her strength, determination, and prayer, she fought for my life.

 

My mom's grit to hold and bring forth life is a phenomenon mirrored in nature. It is a phenomenon I contemplated last Sunday morning as I went for a walk on a sunny but blustery Sunday.

 

Recently, Mother Nature took her best shot at drowning a few of us with an onslaught of constant rain. There aren't enough words in my thesaurus to describe "constant" – ceaseless, relentless, continual merely scratch the surface. While our home sustained some expensive damage, I'm grateful it wasn't anything like the destruction seen in the tornadic storms of the Southeast.

 

However, as I took mindful steps through the streets, I saw evidence that life was prevailing. The wind pushed back blankets of cloudy doubt that winter had piled on.

 

In a nearby yard, I couldn't help but admire families of pruned roses huddled together in obscurity. Normally, they are the queens of horticulture, but during the winter they lie in pretense, as if somehow they won't be gorgeous.

 

Like a pregnant mother, they await the incubation of beauty. Their pruned bases — knobby and snarled — refuse to disclose their identity until summer when their beauty will ensnare the heart of one in love.

 

In the yard of another neighbor, I saw the nakedness of a single tree, barren, save for one last leaf holding firm.  "Winter, you have no influence here!" it declared. The leaf waved me past like a shriveled old soldier motioning me away, all the while holding vigil for the arrival of a new and younger guard coming in spring buds.

 

Meanwhile, families of daffodils employed a different strategy against the stubborn winter. Determined to risk suffocation in the unseasonal wind, they must be the first to flaunt their beauty before a greening lawn. Like pajama models walking down a green catwalk, they stretch out their arms and yawn at their imagined sleep.

 

I glanced at my watch and realized my parishioners would soon expect me in the pulpit, so I set a quickened pace back home and up my driveway. But I paused to note one last sign of life's stubborn determination.

 

Growing through a crack, a blooming weed declared its ugly self to be a part of God's creation.

 

As I reached to pull it, I stopped short. Life is so absolutely determined to prevail. How can I dare halt that process? Even in a weed.

 

I stared at the weed and then back up the street. From these horticultural witnesses, I'd heard testimony of the amazing way God nourishes life and calls it from the most impossible places.

 

And with that thought, I went inside and found the number for a florist. Some roses for Mom from her high-risk son would be nice — the low-risk kind, minus the thorns.

 

Finally, to all you mothers who gave birth to high maintenance kids such as myself, I wish you each a "Happy Mother's Day."

 

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Snail mail received at 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715. Visit my website at www.thechaplain.net where you can read past columns and purchase my books.

 

 

 

Spiritually column for April 29

The Artificially Eloquent Pastor

 

Last Sunday, I began my sermon with these profound and eloquent words:

 

"Dear brothers and sisters. Today, we will reflect on the parable Jesus told of the lost sheep…."

 

Only one problem, though. I didn't write the sermon starter – not even the 400 words that followed it.

 

I quickly confessed to the group that I used an Artificial Intelligence (AI) website to compose my "profound and eloquent intro" in under 10 seconds. (See my personal website for the complete AI sermon. www.thechaplain.net.)

 

The AI website is called ChatGPT and it uses natural language processing to create humanlike conversational dialogue.

 

Users simply enter a few words to compose various written content, including articles, notes of condolence or thanks, essays, emails. Even, it turns out, sermons. (And yes, scammer emails.)

 

In my case, I simply entered the request, "Write a sermon about Jesus' parable of the lost sheep."

ChatGPT spit out this opening paragraph: "The parable found in the Gospel of Luke chapter 15 tells the story of a shepherd who had 100 sheep. One day, he discovered that one of his sheep was missing. So he left the 99 in search of the one that was lost. When he found it, he rejoiced and brought it back to the flock."

If you're looking for this columnist to condemn this slick tech, it won't happen. I love tech stuff. Always have.

 

And I have to admit that AI did a decent job.

 

However, lest congregants be tempted to replace their pastor with AI (or editors be enticed to replace this columnist), I have to point out the irony of having AI interpret this particular parable.

 

Jesus' story is all about the importance of the individual. The value of each of us to God.

 

The story is all about the uniqueness of our sameness. We are atomically alike, but our issues, our heartbreaks, our heart joys are uniquely ours.

 

AI can't imagine those things; it can only plagiarize them.

 

Vanderbilt University's Peabody College learned this lesson the hard way a few months ago when they used ChatGPT to email their students about the shooting at Michigan State University.

 

While well written, Camilla Benbow, dean of education at Peabody College openly acknowledged that the school "…missed the crucial need for personal connection and empathy during a time of tragedy."

 

Using canned answers and sympathy made from a mold doesn't work with real people who are really hurting.

 

The psalmist expressed this uniqueness in 139:13-14.  "'For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.'"

 

The verse wasn't meant to become the center of political debate. The words are intended to give you what I would call your "You-ness" in God's eyes.

 

Or as Saint Augustine put it, "God loves each of us as if there were only one of us."

 

In a few months, I may try to slip another AI sermon past my congregants. But so far, the biggest problem I see– besides a few parishioners actually reading this column – is the AI site keeps the output brief.

 

AI sermons tend to be short – about 450 words or ten minutes in pulpit time.

 

Who's gonna believe I would keep it brief? Honestly, we just can't have that.

 

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Snail mail received at 10566 Combie Road, Suite 6643, Auburn, CA 95602 or voicemail 843-608-9715. Visit my website at www.thechaplain.net where you can read past columns and purchase my books.