Oct 20/21 Syndicated spirituality column

 

Thingamabobs, Phobias and Snakes...Oh my!

 

There's no holiday that expresses our fears like Halloween. So if you're like me, you're glad the spooky day has passed.

 

The celebration sees folks reveling in such phobias as arachnophobia, chiroptophobia, achluophobia and necrophobia. Respectively, the fear of spiders. bats, darkness and dead things.

 

But if you are ophidiophobic, you may want to pass on this column. Fortunately, the irrational fear of snakes never plagued our family.

 

That's why years ago, when my then-teenage son, Michael, asked for a corn snake, his schoolteacher-mother obliged. She was firm in her belief that all children should have the chance to start their own animal kingdom.

 

But as we would discover, the most difficult thing about snakes is that like my teenage son, they tend to escape from their cage. Okay, we never put Michael in a cage – he had to go to school. But we did keep him in his room at night.

 

When his snake did escape, it usually returned within the week for food. Its last getaway came on the eve of a visit from my snake-phobic mother and forced us to launch an all-out search for the critter.

 

Knowing that snakes will seek sheltered heat sources, we searched every heat source we could imagine until we finally noticed the pungent odor wafting from the laundry room.

 

Still unable to see anything, my wife and I tipped the cumbersome appliance to find that washing machine transmissions aren't friendly environments for your average carbon-based life form.

 

Now I warn you that if you are blennophobic – afraid of slime – you should really give up on this column because our corn snake looked more like corn syrup – or maybe creamed corn. Take your pick.

 

But most especially if you are olfactophobic – afraid of smells – like the washing machine repairman who came to our house with his shirt pulled up over his face, you needn't read on.

 

His only suggestion was that we call a biohazard team. The problem is that those teams have been known to bankrupt small cities.

 

So I determined to do this toxic cleanup myself. Armed with cleaners, disinfectants, sponges, paper towels and plastic gloves, I opened our washroom door and blasted the room in a "cover fire" of deodorizer.

 

Holding my emetophobia in check – fear of vomiting – I entered the toxic zone and was quickly driven back by my old nemesis – a gag reflex on a hair trigger.

 

Bolting from the room, I came to a hard stop in front of my wife who was wearing the look most husbands know. It was the same "You're worthless!" look we get when the keys we've lost are in our other pocket.

 

"I'll do this," she said, "but you'll need to get this machine into the backyard where I can work on it."

 

"No problem," I said.  An hour later, the machine sat in the open air which diluted the smell enough for me to remove the motor, transmission and some other thingamabobs I didn't recognize.

 

True to her brag, my wife spent the next few hours disengaging the remains of the snake just as the sun began to set on the horribly long, hot day.

 

It had been a day of confronting our fears, including the pet owner's worst fear – that of losing their pet. Nevertheless, each of us somehow found the courage to push aside our fears and accomplish what some had said couldn't be done.

 

When I think of all the things that scare me in this world, I'm grateful that our spiritual beliefs can be a great source of courage. The Christian apostle, Paul, wrote that "God has not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind."

 

As for the washing machine, I was struck with a severe case of mechanophobia – fear of machines. Fortunately, I pressed past my chrometophobia – fear of spending money—and paid a repairman to put those thingamabobs back in place.

 

 

Buy my latest book, "Tell It to the Chaplain" on my website, Amazon or by sending me $20. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net. Leave recorded comments at (843) 608-9715 or write 10556 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

Oct 20/21 Syndicated spirituality column

Pregnant With Truth

 

In my new book, "Tell it To the Chaplain," I describe the yearlong postgraduate residency I took in 1991 to become a chaplain. The program was called Clinical Pastoral Education and was the hospital-based internship required to begin a career in healthcare chaplaincy.

 

Each morning, the interns went onto the wards to support patients in need of spiritual care. In the afternoon, we'd critique our patient visits with our supervisor and fellow students.

 

Dr. Timothy Little was our supervisor. He was an old hand at teaching his charges how to walk with patients through sickness and pain. He was blind, yet quite Yoda-like with his limitless wisdom. He often used a critique tool called a "verbatim," which was our written verbatim of a visit in a word-for-word description.

 

One afternoon I went onto the hospital wards determined to find a patient who would portray me in a favorable light to my supervisor.

 

As I walked past the nurses' station, a nurse called me aside to tell me of a patient requesting a chaplain visit. The man he described was in his fifties and had just received a terminal diagnosis of stomach cancer. However, before the nurse could explain more, an urgent phone call pulled him back to the desk.

 

Never mind, I thought, waiving a dismissive hand. I pushed out of the station like I was Chaplain America looking for a patient to save.

 

I found the room and opened the door. As I neared his bed, my game face shattered. The male patient appeared every bit pregnant.

 

Fortunately, I think his bulging gut blocked him from seeing the shock on my face as I composed my introduction. The man responded well. He took an immediate liking to me and freely shared the doctor's prognosis.

 

"Would you pray with me?" he asked. "I feel God in me and know He wants to heal me."

 

"Certainly," I said, smiling inwardly. This was someone I just might "save."

 

I prayed a strong prayer from my Baptist tradition, full of words like, "If it be your will, God," and "In Jesus's name we ask." In retrospect, it was more like I was casting a theological incantation rather than trying to understand the man's soul.

 

Still, he offered a satisfied smile. I was sure my patient would be the stunning star of my upcoming verbatim.

 

Just as I was about to dismiss myself, the man placed his hand on his belly.

 

"Sometimes I can feel him move," he said.

 

"Pardon me. Who do you feel move?"

 

"Jesus!" he proclaimed. "Jesus is returning through me. I'm carrying God's son."

 

Along about then, the nurse appeared at the door and motioned me outside.

 

"Chaplain, I was trying to tell you that our patient is also psychotic."

 

I shot the nurse my best "no-duh" look.

 

"I was trying to tell you that when my phone rang," he added.

 

A few days later I humbly presented the verbatim as a "how-not-to." I admitted that I'd not waited for the nurse's guidance or tried to hear the patient's pain.

 

Dr. Little tapped his white cane on the floor. "Well, well, well," he said, "I think we might have the beginnings of a chaplain."

 

Years later, I reprised that verbatim, this time before a peer committee as I sought professional certification as a chaplain.

 

"What did you learn?" asked one committee member.

 

"I learned that I can't be the hero of someone else's story. When someone invites me into their story, I can't morph into the Great Explainer or shine as the Truth Holder. I must honor the way God intersects their story without injecting myself into it."

 

They all voted to endorse me as a new chaplain – and gratefully, I acknowledged  that their commendation demonstrated yet another way in which God intersects my story.

 

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You can find this story in "Tell It To the Chaplain" on my website, Amazon or by sending me $20. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net. Leave recorded comments at (843) 608-9715 or write 10556 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oct 20/21 Syndicated spirituality column

Who am I When No One is Listening?

 

After 30 years serving as a hospital and military chaplain, I returned to the pastorate last year where I'm rediscovering the things I missed.

 

I can honestly say I missed preaching, potlucks and the playful fun I share with parishioners. (See how well a pastor can force alliteration into his/her points.)

 

But I must say, I don't miss the pressure clergy feel to recruit new parishioners. I was never much good at that.

 

However, in the Air Force I had ample opportunities to "troll for souls" because each base chaplain is assigned workplaces they must routinely visit. My assigned areas were the hospital and the Security Police station.

 

One day during a visit to the police station, I was warmly welcomed by a parishioner who worked as the desk sergeant.  We sat down together inside his cubicle to talk about office issues.

 

But, a few minutes into our conversation, his boss called him away for a moment.

 

While he was gone, I remained in the cubicle, hidden away from the officers who just then entered the squad room.

 

Assuming they had an empty office, they began to talk.

 

Their "talk" quickly turned to the graphic nature of their dating life. As they told their can-you-top-this stories, one officer claimed his leading role as a "ladies man."

Each of his stories centered on his prowess with several women inside his large Ford Taurus.

 

But when they saw their supervisor reenter the room, they retreated to their break room.

 

"Do you want to have a little fun?" I whispered to my friend.

 

He gave me a hesitant nod, so I filled him in on the conversation I'd overheard. Then I asked him to introduce me to his fellow officers assembled around the donut box. (Apologies for the cliché.)

 

The sergeant and I entered the break room wearing matching grins.

 

Each officer gave me a hearty greeting.

 

I recognized the distinctive voice of the Taurus officer as I sensed his unspoken question, "How long have you been here chaplain?"

 

That's when my friend and I began our recruitment drive. "The chaplain thinks some of you might want to join him for chapel service."

 

Even with the police officers' sixth sense, they still did not surmise they were in the crosshairs of an incoming practical joke. Their answers focused on their excuses.

 

"I'm Catholic," one said.

 

"My wife's out of town," said the other.

 

"I don't have a car," said a third.

 

And with that divinely ordained cue, it was "Bombs away."

 

"Well, I understand that one of you has a nice big car you can use for church carpool."

 

They exchanged puzzled looks, but the eyes of the storied officer widened in fear. He knew we had him in "target lock."

 

"Yeah, I was sitting behind your supervisor's cubicle when you all walked into the office.

 

"You couldn't see me, but I could sure hear you. Which one of you has that Ford Taurus?"

 

Suddenly, my "smart (aleck) bomb" found its target in the one telling the car stories and he doubled over in excruciating embarrassment, retreating into his cubicle. From the noises he was making, I wondered if he was about to lose every donut he'd consumed on shift.

 

Pointing to the donut box, I said, "You know, I think it might have been Jesus who mentioned that it's not the things that go into a man's mouth that defile a man, but it's what comes out of the mouth that really messes him up." (Matthew 15:11 The Norris Paraphrase)

 

For a moment, the officer fancied himself the envied Casanova – but in the next moments, the exposure of his words melted him into shame.

 

In an effort to recruit friends, this officer had tried to be a different person to everyone he met. On his patrol beat, the officer was the protector for his community but to his friends he was the conqueror. And to his chaplain, he was a shy boy ashamed of what he'd said.

 

Recruiting friends and followers at the expense of who you are can get awfully expensive to one's integrity. My guess is that it's much easier to just be the same person to everyone we meet – which makes it much less likely we'll forget who we are.

 

My pastor gig starts at 10:30 on Sunday. Will any of you be joining us?

 

You can buy my new book "Tell It to the Chaplain" on my website, Amazon, or by sending me $20. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net. Leave recorded comments at (843) 608-9715 or write 10556 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

Oct 13/14 spirituality column

 

 

Coaching Conversations at the Class Reunion

 

"Norris Burkes," I yell into the ear of an elderly man standing inside boisterous hotel banquet hall. "I was on your cross-country running team."

 

Coach Gary Kuhn smiles and repeats my name with the feigned recognition people give at high school class reunions. Still, 50 years is a long time ago, so I retrace the way back to where our stories intersected.

 

It was a hot summer evening in 1974 when Coach led us on a ten-mile run through the unincorporated town of Atascadero CA. We'd run half of it when Kuhn noticed me limping alongside his pace car.

 

"Burkes! What's the matter?"

 

"Shin splints, I think."

 

"Get in!"

 

"Gladly."

 

A half hour later, Kuhn dropped me off at my empty house. Even with my parents away for the week, it was easy to fall asleep.

 

Ten hours later, I threw my feet on the floor and suddenly felt my left leg buckle.

 

I had learned to accept my adolescent clumsiness, so I tried again to stand. No luck. So, I crawled to the garage and grabbed a patio broom to fashion a crutch.

 

"Then, I called you Coach."

 

"What'd I say?" he asks.

 

"You sent me to my doctor. He wrapped my leg in an ace bandage, and I went home on real crutches."

 

A few days, I returned to practice, but I was still limping.

 

In the distraction of the dinner clatter, Kuhn was showing difficulty processing my account, so I ply him with more details. "You weren't happy with the diagnosis and wanted me to get a second opinion."

 

I discovered how unhappy Kuhn was the next day when I answered a call from my irate doctor.

 

"Your coach is questioning my diagnosis" he told me. "What the hell did you tell him?"

 

I stuttered a guess, but he interrupted to say he was referring me to Dr. Nathan Barrett, an orthopedist in San Luis Obispo, the county seat 15 miles away.

 

A week later, Barrett called me and my parents into his office. Never good.

 

"Bone Tumor." He pronounced.

 

My mother burst into tears while I managed to ask how my case compared with Edward Kennedy Jr, the son of the famous senator who'd lost his leg the previous summer to a cancerous bone tumor.

 

"We can't be sure until we get the post-surgery tests back."

 

Five days after surgery, I was being discharged when Barrett dropped into my hospital room to say, "It's benign!

 

"You'll be wearing a leg brace for the next year, but you'll keep your running legs," he promised.

 

By that point in my story, I see perception building in Kuhn's eyes. Is it recollection of the events or the recognition of the dessert table to the side of us?

 

"You're a miracle!" Coach blurts!

 

The title feels overstated.

 

"No, you are," he says, fully insisting now that my story is a real miracle.

 

As I hear the coach's words, I can't help but recall a common confusion people have between two words: diagnosis vs. prognosis.

 

A diagnosis identifies a person's current condition, whereas a prognosis describes the condition's implications for future health.

 

The doctor was willing to stop at my current condition. The coach, always looking for the better way, saw who I could be in the future. His prognosis was no less than a miracle.

 

I suppose he saw the wisdom in that old Christian cliché, "Be patient with me, God isn't finished with me yet."

 

As we inch toward the dessert table, he asks if I'm still running.

 

"I've run two marathons."

 

"When?" he asks.

 

"Ten years ago."

 

"But what are you doing now?" he asks.

 

Still the consummate coach.

 

Excuse me now. I've got to dress out. Coach has me running laps.

 

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My new book, "Tell It to the Chaplain" is available on Amazon or by sending $20 to 10556 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602. Comments received at same address or by email comment@thechaplain.net or at (843) 608-9715.

 

Very small change Oct 6/7 spirituality column

Editors,

 

Can you make small change?

 

I've added one sentence below the line saying, 'The Kindle eBook version is FREE on Amazon through Wednesday.

 

 

Two Things I've Never Written

 

In this column's 22-year history, I don't recall rehashing a column from the prior week or apologizing for it. Today, I do both.

 

In review, I wrote last week about the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge (NCOIC) who managed our small Air Force base chapel in the mid 1990s. She was the sergeant in charge who ran our chapel's business at a mile-a-minute. She was law-and-order, good with regulations and policies.

 

I explained how our chaplain staff found the sergeant a bit too surly for the high-touch world of ministry and enlisted the help of our base psychologist (Read the full story on my website or request it by email).

 

It wasn't a bad story for comparing people-people to those who are more task-oriented.

 

I've likely told that story during a visit to your town and concluded by asking the audience, "Are you a task person or a people-person?"

 

Normally listeners agree that both personalities are needed to see positive outcomes.

 

That's something I failed to say in last week's column. Sadly, I changed my usual question and asked column readers, "Who do you think was right: me, the people-person, or the task-oriented sergeant?"

 

Responses came from everywhere.

 

"Why does everything have to be black or white?" asked Kathleen Conley, a reader from Springfield, MO.

 

"People should be allowed to be nuanced. It's a fine line," Kathleen added. "It needn't be totally black and white. I don't like that approach. Everything and everyone needn't be limited to one spectrum or another." 

 

Kathleen, a retired Army vet, reminded me that the "…NCOIC's evaluation report was 'weighted' on smooth functioning of the office…. That's how they got promoted. Yes, that can be accomplished with a warm and caring tone, however, I detest a fake warm and caring tone."

 

Ouch. And so very right. I apologize to you, Kathleen and the other readers like my Auburn, CA neighbor, Randy Tattershall.

 

Randy's a former (Once-a-Marine-Always-a-Marine) who doesn't mind telling me, "Norris, I am sure you knew this was coming but yes, you were wrong!"

 

"There has to be middle ground where both give and receive. We do tend to enjoy being in our comfort zones as that is where we feel the most control.

 

"It sounds like your NCOIC was carrying the organizational load because the chaplains were too focused on the people. Had the chaplains taken on more of the organizational needs of the office she may have had more time to change hats and be more pleasant in her interactions.

 

"She probably gave the impression she was in control but inside was likely a mess which is why she was less than friendly."

 

Randy's observations, like Kathleen's, offer good advice in a political climate where both sides seem decidedly unnuanced.

 

By the way, Kathleen wasn't done with me yet.

 

She promised that if she ever became my NCOIC, she could "…keep an office running and do it with a true warm and caring approach to walk-ins, but it's not my job to be their chaplain. It's yours."

 

I think that's a good place for me to stop today's column, except to say once again, "I'm sorry. I can be better than that."

 

An updated version of the NCOIC's story will be in my upcoming book, "Tell It to the Chaplain." 'The Kindle eBook version is FREE on Amazon through Wednesday.

 

You can sign up for my weekly column at www.thechaplain.net/newsletter. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net. Leave recorded comments at (843) 608-9715 or write 10556 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

Oct 6/7 spirituality column

Two Things I've Never Written

 

In this column's 22-year history, I don't recall rehashing a column from the prior week or apologizing for it. Today, I do both.

 

In review, I wrote last week about the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge (NCOIC) who managed our small Air Force base chapel in the mid 1990s. She was the sergeant in charge who ran our chapel's business at a mile-a-minute. She was law-and-order, good with regulations and policies.

 

I explained how our chaplain staff found the sergeant a bit too surly for the high-touch world of ministry and enlisted the help of our base psychologist (Read the full story on my website or request it by email).

 

It wasn't a bad story for comparing people-people to those who are more task-oriented.

 

I've likely told that story during a visit to your town and concluded by asking the audience, "Are you a task person or a people-person?"

 

Normally listeners agree that both personalities are needed to see positive outcomes.

 

That's something I failed to say in last week's column. Sadly, I changed my usual question and asked column readers, "Who do you think was right: me, the people-person, or the task-oriented sergeant?"

 

Responses came from everywhere.

 

"Why does everything have to be black or white?" asked Kathleen Conley, a reader from Springfield, MO.

 

"People should be allowed to be nuanced. It's a fine line," Kathleen added. "It needn't be totally black and white. I don't like that approach. Everything and everyone needn't be limited to one spectrum or another." 

 

Kathleen, a retired Army vet, reminded me that the "…NCOIC's evaluation report was 'weighted' on smooth functioning of the office…. That's how they got promoted. Yes, that can be accomplished with a warm and caring tone, however, I detest a fake warm and caring tone."

 

Ouch. And so very right. I apologize to you, Kathleen and the other readers like my Auburn, CA neighbor, Randy Tattershall.

 

Randy's a former (Once-a-Marine-Always-a-Marine) who doesn't mind telling me, "Norris, I am sure you knew this was coming but yes, you were wrong!"

 

"There has to be middle ground where both give and receive. We do tend to enjoy being in our comfort zones as that is where we feel the most control.

 

"It sounds like your NCOIC was carrying the organizational load because the chaplains were too focused on the people. Had the chaplains taken on more of the organizational needs of the office she may have had more time to change hats and be more pleasant in her interactions.

 

"She probably gave the impression she was in control but inside was likely a mess which is why she was less than friendly."

 

Randy's observations, like Kathleen's, offer good advice in a political climate where both sides seem decidedly unnuanced.

 

By the way, Kathleen wasn't done with me yet.

 

She promised that if she ever became my NCOIC, she could "…keep an office running and do it with a true warm and caring approach to walk-ins, but it's not my job to be their chaplain. It's yours."

 

I think that's a good place for me to stop today's column, except to say once again, "I'm sorry. I can be better than that."

 

An updated version of the NCOIC's story will be in my upcoming book, "Tell It to the Chaplain." You can sign up for my weekly column at www.thechaplain.net/newsletter. Send comments to comment@thechaplain.net. Leave recorded comments at (843) 608-9715 or write 10556 Combie Rd Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.