Spellcheck Feb 28 weekend 2025 spirituality column

Spellcheck,

 

"Francis" is pseudonym I used for this story, but an editor just let me know that Francis with an "i" traditionally is the masculine spelling, while "Frances" with an "e" is the feminine. Given my reference to her as "she" throughout, "Frances" would be more appropriate.

 

 

What is a "Regular Church?"

 

Some months back, I visited a new church led by an energetic leadership team. I was there to learn how our traditional church might find regenerative energy.

 

Afterwards, I asked what they liked about their church. I heard several good answers, but one woman intrigued me.

 

"The first time I walked into this church, I could tell I'd found a "wholesome place."

 

"Definitely a wholesome-looking bunch," I said.

 

"Yes," she added. "No one with piercings or tattoos."

 

"Probably there are a few tattoos somewhere," I said, hinting at my concealed tattoo.

 

"Yes, just regular people," she asserted.

 

Her need for a "regular church" sounded like what my 16-year-old grandson demands on his pizza. That's because his "regular" is cheese and pepperoni only.

 

"Wholesome and regular" isn't what this woman might have thought if she'd come with me to a Florida church where I spoke a year ago.

 

Becky and I were greeted by a tall member wearing a wholesome dress, with no observable tattoos.

 

She handed us a bulletin.

 

"Hello Norris! I'm Frances and I'm looking forward to hearing you speak."

 

Her deeper voice suggested a transgender woman, one my recent acquaintance would describe as not a "regular woman."

 

Immediately, I became aware of my dichotomy of discomfort.

 

My inclusive self was working overtime to assure me that my greeter was OK, but my evangelical rearing was screaming to be heard.

 

My traditional self was saying "This is highly irregular." Echoes of past arguments surfaced. "What restroom does she use? Is she allowed to work with children?"

 

But my rational-self reminded me that bathrooms have individual privacy stalls. And I hoped children could be so lucky to have such a caring soul.

 

Pushing discomfort aside, I looked into her eyes, level with my six-foot frame, shook her hand and thanked her for the bulletin. I was collecting the determination to make this a learning opportunity for myself. 

 

I wish I could tell you that I invited Frances for pizza to hear her story.

 

But I didn't.

 

However, last month, I emailed Frances's pastor seeking some background for this column. Before sharing, the pastor suggested we use the pseudonym, Frances.

"The church had always known Frances as Frank," began Pastor Annette's reply.

 

"But she came to me in 2016, pretty late in life, transitioning as a man dressed in women's clothing. She asked if the congregation would welcome her back into worship. She was very kind and respectful with her question.

 

"I told her I had no problem with welcoming her and that while I couldn't vouch for everyone in the congregation, it was my hope folks would be open, welcoming and kind. 

 

"It has not always been easy for her or for others. We have lost people because of our choice to not only welcome her, but to treat her as anyone else.

 

"Frances's presence and participation has definitely been part of our church journey to become more and more open and have an inclusive welcome for all.

 

"Is everyone comfortable with this inclusive welcome? Probably not yet."

 

You're right, Pastor Annette, I'm not always comfortable with fluid gender definitions. It's something I've not had the opportunity to understand in my learning process. But I say "amen" to your email conclusion, "We are all on a journey of sanctification and I'm grateful for God's grace in that process."

 

And to my readers, I admit truthfully, I'm still trying to work some things out as I consider the role of LBGTQ in the Christian community. I think many pastors are. So I'm hoping that Frances's story will advanced our understanding.

 

She reminds me that the early New Testament church was likely very irregular.

 

They were broken people who set the bar for acceptance and became the earliest example of how to do church. Or as I committed on our church sign, "This is a safe place to explore your faith."  

 

By the way, Annette, the next time I'm in town, let's have Frances over for pizza, if she'll have me. Order "regular" meat lover for me, with a side of humility and love.

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

 Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net.   

All of Norris's books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on his website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

 

Feb 28 weekend 2025 spirituality column

What is a "Regular Church?"

 

Some months back, I visited a new church led by an energetic leadership team. I was there to learn how our traditional church might find regenerative energy.

 

Afterwards, I asked what they liked about their church. I heard several good answers, but one woman intrigued me.

 

"The first time I walked into this church, I could tell I'd found a "wholesome place."

 

"Definitely a wholesome-looking bunch," I said.

 

"Yes," she added. "No one with piercings or tattoos."

 

"Probably there are a few tattoos somewhere," I said, hinting at my concealed tattoo.

 

"Yes, just regular people," she asserted.

 

Her need for a "regular church" sounded like what my 16-year-old grandson demands for a pizza. That's because his "regular" is cheese and pepperoni only.

 

"Wholesome and regular" isn't what this woman might have thought if she'd come with me to a Florida church where I spoke a year ago.

 

Becky and I were greeted by a tall member wearing a wholesome dress, with no observable tattoos.

 

She handed us a bulletin.

 

"Hello Norris! I'm Francis and I'm looking forward to hearing you speak."

 

Her deeper voice suggested a transgender woman, one my recent acquaintance would describe as not a "regular woman."

 

Immediately, I became aware of my dichotomy of discomfort.

 

My inclusive self was working overtime to assure me that my greeter was OK, but my evangelical rearing was screaming to be heard.

 

My traditional self was saying "This is highly irregular." Echoes of past arguments surfaced. "What restroom does she use? Is she allowed to work with children?"

 

But my rational-self reminded me that bathrooms have individual privacy stalls. And I hoped children could be so lucky to have such a caring soul.

 

Pushing discomfort aside, I looked into her eyes, level with my six-foot frame, shook her hand and thanked her for the bulletin. I was collecting the determination to make this a learning opportunity for myself. 

 

I wish I could tell you that I invited Francis for pizza to hear her story.

 

But I didn't.

 

However, last month, I emailed Francis's pastor seeking some background for this column. Before sharing, the pastor suggested we use the pseudonym, Francis.

"The church had always known Francis as Frank," began Pastor Annette's reply.

 

"But she came to me in 2016, pretty late in life, transitioning as a man dressed in women's clothing. She asked if the congregation would welcome her back into worship. She was very kind and respectful with her question.

 

"I told her I had no problem with welcoming her and that while I couldn't vouch for everyone in the congregation, it was my hope folks would be open, welcoming and kind. 

 

"It has not always been easy for her or for others. We have lost people because of our choice to not only welcome her, but to treat her as anyone else.

 

"Francis's presence and participation has definitely been part of our church journey to become more and more open and have an inclusive welcome for all.

 

"Is everyone comfortable with this inclusive welcome? Probably not yet."

 

You're right, Pastor Annette, I'm not always comfortable with fluid gender definitions. It's something I've not had the opportunity to understand in my learning process. But I say "amen" to your email conclusion, "We are all on a journey of sanctification and I'm grateful for God's grace in that process."

 

And to my readers, I admit truthfully, I'm still trying to work some things out as I consider the role of LBGTQ in the Christian community. I think many pastors are. So I'm hoping that Francis's story will advanced our understanding.

 

She reminds me that the early New Testament church was likely very irregular.

 

They were broken people who set the bar for acceptance and became the earliest example of how to do church. Or as I committed on our church sign, "This is a safe place to explore your faith."  

 

By the way, Annette, the next time I'm in town, let's have Francis over for pizza, if she'll have me. Order "regular" meat lover for me, with a side of humility and love.

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

 Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net.   

All of Norris's books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on his website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

Feb 21-23 2025 spirituality column

Chaplain Gets a Clint Eastwood Lesson

 

OK, folks, today I'm asking for your best Clint Eastwood impression by repeating these words aloud: "A man's gotta know his limitations."

 

If Eastwood was doing his portrayal of "Dirty Harry," today, he'd need to be more inclusive. "Everyone's gotta know their limitations." 

 

Nonetheless, the maxim still gives solid guidance. However, it's advice I neglected 15 years ago when I was deployed to an undisclosed location far out onto the sand dunes.

 

It was a blisteringly hot afternoon when I decided to take a stroll toward our perimeter defenses in hopes of making a morale visit with our Security Forces personnel.

As I walked into their camp, I found a group of cops anxiously unpacking ammunition boxes.

 

"What's up, guys?" I asked, a little short of situational awareness.

 

"We're a little too busy to chat, Chaplain," said a perturbed sergeant.

 

I must have looked a little hurt because their lieutenant appeased me with an explanation.

 

"Intel reports suggest an attack tonight, so we need to load ammunition magazines for our M-16s."

 

"In that case, you'll need all the help you can get," I said.

 

"Agreed," said an airman offering me a stool and a short tutorial on handling ammunition.

 

Gratefully, I was soon multitasking ― loading magazines and facilitating the chat session I'd come for. I was a happy chappy talking with folks about food, families and weather.

 

After about 20 minutes, I heard someone loudly clearing their throat. I turned around to see an orange-vested officer standing on our perimeter.

 

"Chaplain, just what the hell do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

 

"Morale visit, Sir. Just chatting up our cops."

 

"I mean with your hands!" he said pointing to the magazine I was loading.

 

Note: This is the moment where I disclose my previously undisclosed location �C on the dunes of Malabar, Florida. This was a military exercise, a dress rehearsal for combat.

The irritated officer was an inspector.

 

"Captain Burkes," he growled. "You KNOW chaplains are non-combatants and forbidden by the Geneva Convention to have anything to do with weapons ― most especially during an inspection.″

 

Wowzer, I can tell you that a superior addressing a chaplain by rank is like hearing your mom using your middle name.

 

He was right, of course. Chaplains who violate this rule in a real deployment are subject to court martial.

 

I knew the rule applied to guns but hadn't given thought to magazines. Obviously I'd lost sight of my limitations.

 

As a military chaplain, I had to abide by certain rules of engagement that limited my religious freedoms. For instance, in addition to being unarmed, I couldn't proselytize, nor could I bring parochial prayers to mandatory formations.

 

Some of my pastor colleagues balked at such restrictions. However, by knowing and accepting my limitations, I was rewarded the high honor of being present with servicemembers as they walked into harm's way.

 

These limitations aren't much different for many of you who carry your faith into workplaces. A teacher can't preach to his students. An executive can't thump her employees with biblical proclamations. A foreman can't limit his hiring to those from his faith preference. These rules of engagement are about respect, not political correctness.

 

However, these limitations needn't keep you from becoming a light in your field. The contrary is true. Keeping the rules of engagement should mean that your light shines ever brighter as it shows your esteem for co-workers.

 

By the way, I ran afoul of one other limitation that day. The Florida heat index shot up so high that 10 people dropped from heat exhaustion. When Slap Happy Chappy became No. 11, the orange vest yelled into his megaphone, "ENDEX." (End Exercise.)

 

All together now ― "A person's gotta know their limitations!"

 

This column was excerpted from my book "Tell it to the Chaplain."

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

Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net.  

 

All of Norris's books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on his website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

Feb 14-16 2025 with photo

Chaplain Stands with His Friends on National Backwards Day

 

Apologies for this belated announcement.

 

But, Jan 31 was "National Backwards Day."

 

No, it's a real thing, chaplain-honest.

 

My wife, a retired schoolteacher chastised me for not reminding you sooner.

 

Every year her elementary schools would participate in National Backwards Day, an annual whimsical and fun-filled observance that encourages people to do things in reverse or unconventional ways.

 

But you don't have to be a kid to do it. All ages are welcome to break routine and engage in activities with a unique twist.

 

Participants will wear their clothes backward, eat meals in reverse order, or simply do everyday tasks in unconventional ways.

 

Anyone can participate. Even our president.

 

Last month, with Backwards Day approaching, he pardoned the Jan 6th criminals and has now began a process to fire the law enforcement that imprisoned those hoodlums. 

 

Well-played, Sir. That's pretty backward.

 

"Chaplain!" you say, "You've careened out of your lane. How can you talk politics in a religion column?"

 

Consider it a part of my 2025 New Year's resolution that I made in December 2024. 

 

"I resolve that I will work harder this year to write with more authenticity. I won't focus on the popular or how I might improve the ups and downs of my readership, but on writing authentically."

 

This authentic column comes under the category of standing up for my friends.

 

I have several friends in the FBI and that friendship began with two different official visits.

 

The first came when a preschool director told the FBI that my newly adopted daughter bore a canny resemblance to a missing child on a milk carton photo. The milk carton thing was a 1990s public service to raise awareness for missing children.

 

That report triggered a visit to our Stockton home from an FBI agent seeking proof that we adopted our three-year-old daughter, Brittney. We gave him files and files of proof. No problem. 

 

But my new friend didn't close the investigation until he interviewed social workers and neighbors. 

 

Overboard? Maybe. But that agent was looking out for my family and the family of that missing child. When someone does that, they become my friend.

 

Don't mess with my friends.

 

On the second occasion, twenty years later, Agent Steve Dupre knocked on my door. He needed our Elk Grove house to surveil the house of a neighbor who'd used his ill-gotten robbery money to buy the house.

 

Steve became my friend.

 

In 2013, Steve invited me to make more FBI friends by joining the FBI Citizens Academy.

 

The class is invite-only.

 

For six weeks, we spent three hours every Wednesday at the Sacramento FBI office hearing the agents lecture about famous crimes, surveillance techniques, bomb making, and home terror organizations.

 

We also learned about the skin heads and the militia movements in this country. Pretty scary class, but I made lots of new friends.

 

One week, Steve announced that our class would visit a local gun range to shoot the guns FBI agents use.

 

I told Steve, "I don't want to go."

 

"Why is that?" he asked.

 

I told him about the gun trauma I experienced in the aftermath of a mass shooting at an elementary school in Stockton, Calif.

 

Steve listened carefully.

 

He promised me that it would be OK either way. "If you go, you don't have to shoot." he said. "But if you shoot, I'll stand with you and talk you through it."

 

I went and I did shoot. It was hard, but Steve stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me as a friend would do.

 

We finished the class with an optional field trip to the FBI academy in Quantico VA where we were welcomed by, then FBI director, James Comey.

 

Comey, a man of faith, used the FBI motto as an outline for his talk.

 

"Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity."

 

During these backward days, there are forces seeking to locate and publicly identify the agents who employed these principles in their Jan 6th investigations.

 

I pray their search is unsuccessful.

 

But in the meantime, I'll let you know where this chaplain is located – He's standing with his friends.

 

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

 

Send email to comment@thechaplain.net or voice message at (843) 608-9715.  All of my books can be found on Amazon, but for an autographed copy of any of my books, order from my website www.thechaplain.net or send a check for $20 per book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

 

 

 Chaplain Norris at FBI Gun Range, Oct 2015

 

 

 

Feb 7-9 2023

You Never Even Call Me By My Name

 

During my adolescent years, I rarely introduced myself with verbal clarity. My soft introductions were hard to hear and communicated more doubt than any kind of confident identity.

 

I'd try to tell people that my name was Norris, but they'd often respond with a one-word question. "What?"

 

If I repeated my introduction, my inquisitors only became more frustrated.

 

"What? Did you say Morris?"

 

Even if they heard "Norris," they might say, "Yes, but what's your first name?" The assumption was that Norris could only be a surname.

 

So, by the time I graduated from high school in 1975, I'd had enough of the confusion. I anticipated an opportunity to end it when I accepted a summer job at a church conference center outside Santa Fe, New Mexico.

 

A few weeks later, I entered the grounds ready for a change. The first person I met introduced himself and I responded with the first syllable of my middle name, "Ed." I was not only using my middle name, but I'd adopted the abbreviated version.

 

I still remember his reply – "What? Did you say Fred?"

 

It was quickly apparent that my lack of confidence was still causing me to mumble my name. "Ed" rolled off my tongue with no more clarity than did "Norris."

 

By the end of the summer, I'd already received a lot of grief from my mother who constantly reminded me that she wouldn't have named me Norris if she had intended for me to go by Ed. I returned to Norris.

 

Out in Northern New Mexico, the name experiment seemed harmless enough. After all, it was only a summer job. Since I was headed for Baylor University in Texas, I resolved to leave my AKA-Ed life in New Mexico's high desert.

 

Not so fast. I wouldn't be the only staff member from the camp headed for Baylor.

 

Imagine the surprise on the face of the freshman girl I escorted to the homecoming bonfire when we were greeted by two of my former New Mexico coworkers who called me "Ed."

 

In the weeks that followed, my old camp friends continually called me Ed, compounding the confusion among my new Baylor friends. My roommates were further puzzled when they brought in mail addressed to "Ed Burkes."

 

During my sophomore year, David Allen Coe's, "You Never Even Call Me by My Name," became a favorite song. By my senior year, I'd persuaded all of my friends to call me Norris once again – with only one exception.

 

That exception was the especially spirited blonde I'd met in that New Mexico camp named Becky. Through four years of college, my roommates teased me at every mail call. "Yoo-hoo, Ed!" they'd croon in a falsetto voice. "She wrote you another letter."

 

It took a lot of persuasion to get this girl to call me Norris. She preferred the name Ed and it seemed as though she'd never concede. However, at our wedding in 1980, she finally made a pledge to forever call me Norris.

 

"Norris," she said, "I take thee to be my wedded husband. To have and to hold, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part."

 

Happy 45th anniversary, sweetheart. You've always known who I am, even though I often lack a clue. Your love changes me because it honors the best in me.

 

It is a love for the person God created me to be, not what I should, could or would have been. And in that love, I find the most cherished reminder of the love of God.

 

And that is something Ed and Norris will cherish forever.

 

——————————————————————

Sign up to receive this weekly column in your email box at https://thechaplain.net/newsletter/ or send me your email address to comment@thechaplain.net.  

All of my books can be ordered on Amazon. Autographed copies can be obtained on my website www.thechaplain.net or by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.