June 27 weekend 2025 spirituality column

 

Good Marriages Require Sweat Work.

 

Wedding season is in full bloom in local parks and downtown churches, I've seen the lovely dresses spilling from stretch limos, flowers flowing, and jewelry sparkling.

 

Looking at this outside view, I see the signs that the couple spent countless hours sweating the details of their lavish affair.

 

But long before this summer spectacular, I hope someone has asked the couple this question:

 

"You've prepared for the special day, but what have you done to consider the lifetime you are committing to?"

 

It's a question I always asked the couple in my role as officiant and premarital counselor. But it was the questions the couple asked of me that sometimes threw me off guard. 

 

For instance, just a few weeks before a wedding, I once had a groom-to-be toss me a "by-the-way bomb." 

 

"My fiancée wants to omit the promise, 'Till death do us part.' Would that be a deal breaker for the ceremony?" 

 

Deju vu. It was the same question from a bride-to-be who asked me to change the promise to read, "Till love do us part." 

 

I told both couples, "I really have to stick with the unabridged format."

 

The first couple responded by finding another chaplain. The latter couple dissolved their marriage when the groom left on a Navy cruise and the bride parted to go with a land lover. 

 

Unfortunately, marriage counseling is far less comedic and much more frustrating.

 

The most frustrating thing is that I feel like I have been blessed with a marriage that I cannot clone in others. 

 

A good marriage is a complicated dish, and I don't have the recipe, or I'd publish it.  Often, I've come home from a difficult counseling case, and I'll hold my wife tight.

 

There is no greater priority than my marriage, because I believe God gave marriage to mankind as the closest equal to unconditional love. Despite God's intention for marriage, many are willing to take the risk of making marriage analogous to hell. 

 

While working as a hospital chaplain, a respiratory therapist burst into my office, "Chaplain, Chaplain! She said 'yes!'" 

 

"She" was another therapist who'd just accepted his wedding proposal after two years of dating.

 

I knew them well enough to assume their biggest challenge would be to quit smoking. Despite what respiratory therapists witness, some still smoke like chimneys. 

 

He heralded the news from floor to floor until he arrived on the bottom floor — literally and figuratively. His last stop was the nurses' station where his old girlfriend was the shift manager.

 

She invited him into a supply closet where her congratulatory "hug" went much farther than it should have. In a hot Texas minute, a two-year relationship went up in smoke.

 

Hospital administration congratulated them both with unpaid vacations. 

 

When I've seen people like these therapists risking something so precious, I'm often left shaken. It makes me try to define and categorize what I have in a vain attempt to keep it and control it. I wish it worked that way. 

 

I am not entirely sure what my wife and I have. It's the kind of love that continues, whether I burn the toast or burn my temper. It's a love that tells me I'm forgiven before I ask. It's the kind of love described in our wedding vow that "halves a sorrow and doubles a joy." 

 

Like many couples, we sometimes go to bed dead tired, sometimes too tired for the fun I seek and too tired for the prayers she wants. But we rarely are too tired to talk out our day and absolutely never too tired for our three good night kisses and "I love you." 

 

Still, maybe there is a thing that I know about marriage that respiratory therapists also know about smokers.

 

Therapists, who watch smokers die, know they are no less likely to become smokers.

 

Ministers, who watch marriages die, aren't any less likely to divorce. It takes work to quit smoking, and it takes work to make marriages successful. 

 

So, at the end of the day, I realize there is something Freudian about the way my fast fingers often seem to mistype "sweetheart" into "sweatheart." 

 

The typo is a great reminder that a good marriage takes a lot of work and spiritual sweat.  Good marriages require honest heart work, but most especially real sweat work.

 

 

"I love you Sweat-heart!"

 

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Sign up to receive this weekly column by email at www.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.netor by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

June 20 weekend 2025 spirituality column

Taking Faith for a Pivotal Spin

 

Imagine taking a virtual plane ride today and meeting me in San Francisco. I pick you up outside the terminal and drive you 30 minutes south to Moffett Federal Airfield, formally known as Moffett Navy Air Station.

 

I flash my military ID and we slide easily past the Smokey-Bear-hatted federal guards.  Just a quarter mile ahead, we pull curbside and walk across the lawn to the Moffett Chapel. In 2014, the chapel was restored to its original Spanish Colonial Mission church design found throughout California

 

I'm comfortable here. This is where, in 1994, I assumed my first Air Force active duty chaplain assignment. Three of us replaced the Navy chaplains when their branch vacated the base, or in naval terms, "Secured the watch."

 

Come inside with me for a moment. There's something I want to show you.

 

With a borrowed a key from our host, an Air National Guard chaplain, we easily walk through the double doors and into the foyer.

 

You take a sudden pause, breathless before walls of stained-glass windows. I explain that they are a story-in-glass highlighting the interfaith traditions of the Navy and Marine Corps.

 

But I didn't bring you here to admire the windows. We walk past the pews and onto the podium. We will pause reverently at the Protestant altar. Centered on the table is a Bible and glimmering cross. To the right and left, there are candles and offering plates. 

 

I've brought you here to show you what's behind all this.

 

We step forward into an alcove or recessed space where a larger cross is affixed on the wall aside banners that proclaim faith.

 

Oddly, I ask you to push on the cubby walls.

 

You're astonished that it moves.

 

With my assistance, we rotate what seems like a jumbo version of the lazy Susan contained in your kitchen cabinet.

 

Suddenly, we are standing under a crucifix surrounded by saint statues.

 

Voilà, there it is. Like a moving wall from a haunted house, we're standing in a Catholic church.

 

I push again, and we are share a Jewish altar with the Torah.

 

You say, "This is nice chaplain, but I'm undecided about faith. I suppose I'm spiritual, but not really religious." 

 

"No problem," I say. "Give that wall another push."

 

You do and are relieved to find yourself in neutral space. Nothing on the walls. No religion here.

 

Why have I brought you for a ride on the "Lazy" Altar?

 

To illustrate of how one might make a choice for faith.

 

No, it's not as simple as gyrating the Wheel of Fortune or spinning the theological bottle to determine where your doctrinal affections will lie.

 

You might begin the journey on one of the traditional altars of our fathers. But it may also take a spin in another direction, landing aside that of our spouse. And it's also legitimately OK to spin faith into something that represents our own journey. Or maybe you don't see faith has having finite definitions, so we choose to blend the moving altars.

 

But whatever you choose, deciding on faith is a serious business that requires us to become comfortable with the tensions that faith presents.

 

For instance, how does one explain the love of God in the midst of so much tragedy? Can you deal with the discrepancies of faith and the hypocrites that inhabit all faiths and philosophies? Can we repent of the sins of organized religions while at the same time reinforcing the humanitarian good they do?

 

I believe it's possible to keep the faith of our parents, but we can change out the theological accessories. For me, I follow the protestant faith of my father, but my worship isn't confined to a hymnal or a pew. Moreover, it means, that I accept his faith, but reject the bigotry sometimes found in evangelical faith.

 

For you, it might mean keeping your faith in the Crucified Christ displayed on the crucifix, but soundly rejecting the sins of the Fathers. It might involve rebuilding a place of worship that holds all women in high regard and safely shelters the children.

 

And if you are rotating the altar in search of generic worship, it doesn't mean that your new faith has to be cold, politically correct, and without feeling and humanity. It might involve a move toward inclusion of the conservative right side of the church aisle.

 

Finally, if your faith journey ever takes flight toward the San Francisco Bay Area, stop by Moffett Field Chapel and ask the "Smoky Hats" if they will let you take your faith for a spin. 

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

 

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

 

All 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. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

June 13 weekend 2025 spirituality column

Buying What People Ain't Sellin'

 

On a hot summer day in 2018, my wife, Becky, and I were moving into our retirement home in Auburn, California, when Becky's sister, Melissa, stopped by to help us unpack. A few hours into the job, Becky put down her boxes and started making sandwiches for us.

 

A few hours into the job, Becky put down her boxes and started making sandwiches for us.

 

"Hey," she said to me, "I think the neighbors down the street are getting ready for a garage sale. Go see if you can find the yard tools we're going to need."

 

I peered out the window at our barren one-third of an acre. "What yard?"

"Go," she ordered.

 

I blinked. Given the opportunity to escape the tedium of unpacking, I needn't be told twice. I grabbed my car keys and suggested that Melissa come along.

 

A few minutes later, we pulled into an empty driveway where I couldn't believe my eyes. These were quality products, yet oddly enough, there were no customers. Stranger still, the homeowners were also absent.

 

"I wonder where they are," Melissa said as we got out.

 

"Probably inside taking a break from the heat." I shrugged. "I'd rather shop without the seller barking prices every time I touch something anyway."

 

She agreed and picked up a pair of Keen sandals. "Hey, I think these are a fit."

"Nice," I said. "How much?

 

"I don't know." She turned her attention to a bag of bedding. "They haven't priced anything yet."

 

We shopped for another five minutes before I decided to give the door a light knock, then reported back. "No answer."

 

Continuing our search, Melissa put aside the sandals to hide them from the mob we were expecting.

 

My eyes quickly fell upon a nice selection of yard tools ― Home Depot on a blanket.

"Wow, this is everything I need. Rakes, pruning shears and even a leaf-blower." I laid aside the best and returned to the front door to make a lowball offer.

 

I gave the doorbell an aggressive ring. This time, the dogs erupted with barking. I paused expecting human footsteps. Nothing.

 

I returned to my pile of tools, spouting the old garage-sale cliché, "No price tags, no bodies, so it must be free."

 

Melissa pointed to a small pile of sweepings at the edge of the garage. "Norris, I don't think this a garage sale. I think we've interrupted a garage cleaning.″

 

"That must mean …" My voice trailed.

 

"We're trespassing!" Melissa said.

 

Just then the house curtains jostled, either by canine snout or human hand.

I dropped the tools, and before anyone gave chase, we beat feet to the car.

The garage sale gaffe brought to mind three common platitudes.

 

First, the familiar triteness that says, "If the shoe fits, wear it," isn't necessarily true.

It only seems true because there are a lot of folks who'll force their images upon us trying to match their assumptions of us. They insist that the shoe fits us, so we chain ourselves to their preconceived impression.

 

Just because the proverbial shoe may fit, doesn't necessarily mean you have to wear it or own it. If you don't see yourself in the shoe, then drop the shoe.

 

The second platitude encourages us to pray that God will open doors for us. Well, the chaplain is here to testify that just because a door is open doesn't mean that God opened it. We need to ask God to help us discern whether the opening is a welcome pathway or a trap door. In other words, stay out of unmarked doors.

 

Finally, you can't buy what people ain't selling. At least that seems to be the pesky thought behind the Tenth Commandment: "You shall not covet your neighbor's house … your neighbor's wife, or … or anything that belongs to your neighbor" (Exodus 20:17 NIV).

 

When Melissa and I returned to report our failed grand-theft attempt, my diplomatic wife profusely apologized for her erroneous tip ― at least that's what I think she said in the midst of her hysterical laughter.

 

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Sign up to receive this weekly column by email at www.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.netor by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.

 

 

June 6 weekend 2025 spirituality column

The suspicious neighbor prompts self-reflection

If you remember my column on Valentine's Day about my FBI friend, Steve Dupre, you might want to hear the rest of the story of how we met.

Weeks before I purchased my two-story Elk Grove Calif. McMansion in 2002, the FBI raided my soon-to-be neighbor's home and arrested the owner, a Vietnamese man named Jimmy.

But when my moving truck arrived, I only knew the current occupant to be a hairdresser with limited English. Her junior high-age sons both played in our swimming pool with my son. However, as the sons aged, their family fights brought frequent visits from police.

Things moved to another level one day when FBI agent Steve Dupre knocked on my door with an IRS agent in tow. They presented their credentials and told me how Jimmy was on trial for robbing several electronics warehouses. When one of his victims died of a heart attack, Jimmy went to prison for 30 years, but Jimmy's common law wife remained in the home with his two sons.

Now the IRS was collecting evidence to take the house under the RICO Act. To accomplish that, they needed to stand in my bathtub and take evidential pictures over my neighbor's fence.

After their photo shoot, they reminded me to report any suspicious activity and then they left. My mind was a whirl. But watch the house I did.

One afternoon, I came home to see Jimmy's extended family hauling large suitcases being hauled into the home. Neighborhood rumors suggested that Jimmy hid money in the walls, so I assumed the suitcases were hauling their ill-gotten gain.

I contacted police, and law enforcement swarmed our cul-de-sac again. Soon they had one of the culprits in handcuffs.

An hour later, I got a knock my door. It was a pretty young Asian lady from next door.

"May I come in?" she asked.

Before I could I offer her a chair, she challenged why I called the police.

When I tried to explain my suspicions, she calmly inserted, 

"I think you're a racist. You only called because you saw a bunch of Asian people carrying suitcases."

"N-no," I stammered.

"Yes!" She insisted. "Those suitcases contained dresses and tuxes for my wedding tomorrow."

"Then why the arrest?" I dared ask.

"Our best man had an outstanding traffic ticket, so now he can't be in our wedding."

She'd hooked my chaplain's guilt. I'd done scores of weddings, but I had yet to ruin one.

There wasn't much left to do but profusely apologize and eventually walk her to the door.

I spent several days soul-searching and handwringing. Had I been racist?

It's not a question I can easily answer, then or now.

But I do know it's a question I continue to face in everyday events. There is no final answer. I must constantly reflect upon my assumptions and prayerfully examine the subtle interpretations of race that I place on people.

Yes, I said prayerfully. Prayerfully, because as the prophet Jeremiah says, "The heart is hopelessly dark and deceitful, a puzzle that no one can figure out."

The prophet insists that we must ask God to "… search our heart and examine our mind."

The recent elimination of DEI offers us much self-reflection on racism. But the thing I find most unsettling is the sudden deportation of brown refugees into the United States while welcoming the white South Africans.

Don't let the news intimidate you into being silent on the subject. Discuss, search and reflect on the changing meaning of racism and never hesitate to seek God's help in understanding yourself.

Finally, if you like tidy endings, the IRS took the house and sold it to a wonderful Honduran American. Steve Dupre became a fan of my column and drafted me into the FBI Citizen's Academy, but that's a story already told.

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Sign up to receive this weekly column by email at www.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.netor by sending a check for $20 for each book to 10566 Combie Rd. Suite 6643 Auburn, CA 95602.