May 2 weekend 2025 spirituality column

When We Haggle Over Integrity, We Risk Everything

In 1995, I was serving as an active-duty Air Force chaplain on Moffett Field in the San Francisco Bay Area. 

During my three years there, our chaplain assistant constantly fielded requests from couples wanting to be married in our beautiful WW2 chapel. 

Since military members are entitled to the free use of chapel facilities, we got a lot of calls from bargain hunters not much interested in the religious commitment assumed with a church wedding.

So, you might imagine my reserve when my assistant transferred a call from an Army helicopter pilot called, asking if I perform "all weddings." 

At first, I said, "sure," but circled back to clarify his use of the word "ALL." 

"I'm a Protestant chaplain and I do ALL Protestant weddings," I said. I'm not sure he heard my limitations because he still wanted to schedule premarital counseling.

The couple came to my office that afternoon holding hands and in good spirits. After a few minutes, they asked to see my menu of ceremonies I offered couples. 

As they studied the script together, the pilot blurted out a question. "Would it be possible for you not to talk so much about God?"

When I offered them both a blank stare, the woman added some explanation. "Our friends may be offended to hear so much mention of God and the Bible."

I wanted to ask if they noticed the Christian cross I wore above my left uniform pocket. Instead, I tried to gently explain that I couldn't officiate a Christian wedding without using Christian vows because I was, well, believe it or not, a Christian.

At that point, the woman leaned forward in her chair to make a confession. "I should have told you — I'm Wiccan."

"Yeah," I said, "You definitely should have mentioned that."

Don't get me wrong. As a group, Wiccans are generally peaceful and tolerant people. They are a nature-based religion. They do have witches, but not witches in the sense of potions and spells. They don't worship the devil. In fact, they don't believe in the devil.

"I can't do the wedding," I said, "but perhaps you can get a Justice of the Peace."

The woman saw my point and nodded in agreement, but I could see that her fiancé was getting furious.

"But you said you did ALL weddings — no matter what denomination," protested the pilot. 

I reminded him of our phone call when I said my focus was Protestant weddings. I tried to explain that Wiccans aren't just another division of the Protestant family of churches. 

The pilot remained unmoved until the woman confronted her fiancé with a question: 

"Dear, don't you understand? We would be hypocrites for saying the Christian vows and the chaplain would be a hypocrite for officiating a wedding for people he knows don't believe the Christian vows."

Wow, I was under her spell. Her words were so profound that I have repeated them to nearly every engaged couple seeking to be married.

This Wiccan had a sense of her own worth, but her fiancé was more interested in bargain hunting – to the point of denying something that was important about who she was. 

The pilot was a bargain hunter trying to simulate God into a relationship where God was not wanted. And the truth is that God only comes to marriages, and to your life, as an invited guest.

In my many years of serving as a chaplain, I've often recounted this story to those who are tempted to haggle over the price of their integrity. 

"It's simple, really. I tell them. "You will never find a bargain by concealing who you really are. Because when you sell out who you are, it will cost you everything."

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

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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.   

 

 

 

 

 

April 25 weekend 2025 spirituality column

Learn To Share the Road on Life's Highway

Some years back, I was driving Interstate 99 south of Sacramento, Calif when a man began aggressively tailgating me.  

Known as the most dangerous freeway in California, there is little room for traffic weavers like him. He was close enough that I could see his face redden in my rearview mirror. And of course, he could read the smirk on my face as I gloated over my strategic position ahead of him.

When traffic finally allowed me to move into the right lane, I displayed an upturned palm that invited His Excellency to proceed. But appeasement was too little, too late.

He initiated aggressive movements, dropping back and speeding past and changing lanes. I answered his vulgar hand signals with moronic smiles and have-a-nice-day waves until he flashed a doubled fist, suggesting a roadside fight.

With evasive maneuvers exhausted, I finally led our rage parade onto the highway's shoulder hoping to sucker him into exiting his pickup. With him afoot, my plan was to floor my Hyundai to escape velocity.

I knew this was a bad plan when I noticed he was searching for something behind his seat.

Being a smart aleck to a dangerous stranger is wrong, but my problem really began with the assumption that most of us make when we become randomly targeted by rage. 

I assumed this man's anger really was about me.

You've probably made the same assumption. It happens when the guy flips you off on the road or the woman screams at you for taking her parking space.

While it's natural for you to go into a defensive mode claiming your righteous innocence, it's best to remember that their rage isn't really about you. In fact, it's even a little self-centered to think it is about you.

The reality of these rages is that we are collateral damage for folks like these.

For instance, I occasionally receive a caustic e-mail, something Anne Lamott aptly calls, "Orwellian memos detailing my thought crimes."

Most of the time I know that, like the freeway driver, their anger isn't about me; they are fighting battles I'm not privileged to see.

Recently, I got an e-mail from such an angry reader. When I replied from a defensive mode, he escalated our discussion by calling me every synonym of idiot. Recalling the road-rage incident, my second reply took a reconciling approach.

The reader sent a confessional apology adding details of his wife's terminal illness and children who weren't talking to him. Just like the interstate guy, this reader's rage wasn't about me.

It never ceases to amaze me that when I remember to squelch my defensiveness and respond in a caring manner, I will often get a sincere response. My smug attitude toward the driver only stirred his rage, but my soft answer to the reader turned away his wrath and made a friend.

Short of a soft answer on the freeway, I sped back into traffic, spitting gravel on the man's truck. After another 10 minutes of cat-and-mouse, I took the freeway exit labeled, "Galt Police Station." Amazingly, the man followed me into town but finally broke off his chase when I entered the station's driveway.

At the end of the day, the best answer to road rage on life's highway may be contained in the sacred proverb that suggests, "A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh answer stirs up anger."

After all, we are all on a journey, so maybe it's time to share the road.

————————–    

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.   

 

 

April 18 weekend 2025 spirituality column

A Good Friday Introduces a God Sunday

No matter what you've read, I can promise you this – the Jesus insurrection was put down quickly and decisively. The anarchists, AKA disciples, who were occupying the garden never really had a chance.

The disciples barely seemed to know the smackdown was coming when the occupying powers, caving to the demand of religious leaders, issued an arrest warrant for their insurgency leader.

"Bring this Jesus to me," said Pontius Pilate, the Roman prefect (governor) of Judaea. "Let's see what kind of leader he claims to be. Does he think himself their king, their God? If so, I'll make sure he becomes just another revolutionary nailed to a tree."

Gaining Pilate's approval, the deputized posse stormed the Gethsemane Garden, a place where Jesus was known to hang with the homeless. The officers expected a fight, or they at least hoped to instigate one. They came armed with clubs and swords.

To be certain of their target, they bribed a Jesus insider, a real Judas, to plant an identifying kiss on Jesus' cheek.

The subject himself offered no resistance. After all, no matter what the prostitutes and degenerate cripples said, Jesus was just a man.

The only struggle came when a sword-packing follower sliced off a deputy's ear. Eyewitnesses claimed Jesus miraculously reattached it, but the religious leaders dismissed that as fake news.

Others claimed that Jesus' quiet surrender paved his way to martyrdom. By the time their claim gained traction, Jesus would become much more than a martyr.

Early the next morning, the pathetic arrestee was hauled before Pilot where the governor asked him if he thought himself to be a king.

No response. Only unassuming surrender.

This is going to be easy," Pilate must have thought. "I'll make him king — King of Calvary's Hill."

So much for this petty uprising.

"Not so fast," pleaded the first lady. "I had a bad dream about him. You shouldn't have anything to do with him."

"Dreams! Probably just something you ate," Pilate told his wife.

Then, with a pontific wave, Pilate motioned Jesus into the hands of tormentors who mockingly crowned him with a wreath of puncturing thorns. Nice touch.

In the meantime, Pilate washed his hands. Just another day living in the dream seat of power. Insurrection squashed.

By Friday afternoon, it was a done deal. Even Jesus knew it by then: "It is finished!"

The government prosecution of the fledgling rebellion was far-reaching and absolute. The orders were signed and sealed, then executed with the utmost prejudice.

But Pilate had looked at this all wrong.

He, as well as the religious folks who'd concocted the charges, had operated under the misguided assumption that the coup would come by force.

You can't blame them. It was also the shared assumption of Jesus' disciples, including Judas, their disgruntled group treasurer.

The day would eventually be called Good Friday by his followers, but it Friday was only good because Sunday belonged to God.

And when Sunday came, it arrived with an immeasurable power not before seen by anyone on this earth. And it was manifested first to a woman.

On that long-ago first Easter morning, when a few women dared enter Jesus' empty tomb, they were confronted by angels, asking, "Why do you seek the living among the dead. The one you are looking for is risen" (Luke 24:6).

The words were final witness to the fact that God's Kingdom has never been about any earthly kingdom.

His Kingdom has always pointed toward the Resurrection, both his and ours.

Happy Good Friday and God Sunday!

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

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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.   

 

 

 

April 11 weekend 2025 spirituality column

 

Is it Ever Too Late to Talk to God?

 

During my career as a healthcare chaplain, I often had a feeling that I was pastoring a parade. That's because, by definition, a chaplain's relationship with patients is a temporary one.

 

I suppose that's why I am relieved when a patient asks if they can call me "Pastor" instead of "Chaplain." I hear their request as an invitation into the more personal role of their family pastor.

 

However, that's not quite how it started with a patient I first knew as "Mr. Penny." I called him "mister" because that's how he introduced himself when I entered his hospital room at Houston Northwest Medical Center in 1992.

 

I reciprocated his formality by introducing myself as "Chaplain Burkes."

 

At first, I thought he was using titles in recognition of our age difference. But eventually it seemed like he was trying to distance himself from the three-piece-suit chaplain who matched his stereotypical idea of the "preacher."

 

Doctors told Penny he had inoperable brain cancer, but he didn't want to talk about that. The balding, bony man just wanted to chat.

 

During his next several hospitalizations we talked sports – either the Houston Oilers or about my lunchtime basketball games with local clergy.

 

For Penny, the greater the emotional distance we could maintain from reality, the better.

 

Finally, though, on his last hospitalization, his nurse summoned me from lunch to tell me Penny had a favor to ask of me.

 

Thinking this sounded like the call to a deathbed confession, I made a quick exit from the cafeteria toward the ICU.

 

I walked into his room to find his wife stroking his fevered head.

 

"Oh good," she said. "I'm glad you're here today.

 

"He wants to ask you something."

 

I looked at the figure on the bed, twisted and ghostly. His raspy breathing suggested he wouldn't have much strength for this conversation, so I leaned over the bed and called to him as if announcing my presence through a dense fog.

 

"Mr. Penny, it's Chaplain Burkes," I said. "Is there something you want to ask me?"

 

He nodded. "Teach me…" he said, his voice trailing.

 

He took a fuller breath and added, "Teach me to pray."

 

Confused by his sudden approach to an intimate moment, I searched his wife's face for context.

 

She was chewing on her thumbnail. "He's embarrassed."

 

"Embarrassed?" I asked.

 

"He's afraid he's being hypocritical to wait until his death to talk to God," she added.

 

I nodded. It's a common reasoning I hear from patients.

 

Jesus summarily dismissed this poor logic in his conversation with two insurgents occupying crosses on either side of his.

 

The first man spent his last hours mocking Jesus and goading him to use his power to save everyone.

 

But the other guy was quite the opposite. He felt shame for his past life, so he asked Jesus, "Remember me when you enter your kingdom."

 

Jesus swiftly responded. "Today you will be with me in paradise."

 

Instead of disqualifying the dying man for being hypocritically tardy, Jesus assured him that he would be rewarded in the promptest fashion.

 

"Mr. Penny," I said. "I think you'll find that God cares very little about your past.

 

He mostly cares about what you'll do with the next minute of your life."

 

Penny nodded.

 

"Prayer is just talking to God," I added.  "It's not theologically complicated. Just talk from your heart."

 

Penny closed his eyes and began moving his lips. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but when he opened his eyes, his expression told me that he'd heard God's voice.

 

I know this because the "mister" who had been so dependent on titles to gain distance from spiritual matters shifted his heart to say one last thing to me.

 

"Thank you, Pastor. Thank you."

 

————————–  

 

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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.   

 

 

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April 4 weekend 2025 spirituality column

How I Became the Bomb-Dump Chaplain

 

A good friend once suggested that I start using the term "America's Favorite Chaplain" to promote my public speeches.

 

"No," I said. "I prefer the moniker, 'The Bomb-Dump Chaplain.'" His quizzical expression inspired a story from an earlier day.

 

In 1994, I took my first active-duty assignment at Onizuka Air Station outside San Jose, Calif. One day, our supervisor, James Young, informed the staff of an upcoming inspection from the Command Chaplain's office in Denver.

 

In civilian lingo, this moment would compare to a church getting a visit from their bishop or district overseer. During upcoming weeks, we worked diligently starching our uniforms and vigorously varnishing the prayer benches.

 

But the exhausting part was preparing something called our Unit Visitation Statistics. "The report," said Chaplain Young, "should include a count of all chaplain interactions with airmen on base."

 

"How do you define 'interactions'?" I asked. 

 

"That's up to you," Young said, handing us the form. "Don't forget to record where your interactions take place."

 

Ours was a young and ambitious staff. We wanted to look as good as possible by generating as many numbers as possible. 

 

So we busied ourselves crisscrossing the base for the next week. We'd stroll to the gym or the dining hall and greet all passersby – ping, ping, ping, – documenting forty pastoral visits in an afternoon without breaking a sweat.

 

Yes, like a lot of officers, chaplains can be competitive. Meaning, we were engaging in a practice that bureaucrats call "pencil whipping" – manipulating the stats with a simple slide of the pencil on a report.

 

Perhaps you've heard the adage, "Statistics don't lie, but statisticians certainly do."

 

Command Chaplain, Col. Benjamin Perez, arrived bright and early on inspection day and cloistered us in the chapel fellowship hall.

 

Perez was a short, fit, steely-eyed New Yorker, keen with anecdotes. He was sharp enough to see past our manipulated stats. He saw the places we hid because he was looking for the forgotten airmen.

 

Holding our reports in hand, Perez posed his signature question: "How many of you have been to the bomb dump?"

 

The "bomb dump" is the unofficial name for the secluded place where hazardous explosive devices are rendered safe. The airmen there are not the celebrated "Bomb Squad," they are a forgotten group of isolated engineers who worry about public safety.

 

Now here's the funny thing — our base didn't have a bomb dump. Perez knew Onizuka was a Space Command base that controlled satellite trajectories.

 

Nevertheless, the trajectory of my military ministry would change that day in a somewhat slight, but significant way.

 

Perez was using "bomb dump" as a euphemism for the place populated by the forgotten people. He didn't care how many visits we were making to headquarters or the gym. He wanted to know if we knew the names of our cleaning staff. Could we recall our subordinates and their families by their first names?

 

His question was a not-so-subtle biblical inference to Mathew 25 where Jesus taught that caring for those of a lesser privilege — the prisoner, the sick, the immigrant — was the equivalent of caring for Jesus himself.

 

"Truly I tell you," Jesus said, "whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."

 

Anyone working in the bomb dump might well be counted among the "least of these." That's why Perez considered visits made to the secluded and forgotten sides of the base to be the test of a real chaplain.

 

His question became the guiding reminder early in my career that while statistics remain a necessary tool, they aren't the mission. People are.

 

I doubt I'll ever become "America's Favorite Chaplain," but for now, I'll settle for being called the "Bomb-dump Chaplain."

 

——————————————————————-

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. 

 

 

 

March 28 weekend 2025 spirituality column

 

Getting Back to the Basics

Family lore from my wife's kinfolk recounts the first time my father-in-law assumed solo caregiving responsibilities for his firstborn infant, Becky, my wife.

Those who retell it say that Becky's mother, Darla, left the house for a church event and gave her young husband, Wilbur, explicit instructions on how to care for their daughter. 

Before driving away, Darla stocked the home with extra diapers, clean bottles, warm blankets, sterilized pacifiers, and Becky's favorite toys – all things imaginable for soothing a crying baby. 

A few hours into the warm evening, their firstborn began to fuss. Wilbur offered Becky a warm bottle, but she wouldn't take it.

He offered a soft blanket, a spoonful of baby food, and a stuffed bear, but nothing seemed to pacify the tiny tot. 

Soon, Becky's protest deteriorated into crying and then transitioned into incessant squalling. A fretful father paced the floor with daughter atop his shoulder, bouncing the bawling babe in hopes of releasing a bothersome burp. 

Nothing. Infant Becky elevated her protest with additional wailing. 

Left afoot, Wilbur did the only thing he could – he picked up the phone to call the doctor. 

At that moment, Becky's mom burst through the door and swept Becky in her arms.  Wilbur hung up and explained how he'd tried everything to no avail. 

"Well," asked Darla, "Did you give her some water?" 

To hear Becky's mother tell it, Wilbur stared at his young wife as cluelessly as if she was speaking Farsi with an Oklahoma accent. 

"You never mentioned that," he said. 

The story has a parallel in Christian tradition when Jesus left his followers alone and returned to his father. He left instructions, but not a lot of detail. 

This lack of detail prompts a lot of Christ-followers to be like my ill-informed father-in-law and say, "Well, Jesus never mentioned that."

For instance, "Jesus never said anything about how to treat the refugee." 

Yes, and Jesus was also completely mute about universal healthcare. 

He made no mention of tobacco or whether Baptists can drink beer, either.

Jesus said little or nothing about common-sense sword or gun control. 

And I suppose these are accurate observations. There's so much that is absent from Jesus' teachings. 

However, much like my mother-in-law, Jesus was fundamentally clear.

For the uninformed, he offered additional clarity when he was asked to name the greatest commandment. 

Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.'" 

But in case folks didn't understand his basic message, Jesus offered the Golden Rule, a standard in most world religions.

The Message translation of the Bible offers extra transparency of Mathew 7:12. 

"Here is a simple, rule-of-thumb guide for behavior: Ask yourself what you want people to do for you, then grab the initiative and do it for them." 

Whenever I'm feeling short of divine instruction, this one is my go-to rule. Just treat others the way I would want to be treated. 

This means I ask myself tough questions as if the answers impacted me, like what would I want done if it was my daughter? How would I feel if my kids' school was shot up? Or what if my refugee family had been turned away? Or how will my disabled brother get the health care he needs in his declining years? 

Simple. The answers are there when we want to hear them. 

As soon as Becky's mom gave her some water, the protests ended. But in the future, if we ever leave my new granddaughter with my father-in-law, I'll be sure and tell him, "Wilbur, if you are drinking water, give the baby water, too."

 

-------------------------- 

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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.