The Straight and Narrow

"Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it."  Jesus

My 2013 Nissan Altima came equipped with a navigation system.  I seldom use the system as I prefer to use the GPS on my phone,  I use my phone GPS for work and I'm just more comfortable with it than the one in my car.  Specifically, my phone GPS is much more detailed in the last half mile or so when I need the turn by turn directions the most.

But for the last three years I have purchased and installed the update software for my car's navigation system.  Why do I do that?  Good question.  The reason is that although I don't use it that often, when I do use the navigation system I  want all of the information to be up to date.

On a  five hour trip back home yesterday from my hometown of Enterprise, Alabama, I decided to activate the navigation and see what she had to say.  I can learn a lot about a GPS when I already know where I'm going.  I set the system for Home and let her take charge.  I didn't notice anything much different, but some of her commentary has changed for the better. For example, she not only says "Prepare to turn right" but in a few seconds she adds "Turn right in 1,000 feet."  That's very useful information.  I wish she gave the name of the street like my phone, but it's an improvement. But anytime I took an exit to take care of bodily needs, she protested by saying "Drive straight."  There were several exit ramps that if I had driven straight, my car would be crumpled and I might be dead.  "I appreciate your concern, but I am not going to drive straight."

The quote above from Jesus has become known as "walking the straight and narrow." What did Jesus mean by "narrow the road that leads to life?"  Who knows? Nobody knows for certain what Jesus meant by anything He said.  People can speculate. They can form opinions. They can pretend to know what they're talking about.  But nobody knows for sure.  We not only can't know for certain what He meant by what He said, we also can't always understand why Jesus did the things He did.  Once when  He was hungry, Jesus  reached for  a fig, but according to the account in Mark chapter 11 it was not the season for figs. So He cursed the tree and it died.  Was that a nice thing to do to a tree that was simply doing what it was created to do? Was it the fig tree's fault that it had no figs? On another occasion as recorded in Matthew chapter 14 a woman was begging Jesus for food. He  said to her, "Is it right to take the children's food and give it to the dogs?"  Was that a nice thing for the Son of God to say to a hungry woman?  Was that a nice thing for the son of anyone to say to a  hungry woman?

I think in many cases it's easier to decide what Jesus didn't mean by what He said than to know for sure what He did mean.  I don't think by "narrow road", Jesus meant "narrow minded", an unfortunate trait shared by many of His followers.  The dictionary definition of "narrow minded" is "not willing to listen to or to tolerate other people's views."  Is there any way that Jesus was saying that? Was He saying "Do not be open to learning, growing and to new ideas?" Surely He didn't mean that you should always hang onto  rigid dogma regardless of evidence to the contrary. I have trouble believing that that is what He meant.

What about "Broad is the road that leads to destruction.?" Again, I don't know. Maybe He meant, "Whereas it's not a good thing to hold on forever to the same old opinions and beliefs,  it's very dangerous to have no core beliefs at all". We all need a Divine center, a moral compass. All of our decisions need to be held up against this center  to see it they agree with our basic values. But it's important to remember that we can and should adjust those core values as we learn and grow. The operating system is the brains of our computers, but it is subject to routine and important updates.  It wants to be the best computer possible. Our belief systems are not much different. They need to be constantly updated for our decision-making to be current and effective.

A GPS is a very useful device.  But it would be very unwise to follow its instructions verbatim. You would do so at your own peril. I recently read of a Canadian woman who late at night faithfully followed her GPS down a boat ramp and into frigid waters.  She could have easily drowned, but she was rescued and lived to tell the tale. This afternoon  I took an alternate route because of a tie-up on the interstate. The navigation system protested.  She not only let me know that she was not happy with my new route, but she stayed unhappy for quite some time.  At every other street she told me to turn left or turn right or to make a u-turn. She tried every way possible to get me back to the interstate where I was supposed to be.  Finally, after about five miles she gave in and said "Follow the road."  I let her think that I was following her, but at this point she was following me. I knew the way home.

I have some ideas about why Jesus cursed the fig tree when it was out of season.  I have an opinion on why Jesus told  the woman that the children's food was not for dogs.  I've thought about both of these stories quite a bit. I had to work these harsh words and actions out for myself. In one case I think He was upset (humans get upset from time to time) and in the other He was making a point to those around Him and not to the woman He was speaking to.  Remember that the recorded words of Jesus are devoid of facial expression and body language, both vital parts of  verbal communication. It is also imperative to consider that we're reading what the writer said He said. And these words have been passed down through the centuries to  us. Is there any way that what we're reading is exactly what Jesus said? I doubt it.

So will I buy a navigation system for the next car I purchase?  Probably so. In the first place a GPS comes standard now on most new cars. Also I enjoy the company when I'm traveling by myself.  A GPS isn't perfect, but on most occasions I would be totally lost without it. The words of Jesus may not be perfect, but their guidance has delivered me home time and time again.

Flight Tracker

Since our son and his family live in San Diego now, we find ourselves flying more often than ever.   Flying is not something my wife and I necessarily enjoy doing, it's just a necessary means of transportation when we're traveling 2000 miles from one end of the country to another.  "Someday" we would like to drive to California, but for now we choose to fly. For a number of reasons we usually fly Delta. 

Delta's  on  board screen  has a feature that I enjoy watching called the Flight Tracker.  There are two screens to the service. One screen is a map showing a line from the point to departure to the point of destination. The map has a small jet that's slowly moving on that line over the place of any current location. The major cities I am flying over are plotted on the map.  The other screen shows flight information including time of departure, estimated time of arrival, ground speed, outside temperature and other information. Since the tracker is always running in background, I can pause my movie or my music and refer to it at any time. Besides the fact that the tracker provides useful information, I enjoy just watching the movement of the jet, seeing what city I'm flying over and planning that future road  trip together.

Last night, somewhere over Texas, something got in my head about the tracker. All of us have a Flight Tracker on our lives.  We all have a point of departure and a point of arrival. We have a time of departure and a time of arrival.  Without being able to see our tracker, we know our point and time of departure, but we don't know our point and time of arrival. It occurred to me that our point of departure was a "terminal" (there will be an end to this) and our point of arrival is a "terminal" (the actual end to this).  In the case of the flight last night, the scheduled point of arrival was  a landing strip at the Atlanta airport, In the case of our lives, the scheduled point of arrival is, as far we are concerned,  unknown  

And I thought, if I could see my point and time of departure, would I look?  Would it help to know? Although the temptation would be great, I think that I would choose not to look.  I think I would be content in just knowing, like I already know, that those two points are out there somewhere. "For  your life is hid with God."  Colossians 3:3. The metaphor then is, as the pilot says, "to relax and enjoy the flight."  And, of course, while flying a big part of the enjoyment of the flight is the anticipated arrival, there's no need to dread it. As our twelve year old son said on a flight to Washington, D.C, "It's all part of the adventure."

Delta's history is close to my heart. Delta Airlines, one of the largest airlines in the world, began as the first commercial crop dusting operation in 1925 as the Huff-Daland Dusters in the Louisiana delta. The pilots flew the Huff-Daland Duster to eradicate the boll weevil. By then the boll weevil had already made its way to my hometown of Enterprise, Alabama. To cope with the destruction to their main crop,  local farmers were thriving on growing peanuts instead of cotton. Sessions Peanuts is still a thriving concern in Enterprise. In the middle of the city there now stands the "world-famous Boll Weevil Monument" erected to thank the boll weevil for its role in that economic windfall.  It stands as the only monument in the world erected to glorify a pest. If I was one of the civic leaders I would attach a plaque thanking George Washington Carver for his role in that process, but I have not lived in Enterprise for forty-three years and I have no say in the matter. The attached plaque  thanks the boll weevil and I choose to be content with that recognition. 

So is that history the reason we fly Delta? Not really.  As far as airlines go, Delta is as good as any and better then most. And for the first time in our married lives, we are officially "frequently flyers". In our lives, unless those who promote reincarnation are correct, none of us are frequent flyers. There's one flight. This flight has a point and time of departure and a point and time of arrival. Just like actual flying, we have limited choices for how we spend our time. Unlike flying when all of our choices are in front of our faces, our life choices, though limited, are relatively abundant. Like on the flight,  we can spend most of our time watching television, or we can get out and go places. We can do things, be things and see things. We can enjoy actual experiences instead of viewing countless hours of digital images on a screen. We can do things around town or Delta is ready when we are. 

Repeat the Sounding Joy

My favorite Christmas movie is not It's a  Wonderful Life or White Christmas.  It's not The Christmas Story or Christmas Vacation.  My favorite Christmas movie is The Family Stone.  I have not watched it this season, but I plan to watch it soon. The movie is a family story about people at their best and their worst at Christmastime.

Of all the funny and touching moments for me in the film, there is one scene that gets me every time.  It's like that one scene in The Empire of the Sun when Jim, a young British prisoner of war,  walks up to the Zero on the Japanese airfield and lovingly caresses the airplane, I have never watched the movie without getting at least a lump in my throat during that scene.  In The Family Stone there is a moment when Ben Stone, played by Luke Wilson, is resting on a bed in a cozy corner with his hands behind his head.  He's thinking of "Joy to the World" when he says as if he's never thought about the words before. "Repeat the sounding joy."  And then as if speaking a question he says again "Repeat the sounding joy."  I was struck at the same moment he was struck with how very odd those lyrics are.  What in the world could "repeat the sounding joy" actually mean?  I didn't know then and I don't know now what the words mean.  But like Ben I am awestruck with the beauty of the Christmas poetry.

This  afternoon I turned on the radio to a marvelous arrangement of "The First Noel."  For the first time this Christmas season I was flooded with the "sounding joy." I  was filled with the power and wonder of Christmas.  And I thought,  "What could that mean?   The first noel?"  The song indicates it's about the first Christmas in Bethlehem. A quick search revealed that the Latin "natalis" of the French "noel" means "birthday." The Latin, it turns out,  is also where we also get the word "natal." The song knew what it was saying all along.

Since The Family Stone is a Christmas movie, it should not be a spoiler to tell you that by the end, in spite of some rough patches along the way, it eventually becomes a story  about a family at Christmas being at its best. That's why I like it so much.

My observation is that no matter what is going on in people's lives, their family's lives, and in the lives of their circle of friends, Christmas is a hopeful time.  Christmastime does tend to bring out the best in people.  Perfect strangers say to me, "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Holidays" and I return the greeting.  On a recent trip to a family Christmas gathering in  Alabama, as I placed my purchase on the counter, I asked the cashier at the convenience store, "How much are you still enjoying that Christmas music?"  She smiled and said, "Not very much" and then she gave me the coffee. I understand very well how difficult the Christmas season is for so many people, but for most people I think it is indeed a time of "sounding joy."

I spent forty-five years of my life directing church choirs. That means that I spent forty-five Christmases directing church choirs.  That means that I was never able to separate "Christmas" from "the music of Christmas." That phenomenon was not all bad and it was not all good.  But it was mostly good. Part of the reason "The First  Noel" was doing it for me this afternoon is that it reminded me of an anthem by David Schwoebel of that carol. One of the biggest musical challenges down through the years was not "do I have a choir that can sing it?", but "do I have an accompanist who can play it?" I was fortunate enough at this particular church to have two accompanists who could play anything I put in front of them, This incredible arrangement of "The First Noel" was technically difficult for the accompanists and for the choir, but we performed it both flawlessly and artistically. This afternoon as I was enjoying the music on the radio, I could  still feel in my soul and my spirit the antiphonal  musical climax of "born is the King of Israel" as it reverberated through the sanctuary.

Maybe that's what "repeat the sounding joy" means.  Whatever brings you joy during Christmas, repeat it.  Watch your favorite movie, listen to you favorite carol, bake your favorite pie, but by all means do  that thing that brings you the most joy.  And just like they figured out in The Family Stone, forgetting about petty differences and caring about the people around you is the quickest and best way to find joy.  "Noel! Noel! Noel! Noel!.  Born is the King of Israel."

The Evening and the Morning

"Watching the sun, watching it come, watching it come up over the rooftops...And it's going to be a day. There is really no way to say no to the morning... And it's going to be a day, there is really nothing left to say but come on morning."  Dan Fogelberg

As much as I enjoy "camping out" and  as many camping trips that I have been on,  I can't remember ever being the one to suggest that we go camping.  As a Boy Scout in Enterprise, Alabama I had no idea we would go camping as often as we did.  I mainly joined Boy Scouts because my best friends were in Troop 99 and they encouraged me to join.   Camp AlaFlo was just a few miles out of town and our scout master took full advantage of it. He not only took our troop there on many weekend camping excursions, but for week long trips in the summer. The highlight of those trips was playing an Indian game Capture the Flag in  the middle of the night. This was a game of stealth and skill played against a neighboring troop. The winner earned the flag hoisted at its camp ground and bragging rights for the duration of the camp. Running through the woods in the dark with only a flashlight at a full gallop was exhilarating to say the least.  I'm sure there were injuries, but I don't recall them.

Our scout master took us on several road trips as well. One of those was to the Shiloh Battlefield near Memphis, Tennessee. There was no Weather Channel in the late fall of 1964. The weather in the "wiregrass" was about all we got on the radio and television.  The temperature was in the 70s when we left Enterprise and in the 20s when we arrived at the park.  I wore all the clothes I took with me all weekend and survived to tell the tale. I was not entirely comfortable but I still remember enjoyable aspects of the two day, twenty-eight mile hike through the battlefield and surrounding forests.

Over the years friends have invited me to go camping to various places.  I'm always eager to go. One of those was an overnight trip to "The Pocket", a place at Pigeon Mountain, Georgia about twenty miles from where I live. We camped by  a creek and the next morning I felt like the gurgling of the mountain stream had washed my soul clean. The two night/three day backpacking experience with another friend was memorable on many different levels. One level was the well-meaning friend who the night before warned me to watch out for copperheads. "They're everywhere", he said. I didn't see any snakes but every step I took was an exercise in caution. The encounter with a tarantula in an outhouse made a lasting impression on me also. Thankfully the impression was only in my mind and nowhere else.

This morning I'm remembering one overnight camping experience in particular. I accompanied this friend to a place on Lookout Mountain, Georgia called "The Rock."  I already had a history with "The Rock" but  the most significant history was still ahead of me when on Tuesday, June 9, 1992 I spent the night there alone.  I would tell you about that night, but that would be "the story of my life."  Remind me to tell you that story sometime. "The Rock" lies right on the edge of Lookout Mountain and affords an incredible view of Chattanooga, Tennessee and distant valleys. It is surrounded by rock walls that offer protection and comfort from the elements. But it gets its name from a huge boulder that you can climb  on and sit in a natural chair with your legs dangling off the mountain. Dangerous?  Not really, if you're careful climbing up and down. But I don't recommend climbing up  when you're there alone at one o'clock in the morning in a fog as thick as pea soup.

My friend and I shared two significant experiences on that trip. One happened on Friday evening and the other on Saturday morning. On Friday evening while tending our fire, we both saw an apparition on a nearby  rock wall. I don't recall which one of us saw it first, but about forty feet from where we sat was the enormous  head of an American Indian warrior.  The features were distinct and the effect was stunning. He was facing away from us across the valley before us. His gaze  was solemn, but not threatening and severe.  It's not correct to call it an "apparition" since the light and the shadows created an actual shape on the rock. Are the presidents at Mt. Rushmore an apparition or are they really there? Aren't they created by nothing more than rock,  light and shadows? On the other hand it's not correct to say our chief was real either. I guess I'll call it a phenomenon that we both shared  Whatever it was, it was certainly memorable for both of us. We had never seen him before that evening and we've never seen him since. It was just one of those things that happens from time to time when you camp at "The Rock". Some consider the place to be sacred ground.

But it's what happened before dawn the  next morning that meant the most to me and I think to my camping buddy as well.  Since there is only room for one on the rock, we sat together on a ledge in the dark waiting on the sunrise.  With the ashes  of our evening fire behind us and the darkness of the valley before us, we sat silently together, and we waited.  With the memory of our Indian friend still fresh on our spirits, the illusion for both of us was that we weren't just waiting for an ordinary sunrise. We were anticipating something more dramatic.  We were not just waiting for the dawn of a new day; we were waiting together for the dawn of creation.  It must have been how God felt just before He said, "Let there be light." The anticipation of the light gave deep meaning to the darkness. Sitting in the darkness at "The Rock" with a friend is exponentially better than sitting there in the darkness alone.

A common myth of a sunrise if you've never seen one is that the first thing you see is the round edge of the sun emerging over the horizon.  The truth is that you are aware of the approaching light even before you even see it. Although you see nothing with your eyes, you sense it in your soul. It doesn't start with a ball of fire, but with a warm glow.

That morning the clouds over the distant horizon began to glow and a slither of light crawled across the distant hills. It was the feeling of something totally new;  It was a feeling of being born again. As the sun finally began to show  itself above the hills, my friend draped his arm around my shoulder and I draped mine around his. We  just sat arm in arm for the duration of the solar event. What was more profound, the drama of dawn of creation or the love I felt for my  friend? Thankfully, I didn't have to choose. Within hours of creating the first light, God created two people to enjoy it with Him. I would guess that God enjoyed the people more than He did the light.

A few years ago while in Enterprise, I drove out to Camp AlaFlo to see what I could see. At first the caretaker seemed somewhat  concerned about security  since campers were there and wasn't all that thrilled with my intrusion. After I told him of my history at the camp he not only changed his tune, but he loaded me in his Gator and took me on the grand tour. It was so good to see the lake where I earned the lifesaving and the mile swim merit badges. I was able to see actual sites where I had camped and slept in cabins as a boy. They were there about as I remembered them. If only I had known back then to pay attention. If only I had known how quickly those times would pass. But I was a kid. There was no way for me to know.

  Have you ever wondered why the first day of creation was "the evening and the morning" and not "the morning and the evening?"  Don't we normally think of a day starting in the morning and ending at night? I sure don't know, but maybe it was so Adam and Eve a few days later could experience the darkness before they experienced the light. I can see them sitting silently together arm in arm in complete darkness. All they had was each other and whatever lay ahead. Although they had no way of knowing for sure, they must have sensed that there was more to look forward to  than the dark. So they sat and they waited. Slowly and effortlessly there was a warm glow against the clouds in the distance.  Then a sliver of light slid across the horizon. The sky was catching on fire. They tingled with excitement as a circle of light appeared before them. That circle grew larger and larger. The garden grew brighter and brighter. And just like that their first day began.

These days "camping" usually involves a vehicle with bedrooms, a kitchen, a restroom and a flat-screen HDTV.  For me it still involves some woods,  a tent and a fire. It's a scout thing. And while those people in their camper are watching Good Morning America, I'm watching an evening and a morning. Either way, there's really nothing left to say but "come on morning".

For the Love of God

"God sometimes you just don't come through. Do you need a woman to take care of you?" Tori Amos

Years ago I read somewhere  "God is either omnipotent or all-loving, but He can't be both"
I had a conversation recently that included, after an explanation of a bad situation,  "God is in control."

Really?

Was God in control when Dylann Roof walked into a church prayer meeting on June 17,2015, opened fire, and killed nine people who were there to share their prayer concerns and to pray for one another? God was in control of that?

Is God in control in Syria?  What began as pro-democracy protests in March of 1011 turned quickly into a full-scale civil war.  It is estimated that over 300,000 Syrians have died in the conflict and over 12 million people have become refugees from the constant bombing. Men, women and children in Aleppo are being executed in their homes and in the street. Tens of thousands of  families have walked away from their homes with no destination and nothing but the clothes on their backs.   God is in control of that?

In the United States of America, every twenty-five minutes a baby is born addicted to drugs. Because the mother chose to use drugs during pregnancy, the baby is born with the same dependency.  The baby had absolutely no choice in the matter. Neonatal Abstinence Syndrome (NAS) or withdrawal is a long and painful ordeal for the newborn. Some babies do not survive the process.   The financial cost to the health system is tens of thousands of dollars per baby. God is in control of this?

In court the man said under oath, "I was so drunk I don't know if I hit him or not." But my friend's eleven year old son who had been waiting to cross the road on his bicycle was dead at the hands of this hit and run drunk driver.  The man was convicted of vehicular homicide and driving under the influence, and  has served many years in prison. We console ourselves that he is in Heaven, but this bright and beautiful little boy has  been dead to his mother, his brother and sister for a long, long time. He was my friend too. God was in control  of that?

Just a few weeks ago a blazing inferno rushed through Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The flames were fueled by wind gusts of up to 90 mph. Fourteen people died, over 2500 homes and businesses burned to the ground and more than 17,000 pristine acres were destroyed. It is estimated the cost to rebuild will approach $500 million. Authorities have determined that the wildfires were deliberately set by two teenage boys dropping lighted matches on the parched  ground. God was in control of that?

Should we talk about child sexual abuse and physical abuse?  Should we talk about domestic violence, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, and animal abuse?  God is in control of all of this?

In the beginning God created a beautiful garden, the Garden of Eden. Then he formed two  humans from dust and placed them in this garden.  He told them to feel free to eat of all the fruit thereof except for the fruit from one particular tree, the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.  Given the choice of all the bounty of the garden, Adam and Eve ate the fruit from that tree.  This tendency has come to be known as "human nature." God then expelled them from the garden.  Did God set it up that way? Was His intention to tempt them to sin to make it possible to punish them?  Is that the kind of deity God is? Is "God's nature" as bad or worse than "human nature"? Or is "human nature" simply a reflection of "God's' nature"? Like Father. Like son?

What do people mean when they say "God is in control"?  They must mean it in some wishful thinking abstract sort of way, because they can't possibly mean it in any literal way. The dictionary definition of "control" is "the power to influence or direct people's behavior or the course of events."If people mean the "influence part", then maybe so. If they mean the "direct people's behavior" part, as I suspect that they do, then God has serious issues.

 Hopefully  the people who say "God is in control"  simply  mean  that "all of this is going to work out some way.  Something good is going to come of this." If that's what people mean when they say "God is in control" then it makes more sense.  If they mean "This happened the way God meant for it to happen" then he has serious theological issues.  I will never accept that everything that happens is because that's the  way God intended for it to happen. People commit horrible, unthinkable atrocities. I don't think God committed any of them. I don't think God burned down Gatlinburg for some good reason.  Can something good come of it? Absolutely. Did God Himself do it? Absolutely not.

So what is God in control of if He in control of anything?  I started this with "either God is omnipotent or He's all-loving". Whereas I can't accept the omnipotent part, I totally accept the all-loving part. When I see the kindness of people toward  total strangers who need their help, I see the love of God.   When I see how people treat children with kindness and tenderness, I  can  believe that there's a  loving God. When I see people treat both domesticated and wild animals with love and  compassion, I see God's love at work.  I see evidence of God's love through the love of people all the time.   Can God love us outside of His love through people?  Of course He can. For centuries mystics have related direct encounters with the Divine. I experienced that love for myself one morning in Ft.. Oglethorpe, Georgia.  God Himself reached through the chasm of separation and loved me.  The experience left me stunned and dumbfounded. My four year old son was with me and he knew Something profound had happened too.  I can't tell you what happened, but I can take you to the place it happened.  Although my observation is that God usually works through human hearts and hands, He isn't restricted to human love to demonstrate His own. In August of 1971 as an eighteen year old young man while leaning against a headstone in a cemetery in Owensboro, Kentucky, Something happened. That's all I can tell you about it, Something significant happened. I was wrapped in love like a blanket not of this world. During a communion service at a Pilgrim Congregationalist church in Edina, Minnesota in January of 1986, Something happened. There were twelve of us and the Celebrant. The twelve. I must have been playing the role of Thomas. I didn't doubt as much after that.

So is God omnipotent?  Absolutely  not.   Is God all-loving? Absolutely. Does God really need a woman to take care of Him? Couldn't hurt. Jesus had at least three Marys in his life, his mother, Mary the sister of Lazarus and Mary Magdalene. A most significant women in my life was my mother, Mary. Mother died on March 1, 2003 but I still sense her presence every day.  If we believe that God and Jesus are One, then God's mother is Mary. Maybe God is Mary. Who knows?

I think God had  a choice, He could have been omnipotent and we would be pawns on his chessboard,or he could give us free will, the power of choice, and He would have to watch the crown of His creation make a mess of things. And while we are doing that, for a distraction  He can sit on His back porch with his telescope and watch the birth and death of trillions of stars. Watching the live birth of supernova, quasars, and black holes must be a Divine experience. Only you can't see a black hole. God, I'm sure, has a special telescope. He can see them. God can do anything, except violate the will of people.

Is God omnipotent in Heaven, the place of eternal joy, rest and peace. The Old Testament records that Satan,an angel of God, "fell from Heaven like lightning." Apparently God didn't kick him out, but he left of his own accord. Maybe he saw an opportunity in the Garden of Eden to thwart God's perfect plan.  Looks like his scheme may have worked. And yet God's perfect plan according to the Apostle Paul is to "wrap everything up in Him, the things on the earth,  above the earth and below the earth." If "everything" is true, then even Satan himself will eventually come back home. These things will probably not "come to pass" for a very long time. Then and only then will God be both all-loving and omnipotent.   Until then we must be content with only His love. And if we accept it, His love is more than enough.

"O come to my heart Lord Jesus. There's room in my heart for Thee."

Did curiosity really kill the cat?

Fear is a natural response.  Our bodies are genetically hard-wired to respond to fear.  The fear center of the brain, the amygdala, stands ready to pump powerful stress hormones into our nervous system to prepare us to fight or to run. The problem is that we feel fearful in a multitude of situations when there is no threat. "There's nothing to fear but fear itself" is often the case.

I recently read that the best antidote to fear is curiosity.  The source said that with fear we react by moving away from the thing we fear and with curiosity we move toward it. I mentioned this idea to someone whose opinion I respect and he said,  "I get that, but  there are many healthy fears. It's well and good to be curious about things, but you don't want to cuddle a rattlesnake."

I understand the dangers of totally ignoring our natural fears, but  I think that we should consider that curiosity as a way of life is much better for our mental health and well-being than fear as a way of life.

Most of us are familiar with the adage "curiosity killed the cat."  This maxim would support my friend's warning.  However, the first time these words were printed they meant something completely different. The original quote is "care killed the cat."  Care being "worry or sorrow." This phrase was written by the playwright Ben Johnson in 1598.  I want to suggest that more people have died from "worry or sorrow" than from curiosity.  I also want to suggest that all but a few of the most curious people in the world would not intentionally walk within striking distance of a poisonous snake.

In a recent case, a man attributes his life to the behavior of  his cat.  One of the stories of escape during the deadly wildfires in Gatlinburg, Tennessee involves a man and his cat. Mark Burger saw evidence of distant fires but never got any sort of alert to warn him. He decided that if it was a problem, somebody would let him know. But his normally docile, easy going cat began acting very erratically, pacing from the front window back to him. As his cat became more and more agitated, he finally got up, walked to the window and saw the flames advancing on his home. He and his cat were among those who were able to escape. When asked if he gave his cat a new toy Burger said, "He doesn't care about toys. He never gets bored because he's so curious about everything around him."

Fear and worry do temporary and sometimes permanent damage to the human body. According to WebMD and other reliable medical sources, constant worry takes a toll on our nervous systems and our bodies.  Our bodies react to worry as a physical threat. Our nervous system doesn't know the difference between an approaching wildfire  and a final exam.  When we worry our brain floods the spinal column and extremities with powerful neurotransmitters.  These hormones are designed by nature to give us the ability to avoid or deal with a dangerous situation, but the body is not designed to cope with these biochemicals being constantly pumped into and stored in the system. The secretions in the stomach alone can cause significant damage to the lining of the stomach and digestive tract.  Bleeding ulcers are a dangerous and sometimes deadly malady.  Many of them are caused by fear and worry .

Besides these physical effects, the mental effects are even more acute.  Chronic worry can lead to depression, despair and even suicide if not dealt with. Short of something that drastic, personal and social relationships are affected.  Then many people self-medicate with alcohol and drugs.  Besides expensive and career-ending DUIs these substances can lead to addiction and broken relationships.

It then is my opinion that "care" has killed many more cats than "curiosity". I'm sure it has happened, but I've never known of a cat being bitten by a poisonous snake.  To be fair, I've never known a cat that worries a lot either.  But you get my point.

I'm writing all this primarily for myself.  For a number of reasons,  I don't watch or read the news very often these days, but when I do my knee-jerk reaction is fear. I'm very concerned for myself, my family and the ones that I love.  I'm concerned for my country and for the world.  I feel threatened. I feel frightened. My body prepares me to fight or to run. But since there's no one to fight and nowhere to run, the pumps just keep pumping.  That's not healthy.  So I figure that if I find a way to replace fear with curiosity, I should be in a state of constant wonderment instead of constant fear. Making this adjustment won't be easy, but it's necessary.

The first pet I loved was Cherry. I was five years old when my mother adopted this black kitten with a white face and white paws.  I named him  Cherry because of his pink nose.  My family loved Cherry as much as I did. Cherry died thirteen years later in a very tragic manner.  He wasn't curious; he was asleep. I thought my father was going to die too. So the lesson for me is "Fine, be curious, but don't go to sleep.  And when necessary, be afraid.  You may need to fight. Keep reading the news and stay awake!"

So maybe we can agree that there's usually nothing to fear but fear itself.  But if  your cat starts acting strange, run!!

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Coffee Meditation

" 'Coffee meditation' is pain free, guilt free and stress free."  David R. Helms

Over nearly forty years I have tried and failed at many forms of "classic meditation."  I'm defining "classic meditation" as meditation techniques extracted from, espoused by and perfected by gurus from India and Zen Buddhists from China. The East  has been imported to the West in a multitude of forms. My observation of and understanding of "classic meditation" involves being physically uncomfortable for great lengths of time at some particular time on any given day.

The thing I've learned about meditation that I believe I understand correctly is that meditation and mindfulness are  not supposed to propel the practitioner into some sort of blissful, transcendental state of consciousness. Years ago  when I meditated from five a.m. to six a.m. every morning,  that is exactly what I thought I was supposed to be doing.  During that time after many hours of contemplating my navel I did twice achieve such a state. In one of them I experienced a sort of "out of the body experience" where my spirit seemed to float up toward the ceiling and look down on me below.  In the other while meditating on the word Yahweh, I had an instantaneous awareness, an implosion of consciousness,  of "Yah/Weh" as "You/We" that transformed the way I thought about God and me. Really God and all of us.  The gist of it was hat just like I can't be me without God, God can't be God without me. How can He be Savior and redeemer without humans to save and redeem? Just like a king can't be a king without a kingdom. God (or whoever) would still be floating around in the void. But those two transcendental states were hardly worth the time, pain, sleep deprivation and loneliness  I endured to achieve them.

Over the years I have read a multitude of books and watched a multitude of videos on meditation and mindfulness.  I thoroughly enjoy reading about it all. I understand that mindfulness does not have to include any sort of spiritual significance. I understand that Zen practice and mindfulness is not a religion.  They can be a religion, but they don't have to be. I understand that meditation at its core primarily involves first my breathing and secondarily my thinking. I totally understand the importance of meditation.  Something that got my attention recently is that science is learning that mindfulness meditation can actually shrink the amygdala, the fear center of our brain. That is a significant benefit.

I recently read Dan Harris' book 10% Happier and I have employed some of his mindfulness techniques into my daily regimen. It was after reading that book and including five minutes of mindfulness meditation in my day that I discovered and affirmed my very own technique of  what I call "coffee meditation."

"Coffee meditation" includes various aspects of "classic meditation" with some radical departures. These differences are so profound that I'm quite sure most people who meditate daily will discount my techniques as worthless. And yet  it's working  for me.

I have spent many "blissful hours" (a relative term) in the corner of my den where I'm sitting.  This is where I read, where I write, where I surf the net, sometimes where I sleep. Here I also listen to music on Spotify and YouTube and watch movies on Netflix and DVDs.  If our home is where we both stay, this corner is where I live. And it's  now where I meditate from time to time. Besides what I can look around and see inside the room, I'm looking through a sliding glass door to the outside world, well the outside world in my immediate field of vision.  But I can see very much  in that field of vision without changing positions. I primarily see trees.  Over the past several weeks, the leaves have turned from green to the all the colors of the spectrum and now have mostly fallen off. So I can now see what they've been hiding from me all this time. In the trees there are birds and squirrels flitting around.  I can see the semi-circle of bricks that used to surround a large tree. We had that tree cut down years ago.  Besides what I see there are the things I remember, like the groundhog who made a home in that semi-circle. My three year old granddaughter misunderstood this animal's name and called it "the grandfather" for several years. I smile every time I think about my granddaughter and her "grandfather."

If "classic meditation" involves sitting so that I'm  physically uncomfortable or at least have become comfortable with discomfort, "coffee meditation" is the opposite. I go upstairs, brew a cup of steaming hot coffee, bring it to my chair and assume the position for meditation.  Jon Kabat Zinn says that you should "sit in a way that honors the body."  I sit like I always sit and I turn and prop up my feet on the arm of the sofa beside me (the place I sometimes sleep). I don't think Zinn would approve of my Zen. To make myself even more comfortable, I put a pillow under my feet so as to not cut off the circulation in my legs. Now in this position I meditate. I'm in a "blissful state" from the beginning.

What happens now changes every time I meditate.  But my unconventional, if not slightly disrespectful, style of meditation employs various aspects of "classic mediation."  I'm aware of my breathing.  I don't count my breaths or breath in through my nose and out through my mouth.  I'm just aware that I'm breathing and I celebrate that fact.  I'm aware of my thinking.  In "classic meditation" one conquers the "monkey brain" in with any number of techniques.  In "coffee meditation" I just let my thinking do whatever it chooses to do.  I neither encourage my "monkey brain" nor try to tame it. I just think like I always think. Employing "classic meditation" I don't attach myself to any thought. I just let it go. But this thinking includes the added benefit of enjoying what I'm looking at through the glass door. When I see a bird, I acknowledge it without building a story around it.  It's a bird. "Hello little bird. Goodbye little bird."

One of the most important things about "coffee meditation" is I do this as much or as little as I choose to.  Sometimes I meditate several times a day, sometimes once a day and often no times a day. When I meditate, sometimes it's for ninety seconds and sometimes it's for thirty or forty minutes. It's whatever I feel like doing.  In my several months of "coffee meditation" I don't have to achieve a transcendental state because I'm in a transcendental state. My mantra to maintain that state is "get more coffee. get more coffee. get more coffee..."

Since I include the writing I do here as  meditation, I log  many more hours to the practice.  This morning besides the usual enjoyment I find in writing, it's raining.  There is a gentle downpour that I hear in the downspouts and as it hits the pavement. I could stop what I'm doing, get a cup of coffee, throw my feet on the arm of the sofa and "meditate", but I'm already meditating.  I'm quite content.

"Mindfulness meditation" in the West has evolved with as many rules and restrictions as "classic meditation" in the East. I'm quite sure that I do not practice "mindfulness" much better than I practice "meditation."  But one thing is happening to me that I think is important. I'm more aware of what's around me.  In conversation I'm more aware of the person standing there and what they are saying to me. I'm not in a hurry as much to conclude that encounter to get to the next one.  I'm more patient in traffic. Where I'm headed is much less important than where I am. I'm slowly overcoming my slavish obsession with "being on time." Whatever it is that I think needs me can happen without me or not  at all. The earth will keep spinning on its axis either way.  I'm more mindful while I'm eating. I'm more mindful when I pull up the covers to go to sleep. I'm more mindful of everything. And isn't that the point? I must be doing something right.

I don't pretend to believe that "coffee meditation" is as beneficial to me as "classic meditation" is for millions of people around the world willing to put in the time and effort of getting good at it.  I applaud their effort. What I do pretend to believe is what Dan Harris proposes  that meditating five minutes a day is much better than none it all.  And what a multitude of benefits one can glean from that practice. So I have turned what worked for him, and became a national best-seller, into something that's working for me.  I don't expect this post to become a national best-seller, but hopefully it might help at least a few find benefit in mindfulness.

A final benefit of "coffee meditation" is that beer works as well or better.

Twas the Night Before Christmas

 Biblical scholars and historians agree that Jesus probably was not born on December 25th.  You certainly will not find this date in the gospel narratives of the birth of Jesus. This date became Christmas primarily because of its proximity to the Winter Solstice and the mid-winter Roman celebration of Saturnalia. The current  theory of the fourth century reasoning is/was if the date was during these solar festivals then  Christmas might be mistaken for a pagan festival and more pagans would celebrate it.

Although the political and religious leaders of the time eventually chose December 25th, they could have chosen any day of the year. Because of that, if we chose to we could celebrate Christmas on any day of the year.

Although I have celebrated my most memorable Christmases with my family and  friends on or around December 25th, the most meaningful Christmas service I have attended was in June of 1982. From the time I  had landed in a career of church music in 1971, my mother had encouraged me to participate in Church Music Week.  This week dedicated to the education and nourishment of Southern Baptist musicians was held annually at the Ridgecrest Baptist Assembly in Black, Mountain, North Carolina. I didn't get around to going for eleven more years. And for reasons I don't remember, I never went again.

I asked two of the youth in my church to accompany me to the event. One of them was home from college for the summer and the other was a student at a local high school. Both of them were already accomplished musicians.

I encountered a major obstacle right out of the gate. I couldn't find an available hotel room within twenty five miles of the conference center. Person after person said, "Sorry we do not have a room available". Feeling much like Joseph and Mary must have felt, after the last of those conversations out of sheer frustration I said, "You would think there would be one room in Black Mountain, North Carolina."  She said, "Ok, I've got a room." Our plan was to go a day early to  see the famous outdoor drama "Unto These Hills" in Cherokee, North Carolina, a play about the plight of the  Cherokee Indian history. When we got there we learned to our amazement and disappointment the season opened the next day. We went to a movie instead, The Shining to be exact. It was quite a visual and emotional turn around from "Unto These Hills."

Of everything on the schedule for the week, the thing that intrigued me the most was to occur on Thursday night, "A Christmas program by John Purifoy." Since I knew that he composed and published Christmas cantatas, I assumed the service would be more or less an infomercial for one of his cantatas. Nothing could have been further from the truth. When the Apollo astronauts experienced their first EarthRise, they had no words for the experience. To turn around and  see the Spaceship Earth no  bigger than the moon, was something none of them could adequately describe. When something equally as profoundly wonderful, beautiful and mystical happens for me, I am as speechless as they were.  But I'll offer a few words.

The theme of the service was "Incarnation." Before that night I knew the term historically and theologically.  I had not known it personally and emotionally. Through Purifoy's music and the words that were spoken that June night, I walked out of the sanctuary feeling that for the first time I understood what it meant that God had been born in Bethlehem of Judea. "The Word was made flesh and dwelt among us." The "getting saved" of my childhood no longer had much to do with my "eternal destiny" and had everything to do with that  sanctified night in June. The night before Christmas began in earnest that night in Black Mountain, North Carolina and continued throughout the elongated Christmas season.

That was over thirty-four years ago.  My wife and I are having dinner tonight with  that college student at one of Chattanooga's finest restaurants. He lives in California with his husband, the love of his life. Since we don't get to see him very often, we're having dinner with him again tomorrow night in one of north Georgia's finest restaurants. Both of us are so excited to see him and to get to spend time with him.  Time with this lifetime friend always involves delicious food, fabulous wine and much, much laughter. I can use some laughter.

My mother died in 2003 because of complications of a rupture of her esophagus. Of all the legacies of love that she left to me, one of the best was her affirmation of my choice to spend my life in church music. She was proud of me from day one. And perhaps the most important part of that legacy was to encourage me to go to Church  Music Week.  For a number of reasons, I am so looking forward to December 24th and 25th with my family.  But thanks to. one incredible evening of music in June of 1982, I have no need to  wait until then to celebrate Christmas. Jesus was not only born in Bethlehem; Jesus was born in me.

The Bestest Christmas Ever

I know I'm the one who brought it up, but it would be very difficult for me to designate one particular Christmas as the bestest Christmas ever.  I've experienced a lot of good Christmases.  Also, I have to decide if I'm referring to "the Christmas season" or just what happens on Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. "Christmas", as we all know, involves much more than December 24th and 25th. In some years we were not even able to be with family on those days and had our "Christmas" on some other day.

But for the purposes of this analysis, I am going to talk about the bestest December 24th and 25th ever.

5. There was the Christmas that we made a believer of our doubting son for one more year. Well at least he was smart enough to make us think he still believed the next year (Why don't most kids figure this out?) He had seen a basketball goal at Sears several weeks before Christmas.  It was one of those goals for inside that had netting and returned the ball to the shooter each time.  The set had a timer for contests of who got the most goals within a certain period of time.  I was glad when he decided to ask Santa for it.  I called and paid for one in advance.  On Christmas Eve when I went to pick it up they had sold it. The only one they had left was the display.  I had no choice but to take it. He helped me secure it in the bed of the truck and off I went.  The problem was what to do with it at home.  My neighbor let me put against their house on the far side from us.  That night our son went to sleep with visions of sugar plums dancing in his head.  During the night I managed to set up the goal in his room while he slept.  Needless to say, the next morning he was thrilled to find his basketball set Later he said,  "There is no way anybody but Santa Claus could have set that up."  Way.

4.. Then there was the Christmas several years later in 1996 that we were having Christmas at my wife's family's home in Jasper, Alabama.  It was over 70 degrees outside during the day on Christmas Eve and not much cooler that night. Sometime that evening my son  and I decided to go to the movies. We went to see Mars Attacks. This Tim Burton classic redefines "cheesy sci-fi movies."  We laughed ourselves silly and then left to go home.  With the combined effect of the stupid  movie and the very warm night, my son asked "Dad, is there anything about this that feels like Christmas Eve to you?"  And I replied, "Nothing at all."  And yet for both of us year by year we have such fond memories of that father-son ridiculous sci-fi outing on the eve of Jesus' birth. It has grown to be for us both one of our favorite Christmas memories. He reminded me yesterday that this is the 20th anniversary of that sacred event.

3. As a kid, there was the Johnny Seven Christmas. I'm pretty sure my great aunt was involved in this purchase.  I spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day at my grandmother's house with my family, aunts, uncles and cousins.   Christmas Eve was so much fun with home movies and the silent film The  Night Before Christmas. So much good food and good times. Around 10pm, Santa rang a bell to tell us to go to bed.  Yep, our Santa went to all the houses in the world twice in one night.  No big deal for Santa Claus. Then Christmas morning was a winter wonderland for a kid. Too many good stories to recall and recount. But there was this one. The Johnny Seven OMA (One Man Action) was one of the best selling toys in 1964. It is now an expensive and highly sought after collector's item.  Christmas of  1964 it was just an incredibly fun toy. I think it was one of my older cousins who actually got it for Christmas. But very quickly it really didn't matter. Its  many features included seven different actions.  One of them was a grenade launcher.  Everyone took turns shooting the wonderful weapon,  Then somebody got the  idea of attaching a straight pin to the end of the grenade. And  thankfully someone followed with the idea of introducing balloons to the game.  I think even my grandmother was firing that gun before the morning was over. Balloon carcasses were everywhere (No, I can assure you that my grandmother wasn't firing that gun).

2.  One of  the bestest Christmases ever was not one Christmas but three consecutive Christmases.  Something happened that I can't talk about. Something happened  more good and more fun than I can say. Well I can't say .  I don't think I've had as much fun before or since. We've talked about trying to recreate it, but we can't.  It's in the annals of Christmas past. I'm smiling all over now thinking about it. We all agreed to never discuss it. Not because it was something so bad but because it was something so good for so many people. So that's all I'm going to say about it. But I can't recall the most meaningful Christmas ever without mentioning those Christmases..

1. 2016 is shaping up to be the bestest Christmas ever.  It has the makings of an incredible experience. And it, of course, involves my  son.  A few weeks ago he called us and made a proposition.  For several reasons we hesitated at first and then said, "What the heck?  It's our family. And it's Christmas."

Between now and Christmas Day I hope that you, too, will recall some of the most memorable Christmases for you and your family.  Even if this Christmas, for whatever reason, isn't shaping up to be your favorite, you always have your memories.   And then again, maybe you just need to redefine what your favorite Christmas would consist of and see what happens.  There's hope that this one can be more meaningful than you've imagined. And just for your information, I found the Johnny Seven on Ebay for $550.00. Ho Ho Ho!

The Perfect Light

"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. On those living in the land of deep darkness, a light has dawned." Isaiah 9:2

I'm sure that somewhere in my seminary education I received some remarkable commentary on this Bible verse.  I'm quite certain that the professor put the verse in accurate historical context during the time of the prophet Isaiah.  Those class notes are long gone and that context is long forgotten. If you are familiar with this verse  you might have read it in Matthew 4:16. "The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who live in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined." My professor, I'm quite sure, would have described what was going on in Isaiah's day before he discussed what was going on around  Matthew's life.  He would have pointed out that those words had significance in Isaiah's day apart from any significance in Jesus' day. Only after his discussion of Isaiah would he have explained the prophetic aspect of the verse related to Matthew's gospel regarding beginning of Jesus' ministry in Galilee.

Though written about 700 years apart with an entirely different historical context, what each quote has in common is that God's people  were in bondage. Isaiah witnessed the Assyrian exile. Matthew witnessed the Roman oppression. In both cases the Jews were in despair and in desperate need of deliverance. "The people walked in darkness." They saw no great light.

Another context for the scripture came in 1741 when Charles Jennens included these words in the libretto he submitted to George Frideric Handel.   Messiah was not received well initially, but within a few years the oratorio was performed successfully world-wide. It is now one of the most beloved and frequently performed oratorios in all of Western music.  Because of Messiah and and its inclusion in many other Christmas productions, Isaiah 9:2 has become a very popular scripture passage at Christmas.  And a very important one.

This is the second Christmas season that I have used these useful devices. I'm sure that they have been around for some time, but I was not familiar with them.  When I plug the outside lights into them, I can set them for the decorations to come on at dusk and go off in whatever number of hours I dial in.  It was never that much trouble  to go outside and plug in some Christmas lights, but it's nice to plug them in once at the beginning of the season and let these magic devices do the rest.

Then it occurred to me.  With these devices the absence of light turns on the lights. These devices  react not to light, but to the lack of light. This is probably the same technology that turns on my headlights, but who knew it could turn on my Christmas decorations?  Who knew that darkness creates light?

And so, of course, there's a metaphor.  I thought "that's the way it's been since the beginning of time; the darkness creates the light". "Darkness was over the surface of the deep and God said,'Let there be light, and there was light.' " For me the most powerful yin/yang in existence is dark/light.  You can't have one without the other.  They mutually  coexist.  You'll see these interdependent dualities in the symbol itself. The yin/yang symbol is created with  black and white "apostrophes" nestled together as a circle. But inside the black part is a white circle and inside the white part is a black circle.  Not only do black and white coexist, but each contains the other. "The people walked in darkness." I doubt that Isaiah meant that all of the Israelites were stumbling around in the dark. He didn't mean  that literally.  He must have been referring to another kind of darkness, a darkness must deeper than physical darkness. But whether or not you're talking about physical darkness or mental and emotional agony, it always creates light.  Go to the darkest,  most remote place on earth where no artificial lights exist for hundreds of miles.  Look up and you don't see darkness, you see light.  Millions and millions of lights. And if's the other kind of darkness you're dealing with, even in the midst of despair, there's help.  There's hope.

So finally the metaphor that I believe both Isaiah and Matthew intended.  Bondage isn't the  final word. The Messiah will come. The Messiah did come. The Light of the world is here. Years ago I read a science fiction book that was not a "Christian book"; it was just good science fiction.  The plot, as you might expect, was on some far distant planet in some far distant star system. Two star travelers were discussing something that concerned them. They were in the cosmos and the concern was on a cosmic scale.   One said to the other, "All that changed in Bethlehem."

One of the most beautiful images provided by the Christmas story is that of the natal star. "Star of wonder, star of night, star with royal beauty bright."  It's not "the star of light", it's the "star of night." "Westward leading, still proceeding. Guide us to the perfect light."

A device that uses the dark to turn on Christmas lights. Now for a device that turns off the gas logs when I go to bed.

The Road to Christmas 2016

"To follow the meaning of the six directions as the ancients plotted them, you begin by drawing a circle around yourself. Then you stand in the center of the circle and face the direction in which the sun rises...The ancients called these directions 'powers' or 'spirits' and endowed them with symbols, ceremonies and names...'There is much power in the circle' said Black Elk". The Roaring of the Sacred River, Steven Foster and Meredith Little,1989

"Draw a circle of power around yourself and stand in that circle." Black Elk, holy man of the Lakota Sioux (1863-1950)

Christmas of 1982 was very difficult for me. In so  many ways it was no more difficult than any other Christmas in music ministry, but that year  in different ways and for different reasons I made things extremely wearisome for myself. Regarding the music performances at my church,  I required much more of myself than my church required of me. I had inherited several choirs that had come with the job that I had accepted three years prior and I had created other ensembles.  I personally directed all of them. During the Advent and Christmas season, besides individual performances of each of these musical ensembles, the church hosted the annual Hanging of the Greens the first Sunday night of Advent. This service of worship, which resulted in the church getting decorated for the season, also involved a performance by each of these choirs and ensembles. Between readings one by one these groups played and sang beautiful Christmas music.

If you're a football coach, you take a few days off after the final bowl game, but then you immediately begin preparation for the next season.  Regardless of your final standings, your fans expect nothing less than  a conference or national championship the next season. If you're a church musician, you take a few weeks off after Christmas and begin immediately thinking about Christmas the next year. 365 days comes around fairly quickly in music ministry. For the church musician, Christmas is the Super Bowl.

In the spring of 1982 I was in a Baptist Book Store in Chattanooga, Tennessee looking for Christmas music for my choirs. I ordered much of my Christmas music from catalogs, but I found a lot of it there. On this day instead of that being a challenge and opportunity, it was a dread and a loathing. As I looked through music instead of thinking about one choir at a time, they all were crowding in at once. And for each of them and all of them I thought about finding the music, ordering the music, filing the music, rehearsing the music, performing the music and then cleaning up after each performance. I thought of the Hanging of the Greens when each of the ensembles was expected to play and to sing. It all made me very tired. The burden became dread. The dread was creeping toward despair.

I found some music to buy and to order and walked to the checkout.  There on a carousel on the aisle at the register were several cassette tapes including one that caught my eye. Although I was not and am not an alcoholic, this one was an AA support tape. I thought that if it could help an alcoholic, maybe it could help me. I pulled it out of the slot and included it with my purchase.  I slid the tape in the cassette player of my car. As it turned out, the tape included nothing but spoken quotes. There was no explanation to the quotes, it was just words spoken by a narrator often followed by the author of the quote. Of the dozens of encouraging quotes on that tape, I remember only two. One of them was "On their death bed, you've never heard anyone say 'I wish I'd spent more time at the office' " The other was,   "Draw a circle of power around yourself and stand in that circle." Black Elk.

It would be three more years until I took a youth group from another church to Farmington, New  Mexico to a Navajo Indian Reservation.  It would be several more years until my reading took me to anything and everything about the Lakota Sioux warrior and medicine man, Chief Black Elk.  But even in that moment in 1982 in my hatchback Honda Accord, I knew that those words meant something; they meant something for me. Until I got professional help ten years later with my emotional issues, there were events along the way that saved me.  Those events included those words by Black Elk.  His words mattered to me then and grew in significance over the ensuing years.

As Christmas approached  in 1982 my stress had reached a breaking point. My "circle of power" had been breached and I was in full survival mode. One Saturday morning in early November I took myself and my cup of coffee to our unfinished basement. I was sitting on the concrete slab with my feet out the back door considering the relative meaninglessness of my existence. I had recently learned of the existence of black holes and I felt that I had slipped beyond he event horizon.  In that state of despair, my little boy came up behind me unannounced, sat down beside me, put his arm around my shoulder, pulled me close  and said, "Daddy, Jesus loves you and He'll take you to Christmas."

All the music was beautiful. The Hanging of the Greens was deeply meaningful to many people and all of the programs and cantatas were excellent. They not only exceeded the expectations of my congregation, but they met my expectations of myself.  I had had nothing to dread or to fear. Christmas music 1982 was in the books.

Until I retired from church music a year ago, I had to learn the lessons of Christmas of 1982 again and again, But in 1982 I had reached a turning point.  I had begun to understand that Christmas has its own power, its own will to be.  It's not hard for the Tennessee River to power the TVA dam near here; it just flows downhill. It's not hard for those turbines to generate electricity, they simply give themselves to mighty forces of the river.  It's not hard for the current to find its way to my home, it  just moves through the wires with the speed of light. It's not hard for me to make the Christmas tree shine; I just plug it in. It's not  hard for Christmas to come; I just jump in.  Christmas is effortless. Christmas takes care of itself. The Jesus of Bethlehem of Judea will take me to Christmas. He didn't do anything to create Christmas; He just showed up.

For the American Indian's "circle of power" to have any meaning for you, you have to do two things. 1. You must define your "circle of power". And 2. You must learn how to stand in it. That's all.

My son, now thirty-five years old,  called me from California yesterday to tell me some exciting news.  He's always excited about something, but he couldn't wait to tell me how a trip that he and his wife are planning has "gone from good to epic." After he told me what they're planning to do, it did sound "epic." One of the synonyms of "epic" is "monumental". One of the definitions of "monumental" is "serving as a monument." I should erect a monument in Rossville, Georgia. The inscription will read. "Here in Christmas of 1982, God's Son and his own son took David Helms to Christmas."

During my years as a music director in Southern Baptist churches, we concluded nearly every regular service of worship with an invitation. This invitation was accompanied by soul-stirring music and promptings by the pastor. The invitation was to come profess your faith in Christ or to move your membership to that church. So now I offer an invitation. I'll provide the words; you provide the music.  For your heart to be full of Jesus this Christmas, it must be empty of everything else. For your circle of power to include you, it must be empty of everything else. You only have one Christmas of 2016. For it to be full of love, joy and peace it must be empty of everything else. Make room for love. Make room for joy. Make room for peace.  You make the room; the love, joy and peace will take care of themselves. "Jesus loves you; He'll take you to Christmas." "Oh come to my heart Lord Jesus, there's room in my heart for you."

The Iron Bowl

My father grew up on a farm in Enterprise, Alabama with his brother and his parents. Except for his college and army days he never lived very far from that farm.

My father was a very complex human being.  He was intellectually gifted. He had many different talents that he employed for his business use and personal satisfaction. His two most enjoyable past times were golfing and fishing. When he started golfing he only had two clubs, a seven iron and a putter. He played quite a few rounds with only those two clubs. It vexed my uncles and cousins that although their college team often beat his college team and they bested him in other ways, they never beat him at golf. Not once. His fishing took him most often to his father's pond, "Pop's Pond", but he spent countless hours on the bays, inlets and rivers of Florida. But he did so many other things than golf and fish.  He loved carving animals from Ivory soap and balsa wood. As a visual artist he created beautiful paintings with oil and acrylic and drew with pencils and charcoal. Sometimes on his way home from a a job he would pull  to the side of the road to sketch a scene he liked. He was a good musician and sang bass in his church choir. With Helms Construction, his own company, he poured and finished concrete all over Alabama. His crew poured head walls, curb and gutter, flumes, sidewalks and more.  If he couldn't find a machine or a tool to do what he needed, he just invented it. He drew it up on graph paper with his ruler,  compass, protractor, and slide rule. Then he took that blueprint to a machine shop where they brought it to life. In my three summers with Helms Construction I used some of these machines myself. And they worked!  He was well-liked by his crew and earned the respect of vendors and county inspectors alike.

My father, for all of his brilliance, ability and wit , like all of us, made some very poor choices.  Those choices drastically affected my family and they affected me.One of the worst choices he made was the decision to start smoking cigarettes when he was a teenager in the army at the end of World War II. He smoked morning, noon and night until he couldn't in the hospital before he died. Dad died of lung cancer at the very young age of 69.  Except for cancer he was as strong as an ox and as sharp as a tack. Although the warnings were on the packs years before he died, he never apologized for smoking or felt any guilty about it; He enjoyed every cigarette he ever smoked.. The only good thing about going that way is that it gave us about a year and a half to tell him goodbye. When we knew that we were  counting them down, those fishing and golfing excursions with my brother and my dad took on an immeasurable significance. That was the only  good thing. The worst part was how much pain he was in toward the end. Lung cancer is a horrible way to watch your father die. From my childhood, he always called me by his nickname for me unless he was upset with me.  Then he called me "son".His last words to me were "You're a good nurse Crockett."

My father was curious about everything and fascinated with things.  He paid close attention and noticed things. Whereas I have no sense of direction, he traveled without a map or a compass and I never remember getting lost.  We took the scenic route a few times, but we never got lost.  I remember once on a  trip home from a job in Eufaula, my brother was driving and he was in the backseat.  He pulled his cap down over his eyes and challenged us with, "Anywhere along the road ask me  what you're seeing and I'll tell you".  With no prompting that we were at any particular location, for ninety miles he described in detail any house or farm that we asked him to describe.

My father graduated  with a degree in Agricultural Engineering from the Alabama Polytechnic Institute.  We know this college as Auburn University.  His brother was a graduate of the same institution.  They both were passionate about Auburn football. Back in the day we listened to Auburn games on the radio but Dad and my uncle took us to a few games too. Besides the games at Auburn, they took us to the 1971 Gator Bowl  when the Ole Miss quarterback, Archie Manning, was playing with his arm in a cast.  Auburn beat them 35-28.

Dad watched very few games on television. He said that he had rather go golfing or fishing and learn of the score later.  But he always knew who won.  As far as I know, he never listened to  or watched The Iron Bowl.  He said it was too stressful. On one of those last fishing trips on West Bay, Florida, I asked him why he never got tired of it.  He cast his line in the water, slowly lit his Salem and took a couple of drags, propped up his feet, looked around at the beauty of the day, turned his head toward me and with a wry smile and asked, "Crockett, what's there to get tired of?"

Tomorrow I plan to watch the Iron Bowl.  Will it be stressful? Every snap.  The blowouts have seldom been engineered by my team. Will Auburn win? The pollsters tell me not to get my hopes up.  But I can take you to the place on Highway 231 between Montgomery and Troy when on December 2, 1972 Bill Newton blocked that second punt and David Langner ran it in for a touchdown.  I can still hear my mother and my aunt screaming, not about the touchdown, but for me to put my hands back on the steering wheel. Auburn won. And 17 to 16 is forever burned into the annals of Iron Bowl  history.  And I can show you where I sat in my den when on November 30th 2013 Chris Davis ran that missed field goal back 100 yards with no time on the clock to a stunning Auburn victory. So anything is possible with the Iron Bowl.

That farm in Enterprise still belongs to my  family. We don't farm it, but we own it. I find some measure of comfort in the fact that no matter who wins the Auburn/Alabama football game tomorrow, my name will still be  on the deed. The value and history will not be diminished. Will my father be watching the game?  Does he agree that something could be more important than the Iron Bowl? I've read that there's a River of Life, so I'm pretty sure he'll be fishing.

If the Fates Allow

"Through the years we'll all be together, if the fates allow."  Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane, 1944

No matter who you are, where you are or what you're planning for Christmas this year,  I can assure you that the fates will not allow you to "all be together" through the years.

I'm watching an incredibly good TV series called This is Us.  From what I've read, I am not the only person enjoying this series.  I don't watch much TV.  I watch football games and I watch movies on Netflix and that's about it.  Several weeks ago my wife, who had watched through episode six said, "You've got to watch this.  You would love it more than you loved Parenthood."  Although I couldn't imagine loving any TV more than Parenthood I told her that I would watch the first episode.

I watched the first episode, then the second, then the third, then the fourth, then the fifth, then the sixth and I couldn't wait for the next episode.  I watched that one last night.  One of the characters is a man in his 70s. He has a child and grandchildren who are  significant characters in the story.  This man is dying of cancer.  On Thanksgiving day he was sitting on the front porch with a guest of the family when she asked, "What does it feel like to be dying?"  He briefly searched her face and said something like, "It's like when I look at my grandchildren I see things flying around their heads. They're just spinning and flying around their heads and I try to catch them.  I reach out and try to catch them and hold them. But more and more things are flying and I realize that I can't catch them all. There is too much to catch."  He then looked at her, a young woman, and said, "You think you have a lot of time, but you don't."

Growing up we were "all together" at my grandmother's house for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. We all spent the night there together.  My parents, my siblings, my grandmother, my aunts and uncles, my cousins.  There were about twenty of us. We were "all together". I thought we'd "all be together" forever. But I was wrong. About ten of that group are gone.  I don't mean gone to California. I mean gone for good.  I keep in touch with a few of those who remain but not very many, and not very often.  And my grandmother's house hasn't been in the family for several years.

Although "Fate" is bathed in ancient mythology, the definition most of us have accepted is "the development of events beyond a person's control, regarded as determined by a supernatural power."  And then the first synonym of "fate" is "destiny".  That definition is "the events that will necessarily happen to a particular person or thing in the future."  So taken together it looks like there's not much we can do about fate and destiny.  Fate and destiny will find us and we will eventually go where they take us.

"Not so fast my friend," as Lee Corso proclaims on College Game Day.  I think we have more influence on fate than fate has on us.  We make decisions every day that impact not only that particular day but the rest of our lives. We shape our destiny by the choices we make.  Our destiny does not shape us. Destiny may be "the events that necessarily happen" but they don't happen unless we point destiny in the right direction.

"If the fates allow." Now we're back to that mythology thing.  The three goddesses, the Fates,  Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos assigned to every being  eternal laws that took their course without obstruction. But even they would have to concede that they could not deem that "through the years we'll all be together." That is something that the Fates could not and cannot allow. I mean, are the Fates even still together?  I haven't heard from any of them in years.

Which brings us to Christmas 2016.  Christmas will find you somewhere with certain people. They may be people you want to be with or people you have to be with or a combination of both, but you will be with these people.  Where ever you are and  whoever  you are with you need to look around and realize that you will not always be together. The Fates cannot allow this. You need to grab as many of those things flying around their heads and hold onto them for dear life.  For they are dear life.

I think that Dan Fogelman, the creator of This is Us, is a genius. The story includes a time warp where the drama goes back and forth in time.  This is not in a funny "Back to the Future" sort of way. It tells the story of what was happening then and then the story of what is happening now to those same people.  When we're watching what was happening then we know all too well that they will not "all be together." We want to tell them, but we can't.  In the play Our Town, Emily wants to tell them, but she can't. Scrooge is trying to tell us, but  he can't. But  what's it going to take for us to figure it out?

"Have Yourself a  Merry Little Christmas" is an invitation.  It is inviting us to refuse to let our obligations and frustrations define our celebrations. Sure we have troubles, but for now they're miles away . It's inviting us to let those memories of Christmas past blend in with the beauty of Christmas present. Sure we miss those people and places  that are gone.  But they're all trying to tell us, "Stop brooding about us. What we had together was special, but what you have now is more special than that. Embrace all of those people. You won't always be together, but you are now."

"So hang a shining star upon the highest bough and have yourself a merry little Christmas now."

A Beautiful Dream (Part 2)

My wife had been trying to lure me into a nail salon for several years.  I told her over and over that I was not going to be the only male in a nail salon,  sitting in a chair to pay someone to cut my toenails.  Although she had described several times in vivid detail   all the delights of a pedicure, I remained resolute in my conviction. The Saturday before Easter about seven years ago she called from her salon and said, "I'm the only one in  here. Now would be a great time for you to come."  I relented and drove to the salon. By the time I arrived so had another female patron, but I was committed.  After that marvelous experience she never had to cajole me again to get a pedicure and a manicure. More often than not, I'm the one to suggest we go.

My wife was working yesterday.  I had some time on my hands so I drove up the road to a local nail salon. The technician was someone I had used before.  Since she speaks very little English very few words had ever passed between us.  Today we talked very little during the pedicure.  During the manicure since we were face to face, she asked me if I was already off for Thanksgiving. And that started our feeble, yet somewhat successful attempt, at polite conversation. In those few minutes I learned that she has been in the states less than a year.  She explained that "her country" is very hot and here it's very cold.  Although the  temperature had only dropped into the 40s,  she said "It's very cold."  I kidded that she should move to Florida. I could  tell she didn't understand me, but she laughed politely.  I also learned that the only family she has here is her husband and that they have been married ten years and that they have two boys.  I asked her who kept her boys and she said, "My husband."

Although she and I had much  trouble understanding each other, she had no trouble understanding the other technician.  I find the Vietnamese language to be one of the most beautiful languages in the world.  I so enjoy the rising and falling of the sustained cadence of musical sounds.  It's hard to imagine that all those sounds that sound alike to me form actual words that have  meaning like English words have meaning to me. But if the way they talked and laughed was any indication, the words meant quite a lot to them. I'm sure they sounded like home.

Since I had just then finished reading The Earth is Weeping about the American Indian wars and the cruelty of humans toward each other was fresh on my mind,  I couldn't help but be a little sad thinking that just a generation ago the Vietnam War was scorching her homeland with napalm and killing its citizens. Over 50,000 American soldiers lost their lives in Southeast Asia. It is estimated that over 3 million Vietnamese, Laotians and Cambodians were killed during the twenty year conflict. We called it the Vietnam War. They called it the American War. Our  infantry and Huey pilots fought bravely, but Saigon fell and the war was  lost. Because of my technician's Western features, it is not unreasonable to imagine that her father was one of our GIs.

Because of some rumors of trouble, on the evening of December 28, 1890 on the Pine Ridge Reservation, South Dakota, members of the 7th Cavalry surrounded a peaceful settlement of Lakota Sioux Indians near the Wounded Knee Creek.  Snow was falling and the temperature was well below zero. What happened the next morning went down in history as The Wounded Knee Massacre.  There are many accounts of what exactly happened  and who started the skirmish. Most accounts agree that three cavalry sergeants were trying to forcibly remove a rifle from an old deaf Indian who had been waving it over his head when the gun accidentally discharged.  Bedlam ensued.  As the melee cleared, the skirmish became more organized. The Indians had a few weapons that had not been recently confiscated.The soldiers were well-armed including four Hotchkiss mountain guns capable of firing sixty-eight rounds per minute at an accuracy of 2,000 feet. That's one bullet per second. As the battle ensued the Indians were outflanked and outgunned. After the shooting stopped and the soldiers halted their relentless pursuit several hours later, and the smoke cleared from the barrels of the Hotchkiss cannons, over 300 Lakota Sioux lay dead. Their bodies and blood were frozen in grotesque shapes where they fell in the frigid snow. Blood red took on a literal meaning against the white of new-fallen snow. Over half of those killed were women and children whose bodies were mangled from the machine gun fire and the butt of rifles to their heads.  The wounded were taken to a nearby Episcopal Chapel of the Holy Cross.  The chapel was decorated with festive green garlands.  The wounded lay under a banner that read, "Peace on Earth. Goodwill to Men."

Nelson A. Miles was a decorated  Union lieutenant  during the American Civil War and was now a major General. He was well-liked by the Lakota on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Although he was nearby, he was not directly involved in the debacle at Wounded Knee. Two days after the event he wrote to his wife "This was the most abominable criminal blunder imaginable and a horrible massacre of women and children."

A few days after the massacre Chief Kicking Bear dismounted,  walked toward General Miles clutching his rifle. The two stared at each other a few seconds and Kicking Bear laid his weapon at Mile's feet. The Indian wars for the American West were over.

But wars weren't over. During or after the Indian wars the United States fought in the The French and Indian War, the War of 1812, the Civil War and  the Spanish American War. Albert Einstein said, "As long as there are men, there will be war."

For whatever reason Vietnamese nail technicians are constantly wanting to apply clear coat to my nails near the end of the wonderful process.  I always say "no thanks."  Today she didn't ask. She started applying "clear" to my toes before I could say anything. Turns out you really can't see it and maybe it will provide a little protection for my nails for the winter. I can't imagine what it feels like to be so far away from home experiencing winter and the American holidays for the first time. I'm grateful that she has her husband, her two sons and I'm sure a community of friends. Although we don't entirely understand each other, it gives me great hope that if we try we will learn that we are not that much different. We both need and want basically the same things. We especially need our tribe no matter how small that tribe has become. We need a common language and a culture that we are familiar with. Although strife between tribes and nations seems inevitable, it becomes much harder to go to war against a friend. Maybe "Peace on Earth. Goodwill to men", though remote, is still not impossible.  Meanwhile, "peace on earth"  can only happen when we have peace in our own hearts and when we have "goodwill to men."  And when she asks "clear"? Just go with it.

A Beautiful Dream

"In a little depression there lay outstretched a stalwart Sioux warrior, stark naked with the exception of a breech clout and moccasins.  I could not help feeling a sorrow as I stood gazing upon him. He was within a few hundred yards of his home and family, which we had attempted to destroy and he had tried to defend. The home of the slayer was perhaps a thousand miles away. In a few days the wolves and buzzards would have his remains torn asunder and scattered, for the solders had no disposition to bury a dead Indian."  Private Taylor, a survivor of the Battle of the Little Bighorn (Custer's Last Stand).

When I was a kid and we played cowboys and Indians I, of course, wanted to be a cowboy.  Cowboys were the good guys and Indians were the bad guys. Like General Sheridan, US Cavalry  said, "The only good Indian is a dead Indian."

In the summer of 1985 I helped organize and execute a mission trip to Farmington, New Mexico. There our group completed repairs and construction projects at a Navajo mission school. The Navajo not only worked beside us, but spent a lot of time with us during our leisure time. Three Navajo in particular, two males and a female, made a lasting impression on me. Chuck did something with a feather that affected me deeply. To this day I pick up random feathers from the ground and remember what he said about each tine of the feather. Since that summer people have told me that I was bitten by "the Indian bug."

I just pulled from my bookshelf some of the books I have read about American Indian history, culture and religion.  I've given away more books than survive on my shelf, but these are, in no particular order of publication or reading, North American Indian Reader, The Heart of Everything That Is, Lost Bird of Wounded Knee, The Black Elk Reader, Black Elk's The Sacred Pipe, Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, The Day the World Ended at Little Bighorn, The Spiritual Legacy of the American Indian, Crazy Horse, and  The Dull Knifes of Pine Ridge.  I have also read Black Elk Speaks more than once, but I must have given it away (again).

An irony of my research and reading is that most of it has pertained to the Lakota Sioux.  I have read very little about the Navajo.

I've read so much over the years from the Indian's perspective that I became an Indian. I took their side in the great Indian wars.  I shared their sorrow in their lost wilderness, their lost buffalo and sacred hunting grounds, their lost villages and way of life, their lost culture and people. I was angered by the aggression of the United States government, its soldiers and weapons of war. I was disgusted by our attempts to convert Indians of every tribe to the "Christian way of life". We told them to forget their religion, forget their language, forget their ways and settle down and become civilized like we were.  I felt that the cavalry,settlers and gold miners got what was coming to them. They shouldn't have been there in the first place.

The quote above is from The Earth is Weeping by Peter Cozzens, As I read this book now, I realize that I have come full circle. I'm a cowboy and an Indian. Indians are good people and cowboys are good people.  Indians are horrible people and cowboys are horrible people. Indians need food, clothing and shelter and cowboys need food, clothing and shelter. Over the years I have also come to realize that people enjoy killing each other.  People not only don't mind killing each other  (for whatever reason), but are capable of inflicting unthinkable atrocities on one another.  Men in particular like things that explode in other people's faces. The Indians, the cavalry and the Texas Rangers inflicted hideous and gruesome cruelties toward men, women and children (for whatever reason). Apparently we are genetically engineered toward aggression and cruelty. I don't have to read Indian books to believe this is true, I only need to watch the evening news. In Syria, who are the cowboys and who are the Indians? Are the government bombs good bombs or the rebel bombs?  When Syrian families are displaced and children are blown to bits, was it by a good bomb or a bad bomb?

Although 264 US soldiers, civilians and Indian scouts died on  the government's side of the Battle of the Little Bighorn, Private Taylor was touched by the remains of one fallen Sioux warrior. I'm quite sure that he didn't mean to be disrespectful of his own fallen and certainly did not mean to be a traitor, I  think he was just being a human being. He was grieving the fact that humans kill each other. The Indian had a home and a family. The soldier who killed him and later died had a home and a family.

Of all the American Indians who I have come to respect and to admire, my Native American hero of heroes is Black Elk, a holy man of the Lakota Sioux.  In his biography Black Elk Speaks I found a kinship with Wakan Tanka that has become a part of my personal prayer and devotional life. I've never smoked an Indian pipe, but I sensed its power and its peace. I've never played in a drum circle but I have vibrated  with its power and majesty. I just learned from Cozzens  that at the Little Bighorn the eighteen year old Black Elk scalped an American soldier while he was alive and then shot him between the eyes. I didn't know that.

So should I now look for a different Indian hero?  Moses killed an Egyptian, but that didn't disqualify him from leading his people out of bondage. Men kill each other. That's what men do.

"I could not help feeling a sorrow" Taylor said.  Maybe that's the key. As long as we "feel a sorrow" there's hope for the human race.   As long as it still matters that one warrior was lost (for whatever reason). That Sioux warrior regarded the US soldier as his enemy.  The soldier regarded the Indian as his enemy.  They both would be wrong. Black Elk eventually gave up the pipe and picked up the Christian Bible.  He spent the last forty years of his life practicing the ways of God as a Catholic catechist, a non-ordained priest. But on his deathbed he said that he never left the pipe. He never stopped following Wakan Tanka.   And of the massacre at Wounded Knee which he also survived, he said, "And I can see that something else died there in the bloody mud and was buried in the blizzard. A people's dream died there. It was a beautiful dream."