Jobless Americans in Her Muddied Mirror

I profess that I know nothing of the story covered by our local Fox news that was posted on Facebook today.  A caption for the picture of three police cars parked at a Burger King fast-food restaurant read:

Happening Now:  Not an HPD lunch break . . . a dude just got busted for allegedly holding up 3 fast food places.  Northeast Houston in the 9500 block of Jensen . . . SkyFox over the scene.    

This writing is not so much about that story; what prompted this writing was a comment posted by an individual, which reads:

Jobless Americans who seem to think everything should be handed to them!  UGH!  

That line has stayed with me since I first read it, and its author is the focus of this writing.

NOTE:  Before delving into this, please take notice that I do not condone any kind of criminal activity whatsoever; so before the reader jumps to that conclusion, declaring the writer to be a left-wing liberal who makes excuses for every out-of-mainstream, down-on-his-luck guy/gal on a corner, leave the lid on that can.

What bothers me is a person, who, from her photo, appears to be a rather young adult, taking on jobless Americans, making a wholesale statement that on its face is devoid of any degree of humaneness.  Her FB page indicates she is affiliated with a local high school, presumably a present or former student.   Speculatively, she is just out of high school, and I imagine a scenario in which she lives a reasonably comfortable life, courtesy of parents who assure that she is properly attired with fashionable garb and properly equipped with some technological gadgetry – at least a mobile phone to stay connected on Facebook.  Perhaps.  Or, maybe she has a job that allows her to live comfortably, dress decently, and afford some gadgetry.  Perhaps.  Or, maybe she is a trust fund baby, you know, a Paris Hilton wannabe who is content to live her life and not be concerned about the means by which she will acquire her next outfit, her replacement phone, the latest iPad, the next tank of gas or . . . her next meal.

She appears to be young.   Evidently she has not been around the block too many times.  Perhaps her short life has been a flat, straight line, uneventful in any impactful way,  rather than the twisted, knotted ones of those jobless Americans who were either:  1) laid off through no fault of theirs; 2) terminated with cause; 3) terminated without cause; 4) casualties of corporate mismanagement; 5) deceived retirees who lost their nest egg in Wall Street shenanigans; or 6) casualties of exported jobs or imported workers ... Perhaps neither has anyone who is responsible for her lifestyle and meeting her basic and extraordinary needs experienced a time of joblessness.  Sadly, perhaps she believes she is immune from joblessness, immune from want, immune from need, immune from hunger, homelessness, and nakedness.  How haplessly and utterly sad.  Perhaps she planned to live only in the very moment at which she post her jobless Americans drivel, seeing in a muddied mirror, her deluded superior, immune-from-negative-circumstances self.  Or, maybe unlike the rest of us, she knows her future is totally secure.

If I should have a moment with this young woman, I would tell her of someone of whom I knew, who was once wealthy.  I came to know him personally when all he had left was himself and a car with a clear title.  Or, maybe I would tell her of another, who was a diligent, dedicated employee with an unblemished record for three months shy of 20 years (at which time he could have retired), and was ousted on the whim of another for no reason other than it was doable.  Or, maybe I would tell her about this writer, who despite the framed crap on the wall of her home office, attesting to academic achievements (and no, she did not graduate at the bottom of her class) and professional credentials, was systematically rejected by employers for more years than the young woman has probably been alive.

I pity her, and people like her.  They are the ones who have more difficulty adjusting to the adversities of life.  Like one of whom I would tell her, she probably would not survive if any event upset the delicate balance of her most likely want-for-nothing existence.  What we would not know is whether it was a waste for her to breathe precious air in the first place, or a waste for her not to stick it out long enough so she would know what she could endure.

Just a Grain of Sand, a/k/a Running Out of Gas in Houston, Texas

It seems lately that this writer has worn out words like glorious, wonderful, awesome, and, still, this blog entry must begin thusly: 


This has been a glorious day!  First, there was wonderful worship, then Sunday School (some people call that Sunday morning session where folks go into "classes" and talk about Bible stuff Bible Study, but I am of the other ilk.  It was Sunday School when I was a kid, and for me it is still Sunday School.)  After a few stops along the route to home, I prepared myself a decent meal, using Italian turkey sans pasta, awesome garlic bread from Barry's Pizza, fresh asparagus and an antipasta salad, chased with two dark chocolate chip cookies made with whole wheat flour and blended oatmeal.  Perhaps now I can get to the heart of this writing without repeating the words glorious, wonderful and awesome.


Getting distracted by a favorite word game this afternoon, I was 15 minutes late to leave for the final master's recital of a wonderful (oops) young lady with a glorious (oops again) soprano voice.  The car's information center indicated my DTE to be 22, meaning I could drive a distance of 22 miles before the gas tank was empty.  Surely, I thought, it's only 7 or 8 miles -- I'll be okay and will get gas after the recital.   Just as I arrived on the campus of the University of St. Thomas, the car stopped.  I tried to start it  Nothing happened.  I began to fret, but the thought that I probably had no gas danced into my head to haunt and taunt.  For someone with a "half tank" rule, running out of gas simply should never be an option.  Well, I blew it.  So there.


My options were simple:  1)  walk two blocks to the nearest gas station, purchase a gas can and gas, walk back to the car to dispense the gas, probably not without sloshing some on my hand for good measure.  After all, since I had run out of gas, it could be argued that I was already in my slapstick mode; or 2) call roadside assistance.   My body made the decision for me, reminding me that even on this beautiful, sunny, Sunday, it would give me grief if I walked even that far in the heat of the day.  Yes, for someone who lives with Sarcoidosis, even this wondrously, gloriously, awesomely beautiful day with a temperature less than 90 degrees, is HOT!  The fact is, I knew better than to try to make that walk, so I opted for number 2. 


I escaped the sun pouring into the car and took refuge under a tree that shaded me well.  As I stood there, enjoying the light breeze that assured my comfort, a couple of campus police, a guy on a bicycle, a couple in a van and a guy on his afternoon run (he offered to push the car out of the street while I steered!) stopped and offered to assist me.  I was reminded that His goodness and mercy are forever following me.  Even as I thought of this, relating to Pastor Steve Wells's sermon, yet another stopped to offer his help.  Then a woman stopped.  Then another woman.  In all, nine people stopped, asked if I was okay and what could they do to help.  Nine.  In just a few minutes.  Nine.


So, what's the big deal?  Simply, no one had to stop, including the nine who did.  They were a mixed bag of folks of all sizes, ages and colors.  And the nine were willing to stop, just for me.  In each of those nine folks I saw a little bit of my God.  He loved the world so much that He gave His only Son, that whoever believes in Him will not perish but have eternal life.  And He sent His Son, not to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved.  (see John 3:16-17).  


This deal is big.  It is huge.  You see, the world is a big, big picture -- God's creation.  And on just one beach of humanity I am but one grain of sand.  In the big, big picture, I am but one dot of paint.  And even in my foolish negligence of ignoring my own "half-tank" rule, He sent nine of his folks to see about me.  Because He loves me.  Just as He loves you -- like there  is only one to love.  He showers us with His joy and peace each and every day.   His goodness and mercy follow me each and every moment.  Even when I foolishly turned my back on Him, He never left me.  He never leaves, nor forsakes me.  And why is that?  Because He loves me -- this single, solitary grain of sand on just one beach of many beaches of humanity -- this one miniscule dot of paint -- me. And, trust me, it is not that I am so special -- but that He is so loving.

The Marketed, Manipulated God :(

God is going to do a new thing!  Get ready to be blessed!
"LIKE" if you love God.
"RESHARE" if you love God, in 120 seconds He will do you a favor.


It was the last one that was the straw that broke my back.


If you believe what I believe, God, the One Whose name we cannot even properly articulate, is the creator everything.  The earth is His, and everything in it.  He created mankind (I refuse to write awkwardly just to be politically correct, but for the sake of the PC police, know that I man all humans without regard to gender when I say mankind), out of His love, giving  us dominion over the earth.  And what did we do???  We messed it up -- and we messed us up -- and quite thoroughly, I might add.   


Now, fast-forward a few millennia.  Here we are in the 21st century.  One would think that by now we would have figured out a few things, for instance:

1. It rains on the just and the unjust (see Matthew 5:45).  Just because you're having a good time, that does not mean you are king (and yes, queen also) of one-upmanship over those of us who aren't.
2. Your illness is not necessarily a satanic visitation.  Have you considered His servant, Job?  Or, have you considered that the white bread, hormone-enhanced fried food, Bluebell ice cream with 12% butter fat, processed meats extruded from some machine that makes perfectly formed loaves of God only knows what (and don't forget the pink slime), the fruits and vegetables you refused to eat, the 4-pack-a-day cigarette habit, the booze you boozed or all of those cookies and candy bars finally caught up with you?  
3. Those prayers in which we thank God that we are on top of the ground and the ground is not on top of us . . . what's that all about?  Then we turn around and sing I've got my mind made up and I won't turn back because I want to see my Jesus some day.  I suppose we all just want to wait around for other the second coming -- and that would be some day.  No one is ready to die.  
4. We are not guaranteed a huge house.  If Jesus didn't even have a fixed place of residence, what makes us so special?  (see Luke 9:58)
5. AND . . . if we do have a huge house, that does not necessarily mean we are blessed and highly favored (consider the rich fool, Luke 12:13-21).  Of course, it doesn't mean that we are lousy people either.  The point is that your huge may be inconsequential.  
6. Your clothes do not make you or set you apart as a child of God.  How many suits did John the Baptist have?  Jesus?  I'm just asking ...

I'm a big proponent of the KISS principal.  Considering how lame-brained mankind can be, there is something to be said for KISS.  Keeping it simple would relieve us of the hype, pomp and circumstance that folks buy into, trying to reach God through all machinations of catch phrases, conventions, programs and paraphernalia that do nothing but perpetuate mindless consumption of tapes, books and stuff, looking for an answer other than THE answer which was handed down -- well -- at least a couple of millennia ago.  We are forever using religion to reach God, when the religion pales in significance to the relationship God prescribes for us.    


So, why does God have to do a NEW thing?  He is eternal.  He was before there was a was.  He is here and now.  And He is in the future that perhaps our children's children's children will see.  He stands with one foot at the beginning of . . . well . . . the beginning -- and the other at the end of infinity.  Well, where is that?  How long is infinity?  How far can you go?   God is incalculable, unquantifiable.  If one is able to define God within human parameters, why bother believing in Him?  He would be no more potent or powerful than the one who can define Him.  


So, now, enter the Social Network.  There are great things about Facebook, most likely the premiere and dominant social network of the worldwide web.  This writer happens to appreciate Facebook.  It allows her to connect with people she knew in her childhood and grade school, distant relatives, people who share that dread disease Sarcoidosis, people who like word games like Words With Friends, people with whom she shares common interests -- like insurance, current events, the practice of law, writing, performing (especially music) and visual arts, and worship.  Yes, Facebook is great.  Then again . . . 


Why do you suppose that this omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient, all-seeing, all-knowing, all-powerful God, needs to be marketed and manipulated on Facebook?  Why must we LIKE Him to get a blessing in 120 seconds?  His blessings are perpetual, ongoing, never-ending.  From before we were expelled from her mother's womb, we were blessed with a place to gestate, be nurtured and grow.  Even as we read He is blessing us -- we are breathing, touching, seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, feeling.  Even in our literate, quasi-sentient, semi-intelligent, idiosyncratic ways, He still blesses us.  Even while we grasp at straws, looking for some magic formula while denying the simplicity of His Gospel, He blesses us.  Even as we embark on greedy quests to amass the trappings of tangible and financial-but-long-run-worthless wealth and be the best at things that don't even matter in the big picture, He blesses us.  So . . . why the HECK do we need to click LIKE and be blessed in 120 seconds?  Do you think He is looking down to count His LIKES?   Is He your genie in a bottle, waiting for you to rub it and say the magic words?  Will He move at your command -- or should you move at His?


Alright, I'm just asking . . . .


Therefore go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, 20 and teaching them to obey everything I have commanded you. And surely I am with you always, to the very end of the age.  -- Matthew 18:20

You may say click LIKE and He will do you a favor.  He said "go . . . and I will be with you."

I'm just saying . . .

A Note to Congress: By All Means, "Unfriend" Me!

This morning I awakened to a local Fox news segment regarding Roger Clemons.  Most of us remember Mr. Clemons, the former Houston Astros pitcher, who is headed back to Washington, D.C. to deal with accusations of lying to Congress.  


Congress.  I could think of a few other labels to affix to that mass of people who have become not only a drain on the country, but drained it.  Have you checked out their health insurance?  Their retirement plan?   Their salaries?  How they really spend their time?  Treat their staff?  I'm just asking. . . .


Back to Mr. Clemons:  Did he lie to Congress?  Perhaps he did; perhaps not.  Lying, generally, is not a good thing -- especially after taking an oath that one will tell the truth.  But, this little writing is not so much about Mr. Clemons as it is about the folks to whom he allegedly lied.  Those folks we call Congress -- the legislative arm of our federal government.  Why should Congress devote the time and energy into going after Mr. Clemons?  Why should Congress even be offended by the behavior of others that only mimics their own?


At this point I thought of including a litany of Congressional lies but got so bogged down in the fodder my research on that topic yielded that I just gave up, being unable to decide which to choose.  


Am I not defending nor condoning Mr. Clemons's infractions, whatever they may be.  However, Congress seeking to convict/condemn anyone for lying offends my sensibilities.  That a group of lying, drug & alcohol abusing, cheating, thieving, prostituting, pimping, manipulative, overpaid, self-serving, greedy, criminal, incompetent, prevaricators, who give themselves unmerited raises, supreme health care coverage, perquisites and benefits that the people for whom they work -- you know -- ordinary Americans -- do not have -- would take the time to call ANYONE on the carpet for doing what they do as a matter of habit -- is abominable.  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black!


(Note:  while specific members of Congress for which the paragraph above would be inapplicable come to mind, it is believed that, for the most part, it is applicable to a good number of those few hundred folks who have attempted to elevate themselves to a superior class of American -- something beyond ordinary.  The only thing worse is that so-called ordinary Americans keep electing these parasites.)


Oh, you find this writing offensive?  Oh, you're a member of Congress?  Fine, just give me a call and I'll tell you the part I couldn't put in print out of respect for family, self and the Hoxie name (it's kind of hard to hide  with a name like Hoxie -- if it were Smith or Jones or Johnson, I might be tempted), and genuine regard for my real friends.  And when you call, be prepared to give me your address so that when I see my doctor, dentist and chiropractor, visits to all now overdue, they will know where to send their bills.


And, if you're using Facebook to "reach out" to me, your constituent, and someone in your office 1) told me I am not on the voter registration rolls (ha!) and 2) complained about the half million people they have to deal with when I asked for assistance in dealing with a federal issue, and to whom I replied I am just one, will you please deal with me? -- I am NOT your friend, not even on Facebook, so UNFRIEND me and REMOVE me from whatever group you have placed me without my permission! 

For Daryl: I REFUSE to Say Goodbye!

Tomorrow is a special day at South Main Baptist Church.  We have been blessed -- and spoiled -- by this wonderful young man who has enriched our worship, and for those of us who had the opportunity to commune with him, our lives in other ways as well.  To say he is a joy to work with, and under, sounds understated and trite.

When playing the organ or directing our choirs (voice or handbells)  he is fiercely focused, concentrated and intentional, with a commanding presence that says "stay with me now, work with me here" without being brash, harsh, or overbearing.  When communing with him he is sweet, personable and funny, with a smile that makes me want to call him "son."

He makes the organ an extension of himself -- or is it the other way around?  And he is one of the few musicians I know who flawlessly transitions from organ to piano.  (For me, the only thing these two instruments have in common is the keyboard.  Most folks think if you can play one you can play the other; the truth is that just isn't true!)

When Daryl came to South Main Baptist in 2003, he was already an awesome talent.  We have had the privilege of watching him grow.  He has a knack for choosing music for worship that is appropriate, thought provoking, and soul-stirring.  Despite his mastery at the pipe organ, one song I will remember for years to come was his piano prelude "I Gave My Life for Thee."  I have never heard anything quite so moving.

Daryl's interpretive abilities are second to none.  I will not forget that he came to me and asked for "pointers" on playing gospel music during the time we were preparing to celebrate South Main's 100th birthday.  We spent a few minutes in the sanctuary working on gospel music nuances.  I remember saying "That's it!  You got it!"  He replied, "but I don't feel it yet."   But he really did get it!  He later played works of my very favorite 20th century composer, the late Glenn Edward Burleigh, who was a classically trained and phenomenal pianist.  Glenn had a way of integrated all genres of music into his compositions which, still, give his music a unique style and sound -- NOT the stereotypical three-chord ditties many automatically dub as "gospel music."  When Daryl plays Burleigh, it is as if Glenn himself is sitting at the piano.

So what does all that have to do with tomorrow being a special day at South Main Baptist Church?  Well, it is Daryl's last day as our organist and music associate.  Even while we are happy for his taking the next step in his music ministry career, I cannot help but nurse my aching heart.   So, I will not say "goodbye," Daryl, just "see you later."  And, indeed, I shall.

Remembering Charles

He is still very much with us.  His verbiage, gestures and facial expressions are as much a part of us as they were of him. He was gregarious, gracious and generous -- giving me the most precious gift, other than salvation through Jesus the Christ, I have ever received --- my Sweet Pea.  And he gave of himself to others -- while teaching social studies, fulfilling assistant principal duties, doing music ministry at the same church for 35 years, giving to others in need (even those who later bit the hand with which he had literally fed them), and even while in "rehab" at Memorial Hermann TIRR, ministering to and encouraging others.  

I remember speaking of Charles to my good friend and mentor to a point where I apologized for "going on and on," to which he replied "why are you apologizing?  It is a good thing that he is remembered.  Think of all the people who aren't!"  And so, on this his birthday, I still remember this amazing man, who remained my good friend until he departed this life.  Happy birthday, Charles.E. Richards, II.  Even while we miss you, we are happy for you.

A New Christmas Tradition

Note:  I previously posted this on Facebook after receiving it via email.  After seeing my first 2011 Christmas commercial on network television yesterday evening, and receiving my first "Black Friday" ad via email this morning, I decided to post it here.  It is not my writing and I have not edited it in any way.  It is worth repeating and worth sharing, but that's just my opinion; you may think otherwise.  Here it is:

Christmas 2011 -- Birth of a New Tradition
As the holidays approach, the giant Asian factories are kicking into high gear to provide Americans with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods -- merchandise that has been produced at the expense of American labor.

This year will be different. This year Americans will give the gift of genuine concern for other Americans. There is no longer an excuse that, at gift giving time, nothing can be found that is produced by American hands.

Yes there is!

It's time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper?

Everyone -- yes EVERYONE gets their hair cut. How about gift certificates from your local American hair salon or barber? Gym membership? It's appropriate for all ages who are thinking about some health improvement. Who wouldn't appreciate getting their car detailed? Small, American owned detail shops and car washes would love to sell you a gift certificate or a book of gift certificates..

Are you one of those extravagant givers who think nothing of plonking down the Benjamins on a Chinese made flat-screen?

Perhaps that grateful gift receiver would like his driveway sealed, or lawn mowed for the summer, or driveway plowed all winter, or games at the local golf course.

There are a bazillion owner-run restaurants -- all offering gift certificates. And, if your intended isn't the fancy eatery sort, what about a half dozen breakfasts at the local breakfast joint.

Remember, folks this isn't about big National chains -- this is about supporting your home town Americans with their financial lives on the line to keep their doors open.
How many people couldn't use an oil change for their car, truck or motorcycle, done at a shop run by the American working guy?

Thinking about a heartfelt gift for mom? Mom would LOVE the services of a local cleaning lady for a day.

My computer could use a tune-up, and I KNOW I can find some young guy who is struggling to get his repair business up and running.

OK, you were looking for something more personal. Local crafts people spin their own wool and knit them into scarves. They make jewelry, and pottery and beautiful wooden boxes.

Plan your holiday outings at local, owner operated restaurants and leave your server a nice tip. And, how about going out to see a play or ballet at your hometown theatre.
Musicians need love too, so find a venue showcasing local bands.

Honestly, people, do you REALLY need to buy another ten thousand Chinese lights for the house? When you buy a five dollar string of light, about fifty cents stays in the community. If you have those kinds of bucks to burn, leave the mailman, trash guy or babysitter a nice BIG tip.

You see, Christmas is no longer about draining American pockets so that China can build another glittering city. Christmas is now about caring about US, encouraging American small businesses to keep plugging away to follow their dreams. And, when we care about other Americans, we care about our communities, and the benefits come back to us in ways we couldn't imagine.

THIS is the new American Christmas tradition.

Coming Out of the Closet: What Does This Mean?

Recently I was queried about the meaning of this blog.  Why do you call it that?


This writer would like to think that folks have different perspectives of the same verbiage.  Perhaps this is a mistake; so here is the short version (yes, I can do short) of why my blog is entitled Coming Out of the Closet -- Keeping it Real.

During the 2008 campaign preceding the general election, there was a keen awareness of the racially charged atmosphere regarding the man who was eventually elected POTUS.  When the opposing party's presidential candidate chose a person who spewed more thinly veiled hatred and vitriol, and further who reminded me of several incompetent and incapable persons under whom I worked in my early adult years, I started writing.  Writing is a therapeutic way of throwing punches and strategically placed kicks to knock one's foe out and remain a free woman.  Publishing on the web is akin to throwing open one's windows and shouting, in this case, I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it anymore.

Because my friends are a diverse mix of races, cultures, political persuasions, and sexual orientations, I often keep my personal philosophies and political opinions to myself.  So --- Coming Out of the Closet is my way of baring parts of myself that heretofore have been secreted away; Keeping it Real is just that:  my truth -- not THE truth necessarily -- but truth as I see it.

So there:  I am out of the closet, and I what write and publish in this blog is the real stuff that comes from my heart and mind.

What to Do After a Wreck

I. PREFACE


A. Do You Know What it Is like to Wear Many Hats?   


For most, our lives are an entanglement of titles, roles, labels, tasks, obligations and responsibilities, each of which command some modicum of our time and attention.  For most who work, there is but one job; sometimes two; rarer, but still a reality, sometimes more.  This writer does not have a job per se.  She works in the confines of her office, the first floor of her town  home, doing any number of things:  sometimes editing, researching or writing for lawyers; sometimes preparing to make presentations about Medicare and other senior issues; sometimes helping contentious folks wade through and resolve their conflicts; sometimes restoring a damaged computer, the victim of a virus; sometimes teaching a class to process servers (or wannabes); sometimes helping folks insure their property.  The list could go on, but probably should have been stopped a sometime or two ago.  The point is this:  Andrea wears LOTS of hats.   Keep this in mind as she continues.


B. Which Hat to Wear?


In the process of getting dressed, do you sometimes contemplate which hat is the right hat?  If rain is forecast, perhaps something water proof would be the way to go; or if it’s cold, a nice wool felt would be better.   And if you’re playing tennis, a cap or visor.  Would a woman wear a baseball cap for worship, or one of those meaningless froo-froo things I saw last week at a sorority tea be a better choice?   In other words, wear the hat that suits the purpose, conditions and occasion.  Remember this also.  


C. Writing Can Be Wonderfully Rewarding and Wonderfully Wearying – Simultaneously


This writer will never be an Ayn Rand or an Alex Hailey, or a Robert Ludlum.  Still, this writer finds it therapeutic to record her thoughts, draining though the activity is.  Writing is a little like labor.  Every complete thought that is developed is a contraction.  The closer the contractions come together, the more intense the labor, and, the closer to the reward, a baby, a new life, a completed work.  Whether writing for a lawyer, a preacher, a teacher, or this little blog, writing is labor.  Yep – keep this in mind.


D. So, What if You Don the Wrong Hat?


Well, if it’s raining and one is sporting a nice wool fedora, things will probably not be as one would want.  Similarly, if writing, say, a motion for summary judgment for a breach of contract lawsuit, one would not go tipping around research for a trial in probate court.  Not on point.  So, what if the subject is – well, sensational, controversial, offensive, egregious, shameful, disgraceful to a family of faith, and – well — you get the picture.  And the answer is:  well, it depends.  


E. One More Thing 


A little more than a quarter century ago (yesterday for me, ancient history for some), a young woman had a business alliance with a man of the cloth.  They marketed their services and products to churches.  One day, the man suggested to the woman that they engage in certain acts, to which the woman replied, You know we can’t do anything like that; we’re not married, to which the man responded, It’s okay; we’re under grace.  The woman stood her ground.  Nothing happened.  Some time later, the woman suffered food poisoning after visiting the wrong Chinese buffet.  Bedridden, it was all she could do to make her way to the porcelain god, to which she gave up offerings frequently.  Her best friend was with her.  When that man came, saying that he would sit with the woman for a while, the best friend left to do errands.  When they were alone, the man proceeded to do to the woman what she previously refused.  She was so weak, she could not protect herself or stop him.  When finished, the man said You act like you didn’t like it.


The woman never told anyone.  She assumed no one would believe her accusations against this well-known and highly regarded man of the cloth.


By now you’re asking What does that have to do with anything?  Well, bear with me; this is not easy; it is labor.


II. INTRODUCTION


After viewing an excerpt from a video, apparently a sermon by a nationally known (if not internationally known, but what’s a few hundred million more people, or a billion or two?) pastor, I confess my knee-jerk reaction was to delve into the mess.  I knew nothing of the details of the underlying sordid mess, the accusations of four (I believe that is the number) young men against another widely known pastor.  In fact, when the news first surfaced months ago, I refused to devote any brain cells to the story.  I ignored broadcast news, internet news, Facebook comments and Twitter Tweets.  And I refused to discuss it, even after one person made several attempts, all unsuccessful, to draw me into dialogue.  Nope.  Not me.  I’m not going there.  And suddenly, here I am on a lazy Saturday afternoon, recovering from a wonderful morning, first with my mom, The Boss, then with former church members (at a visitation for one who has graduated to a better life), then a group of my Fabulous Family of God at South Main Baptist, then with my Sweet Pea, and I view this video – a lame attempt to analogize the alleged abuse of youths at the hands of a spiritual and community leader as a wreck – and I am now hot to trot.


Off I go, donning my paralegal hat, pumped as if preparing for a trial.  Newspapers.  Yahoo.  Binging.   Googling.  Trying to get the gist of what happened (as if I could via the Internet) – and then the light came on:


Me: Wait a minute!  What are you doing?  What  - do - you - THINK - you - are - doing? 


Me: I dunno.  


Me. Well, if you DUNNO, just stop it!  Take that silly hat off!


Me: Oh, I have on the WRONG hat???  Sorry  :(


Me: Well, you should be.   Just stop, dang-it!


III. THE RIGHT HAT


For this, there is no right hat.  However, there is a right posture  – that of  standing naked before God.  He knows each of us in more detail than any of us want to be known.  Before you stop reading because I’m not jumping on the bandwagon to hang the other pastor in effigy (alongside the one who perpetrated the mess in the first place), stay with me a little while longer.  I must first remind myself that I am not the one to cast judgment.  Frankly, I’m too busy trying to keep my own closet door shut.  Just because the title of my blog is “Coming Out of the Closet – Keeping it Real,” does not mean I intend to leave the closet door open.  


IV. IT’S NOT JUST ABOUT THE WRECK


This is not to judge either of these fellas – the one who, according to the other, had a wreck – or the other, with all of his education and eloquence, could not do anything better than chide folks:  I can't believe that people would leave their preacher because he had a wreck.  It is a problem that EL had a wreck.  The even bigger problem is what happened after the wreck.  


A.   David Had a Wreck


You remember that Bible story – how David took Bathsheba, the wife of his faithful soldier, Uriah?  How David had Uriah positioned in battled to assure he would be killed?  How Nathan had to tell David about his hit-and-run?  Yes.  David had a wreck.  And when Nathan confronted David about his wreck, what did he do?   Did he put on his royal robes and crown and sit on his throne?  No.  He prostrated himself before God and confessed:


Psalm 51:1-13 (KJV)-------------------------------


Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy lovingkindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.


Wash me throughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.


For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me.


Against thee, thee only, have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight: that thou mightest be justified when thou speakest, and be clear when thou judgest.


Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me.


Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward parts: and in the hidden part thou shalt make me to know wisdom.


Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.


Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which thou hast broken may rejoice.


Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities.


Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.


Cast me not away from thy presence; and take not thy holy spirit from me.


Restore unto me the joy of thy salvation; and uphold me with thy free spirit.


Then will I teach transgressors thy ways; and sinners shall be converted unto thee.


B. But That Was Way Back in Bible Days.  


So, you need something more contemporary?  How about this:


A requirement of one of my seminary courses was to read a book that was based on the true, twentieth-century story of a well-known man who was much sought after, and actively engaged in speaking and teaching all of the country.  When his obsession with pornography was revealed, he confessed his wrongdoing to his wife, discontinued all public appearances, and sought counseling.  It was recognized that this man had some healing to do, personally, spiritually and in his relationships.  Notice that relationships is plural.  He not only hurt himself and his wife, but his children, other family members, friends, colleagues, fellow members of the clergy, and let us not forget his God.  There is no “Band-aid” for this kind of rift.   The process for him to return to “public” life was a couple of years, not a couple of days or weeks.  


C. Was There a Wreck?


Well, according to CD, is friend HAD A WRECK.  A logical deduction is that his friend, EL, fell off the straight and narrow path and into a ditch.  Without belaboring the nasty details, CD sounded as if he was speaking of EL’s guilt –  culpability – liability – whatever the heck else one might label it.  Now, folks, we all have committed acts, or left something undone, that provoked most justly God’s wrath and indignation against us.  All of us have had wrecks.  Sometimes we caused them, and sometimes we were in the wrong place at the wrong time.  (See paragraph I.E,  “One More Thing” above.)  And sometimes both parties were at fault, but let us not digress to issues of contributory negligence.  For purposes of this now-too-long note (sorry, it’s the preacher in me), let us just say that EL caused the wreck.  


D. So, What Should Happen after EL‘s Wreck?


There must be an assessment of damages.  If EL had a wreck, something is misaligned, crumpled, dented, chipped, cracked, smashed or otherwise not as it should be.  He needs to be restored to serviceable condition.  He needs to be put back where he belongs.  And when one causes a wreck, one must pay the deductible.  That might set EL back a few months — or years.  Even though he settled with his complainants in mediation and paid some damages, those damages were paid to the complainant.  He still has to deal with his own damages – and pay the deductible.  Yes, as all other believers, EL has insurance, and the premiums may have been paid by Jesus the Christ, but just as EL would most likely counsel one of his congregation to take some time off – for healing and restoration – EL should do likewise – and more.  That is paying the deductible.   


E. If the Bus Is “Broke Down” from a Wreck, Hail a Taxi


CD chides folks who “left their preacher” because he had a wreck.  Has CD considered that folks would rather not trust a damaged vehicle?   Now, we all have our issues, but we still have to be able to function in our assignments.  How can a shepherd function in his assignment if he has been abusing the sheep?  


Recently, at the window of a drive-thru, I became frustrated when I made a simple inquiry:


Q. What kind of orange juice do you have?
A. Orange.
Q. Well, who makes it?
A. Is orange juice.
Q. Well, what brand is it?
A. Orange.


There was an obvious inability to articulate the answer to my query in English.  In my frustration I backed out of the drive-thru lane, and thinking I had cleared the curb, threw the car in “drive” and proceeded forward, only to go over the curb.  Well, I had a wreck.  I rigged the bumper with two very long cable ties and went home.  However, the very next morning, I was at Apollo Paint & Body (http://www.apollopaintandbody.com [these are simply the nicest auto service  folks I have ever encountered]) to have the damage appraised and repaired.  Sure, I could have left the bumper dangling from the cable ties, but the vehicle would not be restored to how it was before the wreck – nor would it have been in better condition.  In fact, over time, with driving the uneven streets of Houston, the damage to the bumper would have worsened.


So, I would ask CD:  If you were riding in EL’s vehicle and he had a wreck, sustaining significant damage to the body, frame, tires, wheels, windows and steering  wheel, would you jump back in the car and continue riding that road with EL, or would you hail a taxi?  Or catch a bus?  Or call someone else with a car?  Or hitchhike?


V. MEDIATION MAY BE A WIN-WIN, BUT IT CAN CAST A CLOUD OF SERIOUS DOUBT


The dreaded “L” word.  Everyone wants to sue somebody.  What makes them come forward?  Is it about justice?  Equity?  Greed?  Revenge?  Just asking.  Why now did these young men come forward?  Why did EL swear to fight the lawsuit and then settle at mediation?   Was he speaking from a perceived position of strength when he vowed to fight?  Why did he change his mind?


Even though my specialty is civil trial law, I believe that most lawsuits should never have been filed in the first place.  I am very fond of mediation, though it has devolved to a good-old-boy cottage industry and mediators like me rarely get appointed to mediate lawsuits, unless, of course, one of their good-old boys is a judge or lawyer.  They toss some wet-noodle (I really want to say “limp-#!#?” but that would not be appropriate) notion about non-lawyers not being well-versed in legal issues and theories.  Tell that to the lawyers for whom I write!   What hogwash!  Okay, I’ve said it; I dare you to prove me wrong.  [rant paused to continue this note].


The deal is this with mediation:  the Plaintiffs go in speculating about what they’re going to walk away with, as if they deserve something simply because they filed the suit, and the Defendants (at least the ones who know they are liable – they’ve caused a wreck) go in with the intent of giving up only what is absolutely necessary to make the Plaintiffs go away.  There is persuasion on each side, especially for volatile subject matter as the instant case.  There's not supposed to be persuasion per se, but just trust me on that.  And there is the airing of dirty (vile, filthy, whatever you want to say here) laundry, some of which is probably so befouled it should be taken out a burned – despite any imposed burn bans due to drought.


For the culpable defendant, it comes down to which will hurt worse:  settling now or the risk of losing at trial?  Is it less painful for CD to toss a perception of his friend’s liability to the world, while his friend pays off his accusers?  Does the world, then, assume that EL was in the wrong?  


VI. ABOVE THE LAW?


Sometimes folks think they can do whatever they want; they are beyond rules and above the law.  Or, worse, no one would dare accuse me!  Right.  Tell that to John Edwards.  Jim & Tammy Bakker.  Arnold Schwartzenegger.  Jimmy Swaggert.  Bill Clinton.  Tiger Woods and lots of other folks.  Tell that to the guy in paragraph I-E above.  Just because he got by in this life does not mean he will get away with it in the next.  Perhaps he will make it to one of the many rooms in the Savior’s mansion, but rather than an upgrade he will be relegated to the basement.  That simply is not our call.


But, come on, Pastors, yes, we fall down and we get up.  But while we’re down we get dirty.  Sometimes we tear (or lose) our pants, scrape our knees, break a leg, sprain an ankle, bump our heads, get a concussion.  Sometimes we need a little Neosporin and one of those cool Band-Aids that, if you’re a member of the paler nation, blends right into your skin and can barely be detected.  Sometimes we just need to run to one of those 24-hour emergency centers and get our ankle wrapped.  And sometimes we need major surgery, a couple of months at TIRR (a great place), and then outpatient rehabilitation before returning to work PART-TIME.


VII. THERE IS BUT ONE GOD


Having a wreck is something to which we are all susceptible.  What matters is what we do after the wreck.  Do we pretend that all is well?  As if we are not injured?  Or damaged?  After a wreck should one ascend the throne of his pulpit as if he is Almighty God, Father of our Lord, Jesus the Christ, Maker of all things and Judge of all men???   I think not.  There is but one God.  When one assumes the posture of unblemished perfection by not tending to one’s wounds and repairing the damage one sustains in a wreck, the message one sends is “There is absolutely nothing wrong with me.”   While folks should not try to assess the damage – that is between the wrecker and his Maker – folks should avoid the damaged vehicle until it is back where it belongs – or better.

14 June 1998

Today is 6 June 2011.  The title of this little piece --- 13 years ago --- is the date on a letter written to the person who is still, unfortunately, supposed to be my Congressional representative.  I just happened on this little letter when I was doing a search of archives for stuff related to Sarcoidosis.  It is galling, even 13 years later, that no response was ever received to this little note.  Here it is, unedited:

Dear Congresswoman Lee:

About six months ago I completed and returned to your office a form to facilitate your assistance with my obtaining disability benefits from Social Security.  Since then, I have had a hearing before an administrative judge (in mid-March).  Around that time someone from your office called me (according to my caller ID device), but left no message.  When I attempted to ascertain who it may have been, I believe I was given the name of Ms. Hubbard in your Acres Home office.  The one time she spoke with me she informed me that I was not on the voter registration rolls.  This happens not to be true, as I am listed on the voter registration rolls as Andrea Hoxie Richards, which was my name before I married in 1996.  Not only am I a registered voter, but I seldom miss fulfilling my duty to vote.  Still, this should mean nothing as my residence is in your district, and I am therefore one of your constituents and entitled to request your assistance.  As of the writing of this letter I have heard nothing from your office, even after I spoke with one of your former employees who advised me that she sent Ms. Hubbard e-mail asking her to contact me regarding my request for your assistance.

Recently I received an unfavorable decision from Administrative Law Judge Clifford A. Leinberger, a very coarse, crude and intimidating (or so he attempted to be) man.  According to Judge Leinberger, I have never been disabled over the past two years – even when I could not do anything at all for myself – when my husband had to literally take me out of bed and into the bathroom – when I could not walk because my feet were three times their normal size – when I had insufficient stamina to raise a brush to my hair.  

I cannot help but wonder what kind of system we have when I have worked all of my adult life and have had my earnings literally taken away from me to contribute to a system that seems to support everyone except the people who support it  – and have no representation besides.

Perhaps now, folks who read this will understand (1) the gagging noise I make when I hear the Congresswoman's name; (2) why I had to fight the temptation to overrun her in my Jeep as she stood in the middle of Pannell Street, across from Pleasant Hill Baptist Church, on the evening of African Warrior Bud Johnson's wake (I miss sparring with Bud); and (3) why I pray fervently for some competent person to run against her and for folks to take their heads out of the sand (or wherever they are) and vote against her.  Of course, she has been busy:  stumping for the late Robert Byrd (God rest his soul), canonizing Michael Jackson (God rest his soul as well), and schmoozing President Obama after backing Mrs. Clinton.  

On this subject, I believe I have said enough.

Evocations: Random Thoughts From Daryl's Robinson's Senior Recital

DO YOU LIKE WINE?  


I do, even though I know very little about wines:  the varieties and origins of grapes, which ones are right for which foods (other than the basic white for chicken and fish and red for beef -- after that I'm lost), which ones come in contact with the grape skins longer (other than this seems to be a trait of the really dark reds), and other bits of minutiae of which genuine wine aficionados make subjects of serious conversations, blogs, newsletters, magazine articles, and perhaps even a livelihood or two -- or more.  I drink red wine occasionally because my doctor suggested it is beneficial for my health; however, I really don't care for red wine, at least not the ones I have purchased so far.  Still, I drink it for the purpose heretofore stated.  What I do like are Riesling and Gewurtztraminer.  They are light and sweet, and feel heavenly going down.  Unfortunately, I rarely enjoy either, since I save most of my imbibing moments for the medicinal crap of the red once or twice a week -- and turning into a wino or a lush is not on my to-do list.  The bottom line is if I like the taste, nothing else matters -- whether the wine is a Burgundy or Beaujolais, Grenache or Gewurtztraminer, 1927 or 2007.  When it comes to wine, two things matter to this writer:  1) The taste; and  2) Its effect when  trickling over her taste buds and down her esophagus.  What else matters -- or should matter?  To her, nothing; it's just wine. 


DO YOU LIKE VISUAL ART?


I suppose I do.  Well – yes.  Asking about styles would be a waste.  Whether the small, thin brush strokes of Monet’s impressionism, the molten-like movement of Dali’s surrealistic clocks, the over-analyzed smile of da Vinci’s  Renaissance icon – Mona Lisa, the outlandish non-art pop art of Andy Warhol, or the three-dimensional wonders and wackiness of the Cullen Sculpture Garden at the Museum of Fine Arts Houston, visual art for this writer is simple: 1) she examines it; 2) messages, filtered as they go, are sent to her brain; 3) a verdict is rendered.  As to the verdict, there are three possibilities: 1) Like it; 2) Hate it; 3) No comment.  Visual art.   Simple.


Digressing for just a moment:  Even as this is written, however, the writer has a special fondness for John Palmer’s art that transcends her usual mundane, pedestrian attitude toward this type of creativity.  Mr. Palmer’s works are charged with a special energy that incites and excites the writer in a peculiar way.  Not until John Palmer has this writer ever aspired to own an original work of visual art.  And the John Palmer effect is a great lead into a favorite of favorites – 


DO YOU LIKE MUSIC?


I do.  I more than like music.  I love music.  After Jesus, music is God’s all-time greatest gift.  It is a medium that breaks down barriers, soothes the soul in so many states of dis-ease, disarray and despair, and brings people together even when languages may keep them apart.  Music has texture, meaning, eroticism, message, expression, connotation, denotation, mood, structure, fluidity, sanctity and more.   


While my fondness of the grape and the visual arts are limited, my love for music is beyond – what?  Well, beyond.  And my affinity for various music styles touches many points on the spectrum.  Favorites can be found among most except rap and heavy metal, which, to this writer, are neither musical nor artistic, but rather bastardizing throwbacks to some dark hole of uncivilization.  


There are forms of music, and genres of music within forms.  The music world is kind of like God's creation subjected to taxonomic ranks – class, order, family, genus and species.  In the music realm folks toss around labels like gospel, sacred, classical, jazz and pop, which are very broad categories – families – within which are genera, and species.


Recently a young man was heard saying, in effect, that everything that could be done in music had already been accomplished.  Heresy!  Sacrilege!  What the young man failed to realize is that the dead end he envisions as music is indicative of his limited imagination.  The saving grace is that since our thoughts differ, as do our inhibitions (or lack thereof), our self-imposed limits are the only obstacles that keep music, and most other things, from expanding in scope and creativity.


The good thing is that even if our abilities to compose, arrange and perform music are limited to certain instruments and styles, our listening ears and minds allow us to appreciate stuff far beyond our abilities.   As a classically trained pianist who learned to compose within certain parameters, I often debate myself when a creative stroke takes me outside the box of those “rules for writing music with proper structure.”  Boo – hiss.  The galling thing is when I hear beyond-the-barriers music fraught with exquisite dissonance and think “hmpf – that’s really great,” I also wonder, "now -- why can't I do that?"  And since the breadth of my pianistic abilities was restricted by inadequate rehabilitation of broken bones and mangled muscles after a near-fatal car crash, this writer has learned to be content with her performance limitations, and yet find much joy in experiencing the gifts of others, like Daryl Robinson at his senior recital.


Daryl has been a subject of more than one blog on this site.  This old woman is simply taken with this talented young man who is a personable as he is polished and professional.  The music Daryl played was the stuff of professionals, not a student trying to fulfill requirements for an undergraduate degree.  Daryl’s program was a mix of styles, influencing evocations of such broad extremes as to send one on an emotional overload.  Aside from the mesmerizing conglomeration of sounds that made one think either 1) there is really an orchestra up there; or 2) Daryl evidently has four hands and four feet, this is how Daryl’s music touched my soul (not necessarily in this order):


Image: The betrayal, humiliation, trial, suffering, mockery, crucifixion, death, burial and resurrection of Jesus, the Christ.  Since this imagery has been treated in great detail in a previous, but recent writing, nothing more will be said here, other than it was so powerful that this writer’s body actually shuddered with sorrow -- then joy.


Image: A glade, a clearing in a wooded area with a quiet running stream of water.  A “no worries” place of calm, peace and rest.  A safe place.  A place near the heart of God.  Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. . . . Blessed assurance.   It is well with my soul.  I am content.


Image:   I have wings.  And I can fly.  I am standing on that new-fangled skywalk at the Grand Canyon -- you know the one  -- with the transparent floor.   I levitate upward, and take off, soaring through the canyon.  Wow!


Image: A quite moment between a wife who entreats her husband.  The two, despite a rift between them, are destined to be together – forever:  


What I want to do with you
Is picnic in the park
I'll pack a basket of your favorite treats
Lots for you to eat
The finest, freshest, sweetest
Most luscious fruit you could ever have
A pair of firm, ripe, sweet melons
With the tartest, tastiest stems
Waiting for your lips
The biggest, blackest sweetest cherry
(It's juices ooze unceasingly at first bite)
Nestled in a pair large warm buns
Waiting for your hands
To test their freshness, 
Served on a bed of fresh cut grass
In the deepest recesses of my garden
A more fitting place to feast than a park
A place where you can go
Cast away all care
A place where the two of us
Our thirsts can quench, desires fulfill
Our love share
A place where no one else can
Come between our souls,
Nor invade our minds
Or untangle our beings
A place where I'll belong to you always.
So open the gate of my garden
And take a stroll once more
No thought of unpleasant happenings
Of times gone on before
Since you left my garden
I've kept it just for you
So come back to take what's yours
None else can have it -- just you




HAVE YOU GONE MAD?


I think not.  This writing is merely a picture of the gift one received in the presence of a brilliant organist while at his best, doing what he loves. 


Mr. Robinson offered in 60 minutes, works that, despite spanning scores and scores and scores of years, many would lump into one class of music: classical.   Forget the family, genera and species – just classical.  Few would go beyond that, just as this writer does not distinguish the grapes for Beaujolais from the grapes for Bordeaux.  Again, few would go beyond classical, just as this writer, while being able to distinguish between Monet and da Vinci, has an appreciation for both but is not thrilled by either.  That is why wine does it for some and visual art does it for others.  John Palmer excepting -- his stuff is electric.  


And that is why music does it for me.  It is the absolutely finest drug and has no harmful side effects.  It is a great therapist and is not limited to a 50-minute hour (“50" is not a typo -- 50 minutes equals one hour of therapy).  It is an ever-extending bridge between the gap of strained relationships.  It is a fine way to connect with the Almighty.  And Daryl Robinson is a masterful deliverer of the drug, the bridge and a way to Him who sits on the throne.  Sometimes, when a word of prayer cannot be uttered, a melody can be hummed.  Sometimes when thoughts are so muddled, one cannot be concisely framed, but a passage of music will serve to re-center and refocus.  And sometimes, when the mind is gone, music can bring it back, if just for a while, and with it, much joy.  


God bless Daryl, a magical, masterful, music maker.  Be in his hands, his feet and his heart.  Always.  Amen.

Recovering From Worship???

Today is Good Friday.  For Believers we’re talking about something super special – the day we commemorate the passion and crucifixion of our Lord and Savior.  But, first, let’s back up to yesterday – Maundy Thursday – the day Believers commemorate the last supper.  


This writer cares not for the technobabble about how the dates for Holy Week and Resurrection Day change from one year to the next, just as this writer gives no thought to December 25 not being the Savior’s birthday.  None of these issues negate the beliefs of those of my ilk:  that He was born of an immaculate conception, He walked the earth, He suffered and died, and He was resurrected.  What is of significance that we remember.  In fact whenever we worship, we should be reminded.  So, how does that work?  Well, let’s talk about it.


Back to yesterday, Maundy Thursday.  It was a typical April day in Houston, Texas, in a word, hot.   It is the time of year when my beloved sun because one of my worst enemies, causing the manifestation of Sarcoidosis-related issues – like not being able to breathe, reddening and blistering facial skin (not easy for this Chocolate Bunny, but it actually turns red), and a total draining of every bit of energy in my body. Yet, it is Holy Week.  And despite the climate, Holy Week calls for daily treks to the Westmoreland Chapel on the campus South Main Baptist Church for worship at noon, and, if one is so inclined thereafter, a nice lunch served in the shade of our Chafin Educational Building (we have an absolutely awesome kitchen staff – okay – that’s a plug, but true).


The noon worship on Maundy Thursday focused on the text found in verses 53 through 65 of the 14th chapter of Mark, and Pastor Steve’s question:  Who killed Jesus?   (If one recalls Mel Gibson’s movie The Passion, one might also recall the clamor at that time about just that question: Who killed Jesus?   One might also recall the close-up of various hands nailing Jesus to the cross, among them being the hands of Mr. Gibson.)  And toward the end of the message, Pastor Steve began answering the question by calling the roll: Jews killed Jesus – not all Jews but Caiaphas and the chief priests, the teachers of the law, the Sanhedrin that were assembled that night – a kangaroo court in Caiaphas’s home; and the Romans – not all Romans but those who handed Him over to Pontius Pilot; and, theologically, God the Father, who sent His Son into the world for just this purpose; and Jesus, who allowed Himself to be killed.  And, of course, there are more – many, many more: our sins killed Jesus.  I killed Jesus.  You killed Jesus.  And so it goes, folks: we all had a hand in nailing Him to the tree.  Wow.  Folks who only want “feel-good” church would have left unfulfilled and very much disappointed rather than convicted – and convinced that the only way we will stop killing Jesus is to become more like Him.


The day of worship continued Maundy Thursday evening, with the most somber worship time of any at South Main – the Service of Shadows – the time when we reflect on the betrayal, arrest, desertion, trial, scourging, crucifixion and death of the Only Faultless One to ever walk the earth.  Amidst voices pouring out words in haunting melodies and lush harmonies, words that salve and soothe one’s soul, our Ragan C. read from The Word, the scriptures that so vividly paint the picture that tells the story of how we all participated in nailing Him to the tree.  By the end of worship, there is silence and darkness – how the world was left then after they/we had killed Him – and words fittingly descriptive, even today, of lives that are without His light.  Wow.


And Holy Week continued today.  Yet, another trek to the Westmoreland Chapel for noon worship, a Silent Service – an intentional, deliberate means of focusing the worshiper, once more, on the sacrifice of our Savior.  


This service is comprised of a series of scriptures, each followed by a song played by our resident prodigy, organist Daryl Robinson.  Daryl is a favorite of this writer.  His musicianship is beyond comparison, going far beyond the mastery of his performance abilities, but technical knowledge as well.  What had not been realized until today, was Daryl’s tremendous gift of marrying scripture to music.   Thoughtfully choosing* familiar texts and melodies, as well as works that may not be known to many of us at all, Mr. Robinson took worshipers on a journey, from Christ’s condemnation, to the Via Dolorosa, to Golgotha, to the tomb.   Complementing the words of the chosen music, were the music arrangements themselves, employing harmonies, progressions and nuances that added more texture and brilliance to the pictures the Scriptures and lyrics painted.


Feel the moment of condemnation, knowing that what lay ahead was even worse than what had already transpired: 

Christ, who saves us by His cross,

And no sin committed

(J.S. Bach).   

Feel the weight of the cross beneath a battered and emaciated body.  

Must Jesus bear the cross alone

and all the world go free?  

(George N. Allen/Thomas Shepherd).  

See Simon of Cyrene carry the cross for Him.  

Shun not suffering, shame, or loss; 

learn of Christ to bear the cross.  

(Richard Redhead/James Montgomery). 

Feel the agony of the women who wailed for Jesus.  
There is a balm in Gilead 
to heal the sin sick soul 
(Negro Spiritual).  


Feel the nakedness of His body as the soldiers divided His clothing:   

A purple robe, a crown of thorn, 

a reed in His right hand, 

Before the soldiers’ spite and scorn 

I see my Savior stand.  

(David Wilson/Timothy Dudley-Smith).  

See the nails being driven into His hands and feet, but if like this writer, just try to avoid imagining the added pain they caused:  

God, give us each our own death, 

the dying that proeeds from each of our lives.  

(Camil van Huise/Rilke) 

Feel the darkness creeping into the world as He breathed His last breath:

Grim death, with cruel rigor, 

hath robbed Thee of Thy life; 

Thus Thou hast lost Thy vigor, 

Thy strength in this sad strife 

(Brahms/Bernard of Clairvaux).  

See them take His body from the cross:

When I survey the wondrous cross

on which the Prince of glory died.  

(Edward Miller/Isaac Watts).  

See Joseph wrap Him in a linen cloth and lay Him in a tomb hewn out of rock:

Were you there when they laid Him in the tomb?  

Oh!  Sometimes it causes me to tremble.  

(Negro Spiritual).

As worshipers left the chapel in silence, words and music remained alive.  Just off the sidewalk, leaning against the accessible parking pillar under a tree (that must be older than any building on the campus), providing protective shade while God wrapped his arms around me in a light breeze that tempered the afternoon heat preventing pulmonary discomfort, the words and the music washed over me again, leaving images of the 24-hour period that began at noon on Maundy Thursday, and a thought: how awesome it is to live on this side of the resurrection, to be able to look back and see that whole picture.  Kevin Sinclair, our minister to youth, spoke as he passed by, asking if he could be of assistance.  Oh, I’m just recovering from worship.  Sometimes it takes me a while.  He gave me an understanding nod, and left me to continue me reverie.


Finally collecting myself, I drove away with another thought – a question: how does one recover from worship?   In retrospect, that just seems odd.  To recover – meaning to bring back or get back to normal – totally negates the purpose of worship.   Quite often, a prayer in worship at South Main includes the plea that we be transformed so that we will be less of what we used to be and more of what we ought to be through Christ Jesus.  And so, folks, recovering from worship is just not the desired thing to do.  To leave worship the same as one came is to spend an hour (or two, or however many) going through some ritual, reading words, singing songs, joining in prayers, and listening to sermons, that are no more than water off a duck’s back.  So why bother?


And so, rather than recover from worship, perhaps I should have told Kevin, I’m still renewing through worship:


Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is – his good, pleasing and perfect will. (Romans 12:2, NIV).  Perhaps with a little more renewing and transforming, we would kill Jesus less often.


Out of the most agonizing time of the first century A.D. was born the grace we experience today. Because of that, even in silent worship, there are conviction and comfort; veil-lifting and vindication; peace and promise; enlightenment and edification, and hopefully, a desire for renewal and transformation.




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*All right, thoughtfully choosing is conjecture on my part; still, this writer is sure it took more than a few minutes while nursing his favorite Starbuck’s beverage, for Mr. Robinson to well devise a worship service that so wonderfully reflects the gravity and majesty of the moment.