Steve's Writing

Best Laid Plans (Burns Day Edition)

2012-01-25T11:15:00.000-08:00

It's Burns Day, when people the world over gather to celebrate the life and writings of the gret mon ;-)
Even though I didn't know this when I wrote this piece, it seems like today is the day to post it. Enjoy, Steve

Best Laid Plans (a slightly longer than usual Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

"The best laid schemes of mice and men go oft astray" says the Robert Burns quote, and my experience certainly agrees. It hasn't put me off scheming, completely, but there ARE times I wonder why I bother. You plan, organize, time-manage, equip, assemble, deploy, and, in some case, accessorize; not to mention hurry, fret, placate, rearrange, orient, and clock-watch (which is different than time-manage ... really). But, it just doesn't QUITE work out. To paraphrase Field Marshall Moltke: "No plan survives actual contact with the enemy."

In case this sounds defeatist, let me stop you right now. Moltke was just warming up his argument that strategizing for battle must ALWAYS include contingency planning; the consideration of every possible iteration.

And Burns was apologizing to a mouse.

No, I don't think either of these men would want their thoughts misconstrued. Moltke, in brief, was saying "fret not;" rather, plan WELL, all the time recognizing you just cannot anticipate everything. Have enough contingencies that you can be creative in your response when the inevitable breakdown occurs. In fact, he not-so-famously also said, "Strategy is a system of expedients."

And Burns recognized the fact that disappointment (and disappointment is, perhaps, putting it too mildly for some of us) often accompanies the realization that our plans are not unfolding as we intended them. Burns is sorry that his plowing has destroyed the mouse's home, but he a little envious that the mouse can focus only on the present, while he is subject to worry about both the past and future.

I've had good reason to reflect on the philosophies of these two men, recently. I had a scheme go astray, a plan expire in the face of reality. I had made careful arrangements for a successful appointment with my new trainer. Having set the appointment later in the evening, I still left work shortly after five to ensure I had plenty of margin in travel time. And, despite the torrential downpour that slowed traffic and made driving difficult, I still made it to the gym in plenty of time. I had already carefully packed my gym bag so I wouldn't have any last minute concerns about essential clothing, lock for the locker, shampoo, etc. I even packed a pen to use in capturing my workout plan for future reference.

There was, however, one little thing.

I arrived timely, I met my trainer, we agreed on a rendezvous point on the gym floor, and I headed off to the locker room to change. I selected a locker, started changing, set my bag into the locker, and slipped the lock into the hasp ... except, it wouldn't GO into the hasp. I focused on the situation. Perhaps something was blocking? Maybe I was coming at it from an angle?

No. It was, of course, the unanticipated thing; in fact, the almost unanticipatable thing: the diameter of the lock's shackle was just THIS much too wide to fit through the hasp. My first reaction: WHAT?! Then, I had one of those little moments where you tell yourself not to panic, to apply some logic. Of COURSE my lock would work. I just needed to find a different hasp; something was wrong with this one, the odd narrow opening.

Nope. I tried my lock on every available locker. No luck. Somehow, the shackle of my ordinary Master Lock was just a few microns too thick, and no amount of calm logic was going to change that.

These things happen to us, don't they? Frankly, all the planning in the world can't prevent them. Yes, we can and should make plans. But we need to be ready to "roll with the punch" because the punch is going to come. We WILL have to make a course correction, to put it in nautical terms. And beyond the "what" of that creative response is something perhaps even more important: the "how."

We are free to choose any solution that satisfies us. We could just throw up our hands and leave. Let's face it: if you don't feel angry at the unfolding events, the other go-to choice is self-blame and then surrender. And speaking of anger, we can, as my Great Aunt Vera used to say, "throw a hissy fit." It's emotionally gratifying and, conveniently, usually shifts the blame from ourselves to someone else. Most of us think all our options lie on a continuum between these two poles: surrender or strike out at someone else; flight or fight. Most people don't care to consider another response, to step outside the usual. And freedom allows them to leave it at that.

But, as 1 Corinthians 8 says, "God does care when you use your freedom carelessly," especially as it affects those who may not be as strong of will or certainty as we are. And how are we to know who is "strong enough" to not be impacted by our choices, actions, statements?

As for me, well, there was no solution from Burns. I'm old enough not to fret in disappointing situations ... at least, those that don't threaten my ego ;-) And while I had already applied Moltke's strategic approach to planning the night, now seemed to be the moment for some of his creative response to the inevitable. So, I went back out and made new arrangements with my trainer. We will meet another night.

In the meantime, I will buy a different lock.

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Fourth Sunday after the Epiphany (January 29, 2012)
Deuteronomy 18:15-2
Psalm 111
1 Corinthians 8:1-13
Mark 1:21-28

Join us at 8:00 at Cafe Cappuccino (downtown on 6th, near the Courthouse) if you are in Waco Friday morning. Good food and great discussion of this week's Lectionary passages.

Blessings,
Steve

Sent from my iPad

Passing Away

2012-01-20T17:08:00.000-08:00

Passing Away (a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I have never been very good at endings.

I remember reading a comment one author made about his craftwork where he indicated he thought he wrote good beginnings and great middles, but that he had trouble with endings. Man! Do I get that! When I am in the flow of it; when my characters are doing interesting things, going interesting places, speaking interesting dialog ... it is SO hard to shut the door on that.

But it is not just in the realm of writing that I have this challenge. I hate to come to the end of the books I'm reading. Orson Scott Card, opining on the craft of writing, claimed the sad ending is not the opposite of the happy ending. He reserved that dishonor for the unsatisfying ending. And I agree.

I am coming to an ending of something that has given me great joy for several years, and I am very reluctant to be done. Some years ago I decided to read all of Ed McBain's 87th Precinct novels, in order. Just so you have the picture: he wrote almost 60 of these, starting in 1956 and continuing until just a few years ago (I think he published his last in 2008). This was a tall order.

Since I wanted to read them in order, I needed to start with books first published in the mid-1950's. So, part of the fun was the hunt! My family can testify that I have haunted every used book store in my path, be it in Seattle or San Diego, Boston or Kennebunk, Sitka or Quebec, Texas or DC. And, yes, I even made a point of going to 84 Charing Cross Road when I was in London. You never know where you will find that next book. And, little by little, I did find them.

Over the years, I have been with these fictional people through good times and bad. I have watched them become parents and struggled along with them as they attempted to raise their kids they best way they knew how. I was there when some of them met harm in service to the greater good, and was saddened when some of them didn't recover. [Little plug here: If you ever enjoyed an episode of Hill Street Blues, Law & Order, or NYPD Blue, you may want to take a look at these. All of those trace their roots right back to the 87th Precinct.]

But now, after all these years, I have come to the very last book. I had to skip this one, initially. I found and read the two on either side of it, but I could never locate this particular one (it came out in 1976). Oh, I could have ordered a hardcopy from one of those websites, but that was not part of the game at the time. Now, because ALL of them have become available on Kindle, I am going to read it electronically.

And I am reluctant to start. But I am going to start. And I am going to read it. Partly because I just can't stand to not know what happened. But it is also partly due to the fact that I have learned something important about endings: they aren't really endings.

They are transition points.

True; this particular thing is ending, but it leads to something else. That is the reality. What we have to do is stop looking at endings like they are stopping points, find a way to see where they lead. Because there is always a "next." There's a reason graduation is called "Commencement." It says in 1st Corinthians: "the present form of this world is passing away." And that is true. But it is only part of the truth.

There is something else coming to replace it.

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Third Sunday after the Epiphany (January 22, 2012)
Jonah 3:1-5, 10
Psalm 62:5-12
1 Corinthians 7:29-31
Mark 1:14-20

Jumping the Green

2012-01-13T18:30:00.000-08:00

Jumping the Green
(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

My Dad was unable to teach me to drive. I say unable; but perhaps "unwilling" is a better description of the matter.

This was way back in the dark ages, before schools included Drivers' Ed in the curriculum. Driving was not considered a very complicated process, so instruction was left to "a responsible adult driver" to accomplish. On top of that, we could not obtain a learner's permit until one month before our 16th birthday. Do that math any way you want: it comes down to having to learn to drive in 30 days.

When the magical day arrived, Dad drove me to the courthouse so I could get my permit. In Kentucky, this required interacting with some pretty scary-looking State Police officers. I was asked how I had come there that day. I couldn't seem to find my voice, so I just pointed to my Dad. I was issued a driver's handbook along with an admonition to not operate a vehicle, alone, until after I had obtained my license.

My younger sister had already learned to operate Dad's VW Beatle (a manual transmission) on some farmland near our home. It was an unending source of glee for her, and embarrassment for Dad, that I could not master the "stick." So, I had to learn to drive in Mom's Barracuda (an automatic transmission). On our first (and only) outing (taken on country roads to limit exposures to other vehicles), Dad spent most of the drive clinging to the passenger door and hissing through his teeth. While he never spoke to me about it, apparently my every action frightened him. Because when we got home, he told Mom she would have to teach me. I was not sad about that development. Who can think with a hisser in the car?

Since Mom's Barracuda was blue with white interior (my high school colors!), I was happy ... several less things to have to think about, and a little bit of cool in case any of my friends saw me. After a few more country road outings, Mom decided I was ready for the surface streets in our town. Much of this is a blur, but I clearly recall one incident from that month. We stopped at a red light, my first. Mom looked over at me and said, "Don't go right when it turns green. Give it a second."

I remember thinking that was an odd thing to say. I had read my driver's handbook. I knew we were supposed to stop on red and go on green ... yellow is still up for debate ;-) In fact, not only was it expected, it was my right. When the light is green, I have the right of way. But, being the dutiful son, and having no desire to be cast off to some other relative for the balance of my training, I obeyed her. Imagine my shock when, shortly after the light turned green, a car ran the red light, cutting straight through the space we would have occupied if I had asserted my rights!

I learned a lesson that day, and not only one about driving. I call it "jumping the green," those actions we take simply because we can. They are allowed, so we do them. But, as was so stunningly demonstrated to me that day late in my 15th year, such actions may not always be the wisest.

Something to think about.

"Just because something is technically legal doesn't mean that it's spiritually appropriate." (1 Corinthians 6:12 MSG)

http://lectionary.library.vanderbilt.edu/

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Second Sunday after the Epiphany (January 15, 2012)
1 Samuel 3:1-10, (11-20)
Psalm 139:1-6, 13-18
1 Corinthians 6:12-20
John 1:43-51

The Wild Bunch (a slightly different Christmas story)

2011-12-24T19:50:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of middle-east-pictures.com

MANY OF YOU HAVE REQUESTED THIS BE REPOSTED FROM LAST YEAR. HAPPY TO DO SO. ENJOY.

(A brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr for Christmas Eve)

On the surface, "The Wild Bunch" sounds like a pretty interesting movie: an aging group of “old west” outlaws has trouble adjusting to the very modern world of 1913. From that premise we could build almost any kind of movie; a comedy, a love story, a heroic epic; maybe even a heart-warming Christmas tale. But that premise is not the whole of it.

When Roger Ebert reviewed the movie back in the summer of 1969, he called it "the most violent movie ever made," a movie in which "there are no heroes; just some bad people we know killing some bad people we don't know." And if that doesn't give you pause, let me add my own caution: even though some mainstream movies may have matched the violence of this film in recent years, the cruelty depicted in it is still truly disturbing all these decades later. While we could spend a lot of time engaging in the ongoing debate about the value of the film (it is considered by many to be one of the top ten westerns of all time), that's not why I raised the topic here.

I want us to consider the wild bunch, themselves.

Here is a group of men who are hard; who spend a lot of their time out in the badlands, sleeping rough, living rough. They look rough, and they smell bad. Not the kind of folk most of us would choose to spend any time with at all. For any reason. We immediately mistrust them. There is something about the look of them that makes us want to turn and go the other way. Not someone you would wish to have join the family, and if they were already in the family, well, we would want to send them as far away as we could possibly arrange.

In short, a lot like the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night . . . on THAT night.

What?!

Oh, yes. Scholars tell us that at the time of Jesus' birth, shepherding was a despised trade, comprised of despised people. They were considered thieves; in fact, people were strongly discouraged from purchasing milk or wool from shepherds because it was widely assumed they had come by those goods dishonestly. They were not allowed to provide testimony in a criminal investigation. Loving fathers refused to teach their sons the trade.

Wow. That really changes how we see the events of that night of nights. Picture it with me. These low men are out in the fields with the sheep. Some are sleeping. Sheep don’t smell any better at night than in the day; and they don’t smell any better when asleep. But these men have grown accustomed to the smell. In fact, the men smell exactly the same as the sheep. Those who are keeping watch are alert to the sounds of the night; more concerned for their own lives than for the lives of the sheep.

Suddenly: an angel just APPEARS out of nowhere! Right there in the middle of them! Glory and light shine all about. The shepherds’ first thought: RUN! But the angel, who knows they are afraid (and probably should be) calms them down. He gives them the message about the Messiah being born in the nearby town and describes how they will recognize him. And if that was not enough, suddenly, there are even MORE angels surrounding them; an army of them, shouting in unison “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth to people who please Him!”

Then, just as suddenly as they appeared: they are just not there.

After all that, what would you do? The shepherds did just what I think any of us would do (after we got over the shock); they went to investigate.

Now picture THIS scene: Mary and Joseph (surrounded by livestock, having wrapped their newborn son in cloths and placed him in the feed trough because, well, there is just NO WHERE ELSE) hear a noise. At first, it is unidentifiable; but soon, they recognize it as the many voices of excited people; and the sound appears to be rushing toward them. In short order, the little stable is crammed full of shepherds; not exactly the kind of people parents would want near their newborn. And the smell, already bad, only gets worse. There is a lot of pushing and shoving; finally the whole crowd tells the tale; talking over each other, each one trying to tell it.

Then, like many have over the ensuing millennia, the shepherds took to the streets to tell what they had seen and heard that night. And---maybe for the first time ever---people stopped to listen to them; these hard, low men; these thieves. And the people marveled at what they heard.

Relative Hospitality

2011-12-16T14:54:00.000-08:00

Relative Hospitality
(a brief Lectionary reflection at Advent by Steve Orr)

When I was young, vacations usually went something like this. We kids would be awakened sometime in the night or very early morning (all I can recall is that it was dark and I was sleepy). Our parents would herd us into (or perhaps carry us to) the back of the station wagon where we would find a pallet of blankets nestled in among the luggage. Once we hit those blankets, that's the last we knew until well past sunup.

Depending on how our family was doing with money at the time, and just as often on my dad's mood, we might or might not stop to eat at a roadside diner. It was quite common for them to have packed several bologna sandwiches, potato salad, and Jello into Tupperware containers (lids carefully placed and burped to ensure freshness) so we would not have to stop for meals.

We might be headed to Florida, Tennessee, Louisiana, or Michigan; we might stop to see things along the way or Dad might be so focused we would have to beg him to make bathroom stops; but one thing was certain: there was always a relative at the other end of our journey.

We stayed with family. That was our way. There might be a guest room for the adults; but even if not, there were always places for us to stay (maybe a foldout couch or a trundle bed, maybe in a den or basement-cum-family room), even if only on the ever-handy pallet of blankets on the floor. There was always room for visitors. I was a married man before I took a family vacation that did not involve staying with relatives at some point in the vacation.

For most of us, it is still the same, today. We call it hospitality, but with family it is almost a given. Family tends to take care of family. When they're in town, they stay with us.

So, with the foregoing in mind, I have to wonder: why were Joseph and Mary looking for an inn? Why weren't they staying with family? We have this mental picture of the two of them: Mary astride a donkey, Joseph holding the rope, both looking forlorn as the Innkeeper informs them there is no room (perhaps due to the influx of people in town to register for the Emperor's census).

That picture is unlikely.

First, Bethlehem is only five miles outside Jerusalem. It's a long walk, but it is unlikely there was a need in Bethlehem for what we think of as an "inn." While there were open-air enclosures along the major trade routes where travelers could stop for the night, don't think "Inn of the Prancing Pony"; more like "biker bar." Not the kind of place a respectable Jewish man would take his pregnant fiancé for the night.

No, the word we usually translate as "inn" is better translated as "guest room," something every Jewish home had (even the poorest of one-room homes had a partitioned area where guests could bed down for the night).

The other matter is the fact that scripture says, "While they were there, the time came for her baby to be born." It's not that they showed up in Bethlehem only to be shuttled to a nearby barn just in time for Jesus to be born. They were already in town, probably staying with some of Joseph's relatives, but they were not welcome into one of the family guest rooms (unmarried? pregnant? perceived to be adulterous? ... you fill in the reason).

But someone finally decides that even though the couple has, apparently, broken some pretty serious Jewish laws, such a pregnant girl can't be forced to stay out in the open. So, taking pity, they put the couple in the cave with the animals. It's protected from the weather, and, perhaps just as importantly, from the prying eyes of the neighbors.

It's not a pretty story, but it is much more consistent with having the unsavory shepherds (those low men) show up to be the human heralds of the Messiah. Low key, low station, low people. A fitting birth scenario for the kind of king who would someday ride into the capital city on the back of a donkey rather than a warhorse and then usher in a new kingdom by ignobly dying on a cross.

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Fourth Sunday of Advent (December 18, 2011)
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16
Luke 1:46b-55 or Psalm 89:1-4, 19-26
Romans 16:25-27
Luke 1:26-38

Not Quite What I Was Planning

2011-12-08T10:44:00.000-08:00

Not Quite What I Was Planning
(a Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I've been rereading "Not Quite What I Was Planning," that wonderful little book of six-word memoirs edited and published by Smith Magazine. These short summaries range from the ridiculous ("I was a Michael Jackson impersonator.") to the sublime ("Learning disability, MIT. Never give up."), from the humorous ("Catholic girl. Jersey. It's all true.") to the heart-breaking (Hemingway's famous six-word story: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."), and just about every thought in between.

This little tome is packed with such bon mots as comedian Tracey Morgan's self-descriptive phrase ("At the end of normal street" ) and Janelle Brown's confession ("My second grade teacher was right."). There is bathos ("We were our own Springer episode.") and there is pathos ("I still make coffee for two."). There are commentaries on life ("It's like forever, only much shorter.") and on its absurdities ("Time to start over again, again.").

It is one of those little books that, every few months, just seems to call to me; and I find I can't resist taking another dip. I always find one I missed (or, at this age, may just have forgotten), and I always come away from the experience somehow bettered, happier with my life as it is.

After reading this week's Lectionary passages, I wondered if we might wish for some of those phrases as personal memoirs; something like: "Sowed in tears, reaped with joy" or "Gave a garland instead of ashes." Perhaps "Came to testify to the light" or "Gives thanks in all circumstances; still." Or consider "Filled the hungry with good things" or "My spirit rejoices; God my savior."

"What would you write," he asked?

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Third Sunday of Advent (December 11, 2011)
Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11
Psalm 126 or Luke 1:46b-55
1 Thessalonians 5:16-24
John 1:6-8, 19-28

As usual, if you are in Waco on Friday morning, you are invited to join us at Cafe Cappuccino (downtown, near the Courthouse, on 6th) at 8:00 for breakfast and some fun with scriptures ;-)

Green-Eyed Monster?

2011-11-30T19:29:00.000-08:00

Green-Eyed Monster
(a reverie by Steve Orr)

Parenting brings with it many puzzling episodes. One of the most puzzling (and disturbing) is how the ol' Green-eyed Monster shows up when you least expect it. Yes, I am talking about jealousy. If you are a parent, you no doubt have some idea where this is going. If not, just hold on. You may be surprised.

I did a lot of thinking about parenting before actually becoming one. I read good books and articles. I knew what to expect while "we" were expecting, and I THOUGHT I knew what to expect when we stopped expecting and started the next phase.

There were many surprises.

Sleep, for instance. No matter how many times people tell you, with a bit of a laugh, that you are going to go without sufficient sleep for the first few weeks (months ... years!), you just don't really believe it will be as bad as it turns out to be. As more than one sleep-deprived parent has quipped, "It's a good thing God made them cute!" But, you deal. And just about the time you think you will slip into non-temporary insanity, the kid sleeps an extra hour. Sure, you wake up panicked that first time, but you get over that pretty quickly.

But, as bad as that was, it was the green-eyed monster that really shook me.

As a new parent, one of the strangest things I ever had to deal with was the fact that my child sometimes preferred one parent over another; specifically, her mother over me. When this first occurred, I was shocked! I think what I expected was that our baby would constantly and consistently love us both because that's how we both loved her.

Turns out it is natural for a child to prefer one adult to another for some period of time. And, yes, knowing that DOES help deal with it, but not as much as you would think. It's the old "I know it, intellectually" versus the "I feel rejected" emotion. Intellect is a bit of a lightweight in that battle.

It hurts.

And, the very next stop on the pity express is becoming jealous of the adult your kid has latched on to. It doesn't matter if it is your spouse or an in-law or even one of your own parents ... you WISH it was you, and it bothers you, deeply, that it is not.

I was jealous! And I am not certain which disturbed me most, that I was jealous or that I felt rejected. And even THAT uncertainty was disturbing. My emotions were making a strong push to overrule my head.

Now, the good news in all this is that the little angels don't STAY fixated on that one person; they are equal-opportunity snubbers. After a few weeks of only wanting Grandma or only wanting Momma, they switch to someone else. And then for a while, that person gets their almost undivided attention. The only cure for this situation is patience. Eventually, children grow out of this. And eventually they grow to the point they want you to let them out a block from school lest any of their friends discover they have parents ... but that's a story for another time ;-)

I Remember 11/22/63

2011-11-22T06:18:00.001-08:00

Math class. 5th period. Paducah, Kentucky.

That's where I was.

Mr. Wise was in the middle of trying to funnel something into our adolescent heads, something even HE had no interest in. I had him two periods in a row; math in 5th and science in 6th. He was better in science. But even that wasn't his field. It hadn't taken us too long into the semester to discover that his true love was history. And at least in science we were able to pull him off topic with some regularity. Math, on the other hand, was all numbers; no history reprieve there.

So, when Mrs. Champion appeared at our door, we all correctly interpreted the interruption. This was no simple "Please send so-and-so to Mr. Cromwell's office." Other teachers didn't bring that kind of request. No, this was to be one of those rare teacher-talks-with-teacher things that could be counted on to provide us several minutes of relief.

Or so we thought.

Mr. Wise stepped into the hall, and, of course, closed the door so we couldn't hear. Teachers rarely allowed students to listen in on their conversations. But we could see them through the little view pane, and the conversation appeared to be intense. Shortly, Mrs. Champion disappeared from the view pane and the door swung open about a foot. Mr. Wise stuck his head into the gap, told us to work the problems on the next page over, closed the door, and left.

We had only just begun to realize that the assigned problems were new material which we had not yet been taught, when the door again swung partially open, and Mr. Wise again stuck his head part way in.

With no discernible emotion, he announced, "The President has been shot."

He then closed the door and left.

From there, time seemed to stretch, almost unbearably. We did not do math. After what seemed a very, very long time, the bell FINALLY rang.

Most of my fellow students grabbed their books and headed out into the hall to get to their 6th period classes. A handful of us stayed in place. This WAS our 6th period classroom. Science. With Mr. Wise. For that few moments of relative silence, we just looked at each other, not really having any idea what to say.

Then, noise poured in from the hall in the form of our fellow scientists who were all talking about the President. I caught snatches: "...shot...assassination attempt...Dallas...motorcade...hospital." Then, when the 6th period bell rang, by some telepathic mutual consent, everyone stopped talking.

And we sat there. In silence. No one opened a book. No one made any pretense, whatsoever, to study science. I really could hear the wall clock tick ... tick ... tick. It went like that for about a half hour.

Then, once again, the door cracked open and Mr. Wise poked his head through the slender opening.

In the same emotionless voice as before, he said, "The President is dead."

He then closed the door and left. We did not see him again that day.

For that matter, we did not see him again that week. When the final bell rang that afternoon, we were done with school for a while.

We were about to learn some lessons I am certain none of our teachers had ever envisioned as a part of our development.

Reality had intruded. We had a President to mourn.

Sheep or Goat?

2011-11-17T12:31:00.001-08:00

Sheep or Goat?
(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

It was one of the stranger discussions I've had. Before me was a tender-hearted woman who, more than perhaps anything, wanted to help others. Also before me was her unhappy husband. They had come seeking some counsel from a fellow pilgrim, someone they perceived as being on the same spiritual journey. And because I taught their Bible class, I was going to be that someone.

In halting English (it wasn't her first language), she slowly began to explain.

"My husband is upset with me because I give away."

I looked at her husband and he confirmed her statement with a curt nod of his head. So I asked her, "When you you say 'give away,' what do you mean, specifically?"

She thought about my question for several seconds and then said, "I give away clothes. I give away food. I give away furniture."

That was unexpected.

Thinking I may be misunderstanding, perhaps due to the difference in native languages, I again asked for an explanation.

At this point, the husband spoke up, and his English was excellent, better than mine. "Every day I come home from work and more of our things are missing".

"Do you mean she gives old stuff to Good Will?" I asked.

"No," he said. "When she sees or meets someone who has need of clothing, she gives them OUR clothes. If they need furniture, she gives them OUR furniture. If they say they are hungry, she brings them home and feeds them. And sends food with them when they leave. I had to put a lock on the closet door to keep her from giving away all of our clothes, and locks on the refrigerator and pantry. I keep the keys with me. And if she will not stop bringing strangers into our home, I will have to change those locks, as well."

He stopped, overwhelmed with the import of his own words. He then looked at me, and then, almost pleading, he said, "She gave away our BED."

Gently, I asked her, "Why do you do these things?"

Her answer was complicated, and longer because of the second language challenge, but it came down to this: scripture says we must feed those who are hungry, clothe those who are naked, visit those who are sick or in prison. She cited the Matthew 25 passage that is in this week's Lectionary readings, and she finished by saying, "Sheep or goat. I choose sheep."

The Ezekiel 34 passage and the Matthew 25 passage in this week's lectionary readings seem to say, essentially, the same thing: if you are among the "haves "and you do not help out the "have nots," you are in some serious trouble, trouble with eternal implications. But is it really that straight forward? And are there any limitations? Are we to destitute ourselves (and our families) in attempting to meet the needs of others? Was she being simplistic? Or was she right on target?

How would YOU have responded? What would be your counsel in this situation?

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Reign of Christ - Proper 29 (34) (November 20, 2011)
Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24
Psalm 100
Psalm 95:1-7a
Ephesians 1:15-23
Matthew 25:31-46

Free Day: At War With Dad - Veterans Day Edition

2011-11-11T12:43:00.000-08:00

In honor of all those who are or have been in military service to our country, and to the families who support them, I submit this little vignette from my Dad's service during World War II.

Steve Orr

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Riding in the back of the deuce-and-a-half, the cover pulled back and tied down, Dad could keep an eye on their 40MM Bofors gun as the truck pulled it along on its two-wheeled carriage. Dad was happy. The weather was perfect. The sun was shining. The few clouds in the otherwise azure sky were white and feathery. This was the France that had been described to him during his sojourn In England before the D-Day launch. The road on which they traveled was tree-lined and smooth, completely free of the usual pock marks and potholes marking the passage of war.

That probably should have been their first clue.

Since General Patton had begun the big push east, they had seen a lot of action; moving fast, really taking the fight to the Germans; advance, advance, advance. They often traveled at night, fought pitched battles during the day, and then traveled again at night. Dad fell asleep in the back of that truck each night listening to the distant sounds of battle, and he awoke each morning to add the sounds of their own gun to that cacophony. Today was different, though; they hadn't heard the sounds of battle all day.

And that definitely should have been a clue.

All about, the soldiers marching along in loose formation were joking, laughing, smiling; many were shirtless to take advantage of the sun. The pace of their truck was no faster than that of the nearby infantry. Dad talked with the guys walking alongside.

It went like that for quite some time. And then, like often happens during wartime, everything changed in a flash. Their column snaked around a curve and straight into the heart of a French village. They were in the town square before they could really register the fact that they had actually ARRIVED somewhere. And just as quickly, they were surrounded by townspeople shouting "Libérateur! Libérateur!"

Surrounded as they were with all the shouting, laughing, and joyfully tearful faces, it took a few beats before what was happening really sank in. And a few more as the shock of it paralyzed them. Then, while most couldn't get their minds to get any traction, the Captain stood up in the lead jeep. Looking back, he raised his voice above the noise of the crowd and shouted, "Follow us out!"

With that, he returned to his seat. His driver made a slow turn to the left, narrowly missing some of the more adventurous of the townspeople. When it was pointed back down the road on which they had just come, the jeep began to accelerate. As the jeep passed the truck where Dad still stood, speechless, he heard the Captain yelling, "Turn back!"

Dad never knew the name of that little town in France. But he never forget the stunned looks on those faces as their supposed liberators turned away and left them standing in the town square, forced to face the fact that their situation had not really changed. They returned to waiting, waiting for the day when liberation would come, truly and finally to their little town.

And so, faster than they had arrived, the column of soldiers, trucks, jeeps, and weapons traveled westward, back down that French road. And this time, no one was joking, laughing, or smiling. Serious faces pressed westward.

But, what was the cause of all this?

Somehow Dad and his fellow soldiers had moved past the line of battle. Somehow, in the night probably, they had moved far ahead of the rest of the Allied Armies and had penetrated well behind enemy lines. They weren't prepared to liberate any villages or towns by themselves. And no one thought General Patton would be happy to find they had not followed his plan. So, quickly, and as stealthily as possible, they made their way back; back to where the roads were pitted, back to where they could hear the sounds of battle in the distance, back to the war they were there to fight.

Their free day was over.

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Got Mittens?

2011-09-28T20:48:00.000-07:00

Got Mittens?
(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

D-Day was mere days behind them. Dad and his crew continued to operate their British 40MM Bofors gun, so they had little opportunity to fire their rifles. He and his crew had one of six the U. S. Army had borrowed from the Brits for the D-Day Invasion. The gun had originally been intended as an anti-aircraft weapon, and was still used that way by the British. The U.S. Army, however, had decided it made a very nice anti-tank weapon.

They engaged the enemy daily, sometimes in multiple battles. And since they were part of the infantry, they were always in the thick of the fighting. It was in these early battles that Dad heard something strange.

The voices were, of course, heavily accented; but Dad could think of no other phrase that made any sense. And even that made no sense. But there was no mistaking what he was hearing. For some reason, as they charged Dad’s position, the German soldiers were shouting “Got Mittens!” Over and over Dad heard them shout “Got Mittens!”; so many of them shouting it that the nearly continuous rattle and thump-thump-thump of gunfire did not drown it out.

But, strange as he thought that was, it didn’t even come CLOSE to how strange Dad thought it was when he learned what they were REALLY shouting.

Dad couldn’t say exactly when he came into possession of the belt buckle; but it was after one of those early battles. He found it just lying on the battlefield, a ragged piece of webbed belt still clinging to one side of it. He picked it up, turning it over and over in his hand. Even without close scrutiny he knew it wasn’t one of theirs; it had to be German. And when he saw the swastika gripped in the Eagle’s talons, he knew for certain. Then, he saw something else. At first, he didn’t realize he was looking at words; he thought them just symbols embossed as part of the design. But then he really saw them. There, stamped into the thin metal of the buckle, in a tight circle around the Eagle and Swastika, were the words, “GOTT MIT UNS.”

Dad stared at the words. It took a little bit; but slowly his mind worked it out. And before he could actually think the words, Dad felt his skin begin to crawl; some part of his brain already realizing. There on the belt buckle were the words he had been hearing as wave upon wave of Germans assailed their positions all throughout those early battles. “Gott Mit Uns! Gott Mit Uns! Gott Mit Uns!”

God with us.

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While it was a shocking moment for my Dad, it wasn’t a new thing in World War II for armies to claim God was on “their” side in the conflict. Even the armies of the late Roman Empire used “God with us!” as their battle cry. But at what point does it become wrong to use God’s name? In Exodus 20:7, we are all warned, “You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not acquit anyone who misuses His name.” At what point do we cross the line?

There is certainly no scripture that says a soldier should not believe God is with him or her when he or she is in battle. In fact, that seems to be one of those times you would REALLY want God to be with you; would want to CALL on God to be with you. And yet … one must wonder about an army of soldiers on whose belt buckles are embossed “God with us.” It is one thing to send soldiers into battle to serve their country. It is quite another to tell them to do so in the name of God.

To “make wrongful use” of God’s name must include, at a minimum, the use of God’s name to convince others to act wrongly. Lest you think this is a diatribe against war, let me assure you, I am not writing about war. I am writing about whether, whatever the topic, we honor God with the things we do in His name and with those actions we convince others to take in His name. We risk our very souls if we do otherwise.

LECTIONARY READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 22 (27) (October 2, 2011)
o Exodus 20:1-4, 7-9, 12-20
o Psalm 19
o Isaiah 5:1-7
o Psalm 80:7-15
o Philippians 3:4b-14
o Matthew 21:33-46

If you are in Waco Friday morning, join us. Maybe we'll talk about whether we must still follow the 10 Commandments, or, perhaps the difference between “looking” and “lusting.” The only way to know for sure is to come. We'll be at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m., downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages. We would love to have you drop in.

Enjoy!

God's Sense of Humor

2011-09-17T00:31:00.000-07:00

(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

People who think God doesn't have a sense of humor have just not read enough Bible. There are funny moments scattered throughout. Take the events described in Exodus 16. The Israelites are complaining (what ELSE is new?) about Moses dragging them out into the wilderness to starve to death. Whine, whine, whine. They have seen miracle after miracle; from little things, like dead frogs scattered all about, to big ones, like God using the Red Sea to destroy the Egyptian army. All those miracles, and yet they couldn't trust Him to provide the food they needed.

So God tells Moses to tell the people HE will send them meat each evening and bread each morning. Then, that night, God sent Quail. Wow ... quail ... pretty tasty, But it's not a nicely prepared pan-roasted quail with a Port sauce reduction. No, no, no. It's QUAIL. And not just quail; DEAD quail. They're falling ... on the ground (THUD!) ... on the tents (THUMP!) ... on the kids (THWAP!). They're falling on ... well, EVERYTHING! God dropped quail from the sky, and they "covered the entire camp."

THUD! THUD! THUD!
THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!
THWAP! THWAP! THWAP!

So, next time you're thinking of complaining about God not meeting your needs, pause a minute; reflect. Could it be God IS meeting our needs and we just don't recognize it as that? The Israelites cannot have forgotten the events that took place just a few days prior, those stunning events that had so effectively extricated them from the clutches of their cruel masters. And yet, they seemed unable to see the big picture ... to connect the dots.

It can happen to any of us, slipping into this not-seeing-the-miracles-for-the-frogs mindset. When that happened to the Israelites, the message God sent to them was "Draw near to the LORD, for he has heard your complaining." And then He met their needs ... just not, I'm sure, quite like they had in mind.

So, the next time you feel a bout of whining coming on, remember ... God has a very interesting sense of humor :-)

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You never know WHAT we'll talk about when we get together at Lectionary Breakfast ... Something from that week's lectionary passages. The only way to know for sure is to join us. This week, we might have discussed miracles, or how how God sometimes changes His mind(!), or maybe how sometimes we are envious when God is generous to other people. As it turns out, we talked about the equal-pay-for-unequal-work situation in the Matthew passage. What do YOU think about that?

Readings for the Coming Week
Proper 20 (25) (September 18, 2011)
Exodus 16:2-15
Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45
Jonah 3:10-4:11
Psalm 145:1-8
Philippians 1:21-30
Matthew 20:1-16

We're at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m. every Friday, downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages. We would love to have you drop in.

Enjoy!
Steve

Justice For All?

2011-09-08T15:56:00.001-07:00

(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

"What do YOU think?"

The question significantly ratcheted up the tension in an already uncomfortable situation. The person from whom I was collecting testimony wanted me to provide my opinion about the matter under investigation. That question, or one like it, comes up a lot in the course of conducting a federal investigation. They say things like, "Don't you agree?" or "You would have done the same thing. Right?" or any number of things intended to solicit the Investigator's opinion. In one sense, it is natural. People involved in a conflict want to win others to their side of the issue. And when federal law is involved, the pressure to be right grows exponentially for some of the parties. It's a big deal. For some of them, if they are wrong, if they don't prevail, the price can be steep.

Is it any wonder that the folks providing evidence or testimony want to win over the investigator? Still, that is not allowed. Investigators are neutral parties. They do not render judgments. And in that vein, they do not share any opinions they have formed about the matter under investigation. In fact, for an Investigator to do his/here job correctly, it is essential they remain neutral. Opinions, and eventually judgments, are the province of the adjudicators, the judges who render decisions.

If I do my job correctly ---do the digging, questioning, evidence gathering, probing, analysis, etc.--- then the judges can do theirs. So, when asked, "What do YOU think?" I reiterate my roles in the process, explaining, again, that I am neutral. It's not ever quite that smooth, though. They don't give up easily. People want justice, or at least, they want what they consider to be justice; to win, to beat the charge, to not pay the piper, or to force the accused TO pay the piper. It's all in their perspective.

However you look at it, one thing is certain. I am not the Judge.

Federal investigators become involved in some pretty interesting matters, not least of which is being up close and personal with our justice system. There is a lot said and written about the justice system in this country, some positive and some negative. But for all that, it is a rare person to suggest we should do without it. We recognize that there are times when a person with discernment must settle the conflicts between parties because, whether laws were broken or parties believe themselves wronged by another, a decision must be made or the conflict will continue; or worse, escalate.

Ironically (and the irony here is VERY heavy), conflicts over spiritual matters are far more contentious than those over matters of this world. We SO want to be right in our spiritual choices. After all, literally everything is riding on it. We have committed our very selves. But that just does not seem to be enough. It doesn't seem like our being right is fully satisfying; those who are different must also be wrong. And that is truly sad.

A few weeks ago, I asked if we could not trust God in His declaration that HE will take care of any vengeance that needs dispensing. And now I am asking, can't we trust Him in his commandment to not judge others? If we cannot accept the explanation in this week's Lectionary reading (Romans 14:4), can we not just trust the words of Jesus in the Sermon on the Mount? I realize some of us will disagree on this, and perhaps part of that is due to differences in our definitions of judging. So, to clarify, I am not addressing situations where we need to exercise discernment or wisdom. And I am not addressing the judicial portion of our justice system. In fact, about the only criticisms of justice systems in scripture is when they fail to serve their function.

No. What I'm addressing here are matters of dispute between "people of the book." For those, I stand with the Romans passage: "Who are you to judge someone else's servant? To their own master, servants stand or fall. And they will stand, for the Lord is able to make them stand." (Romans 14:4 NIV)

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 19 (24) (September 11, 2011)

Exodus 14:19-31
Psalm 114 or Exodus 15:1b-11, 20-21
Genesis 50:15-21
Psalm 103:(1-7), 8-13
Romans 14:1-12
Matthew 18:21-35

If you are in Waco Friday morning, join us. Maybe we'll talk about what really happened at the Red Sea crossing, or perhaps the price paid by the forgiven servant who failed to subsequently extend that grace to another, or something else from this week's scriptures. We'll be at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m., downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages. We would love to have you drop in.

Words I Can't Remember

2011-08-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

There are these words I can't remember. I don't know why that is. All of us, from time to time, come up short when we reach for a word. But that's not what I am talking about. These words are specific words; the same handful of words every time. There is nothing especially difficult about these words. Here, see for yourself.

Inertia
Tweed
Visi-Calc
Aesthetic Outrage
Disparate Impact

See? Nothing about them is difficult.

I have wondered if this has something to do with aging. We lose so much with the passing of years. I suppose it COULD be an aging thing. I only learned Aesthetic Outrage a few years ago; but it was Teflon from the git-go, sliding just out of reach with each attempt to apply it. And Disparate Impact dropped off my radar in just the last couple of years when I stopped using it on a daily basis. I almost didn't put Visi-Calc on the list. I mean, so MUCH of the '80s is forgettable. Maybe that was just inevitable. But a couple of these words, inertia and tweed, have been hiding from me for decades. What does that say about the way I age?

So, with age at least suspect, I can't help but think it might be some sort of mental block. I find this both strange and troubling. So much of my self-concept is wrapped up in words. I love to tell stories. Words are essential for that. And yet, here are a handful that dance just out of range when I reach for them. Most of these are words I reach for on a fairly regular basis. These particular words show up in stories I like to tell. They SHOULD pop right up. But, when I want them ... they're not there. I like these words. Why won't the come when I need them?

Perhaps you are wondering how it is I can reveal them to you if I can't remember them. Well, after a while, I finally had to write them down. So, copy & paste to the rescue. Sort of.

One of the things (just one of the many things) I like about books is that the words stay right where I left them. Any time I need to recall certain words, all I have to do is open the book and look them up. I find that absolutely brilliant! I love it! My memory, or lack thereof, is never really an issue. Perhaps that is why I keep so many of my books after I've finished reading them. It is comforting to know I can just dip into one of them to find the thought or passage that is tickling at the edge of my mind and know that I WILL find it.

All of this points to an important lesson: memory is undependable. I've said, for years, that memoirs should be classified as fiction. In fact, I suspect they invented the biography classification because even the publishing industry recognizes that memoirs don't qualify as non-fiction. Our memories are just not dependable.

When I write a memoir piece, I struggle with keeping it on track. There is this persistent urge to remember it better than it was, to remember ME as better than I was. I am constantly having to check myself, to re-read a section, to be sure I didn't gloss over the part where I was a jerk just because it is painful to remember it as it was. I do a lot of rewrites.

Recently I read an article that goes a long way to explaining this phenomena. Apparently, we can't help it. We are sort of spring-loaded to remember things differently than they happened. And this is not limited to the reshaping of negative memories into positive, or at least less negative, memories. We even remember our treasured memories differently.

We don't "Save." We "Save As."

It turns out the process we call "memory" is heavily laced with creativity. We are creative beings; something that should come as no surprise to those of us who believe we are created in the image of God. Creativity is such a part of God, we must be crammed full of it. So, perhaps we should not get too uptight about the gaps in our memories. The fact that we save over our memories with revised memories strongly suggests creation is stronger than memory. In fact, if you can understand that, you can understand what scripture means when it says love covers a multitude of sins.

So, I have decided to not stress about the memory thing. I will continue to write down those gap words. iPhones and iPads are a big help. I can keep my list handy. And, I suspect that's not the end of it. Lately, I've been having a little trouble remembering asynchronous ...

4th & Final Part - Sabotage and Mustard Seeds

2011-08-03T10:32:00.002-07:00

(a not very brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr ... in parts ... and this is the final part)

When we started this journey a few weeks back, I promised you I would explain what sabotage had to do with mustard seeds, and I will perform on that promise this week. The first week we looked at the labor movement in 1920 and the fact that sabotage was sometimes employed by those who were pro-labor. The second week we explored why we often feel our faith is inadequate, that it doesn't seem to stand up to the standard of "mustard seed faith."

In the third week we wanted to understand just what Jesus meant when he told his disciples "I assure you that if you have as much faith as a grain of mustard seed, you can say to this hill ("mountain" in the NIV), 'Up you get and move over there!' and it will move --- you will find nothing is impossible."; so we spent some time learning about the mustard seed itself. We learned that, over time, the mustard seed transforms itself from the smallest of seeds into the largest of plants, that our faith could be similarly nurtured from weakness to strength.

Here's where we tie all of that together. During the labor movement of the 1920's, certain labor leaders considered sabotage a legitimate means of drawing attention to their cause. It should be noted that even those who agreed (clearly the minority) saw these as the acts of desperate people; last ditch efforts to be employed only when all other means had failed.

One of the most effective weapons of sabotage employed by these folks (you saw this coming, right?) was the mustard seed. Saboteurs used to sneak large amounts of mustard seeds into concrete mixtures. They were so small, no one noticed them among the sand, pebbles, and other ingredients. The "miracle" of the mustard seed occurred long after the liquid concrete mixture had been poured into forms and hardened. Those little mustard seeds did enormous damage. How?

Just by being themselves.

Remember what Jesus said about those little seeds? "... it grows and become the largest plant in the garden." Even encased in concrete, those mustard seeds just kept in growing. Nothing more.

And nothing less.

What would it be like if WE were those mustard seeds? Would we look around us and say, "Oh well. I'm completely blocked in. There's nothing I can do." Or could we bring ourselves to say, "I may be a tiny mustard seed, but I can do what I was designed to do. God doesn't ask any more of me than that. I will grow." When those seeds grew, they did a real number on that concrete. It crumbled to pieces under the onslaught of those little mustard seeds.

Just so we're clear, I am NOT suggesting you go out and use your God-given gifts destructively. I AM recommending you consider that Jesus may not have been talking about size, alone, when he used the mustard seed to illustrate true faith. What is it to have "as much faith" as a mustard seed? Isn't it just that amount of faith needed to go on doing what God designed us for, even when surrounded by adversity?

Height, width, breadth ... none of these dimensions matters in a human being. The dimension that matters is depth. Next time you find yourself thinking your faith is too weak or second rate ---perhaps feeling blocked in or immobilized by the hard things in your life--- remember the saboteurs and their tiny mustard seeds. Trust that God gave you a faith that, though now tiny, will grow; a faith that, in the end, will grow so large it will overshadow your problems. The branches of your faith may even, in time, become a haven for others. Nurture it.

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As always, if you are in Waco Friday morning, you're invited to join our little band at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m., downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages. We would love to have you drop in.

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 14 (19) (August 7, 2011)
Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28 and Psalm 105: 1-6, 16-22, 45b
1 Kings 19:9-18 and Psalm 85:8-13
Romans 10:5-15
Matthew 14:22-33

3rd part - Sabotage and Mustard Seeds

2011-07-27T17:21:00.000-07:00

(a not very brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr ... in parts)

In the previous installments, I told you about sabotage and the labor situation in 1920, and then promised I would relate it to mustard seeds. To do that, I started writing about faith; specifically, "as much faith" as a mustard seed, and the guilt we experience because we don't seem to be able to perform to the standards (moving mountains with such a small amount of faith).

If we're being honest with ourselves, I think we can all agree that we tend to put "mustard seed faith" on the "No Can Do" list. Let's face it. It sounds so surreal! Who goes around moving mountains? And on top of that strangeness, why did Jesus use such an obscure metaphor? Yes, it IS small, but there are smaller things around. Jesus once used a mote (speck of dust) to suggest how picky we can be when searching out the sin in OTHER people's lives. A mote is a lot smaller than a mustard seed. Of course, if you are already feeling guilty about having too little faith, the mote thing doesn't help. Why not use a pebble? They were quite common in Jesus' time and have remained so. We would all recognize a pebble. In fact, if SIZE was all that mattered, Jesus could have chosen any number of small items which have endured right up until today: grain of salt, grain of wheat, speck of dirt, particle of sand, drop of rain.

I don't think anyone would accuse Jesus of being haphazard. It's really no stretch to believe he intentionally selected the mustard seed as the metaphor for effective faith. So what is it about mustard seeds? I think you see where this is going. It CAN'T be just a matter of size. There must be something about the mustard seed, itself; some inherent quality other than its size. Knowing more about them may help clear all this up.

First, Jesus himself tells us (Mark 4:31-32) a mustard seed "is the smallest seed you plant in the ground. Yet when planted it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds of the air can perch in its shade." That is how Jesus illustrated the Kingdom of God. And it can serve as a way we can view faith. When it is very small, we are to plant it; to initially shield it from the harsher elements by placing it in a nurturing environment, an environment designed to facilitate its growth.

The other side of this illustration is that the properly nurtured faith can grow into a very strong faith. Like the resulting mustard PLANT, it will not only grow larger than anything else in the garden of our lives, it can become SO large that others can find shelter, protection, and rest there. This is God at work in a most mighty way.

One more thing you may not know about a mustard seed is its inherent strength. And in this way, we are VERY like the little tyke.

But, what does any of this have to do with sabotage and the 1920 labor scene? Be here next time for the wrap-up where we tie it all together.

In the meantime, if you are in Waco Friday morning, join our little band at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m., downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages.

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 13 (18) (July 31, 2011)
Genesis 32:22-31 and Psalm 17:1-7, 15
Isaiah 55:1-5 and Psalm 145:8-9, 14-21
Romans 9:1-5
Matthew 14:13-21

Sabotage and Mustard Seeds 2

2011-07-20T17:40:00.000-07:00

(a not very brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr ... in parts)

Last time, I told you about sabotage and the labor situation in 1920, and then promised I would relate it to mustard seeds. For me to deliver on that promise, we first need to spend some time talking about faith; specifically, "as much faith" (Phillips) as a mustard seed.

If you look up Matthew 17:20, you will find a teaching of Jesus that most of us followers consider very difficult (if not impossible!) to accomplish. Right after Jesus casts out a demon, his followers ask why THEY couldn't cast of the same demon. His answer: "You have so little faith." He then says something that, to many of us, lands like a bomb. "I assure you that if you have as much faith as a grain of mustard seed, you can say to this hill ("mountain" in the NIV), 'Up you get and move over there!' and it will move --- you will find nothing is impossible."

When most people read that passage they immediately conclude it is impossible to have that kind of faith. Plus, they then feel bad about whatever faith they do have; it feels inadequate. Let me suggest that this conclusion derives more from how we interpret this passage than from Jesus' intended message. Here's my reasoning.

First, and this is key, when we read the Bible we must always keep in mind that the overwhelming majority of us are reading a translation; not the original language. I'm not looking to digress into controversy, here. All I want to suggest is that we have a tendency to interpret what we read in the Bible as RULES, as standards, as measures of performance. It's neater that way. The closer the Bible comes to being a list of rules, the tidier it is. And once we've been able to divide those rules into the "I guess I can do that" list and the "Oh, come on! Nobody can do THAT!" list, we give ourselves permission to ignore whatever is on the second list.

That WOULD be tidy except for one problem. We don't ALSO give ourselves permission to stop feeling guilty about it.

What do we do about THAT? ... More of the answer in the next installment.

In the meantime, if you are in Waco Friday morning, join our little band at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m., downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages.

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 12 (17) (July 24, 2011)
Genesis 29:15-28 and Psalm 105:1-11, 45b or Psalm 128
1 Kings 3:5-12 and Psalm 119:129-136
Romans 8:26-39
Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

Sabotage and Mustard Seeds 1

2011-07-13T10:54:00.000-07:00

(a not very brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr ... in parts)

The first year of the Roaring Twenties was a pretty good bellwether for the rest of the decade. 1920 was a year filled with all sorts of conflicts, excitements, and problems. World War I had ended a scant 13 months earlier, Prohibition had been in effect for a year, and the Communist Labor Party of America was just four months old. 1920 was the first year women voted in a presidential election (overwhelmingly Republican), and it was a bad year for baseball; the now infamous Chicago 8---players for the Chicago White Sox baseball team---were indicted for taking bribes to throw the 1919 World Series. Sports writers took to calling the team the Chicago Black Sox. They we're later acquitted, but were still banned from organized baseball for life ("Say it ain't so, Joe!"). It was the year Sinclair Lewis published Main Street, and it was a year of particularly strong labor unrest.

Labor unrest was certainly not new in 1920. Workers and owners had been in conflict for centuries. What set this year apart was A. Mitchell Palmer, the Attorney General under President Woodrow Wilson. Palmer wanted, more than anything, to be President. He wanted every American to believe unions were going to destroy our country, and that the only way to stop that destructive force was to elect him President. To this end he waged a relentless campaign against organized labor. Joe McCarthy must have been taking notes because it had all the earmarks of the 1950's Communist witch hunts. Suffice to say there was plenty of nastiness on BOTH sides of this conflict. This was long before civil rights, Miranda, probable cause, etc. Union members were treated badly, and many people at the time believed the behavior of Palmer's federal agents justified the retaliatory use of sabotage by labor supporters.

Sabotage. To most Americans in 1920 sabotage was a fairly new term. It was not very popular; mainly because the only context most had for it was that the Germans had employed sabotage in fighting the allies "over there." Union sabotages, however, while certainly destructive, rarely resulted in harm to people. The term itself seems to come from the French word for wooden shoe: sabot. Legend has it that the first use of sabot-age was among French workers early in the Industrial Revolution. A worker would throw one wooden shoe into the machinery as protest (against poor working conditions, against unemployment caused by machinery replacing humans, etc.). Like the proverbial monkey wrench, this shoe toss would bring the offending machine to a halt. Many an employer spent anxious hours "waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Perhaps you are staring to wonder what any of this has to do with mustard seeds, or, for that matter, with the Lectionary. Well, push on Pilgrim. Answers coming in future installments!

In the meantime, if you are in Waco Friday morning, join our little band at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m., downtown on 6th Street, near the Courthouse) for breakfast and a great time kicking around this week's Lectionary passages.

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 11 (16) (July 17, 2011)
Genesis 28:10-19a
Psalm 139:1-12, 23-24 or Isaiah 44:6-8
Psalm 86:11-17
Romans 8:12-25
Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

The Perfect Lectionary Reflection

2011-07-07T17:42:00.000-07:00

The Perfect Lectionary Reflection

(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I had the PERFECT Lectionary reflection for this week's passages. Just perfect. But, I can't find it. I wrote the piece several years ago to pair with Isaiah 55:10-11. Now, if I could just locate it, I would have the perfect little story to underscore God's message in the Isaiah passage. But, alas, that is not to be.

Isn't that just the thing? You have the perfect thought, the perfect word, the perfect idea, the perfect story to illustrate something from scripture; the VERY thing that will just make that passage spring to life for the reader; that little boost the scripture needs to settle deep into the heart of the reader where it will take root and produce spiritual fruit a hundredfold or more ... and you just can't quite produce it at the right moment. SO frustrating.

Nothing for it, though. I guess THIS week God's word will have to get by without my support ;-)

"For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it."
--Isaiah 55:10-11

LECTIONARY READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Proper 10 (15) (July 10, 2011)
Genesis 25:19-34
Psalm 119:105-112
Isaiah 55:10-13
Psalm 65:(1-8), 9-13
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

If you are in Waco Friday morning, join our group for breakfast and more of the foregoing at Cafe Cappuccino (8:00 a.m. - downtown on 6th near the Courthouse).

Enjoy!
Steve

Friending Ashley Judd

2011-06-23T20:28:00.000-07:00

(a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

Lately, Facebook has been suggesting I become friends with Ashley Judd.

It pops up on the right hand side of the screen under "People You May Know." Ashley Judd ... with that little +1 symbol and the "Add Friend" link beneath her name. The first time it happened I, naively I now realize, clicked on the link. Facebook quickly displayed a message informing me that Ashley couldn't be friends with me because she already has too many friends. I don't know this for certain, but I sensed it was a comment made snidely. As if the word, "dimwit" were invisably appended to the end of the message.

(Stop that. I could, TOO, be friends with Ashley Judd!)

I know why it's there. It's because Facebook's algorithm thingy recognized we are both from Kentucky. So, of COURSE we might know each other. That right there, that kind of "thinking," is why I haven't lost a minute of sleep worrying about artificially intelligent robots taking over the earth. They've got a LONG way to go. In any event, I had learned my lesson. So now when I see it lurking over there on the right, I just ignore it.

It's too bad, really, because I think I really COULD share some stories with Ashley that, being from Kentucky, would resonate for her. I could tell her about Paul and Mike, about Carolyn and Ginny Ann, about Bob and Robin, Bruce and Bonnye; about the great times we all had exploring the Land Between the Lakes, spelunking, picking apples to earn spending money, writing poetry, climbing on the monkey bars, playing on the train tracks, driving through the 19th Hole, playing ball on a makeshift mowed-out diamond, being in school plays and musicals, canoeing Kentucky Lake, holding hands, and, yes, skipping stones.

Great memories of growing up in west Kentucky. Even the bad parts don't look so bad after half a century. Yes, I think Ashley would recognize some of that. And would welcome a friendship that helps her to recall her own growing-up times.

"Whoever welcomes you welcomes me, and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me. --Matthew 10:40

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This week's Lectionary readings
Genesis 22:1-14
Psalm 13
Jeremiah 28:5-9
Psalm 89:1-4, 15-18
Romans 6:12-23
Matthew 10:40-42

If you are in Waco Friday, join us at Cafe Cappuccino for some great food and a fine time talking about this week's passages (8:00 a.m. On 6th, near the Courthouse).

At War With Dad - DDay Special Edition

2011-06-06T07:47:00.001-07:00

A memoir by Steve Orr.

THIS IS A REPOST FROM AN EARLIER DATE. IT APPEARS TODAY TO HONOR ALL WHO HAVE SERVED, OR NOW SERVE, OUR COUNTRY IN MILITARY ENDEAVORS.

The argument had been going on for the better part of an hour. Actually, Dad didn't think it was much of an argument considering his Sergeant was doing almost all of the talking. The Captain of the boat handled his side of the argument with looks and shrugs. Dad couldn't hear them, but based on the fury he saw on his Sergeant's face, it seemed like it must be pretty important.

But Dad didn't really care what they were arguing about. In true army fashion, they had been rushed to the disembarkation point, only to find they had to wait over 24 hours before they could board the boat. Then, once on board, he and his crew of two having secured their 40mm Bofors gun, the excitement of finally DOING something was cut short by the journey itself. The crossing had been rough. Most of the men on the boat were seasick, Dad included. And for the last hour, he had watched his Sergeant alternate between puking over the side of the boat and yelling at the salty old Brit who was piloting them across the Channel.

It was June 6, 1944. D-Day. They were on their way to Normandy, France.

Dad knew very little about the plans for that day; only that when they finally did reach shore, they were supposed to hitch their gun to a deuce-and-a-half truck which would transport it, and the three of them, to the place where they would start shooting at things with it. And as a recently promoted Corporal, he knew more than most.

The landing, when it finally came, happened swifty, and not at all as had been described. When the ramp slapped onto beach, everyone on the boat saw the same thing: nothing . . . no other soldiers, no equipment, and most importantly to Dad, no deuce-and-a-half. So, at the urging of the Sergeant, several of the soldiers helped Dad and his crew wrestle the wheeled gun off the boat and across part of the beach until they reached a point where the resistance of the sand could no longer be overcome by human efforts. They were stuck midway between water's edge and the firmer ground that bordered the beach. Nothing was going to move that gun one more inch until a truck could could be found to pull it.

That's when Dad learned the topic of his Sergeant's one-sided argument: he had been trying to convince their civilian pilot they were headed in the wrong direction, but to no avail. The result? They were on the wrong beach.

So, while Sarge and the rest of the soldiers left to reconnect with the larger body of the invading force, Dad and crew had to stay and protect their gun. Which didn't seem like such a bad thing, until the ordinance starting falling all about them. Their gun was cradled in a wheeled structure, or carriage. It didn't provide much cover, but it was the best they were going to find. So they dived under it, dug a shallow trench in the sand and, as Dad put it, "hunkered down." All throughout that day they "hugged the sand" under that gun, praying the random explosions would not find them.

Eventually, the day came to an end, and with it an end to the shelling. It was only later that Dad learned the old pilot's mistake had spared them the horrors, and likely instant death, they would have encountered at their intended destination: Omaha Beach. If you've ever seen the opening sequence to the movie, "Saving Private Ryan," then you have some idea of what they were spared.

[The above is a selection from a longer piece I am writing about the few things my Dad told me of his service during World War II.]

Mind Your Head, Watch Your Step

2011-06-02T17:36:00.000-07:00

At last, we were on our way! This was a journey of firsts for us: first time to go to Alaska; first time to take a cruise; first time to be this far from shore without an airplane! ;-) It was one of those times in life where every moment seems to hold a special view, or thought, or experience.

So, what with all that excitement going on, perhaps you will pardon me for reading a lot of meaning into the signs that suddenly loomed up before us as we took a turn around the ship's deck. There on the wall, just to the left of a doorway leading to the ship's interior were two neatly lettered signs, one just above the other. On the first were the words: "MIND YOUR HEAD." And just below it, the second read: "WATCH YOUR STEP."

I was transfixed. It felt as if God had reached down and placed those signs just there for me to read. Yes, I was on vacation, but that didn't mean the complexities of my life had disappeared with the rapidly receding Seattle skyline. I had a lot on my mind; chief of which was the recent realization that I might have to return to a profession for which I thought the need had long ago ended; the possibility I might need to resurrect skill sets I thought would never be needed again.

The appearance of those signs---despite the fact that, in subsequent days, I encountered identical signs at every entrance to the interior---just seemed providential. The thoughts printed there pierced to the heart of my worries, calming me. Yes, those thoughts are just good advice to folks perambulating about on a boat that is subject to the uncertainties of the sea. But I think you will agree they can be usefully applied to our non-seagoing lives as well.

So, aboard ship, I minded my head and watched my step. But I carried those instructions with me when I returned to the real world; referencing them often over the following months and years. I find them reflected in one of today's lectionary passages: "Turn all your anxiety over to God because he cares for you. Keep your mind clear, and be alert." 1 Peter 5:7-8a

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The lectionary readings for the coming week
Acts 1:6-14
Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35
1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11
John 17:1-11

Join us if you are in Waco on Friday. We meet at Cafe Cappuccino (on 6th, near the Courthouse) at 8:00 a.m. Good food and an interesting discussion with fabulous people ;-)

Enjoy!
Steve

Walking Dead

2011-04-27T19:29:00.000-07:00

Walking Dead (a brief Lectionary Reflection by Steve Orr)

Having had empty tombs on my mind of late, I am reminded of something that occurred my senior year in high school. That spring two friends and I went on a camping trip...

It was no longer full dark, but the sun had yet to rise as we set out that Monday morning in a small skiff. We launched from where our main street, Broadway, met the water ... right at the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee rivers.

Our little boat sat very low in the water; laden with the three of us, plus the food, clothing, and camping gear we were going to need that week. We motored away from the concrete apron, slipped between Owens Island and the shore, and soon ducked south onto the Tennessee River. Along about noon that first day, we locked through the Dam into Kentucky Lake, an enormous reservoir stretching southward through western Kentucky and onward into western Tennessee.

These reflections are supposed to be brief; so, instead of burdening you with our day-by-day itinerary, let me just say that it was every boy's dream trip. We spent the week camping, boating, fishing, exploring, swapping tales around campfires ... all of it pegged to a two position clock: sunrise, sunset. Very Tom and Huck.

Our second day we decided to explore one of the islands that dotted the lake. We packed up our gear and headed out to what the map said was Cherokee Island. We found a narrow stretch of beach on one side, grounded our boat, and did a little reconnaissance. A short walk from the beach we found a wide spot in a circle of trees that would serve quite well as a campsite. We anchored the boat to a tree near the water and hauled our gear inland. We had the camp set up and the evening meal sputtering in the frying pan in short order. Night closed in quickly.

After the meal, Bruce (our Boy Scout) announced he had to respond to "nature's call." He grabbed a flashlight and trotted off into the dark. As we cleaned up, we listened to the sounds of his retreating steps. Suddenly there was a loud "thump" followed by the sound of Bruce yelling "wo-oh-oh!" We each grabbed lights and ran in the direction we had seen him go. We saw there was a path and followed it. As we rounded a curve we pulled up short before a large, oddly shaped rock. We could hear Bruce mumbling something from the other side of the rock. So, stepping off the path and walking around the rock, we found Bruce lying on his back, his head tilted back, looking up at the rock. On it was carved the name "Goheen" (the word he kept mumbling over and over).

Then the world did that strange little 90 degree turn it sometimes does, and all of a sudden we realized the "rock" was actually a gravestone, that Bruce had flipped over it as he rounded the curve, and that he was at that point lying on a grave! Bob and I realized this at the same time, but he also had the presence of mind to shine his light around. What we saw was shocking. We were surrounded by a collection of gravestones, vaults, and concrete sarcophagi; all in a seriously deteriorated state. The stones were tilted in various directions, the vaults were broken open, and the sarcophagi lids appeared to have been tossed aside.

As you might expect, we three got little sleep that night.

The next afternoon (we got a late start, having found we were able to get some sleep once the sun rose), we packed up and left the island behind as we headed to the Ranger Station with a LOT of questions.

We learned that the islands in the lake had all been hilltop cemeteries prior to the Tennessee Valley Authority (TVA) damming up the river to create the lake; that while the TVA paid for the relocation of bodies, many families abandoned the gravestones, vaults, etc., because they could not personally afford to have them moved. The result was what we experienced ... empty graves, empty vaults, empty tombs.

There is something especially unnerving about empty tombs. Even when you are not standing right by them, you know they are out there ... empty. You can't help but wonder where the occupant went. And you can't really relax until you get that question answered.

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Second Sunday of Easter (May 1, 2011)
Acts 2:14a, 22-32
Psalm 16
1 Peter 1:3-9
John 20:19-31

If you are in Waco Friday morning, join the crew for breakfast and discussion at 8:00 a.m. at Cafe Cappuccino (downtown on 6, near the Courthouse).

Enjoy!
Steve

Lumber Management

2011-04-13T19:28:00.001-07:00

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Lumber Management (a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr for the Liturgy of the Passion)

As we move toward the end of this season of Lent, I am reminded of my sojourn in lumber management...

But before we go there, you need to know how I feel about my woodworking skills. Like most of you, there are some things in this life that I am very proud to claim. Mostly, they're very personal things: those rare times when, even though I feared the personal repercussions, I gutted up and stood by a friend; my service to my country; that Mrs. Cooper wrote in my yearbook that I was a balance-wheel; that I can still make my wife laugh out loud. And right up there with these is carpentry.

There was a time when people paid me to build things out of wood. I did a lot of things to pay for college; some of which, looking back, seem too bizarre to be believed. Carpentry was one of the best. All of my carpentry memories are good ones. What joy to start out with some wood and some tools, and then end up with something sturdy, beautiful, useful, or all three. And even though that's not something you really forget how to do, like many things in this life, life itself can move it to the sidelines.

So, imagine my thrill when, recently, I met a man who told me he was part of a group who, working with Habitat for Humanity, build wheelchair ramps for those in need. I was immediately drawn to this charitable enterprise. I quickly told him of my carpentry experience and asked if he thought I could join them in their service. He smiled and, reflecting on what I had told him, said, "We could use you in lumber management." The next opportunity was coming up that weekend.

When that Saturday morning arrived, I was excited to get started. As I drove my car through the cool gray of the early morning, I kept checking the map to be sure I was headed in the right direction. We were to meet in a part of town with which I was unfamiliar. There was a little bit of trepidation on my part---I only knew one of these men, and him not so well---but the trepidation was far outweighed by the excitement I felt at being able to resurrect some skill sets which I truly loved.

The opportunity to once again use my carpentry skills was such a big draw, I almost wouldn't have cared what we were going to build. The fact that our objective was to construct a wheelchair ramp for the home of an elderly person was, as they say, icing on the cake. Don't get me wrong; I was very pleased I would be able to apply my skills to such a worthy cause. It felt right.

We all stood around for a while. I learned we were waiting for the leader to arrive. I introduced myself to everyone while continuing to watch for my new friend. Eventually, he showed up and came over to greet me. I asked him if I should get my tools from the car, but he assured me the crew had everything I would need. Soon everyone was present and we were ready to begin. Then, while some of the men walked toward the saw horses and power tools, my new friend steered me in the other direction ... toward a sizable pile of lumber where I joined four other men.

Without preamble he explained to us that the lumber was grouped by thickness and width, but that the lengths would be cut to fit; that our job was to bring to the "power saw guy" whatever piece of lumber he requested, and then to hold it while the cuts were made. Lumber management.

I took my friend aside and explained how disappointed I was to not be actually building something. In response, he gently and patiently explained to me how the cow ate the cabbage. The roles for this enterprise had long ago been decided; the people vetted for their appropriateness to the task to which they had been assigned. What was now needed were some folks who were willing to do the non-glamorous work of hauling lumber and holding it steady so the others could fulfill their assignments. If we all did our part, we would end the day with a sturdy and useful wheelchair ramp for a person who really needed one to get in and out of their home.

It was a truly humbling moment.

I learned a lot that day, both about lumber management and about doing the work one is called to do. When the jobs we are assigned to do seem beneath us, it rankles. Especially when we KNOW we are being WAY underutilized; when we know there is so much more we COULD do, could give. It feels wasteful. And yet, sometimes, God asks of us only a simple thing. Sometimes, while all about us others seem to have very important things to do, what is required of us, like Simon of Cyrene in Matthew 27:32, is to haul some wood for them.

Lumber management.

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK

Liturgy of the Passion (April 17, 2011)
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Matthew 26:14-27:66 or Matthew 27:11-54

If you are in Waco on Friday morning, join us at 8:00 a.m. at Cafe Cappuccino for breakfast and a chance to discuss this week's Lectionary passages.

I'm going. See you there?

Steve

I Was A Teenage Pharisee!

2011-04-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

“I Was a Teen-Age Pharisee!!” (a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr for the Liturgy of the Palms)

In the fall of my 7th grade year in school, I ran for Student Council. I lost. I did that again in the 8th Grade. And the 9th. Annnnnd, the 10th. But the 11th grade was a very special year for me. Oh, I lost my run for the Student Council that fall, too. And to the same guy I always lost to: Bobby King (not his real name). But something new happened that year. That spring, I became a viable candidate for Student Council President because Bobby King was not allowed to run. The faculty and the Principal decided he was over-committed; and since he was unwilling to give up anything, they denied him his request to be a candidate for the Presidency. Finally, I felt, I was going to get mine. I had scoped the only other person allowed to run, and I knew I could beat him. I was finally going to get elected, and not only that, but elected to the highest office. I felt excited, happy … assured.

The day finally came. The polls would open immediately following the candidate’s speeches in the auditorium And if I had had any concern, it vanished after we finished our speeches to the student body. The other candidate spoke first. I spoke second. Based on the applause, I clearly had the upper hand.

Then it happened. The Principal asked if there were any nominations from the floor. And for the first time that anyone could remember, someone was nominated from the floor. A fellow popped out from the side stage and uttered the very words I feared: “I nominate Bobby King!” For his part, Bobby was seated in the very last row, the very highest point on the floor of the auditorium. He stood and slowly walked down the sloping aisle toward the front. As he passed each row of students, they rose to their feet, cheering and applauding loudly. By the time he mounted the stage it was obvious to everyone that he would be the winner.

I was crushed … and angry. I felt everything I had worked for had been stolen from me; not just for that election, but for all the years I had been trying. With each rising row of student, shouting their accolades and praise for their chosen leader, my envy and jealousy rose. And rose. And rose. His triumphal procession to the front made me so angry. More than anything else in the world, I wished him gone. Instead, I was forced to just watch as it all fell apart before my eyes.

That is what the Pharisees felt when they watched Jesus descend from the Mount of Olives in a triumphal procession toward Jerusalem (It's in this week's Lectionary passage of Matthew 21:1-11, but is more fully described at Luke 19:28-48). They felt it all belonged to them; and they could not abide the thought someone else would take their place; that someone else would have all that power.

Not pretty; not then, not when I was in high school, and not now. Do we, like the Pharisees, want to keep hold of the power? Are we trying even now to push Jesus from the lordship of our lives? Or do we embrace “the stone that the builders rejected” (Psalm 118:1-2, 19-29) as the cornerstone of our lives.

Blind Man Healed, Starts Job Hunt

2011-04-07T09:45:00.000-07:00

Blind Man Healed, Starts Job Hunt (a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I have always been one of those people who wants to know what came next. When I would arrive at the end of a story, book, or movie I would find myself trying to sort out what kinds of things would happen in the future. Do the good guys stay the winners, or does the evil empire "strike back"? Would it REALLY be "happily ever after"? Things have changed. Will the characters relate to one another the way they did earlier in the story? In the case of fiction, you're going to need a sequel (or at least some fanfic) to find out those answers. In the case of history, unless we discover more records, we can't know. Still, that doesn't keep me from wondering.

I did this last week when we read about Jesus healing the man who had been born blind and had been a beggar all his life. I can't help but wonder if he, now no longer visually challenged, had to start a job hunt. Begging was no longer going to work as a means of generating revenue. Had he been living with his parents all that time? Probably. That might continue for a while, but he was probably going to eventually have to move. On and on. Change after change. However it turned out, you can bet his life was no longer the same as it was.

Lazarus ratchets this up several notches. How do you live your life after you return from four days of being dead? Do you catch your loved ones staring at you? Is there a will to contest? Are you even a legal person anymore? Of course there is the initial uproar and excitement, but what happens after that? A week later? A month?

Do you just resume your former life? I think not. And I think there is a lesson here for us, as well. We may not be healed of our infirmities, may not be raised from the dead to walk back into town and reunite with our friends and families in this world. But we can have a life-changing encounter with God. Sure, you can TRY to return to your former life; but when you emerge from an encounter with God, you are not going to be the same. You are really no longer the person you were. You can't be.

So maybe we all need to be asking that question. What comes next?

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Fifth Sunday in Lent (April 10, 2011)
Ezekiel 37:1-14
Psalm 130
Romans 8:6-11
John 11:1-45

Blink

2011-03-31T16:43:00.000-07:00

"Blink" (a brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I found myself chuckling while reading John Chapter 9, one of this week's Lectionary passages.

Now, if you did what I think you did, you jumped out and read the passage ... and are no doubt wondering if I have lost my mind. How could it be, you might be pondering, that I would think a story about a blind man is humorous? What could possibly be funny about a man who was born blind? A story about a man who, now an adult, has spent his entire life in actual darkness; how is that funny? What's so humorous about a man who was ostracized all of those years because it was commonly believed people with disabilities had brought the situation upon themselves? You're right. There is nothing funny about any of that.

What IS funny to me is how everyone ELSE acts after Jesus restores the man's sight (Jesus rubs mud in his eyes and sends him off to wash in Siloam's fountain). And the reason I find it funny is this: Several decades ago, I married into a family that includes several people with visual challenges. Over the years they have been gracious enough to teach me this key lesson: blind people are just like everyone else; they just also have a visual challenge to deal with. I know blind people who would, upon reading this story in John Chapter 9, be chuckling and shaking their heads; identifying with their fellow "blink". They would readily recognize the words and actions of the sighted people in this story as similar treatment to which they have been subjected.

When blind people socialize, it is common to share stories about the stupid things sighted people do and say upon encountering people who are visually challenged. For example: asking if the blind person knows sign language. The only reason a blind person would need to know sign language is if they were also deaf (like Helen Keller). Among the more vexing is a person who acts as if the blind person cannot speak for himself, and/or, similarly, referencing them in the third person as if they were not actually present.

I was lucky to be present on some occasions when Uncle JQ (a wonderful man who was both blind and a hilarious raconteur) told this tale of a cross-country airplane trip. The stewardess (they weren't called "flight attendant" until later) came by to take orders for alcoholic beverages. JQ was in the center seat. After taking orders of the two men seated to either side of him, she asked the man sitting on JQ's left, someone JQ did not know and had never even spoken with, if JQ would like some juice. To which JQ replied (and he would already be cackling with joy at this point as he related the tale to us), "No, I would NOT like a juice. *I* would like a scotch on the rocks!"

Something like that is happening in verses 8-33. The people are talking about the formerly blind man as if he is not present. They are debating whether THIS man is the same man who used to sit out here and beg. Back and forth, back and forth. And the entire time, the man keeps saying, "I am the man!" But no one is listening.

After the local folk finally decide to hear him, they switch to interrogating him about the process of his miracle. Isn't that just like people? Standing before them is a miracle; and instead of rejoicing that the man's sight has been restored, they want to pick the thing to pieces. Finally, after squeezing all the details out of him, they ask him to point them to where Jesus is. In other words, "If you're so special that someone restored your sight, point him out!" The scripture records the man replying, "I don't know." But you can bet he was thinking something like, "Hello-o! Blind guy! How could I tell you where he is? *I* didn't see him!"

Later, when the Pharisees are grilling him about the miracle (and not believing what they are hearing), they turn to his parents(!) for confirmation, as if he were a child. Imagine being these parents and having to say, "We know that this is our son, and that he was born blind; but we do not know how it is that now he sees, nor do we know who opened his eyes. Ask him; he is of age.(!) He will speak for himself."

The final chuckle, which has everything to do with lack of vision and nothing to do with lack of sight, comes when the former blind man says, astonished, "You (the religious leaders of Israel) do not know where he (Jesus) comes from, and yet he opened my eyes!" Blind people have learned through experience that sighted people will often say and do some pretty asinine things to and around blind people. They've also learned that, sometimes, you just gotta laugh about it.

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This week's passages are all about vision, light and dark, seeing correctly. I especially liked Ist Samuel 6:7 and Ephesians 5:8-10.

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Fourth Sunday in Lent (April 3, 2011)
1 Samuel 16:1-13
Psalm 23
Ephesians 5:8-14
John 9:1-41

"Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever."

2011-03-19T22:16:00.000-07:00

(Photo courtesy of pdphoto.org)

In the movie, THE REPLACEMENTS, while urging his offensive squad to give their all for one last game, substitute Quarterback Shane Falco says, “Pain heals. Chicks dig scars. Glory lasts forever.” While I might like to contend with Mr. Falco about his first and third assertions at some future point, I have (blessedly) had almost no experience with physical scars, and thus have no basis to know how attractive they are to chicks. And, while I think I now know a little bit about spiritual scars, I have no way of knowing whether chicks dig them or not. What I do know about spiritual scars is that they are all but invisible to people who don’t have any.

Does the future butterfly feel pain while it is forming (re-forming?) in its chrysalis? That is an answer I would like to know. With us humans, when God is shaping (or re-shaping) us, there is usually a good deal of pain. When the caterpillar moves along its entombed journey to its new life, does it sleep a deep, painless sleep; or does it struggle against the process; resisting, holding back? When God is pulling the skin away from the little pilgrim’s body to use in creating its wings, does it feel pain? I do know that we hold back, resisting the process of becoming.

And, another challenge to our personal reformations, we are not good at recognizing the process in ourselves or others. As a youth, the older, wiser, “solid” people I met (and somewhat idolized), those whose discipleship of Jesus appeared effortless, seemed to my limited experience to just BE that way. Process was not a concept I thought much about. And when I would read some author claiming that “real” change is “forged in pain” or some similar allusion, I usually thought, ungraciously I now see, that this person must be deficient in some way. Else, why have to go through the pain? Obviously (so my youthful thoughts went), God could easily change those who would just yield to his loving touch; only the truly recalcitrant would have to be wrenched into shape. Since then, experience has taught me much.

My experience has been that, as God shapes (wrenches, pounds, slams, stretches, flattens, crams) me, I begin to perceive a tiny bit more of the process, in myself and in others. I have been shocked lately to realize—after all these years of thinking I was on the potter’s wheel, being spun by God into a vessel of significance—that I am still just a lump of clay being “thrown.” God has just been loosening me up, making me more malleable for the real work ahead. Here I thought, based on the pounding I’ve taken so far, that I was on my way to being a God-shaped vessel, destined for spiritual service of some importance; having completely forgotten that the truly delicate work of spiritual shaping can only be done with the most malleable of materials.

So, when I observe the delicate beauty of the butterfly, when I find myself thinking “WOW!” about the glory of God’s handiwork in that creature, I have to remind myself that the little pilgrim got like that the hard way. In fact, there really is no other way. If a butterfly is to have wings—and how to be one without them?—then it must, somewhat like Eustace in Lewis’ VOYAGE OF THE DAWN TREADER, have its skin pulled away from its body; without that skin there can be no wings.

And, if I am to become what God has in mind for me, I must transit the process, whatever it is, however challenging it may seem at the time. But, unlike the caterpillar-cum-butterfly, I do not have to take this journey alone. There are others. And … I am, finally, beginning to recognize them.

Praise God.

The Real Me

2011-03-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

I think I have mentioned elsewhere that I was shy when I was young; not the "aw shucks" kind of shy; the "oh-please-let-me-fade-into-this-wall" kind of shy. It was in the 7th grade that I decided to do something about this problem. I undertook this endeavor as a subset of a larger enterprise. I had finally come to the conclusion that I was going to have to take the reins of my life because, apparently, no one else was going to. Everyone in my life seemed pretty busy, too busy to provide any guidance to me. And so, I began to make decisions for myself.

One set of those decisions were related to my realization that, somehow, I had to overcome my debilitating shyness. It was my observation that most people seemed to be able to hold conversations, be comfortable in groups, and have friends. Wanting that for myself, I started making changes. They were painful. Over the next few years I joined student organizations so I would be forced into social situations, took a Speech class (that was awful), auditioned for and acted in school plays (more nerve-wracking than the Speech class, but of blessedly shorter duration). I even signed up to run for Student Council Representative. I believe I may hold the record for most consecutive unsuccessful runs for SC Rep (grades 7, 8, 9, 10, and 11).

One thing I did that was not a part of this campaign to overcome my shyness was join the student newspaper. I decided I wanted to write; so I took a journalism course and helped lay out the paper. Becoming a writer was a long-term goal, and I didn't allow myself to apply any pressure toward it's accomplishment. However, it was while working on the student newspaper that my name became known to my peers. And I discovered something new about me: I really LIKED being known. Unexpected, unplanned; I began in earnest my slow climb out of my shyness because I liked that people knew the me that was a writer for the school paper. I had a long way to go, but it was a start.

Being known. It's important. My young self was almost overcome by that first whiff of being known. Very heady stuff.

One of the many interesting things one learns by reading the Bible is that there are several names for God, different ways that He is known; names such as Yahweh or Jehovah ("God who preserves what he creates") and El Shaddai ("God Almighty"). The writers of the books record the names revealed to His people and they record the names His people ascribed to Him. This latter group are usually combination names, such as Jehovah Jireh ("My God will provide").

My all time favorite, though, was not ascribed to God by one of the writers; in fact, it was not even given Him by someone of power, stature, or position. The name appears only once, in Genesis Chapter 16, and it is spoken by an Egyptian slave. I immediately thought of his story when I read the Genesis 12:1-4 passage in this week's Lectionary readings.

There is so much that is interesting about this story. Abram's wife, Sarai, is old; well past the fertile years. There is no earthly basis for her to believe she will be able to become pregnant or, even if so, that she could successfully carry the child to term. Having lost faith in God's promise that she would become a mother in her own right, she "gives" her slave, Hagar, to Abram as a second wife. She reasons "The Lord has not given me any children. Sleep with my slave, and if she has a child, it will be mine." For his part, we're not sure what Abram was thinking. Maybe he really believed THIS arrangement was how God was going to make him "a great nation". Whatever his thoughts, in short order Hagar becomes pregnant and, also in short order, proud (that she is carrying THE HEIR) and hateful to Sarai.

I doubt anyone will be shocked to learn that Sarai retaliated; nor that Hagar soon ran away. And it is while she is on the run that she has an encounter with God. Hagar is not what you would call a sympathetic character. True, her situation stems from another person's lack of faith, and from the acts of a person who views Hagar as having value in only whatever ways Hagar proves useful. It's not a story through which runs the milk of human kindness. Frankly, I was pretty surprised when God took an interest in her. Yet, He did. And in a profound way. As a result of this encounter, Hagar thinks, “Have I really seen God and lived to tell about it?” So from then on she called him, “The God Who Sees Me.”

She NAMES God!

I used to be in awe of this passage for that reason alone. But as time went on, and I continued to return to this story, I became more enamored of the question: WHY did Hagar name Him "The God Who Sees Me"? For the longest time, I held the belief that Hagar, being a slave, saw herself as someone who was NOT seen by others; that is, not valued enough by others to REALLY see the real Hagar. Thankfully, with the passage of years, God has rescued me from that errancy.

Now I know the truth: we ALL have a need to be known. And I, for one, am very happy to know that God "sees me"; to have confidence that He sees my good intentions along with my failed executions, sees my belief while helping my unbelief, sees my selfish desires as well as my attempts to store up the right kinds of treasures. The real me. The person I am ... and the person I aspire to become.

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READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Second Sunday in Lent (March 20, 2011)
Genesis 12:1-4a
Psalm 121
Romans 4:1-5, 13-17
John 3:1-17 or Matthew 17:1-9

If you're in Waco this Friday morning, join us at 8:00 at Cafe Cappuccino (downtown on 6th, near the Courthouse) for a tasty breakfast and more of the above.

Enjoy!
Steve

A Two-edged Sword (a Reflection for Valentine's Day)

2011-02-13T19:51:00.000-08:00

A Two-edged Sword (a brief Valentine's reflection by Steve Orr)

"Trust in the LORD with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding;
In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths."
Proverbs 3:5-6

The Bible says the word of the Lord is sharper than any two-edged sword. When I was in college, something happened that gave me a very real and personal understanding of just what those two edges could do. That was when the Proverbs passage above led to the end of one relationship and to the beginning of another.

When I was a Junior I started asking out, and was soon dating exclusively, a beautiful young woman who was also smart and sweet. And while she seemed a bit shier than those I had previously dated, I really enjoyed going out with her. And, as these things happen, we became a couple.

One day, my girlfriend gave me a block of wood decorated with that passage from Proverbs. This oblong piece of wood was about a half inch thick at it's thickest, tapering to an edge, all round, that was maybe an eighth of an inch. I would guess it was about six inches in length and maybe four in width. All of that is a guess from a long ago memory. What I know for sure is this: its message really struck me. Strange as it may seem to some, that was the first time I had ever seen it. At that point, I had been attending church and Sunday School for a couple decades. How was it that something so fundamental to our relationship with God had never before come to my attention? You would think I might have, at the very least, heard it in a sermon.

The impact those two verses had on my life was profound. I thought about that scripture quite a lot. Its message worked its way into my every decision from that point forward, including, maybe most especially, my relationships. I started praying about which courses I would take, which professors I would follow, which church I would attend. I found myself thinking about my friendships in light of that scripture, and about the people who were being influences in my life, and about those I was influencing.

Some changes came about as a result. I stopped some pursuits and processes, and I ended some relationships (quietly, without fanfare; I just stopped spending time with some people). I strongly doubt anyone knew about this. It was a very private process for me. On the other hand, I continued many, but with a different perspective, a different set of reasons for extending my involvement.

Looking back from the perspective of a few decades, I now see that it was inevitable I would eventually bring my love life before the Lord, as well. Consequently, as I pondered a possible future with my girlfriend, I came to realize that, however good my intentions had been, I had not sought God's guidance when I entered into that relationship. I agonized over this for many weeks, but in the end could find no way to continue. I knew it would hurt her, but I also came to know it had to end. Finally, with great reluctance, I broke up with her.

I was not happy, but I was committed to trying to approach my relationships a different way, a prayerful way. I plunged into work and school, immersing myself so I would not dwell on the hurt I had caused; telling myself it was for the best, and trying to trust God that this would somehow lead to good for both of us.

Two months went by; which, in college time, with all it's activity, can seem like decades. Then one day, I met a woman by whom I was truly smitten. This time, though, I spent much time in prayer before proceeding; not wanting to jump forward into a relationship based solely on my own desires. To borrow from another piece of scripture, I watched and prayed. Eventually I asked her out.

So what happened? The woman I broke with met a wonderful man, a man who matches her love of the Lord. They have children and grandchildren, and a great life together; all of which may not have happened had I insisted on having my own way all those years ago.

And the woman I asked out a few months later?

We recently celebrated our 37th wedding anniversary.

Great scripture!

The Wild Bunch (a slightly different Christmas story)

2010-12-22T13:29:00.000-08:00

Photo courtesy of middle-east-pictures.com

(A brief Lectionary reflection by Steve Orr for Christmas Eve)

On the surface, "The Wild Bunch" sounds like a pretty interesting movie: an aging group of “old west” outlaws has trouble adjusting to the very modern world of 1913. From that premise we could build almost any kind of movie; a comedy, a love story, a heroic epic; maybe even a heart-warming Christmas tale. But that premise is not the whole of it.

When Roger Ebert reviewed the movie back in the summer of 1969, he called it "the most violent movie ever made," a movie in which "there are no heroes; just some bad people we know killing some bad people we don't know." And if that doesn't give you pause, let me add my own caution: even though some mainstream movies may have matched the violence of this film in recent years, the cruelty depicted in it is still truly disturbing all these decades later. While we could spend a lot of time engaging in the ongoing debate about the value of the film (it is considered by many to be one of the top ten westerns of all time), that's not why I raised the topic here.

I want us to consider the wild bunch, themselves.

Here is a group of men who are hard; who spend a lot of their time out in the badlands, sleeping rough, living rough. They look rough, and they smell bad. Not the kind of folk most of us would choose to spend any time with at all. For any reason. We immediately mistrust them. There is something about the look of them that makes us want to turn and go the other way. Not someone you would wish to have join the family, and if they were already in the family, well, we would want to send them as far away as we could possibly arrange.

In short, a lot like the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks by night . . . on THAT night.

What?!

Oh, yes. Scholars tell us that at the time of Jesus' birth, shepherding was a despised trade, comprised of despised people. They were considered thieves; in fact, people were strongly discouraged from purchasing milk or wool from shepherds because it was widely assumed they had come by those goods dishonestly. Loving fathers refused to teach their sons the trade.

Wow. That really changes how we see the events of that night of nights. Picture it with me. These low men are out in the fields with the sheep. Some are sleeping. Sheep don’t smell any better at night than in the day; and they don’t smell any better when asleep. But these men have grown accustomed to the smell. In fact, the men smell exactly the same as the sheep. Those who are keeping watch are alert to the sounds of the night; more concerned for their own lives than for the lives of the sheep.

Suddenly: an angel just APPEARS out of nowhere! Right there in the middle of them! Glory and light shine all about. The shepherds’ first thought: RUN! But the angel, who knows they are afraid (and probably should be) calms them down. He gives them the message about the Messiah being born in the nearby town and describes how they will recognize him. And if that was not enough, suddenly, there are even MORE angels surrounding them; an army of them, shouting in unison “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and peace on earth to people who please Him!”

Then, just as suddenly as they appeared: they are just not there.

After all that, what would you do? The shepherds did just what I think any of us would do (after we got over the shock); they went to investigate.

Now picture THIS scene: Mary and Joseph (surrounded by livestock, having wrapped their newborn son in cloths and placed him in the feed trough because, well, there is just NO WHERE ELSE) hear a noise. At first, it is unidentifiable; but soon, they recognize it as the many voices of excited people; and the sound appears to be rushing toward them. In short order, the little stable is crammed full of shepherds; not exactly the kind of people parents would want near their newborn. And the smell, already bad, only gets worse. There is a lot of pushing and shoving; finally the whole crowd tells the tale; talking over each other, each one trying to tell it.

Then, like many have over the ensuing millennia, the shepherds took to the streets to tell what they had seen and heard that night. And---maybe for the first time ever---people stopped to listen to them; these hard, low men; these thieves. And the people marveled at what they heard.

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Our own wild bunch is going to meet (unofficially) for breakfast this Friday (12/24/2010) at Kim’s. It is very easy to spot on the corner of 26th and Waco Drive. The traditional time is 8:00 a.m., but the Orr’s and Hamerly’s are aiming for around 7:30 . . . What? Why, yes, we ARE bringing Luke ;-)

Hope to see you there!

Readings for the Coming Week

Isaiah 9:2-7; 52:7-10; 62:6-12
Psalm 96; 97; 98
Titus 2:11-14; 3:4-7; Hebrews 1:1-4, (5-12)
Luke 2:1-14, (15-20); John 1:1-14

DDay Special Edition - At War With Dad

2010-11-17T21:54:00.000-08:00

THE HELP

2010-10-28T20:10:00.000-07:00

(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I was born and raised in the "Old South" during a time when racial segregation was the norm. However, I was not aware of all that. As a small child I was, of course, pretty oblivious to the inequities of the world. Life was just whatever I experienced. When I entered the first grade, my class was integrated. I had no way of knowing at the time that we were the first integrated class in the history of my little southern town.

Following the Supreme Court decision outlawing school segregation (Brown v. Board of Education), our little town had decided on what was called a "progressive plan"; we integrated the first grade and then continued to integrate behind that same class as it progressed through the years of public education. Finally, when my class entered the 7th grade the city fathers decided to end segregation throughout, the system. The last all black junior high school, all three grades, was closed and all the students came over to our junior high school. At the same time, the last all black high school in our town was closed, along with a second all white high school, with all students then attending the only remaining high school in town.

I'm sure there must have been resistance to this process, undoubtably at every stage (let's face it, we followers of Jesus can't even get through a church business meeting with everyone in agreement), but I never heard a single word of it. Somehow, my town accomplished integration while the rest of the south resisted it. But, that is not the point of this little reverie.

I only tell this little bit of my bio to help explain this next part: because I didn't experience it, a long time passed before I really began to understand how truly vast was the wrongness experienced by my brother and sister citizens of color prior to an including this period of time.

(One more brief story, and then I promise to get to the point) When I was about 7 or 8 years old, my family made a car trip to visit relatives in Florida (actually, this was the only way we ever took a vacation . . . with a relative at the other end of the trip). I recall stopping at one point to buy gas, go to the bathroom, etc. I was thirsty and rushed to the water fountain on the side of the service station. I saw a cup hanging from the side of the water fountain, tied to it with a string. I had filled it with water and was raising it to my lips when my mother stopped my rising arm and took the cup from my hand. She told me I couldn't use that cup because it was only for "coloreds." I clearly remember being puzzled by that information and asking her, "How come THEY get one?" I also clearly remember the strange look that came over my mother's face and her then saying, "I'll explain it in the car." By now you are probably wondering just how naive a child can be. Apparantly, pretty naive. That was a real eye opening Q&A session as we motored on through the south toward the sunny beaches of Florida. That was the beginning of my education about segregation.

Lately, I've been reading Kathryn Stockett's amazing novel, THE HELP; a story about the black women who worked in the homes of white people, raised their kids, cooked their meals, scrubbed their floors, polished their silver, washed their clothes . . . but were not allowed to drink from the same glassware, eat with the same utensils, drink from the same water fountains, use the same bathrooms, or live in the same part of town as whites. They were not paid a living wage; most could not afford to own a home, so they paid whatever rent the landlord decided was appropriate. Unlike a lot of other Americans, when southern blacks ran out of money before they ran out of month, it wasn't because they had splurged on some excess. It was because they had come to the point where they had to decide between eating and having a place to live. I don't plan to belabor this. You can easily find all sorts of historical descriptions of African American life in the early 1960's in the south. Or maybe you should just read THE HELP, a far more entertaining way to have your eyes opened.

What got me off onto this topic was a portion of one of this week's lectionary scriptures (Isaiah 1:16-18). Verse 18 is the more commonly known of this passage ("Come now, let us reason together, says the LORD: though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow..."). Reading it reminded me that President Lincoln borrowed from this passage in a speech advocating the end of slavery, and that others, including President Kennedy, borrowed from it as well. But, what is easy to overlook is the immediately preceding verses, the portion that addresses what it is the Lord wants us to reason with Him about: "Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow."

I don't know how anyone can read that passage without taking a moment to think about just exactly who they know that is so oppressed they need rescuing. For most of us, that seems like it must be someone from far away, certainly not anyone we know. And yet, if we will but look around, like He has always intended His people to do, I believe we will find it is our neighbor who needs rescuing; that the orphan is close by and the widow even closer.

Something to think about.

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This week's lectioanry passages:
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
Psalm 119:137-144
Isaiah 1:10-18
Psalm 32:1-7
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
Luke 19:1-10

If you are in Waco on Friday, consider joining the group meeting at 8AM at Cafe Cappuccino (downtown of 6th) for great food and great discussion. And if you are not in Waco, consider forming your own discussion group to explore these scriptures and how they still can shape our lives if we allow it.

Enjoy!
Steve

Sinners Anonymous

2010-10-23T09:57:00.000-07:00

Sinners Anonymous
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

The meeting would start something like this: I would walk to the front of the room. I would step behind one of those metal lecterns that doesn't hide anything, place my hands on either side of the little tray that usually holds someone's lecture notes, and then look out at the small crowd. I would say, "My name is Steve and I am a sinner." And they would respond in unison, "Hi, Steve!"

Looking out at the group, I would recognize some of them. Perhaps from other meetings, or perhaps from outside this room. A few I would know, and they would know me. We few would be more aware of each other's specific struggles; but we would certainly not be the only ones in that room with that kind of closer relationship.

I would explain that I had fallen off the wagon since we last met; that I had been unkind, that I had on several occasions failed to love my neighbor as myself, that I had come THIS CLOSE to taking something that did not belong too me. And they would listen, and thank me for my honesty. And when I was done, I would sit and listen to each one share his/her burdens with the same caring and respect they had shown me. And when we were all done, we would come together to thank God for His mercy and grace.

This reverie of mine is not a new concept. It's been used as a metaphor for many years to describe one way church should work. And it is one of those I choose to cling to as a vision of how we might be able to relate to one another. I sometimes covet the liberty and honesty of the 12 Step programs on which it is based. Somehow I think if we could quit comparing ourselves to others (and regarding ourselves as better or worse than they), we could, like the Tax Collector in this week's lectionary reading (Luke 18:9-14), go to our homes justified. Thinking we are somehow better because we only missed the target by a few feet when others missed it by yards or miles is really such poor reasoning as to be ludicrous. If the objective is to hit the target, then the amounts we missed it by are distinctions without a difference.

Something for us all to think on.

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If you are in Waco on Friday, join the group at Cafe Cappuccino (downtown on 6th) at 8:00 a.m. for great food and even greater fellowship. Lots of good discussion of this week's scriptures.

This week's lectionary readings:
Joel 2:23-32
Psalm 65 or Jeremiah 14:7-10, 19-22
Psalm 84:1-7
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18
Luke 18:9-14

Regrets? I've had a few . . .

2010-10-06T19:44:00.000-07:00

(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

There is so much I don't remember.

I don't remember asking her out. I don't remember where we went on our date. I don't remember driving to or from. I don't remember what we did. I don't even remember when ... Weekend? School night? Fall? Winter? Spring?

There is so much I don't remember.

Here is what I do remember: walking her back to the her dorm.

We are strolling along one of the campus walkways. It is fairly dark, but there are enough lights from nearby windows and from the mostly decorative pole lamps along the side of the distant library that we can see our way along the path.

[Were we holding hands? There is SO much I don't remember.]

As we near her dormitory, I see there are two steps up and then more walkway. This little step-up is still a few yards from the lighted front porch of her dorm. When we get to these steps, she steps ahead of me and onto the first step. She turns. We are almost eye to eye. She smiles that wonderful smile, the one that made me want to ask her out in the first place. Her hair is long and wavy, framing her face perfectly, and so in tune with the times. I realize, perhaps for the very first time, that she is truly beautiful. We look at each other ... for what now seems like a very long time. I tell her I had a wonderful time; the truth. She tells me the same. We continue to look at each other. And ...

I don't kiss her.

There is so much I don't remember. Why, I often wondered, is THIS what I do remember? ... this opportunity lost; this "Why didn't I?"; this little agony; this regret.

Do you have one of these? A wish-it-was-different? The person you almost kissed, the job you wanted but never pursued, that place you always wanted to visit but didn't, the words you wished you had said. On and on.

For some time after that date, I experienced an escalating disappointment; a growing obsession with the kiss-that-wasn't. I kept seeing that moment as a lost opportunity, an experience I wished I could go back and correct . . . no, not correct . . . complete. Do the follow-through.

Kiss her.

Now, though, looking back through the lens of several decades, I know I made the right choice that night. My choice was the road not taken, and absolutely the right one. Each of us moved off into diffent trajectories from that point. Each to another person, the right person; then children; then grandchildren.

Months after that night, God gifted me one day with a sudden clarity about that moment. It was not "an almost kiss." It was a sweet and cherishable moment between two people, a couple who needed to not be a couple, at least not with each other. I have often thanked God for transforming that seeming regret into a wonderful memory for me.

Do I have regrets? Yes. But, like the song says, too few to mention. And this is not one of them. My regrets are for things I did or said that hurt people; things we all should regret.

We must not allow ourselves to be enslaved by these memories. The only power they have over us is the power we invest in them. If we can find a way to regard them differently, we can defuse them of their power over us. And that is exactly what God did for his people when they were long-time captives of King Nebuchadnezzar. In one of this week's lectionary scriptures (Jeremiah 29:1-7), we find they were spending way too much time longing for the way things used to be, for moments now lost to them. In fact, they spent so much time obsessing about the past, God stepped in and refocused them.

"Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce. Take wives and have sons and daughters; take wives for your sons, and give your daughters in marriage, that they may bear sons and daughters; multiply there, and do not decrease. But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare."

In other words, memories are fine, but not if they are the fodder for "woulda, shoulda, coulda." God wants us to "be here now". We really are expected to "bloom where we're planted." God has plans for us.

An "almost kiss" (in fact, an almost anything) is not a reality, and thus not a real memory. It's just a longing for something that never was.

The readings this week: Proper 23 (28) (October 10, 2010)
First reading and Psalm - Jeremiah 29:1, 4-7; Psalm 66:1-12
Alternate First reading and Psalm - 2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c; Psalm 111
Second reading - 2 Timothy 2:8-15
Gospel - Luke 17:11-19

If you're in Waco on Friday morning, join the group at Cafe Cappuccino (on 6th, between Austin and Washington) at 8:00 for good food and thought-provoking discussions of this week's readings.

Enjoy!
Steve

Bad boys! Bad boys!

2010-09-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

Bad boys! Bad boys!
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I blame George Bailey.

Had there never been a George Bailey and a "good ol' Bailey Building and Loan" I might have never even considered a career in banking. From early in my life I was annually dosed with "It's A Wonderful Life" every holiday season, becoming entirely suffused with the story of one good man standing up to the embodiment of all the evil that is done in this world for the sake of greed.

What I missed, or maybe forgot, was that Mr. Potter ALSO served on the board of the Bailey Building and Loan. In fact, Potter was there long before George helped out after his Dad died, long before George took the helm to prevent the business from shutting down, long before George made his impassioned speech to his depositors to prevent a run on the bank ("Charlie, your money's not here; it's in Mr. Martini's house. And Bob, your money is in Mr. and Mrs. Thompson's house. Don't you see?").

I carried that Pollyanna view well into adulthood; but over the course of my banking career the patina of a George Bailey-ness was slowly worn away by the reality of actual banking. And initially this was quite upsetting to me. I wanted to be George Bailey, but it seemed everyone wanted me to be Mr. Potter. Eventually, even this piece of self-righteous deception was finally worn away by reality. I came to a realization that while, yes, there were many George Baileys working in the banking world, there were also many Mr. Potters. And then, before I could do any damage with my wrong headedness, God helped me see the truth that had been before my eyes all along. I finally saw banking for what it was, what it had always been.

Us.

When we deposit our money into a bank account, it's our money the bankers lend out. It really IS in Sue's house, and Bob's car, and Jim's retail store, and any of several million other places. And while it is true the Mr. Potters of this world are part of it, so are we. Like most of the things in this life, it is not inherently good or bad; rather, it is something we can wield for good or ill. It's really all about us.

How you think about the story Jesus tells in Luke 16:1-13 depends entirely on who you see yourself as in the story. Are you the Master who's resources have (and continue to be) wasted? Or are you the shrewd servant who flips a potentially devastating turn of events into a big personal win? Or are you one of the debtors who suddenly, and happily, finds his/her debt significantly reduced?

The scenario Jesus illustrates is quite common in the banking world; with the main roles being represented by the Board of Directors, the banker, and the borrowers. Would you be surprised to learn that bankers sometimes forgive a portion of a borrower's debt? And would you be shocked to learn that this is often perceived as exactly the right thing to do by the bank's Board of Directors? Sometimes shrewd carries the day.

Like most of the stories told by Jesus, this one was for everyone standing there; the Pharisees, the disciples, the crowd; each to understand it in a different way. So who are you in the story? As strange as it sounds, everyone wins in this story, even those we find less than admirable. And I for one am very glad to know that. Because the point of the story is this: even the shrewdest people of this world can find reasons to forgive others, even if only for self-preservation.

How wonderful that God's grace is so wildly absurd that it exceeds even the flawed system we humans take part in to conduct the business of life in this world.

Be spiritually shrewd. Forgive.

READINGS FOR THE COMING WEEK
Jeremiah 8:18-9:1
Psalm 79:1-9
Amos 8:4-7
Psalm 113
1 Timothy 2:1-7
Luke 16:1-13

If you are in Waco Friday, join us at the Olive Branch (River Square on Franklin, near University Parks Blvd) at 8:00 a.m. for breakfast and fellowship.

Enjoy!
Steve

Incident at 10th and Clark

2010-09-10T08:15:00.000-07:00

By Steve Orr

In less than 60 seconds we went from wild cacophony to utter silence.

Welcome to Jetton Junior High School, spring 1964. There were a couple hundred of us; talking, shouting, laughing, nudging, arguing, courting, playing; and our keepers were ever watchful to ensure the arguments or the games of “slap-hands” didn’t escalate into actual fighting, that the courting didn’t cross that indefinable (at least to us) line into public-display-of-affection, that the laughter wasn’t somehow connected to something salacious. We were, all of us, keepers and kept, fully engaged in our after-lunch rituals, using up the time until the next class bell rang and called us back into the building for additional societal formation. It was a warmer-than-usual spring day and we were a bit more rambunctious than the norm, perhaps sensing in the air the coming of summer and our annual parole from public education.

All of that, that activity, the keeping; it all just stopped. Though not abruptly. There was a definite fading process that seemed to take forever but that really only lasted, at most, a minute. I’ve gone over and over this, and after several years I can confidently say it took about a minute to go from thunderous noise to something so silent I can find no analog in my other memories with which to compare it.

The first thing I noticed was the change in the sound. Somewhere out along the farthest edges of our crowd, near the street, sound had stopped. I’ve always been a sound person, probably because my vision is so poor. I was in thick glasses by the time I entered the third grade and have lost some ground every year since. So, by the time I arrived at this shameful moment I was already to the point I could not safely walk down the hall of our junior high school without my glasses.

Yet, that day, I could see well enough to go along with everyone else. And I could easily recognize the change in the quality and volume of our massed sound.

I was up on the large and grand porch that fronted our school and about as far from what happened as I could be and still be part of it. I say “large and grand” because our school had, at one time, been the largest and grandest of our town’s three high schools. One of many changes wrought by Brown v Board of Education was the consolidation of all the high schools into the newest facility, located way out around 25^th Street.

I remember turning away from my friends and looking towards the street. In my recollection I was the only person anywhere near me who, initially, noticed what was happening out at the street edge. My two good friends stood next to me, absorbed in a common exercise; taking turns trying to slap each other’s hands before said hands could be jerked away, and, supposedly, out of harms way. It was an interesting, and often painful, lesson in eye-hand coordination that many boys around my age participated in; the more aggressive among us getting to hit something, while the rest of us learned to get out of their way. One of those excellent life lessons one learns outside the classroom.

What I saw when I looked toward the street was not completely without precedence; my fellow students—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—pausing to look at something passing by our school; usually an automobile of some sort. We were situated right on a sometimes busy, divided street; one of the reasons our keepers were so adamant about our never leaving school property; there was the actual chance one could come to harm just by stepping off the curb and into the street. This rule was tested from time to time, and, if the miscreant was caught, he (and wasn’t it always “he”?) was quickly collared by one of the teachers, fully empowered by “in loco parentis,” and dragged off for a brief and meaningful conference with the Principal.

In my memory this moment seemed to take a long time; but, in reality, it could have only been seconds before I refocused from the first wave of watchers to what they were watching. I remember raising my eyes, seeing first the line of cars parked along the curb in front of the school, then to the single lane of street that was located closest to us, then to the wide, grassy berm which made it possible for simple 10^th Street to also be called Murrell Boulevard (since renamed to Walter Jetton Boulevard), then to the other lane which allowed traffic to drive in the opposite direction. In all that, I saw nothing. No passing cars, no bicycles, no one walking … nothing that should draw their attention away from all those things we thought were so important in those days.

But then my eyes finished their rise, and I saw the old man.

He was walking along the opposite sidewalk. Tall, thin, not-recently-shaven; wearing one of those sleeveless undershirts with the scoop neck, a pair of grey, shapeless pants that had been washed too often or had lain too long in the Salvation Army bin, of both, leather shoes that had seen better days, no socks. It was possible he could have been coming from almost anywhere. Our school sat on the corner of 10^th and Clark, only ten streets from the riverfront. There was a lot stuffed into that quarter of the city. My grandparents lived in a rent house not quite a block-and-a-half up Clark Street—I often stopped by to see them on school afternoons before walking the mile and a half home—but I think I would have known him if he was a friend of theirs, and I did not. Across the alley from my grandparent’s place, and at mid-block on Washington Street, was the local house of ill-repute; but that also seemed an unlikely source for the old man (Yes, I know … block-and-a-half from a junior high school … what can I say? Different place. Different time.). Directly across Washington from there was the back entrance to the Southern Bell Telephone Company where my mother worked; another unlikely starting point. The Andrew Carnegie Public Library? No.

These speculations were very brief; none of those fit the situation. Besides, we could all tell where he came from. It was obvious, obvious to us at least; he had just come from the small grocery store located a couple blocks nearer the river, on Clark near the intersection with 8^th Street. He was carrying a low-sided cardboard box (the kind you sometimes see on grocery store shelves with half a soup can showing above the cut-down cardboard edge) with three half-gallons of milk and a loaf of bread in it. That seemed to end any speculation about the origin of his journey that day. And, just as obvious to us all, he was taking these to his home. Anyone would have come to the same conclusions.

Carrying is not the right word. He was laden with that low-sided box and its content. From his slow, wobbly gate it was easy for anyone to see he had more than his ancient limbs could handle. Each step was a struggle. And even from my well-removed position, and with my bespectacled eyes, I could see the thin, ropey muscles of his arms starkly etched against the parchment of his skin. Here was a man who, clearly, had done a lot of what my grandfather called real work. Grand-daddy still labored at the Illinois Central Railroad Roundhouse, as he had all of his adult life (except for a two-year span during the depression when the whole family lived on his parents’ farm and he earned only $1.50), and he often told us he was pretty sure he knew what real work was. But we all grow infirm, don’t we, even those who have built up some muscle though hard work?

By this time, my friends had stopped to see what I was looking at; and thus began the slow domino into silence. Instead of moving toward us in waves, the silence moved both from us and from the street side to eventually meet somewhere in the middle of the crowd. In less than a minute all of us—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers; teachers and students, keepers and kept—were standing perfectly, silently still … watching.

To say the old man struggled would be to use too light a word. “Struggled,” “wrestled,” even “fought”; we’ve managed somehow to leech the weight and power out of these words. All that’s left me, that truly describes these events, is “battle.” That day we witnessed a man battle; battle against his own body with all the ferocity of a soldier attempting to overtake the enemy’s position amid a barrage of weapons fire. He gave it his all with each wavering step, knees slightly bent against the weight of his burden, determination painted in rivulets of sweat coursing down on his face.

I don’t think any of us was shocked when the first milk carton tumbled.

We had already stopped moving and talking; there was nothing else to stop except breathing. I’m pretty sure we all did that, too; I know I did. Again, it all seemed to move in some sort of horror-film-slow-motion; the corner of the box buckling just a little, the milk carton starting to tip over the edge, the old man reactively tugging everything up and thus causing the falling carton to start a slow end-over-end spin as it floated out of the box and toward the sidewalk. Kurosawa and Peckinpah could have taken lessons. I suddenly found myself leaning against the thick, sculpted concrete balustrade that kept us “porch kids” from tumbling into the broad array of hedges growing about a half story below. And I was not alone. Everyone was not just oriented on the old man; we were leaning toward him as we watched that carton of milk … oh … so … slowly … somersault toward the sidewalk. Reality: mere seconds. Subjectively: almost forever.

It hit with a slapping sound we all could hear.

And … nothing happened. The carton landed on its bottom, with no apparent harm to its contents. Everyone breathed. The moment of horror had passed. The relief that flooded though us was so strong, so palpable. Everything was A-O-K.

Then, as we were just beginning to think of returning to our previous activities, the old man moved to pick up the errant milk carton … and the second carton began its tumble from the box.

Stephen King fans will recognize this as a “Cujo moment”; that moment when (the good guys having finally won the day and realizing they have somehow survived, a moment of abject and profound relief) evil surges back for another bite! Long before I ever read Stephen King, long before I ever saw one of those just-can’t-kill-the-bad-guy movies, I experienced this horror. Right then I knew. Deep in the inmost place of my being I was forced to recognize truth: he was not going to make it. I wanted him to make it, but I had already come to the conclusion that he just could not do it. How does a man who has difficulty just walking pick up a carton of milk without dropping the rest of his load?

This time the top of the carton struck the concrete sidewalk. Milk spewed in every direction. By this time, the old man was kneeling on one knee. Milk splattered his feet, his legs, his shirt; a few drops hit him in the face. But back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. He soldiered on. He had lived through some of the more trying times of history; World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Korea. Even my generation had been taught what to do in such a situation as this: no crying over spilt milk. And he didn’t cry. He passed his hand over his face, wiping away the few droplets of milk there. He reached for the first, upright milk carton, placed it back in the box, and then slowly, carefully managed to raise himself back to a standing position without further crisis.

He resumed his slow, unsteady shuffle; not looking back at his failure, leaving it behind him in the way we had all been taught. In all this time, this subjective time of our viewing, he had not taken as much as 15 steps. Now, he resumed putting one foot before the other, wobbly but resolute. One step. Two. Three.

I’m not sure what actually happened. Maybe the first milk carton had sustained some damage when it landed upright on the sidewalk and had sprung a slow leak only after being returned to the box. Maybe all of his efforts had just exhausted the man. Whatever the cause, whether liquid-weakened cardboard or life-weakened sinews, on his sixth step away from the milk spill the box caved in the middle. This time it happened very fast. The two sides of the box flipped up to meet each other in the middle. Somehow in that process the bread and surviving milk cartons flew forward from the old man’s grasp. And he did grasp, at all of it. He actually got one hand on one of the cartons, but it slipped right through, perhaps already slick from leaking milk.

In a flash, chaos. Before him on the sidewalk were two burst milk cartons; a loaf of bread split open and sopping wet with milk, one of the cartons having landed directly on it before spilling and soaking the loaf. And now … now while grasping the folded and useless piece of cardboard … now the old man cried.

And through it all we watched, silent and still.

####

AT LAST! (a brief lectionary reflection)

2010-08-12T19:04:00.000-07:00

At Last
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

Something wonderful happened this week. I've been searching, longing, hoping for such a long time; honestly, I sometimes wondered if I would ever find it. But this week I did find it. It had been so long, I was completely caught off guard when it happened.

There I was, riding to work on DART (the Dallas Area Rapid Transit system), and, for a change, not reading anything. I was doing that thing where you just stare out the window, not AT anything, really; just letting whatever slides by paint a moving picture in my brain. You may recall "The Second Rule of Finding Things" says "Don't look. See." I didn't realize it at the time, but I was employing that rule in it's truest sense.

And that's when it happened. Sliding right across my not especially focused vision was . . . A Peet's Coffee! Suddenly I perked up (no pun intended) and really focused. Yes! It really WAS a Peet's; after so many years of living without access to that collections of velvety and robust beverages, I was elated! I first enjoyed a Peet's coffee while in Palo Alto, CA while on our way to Stanford University (and, yes I DO know the way to San Jose). Shortly after that trip, a Peet's opened in my own college town, just a few blocks from our little third-story-walkup-faculty-housing apartment. I was in Heaven!

And then, we moved back to Texas.

Perhaps you are wondering, "Is this some sort of plug for Peet's Coffee?" No, it's not.

It's a plug for hope.

I had all but given up on there ever being a Peet's in Texas. When I first moved back to Texas, I looked forward to introducing my new friends to that tasty brew; but, alas, it was not to be. I searched and searched the Internet for any indication of a Peet's, but found none in Texas. I just kept thinking I was not doing it right. How could there not be a Peet's in Texas? I finally wrote an email to the company and asked them to just tell me where one was. By that time I didn't care, I would drive anywhere in Texas. What I learned was that there HAD been a Peet's in Austin, but that it had closed!

So, for some time now I have been more or less resigned to the situation; not completely giving up, but not actively on alert for one, and certainly no longer searching for one. But that all changed this week. What had become a favorite, but fading, memory, had transformed into a very present reality!

And that's a good way to view this week's lectionary passages. If you read them in the order I have placed them, below, you can experience some of the frustration and longing (from BOTH sides) as the years passed away without the arrival of what had been so long promised.

Take a few minutes and read these passages. Let them sink in before going on.

Psalm 80:1-2, 8-19
Psalm 82
Isaiah 5:1-7
Jeremiah 23:23-29
Luke 12:49-56

And then, when all seems to be at the worst, we arrive at the Hebrews passage.

Hebrews 11:29-12:2

Up to then, God had been expressing some pretty harsh things to his chosen people, first through the prophets and then through Jesus, about how they had not lived up to what had been expected. And the Psalmist was eloquent in expressing the desire of that people to, somehow, reconcile to their God.

It is only after we get to the Hebrew passage that we get it all set in context, and only then do we realize that all along we have been silently hoping for the story to have a good ending. And, finally, our hope, though it had grown small, is rewarded.

If you are in Waco on Friday, join the group at the Olive Branch (River Square on Franklin, near University Parks) at 8:00 for breakfast and more of the above. We had such a great visit last Friday. Wish I could be there every week.

Enjoy!
Steve

P.S. Olive Branch has great coffee, too. I especially love Leah's "Downtown Dark" blend. Missing that!

The Gift of Pain

2010-07-01T18:36:00.000-07:00

The Gift of Pain
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

Chances are you have never heard of Hansen's Disease; or if you have, you can't quite recall what it was you once knew about it (or maybe you are that rare reader who will think, "Wasn't that on an episode of the X-Files?"). And, if you don't know about Hansen's Disease, then in all likelihood you have never heard of Dr. Paul Brand, the Leonardo da Vinci of the Hansen's Disease universe.

Perhaps you know Hansen's by its other name: leprosy.

That's what this week's lectionary passage in 2 Kings Chapter 5 says afflicted Naaman, an Aramean who commanded the King's army. Now, there's this big controversy over whether what the Bible calls leprosy is always the same as Hansen's, and I certainly don't know; but the recent discovery of a 4,000-year old skeleton has established that Hansen's was present in the area at the time. All I'll say is this: whatever he had, it was serious. The King of Aram sent 750 pounds of silver and 150 pounds of gold with him to Israel in hopes it would purchase a cure for the Naaman's condition . . . that's over $3 million US dollars!!

If Naaman did have Hansen's, then his likely symptoms included white, scaly skin (and it seems to be the obvious symptom described in the passage); and one other very notable symptom: lack of protective sensation. In other words, a significantly diminished sensitivity to pain. Hansen's is a progressive disease; if not treated, every symptom worsens over time. While at first glance an insensitivity to pain might look like a good thing, especially for a warrior, there is a real downside.

What? Wouldn't the absence of pain be a blessing, especially for those suffering from such a terrible disease? It was Dr. Brand who first raised the thought that the observable symptoms of the disease--skin lesions, blindness, crippled limbs, disfigured faces--might be a result of the nerve damage caused by the disease rather than a direct result of the disease. He quickly began documenting lack of pain along with the other symptoms. Over time he drew the attention of the wider medical community to an inescapable conclusion: the lack of pain in these people's lives was causing them harm. They didn't notice when a rock or limb scratched them, and so made no attempt to protect themselves from infection; simple abrasions led to serious problems; a twisted ankle went unnoticed, was never immobilized, and dislocation became permanent; a serious domino effect leading to loss of limbs, facial features, vision.

After first throwing a fit because the Prophet Elisha failed to make enough of a big deal over him, Naaman was eventually convinced by those who cared about him to comply with the Prophet's simple instructions. And, after bathing seven times in the Jordan as instructed, was cured of his leprosy; his skin fully restored.

And, along with his skin, he may also have regained his pain; that quality of life we often wish was not present, but which is really a gift from a loving God; a gift that protects us in a world filled with hidden dangers, injuries that could deepen and cause us great harm if not for the signpost of pain to draw our attention to address them early. It is a gift to the spirit as well as the body.

# # # # # # # #

Dr. Brand wrote several books, three of which were written with Philip Yancey, including PAIN: THE GIFT NOBODY WANTS. In addition, Dr. Brand is also one of the featured subjects of Yancey's book, SOUL SURVIVOR.

If you are in Waco, TX on Friday, join the group for breakfast and more of the above at the Olive Branch restaurant (8:00 a.m. in River Square, on Franklin between 3rd and University Parks).

Blessings,
Steve

Rolling on the River: Fun Times With Fruit (a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

2010-06-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

Rolling on the River: Fun Times With Fruit
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I was born and raised in West Kentucky in a town situated at the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers, and just a mile north of where these two joined the mighty Mississippi. Those rivers, and the lakes and streams fed by them, play a central role in all my best memories of those times. And they were the location of so many of the fun things I did with my friends; especially my friends Paul, Mike, Bruce, and Bob.

There are so many stories of fun things we did together. Some of them are simple things like double dating (and triple dating, and four-ple dating . . . group activities were not so common in those days, not like today, but the four of us did a lot of things as a group). Sometimes we just hung out at one or the other’s house (usually Bob’s or Bruce’s since they had rooms designed to withstand the rigors of hosting teenage boys). None of us had any money, so we worked the concession stand to get into the football and basketball games. We were a little nerdy, so we joined the Chess Club. When one of us performed in a play or a choir concert, the rest of us took our dates to see the performance. We grew to value our differences, and we had fun whatever we did together.

But mostly, we did things on and around (and between) the rivers. One spring break Bob, Bruce and I spent the week navigating a small boat up the river to the locks at the Kentucky Lake dam and camping along the shores of the Land Between the Lakes (the LBL - Google it). One night we camped on an island in the middle of the lake, made a fire and told ghost stories . . . until we discovered the “island” had been a cemetery before the TVA flooded the area to make the lake. No one slept THAT night ;-)

Paul was always the explorer in our little group; he led us on many an adventure in the LBL. Paul is the one who talked us into crawling through mud tunnels along one side of the lake one winter, explaining later that the reason we had to do it in winter is because the tunnels only exist because the mud is frozen; that come spring they would all collapse! Interspersed among all our adventures were lots of outings on boats, in cars, on bicycles, and on foot. One adventure in particular stands out because it ended with us being chased by moonshiners after we accidentally discovered their still. Fun times.

There are a lot of these stories, and perhaps I’ll tell some more of them in the future. Right now, what I want to tell you is this: When I read in Galatians 5:22-23

“…when we live God’s way, He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard—things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely.”

When I read that passage, I think of my four friends. When I was a teen and going through the shaping that would produce the person I now am, it is these friends who were the “fruit of the Spirit” to me. In them I saw all those good things, and I bent my will and energies to emulate them in every way I could.

Are there some folks in your life who appear like fruit in an orchard; refreshing, bursting with joy and great personal qualities? Consider that God may have placed them in your life (and you in theirs) to be the catalyst for something good. For the “fruit of the Spirit” is not just a list of qualities printed on a page. It is the living of those qualities in our everyday interactions with one another. I thank God for my friends. Still.

# # # # #

If you are in Waco, Texas on a Friday, join the group at 8:00 a.m. at the Olive Branch for breakfast and some excellent fellowship. I am getting to be with them this week and I am really looking forward to it!

Poem on a Bathroom Wall

2010-06-17T19:54:00.000-07:00

Poem on a Bathroom Wall
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

One of my favorite restaurants, Algiers, is located in Cambridge, Massachusetts in Brattle Square. Delicious food; and some truly fine coffee. Plus, Algiers was the site of a monthly meeting of friends who enjoy books as much as I do. In other words, a place I visited often. And, every time I was at Algiers, I went to the bathroom before starting the long series of subway rides home.

That’s where I first saw the poem.

home had took me
to where too much time
had locke me in
in my wrong ways
and the fumbles of
a memory, and left me
where I first began
begging: "Christ let loose
these ghosts from my bones."

Men see a lot of things written on bathroom walls; mostly things not repeatable in polite company. And believe me, after a while, guys just stop seeing them. But this caught my attention the very first time I entered that bathroom. Eventually, months later I am sad to report, it finally occurred to me to write it down.

I’ve thought a lot about that poem over the years; wondering what the author meant for the reader to get from it. Eventually, I came to the conclusion the author probably cared not one whit about what the reader would get from the poem. It’s too raw. It was scrawled on a bathroom wall, not published in the New England Journal of Poetry. This guy was hurting. Deeply.

What has been the most puzzling is why the poem kept drawing my attention. I don’t think of myself as having the kind of life that would lead to penning my pain to a bathroom wall. It took a while, but eventually I realized what the draw was: it reads like one of David’s psalms, a lot like the two psalms (42 and 43) in this week’s lectionary readings. When the Psalmist writes, “Deep calls to deep at the thunder of your cataracts; all your waves and your billows have gone over me,” I really feel his exhaustion; his being overwhelmed by the deep waters of life. Like the bathroom poet, David wanted a relief only God could provide.

Sometimes we get into deep water; really deep, deep water. We’re in so deep, the only way we can ever get out is to call on God to cleanse us of even the memories of what led us there.

It has been several years since I finally realized I needed to write down that poem, and almost as long since I came to understand why I needed to write it down. And despite diligent searches, I’ve never been able to locate the author. If I could find him, I would thank him for his reminder that God can be called on in all circumstances, even when, perhaps most especially when, things seem to be at their worst.

# # # # #

If you find yourself in Waco on a Friday, join the group at the Olive Branch for breakfast and Bible at 8:00 a.m. This week’s other readings are: 1 Kings 19:1-4, (5-7), 8-15a; Isaiah 65:1-9; Psalm 22:19-28; Galatians 3:23-29; Luke 8:26-39.

Robin Hoods of the Purple Sage

2010-06-09T17:13:00.000-07:00

(Photo by Paula Hartnet)

Robin Hoods of the Purple Sage
(a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr)

I watched a lot of television as a child, and, because there was a great need for content, saw a lot of movies on the television (even though we, initially, only received one channel). It didn’t take me long to recognize a recurring plot line in many of the movies and television programs I was exposed to: the rich rancher who covets the land of the little guy (or, just as often, the attractive-widow-with-children) is eventually thwarted by the handsome (and possibly singing) cowboy (who, having soundly defeated the bad guy, settles down to provide “lasting” protection against it ever happening again or, perhaps rides away into the sunset leaving all to wonder “Who was that masked man?”). You would be amazed at how many variations on a theme are possible with just those few building blocks . . . and all in black & white.

Part of the reason I recognized that recurring pattern is that I was exposed to Robin Hood at an even earlier age. I knew all about Robin, Maid Marion, and the Merry Men “stealing from the rich” (something Robin only did to the “bad” rich people, those who accumulated their riches through oppression, excessive taxation, and theft) and “giving to the poor” (since the only reason they were “poor” is that the “bad” rich people made them that way). It is why, at a very early age, I easily understood the caveat in scripture against coveting. How hard is that to understand? If you want something that is not yours, and if you have no legitimate means of it becoming yours, you need to just let go of the idea of possessing it. Simple.

Of course, if you are reading this, you know as well as I do that, despite being simple, it is not always easy to accomplish. We want what we want. Taming that desire to possess can be daunting. Oh that we had a cowboy (singing or otherwise) who would ride in and stop the rich rancher in our heads from coveting our neighbors whatever. Or if we could know, really know, we had the deterrent of a Robin Hood who could be counted on to always deprive us of our ill-gotten gains, perhaps knowing it would keep us from taking what doesn’t really belong to us.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way. We’re on the honor system. God will allow us to act as we decide to act, and there will be consequences for our actions . . . the bill may just come much, much later. And we may not be the ones to pay it. In 1st Kings, chapter 21, we see Ahab sulk because a neighbor won’t sell him a vineyard and then allow his wicked wife to engineer the death of that man so Ahab can have the vineyard. We are a bit shocked to find that there is no immediate retribution; no Robin Hood to swash-buckle in and steal it back. Instead Ahab is promised by Elijah that he will, someday, pay the price for what he has done . . . when he dies. The description of the consequence is pretty graphic, so I’ll let you read it yourself. Regardless, the punishment seems remote; it seems to fit the old saying, “justice delayed is justice denied.”

In 2nd Samuel, chapters 11 and 12, we read of David being confronted by the prophet Samuel for engineering the death of a man so David could possess the man’s wife (after David had already impregnated her). Again, we can hardly believe what we are reading. The “evil rich rancher” is the man GOD chose to be King! And where is the singing cowboy? No one acts to stop this man from arranging this heinous crime. Why? Because he is the King, God’s chosen King. He is so powerful, no one dare oppose him, even when he does wrong. In this story, as well as the Ahab story, the principals don’t actually do the foul deed; they each use someone else to make it happen; as if that distance somehow made them less tainted by the foul act. In David’s case, he managed to arrange for the enemy to strike the killing blow. And then, once confronted with his crime, David repents. But the bill comes due (it always does). And David has to watch time after time while others die, and wondering if it is because of his sin. It is a sobering and chilling thought.

And that brings us to Luke, chapter 7. People usually think this is a story about honoring Jesus. And it is, to a certain extent. But there is another story; and it is couched in the question Jesus asks the well-off Pharisee: “Do you see this woman?” That question seems so out of place. How could the Pharisee NOT see the woman? She has been there all through the meal, weeping on Jesus’ feet and then drying them with her hair, anointing his feet with ointment and then kissing them. Seems pretty heard to miss. That simple question harbors a much greater meaning. Jesus wants to know if the man REALLY sees the woman; not with his physical eyes, but with his spiritual eyes.

That is the real problem with all of these key people—Ahab, a consistently evil man; David, a good man who has strayed; and the Pharisee, just a guy with resources who asked Jesus to dinner—they all failed to actually “see” the people before them. They let their desires (or their situations) drive how they regarded others; human beings with just as much value to God as themselves.

And that is our challenge as well. God has charged us to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with Him. WE are the Robin Hoods of the purple sage.

#####

If you are in Waco, Texas on Friday, stop by the Olive Branch (River Square, just down from Ninfa’s, near 5th and University Parks Drive) at 8:00 a.m. for breakfast and some great discussions of this week’s lectionary passages (the other readings this week are Psalm 5:1-8 • Psalm 32 • Galatians 2:15-21 • Luke 7:36-8:3).

Enjoy!

Steve

The Second Rule of Finding Things

2010-06-04T13:27:00.000-07:00

The Second Rule of Finding Things . . . (a brief lectionary reflection by Steve Orr -- for Sunday June 6, 2010)

If you read one of my previous lectionary reflections, you may be familiar with my hobby of collecting first rules. I wrote about the "First Rule of Self-defense" (Don't be there) and the "First Rule of the Kitchen" (Before picking something up, know where you're going to set it down). Here's a new one for you: the "First Rule of Promotion" (To get the job, do the job). That could also be called the "First Rule of Employment"; it works for both.

I also wrote about the "First Rule of Finding Things" (Look under something). That one is worth exploring a bit more, but I'll save it for another reflection. This week I want to shift over to one of my very few second rules: the "Second Rule of Finding Things." Perhaps you're wondering why a perfectly good first rule needs a second rule at all. The best way I can explain it is this: some things just can't be found using only the first rule. But that's not the rule's fault! The very best practitioners of the "First Rule of Finding Things" could still not find what was being sought because of a little trick our mind plays on us. Often, we are so focused on what we are seeking, we stop seeing what is right in front of us; and the "harder" we look the less we see. Weird but true.

That leads me to the "Second Rule of Finding Things" (Don't look; see). Sometimes the only way to find something is to stop looking for it and just allow ourselves to see what is before us. While using this approach can often yield up what was sought, the great benefit to using this rule is that it goes a long way toward preventing us from mistaking what is before us for what we are seeking. Sometimes (many would say, "usually") the act of looking for something prevents us from discovering. Another way to think about it is the difference between researching and exploring; the former follows set rules and usually involves a known objective, whereas the latter is far less structured and consists of observing whatever is encountered.

And THAT leads us to 1 Kings 17 where Elijah restores a widow's son to life. It is a story about the great prophet of God that, when Jesus walks among them, everyone in Israel, even children, knows. Right up there with bringing God's fire down on Mt. Carmel, stopping the rain for 3 years, and being whisked off to Heaven in a firey chariot. Plus, there is an expectation that Elijah will return just before the Messiah appears.

So, perhaps we should cut the folks of Nain some slack. Is it such a big problem that they thought he was Elijah returning when they saw Jesus raise to life the dead son of a widow? Luke 7:16 says "they glorified God, saying, 'A great prophet has risen among us!'" When they said that, they were thinking about the return of Elijah.

There's just one problem: they broke the "Second Rule of Finding Things." Because they were SO focused on the return of Elijah, they failed to see what was right in front of them, someone far more important than Elijah.

It's something we might give some thought to ourselves.

"The Lineman" (NEW MATERIAL ADDED!!)

2009-09-04T12:43:00.000-07:00

(NEW MATERIAL!! This posting includes two sequences of a new fiction piece I'm working on that I am tentatively calling "The Lineman." In it we meet Chez [sounds like fez], learn a little about his present situation, and get introduced to the story. I have now added some new material to the initial sequence, as well as adding a second section -- Steve)

THE LINEMAN
By Steve Orr

Chez Makes a Discovery

Alphonse “Chez” Chesterton was simultaneously enjoying one of the positives of his current employment while dealing with one of its negatives. On the positive side, his new iChip had synced perfectly with his gauntlet despite the fact they were produced two years apart and by different companies (as advertised, he had to admit) and he was currently vibing on a rollicking piece of music being played by a group who’s general popularity had peaked in the previous millennium. But Chez had liked them the first time he had heard them; and now his iChip was loaded with them (as well as with several other bands from that period – who knew I’d ever like this stuff?).

On the negative side, he was also currently climbing a tree out in the back end of nowhere. Nobody cared if he listened to his chip on this job, so he did it all the time; driving from location to location, during analysis & repairs; even when he, on rare occasions, had to actually talk with a client or some other local (hey, they couldn’t tell). The big downside was that he had to do things like he was doing today … finding out why the video feed from this location had gone to snow.

Somewhere in New York City, just off Broadway, was a cozy little restaurant (not really cozy or little, but patrons thought of it that way) with one of those menus that doesn’t list the price of anything (way above my pay grade, that’s for sure). Strategically placed on its walls, so each group of diners had the sense they were dining somewhere else, were large video panels, each with its own separate view of some bucolic scene; sheep grazing in New Zealand, Kobe cattle doing much the same thing in Japan, a relatively empty meadow with occasional breeze riffling through the wildflowers, “Main Street” in a small Texas Panhandle town, the Serengeti Plain, etc. There were more than 70 of these “dining experiences” scattered through “Tableaus,” each with its own collection of groupies.

The ambiance at “Tableaus” (and its above-top-dollar menu) made it a big profit center for FSC, Chez’s employer, and keeping the technology working that produced all that ambiance was Chez’s job. When Chez had come to work for First Solar Corp (FSC; he had to remember to call it FSC … they had switched to letters recently because, they said, people were confusing them with the eco’s) almost five years ago he’d been especially excited about working for them. First, he was already on his third round of living on the dole; if he didn’t come up with a job pretty quick he was going to have to move into a shelter (not the bottom, but you could definitely see it from there). Second, it seemed like someone had tailor-made the job for him; tech (he liked tech; he and tech got along really fine, far better than he and many of the people in his life), world travel (something he had always wanted to do but could never afford), almost complete daily autonomy (he had a boss, but rarely saw or even heard from the woman – “Chez, get it done. Get it done right. Get it done fast. And then move on to the next thing. Keep your log up to date. I’ll contact you if I have any questions.”).

So here he was, high up a tree in the Texas Hill Country (a little too high for comfort); and what does he find? The camera was there, still securely strapped to the tree and facing a meadow that rolled gently down to the Perdenales River. However, the transmitter (the key fail point to the whole shebang in Chez’s estimation … if the scene could not be transmitted to the satellite, no one was going to enjoy it over dinner) was nowhere to be seen. An uninformed observer would not have realized this as quickly as Chez did since the whole operation was encased in a small, flexible weather-proof housing. But Chez knew there would be a small bump on the crown of the housing if the transmitter were in place, and, even from behind and to the side, he could see there was no bump. It was possible, he knew, that the transmitter had somehow come loose within the housing, but the likelihood of this was just about zero. No, the whole situation smacked of human intervention. Someone had fiddled with his tech. Chez did not like that; no-sir-ee. Not. At. All. He would note that in his log. Corporate might need to have a little talk with the folks that this tree was leased from; nobody should be up here messing with FSC property.

In order to see into the housing, Chez needed to swing around so he was facing the clear thermoplastic screen that formed the “front” wall of the housing; the piece that allowed the device inside to “see” the meadow. Ideally, he would look in, see that the transmitter was there, just not connected. If that was the case, he thought the rubbery housing was flexible enough that he could manipulate the transmitter back into place without having to remove the housing, and that would be that. Off in time to drive back in to Austin and grab some supper at Chez Nous. He’d been hooked on French food ever since spending a few days working in Provence last year. Plus, he thought it was kind of funny that, even though they were spelled the same, his name sounded like “fez” while the restaurant’s name sounded like the “sha” in shake. (Those French).

The problem was his safety harness. The harness was prevented from dropping any lower by a limb growing from the opposite side of the tree, and he needed to be just a tad lower to see into the housing. He had tried loosening the harness, but even at its most forgiving it would not allow him to swing around in front of the housing at the right elevation to peek inside. Of course, company safety policy required he do his work in harness; but, he reasoned, this was just one of those situations the policy did not take into account. Besides, it would only take a moment to swing around, look inside, and, he was certain, wiggle to transmitter back into position. He reached around the trunk and flipped the catch on the strap that tethered him to the tree, but left the main belt cinched around his waist. The two lengths of strap now hung from the left and right side of the belt,, respectively.

The limbs were thinner this high up, so Chez tested it before he transferred all of his weight to the limb he would need to stand on so he could do his peering. It gave a little when he pressed down with his foot, but it seemed sturdy enough for his needs. He thought he would be okay if he kept his weight close to the trunk. At times like this he really missed using his spurs (he had an excellent set back in his apartment; Buckingham tree spurs that had somehow followed him home from his stint in the military). After the eco’s got the UN to adopt the Tree Preservation Initiative following the “green wars,” all the countries that still had trees signed on immediately; and those countries that wanted trees eventually signed on when they realized there was no way to get trees without agreeing to abide by the Initiative. Now, no sane person would make a hole in a tree—the fine, alone, would kill you—because you were likely to be sued by the eco’s, or worse. Some of those folk were not entirely rational when it came to the ecosphere.

He reached up and grabbed a much smaller limb that grew from the trunk a few feet directly above the housing. This one had been trimmed back a little so as to not block the view, something the local was required to do from time to time in satisfaction of the lease agreement. Keeping his hand on the upper limb, Chez moved around so he was facing the front of the housing, and then leaned out a little because his eyes were still just a smidge too high to see what he needed to see.

For a few seconds he was disoriented. Something wasn’t right. He was still trying to reconcile what he was seeing with what should actually be inside the housing when, with a loud “crack,” the limb beneath him gave way. Everything seemed to happen all at the same time. He tightened his grip on the limb above, searched left and right for another to grab hold of with his free hand. Then, before he could find another purchase, the upper limb broke from the trunk as well, never having been strong enough to hold his entire weight. As he dropped, one foot hit a lower branch. This resulted in Chez being flipped onto the horizontal, almost perpendicular to the trunk, face to the sky. As he helplessly tilted outward, he saw the jagged end of the upper limb, opposite from where his hand still clutched its leafy extremity, strike the tech housing.

Chez watched as everything at the level of the housing and above disappeared in a loud, bright explosion. He felt the lower limbs smacking his back as he continued to fall, and then, slamming into the ground, knew nothing more.

Chez in Deep

He was really deep this time. Why had he dived so far down? This deep in the Amazon River there was nothing to see; all about him was pitch blackness. And no light. Why would he dive so deep without a light? And no cage. There was nothing between him and everything else that lived down here. He had to surface! Where was the surface? In the all-consuming darkness he started to panic. But then his training kicked in. Inventory: nothing … no, wait. He was breathing, so he must be rigged. Panic would only use up his air faster. He forced himself to take slow, even breaths until he felt himself calm down. His arms … for some reason he could not move his arms very much; and there seemed to be some cords or straps on his left arm. His feet … ahhhh! He began to kick. Yes, there was something limiting his legs as well; but not so much that he couldn’t accomplish scissoring flips with his feet. And in knowing there was something restricting his legs told him where “down” was. Now that he was oriented, he tilted his head back a bit and … there. It wasn’t much, but it would do; a gray smudge where all about everything else was fully black.

Slowly, he moved toward the smudge; coming a bit closer with each little kick. In time he sensed the smudge was growing brighter. He kicked harder, wanting to breach the surface more than he had ever wanted anything. Finally he looked up and saw the smudge had become a disc of light rumpled by the movement of the great river. And then, just before he got to the surface, while still surrounded by the gray-green of the upper waters … that’s when he heard the voice.

“Why aren’t you dead?”

Shameful moment

2009-08-28T13:46:00.000-07:00

By Steve Orr

PLEASE IGNORE THIS PIECE. IT WAS PUSHED TO YOU IN ERROR. IT HAS BEEN REVISED, AND THE REAL PIECE IS TITLED "INCIDENT AT 10TH AND CLARK". THANKS, STEVE

In less than 60 seconds we went from wild cacophony to utter silence.

Oh, how those minutes weigh on me, even now in my fifth decade since it occurred. I’ve done some bad things in this life (and haven’t we all?), some things of which I am ashamed; but this particular moment, this sticks with me, rises up from the lake of my memory time and again like nothing else. No amount of wishing or hoping will make it go away. My memory refuses to let me lose this one. It looms so large in my reflections that I count it among those things I mean when I repeat (as I do more and more these latter days) David’s petition to God in the Psalms: “Remember not the sins of my youth.”

Yet, that day, I could see well enough to go along with everyone else. And I could easily recognize the change in the quality and volume of our massed sound.

But then my eyes finished their rise, and I saw the old man.

I don’t think any of us was shocked when the first milk carton tumbled.

It hit with a slapping sound we all could hear.

Then, as we were just beginning to think of returning to our previous activities, the old man moved to pick up the errant milk carton … and the second carton began its tumble from the box.

This time the top of the carton struck the concrete sidewalk. Milk spewed in every direction. By this time, the old man was kneeling on one knee. Milk splattered his feet, his legs, his shirt; a few drops hit him in the face. But back then we were a resolute lot, especially people of his generation. He soldiered on. He had lived through some of the more trying times of history; World War I, the Great Depression, World War II, Korea. Even my generation had been taught what to do in such a situation this: no crying over spilt milk. And he didn’t cry. He passed his hand over his face, wiping away the few droplets of milk there. He reached for the first, upright milk carton, placed it back in the box, and then slowly, carefully managed to raise himself back to a standing position without further crisis.

And through it all we watched.

####

[WRITER'S NOTEBOOK - What follows is not the story; rather it is my angst-y analysis of the events that day and our lack of response to the man's situation. Please feel free to skip all of this. Writing the piece allowed me to explore some deeply held anxieties about that day, feelings I have since worked through, thanks to the encouragement of my friends. I think the story stands on its own; it certainly doesn't require any of this to be engaging and thought-provoking all on its own.] And there it is; the thought that will not leave me alone. I should have gone to his aid. I should have called out to someone—friends, enemies, acquaintances, strangers—located at street’s edge: “Go! Help him!” I should have implored a teacher for … something; permission? I should have done something. Someone should have done something … right? But on this day no one left school property.

With decades of life from which to look back at this moment, I have come to realize that, even with the minutes it took for this tableau to unfold, I probably could not have moved from where I stood, even at a run, to reach his side in time to be of help; at least not from the time the first carton hit the sidewalk, the time when I concluded he was not going to make it. There was just not enough real time in which to act. But, someone located just across the street could have. I’m certain of it. But I not only failed to act, I failed to urge anyone else to act.

But there is a worse thought, pecking away at me like I am Prometheus’ liver: why didn’t I do something the moment I first laid eyes on the old man? It was obvious he was in trouble. He was battling with every step; something we could all see. What chain kept me? Why did I not act?

I clearly recall that the rules required me to stay on school property. Up to that point in my life I had had a somewhat flexible relationship with rules. Oh, I was, at my core, a compliant personality type. It was a rare instance where my parents had to punish me twice for the same infraction. I really did tend to learn from my mistakes. But, in all honesty, there were plenty of rules I regularly ignored when it suited me. This tended to take the form of not asking permission to do things when I was pretty sure permission would be denied; like riding my bicycle in downtown traffic to visit “Readmore,” our town’s only bookstore and newsstand. Don’t get the impression Paducah was like Mayberry. There were 50,000 plus souls about; with all that implies. The potential for trouble really did exist. Still, I rode my bike all over the town, and some parts of the county, whenever I wished. I just didn’t tell anyone who might stop me from doing so. On another front, I was always getting into trouble at the public library for sneaking upstairs to read the grown-up books when the rules clearly stipulated people of my age were restricted to reading books in the Juvenal section. I was eventually banned from the library for this practice, but that is a story for another time. I also had had, up to then, a rather lax attitude toward the completion of homework assignments. So, in my world, there were rules and then there were rules.

What had changed was that I had decided in the 7^th grade that I was responsible for me; that if I was to become anything in this life, it would be up to me to see that I did so. And the way that decision impacts on this tale is that I had come to a point where I was reevaluating my relationship to rules. Even in the few short months I had been in the 7^th grade I had observed the difference between how rule followers and rule breakers were regarded by the teachers and administrators. Clearly, there was some value to be mined from following rules. And that was the clear dilemma weighing on me that day as the old man fought, and lost, his battle with his aging body.

I was afraid. I was afraid what might happen to me if I broke the stay-on-school-property rule. Fear kept me from acting. Should I have disregarded the rule and acted to help my fellow human being who was in such obvious distress? Could I have? The memory of time is subjective. The saying goes, “History is the daughter of time.” I would add that memory is the daughter of want. I want to believe that any action on my part would have been too late to have helped the old man. But, honestly, even if that is truth, I never even took one step in that direction. I never moved. I could have, at the very least, moved from where I was rooted by my fear, down the steps, along the walkway, and out to the street edge. No rules would have been broken. I would have still been on school property. But I didn’t even do that much. I didn’t even try.

Perhaps you are kind and are willing to think, “Well, you were just a boy of 12. Really, what could you do?” Or perhaps you are willing to recognize the wisdom in a collection of rules designed to protect teens and pre-teens who have been entrusted to the public school system. Those rules, as we now know, really do have value, and provide some real protections to our children. Perhaps you would ask me, "What would you have wanted your own daughter to have done in that situation?"; knowing full well such a question would lead me to only one conclusion.

I’ve thought all those things … and more. Still, I can’t let it go. In some very real ways, I am who I am because of a few pivotal moments in my life. This is one of those moments that defines me. Since that moment, one that has imprinted me with a deep and everlasting shame, I have struggled (perhaps even battled) with what to do when I see (hear, learn of, sense, recognize) someone in need. Is it a situation in which I can help? Or, is it one in which my actions will be of no impact, or be too late to be of any real help?

What I would like to think (and what I truly believe) is that, because of this moment where I stood and did nothing when someone really needed help, I have since chosen, more times than not, to act, even if my rational mind counseled that my actions would be too late or of no useful impact.

In Hamlet, Shakespeare writes, “Our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, when our deep plots do pall; and that should teach us, there’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” I take some comfort in that passage. I would like to think that God has used that shameful moment to grow me, to develop in me a concern for others that has the capacity, at least, to act on their behalf even when it seems a wasted effort; to, when needed, cast aside my fear and do what I know is right.

Local Event (A novel) - Chapter 5

2009-03-31T09:08:00.000-07:00

Local Event - CHAPTER FIVE

The Core

If not for the machines, The Core would have been silent. As it was, no human sounds could be heard. Sal would have bet money that, after almost two decades in this business, nothing could surprise her. In stunned wonder, she marveled that it had happened, not once, but twice in the space of a few hours.

What was all that about making the wall appear two feet closer? Did the gun really fire bullets? If so, what happened to them? Dying in Brazil? And the disappearance of the two men...how had they done that? Was it some sort of new cloaking technology? Were the men still in that room, no longer detectable by the Core's sensors? Or, could it be something else entirely?

And what was that about calling Jones "Colonel"? There was nothing in her records about Jones being in the military. And if he had been in the military, there would have to be a very good reason why it was hidden from her. There were security levels, and then there were security levels. That led off in a direction she was not sure she wanted to go.

She sat that way for some time. No one in the room felt the need to disturb her.

Eventually, she reached for a cigarette, lit it, drew deeply and held it. When she blew out the smoke, she had made a decision. Leaning toward the console before her, she opened a circuit and spoke in a low, calm voice.

"Code: Majestic."

About five seconds went by. Then, a female voice, steady, but with an overtone of disbelief, replied, "I am required to inform you that you have activated a Level 12 security protocol. Please verify that this was intentional."

"That is correct, Gunnery Sergeant Michaels," said Sal. "Please take us to Condition Yellow. No one leaves until the protocol is fully satisfied."

After another, longer pause, the upper half of the Marine appeared on the screen. Her face showed shock, her eyes questioning, but her voice remained steady when, moving closer to the camera, she quietly said, "Sal, are you sure?"

Touched by the genuine concern of her friend, Sal said, "It's Ok, Stacey. Everything will be fine. It's just going to take a while to sort it all out."

Stepping back from the camera, the Marine spoke in her "official" voice, "I acknowledge your verification. The Core is now locked down. Marines are posted at all entrances and exits. Until further notice, communications will be conducted on this channel, only."

"Thank you, Gunny", said Sal, the warmth of her voice carrying more meaning than just the words. Closing the circuit, Sal's thoughts began to fill with hopes for restored power, renewed franchise, and increased funding. She fought to extinguish the smile that was suddenly lighting up her face.

Stalking, she thought. Stalking the bad guys.

She opened a recessed panel on the console. Extracting a disk the size of small coin, she clipped it to her collar. She had never felt the need to wear the microphone, before. Now, however, she must be certain everyone in the room heard every thing she had to say. Standing, she turned and faced the terraced rows where her team sat, quietly watching her every move. When she spoke, her voice could be heard coming from each person's console.

####

The TAB

The TAB floated approximately eight feet above the ground. It noted the time (11:59:37 p.m. local) and location (USA. Texas. Austin. 572 9th street. Rear alleyway) as a matter of course. Other factors were noted; limited ambient light, minimal spill from distant street light at front of building, limited precipitation (level: fog), third shift construction crew on 38th level of building four blocks to the east. It didn't actually think about these factors. They were part of a continuous stream of data being compiled by it.

It had adjusted its exterior surface to a matte-black finish. It would not reflect or emit any light, sound, or other stimuli detectable by biological sensors under these conditions. As an added safety factor, it had located itself in a slender shadow cast by a window ledge. Among the limited choices available to the TAB, shadow concealment was the best in these low-tech circumstances.

Subject:Wayne had never been out of its sensor range from the point of acquisition, 73 minutes and 13 seconds ago. The TAB did not have a choice in the matter; it had to follow Subject:Wayne. That's what it was programmed to do. Mission parameters required it remain, at all times, beyond the sensory abilities of Subject:Wayne. An early sweep had revealed Subject:Wayne to be entirely tech free; no electronics of any kind. The TAB had noted the anomaly in its growing report of the night's activities. Tech-free humans were rare. The TAB had also noted the absence of any other surveillance equipment in the area.

If the TAB had feelings, no one knew about them. AI was new enough so that the humans who knew this kind of tech even existed were still never really certain which tech could think and feel, and which tech could only serve. Even developers had been surprised from time to time. If this TAB had feelings, it had to be experiencing some level of frustration. TAB's were programmed to be curious, in an electronic surveillance kind of way. For some unknown reason, this TAB could not fully satisfy its curiosity.

Another human had joined Subject:Wayne. The TAB could not identify this human. In fact, this human could not even be brought into focus by the TAB. Regardless of which optics it accessed, regardless of which other sensors it brought to bear, the best it could do was record a humanoid-shaped smudge.

Sound was no better. Subject:Wayne was being recorded without difficulty. However, Subject:Unknown:01 seemed to be producing meaningless, low volume sounds. No amount of adjustment could clarify the sounds coming from Subject:Unknown:01. The TAB noted the anomaly in its report. The TAB investigated various options. Each option was, in turn, compared to the mission parameters, and rejected. The primary objective of the surveil was Subject:Wayne. All other matters, including unknown subjects and anomalies, were secondary, only to be included in the report as they related to Subject:Wayne.

The TAB also rejected the option of making contact with its employer. Since the primary mission was undetectable surveillance, such transmissions were precluded. Contact would have to wait until the TAB presented itself, physically, before its employer. The mission parameters were clear on this matter. Thus the (yearning?) curiosity of the TAB remained unsatisfied, at least as it related to Subject:Unknown:01. Having no options, it continued to do what it did.

####

The North of England

It seemed he had been like this, forever. He was on his knees, and he was being sick. He had long ago emptied the contents of his stomach onto the ground in front of him. His entire world had shrunk down to the heaving of his stomach muscles and the darkened view of the grass in his direct line of vision.

In his agony, he had little flashes of understanding. There was a light somewhere off to his right, distant and dim. He was crouched in some sort of field, on wet grass and earth. He was alone. When the next convulsion hit, he threw back his head. Water washed his face and flooded his mouth. Instinct slammed him forward again. He spewed the water from his mouth before it could choke him. He was outside, in a field, in a rainstorm. He knew he had to do something; he just couldn't think clearly enough to figure out what that was.

Then, he heard distant voices, moving closer, coming in his direction. Rough hands touched his face; others took hold of his left arm, rolled up his sleeve. There was a blinding light, and, for a few seconds, the rain stopped falling on him. Then, through tightly clenched eyelids, he sensed the light repositioning, pointing somewhere other than his face. He felt the prick of a needle in his arm. Soon, he felt his roiling stomach begin to subside. The rain returned, but the inner storm was moving away. He decided he was happy keeping his eyes closed. Within minutes, he soon found that he could feel no sensations, at all.

He heard the voices, again. This time they were clearer. "This is the great John Beauchamp? I expected more.", said one voice. Female, he thought. A Brit.

Then, another voice, a familiar voice, answered, "Cut him some slack. As I remember it, you were no better on your first jump."

That's David Ashby, he thought. No. Wait. Ashby's dead.

A third voice joined them. Another female. This one was a Brit, too. He was sure of it. "David? What are you doing here? After the ... ahem ... disagreement, we weren't expecting you back ... for a while."

Then, the familiar voice again. Ashby? Can't be. "I don't know why we're here. I wasn't coming here. I was taking him to Paris."

For a while, there was nothing save the sound of the rain. Then, he heard the third voice talking. Only this time, it sounded as though it was coming from very far away.

"Well. That is strange. Alright, let's get him into the house. He can recover, and we discuss how all this came to pass. David, get his shoulders. We'll each get a..."

And that is the last he knew.

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (of a novel)

2009-03-04T19:22:00.000-08:00

Local Event - CHAPTER FOUR (This is still a little rough, so all critiques welcome. Anything to improve it. If you need to read the first three chapters, they are posted below, in reverse order. Thanks! Steve)

The Core

"Okay! Everybody listen up! Here's what I want." Sal shot out her directives in staccato fashion.

"Play back the visual scan; start it right after Jones kicks out the locals. I want a simultaneous audio playback of all sounds in that main room. Pump up the volume. I want all of that recorded together. Superimpose an overlay showing elapsed time to the tenth of a second."

From the moment Jenson announced the presence of someone else in the room, The Core had been humming. Where almost everyone had been immobilized by the crying FIN, they now consulted their respective consoles for information that would support or contradict Jenson's statement.

"Now, ladies and gentlemen," said Sal when she thought things were about ready, "I want you to observe closely how all this unfolds. I expect you to learn." Neither her words nor her tone was lost on them. From a darker area, up near the top of the tiers, came the word, "Ready". Jenson's voice, again. Leaning back in her chair, she gave attention to the screens. "OK. Let's see it."

The replay started, opening with the look the last local gave to Jones. The tell-tales hidden throughout the dead woman's apartment made it easy for everyone to see and hear everything that came next. White numbers changed rapidly on the lower right corner of the main screen. This was the first time most of the people had seen what had occurred before Jenson's discovery. Most had been dutifully manning their own consoles up until then.

Sal noted the subdued sounds coming from the screens. She knew them to be the aural detritus of her own crew going about its business. Her thoughts flickered off to the time she, herself, had been a FIN. She kicked her attention back to the screen

There.

Jones was starting to have his breakdown. Sal raised one finger in the air, getting everyone's attention. As Jones buried his face in his hands, Jenson's voice could be heard again, calling out in the twilight, with all the same urgency and excitement, only this time, it was from the playback, "He's not alone! There's someone else in that room with him!"

Jenson. Not only did it make him look good (he had been over eight feet away from his own console at that time), it made Hardiwick look bad. Part of what Jenson had observed was on her station!

Jenson's voice, again from the playback, "Look! Two pulses! Extra breath sounds! Where? Can anyone see the other person?" The recorded voice had a real-time galvanizing effect on the rest of the group. People had begun to fine-tune their various sensor arrays, doing everything possible to sensitize them to even the slightest indication of additional life in the room.

Hardiwick, possibly fearing Sal would rethink her invitation, could now be heard on the playback. "There's something wrong with the east wall. It appears to be about two feet closer than it shows on the specs." She had concluded this by comparing her research with information from Stanton's console and Bredvick's console. Sal remembered that both had appeared stricken when Hardiwick originally made her announcement.

She liked this kind of one-up-man-ship among her team. She kept her face turned toward the main screens so no one would see the grin. The screens had returned to real-time. It looked like Jones had finished his emotional breakdown. Sal wondered what would happen next. Deep inside herself, she recognized that she hadn't been this happy in a very long time.

####

Crime Scene

Even though he had managed to stop the tears within a few minutes, almost half an hour passed before Jones raised his face from his hands. Unchecked emotions had immobilized him for most of the period and worry filled the rest of it. The mood swings were happening more often now.

The first time he had broken down like this had been late at night. He'd been alone in a hotel room. He had cried uncontrollably. As surprised as he was, it wasn't without warning. For a few weeks preceding that first breakdown, he kept feeling anger pressing at the seams of his control, on the edge of exploding. Even after they were loosed, whether overwhelming sorrow, complete with meltdowns like this one, or white-hot rage, he had managed, for a while, to keep them tucked safely into the unseen corners of his life.

These . . . episodes weren't good, he knew, but he didn't know what to do about them. So, he just moved on, hoping they'd fix themselves.

Pulling himself together, he saw that the flimsies had been unaffected by the moisture. They were as dry as Austin's almost constant humidity would allow. After the strike, many a patent had been filed devising humidity resistant furniture, clothing, building materials, and, even man-made printing surfaces like these flimsies.

It was time to put aside emotions and do his job. He had some truly amazing powers of perception whenever he decided to bring them to bear. He felt the odd mental shift he had experienced so many times. Then, he began to really see the crime scene. He scanned the room, beginning with his immediate left where several small print books resided on a fold down bookcase. All were from "Vici Press", so he assumed they were inspirational in nature. Continuing around to the right, all sorts of interesting information began to come to his attention.

The desk faced a large bay window with several small, rectangular panes. The area had been set up as a window seat, and he could tell it had been used for reading. There were no curtains, blinds, or shades. Then he saw the wall switch nearby. Opaquing glass; turn off the electricity and the electrons no longer line up like little soldiers. The result was that light came through, but no one could actually see in or out. To the right of the window were four medium photos, framed, and carefully spaced along the wall about four inches apart, at about eye level, he decided, for a five-foot-two woman. He recognized Kara in each of the photos, and, in some of them, he recognized some of the well-known Vici national leadership. Kara Powers appeared to know some pretty powerful people. He made a mental note to go back and check the contents of the bookshelf.

Shifting his gaze again to the right, he concluded that the east wall was load bearing, though it had been made to appear that it was composed of distressed brick. While he watched, something strange happened. He thought he saw something flicker across the surface of the wall. He froze, watching intently. Then, there it was again, a flicker of light. Holding steady, he forced everything to slow down. This was one of the little tricks he could do. It didn't actually make time slow down, anymore than the sun actually moved across the sky every day. The best way he could account for it was to think that his mental perceptions speeded up. The effect of the process, whatever its internal function, was to make everything appear to move in slow motion. In this state, he waited what seemed like hours. Then, he saw it; stepping across the wall, diagonally from south to north, were shadows of leaves, each with its own corona of sunlight.

He released.

Standing, he strode at normal speed over to the window and looked out. Across the street was a small park situated directly in front of some sort of mini-cathedral. The tiny edifice was very narrow across its front, and situated in front of, or possibly affixed to, the large, blocky building that rose behind it. That building stretched west, up the hill toward Colorado Street (tunneling through the hill?), then on back to Lavaca Street, where the hill crested. He got the impression that the larger building might have continued down the other side of the hill, perhaps for several blocks. Maybe through the hill. The markings didn't look to be Catholic or Muslim. In fact, he didn't recognize them. Another little mystery to investigate when time allowed.

He could see that the park did, indeed, contain a tree; and, there was something behind it that, periodically, flashed a light his way. He focused. Now that he had been using his abilities, the transition was effortless and instantaneous. Jumping into view was a statue. Affixed to it were all manner of papers, pieces of fabric, some paper money, and...? Yes, there it was, a teardrop shaped crystal hung from one of the statue's gray-green fingers, tied on with a piece of fishing line. The crystal was cut with many facets. As it moved in the wind, it sometimes caught the afternoon sun, its prisms scattering the light all about the little park. As he watched, another flash rose from the tableau.

Turning back toward the east wall of the apartment, he shifted back to slowmo. Soon, he caught the same steady march of images he had seen before. He was satisfied.

Then, as he started to release, the wall appeared to undulate. Faster than he could formulate a question in his mind, the wall simply faded away. Slightly further away, now, was what appeared to be the same brick wall. That's when he saw the dead man leaning against it.

His voice betraying surprise and amazement, and, something else, Jones spoke the question filling his thoughts, "David?"

Looking a little surprised, the dead man recovered quickly, leaned out from the wall and quietly greeted him, the mildest hint of a southern accent coating his speech, "John."

The silence was palpable. The man at the wall looked slightly amused, and not a little chagrined. He noted the haggard features of the other; the look of someone who had just completed great exertion, drained of all strength.

"David? You are dead. You cannot be here. And I cannot afford to go crazy right now. Go away." The dismissal in Jones' voice seemed to say that he expected the man to disappear.

"John", said the man. "You're not crazy, but...well, you should see yourself."

A bit surprised that the man was still there, Jones said, "I'm trying to solve a murder, David!"

"Yes, John, I know why you're here."

"Did you . . . did you do it?" Jones felt that he might be losing it, again. Was he really carrying on a conversation with a ... what? ... a ghost?

The man, Jones decided, was looking less dead all the time. Appearing uncomfortable with the question and sounding a little exasperated, the man said, "No, John, I didn't kill her.”

"But you know who did."

"Maybe. Or, at least, I may know who is responsible."

"Tell me."

"I can't do that. You have to find out for yourself."

“You're obstructing justice!"

"Actually, I see myself aiding justice. In time, I expect you'll see it that way, too."

Walking quickly to the desk, Jones lifted the gun. He grasped it in a loose, two-handed grip and pointed it at the man. It felt all wrong. He looked down at his hands. They didn't seem to know where to go. It felt like he had never held a gun in his life.

Still, curling his right index finger around the trigger, the man known to his colleagues as Samuel Jones, Federal Investigator, servant of the people, spoke far more calmly than he had seconds before. "Tell me. Tell me or die."

Staring at the muzzle, and the tense grip with which his former friend held the piece, the other man said, "There is something I need to tell you. It is an answer of sorts, just not the answer to this question."

Jones was exerting enormous effort to simply maintain control. He took a couple of steps toward the man, and, despite the rage that burned within, continued to sound calm. "If it helps with this investigation, I'm all ears." The knuckles of his hands were white.

"I know where your son is."

The trigger hand spasmed. Strangely, the report from the shot was almost inaudible. What was most evident was the recoil. He sat down on the floor, hard. Though the gun was held tightly in his fists, the power of the shot lifted the muzzle to point at the ceiling. He sat there, confused by the near absence of sound, coupled with the power of the shot. A part of his mind reminded him that this weapon was not a neural disrupter. Another part wondered if those exiled to the hallway had heard the shot.

He lowered the gun and fired again.

This time, with intent, he did a better job of aiming, citing on the center of the other man's torso. The recoil put him on his back. And, still, the sound had that quality of a noise heard from a great distance. Jones lifted his head and could see that the man was again lounging against the east wall, framed by the red-orange of the approaching sunset.

Two shots. No blood.

In the face of the FIN, confusion fought with rage. Soon enough, though, that fierce power began to flow out of him. Confusion reigned. In a tired voice laced with wonder, he said, "Are you even here?"

"Oh, yes. I'm here. I was here before you came. I haven't moved from this spot for hours. I was here for the little jurisdictional dance you did with the locals."

"But, all those people...why didn't they see you?"

"Well, to them," tapping the brick behind his head, "this wall seems about two feet closer than it actually is. They saw the wall, not me."

"But, I can see you."

"That's you own fault. It's certainly not my doing. It was very interesting to observe, though. Once you decided to see, to really apply your perceptive abilities, everything in this room yielded itself to your vision, me included. You know, John, I think that's something new for you.

The gun rose again, turning its snout toward the man. Then, after a brief pause, Jones lowered it just as quickly as he had raised it.

"Why aren't you dead?" he said, sounding petulant.

"Do you mean, why didn't I die in Brazil? Or, do you mean why didn't I expire as a result of your expert marksmanship? Both will need some time to explain. As for today, I can at least address the "what". I've gotten pretty good at reading people since our Brazilian adventure. I suspected my little bombshell about the boy might push you too far. Even you can't be in control all the time. Anticipating your response, I arranged for the space just in front of the gun to be located about the center of the Chihuahua Desert. The bullets safely inserted themselves into the side of a small mountain, about 60 feet off the ground. As far as the "how" ... well, that'll have to wait until we have several uninterrupted hours. As for Brazil..."

Raising the gun once more, Jones pointed it, then, seeming to recall its lack of effectiveness, placed it on the floor and slowly came to his feet. "We will get to Brazil in a minute. Tell me about my son."

"Oh, he's OK. They're both OK."

"Both?"

"I think maybe you should sit. There's a lot to tell here."

"I can't. My butt hurts where I landed on the floor."

Smiling at this, the first real sign of the person he used to know, the man said, "Welcome home, Colonel. You wanna walk that off?" He stepped forward, extending his hand. "I know a nice park in Paris."

####

The Core

Everyone in The Core watched closely as the two men moved toward each other and clasped hands.

Then, with nothing more dramatic than something like moisture shimmering off hot asphalt, the room was empty.

The Unfinished Christmas (a memoir by Steve Orr)

2008-12-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

The Unfinished Christmas (a memoir by Steve Orr)

I’m not certain of which Christmas this was, but certainly no later than my first year in school. I seem to recall it was the Christmas before the First Grade, but the vagaries of memory prevent me from being sure. Still, imperfect memory or not, I recall much about that season. For example, I remember my mother taking my sister and me downtown so we could watch the parade the Saturday before Christmas. I have the clearest mental picture of getting out of the car and looking up to see my Dad happily waving to us from the third story window of his office (he was a Chiropractor in those days) near the corner of 7^th and Broadway. We felt so special to be able to watch everything from so far above everyone else. And, I remember the passing of Santa’s sleigh at some point, and the man himself pointing up at us, and waving, as we leaned as far out that window as adults would allow.

But, the most enduring memory of that season comes a couple days later. We went for our annual Christmas shopping night in downtown Paducah. My parents dressed us carefully (both for appearance and the weather), and put on their good clothes, as well. My Dad wore a tie; my Mother wore one of her nice dresses usually reserved for work (she was an operator at the phone company). This was a time, long gone now, when people dressed up when they went about in public. I’m not advocating for a return to those times; just commenting about how different it was from today. This was before Sears opened their two-block long (single story and L-shaped) store between 14^th and 16^th streets further up on Broadway. So, we had to go all the way downtown to do our shopping at the Paducah Dry Goods Store; four stories of merchandise that, today, would require an entire shopping mall to contain. It’s as if Linens ‘N Things, Best Buy, Toys R Us, Macy’s, Barnes and Noble, Payless Shoes, Victoria’s Secret, etc., were all merged into one store. I know; hard for us to imagine today. In those days, a town had to have a dry goods store for such things, or one had to drive to a town that did have one. Paducah was that town for about a 100 mile radius on the map.

Paducah Dry Goods was located at the corner of 4^th and Broadway, undoubtedly the coldest corner in Paducah. Because of the way Paducah was positioned against the confluence of the Ohio and Tennessee Rivers, both 4^thStreet and Broadway brought cold air up from the rivers to chill us as we disembarked from the car (Dad, being a good Dad, dropped the three of us off at the store, parked the car a few blocks away, and then rejoined us somewhere inside the store.). My parents, being parents, forced us to endure shopping on each floor in turn; making our way with agonizing slowness toward all that really mattered: the fourth floor, location of toys and home of Santa’s red velvet throne.

The first time I saw the movie “A Christmas Story” (based on Jean Shepherd’s delightful semi-autobiographical stories), I was struck by how familiar it all seemed. And the more I watched the movie, the more I thought that. Finally, I realized the locations in the film looked exactly like those I grew up around. The school could easily be the one I attended as a child. Ralphie’s house was a great deal like some my relatives lived in: the yard walls and fences, the out buildings behind the houses, the streets, the neighborhoods, even the store in which Ralphie begged Santa for his BB gun (It was Paducah Dry Goods all over again!). The other thing that happened the first time I saw the film was that it triggered my memory of this particular Christmas. I clearly remember sitting on Santa’s lap and telling him something, though not what, and realizing that his beard was real. The beard convinced me he was the real thing (and I had always been a bit skeptical, even at that tender age). Eventually, after what seemed like ages, but was probably no longer than an hour –after all, we were small children—my parents bundled us up and moved us down four floors and to the front of the building. After that, things get a little hazy. I have a vibrant memory of my Mother holding my hand as the three of us stood on the curb waiting for my Dad to return with the car, to pick us up and drive us home. I remember waiting to the point that I was actually cold, so we must have been outside for longer than my Mother had expected.

My Dad never returned that night.

And, in my memory, that is the end; the three of us standing there, watching, waiting, wondering, and getting colder . . . an unfinished Christmas.

No, I’m not going to leave you hanging. The rest of this story is legend in my family; so I’ve heard it many, many times from parents, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. Everyone told it the same way, so I am fairly certain I have it right.

My Dad walked one block down 4^th Street to Jefferson. He crossed Jefferson and turned left, walking toward 5^th. He had parked the car on Jefferson just beyond the 5^th Street intersection. He recalled being a little concerned because there was someone walking directly behind him as he made his way along the sidewalk. He never made it to the car.

The way Dad told it, he heard the rising and falling sing-song wail of an ambulance’s siren (they had sirens in those days instead of the blatting honking used today) coming from somewhere behind him. He did not feel the need to look back because, based on his hearing, he expected it to pass him soon. Besides, he was hurrying to his own car, first because it was cold, and second because he was concerned about the footsteps so close behind him.

The next thing my dad knew, he was face down on the sidewalk and could feel someone lying on top of him. And then, blackness.

And that was it … until the next day when he awoke to hear someone whistling. He opened his eyes and quickly realized he was in a hospital bed. While trying to sort out his disorientation, he realized the whistling had stopped. A man, who was mostly dressed and was knotting his tie, stepped into his view and said, “Oh, good! You’re awake. I’ll call the nurse.” I don’t know the particulars of the remainder of their conversation, only that he explained to Dad what had happened the night before. There had, indeed, been an ambulance, and as it proceeded along Jefferson and through the intersection at 4^thStreet (on its way to Western Baptist Hospital … way, way out at 25^th and Broadway), it was struck by a car moving swiftly along 4^th Street that failed to yield to the sounds of the siren, sailing through the intersection at Jefferson.

As a result, the ambulance was driven up onto the sidewalk where it struck the man who was walking so closely behind my Dad, who then flattened my Dad onto the sidewalk. My dad was told he was very lucky the man had absorbed most of the impact from the ambulance, and that he formed a barrier between Dad and the bottom of the ambulance. Dad was told he undoubtedly would have been killed had the man not been right behind him when the ambulance struck. Dad lost his two front teeth. The mysterious man did not survive his encounter with the ambulance.

When he had finished filling Dad in on all these details, Dad asked the guy how he knew all of this. He said, “Oh, I was the guy in the back of the ambulance!”

For the rest of his life, every time the holidays rolled around, my Dad annoyingly sang “All I want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.” And while we quickly grew tired of the song, we never tired of hearing the story of that Christmas when Dad left us standing at the curb in front of the Paducah Dry goods store; standing, standing, getting a bit colder with each passing minute, expectantly watching for him to appear.

A Mask for Nils Jorgenson

2008-10-13T14:05:00.000-07:00

A MASK FOR NILS JORGENSON (a short story)

By Steve Orr

"Where is the justice of political power if it executes the murderer and jails the plunderer, and then itself marches upon neighboring lands, killing thousands and pillaging the very hills?"

Kahlil Gibran, 'The Voice of the Poet'

Nils was hurrying down the middle of the street. Fear gripped him. It was night, yet he could see everything clearly. There were no vehicles, no people. All he could hear was the sound of his own footfalls. Nothing else moved.

To his right was the Q Street entrance to the Metro. He realized he was near DuPont Circle. He seemed to be headed toward Adams Morgan. Beyond that, he was unable to determine what was happening. He had no control, his legs being drawn along despite his insistence they stop.

He wondered why he was here. He hadn't lived in Adams Morgan since before The Strike. Doubly mysterious because he should not have been outside, at all. He had not been outside in over fifteen years.

This was not his world. There were no empty, darkened streets in his life. His world consisted of his subterranean apartment, his chambers in the United States Supreme Court, and the lone pedestrian tunnel that connected them. Not only did he restrict himself to these environs, he couldn't conceive of the circumstances that would get him to go beyond them.

His social interactions rarely extended beyond his clerk, his fellow justices, and the two Secret Service agents assigned to protect him. The agents, though never very far away, didn't live with him. He shared his home, such as it was, with one very hardy, leafy green plant and a few fish in an oversized aquarium. It was a comfortable, predictable, and, of greatest importance to Nils, safe life.

Suddenly, he was no longer on the street; he was walking up a narrow stairwell. Then he was walking through an apartment door. Across the dimly lit room, her back to him, was a tall, nicely shaped woman. She held aside a thick, dark, curtain and was peering out the window. He tried to turn away before she realized he was there, but his fear immobilized him. She released the curtain and turned toward him, her face shifting from worry into relief. It was Maggie.

****

He woke drenched in perspiration; a pungent, almost sickly, odor coming off his body. His skin was hot. Fear washed through him in waves. His eyes darted about the darkened room seeking something familiar. Where was he? What was this place? Who was he? He couldn't remember who he was!

Inside his head a calm voice (not his own voice, but who's he couldn't say) spoke from his memory, "You are Nils Jorgenson, Supreme Court Justice. This is your home." Just like that, everything clicked into place. He was home.

As calm began to seep in around the edges, the thought came to him that he might have cried out. He supposed he would know for sure if one of his guardians showed up.

It was the dream. Again. The weird, powerless dream, followed by the frightening disorientation. How many times had it happened in the past couple of months? Four? Six times?

Sitting on the side of the bed, he did a slow count to ten, giving his low blood pressure a chance to catch up. It was not yet three AM, but he knew he would not be able to go back to sleep. He said, "Lights," and stood up as the room began to incrementally adjust its illumination levels toward his pre-selected preference: "West Texas Morning."

He sat back down, immediately, feeling very light headed, and wondered if he might have to start counting to fifteen. He didn't want anyone to see him this way, not even one of the agents. After a few more seconds he stood again and, on steadier legs, headed directly to the bathroom.

A long, hot shower later, he wrapped himself in an oversized terry-cloth robe and stepped into the kitchen. He found Philip waiting for him. Philip nodded toward a cup sitting on the bar. A wisp of steam rose from it, followed by the unmistakable fragrance of Irish Breakfast tea.

****

It was not the best of ways to start a day, especially not this particular day. The dream haunted him, continued to nag at him well into the afternoon. That he had dreamed about something he had been considering doing -- going outside -- made him nervous. He found it difficult enough to contemplate when he was awake, when he could exercise control over the terrors his mind conjured up.

The dream frightened him.

He lived his life insulated by the law and pillowed by memories. He liked his life, its simplicity and its safety. The thought that he might lose it all loomed menacingly, an unspoken threat.

The presence of a stranger in his chambers did nothing to dispel the lingering malaise.

Nils looked up from the contract and into the expectant eyes of the salesman. "That's it?" he asked.

"That's it," said the salesman.

"I'm surprised. It sounds a bit . . . unprotected, maybe even dangerous."

"Well, Your Honor, we designed it that way; 'unprotected', I mean."

"But, doesn't that put your clients at risk?"

"At risk? Well, yes sir, of course. But in danger? Not really. Yes, there's a quality of openness about the entire experience. But that is exactly what most of our clients are seeking. How else could they achieve their goals? And, sir, no disrespect intended, but do you know a better way to accomplish it?"

Nils didn't respond.

The salesman stopped talking.

In the lengthening silence, Nils got the idea the salesman suspected he had said too much, maybe queered the deal. Had he queered the deal? Nils was unsure. He leaned back, and the chair protested with a squeaky twanging of its springs.

Despite the fact that he had initiated this meeting, Nils found himself unwilling to engage. He kept drifting away from the discussion, looking at the items all about him, indulging the memories they triggered. It was a room filled with memories. Cherished law books were ensconced behind the glass doors of five bookcases. His personal copy of the Holy Scriptures lay to the left of the blotter, within easy reach. The brief for Willis v. Abilene, Texas Independent School District lay pinned to the mahogany desk by an oversized gavel. It was the thirty-seventh gavel he had received since becoming a judge. The rest were at home in a box. He couldn't bring himself to throw any of them out.

The photo of dear, sweet Maggie hung in its place of honor, its silver frame smudged with his fingerprints. Her great-grandmother's brocaded loveseat filled in the corner farthest from the door, velvet ropes blocking it from potentially devastating derrieres. Generations earlier, it was the sole place to sit in the small room where Maggie's great-grandmother allowed Maggie's great-grandfather to smoke his cigars. Nils knew that if he were to get up and walk over to it, he would be able to smell the faint but distinct aroma of Kentucky broadleaf.

Each thing was its familiar self, in its proper place, but, in that moment, all of it looked foreign and strange.

He swiveled the chair, setting its back to the room and to the salesman. He faced the window, the newest version of the bulletproofed Lex-a-wall material. It had been replaced five times since he had first occupied the office, each version stronger and safer than its predecessor. Its presence gave Nils a feeling of comfort. It allowed him to view some of the outside world without fear.

He peered out it at a Washington, DC, lightly dusted in white. It was not a pure white, nor the 'snow white' of his youth. There was a slight gray cast to it, looking a lot like the color his once blond locks had become. Today's storm had not really gotten underway just yet, so he could still see the rear of the Capitol Building, as well as the Jefferson Building and the Adams Building, two of the group that housed the Library of Congress. The wind blew the snow at an angle, sliding across his view in a southeasterly direction. Nils marveled at it, at how it appeared to be so lacey and delicate, at its very existence.

Snow in May. Almost twenty years and I'm still not used to it. I miss Spring. I miss the Cherry Blossoms popping out in early April. I miss March coming 'in like a lion'. I miss . . . .

A memory flooded in: old Mr. Acker, the de facto 'keeper' of himself and two dozen other law clerks at Hirae & Dunleavy, LP. It was a memory from early in his career and early in the new millennium. They were in a ground-floor room they called 'the dungeon', though not in front of the partners. Mr. Acker was perched on his corner platform -- two steps up from the rest of the floor with barely enough room for the desk. It was really just a landing at the tail end of the back stairs, not a platform at all. Legend had it that Mr. Acker had been sent down to the dungeon when he had steadfastly ignored all hints that he should retire.

Whatever the truth, he had commandeered the only high ground available and had used the slight elevation to great advantage, intimidating his charges at every opportunity. In Nils' memory, Mr. Acker was leaning back in his swivel chair and gazing out the two windows that met in his corner. It was the same every March. The old guy would sit for hours, his back to the rest of the room, watching as passersby fought with the blustery winds that crossed swords at the corner of 'G' and 17th Street, NW. Mr. Acker gave special attention to the females who, mostly, lost the battle, their dignity blown skyward along with their skirts. Nils' desk was near enough to hear the old gentlemen chuckle from time to time, saying, "I love dress up day."

Forcing his thoughts back to the present, Nils reflected that just about every day, now, would qualify for one of Mr. Acker's 'dress up' days. Of course, few women wore dresses outside anymore. Even July, while much warmer than March, was still fairly breezy. And now here he was in May, giving serious consideration to walking the streets of DC, himself. While the wind would certainly be a consideration, and the cold even more so, Nils' greatest concerns lay not with what he would encounter outside, weather or otherwise. No. He could prepare for the 'whats'. <>

This made him think of Maggie and, as he had almost every day since it happened, The Strike. Almost twenty years ago, thousands of meteorites, ranging in size from pebble to boulder, had tagged the Earth. Fear and frustration mounted with each passing hour, as the rock swarm moved inexorably closer to planetfall. Believing themselves doomed, millions of people across the globe had rampaged, visiting death and destruction on everything and everyone they came into contact with. For a while, insanity reigned on the Earth. In the midst of all that, Maggie's death was insignificant to all but Nils.

The Strike was not the extinction level event everyone had feared. Even though a few cities lay directly in the path of some larger stones, more people died in the anarchy than did as a direct result of individual meteorites. What followed soonest -- high levels of particulate in the air, the colder weather -- was only the beginning of the changes visited upon the Earth by The Strike.

The change in Nils, however, was immediate and dramatic. Nothing could ever replace Maggie in his heart, but the law replaced her in his life. He could not do anything about death from the sky, but he knew what to do about anarchy. In his grief, he went from liberal to archconservative, championing law and order above all else. A federal judge is in a unique position to impose his philosophies on the populace. It didn't take long for like-minded political leaders to take notice. After that, his rise on the bench was rapid.

Many changes could be traced back to that long night almost two decades ago. And now, more changes were in the offing, changes in the law. Maybe they weren't as physically devastating as those brought on by The Strike, but the effects might be just as bad. A part of him felt a great urgency. Another part of him was afraid. His critics claimed his decisions as a federal judge had increased government control at the expense of individual freedoms. Nils thought that too simplistic, but also recognized the essential truth in the claim.

****

Philip paced up and down a short side corridor near Nils' office. Andrew remained still.

"He's an old man. It was probably just indigestion," said Andrew.

"No. There's something not right about this. I checked the log. I went last week on the same day and at the same ungodly hour."

"So, he eats the same thing the night before, then it takes a few hours to hit. I still think it's just a bad dream brought on by indigestion."

"I told you I checked the log. I know you went the same day and hour the week before that. I also noted that you only entered the date and time. Come on, Andrew, spill. How many times has he done this?"

Andrew sighed, giving up. "All right. He did the same thing the week before that. But, that's it. Today makes four." Looking away, he mumbled, "I still think it's just a coincidence."

"I heard that. Sometimes I wonder if you really listen to me. I checked the log, Andrew. I checked his meals, his medications, what he watched on holovision before retiring, and how many times he urinated before finally going to sleep. He must have a bladder the size of a pea."

Andrew laughed at that, saying, "Hey! Get it? Pea? You made a pun."

Philip said nothing. He did narrow his eyes, though, and that's what tipped Andrew to just how serious he was. When Philip narrowed his eyes, he meant business.

"All right, all right. I see your point. What do we need to do?"

****

He decided he wasn't ready. He needed more time.

Swinging back around, the sleeves of his robe making a quiet flapping sound, Nils fixed the salesman with his most intimidating look, one he had learned from Mr. Acker. "I'm not satisfied with these arrangements." He gestured at the contract that lay between them on the massive desk.

"There will have to be several significant changes before I will even consider hiring your firm."

The salesman was unfazed. "All right. What changes would you like to make?"

All right, yourself. I'll nip this in the bud.

"The security arrangements are entirely insufficient; too much risk for me. First, I want double the number of proposed field personnel shadowing me. I cannot be irresponsible, no matter how much I want to do this. . . tour. Second, I want some kind of distress signal device in case I need to abort. And don't tell me any fairy tales about signals being jammed by particulate in the air.

"Third, I've changed my mind about starting from here; too easy for someone to figure out what I'm up to. If I'm going to do this, properly, I will have to find a way to do it without Secret Service coverage. I don't want media attention, either.

"Fourth, no electronic monitoring; no record of any kind, or this entire exercise could turn out to be a waste. That's it. Get back to me with . . ."

"Done," said the salesman.

Nils was shocked. Much work, and not a little haggling, had gone into producing the original contract. He figured the deal would collapse with his 'eleventh hour' demands; that he would, at the very least, get a reprieve; the decision point forestalled. He had thought to send the man away.

"I'm not willing to spend more money. The proposed fee has to remain as is."

There. That ought to bring a halt to things.

The salesman was the epitome of calm. "No problem."

Now Nils was beginning to feel trapped. "How can you say that? How can you blithely agree to my demands? You can't have that kind of authority." Picking up the contract, Nils squinted at the signature line. The scrawl was unreadable. "You would need to confer with the owner; that's whose name appears on this contract."

The salesman smiled. It was a nice smile. "Your Honor, I am the owner."

"What?!"

"Sir, again with respect, I don't usually involve myself in the day-to-day activities of my companies. But no one of your . . . stature has ever contacted Revels for a mask. Once I knew a Supreme Court Justice had called for a fitting . . . well, that alone would have gotten my attention."

Nils interrupted. "How could you have known? I never told anyone at Revels that I was a Supreme Court Justice. I'm not the only Nils Jorgenson. I happen to know there are several."

"That's true, sir. But you're the only Nils Jorgenson who would be calling from a government number in Washington, DC."

Nils blinked. That confirmed something he had suspected from the beginning; he wasn't really very good at Cloak & Dagger.

The man continued. "Your specifications were a little different from our normal trade, but not without precedence. Most of our products are designed to be disposable; party masks, really. The technologies involved are a bit complex, but I doubt you care about that, anyway. Generally, our masks are used for a few hours and then discarded. The deposit is substantial enough that most people return the hardware for a refund. But, even if they don't, we almost always get them back. There are even a couple of street people who have made a little cottage industry out of redeeming our masks for the deposit. There's always someone out there who wants that money.

"What I doubt you know is that we've done maskings for CEOs, Board Chairs, business owners and the like. A person wakes up one morning and decides he or she wants to know what's really going on out at the manufacturing plant. We can give them the means to disguise themselves as one of their own workers. It can be a very effective management tool."

"Wouldn't that be an illegal use of technology," asked Nils?

"I suppose it would seem that way." He paused, leaning closer, making certain he had Nils' eyes, " You know," the man confided, "my troops were concerned you might be running some sort of sting on them, trying to catch them breaking the law."

He continued to look at Nils as if expecting a reaction. Finally, he leaned back. "A careful examination would reveal that the laws allow the owners of a business to audit their holdings, to conduct an analysis of security, to ensure their protection from criminals, whether from without or from within. When they use one of our masks to disguise themselves, they're only using it on themselves. It's legal -- well, except in Massachusetts.

"But you know all that, don't you, sir? I doubt there's anything I could tell you about the technology laws you don't already know. You wrote the majority opinion making them all constitutional."

Silence hung between them. Nils looked away.

After a time, the man resumed. "Initially, your requests looked something like one of our executive packages. So, at first, I remained in the background. I flagged the account so I would receive updates as my Revels staff clarified your needs.

"But when you specified the mask had to be 'fully functional in current meteorological conditions,' I began to wonder just what it was you were up to. Looking back over the discussions you had with my staff, I thought I saw a pattern emerging. You told them you were going to 'tour', but you wouldn't say where the mask was to be used. Then, you wanted shadows available for your 'tour', still without giving details as to dates, locations, etc. You insisted that your 'tour' must begin from this building. Then, you capped all that with the 'meteorological conditions' requirement.

"After that, I set blocks on your account, forcing all your calls to my personal communicator. The last three conversations you had with Revels were actually with me. So, don't be so surprised to find the owner of Revels sitting here in your office. You see, I know what you're going to do, sir."

Nils stared at the man, fear gripping him, one thought pounding away inside his head.

If this man has figured it out, who else has?

****

30 minutes later:

The salesman strode confidently down the pedestrian tunnel. To anyone that took the time to look, he appeared to be a man who had closed an important sale. Entering the parking chamber, he moved through a cluster of vehicles parked near the door, then headed toward one parked all by itself on the far side.

When he reached it, he pulled his keys from his pocket and, with apparent chagrin, dropped several coins in the process. Reaching under the vehicle as if to retrieve some of the errant currency, he, instead, left something the size and shape of a green pea. He stood up, looking around for the other coins. These had traveled to various spots, the nearest no closer than a dozen feet. He picked up two of them, and was stooping for the third, when there was a soundless flash of light from beneath his own conveyance. The light was so pale as to be unnoticeable unless someone was looking directly at it. Or, watching for the brief shadows it cast. He appeared to pay no attention to it, continuing to move away, searching for and retrieving coins for the better part of five minutes.

Finally, coins back where they belonged, he returned to his conveyance and climbed in. Pulling his vehicle's chips from the thickly leaded compartment beneath the passenger seat, he inserted them into their respective slots. If anyone had bugged the car . . . he just hoped the mini-pulse had done its job. He certainly didn't want anyone overhearing this conversation. If it worked the way he'd been told, it would have destroyed the capability of any surveillance devices within a six-foot radius.

He programmed his destination into the console, again hoping that things had gone as promised in the briefing. He didn't really know if the leaded compartment had protected the chips from the pulse until he felt the faint vibration of the electric engine starting. He was somewhat of a cynic when it came to tech, and more so with this particular tech. He was happy to be proved wrong. As the car drove itself away from the Supreme Court Building and into the main tunnel, he activated his personal communicator.

"Hello?" asked the disembodied voice.

"Hey. It's me."

"How did it go?"

"You were right about his fear level. I had to tell him I knew what he was planning. Oh! And I had to tell him I was you."

He paused to see if there was any comment. But there was only silence from the other end.

"I went over everything with him, just like you laid it out."

"Do you think he will come?"

"I wish I could tell you that I knew for sure. He's hard to read. I just don't know."

"If we don't get him this way, I'm not sure what we can do. We really need him to come. So much hinges on him."

"I know. It's a shame I couldn't just tell him."

"Too risky. Well, come on in. Everything else is in place, ready to activate. All we can do now is wait. And, hope."

Eight days later:

The hydrogen-powered vehicle glided smoothly along the floor of the tunnel. Though alone in the back seat, with an abundance of room, Nils could not seem to find a comfortable position. To make matters worse, the physical discomfort was interfering with his attempts to distract himself.

He worried that the two Secret Service agents in the front seats would pick up on his fear. He had known them for over ten years. They had been assigned to him as a team and had remained so. Once he got over the idea of having bodyguards, he had come to enjoy their company, to even like them. But he always kept in mind something Allan Pinkerton, the founder of the Secret Service, had said; 'The end justifies the means, if the end is justice.' Pinkerton's imprint had never left the Secret Service, and these two men epitomized that philosophy. Nils knew they would take him right back to his apartment, or somewhere much worse, if they even suspected what he was doing.

The realization spurred him. He would have to tell the lie. Nils hated lies, and, understandably, had a very low opinion of liars. To think that he would have to count himself among them was almost more than he could take. But he knew he wasn't going to be able to keep his agitated state hidden much longer.

His first attempt to distract himself, people-watching, had failed. Nils hadn't seen a single pedestrian. In his anxiety, he had forgotten that the National Sunday Law required all businesses be closed on the first day of the week. It was highly unlikely he would see anyone walking through this section of the tunnels.

After that, he tried to occupy his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere. Finally, he decided to think about the tunnels. This one, with its two stories of shops and businesses, and the occasional walkway arching overhead, had always reminded Nils of the shopping malls of his youth. Except, of course, for the two main differences; this one had five drive lanes running down the middle of it, and it was completely sealed off from the outside. Even the lighting was artificial.

"Say, fellows, do you know the history of these tunnels?" Without waiting for a reply, Nils plowed ahead. He thought his voice sounded strained, but couldn't stop himself.

"Legend has it that the first 'official' tunnel constructed in the nation's capitol, then just plain Washington City, was created at the instigation of Allan Pinkerton, himself. Do they teach you fellows that in the Secret Service? Supposedly, Pinkerton had insisted that there needed to be a secure passage from the White House should President Lincoln become endangered while in residence.

"Each successive President was briefed on the tunnel's existence; some used it and some didn't. Eventually, Nixon used it to give the Secret Service the slip one evening when he decided to visit with a group of students who were protesting the Vietnam War on the Mall. Using the Service's own tunnel to sneak away from them! Now, that is irony, isn't it?

"Wait. Let me back up a bit. More tunnels were constructed in World War II. Washington, DC was considered a military target by the Axis powers in much the same way the Allies regarded Tokyo or Berlin. The city was heavily fortified, from submarine nets in the Potomac to machine gun emplacements on the White House roof. The digging of several tunnels hardly rated notice. The government intended, literally, to go underground if Germany's V-2 rockets ever made it to DC.

"Until then, though, the new tunnels were off limits. FDR felt, rightly so in my own opinion, that the very use of the tunnels would be enough to reveal their existence to the enemy.

"That all changed after FDR's death. Such secrecy lost its importance upon the arrival of the atomic age. Who wouldn't have underground tunnels in the face of potential nuclear attack? Suddenly, what really mattered was depth. The tunnel system was extended well beyond the confines of the District of Columbia, some as far as the Appalachian Mountain range.”

Nils could see the two agents making eye contact with each other via sidelong glances. He knew he should stop chattering on like he this, but seemed unable to bring himself under control.

"For all of that, though, it was just luck that preserved DC during The Strike. A few degrees to the east, a few degrees to the north, and the Balcones Fault Strike could just as easily have been the Potomac Strike. Then it would have been DC under water instead of Houston.

"After The Strike, while everyone was still under martial law, the Army Corps of Engineers designed and built today's mega-tunnels. These massive underground thoroughfares connected all of the existing tunnels, the Metro System, and the underground complexes into one enormous subterranean city."

"You probably already know all this, don't you? Did you know that, unofficially, everyone who worked in DC was encouraged to live in DC? The thinking went something like this: working people lived inside; only the homeless, criminals, and those on welfare lived outside. Exits from the tunnel system came to be treated, eventually, like border checkpoints."

Why was he talking about the outside? Why couldn't he just make himself shut up? It only mattered if you were going outside, and by the time the checkpoints went up, Nils had decided that, without Maggie, the outside held nothing for him. When had that logical decision changed over to fear?

Abruptly, Nils stopped talking and started counting the banks of mercury lamps recessed into the tunnel ceiling. He only counted the lit ones, which, on a Sunday, meant about every third bank.

Unfortunately, light-counting wasn't much more effective than people-watching. He usually lost count somewhere around nine. And that's when the panic would rise up and almost overwhelm him.

After losing count the third time, he just quit trying. He would have to tell the lie Mr. Duval had given him.

"Philip? Andrew? There's something I need to tell you."

The two agents looked at each other. Neither looked at him. Philip keyed a series of commands into the console. The vehicle pulled obediently into the far right lane and rolled smoothly to a stop. The right front edge aligned itself perfectly with a NO PARKING sign.

"Perimeter on?" asked Andrew.

"Perimeter on," confirmed Philip.

They swiveled their seats to face him.

"Okay, Your Honor," said Andrew, "Let's have it. We can only sit like this for a few minutes before central command calls to ask why we've stopped."

Nils recognized this as a courtesy, and it confirmed his suspicions. They had seen through his attempts at subterfuge. But they were going to give him a chance to explain before doing anything about it. Their years of being together were worth something, but perhaps not too much. Nils had thought it sheer fantasy when Mr. Duval had suggested this very situation might arise. It was beginning to look like the man had thought of everything.

Hating himself for doing it, he told them the lie.

"You have probably noticed that I am a bit . . . umm, that is . . . umm, well, not myself." Neither spoke, but he could see the affirmation in their eyes.

"I told you that I was going to visit an old friend, today. Well, that's not exactly the truth."

At this the two agents exchanged a glance. Nils had no doubts about what was communicated in that look. Andrew half turned back toward the front, his right hand drifting toward the console.

Nils hurried on, knowing he was almost out of time.

"This friend, she's, well . . . umm, BTS, she was . . . What I'm trying to say . . . Oh! I'm just no good at this."

Philip placed his left hand on Nils' knee. It was a gesture of kindness, and it almost undid him.

He took a deep breath and blurted it out.

"Before The Strike, she and I were . . . we had a . . . thing."

If Nils hadn't already been filled with fear, their reactions would have been comical. From a state of near granite, their faces slowly morphed into astonishment, eyes rounded, mouths open. Then, to Nils' utter amazement both men started laughing. And they kept on laughing for several minutes.

Nils found himself growing cross. It didn't seem so funny to him. Why, it could be true. Just how old did they think he was?

Finally, the two of them were able to bring themselves back under control. Both of them, however, retained their grins. Philip looked at him and said, kindly, "You'll be fine, Your Honor. Don't worry. It's just like falling off a bicycle -- you never forget how."

Andrew had already faced forward and was disengaging the perimeter guard. Still, Nils could hear him mutter, "You dawg!"

Philip patted his knee one more time before turning his own seat back to face forward. Soon, they were on their way, again. Nils was amazed! It had worked far better than he had imagined.

Not another word was spoken until, having traveled down a side tunnel for about 15 minutes, the vehicle once again came to a stop.

Nils looked about, puzzled. The tunnel dead-ended just beyond their conveyance. An unmarked door was set into the wall there.

Philip looked back over his shoulder and saw the uncertainty in Nil's face. "We're here, Your Honor. Welcome to the Watergate Hotel."

#############

Nils had never been in the Watergate Hotel. He was a child when Nixon’s ‘plumbers’ were caught burgling the Democrats there, too young to ever have any personal remembrance of those events. What he did know came from his own research after the salesman had left his office eleven days ago. Understanding that, somehow, Mr. Duval planned to use this place as a cover, Nils had checked it out.

Surprisingly, there was very little information available. He learned that it was a resident hotel for people with plenty of money. There was no ‘rent control’ space available in the Watergate. Just that one piece of information gave Nils a certain increased confidence. These people had to have money or they couldn’t have afforded to lease space here.

The door before them opened directly into an elevator; they entered and rode up.

Emerging onto the 11th floor, they walked along the hallway with Andrew taking the lead and Philip trailing behind Nils. Stopping at the apartment number Nils had had been given, Philip knocked twice. From inside, Nils heard a woman's voice, muffled by the thickness of the door, say, "Come in."

Philip took up a position just to the right of the door while Andrew stepped between the door and Nils. He turned the knob and pushed the door open, slowly. For a few seconds, he just filled the doorway, surveying the room that lay beyond. Once satisfied, he entered the room and stepped to the right.

When Andrew stepped aside, Nils was surprised to realize the room looked familiar. But, that wasn’t possible.

Looking across the room, he saw a woman standing at the window, her back to them.

It was the dream!

She turned and looked at them, concern clearly etched on her face. Seams and fissures appeared in the air before him. In no time at all, the scene looked just like one of the puzzles Nils had worked on as a child. Little pieces of the puzzle fell away, slowly at first, a blank whiteness showing through where they had been. More and more of them fell away, until Nils felt his knees buckle. Then he, too, was, falling away with all those little puzzle pieces, following them into the all-consuming white.

####

In the dream, he was on a bed, but not his own. He knew this because his head was on a down pillow. He also knew this because he could see some of the room. It wasn't his. Finally, if none of that had been convincing, he would have known because, from the corner of his vision, he could see a window with daylight streaming through the translucent curtains. There were no windows in his private quarters. That window would have worried him, normally, but the dream gave him no time for that. Before he could begin to think about it, things started happening. First, Philip and Andrew stepped into view. They both looked concerned. Together, they turned and spoke to someone else.

"Phone?" they asked in unison.

He heard a woman say, "In the kitchen." Nils couldn't think that voice could belong to anyone but his beloved Maggie. He thought, this is a cruel dream.

Andrew and Philip turned back to look at him. They appeared to be unable to decide what to do. Finally, the woman (Maggie!) said, "Go on, the both of you. There's nothing you can do for him. Make you calls. I'll watch him until you can get someone to come take a look at him."

Neither of the agents moved. For a few seconds, the dream was silent. Then Andrew said too Philip, "Go. I'll stay." Relief flooded Philip's face. In fact, everyone looked so relieved that Nils wanted to reach out and pat them, tell them everything would be all right. But the dream wouldn't let him move or talk.

Philip turned and left his field of view. As strange as the dream had been, it got even stranger after Philip departed. Seconds after he left, Nils saw the young woman (Maggie?) step to the window and draw another curtain across it. After that, the only light in the room came from the open doorway.

The room then darkened even more. As he heard the sound of the door shutting, the last of the light left.

Shortly -- or so it seemed; dream time is so different -- light reappeared, but from a different source. At first Nils thought a lamp had been turned on, but quickly abandoned the thought. A portion of an inside wall, the wall that formed the other piece of the corner near the window, was moving. Light flooded in around its edges. Nils was amazed to see it. The bar of light at the top of the wall grew larger faster than on the sides. It was as if the entire wall was hinged at the bottom. As it came fully open, Nils caught a glimpse of another room beyond. It seemed to be a hospital room.

Before he could ruminate on this, the opening filled with people, military looking people. There were half a dozen of them and, to Nils' untrained eye, they appeared to be heavily armed. One of them, a woman, used hand signals to direct the others. Nils thought of the poem where Santa Claus is discovered near the Christmas tree; "Without a word, he went right to work" or something like that. Nils almost laughed out loud, but found the dream wouldn't let him.

And the dream wasn't through with him, yet. Once the . . . soldiers? . . . had stationed themselves in a semi-circle around the opening, someone else stepped through.

It was him.

But before he could wonder why he was watching himself in the dream, his other self stepped over to the bed and looked down at Nils. A smile appeared on the other Nils' face. Nils felt there was a considerable affection for him in that expression. As if to underscore this thought, the other Nils placed his hand on Nil's face and said, "Thank you. Thank you so much! You've made all the difference."

This new Nils began to take off his clothes. At the same time, Nils realized his own clothing was being removed. Soon, he watched the new Nils, with the help of Andrew, dress in his own clothes. Nils shivered. He couldn't decide if it was from being naked or from the bizarre scene before him.

While Andrew, Maggie, the soldiers, and of course Nils, looked on, the other Nils, now looking exactly like Nils right down to the shoes, moved to the closed door, opened it, stepped through and closed it behind him. At that, the dream began to loose its hold on Nils. He was slipping back into the darkness when he felt himself being lifted off the bed.

#######

Voices woke him.

He hadn't wanted to wake. In fact, he felt most comfortable just lying there with his eyes closed. He was a little perturbed at the voices for waking him, so he decided he would just lay there. Maybe if they didn't know he was awake, they would go away.

"You have a question, Colonel?"

"Doc, I'm full of questions. Was the surgery successful? Are you sure you removed all the tech from his skull? Will he remember who he is? Is he going to be all right?"

"I think you mean to ask, 'Will there be any damaging evidence left?'; 'When can I interrogate him?' and 'Can I redeploy him?'"

"Now, Doc, there's no reason to be cynical. Sure, I want to know all those things. And more. But I care about the guy, too."

"If you really cared about him, you would never have agreed to this."

He started drifting away again. The one called “Colonel” said something in response to the one called “doc,” but he just couldn’t hold on to what they were saying. His last thought was to wonder at how much the Colonel sounded like Maggie.

#######

He woke again. When he tried to sit up, he discovered he could not. Above him he could see a ceiling, but it seemed very far away. There was a sort of square grate set into a portion of the ceiling, and he thought it might cover a light fixture; but if so, then the light was not switched on. From the corners of his eyes, he could see tubular metal rails fencing him in from both sides.

A hospital bed?

He felt, without really knowing, that he must be in a hospital or medical facility of some kind. If only he could raise his head. Suddenly he was overwhelmed with an unassailable certainty that he was paralyzed. Panic surged through him and he commanded his body … Flee! Run! Go! But, it just lay there. He was starting to really lose it when, in amongst all the chaos clamoring in his brain, he realized the back of his left hand was touching something.

Can you feel things if you’re paralyzed?

He tried to move just that hand. Had the feeling changed a bit? He tried again. This time he was sure; he was putting increased pressure on the object. He was moving his hand. He felt a wave of relief pass through him.

But the energy needed to do even this minor a task was more than he could sustain, and he found he could not muster the strength to keep his eyes open. He began to drift again. He heard what was surely the sounds of a door opening, followed by soft footfalls. Someone was very near him, but he could not speak or move; the herculean efforts of a few moments ago had drained him. He heard a second person walk into the room.

“Doc?”

“Nothing to worry about. He just needs some adjustment in the sedative level, which is not unexpected. With this kind of surgery, following what was already done to him (Nils was sure he heard disapproval in that phrase), we are severely limited in the drugs we can use. The stronger ones are contra-indicated. Still, it may be a good sign.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he is trying to fight the sedative, it is a signal of mental effort, maybe some returning strength; in other words, he may be exerting his will. And that … that would be good news indeed.”

There was more. The other person, the one that sounded like Maggie, said something and the “doc” person responded, but he could not follow what they were saying. They said words; he recognized them as words, but could assign no meaning to them; could just not make the words arrange themselves in any sensible pattern. Then the darkness took him.

# # # # # #

He was sitting in a meadow, grasses and wildflowers stretching out in every direction, broken only by a small grove of trees a short distance away. Far off to his left, at the horizon, he could see the barest hint of a mountain range. More of a thin smudge between earth and sky, but he thought it must be mountains. It was a bright day, but no sun was visible; and no clouds, just blue sky. In a way, it was familiar to him, but not like he had been here before; more like something he had once seen on a postcard, or in a book, or maybe in a travel video.

He sat for a few moments, looking, listening. Nothing moved; and, except that of a slight breeze riffling through the trees, grasses, and flowers, nothing made a sound. He was at peace.

There was no way to measure time, but it seemed he sat like that for a long while.

Then, from far off to his right, he heard a sound; he could not decide what the sound was, but noted that it didn’t stop. But when he looked in the direction of the sound, he could see nothing but the endless meadow. And while he continued to look, he formed the impression that the sound was growing louder, though that wasn’t the right word for the sound. How do you describe a sound that is almost silent and then becomes less almost silent? Still, the longer he listened, the more certain he was the sound was increasing in volume.

He peered into the distance; surely he would see something. But there was nothing but the sound. Yes, it definitely was growing louder. Finally, he decided the sound was like a buzz. He wondered if it might the sound of some insect. With that thought, he refocused his vision to the nearground, thinking that if it was an insect, then it would be close by; because, now, the sound was definitely sounding not just louder, but closer as well.

He stood up. And in doing so, he was surprised to realize he was wearing his robes of office. How odd. But even that was little distraction from his concentration on the sound. It was sounding less like a buzz and more like a … what? More like a …

And then he saw movement. Way off. He could see only the tiniest of motions, but knew with a certainty that something, the something making the sound, was moving toward him. Fast.

Suddenly, he was afraid. Remembering the trees, he trotted over to them, marveling in one corner of this thoughts at how spry he felt; how energized. It was almost like he was 20 years younger. All of the aches and pains of his aging were gone. He felt strong. All of this passing quickly through his mind as he went from trotting to out right running, knowing somehow that he must reach the grove before the – whatever it was – reached him.

As he entered the shade of the grove, he realized the tenor of the sound had changed, or maybe just being closer had made it so he could now recognize it. The sound was a yell; a coarse, ragged, sustained shout of anger, or maybe of madness. He looked about for something to use as a weapon.

Picking up a branch, like a baseball bat at its thickest, he stripped away the small twigs until he had a good place to hold it. Then he turned toward the sound and waited. The sound was much closer now, and what had been an unidentifiable motion was now clearly a person running right for his location. He could see the person was dressed in … what was the word? … Camouflage … Camo … pants, shirt, and cap. There was no doubt; this was some sort of soldier. And, if the mode of dress was not sufficient, the gun (rifle?) firmly grasped before him in both hands was enough to convince Nils. Him; it was a him; and he looked familiar.

Nils stepped deeper into the grove. With some curiosity about how he knew it, he realized he needed to find some way to hide himself; that stealth would be the way he could overcome this adversary. And that was another thing; he realized this man running toward him was an adversary; that he intended harm to Nils; that he would, in fact, take Nils’ life if he could. Moving behind a large tree trunk, Nils was only mildly surprised to look down and see his robes change from their usual black to a Camo pattern similar to that of the other man; sensing, but not understanding just how, that thinking “stealth” was enough to cause the transformation. More new thoughts came to him, unbidden; he must do something about that gun. The man could just shoot him. Unless he could …what was the phrase? … “level the playing field,” he had no chance of surviving what he knew was to be a fight to the death.

All of this time, however long or short that time had been, Nils had heard the sound, the yell. Suddenly, when it sounded as if it were almost upon him, it stopped. Its absence was shocking to Nils. The silence that followed seemed odd, as if the yell had always been a part of his life. He had the distinct impression that the sound had been there, beating at his thoughts, for all eternity, a constant assault on his mind; or, at least, been there for a very long time. He didn’t know what to make of that thought, but sensed he could not pursue it now, that now he must win his life from his nemesis.

Peering around the tree, Nils saw the back of the man. He was standing very close to the other side of the tree … and he was turning toward Nils. Realizing this might be his only chance, Nils stepped from the protection of the tree and, with a mighty upward swing of his makeshift bat, slammed the body of the man’s weapon, knocking it out of his hands and into a long, flat arc deeper into the grove. Following it with his eyes, Nils saw if fall into thick undergrowth some distance away.

And then he was knocked to the ground. The man struggled to pin him, as if in a wrestling match. Nils moved quickly, employing one counter measure after another, blocking several attempts by the man to subdue him. A small portion of his thoughts was still a little surprised that he knew how to do these things, but he concluded he was pleased to know how and could wonder about his newly acquired skills at some later point … after he survived … if he survived. For now, it was enough that these survival skills came quickly, responding to, and in some case, anticipating the attacks of the man.

How long they fought, Nils could not have said. But after a while he felt himself begin to flag a bit. He needed some way to get the man off of him, some way to buy a few moments so he could get to his feet, find a better defensive position. That’s when he remembered the tree limb. Had it been there all along? Why had he not used it? What had he been thinking? He had a weapon and the other man did not. Had he wanted to lose? There was no time for this kind of introspection. Tightening his grip, Nils swung the limb up toward the man’s head with all his strength.

He felt the limb strike the man, and then it was gone. When he looked, he saw that, instead of harming the man, he had done far worse. The man had simply grabbed to limb as it came toward him and had torn it from Nil’s hands. Now, he stood over Nils, limb held high above his head ready to strike. If this were not shocking enough, Nils could now see the man’s face … his own.

How could that be? He had no twin. How could this soldier look like him; just exactly like him? Then it happened.

Switch.

One second he was lying on the ground, tangled in his now-black-again robes, looking up into his own face. The next, he was the soldier, looking down at the black-robed figure cowering on the ground. And he knew exactly what he must do.

He swung the limb down with all his might.

# # # # # #

This time was different. When he woke this time he remembered everything. It came rolling back to him in waves, one memory triggering another. He felt as though he had been released from a kind of prison. He felt relief. He felt like … himself. And he was, finally, himself. He wanted some time to cherish that idea for a bit, so he didn’t move. Probably one of these sensors was instructed to call someone, regardless. So, while he could, he lay there in his hospital bed, in the pleasant grayness of the semi-darkened room (no, not a room, at least not a hospital room … a lab), and thought about all that had gone before.

The briefing had been thorough. The Colonel had told him a Supreme Court Judge, the Chief Justice actually, had been persuaded to come out of his self-imposed (but government enforced) isolation. Here might be their only chance to make a difference. If he could get outside, unhindered by his minders, they might be able to show him enough of the real world to convince him to lead the Court in a different direction; away from endorsing the overreaching (however well intentioned) powers of the Executive Branch, and toward restoring some much needed civil liberties. The heavy-handedness of the government may have served a real purpose in the years following the Strike, but here and now, almost 20 years later, there was no more rioting in the streets, no more rampant chaos in anticipation of a possible extinction-level event. Who knew what served as the motivations for maintaining near martial law all these years? Here was their chance to swing things back the other way.

The Doc had shown him the finger-tipped size piece of tech they wanted to put in his brain. Well, she made it pretty clear she didn’t want to put it in his brain. Every step of the way she kept reminding him that he didn’t have to volunteer for the mission, that it was dangerous not even counting the tech, and that the tech could, probably would, have side effects … some they knew of and some they could only speculate about. And, of course, there was always the possibility something could happen that they had never imagined.

He asked her, “If this is so dangerous, then why am I being asked to volunteer?” He got the answer he expected.

With a grimace the Doc said, “You’re the best match we have. No one else could even tolerate the insertion of the device; much less make use of it.”

He settled the matter by asking, “So what is this thing? And how does putting it in my brain help us get the judge where we need him?”

After a pause (She was really angry with him for ignoring her warnings), she explained. “This device is not the first of its kind. We’ve been using some version of it since the late 1960’s; and we possessed a version of it for a couple decades before that. We don’t know the original intent for the device, only that it allows people to become someone else. Through some means not entirely clear to us (she threw a very pointed look at the Colonel), the device can, when the subject is properly prepared (another look), bring about both mental and physiological changes in the subject.”

“Doc?” he said. “Can you give me the executive summary? This is interesting, but, well, do I really need to know all of this?”

She said something under her breath, angry; he thought she might have said, “Heroes.” In any case, she continued, “OK. Here it is, Major. I’ll bottom-line it for you. With the good Judge’s cooperation, we can feed you enough information about him and his life for you to, in theory, fool everyone about you into believing you are him. We can put this device in you and make you look, sound, act … actually, just about be Nils Jorgenson … at least for a while; hopefully, for long enough. You are close in height; some special shoes can provide the necessary adjustment.”

The Colonel, having held back for a while out of deference to the doctor, took over at this point, telling him, “In essence, you’ll be going undercover, just not quite the way most people would understand the term. You would need to maintain the cover for about two weeks, possibly less. We have a way to insert and extract you that won’t arouse suspicion. We have a person on the inside who can facilitate the switch.”

And that’s how he came to join “Operation Mask.” He was little unnerved to learn there was a full operation in place, an operation that had been in place for quite some time, to temporarily replace people with operatives pretending, pretty successfully it seemed, to be them. He was introduced to the cover company, “Revels,” and to their staff. He learned there was an active list of clientele who regularly called on Revels to facilitate their need to be someone else from time to time.

After that, it was a bit of a whirlwind. Digis to watch, voice to practice, walk to practice, schedules to learn; tons and tons of information to read and memorize. A very intense course in becoming Nils Jorgenson, Chief Supreme Court Justice.

And then the time came for the surgery.

“OK, Doc. Here’s your chance. Before I go under the knife, give me the full disclosure. What can go wrong?”

“What’s the point? You’ve made it clear you intend to do this no matter what I say.”

“The point, Doc, is that this is a military operation. I need the intel, all of it, before I go into the field. I need to know, as much as is practicable, what to expect.”

She eyed him for a few seconds, then said, “The potential problems are limitless, but there’s no need for me to speculate. What we know could go wrong is enough. Firstly your body may not revert after the end of the mission. It’s happened before. We think we’ve fixed it, but nothing about this tech is really sure. It wasn’t designed for humans; well, not exactly. Anyway, that’s a concern. Though, as much as you might not like it, your overall health would not be impacted, so it’s a minimal threat. Another, more serious concern lies with sublimation. You could slip into a state where you come to believe you actually are Nils Jorgenson. That kind of problem has also happened before. While your health would not impacted, your quality of life would change radically. We can’t just let two of someone wander around, both claiming to be that person. We have had some recoveries in these cases, partial ones for the most part. Some though, some have had to be … umm, restricted for their own good. It is among the worst possibilities. But that is not the worst. There is the possibility the device may break down. Human bodies are not particularly fond of foreign objects, and our bodies have found all sorts of inventive ways to reject them. In that case, the result, at least in the past, has been sublimation, followed by amnesia, followed by radiation poisoning, and then death. In one case, deformity preceded the amnesia. That one was especially horrible.”

“Well,” he said, “I guessed it would be something like that … not in that detail, of course, but I could see how someone could get lost. Fiddling with memory would just about have to be sketchy. Thanks, Doc, for being straight with me. One more question: why the special shoes? Can’t the device just adjust my height while it’s making all the other physiological changes?”

Her eyes took on a haunted look. “There were some very bad results, some changes that were … monstrous. We just could not control that aspect of the device. It took a long time, but we finally, mercifully, managed to turn that part off. What’s left is bad enough.”

He couldn’t help himself. He had to know. “Doc, if you feel so strongly about this, why do you stay?”

A slight smile came to her face. “Do you know, I think about that question every day? And so far, every day, I’ve concluded things are better with me here than with me on the outside. At least being here I can exercise some mitigating effect, be a voice for caution in the face of very seductive technologies.”

And, of course, something had gone wrong. He had gotten lost, had stopped being a mask for Nils Jorgenson and had ended up believing he was Nils Jorgenson. That must have really freaked them out. Thank God their ploy had worked. He was pretty sure he would have died if they hadn’t been able to lure him out with the idea of getting a mask from Revels.

He could hear the unmistakable sound of many footsteps approaching his location. Reflection time was over. He had time for one last thought before the herd of medicos descended on him. He didn’t know if it was a holdover from his masking experience or if he was just allowing himself to come to grips with something that was long overdue. His moments of reflection had brought one thing to the surface he would have to act on.

Jorgenson’s late wife did resemble the Colonel a bit, but it had never been Maggie’s face he saw in his thoughts all those weeks; it was that of Colonel Susan O’Brien. How he (they) would overcome the differences in rank, among other obstacles, was not clear to him just then.

But, what they heck, he liked a challenge.

Made-up Words

2008-09-04T08:24:00.000-07:00

MADE-UP WORDS
By Steve Orr

If you read my earlier post, “Wrong War,” about a couple of incidents my daughter encountered during her grade school years, you may recall that one of her teachers told her “foretaste” is not a word. In that post I talked a bit about how that incident engendered some interesting dialog between my daughter and me. What I didn’t tell you there is a side discussion we had about the genesis of words. I took that opportunity to explain to my daughter one of those things I was lucky enough to learn pretty early in life.

All words are made-up words.

Granted, it’s not magic; but knowing it does help a person cope with those self-appointed arbiters of language who are often quick to criticize any word they don’t recognize. Unless you live in France (where they, by law, limit the words allowed in their language), you probably speak a language that evolves. And if your native language is English, then you speak the one that evolves at the greatest rate of speed.

It always starts the same way. One of us makes a sound. Then, one of us, maybe even the same person, assigns a value to that sound. Then, before you can say lickety-split, one or more of us defines the sound. Suddenly (or, oh … so … slowly) we string those words together and make a language. All of it, every bit of it, is made-up.

Take “Bookcrossing” for instance. Less than a decade ago the word had not even been coined (See? We even have a word to describe the creation of words: “coined.”). Then, in 2001 a few people got together and created Bookcrossing.com. Now, you can look up “Bookcrossing” in the dictionary. Once it was added to a dictionary it officially became a word in the English language; but it needs to be pointed out that, despite the lag time from coining to dictionary inclusion, “Bookcrossing” was actually a word the moment it was coined. After that creation moment its existence was no longer open for debate. What was left to determine were things like general recognition in the populace, breadth of usage, acceptance by a dictionary, etc. In Hollywood parlance, the question became, “Does it have legs?” Can it survive?

“Foretaste,” I assured my daughter, was in fact, and had been for quite some time, a word; the comments of her English teacher not withstanding. But, I told her, even if it had not been a word, there was no reason to exclude it from the society of words simply due to the fact that it had not previously existed before she included it in her paper.

All words are made-up words.

The trick, if that is the right word, is in how we introduce our coined words. And, there is something to the fact that some people are more empowered by our society to coin words than other people. There is a big word that describes newly coined words: neologism. Many of the commonly used words currently in use in the English language started life as neologisms spoken by U. S. Presidents. Take “lobbyist” for example. President Grant coined the term during a period when he lived in the The Willard, a Washington, DC hotel (still) located near the White House. It was no secret he lived there, so people lurked in the lobby waiting for any opportunity to “bend the ear” of the chief executive. Grant lamented once that he could not leave the hotel without having to wade though a sea of “lobbyist.” And, "Presto Chango!" we had a new word. The word had a little help with its launch when newspaper reporters and publishers spread the word throughout the nation by reporting on the President’s comment. There are a plethora of incidents of U. S. Presidents making up words, all of which you can learn with a bit of “Googling.”

However, most of us are not, and will not be, a U.S. President. So, how would one introduce a neologism should one wish to? We need not only a process, but also a strategy. The easiest way, and the one with the least chance of negative backlash from the language police, is to call attention to its newness when first using it. When speaking or writing the new word, say or write something like, “to coin a term” just before you actually reveal the new word. Then, if it is not obvious to the reader/hearer, define the new word. That way, you’ve covered your bases. In other words, make sure the person grading/critiquing your communication knows that you know it is not a word already in common usage. Your audience may or may not like your new word, and you may still get a comment like “Not a word!” But at least you won’t be dinged for being stupid or uneducated.

Another idea, and one that is pretty much accepted by all readers, is to place your newly coined word in quotes. That alerts the reader to the fact that you know the word in not a commonly used word. In many cases, especially if your neologism is being used in context, nothing more is needed than some judiciously placed quote marks. This is often seen when a writer or speaker is “verbing the noun”; using a noun as a verb (e.g., when one tells one to “Google” a term or phrase to learn what information can be found about it on the Internet). If your neologism is a combination of two existing words, for example, “near” and “ground,” adding a hyphen can serve as a signal to the reader that you are in the process of word creation; thus introducing the term, “near-ground” (as opposed to the background .. yes, I know “foreground” already exists as a counter to background, but, as a writer, I like the sound of, and subtly different meaning of, “nearground”).

So, while you may not wish to blithely go about inserting made-up words in your English papers, please do not feel you are restricted to using only the words in common usage. If the very word you need to express your thought doesn’t exist, then you have my permission to “neologe” as needed. Because …

All words are made-up words.

Wrong War

2008-09-02T08:58:00.000-07:00

WRONG WAR

By Steve Orr

The title is misleading. This is not a rant about the war du jour. This is a story (and, maybe a little rant) about the care teachers should take in exercising their powers.

When my daughter was progressing through grade school she was taught by some very good teachers, a handful of excellent teachers, and the rare dud teacher. Here follows two vignettes for your consideration.

During her middle school years my daughter was required by one social studies teacher to write a longish paper for his class. In her submission, she suggested there might be some relationships between the Russian Revolution and the beginnings of World War One. When she received her paper back we found the teacher had written, in red ink, on each page of the paper, “WRONG WAR!” My daughter was so upset she could not go beyond the first two pages. However, when I read through the paper (preparing to do battle; right parents?), I carefully re-read her paper (having read it carefully before she even submitted it). I could see how she might make such a mistake, but how could WE, her loving and educated parents? ;-) When I got to the last page of the paper, I saw the teacher had assigned her a grade of “A” and had written a note, in red ink, “Ignore comments about wrong war.”

In this case, the teacher finally realized the real problem; not that my daughter was confused about which war, rather that HE was thinking of the wrong war (or possibly the wrong revolution). It turned out to provide an excellent “teachable moment” we could use to discuss things like being certain of your sources, ensuring your facts are correct, and the need to ensure that the two things being compared are not a case of “apples v. oranges.” And, though it seemed a little early for such a talk, we discussed the fact that you might have to defend your work to those that don’t understand it; a daunting task even for a doctoral candidate and an almost impossible idea for an 8^th grader to grasp. All ended well, but oh! the trauma we traversed to get there.

In high school, my daughter received back a paper on which the teacher had written the comment, “Not a word!” next to the word, “foretaste.” That in itself is very sad; sadder still is the fact that the commenter was her English teacher. I grant you, a teacher in another discipline might not know the word. I can’t remember any of my math teachers using the word. It never came up in science class. But English?! If ever there was a subject in which a teacher would exercise care with words, English is that subject.

Encarta defines the word as: “a sample or indication of what is to come.” Merriam-Webster says: “(1) a small anticipatory sample, (2) an advance indication or warning.” Perhaps this English teacher had never sung the hymn “Blessed Assurance” in church with its “foretaste of glory divine.” Even Microsoft Word’s spellchecker recognizes “foretaste” [however, a caution; that is not always a dependable source for reliance. I once typed the word “telecommute” and Word’s spellchecker did not recognize it; suggesting I might rather have meant to type “teleport.” Because, you know, so many people DO that.].

Well, by the time a student is in high school, it is a little easier to discuss the fact that there is just too much for any one person to know, and that, in this case, perhaps this teacher just had never encountered the word (!) in all her studies. It was also the moment to discuss the politics of being careful about confronting ~~ignorant~~ ~~uneducated~~ unknowledgeable people who are in a position of power over you. We had an excellent discussion about diplomacy and its uses in pursuit of an education. In short, we let it go. Some things just cannot be done (like telling an English teacher that s/he does not know the language).

Now before you take up arms and defend your favorite teacher (or all teachers), let me assure you, I believe teachers are among the most important people in our lives. As the spouse of a teacher and as the product of one of the best educational systems in the world, I have great respect for teachers. My concern is not with the teachers who show up every day and do the job of teaching our children, and it is certainly not with those teachers who excel. My concern is with those few teachers who, though not physicians, could learn a thing or two from the central theme of the Hippocratic Oath (“First do no harm’).

Should our children’s work be corrected when it is wrong? Absolutely! All I ask is this: teachers, if you are reading this, please (oh, please!) be sure before you write something in big red letters on a child’s paper. The impact of your words and actions are far greater than you may realize; and can last a lifetime, for good or ill.

And a request of you, gentle reader: do you know of other stories like the two set forth above? If so, tell me about it (them) in a comment on this piece. Thanks!

Mighty Waters, Mighty Love

2008-08-15T10:13:00.000-07:00

MIGHTY WATERS, MIGHTY LOVE

By Steve Orr

Scripture is full of stories and references to “Mighty Waters.” There are the obvious ones, like the crossing of the Red Sea in during the Exodus from Egypt, Jonah being tossed into the sea before being swallowed by a great fish, and Jesus coming to the disciples during the terrible storm on the Sea of Galilee. And, of course, the granddaddy of them all, THE FLOOD that God used to wipe out all but those sealed in Noah’s ark.

With events like the Genesis flood firmly planted in the histories of almost all peoples, and the record of the Red Sea drowning Pharaoh’s army, it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise that later Biblical writers came to use phrases like “mighty waters,” “many waters,” “great waters,” and “deep waters” as a kind of metaphor for serious trouble. We see them using that phrase in the Psalms and the prophecies on a regular basis; even in the Song of Solomon. And it always refers to big trouble, overwhelming trouble, the kind of trouble you really can’t get out of by yourself, the kind of trouble that just might be the end of you. Mighty waters.

But there is a countering force to mighty waters. In the song, “Mighty Love,” a great, thumping, toe-tapping piece of music, Todd Rundgren and his group contrast lesser love (in this case, what the Greeks referred to as “Eros”; romantic love) with a lasting, mighty love. The song recounts how the lesser love does not last, even though deeply sworn and strongly intended, because, as the song says, “that’s the way love goes.”

Now, as some of you are old enough to recall, Todd Rundgren is not known as a “Christian” singer; you won’t find his music listed on any of the “Christian top 40.” But, as with other “secular” performers like The Pretenders in “I’ll Stand By You,” Anne Murray in “You Needed Me,” Josh Grogan in “You Raise Me Up,” and Carole King in “Way Over Yonder,” he sometimes strays into deeply spiritual territory … if only we have the “ears to hear.” And I think we can put on our spiritual ears and hear that Todd Rundgren’s “mighty love” is actually what the Greeks called “Agape,” an unconditional love, one that always acts in our best interest, one that lasts; or, as one of my professors put it: “love, in spite of.”

Still, the mere existence of such a “mighty love” is not really enough, is it? There must be someone on the other side of that equation, someone who not only cares about us, but who has the power to act on our behalf in even the direst circumstances; not just love, but a mighty love. And, praise God, there is such a rescuer; there is a deliverer, someone to save us from being overcome by the overwhelming. In Psalms 32:6, David says about God, “Therefore let everyone who is godly pray to you while you may be found; surely when the mighty waters rise, they will not reach him. You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.” Now that is a clear picture of Godly protection and deliverance; an example of God’s mighty love in action.

But a caution here; I’m not saying you won’t ever get wet. Remember the language of the parable Jesus told about building your house; “when the storm comes” you want to be sure your spiritual house is on solid ground, not shifting sands. There is a storm coming in each of our lives; perhaps even multiple storms, but there is also deliverance if we are willing to recognize it and accept it. In 2 Samuel 22:17-19a, David praises God saying, “He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. He rescued me from my powerful enemy, from my foes, who were too strong for me. They confronted me in the day of my disaster, but the Lord was my support. He brought me out to a spacious place…” Not just protection, but also rescue. Whether we blindly led ourselves into such danger, or are being tested and tried, God can, like in the story of Jonah, exercise His mighty love to bring us through the experience and back to the place where we can choose to do his will in relative safety.

As it says in the book of James, “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.” No, being near to God is not a safe place in the same way we usually want to think of safety, because we don’t worship a “safe” God. He is powerful beyond our ability to understand, and he is jealous in his strong love for us. It is not “safe” in the sense that there will be no challenges, no trials; rather it is the kind of safety that comes with being next to the most powerful being there is. Do you have “ears to hear” this? No other power or force can overcome God’s mighty love for us. As it says in the Song of Solomon, “Many waters cannot quench love; rivers cannot wash it away.”

I think the take-away points are these: God’s “mighty love” cannot be successfully assaulted by “mighty waters.” Scripture says “the gates of Hell shall not prevail against it.” He has told us he loves us, and his servants have written of how he draws us out of “deep waters” because of that love. So, when all appears to be lost, when you can see no way out, when things are at their darkest, don’t waste time and energy with other responses; call upon God to exercise His mighty love and rescue you. There is only one truly good place to be; as near to God as possible.