The Wild Bunch (a slightly different Christmas story)

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

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.

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

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

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?

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

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?

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

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?

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?

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

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

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

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.

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