BERNIE’S FALSE UTOPIA

“I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances.  I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.”

I watched about thirty seconds of last night’s Democratic debate. Right after Michael Bloomberg tried, unsuccessfully, to tar and feather Bernie Sanders with the “Vladimir Putin is supporting you” media reports, Elizabeth Warren, ever the opportunist, squeezed into the opening. She didn’t criticize or pillory Bernie. Instead, she made the claim that, while she would be a better President, she and Bernie are still teammates aiming for the same prize – dethroning Donald Trump. It was pandering at its most magnificent. She all but said she was lobbying for a Vice-Presidential nod in a comrade Bernie Sanders for President campaign. 

Will it work? I don’t know. Senator Warren is quite clever. She’s as Caucasian as Caucasian can be, but somehow managed hoodwink a prestigious Ivy League school with her claim of Native-American ancestry. 

While I only watched that brief snippet, from what I read this morning it appears that the rest of the debate was a real slobberknocker.

I’m sure the campaigns will continue to either delight or exasperate the pundits as things progress. 

Beyond the campaigns, however, I’m digging a bit deeper into the nuts and bolts of the political climate in America, particularly the sentiments of the nation’s young. In an April, 2019 Gallup poll, “58% of US residents ages 18 to 34 think “some form of socialism” would be a good thing for the country, while only 37% think it would be a bad thing.” A Harris polls conducted the same month found that  “nearly half of the 18- to 44-year-olds surveyed said they would rather live in a socialist country than a capitalist one.”

How can this be? I’m really mystified.

I’m a capitalist at heart today. My reading, with its comparisons between socialist and capitalist systems, and experience have brought me to this place.

I’ve read the works of  John Locke, Adam Smith, Karl Marx, Vladimir Lenin, and others. While there’s a lot of information between the lines of these men, a few critical ideas of how the opposing systems operate stand out. In his Second Treatise on Government, written in 1689, John Locke maintained that property rights and individual liberty are linked. In a study produced for the Hoover Institution, political scientist Peter Berkowitz condensed Locke’s views this way  “The right to property entails control, not subject to the dictates of other human beings, over properly acquired land and objects as well as over oneself, including one’s thoughts, actions, and body. It derives, according to Locke, from “the property every individual has in his own person; this nobody has any right to but himself.” It follows, he argues, that “[t]he labour of his body, and the work of his hands, we may say, are properly his.” From that point, Locke argued that governments are needed to ensure, as much as humanly possible, that the intersection of millions of units of individual freedom work cooperatively for the good of the society as a whole. This is where we in America get our idea of a limited government. We have a system that acknowledges that in any society there are, and will be, competing personal and economic interests. Our founders wisely deemed that the governing system of a free people must balance this competing interests. That is one of the primary reasons we have a government system with three distinct branches, each of which has its rights and responsibilities outlined in order to guard against power being concentrated in one person or a cabal. As James Madison put it in Federalist 51, But the great security against a gradual concentration of the several powers in the same department, consists in giving to those who administer each department the necessary constitutional means and personal motives to resist encroachments of the others. The provision for defense must in this, as in all other cases, be made commensurate to the danger of attack. Ambition must be made to counteract ambition.  (my emphasis added)

In addition to his “Treatise on Government,” John Locke also wrote extensively about religious liberty and education. The crux of his commentary on these elements of a free society were two-fold – first, that no government had the right to regulate belief and second, that the purpose of education was to be a vehicle in the formation of free men and women. 

Even with its excesses and inequities, capitalism does work for everyone. It really does, Socialists claim that it doesn’t work at all. In a recent essay, John C. Goodman, economist and CEO of the Goodman Institute for public Policy Analysis, wrote the following description of what many socialists believe – Capitalism is sometimes described as institutionalized selfishness, while socialism is often described as institutionalized altruism.”  

This is the crux of the socialist system, according to socialists. It’s altruism, plain and simple. But, when you strip away the veneer of altruism, something entirely different emerges. It’s envy and greed far worse than anything capitalists have ever imagined. Early on in his writing, Karl Marx claimed that capitalist systems constantly exploit the working class. The history of mankind, Marx contended, was a constant class struggle, with the bourgeoisie, the capitalists and factory owners, oppressing the workers. What was the solution to the problem? Simple. Government would take over every aspect of a nation’s economy. John Goodman put it this way – Under socialism, the government does much more than set prices. It determines what will be produced, how it will be produced, where it will be produced and under what circumstances people will be able to consume what is produced.”

When the two systems are compared in terms of morality and ethics, the really significant difference between the two becomes clear. In his 1940 masterwork “Darkness at Noon,” Hungarian author/journalist Arthur Koestler dug deeply into the belly of socialim’s beast and painted a vivid picture of what really undergirds that system. It’s not a pretty picture. At one point in the novel, a former Soviet official named Rubashov  has been imprisoned for having abandoned the revolution’s principles. He’s being interrogated by a former friend named Ivanov, who is still loyal to the system. Rubashov is trying to resist the urge to admit guilt and face a show trial, but is having great difficulty.  Ivanov is a clever interrogator and finds a way to tell Rubashov that in order for him to be true to his principles he must admit his guilt and see that the socialist way is the only way. It may seem cruel and inhumane, but Ivanov explains it’s the only way for the revolution to succeed. Christianity has failed and the socialist revolution must be pitiless in its tactics so that the aim of heaven on earth will be realized. It’s at this point, Ivanov lays out the differences between Christianity and socialism clearly: “There are only two conecptions of ethics, and they are at opposite poles. One of them is Christian and humane and declares the individual to be sacrosanct, and asserts that the rules of arithmetic are not be applied to human units. The other starts from the basic principle that a collective aim justifies all means, and not only allows, but demands, that the individual should be in every way subordinated and sacrificed to the community – which may dispose of it as an experimentation or a sacrificial lamb.” (page 160)

There you have it. Armed with a utopian instinct, the world’s great socialists claimed all that was needed to fix things was to abolish property rights, turn over control of everything to the government, eliminate religion, crush any dissenting views, and educate the young in the virtues of the socialist state. It’s a tall order and those in the movement’s vanguard must be merciless in their efforts to realize socialism’s goals.

Why, then, are the young so enamored with Bernie and socialism? Deception has placed a dark, dark veil over their minds, eyes, and hearts and Bernie is quite good in the art of deception. He rails constantly about the way billionaire fat cats are stealing from the poor and promises he will make everything right under his socialist umbrella. It’s a really personal call, aimed at the envy that lurks in the heart of every one of us. It’s covetousness elevated to  becoming a noble principle. It’s making lusting for what someone else owns a virtue. It’s truth turned on its head and, apparently, it’s working.

The truth is, socialism doesn’t work. It never has. It never will. Bernie can talk glowingly about Denmark and Sweden, but he knows they’re not socialist countries. Then, a breath after extolling the Danes and Swedes for a system they don’t have, he launches in to lavish praise for Stalin and the soviets, Fidel Castro, and Mao, and other bloody tyrants for their contributions in creating utopia on earth.

Experience has taught me that not one whit of what Bernie says bears up under the scrutiny of historical events. If socialism is as utopian as he claims, why are so many fleeing from the liberation the socialists say they’re offering. I served a tour of duty in Vietnam from 1965 to 1966. It was a singularly unpleasant chapter in my life. Ten years after I left, in April, 1975, North Vietnamese tanks swept in to Saigon. In the days after that, thousands of desperate South Vietnamese crowded into flimsy junks and launched themselves into the South China Sea. According to socialist dogma, they should have been celebrating their liberation. Didn’t they know the Vietnamese  bourgeoisie had been overthrown and they could now lose their chains of oppression? Apparently not, because they preferred death or a  miraculous rescue to a socialist utopia. The same question could have been asked about the masses of East Germans who risked life and limb to escape a soviet utopia. 

Socialism brings nothing but misery, repression, and fear. Years ago, Nancy and I hosted a young student from the Republic of Moldova for what eventually became an almost five year stay with us. She’d come to us as part of a State Department program for young students from recently liberated soviet “republics.” I remember her first night with us quite well. She’d had a long, long journey that was complicated by a complete power blackout in New York that left her in a dark hotel for two days,  waiting for the power to come back on so she could proceed to Wichita to meet us. When she finally arrived in Wichita, she found that the airline had lost her luggage. She had nothing at all. I wondered as we walked along how she must have felt. Had she left the third world only to come to another version of that same third world or worse? After we made arrangements for the airline to deliver our luggage to our hometown as soon as they found it, we drove 100 miles to Emporia, where we lived. Nancy and I took her to Wal-Mart to get some of the essentials their airline had lost. When Nancy took her to the toothpaste aisle, tears welled up in her eyes. In the former soviet republic where she lived there was no such thing as choice, but in America she now had a myriad of choices. Perhaps you may think that’s a small thing, but you’d be dead wrong. In the soviet utopia there was no such thing as choice. The soviets made sure of that. They ruled every aspect of Moldovan life – every aspect. She adjusted to American life and applied herself diligently to the task at hand. She succeeded beyond our wildest dreams. Today, that young woman is living in California. She’s earned a Masters’ degree in business, has a great job, has gotten married to a remarkable man, and has two of the most stunningly beautiful children I’ve ever seen. How did she get from Moldova to where she is today? She saw an opportunity and took a hold of it. She knew what America, freedom, and a fair chance to succeed were open to her. And she took it. 

If you ever get to meet you, feel free to ask her if she feels oppressed by America’s bourgeoisie. You’ll get an earful; I guarantee it.

One last thing before I move on. Bernie claims he’s against the idea of dictators and tyrants. He’d never kowtow to such evil. In this case, he’s deceiving himself. As F.A. Hayek astutely observed in 1944, once property rights are taken, individual liberty, religious freedom, and limited government eventually go with them. It always happens. 

But, there’s something else the socialists haven’t counted on.  Close to the end of his Hoover Institute essay, Peter Berkowitz hit the nail right  on the head with this gem:Marx wildly underestimated the self-correcting powers of liberal democracies and free markets. He and his legions of followers failed to grasp the capacity of liberal democracies to acknowledge injustice, reform institutions to better serve the public interest, and pass laws that would bring the reality of political and economic life more in line with the promise of individual rights and equal citizenship.”  

I’ve now left the most important thing about the defects of socialism till last. The foundations of socialism are built on what Jesus called “sand.” Any system that’s built on envy, greed, or covetousness is doomed to failure. In fact, the only way that socialism has managed to hold power for as long as it has in so many places, is the terror apparatus that inevitably comes with it.

Thankfully, not all of us have succumbed to Bernie’s siren song. There are a lot of us who don’t feel the compulsion to rail at billionaires, fat cats, or the bourgeoisie. We’ve learned, or are learning to be content in whatever state we find ourselves.  Some years ago now, Nancy and I took an anniversary trip to eastern Kentucky. It was as delightful as it was instructive. We spent a couple of nights in a tiny community called Rugby, which was founded in 1880 as a utopian community by a man named Thomas Hughes. Hughes was an Englishman who was in the unfortunate position of being a second son, which meant he had no land or title to live on. His solution was a utopia where second sons would live in a soclialist utopia, free from the ills of Victorian England. By 1887 the experiment had collapsed under the weight of lawsuits over land titles and an aversion to hard work. 

There was another interesting stop along the way, in a small Mennonite community called Muddy Pond. While I could never say that Rugby was instructive in the right sense of the word, I could say that Muddy Pond was both delightful and instructive. We didn’t spend a huge amount of time there, but it was more than enough to fill my senses and my spirit. Our first stop was a Mennonite outlet store that sold handcrafted quilts, sorghum syrup and pies, clothing, handmade wooden furniture, jams, jellies, and artwork. The folks who ran the store were absolute joys to be around. As we left, I saw a sign that really struck me. In America’s big cities, at Wal-Marts or other large department stores, one often sees a sign that lets potential thieves know that “shoplifters will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.” The Mennonite sign had the same intent, to deter possible thieves, but at its heart it was a far different approach to the big cities, It read, very simply:  “The eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.”

It was a Mennonite way of saying, “I’m not going to spy on you, but if you are tempted to take something that doesn’t belong to you, you need to know that God himself is watching everything you do. There may be a few people who could steal under those circumstances, but I think there would be very few indeed. I’m also sure that the itchy fingered might also get a gentle reminder from God himself before they give in to the temptation. “Don’t forget to pay for what you just put in your pocket. These good folks have worked hard to provide a good product and they also have families to feed.”

As I left the store I saw a young man sitting on a clump of rocks, watching a horse go around in circles while he held ever so lightly on the horse’s reins. The process was quite simple, maybe even a bit primitive, but it worked. The young man just sat and contemplated as the horse ground out sorghum. I decided to strike up a conversation with him, figuring he was just another Mennonite, perhaps poorly educated, doing something in keeping with his level of ambition and education. I couldn’t have been more wrong. After exchanging a few pleasantries, I discovered that he had actually earned a PhD in English Literature and simply enjoyed working with his horse to produce an exceptional product. I expressed my utter surprise and then asked him why he wasn’t doing something more in keeping with his level of education, like teaching at a prestigious university. He reminded me that Jesus himself, when tempted by the devil to turn stones into bread, answered, It is written, Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God.”  He smiled and reminded me that nothing he’d ever learned in English literature could ever top the lesson from that very short Bible verse. 

He was so right. 

There are practical reasons that socialism is, and always will be, a failed system. First of all, it cannot even produce the good it boasts that it can. It has never produced a utopia. In fact, it has killed millions and millions and added immeasurably to the agony of millions more who have had to suffer in its gulags and re-education camps. Second, it has absolutely nothing to do with liberation. It is all about subjugation, masquerading as liberation.  Third, and most important, it is destructive of the human spirit. It is a soul killer from beginning to end. It has no moral underpinning whatsoever.

Where to from here? While I’m sure that Bernie and his followers wouldn’t listen to what I believe is wise advice, I’ll offer it anyway. Read the 73rd Psalm. It was written by a Levitical singer named Asasph during the reign of Israel’s  King David about a thousand years before the birth of Jesus. Like Bernie and so many socialists, he railed at the fat cats of his day, he looked around and lamented. He “envied the arrogant and prosperous,” perhaps with good reason. The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. The rich are boastful and proud. They have no burdens; their hearts are callous. They scoff and speak with malice. They’re carefree and their wealth increases. As I survey the American landscape I think I could easily find myself succumbing to the anger and futility. Asaph didn’t stop there. He went on till he could take no more.In vain have I kept my heart pure; in vain have I washed my hands in innocence,” he laments. It’s only when he hits rock bottom that Asaph’s epiphany comes –  “When I tried to understand all this, it was oppressive to me, till I entered the sanctuary of God; then I understood their final destiny.Surely you place them on slippery ground; you cast them down to ruin. How suddenly are they destroyed, completely swept away by terrors!”

Envy and greed are, indeed, slippery ground.

There is an answer in the end. There really is. It’s a matter of faith. The time will come, as the prophet Isaiah said, when Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain.”

That day is coming and it won’t be ushered in by Bernie Sanders or any other political Svengali. It will be ushered in by God himself. We who wait in faith in hope will one day be citizens of that new Jerusalem, a city whose builder and maker is God himself. Its magnificence dwarfs anything that Bernie Sanders and the socialists could ever conjure up. It will be a city where justice prevails, where love and brotherhood are the watchwords, and eternal joy will be the norm. That day will really come, I know it.  Therefore, I have no reason to covet what others may have. I have no reason to be downcast.I have no reason to embrace a false utopia when the real one is coming.

Maranatha!

YOU CAN’T FIX STUPID

It appears that Bernie Sanders may actually get the nomination he’s coveted for years. Right now he’s trailing fellow Democrat Joe Biden in South Carolina, but Biden is fading. Sanders, meanwhile, is leading in Nevada and also in national polls. Could it be, then, that we may get a socialist President in 2020? Why not? Electoral politics in America is becoming quite strange indeed. We elected Donald Trump in 2016. How many people believed that was going to happen?

Why do so many Americans, particularly young Americans, find Bernie and his socialism so appealing?  I think a good deal of the appeal revolves around marketing. Bernie’s been at it for a long time and demagogues have a strange appeal. In the  late 1920’s, for example, Huey Long, was elected governor of Louisiana by running on a populist platform that attracted Louisiana’s masses to his side. His promise of chicken in every pot and a fair deal for Louisiana’s poor was a powerful message and it catapulted him to power.  By the mid 1930’s he set his sights on bigger and grander things. His “share the welath program,” with its catchy slogan, “every man a king, but none will wear a crown” had incredible appeal with the masses. And, why wouldn’t it? It sounded so much like a socialist fair deal. By 1935, Long had over 4 million Americans willing to support him if he were to run for the Presidency. What the masses never saw, though, was Long’s ruthless ways. Once he got to the top, he intended to stay there. This is how he did it:

“Long’s folksy manner and sympathy for the underprivileged diverted attention from his ruthless autocratic methods. Surrounding himself with gangsterlike bodyguards, he dictated outright to members of the legislature, using intimidation if necessary. When he was about to leave office to serve in the U.S. Senate (1932), he fired the legally elected lieutenant governor and replaced him with two designated successors who would obey him from Washington. In order to fend off local challenges to his control in 1934, he effected radical changes in the Louisiana government, abolishing local government and taking personal control of all educational, police, and fire job appointments throughout the state. He achieved absolute control of the state militia, judiciary, and election and tax-assessing apparatus, while denying citizens any legal or electoral redress.”

I’ve always found it fascinating that demagogues always tell the masses they’re all about fairness and equality. Always! Bernie Sanders is no exception. He’ll tickle people’s ears to get the votes and leave out the “unimportant,” dirty details.

In 1988, Bernie and his wife, Jane, took a honeymoon trip to Russia. It was an absolute swoonfest, as this YouTube video  link to one of the events he attended attests. He talked about the Moscow subway at length and extolled its beauty, all but bowing before Josef Stalin’s corpse in worship. He was absolutely right. Nancy and I have seen the Moscow subway first hand. The stations have gorgeous murals on the walls and massive, ornate chandeliers hanging from the ceilings.  Bronze statues of Soviet soldiers line the corridors, with their jut jaws and firm stances poised and ever ready to defend the socialist utopia. They stand guard over other bronze statues of Russian peasants, some of whom are more than likely Kulaks from the Ukraine.

Bernie was right. The Moscow subway is absolutely stunning. What he failed to mention to his listeners was where Stalin got the wherewithal and money to build this Soviet showpiece. First of all, Stalin’s socialist utopia had no one with the necessary skills to design or engineer such a grand projet, so Stalin brought in engineers who had worked on London’s subway (affectionately known as the Tube). According to a 2015 NPR report, somewhere in the process Stalin worried that they were learning too much about the layout of the city, so he had them tried for spying and deported.”

That just about covers the logistics, but where did the money for the project come from? Stalin, ever the clever opportunist, looked to Ukraine, the Soviet Union’s breadbasket. He collectivized the wheat farms of the Kulaks, Ukraine’s wealthy wheat farmers, and the remaining poor farmers,  took their crops, including the meager subsitence crops the Kulaks and poor farmers tried to hide from Soviet thugs who roamed from small farm to small farm. They even stole the crops that might have kept the Kulaks and other poor farmers alive. Once Stalin sold the wheat on international markets, he had more than enough hard cash to fund his showcase.

When all was said and done, about four million Ukranians had died in Stalin’s deliberately induced famine. That grisly period is now known as the Holodomor, or death by famine. I think genocide is probably a more accurate descritpion.

Did this trouble Stalin and his henchmen? Not at all. To them, the Kulaks and peasant farmers were nothing but cockaroaches or vermin. They needed to be exterminated.

There you have it. Stalin got his subway and the propaganda benefits that came with it. Someone, perhaps Napoleon, Robspierre, or Lenin, once said “you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet.” In Stalin’s socialist utopia, the eggs became corpses and the omelet became a gorgeous subway.

I wonder if Bernie ever had an opportunity to ask his Soviet guides or Mikhail Grobachev himself how Stalin really managed to fund his project. Probably not, but if he had, they’d have him told that in their socialist utopia they actually defacated money whenever they needed it and had a massive bureaucracy that was dedicated to that task. I’ll bet Bernie would have believed them, figuring that bureaucracies like that explained why everyone in the Soviet Union was employed. 

If he ever does get elected President, I wouldn’t be surprised to see batallions of Ex-Lax munching “stimulators” roaming the halls of federal agencies all around this country.  

I knew Bernie and his adoring campaign staffers wouldn’t tell you about these inconvenient little deatils of Stalin’s utopia. It’s up to counter-revolutionaries like me. 

Am I saying that Bernie Sanders would do what Stalin did to the Kulaks? He seems like such a nice guy. You’re right, he does seem like a harmless old coot. I’d wager that he’d sit down and swill down a beer with me and puff a cigar or two while we politely discussed equality and justice for the masses. 

Appearances are often deceiving. In the case of Bernie Sanders, they’re meant to be. Demagogues and tyrants often  seem like nice folks with wonderful ideas, but their marketing skills can’t hide the ruthless nature of the beasts within them. I’ve seen lots of glossies of Hitler hugging little children or playing games with his belved dog, Blondie. I’ve seen photographs of Josef Stalin cuddling up to little girls.  

I can’t say for certain what Bernie Sanders would do as President to actually convert the United States to a socialist state, mainly because we have a Constitution and Bill of Rights as a buffer against demagogues and tyrants and their convoluted ideas of justice and equality. But, I have no doubt there is something sinister churning around inside Bernie’s gut. It comes as part of the socliast package, like peas and carrots or Forrest and Jennie.

We do have Constitutional protections. Thank God! But we also have something that could derail those protections.- a young, infatuated electorate. I’m not advocating shutting down the voting booths, mind you, but the right to vote does have its pitfalls, the primary one being a hoodwinked young elecorate. I say this because I was once young myself. I knew of no self-respecting Bostonian in my younger days who wasn’t a socialist at heart. I loved the sound of the word “free” as it  flowed ever so gently from the honey-dripped tongues of the soap box socialists and firebrands who roamed around the Boston Common back in the mid to late fifties. If I could have voted for a socialist back then I would have and so would millions of my fellow teenagers. I loved the idea of free, especially if the required capital for the free stuff was going to be exrtracted from some unsuspecting American Kulak. Thankfully, I wasn’t old enough to vote back then since the voting age was twenty-one. I survey our current scene and think it wouldn’t be bad at all to turn back the clock to those days.

How did America get to this place?  Can we fix ourselves or is the old saying true – there’s no fixing stupid? I’m beginning to wonder. I read an essay last night that Libertarian P.J. O’Rurke wrote back in 1982, some six years before Bernie and Jane spent their honeymoon extolling the virtues of soviet socialism. It was his account of ten days he’d spent on a Russian river cruise with a small group of  left-wing American peacenicks. He titled the piece, appropriately, “Ship of Fools.” 

Toward the end, in a section captioned “Loath Boat,” O’Rourke dsescribed a brief conversation he had with one of the left-wing women as they were passing through the locks of the Donn-Volga canal. The transcripton of the woman’s comments was classic:

“Isn’t it marvellous?” She said, staring at a gigantic blank wall of concrete. “They’re such wonderful engineers in the Soviet Union.” I agreed it was an impressive piece of work. “Marvelous, marvellous, marvelous, marvelous,” she said. She then peeked over the side. “And where do they get all their water?”

I’m tempted to go on and mention the warnings from some of the world’s great minds about the serious dangers that come with socialism, even socialism that’s branded as “democratic socialism.” I could mention the  literary works of Solzhenitsyn, Pasternak, and Dostoevsky. I could mention dissidents like Natan Sharansky or Andrei Sakharov. I could mention the Russian Orthodox, Baptist, Pentecostal, or Seventh Day Adventist dissidents. I could, but it wouldn’t help. Bernie has a one track mind that’s consumed by a non-existent socialist utopia and so do far too many ofAmerica’s adoring young. I’m afraid, as I said earlier, you can’t fix stupid.

HEROES (Reprise)

There’s a lot of media buzz about the heroic defense of our First Amendment professional football players have mounted in response to our President’s intemperate remarks about what they’re doing.Many in the media seems to want us to embrace them as heroes, but I can’t bring myself to that place. The players were well within their rights to protest, but calling their actions heroic is a bridge too far.I can think of others who stood for what they believed who were truly heroic, not only because they stood up for what they believed, but also because they did so willingly, at considerable risk to themselves.On October 22nd, 1965, not long after I’d arrived in Vietnam, a young Chicagoan named Milton Olive, who was assigned to the 173rd Airborne Brigade, was killed in action. He and four other soldiers were moving through the jungle on a search and destroy mission. The Viet Cong started lobbing grenades at them. They were in trouble.

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The medal of honor citation speaks eloquently of the type of man Milton Olive was: “Private Olive saw the grenade, and then saved the lives of his fellow soldiers at the sacrifice of his own by grabbing the grenade in his hand and falling on it to absorb the blast with his body.”Milton Olive risked everything for his fellow soldiers. He didn’t have to. He had surely felt the sting of prejudice during his life. He was African-American. Further, one of the men he saved, Robert Toporek, was southerner. He and Olive had fought one another before they arrived in Vietnam. Somehow, that fight opened the door for brotherhood. Toporek, who survived the firefight, described how it happened – “After that, we were brothers. We were fighting the same Viet Cong. We didn’t care what color your skin was, what race you were.”Robert Toporek, the white southerner, lived. Milton Olive, the African-American from Chicago, died to save him. That’s heroism born out of love.Sophie Scholl was born in Germany in 1921, to what has been described as “free-thinking Christian parents.” She grew up reading Socrates, Augustine, and Pascal. She learned from the Bible that “words must be made real in actions.” (James 1:22) Her father taught her that “What I want for you is to live in uprightness and freedom of spirit, no matter how difficult that proves to be.” By the time she was 21, she had seen the evil of the Third Reich and believed that time for both words and action had come. She helped form an organization called “the White Rose” in 1942. For about a year they secretly printed anti-Nazi literature and distributed it. The sentiments were printed in bold fonts with simple messages – “LONG LIVE FREEDOM’”or “DOWN WITH HITLER.”  It wasn’t a glamorous protest, with media breathlessly hanging on every word they published.
In 1943, she and her “co-conspirators” were caught and subjected to a show trial. The Nazi judge’s verdict was a foregone conclusion. Sophie was to be executed on the guillotine. Her last recorded words to her cellmate spoke volumes – “Such a glorious, sunny day and I must go…What will my death matter if, because of our actions, thousands of people will be awakened and stirred to action.”

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Sophie Scholl was 22 when she died. She could have remained silent in the face of the evil around her, but remaining steadfast in principle meant more to her than life itself. That’s heroism of the highest order.The Little Sisters of the Poor is a Catholic order of nuns that was founded in 1839 by Saint Jeanne Jugan. Her mission statement for the order was simple – “My little ones, never forget that the poor are Our Lord; in caring for the poor say to yourself: This is for my Jesus – what a great grace!”The American branch of the order provides food, shelter, and nurture to the old, infirm, and poor. They ask nothing for themselves. They own their dignity and faith, nothing more. They take vows of poverty in order to do their good work.

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Yet, the Little Sisters have run afoul of our government. They’ve refused to obey what they believe to be an immoral Obamacare mandate to provide abortifacients to those they employ. They’ve been threatened with fines so steep they would have to shut down their operations. Their case has gone to the Supreme Court. It’s still in limbo. The Little Sisters are standing firm. They’re risking everything for what they believe. That, I submit to you, is heroism.I have no axes to grind with the N.F.L. I just don’t consider what they’re doing heroic. When it comes to heroism, there are plenty of candidates who are more worthy of that honor.

MEGALOMANIA IS CONTAGIOUS

Our Presidential campaigns have begun in earnest, with the Iowa and New Hampshire primaries under our belts. In other words, silly season in America has begun.

On the Republican side, Donald Trump, as bombastic and crude as he’s ever been, is gobbling up delegates like a famished Pac-Man. On the Democratic side, Bernie Sanders, promising a socialist utopia, high paying jobs, free health care, free college education, and a chicken in every American pot, won the night in New Hampshire. Pete Buttigieg, who promises everything to everyone except the right to life for the unborn, is nipping at Sanders’s heels. In a surprise, Amy Klobuchar sprinted past Elizabeth Warren and Joe Biden into third place.  Interestingly, she is the only Democrat who has told pro-life Democrats they can still be part of the familty and function as cigar store indians when the rubber really meets the road.. Elizabeth Warren finished a distant fourth. For quite a while now she’s been imitating another famouse citizen of Massachusetts, Lizzie Borden, who chopped her mother and father up back in 1892. While the good Senator from Massachusetts hasn’t given her mother “40 whacks” or her father “41,”  she has all but cut up her chances of being nominated. Voters tend to shy away from candidates who flit from place to place in a private jet railing about fat cats or sport a deer in the headlights look on the stump. Joe Biden, the presumptive front-runner when all of this started, left for South Carolina as the polls in New Hampshire were closing. Knowing he was in for a brutal beating in the Granite State, he decided that pandering to the African-American vote in South Carolina was a far better option. Andrew Yang decided he’d had enough and took his thousand dollar bills back to Silicon Valley while Tulsi Gabbard and Tom Steyer are still hanging by a thread. I suppose I should mention that Deval Parrick and Michael Bennett have also dropped out. The tell-tale clue that this was their best otpion was the three tenths and four tenths of a percent of the vote they garnered in New Hampshire. That leaves the Democrats with only one other candidate worthy of mentioning – Michael Bloomberg. While he wasn’t on the primary ballot in New Hampshire, he did manage to pull off a coup of sorts by getting two Democrats and one Republican in Dixville Notch to write him in. It’s a humble start for sure, but with billions to spend, he is just getting started. In fact, I think he deserves a good deal of attention and I’m going to give it to him.

Here in the Kansas City area, Bloomberg is spending money on campaign advertising like a drunken sailor. I remember when he first started talking about running, everyone seemed to know him as Michael Bloomberg, It’s a good name for a Presidential candidate. It has a dignity to it and I think it may even have a hint of wealth as well. But, with the Kansas City area advertising something has changed. He wants us to call him “Mike.” In one splashy ad he makes it plain with his closing worlds – “I’m Mike Bloomberg and I will get it done.” Why, shucks. He’s just one of us old hayseeds. If you put a straw hat on his head and a blade of grass in his teeth he’d be a dead ringer for Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn.

Mike, as he is now known, seems quite confident. He’s got a lot of money and he doesn’t mind spending it by the boatload. But, even the most confident campaigner can occasionally engage his mouth before the “better angels” of his nature kick in. And, wouldn’t you know, it actually happened…..twice. The news media found something he’d said in an interview back in April of 2014.. It was a classic Freudian slip. This is what he said in that interview as he touted his gun control and healthy eating campaigns in New York City: “I am telling you if there is a God, when I get to heaven I’m not stopping to be interviewed. I am heading straight in. I have earned my place in heaven. It’s not even close.” A few years after that interview, he decided it was time for another Freudian slip in an interview with CBS News: “I like what I see when I look in the mirror….We’ve probably saved millions of lives, and certainly we’ll save tens of millions of lives going forward,” referring to the causes he has supported and funded for the future. “There aren’t many people that have done that. So, you know, when I get to heaven, I’m not sure I’m going to stand for an interview. I’m going right in.” 

There you have it, from Mike’s lips to God’s ears. In our midwestern vernacular it will probably sound something like this whenever he gets to the gates of the Celestial City and sees Jesus for the first time. “Hey big man in the sky, I’m comin’ through so get outta’ the way. Ain’t got no time to answer no questions. I earned the mansion. Now, where is it?

Mike’s megalomania was in a class by itself, but the candidates who had actually campaigned in New Hampshire were suffering from their fair share as well. Did they catch it from Mike? It made me wonder whether megalomania might be contagious. I think it is.

This all reminded me of a trip Nancy and I took to Russia back in 2013. We spent a few days in Moscow. One night we did a tour of the city, which was beautiful. Our guided mentioned seven tall skysrapers as we passed them. Josef Stalin had them designed as Soviet showpieces and had them named, appropriately, the Seven Sisters. One of them was to be a building designed to honor Vladimir Lenin, the true architect of the Russian Revolution that began in 1917 and ended in 1923. When Lenin died in 1924, plans were undertaken to construct a 1,624 foot tall skysrcaper with a statue of Lenin festooned on the top of the building, with his finger pointing skyward. It was to be called the Palace of the Soviets. The project began with the demolition of the Christ the Saviour Cathedral, a huge Russian Orthodox Church. The symbolism of the proposed new scraper was almost impossible to miss. God was dead and he was being replaced by Vladimir Lenin. Interestingly, the skyscarper never got built. The Second World War put the kibosh on it.The hole remained in the ground until 1958 until Nikita Krushchev transformed it into “the world’s largest open air swimming pool.” We visited the site  while we were in Moscow. It had been re-transformed back into Christ the Saviour Russian Orthodox Cathedral. It’s an absolutely stunning structure.

Lenin is, of course, dead. He died in 1924 from a hemorrhagic stroke. His statue never made it to the top of the Palace of the Soviets. He never did become God. You can, however, see his corpse on display in Red Square. He’s decked out in a nice dark suit, a pink dress shirt and a matching tie. His beard is neatly trimmed. You can pass by his body if you’re ever in Moscow. I understand it’s free, except for the five cents it will cost you to store your valuables. Neither Nancy nor I did, figuring that gawking at a soul on ice was a bit too much. But, lots of American tourists do pass by his body and shell out the nickel. I asked one of the locals if the Russians ever pay homage to him and pass by. He laughed and in impeccable Engllsh said, “Nah, he’s dead and so is communism.”

History can be quite interesting. The megalomania that’s plaguing our political candidates has wreaked havoc on quite a few tyrants over the ages. Pharoah had the Red Sea and Moses. Alexander the Great thought there weren’t enough worlds to conquer. He died when he was only thirty-two from typhoid fever before he could find the ones he’d missed. Caesar had too much Gaul and Napoleon had his Waterloo. They all may have thought they were God incarnate, but the grim reaper came for them and that was that.

Thankfully, I’m glad that in the end we don’t have to put our trust in megalomaniacs to save us. There was a man who lived over two thousand years ago who is the only person who  can truly lay claim to that lofty position. He was an itinerant Nazarene preacher. His name was, and is, Jesus. He walked the Judean hills and the streets of Jersualem. He brought sight to the blind. The crippled and lame could walk again when he touched them. He cleansed lepers. He brought hope to the hopeless. His words turned the world upside down then and they still do today. I thought about our current crop of megalomaniacs and the empty promises and proud boasts they make as I considered some of the things Jesus had to say during his short earthly life. For instance, there’s the account recorded in the twenty first chapter of Luke of Jesus’ observations of the temple treasury in Jersualem. He saw the rich offering their money out of their wealth. Was he impressed with them? It doesn’t seem so, because his eye caught something else, a poor widow putting “two very small copper coins” in the treasury. Then he made a stunning observation – Truly I tell you,” he said, “This poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on.” On another occasion he told a parable to a group of self righteous people who “were confident of their own righteousness and looked down on everyone else.” (Luke 18:9) The parable went something like this. Two men, one a Pharasee and the other a tax collector were praying in the temple. The Pharasee prayed, “God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.” (Luke 18:11-12). The tax collector, on the other hand, “Stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and prayed, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.” (Luke 18:13) Jesus then concluded the parable with these amazing words – “I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Some of our current crop of candidates may think they have the power to save us, but the reality is  far different. They think they may be able to hide their megalomania with their talk of paradise on earth and justice, but they can’t. Michael Bloomberg may think that his wealth and so called good works have earned him the right to just barge right though the pearly gates, but they haven’t.

Someday, in the end, Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low: and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain.” When that day comes, I find myself wondering what the megalomaniacs might say to Jesus. Would they try to justify themselves in the same manner they did here on earth? I wonder if Jesus might answer them with these words  as he stands between a poor widow and a repentant tax collector – I never knew you: depart from me, ye that work iniquity.” 

 While I pray there is still hope, the course the megalomaniacs are on is perilous. Heaven is not the place for megalomaniacs. It’s the place for the humble and contrite. I truly do pray they will see the light and change course.

SHERBUCKY’S SECRET (REPRISE)

Right now I’m working on what will become a very long essay comparing the 1860 Presidential election of Abrham Lincoln’s time and the 2016 and 2020 elections of our time. I keep wanting to put it together, but every time I do, more information pops up. I’m promising myself I’ll be done with it in a few days.

In the meantime, I’ve been giving thought to a man I knew for far to short a time – Jim Kegin. He was the pastor of the church Nancy and I attended when we first moved to Emporia. It’s hard for me even now to believe he’s been gone from this earth for about 10 years. 

I’ve never met a man quite like him. He was down to earth, yet quite erudite. He was the only pastor I’ve ever met who actually earned his Doctorate in Ministry (1991) the hard way. He earned it in the classroom. He never flashed it around like a diamond studded stickpin. He was as conversant and understadning with a truck driver as he was with someone with an impressive educational pedigree. He was principled and lived out the truth of the Gospel until the end of his life.

I looked back through my archives and found an old essay I wrote about a few days we spent together in May, 2005 at a men’s church retreat. By that time, he was beginning to feel the effects of the diseas that eventually took his life, even with all of that, the Jim everyone knew had a way of shining through.  The essay that follows documents those days. I titled it “Sherbucky’s Secret.” the reason for the title will become obvious if you happen to read the essay.

SHERBUCKY’S SECRET

“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine: but a broken spirit drieth the bones.”

  • Proverbs 17:22 (King James Version)

I just got back last night from five days at a men’s retreat. In all about a hundred and sixty men attended, including nineteen or twenty from our church. I had a great time.

For me this retreat came at a time in my life when I’m not especially needy. Now it’s not that I don’t have needs, but right now my life is on a pretty even keel. I guess when I think about it my real need right now is to contribute. It’s a good place to be.

What the time meant for me was that I was able to just be myself and contribute in small ways to our group. As I said, it’s a good place to be. It also helped that the guys from our church are very accepting. I’m still a New Englander at heart, spending a good part of my time in a world of ideas and concepts. The guys at church are much more down to earth. Theirs is a world of cutting boards, cutting cows, or cutting pipes. At first glance you wouldn’t think that they’d fit into my world or that I’d fit into theirs. But, God’s grace and a bit of effort makes it so. The beauty of it all is that I think it brings balance to our lives. I once heard it put this way – “If you dismiss concepts and lofty ideals because you believe that those who live in those worlds are out touch or if you dismiss the work of the plumber because his world is beneath your dignity, then neither your pipes nor your theories will ever hold water.”

One of the immediate benefits of being around nothing but a bunch of guys is that the pressure is off. We could belch, pass gass, scratch our crotches, or wear mismatched clothes and no one really cared or even noticed. The getting together was all about being just company and companionship, not polite company. I don’t think I once heard statements like, “You’re not really gonna’ go out to dinner dressed like that, are you?” or “You can’t wear corduroy now, it’s past April 21st!” or “Did you just emit “something that smells like sulphur” near the punch bowl?” There in a collection of pot bellied men those things weren’t even on the radar screens.

The real highlight of the five days for me was rooming with Jim Kegin, our pastor emeritus. For those of you who haven’t read my blog for a good period of time, Jim had to step down from his day to day roles as pastor of our church and his district leadership role for the Foursquare churches in the Midwest. Not too long ago now he was diagnosed with Pick’s disease, which is described, in medical terms, as:

“A progressively degenerative neurological disease similar to Alzheimer’s Disease for which there is no known prevention, or cure. Pick’s Disease affects the frontal and temporal lobes first, with earliest symptoms showing up as changes in personality and a decline in function at home as well as work. Pick’s Disease is frequently first diagnosed as stress or depression and then as Alzheimer’s disease.”

Back in December when Jim and his wife, Judy, first announced what the doctors had told them, I wrote about the feelings it brought up in me and everyone else at Victory Fellowship. It all just seemed to be so unfair.

One of the things I really admire about Jim and Judy, though, is that from the day they made the announcement they wouldn’t allow us to wallow in pity. They’ve taken the lead by using a multi-pronged approach to this adversity – accepting it for what it is and seeking as much medical help as is possible, praying for healing, aiding the transition in leadership this has necessitated, compiling the wisdom they’ve gathered over the years, and moving on into this part of their journey of faith.

In the two days before the retreat actually began Jim and I were assigned to do some of the painting that needed to be done to get the campground in shape. It was a perfect assignment for two “thinkers” like us. While Ben Gray, Pastor Mike, Danny Horst and the other guys did the heavy work like tile, cabinets, and sheetrock, Jim and I plied our trade as “arteests,” adding the final touches. I dubbed the two of us “van Gogh and Gaugin.” If you ever get a chance to visit Camp Pomme de Terre and see the lower level of dormitory seven you’ll understand why. It’s impressionism at its very best!

I didn’t get much sleep on Wednesday night. Jim and Pastor Mike, my roommates, had a snoring duel going on. If I were to have to judge the competition I’d have to say that Mike won, more than likely because of a late spurt at about 4:30 am.

Come to think of it, I didn’t get much sleep Thursday night either. Mike had moved into one of the other dormitories and I’d found my earplugs, so I went to bed thinking that I was going to get eight hours or so of interrupted sleep. All went well until about four o’clock in the morning when, through the earplugs, I heard some mumbling. I turned over, thinking that the sound would dissipate. But it didn’t. For some reason I decided to take the earplugs out to see where the sound was coming from and what it was. As soon as I did I could hear Jim chuckling in his sleep. It was quite infectious and I began to chuckle a bit too. Then, at about four fifteen I heard the first of what where to be six words or statements. After laughing a bit Jim said, in low measured tones, “sherbucky.” I waited for a minute or two to see if something else would come to clarify, but it didn’t. Then, for the next fifteen minutes I pondered the meaning of that word – “sherbucky.” “Is sherbucky a concept I missed somewhere in my theology classes long ago?” “Something from Aquinas I’ve never read?” “Is sherbucky a place or a thing?” “Or is Sherbucky a person?” There in the stillness of the Camp Pomme de Terre night there were no answers.

My pondering was interrupted at about four thirty by the following words from Jim, who was still sleeping quite soundly – “Got a ladle for that honey?” His question was then punctuated with a chuckle or two and the silence once again enveloped the room. By now I was wondering about not only who or what sherbucky was, but also whether or not I should be adding a comma between “that” and “honey.” It was all becoming a great mystery to me. I decided it would be best to start writing down the things I was hearing. At about five I recorded these mysterious words – “It’s in Arizona.” At five-fifteen there was this gem – Woo, wah…..Rope a dope.” At five fifteen there was a reminder of sorts – “Gotta get more exercise.” At five forty five it all ended with this masterpiece – “Coke, no joke.”

From that point, until about six thirty, I tried to piece it all together. “Sherbucky…..sherbucky…..It’s got to mean something. But what?” I thought. “And just what’s in Arizona?” “Sherbucky perhaps?” “Or honey?” The mysteries began to deepen. “Woo, wah…..Rope a dope.” “I mean, what’s up with that?”

And so it went until a stroke of inspiration hit me. I had gotten a hold of the stuff that made Dashiell Hamett and Mickey Spillane famous. I had a mystery that needed someone to solve it, someone like Sam Spade.

There, in the pre-dawn darkness I began to create “Sherbucky’s Secret,” my homage to Spillane and Hammett’s literature noir. My hero was Clyde Club, king of the detectives. I could almost see him sitting at his roll-top desk as the story began, sipping week old black coffee, barking at his secretary, the ever loyal, ever snippy, gum chewing Alice, “Hey Alice pull the Sherbucky file for me, would ya?” A while later I could hear him responding wryly to some Brooklyn tough who was trying to, as we say in the Midwest, “pull the wool over his eyes,” as he was looking for leads in the “sherbucky” case. As only Clyde could express it he sneered and asked his adversary, “Got a ladle for that honey?” I could then see our intrepid sleuth finding an important clue. ‘That’s it…..That’s it…..It’s in Arizona.”

After subduing a thug I could hear him explaining his self defense methods. With hands raised, knees bent, he cut loose with his famous calling card just before he leveled the crook – “Woo, wah…..Rope a dope.” It was all over in a flash. Then, as he stood over the fallen thug he had this advice to offer as he walked away – “Gotta’ get more exercise.” Finally, as he was in Arizona trying to piece it all together he found himself in a “gin joint.” As he leaned over the bar he ordered “Coca-Cola, straight up.” The barkeep, not believing what he’d just heard gave Clyde that look, you know, the one that says, “Say it again, Clyde.” In a deadpan that only Clyde could muster up he snorted in response, “Coke, no joke.”

But, try as I might, I could never quite piece it all together. I never could figure out who or what “sherbucky” was. I even tried “googling” it a little while ago. All I got was “Did you mean sherbuck?” and “Your search – sherbucky – did not match any documents.”

I’ll keep on working on it. There’s got to be an answer.

Well, for the rest of the retreat I had great fun at Jim’s expense. On Friday as we were painting I’d occasionally ask him, “So, who or what is sherbucky anyway?” At lunch that same day I asked what was in Arizona. And so it went. It even became infectious enough that the other guys picked it up, re-dubbing Jim from “Gaugin” to “Sherbucky.”

Jim handled all the ribbing with his customary humor and grace, much like he’s handled this period of adversity in his life. It was a wonder to behold.

As it has been since December this has been a time of transition for Jim, and he’s handled it all with great dignity. I believe that’s important for him and also important for those who have stepped into the roles he once filled.

The retreat leaders spent some time honoring Jim for his work over the years and talking about the transition that has taken place. As I listened to all the talk of change and new things, I was struck by something else in all of this. Yes, there is transition, there’s no denying that. But even in all the change there are still important things that Jim needs to contribute to the greater good. It’s his wisdom and grace under fire.

On Sunday, before we left for home, I shared with him about things I’d been sensing during our five days together. There was a small portion of Holy Writ that struck me as quite appropriate. I’ts from Joshua:

Joshua 13:1 (New International Version)

Land Still to Be Taken

1 “When Joshua was old and well advanced in years, the LORD said to him, “You are very old, and there are still very large areas of land to be taken over.”

The first half of the statement seems to be an acknowledgment of sorts. “You are very old.” In the King James version the description of the aging process is put this way – “stricken in years.” I wondered what Joshua must have been thinking as he heard those words. Maybe memories of great victories raced past his mind’s eye, memories of Jericho and Ai, memories of great victories over the Amorites and the Anakites, memories of the day the sun stood still, memories of victories from the north to the south. Perhaps he was also thinking, on hearing the acknowledgement of his advancing years, that he was going to be lost in the transition, that his best days were now passed, that he was going to have wonderful memories of those days, but no real future.

I think it was at about that time that the Almighty reminded Joshua that “there are still very large areas of land to be taken over.” It’s was God’s way of saying to the great man, “Yes, Joshua, there is transition, but I still have a lot of work left for you to do. The years have advanced on you, but it’s not over for you by any stretch of the imagination.”

I shared my thoughts with Jim and told him that I sensed that the wisdom he’d compiled over the years needed to be documented and that the need was critical. “The generation ahead of you is going to need it,” I said. “There are going to be times coming up when the younger leaders will stumble and they’re going to need your wisdom to pick themselves up to keep moving on.”

There was a lot that happened in those five days, but for me nothing was more vital than those times I was able to share with Jim. I got to see God’s grace working in a very powerful way in his life. The shared laughter was indeed like medicine, the wisdom given, by way of transition, to a new generation of leaders was transformational.

You know, I doubt that I’ll ever finish the mystery of who or what “sherbucky” is. But something greater, more powerful was revealed in its place. It was the power of a merry heart and how, by God’s grace it is transforming Jim Kegin. While I can’t predict the future, I sense that his transition is going to be very active, very alive. Jim needs to press on with that work …..and so do we!

CORBAN

“Honor your father and your mother, as the Lord your God has commanded you, so that you may live long and that it may go well with you in the land the Lord your God is giving you.”

Deuteronomy 5:16 (New International Version)

As a preface to what I want to write about, I’ll start with a little bit of personal experience.

Like most people, my experience with the poor and downtrodden, particularly the homeless is a bit checkered. When Nancy and I lived in New Jersey, for example, my duties with FedEx would often take me into New York City. From where we lived, the best way to get there was either by bus or train. I usually took a bus that would go directly from Parsippany, where we lived, to the Port Authority bus terminal on 42nd Street and Eighth Avenue. Back in the late eighties and early nineties that trip was quite an adventure. Any time I’d get to the main terminal I was greeted, so to speak, by hordes of homeless men and women panhandling, the smell of urine and rotting human feces wafting through the air, and cops wandering from storefront to storefront rousting the homeless out of what always appeared to be their assigned spots on the floor. This first few times I encountered them I felt sympathetic, but after after several encounters the ordeal started to wear thin and I became like the average New Yorker. I would either step over or around them, muttering under my breath, “Get a job, will you!” I wasn’t always that cold-hearted, Years before I’d had my own brief encounter with homelessness. I was going through a very painful divorce and I was completely out of resources. I had absolutely nothing but a beat up old Ford and a job in downtown Kansas City that provided me with enough money for gas, child support, alimony, and barely enough food to last from payday to payday. One night, in the dead of a bitterly cold winter, I found myself on Pershing Avenue between the main Post Office and the Riss Building, where I worked. At about midnight I crawled into the back seat and laid down. For me, this was going to be the end of the road. I tried to sleep, but I was crying so hard I couldn’t. I felt a wave of cynicism and grief sweep over me. “So this is it, Lord,” I prayed. The cynicism and grief morphed in to plans. “If only I had a bottle of sneaky Pete to drown my sorrows.” “Maybe I could mug some little old lady in the street come morning.” Somehow I managed to fall asleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but there was a sudden sound of knocking on my car window. I looked out and saw a cop. He motioned for me to roll down my window. I complied. “You okay, buddy?” he asked. “Are you sleepin’ off a bender?” The only response I offered was “I’m okay, I’ll be alright.” He knew things weren’t alright and he pressed me. “You got any family or friends that may be worried about you?” “Do you have a place to stay?” “I’d really like to help you.” It’s strange. His offer of help troubled me more than it comforted me. I wondered if he was going to take me into the jail to sit around with other homeless people and derelicts. That was something I did not want, so I told him I did have a place to stay and I’d drive over there was soon as he was done with me. I’m not sure if he believed me, but he did let me go. I spent the rest of the night driving around, from downtown Kansas City, Missouri, across the Lewis and Clark Viaduct and back. Morning finally came and I made my way to work, looking disheveled and defeated.

That was one of the lowest points in my life. Thankfully, God had mercy on me and I found a place to start living with a young friend from the church I was attending. 

There’s not a lot more to say about that encounter. It was painful and, yet, somehow providential. I learned that the things we sometimes think we see clearly aren’t nearly as clear as we think they are. 

This brings me to what I really want to write about.

I had a brief encounter a few mornings ago on my home from a bi-weekly Parkinson’s therapy group. I had stopped at Sam’s Club to fill up the gas tank and to get some paper towels. On my way out to the street I noticed a woman sitting in the island near the traffic light. She was panhandling. She was holding up a crude cardboard sign that had the word “Help” printed on it. I stopped, rolled down my window, and asked her to come over to my car. As soon as she got close enough I could see that she appeared to be in her early forties. She was short, a bit dumpy in appearance, and had a matronly look. She was wearing thick glasses. My original intent in stopping was to give her five dollars and be on my way, but my curiosity got the better of me. “Are you alright?” I asked her. As soon as she opened her mouth to answer I could see that two of her front teeth were missing. She half-smiled through the gap in her teeth and responded – “I’m just a bit down on my luck, that’s all. I’m gonna’ be alright.”

“Are you homeless?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I’m really okay. I start a job on Monday and I’m gonna’ get myself on my feet.”

I tried wrapping my mind around what I was seeing and I was having great difficulty. “How can things like this happen?” I started asking myself. Then the words just came out. “Oh, mother, mother, don’t you have any family who can help you?” I pleaded. “Not really,” she responded meekly. “I do have a son, but he’s too busy now in college.” 

I wanted to ask what “too busy” meant, but I found myself getting angry. How could a son, whose mother is homeless, be too busy to take care of his mother who was living in desperate straits. It just wouldn’t compute.

I gave her the five dollars I’d taken out of my wallet earlier, said a brief payer for her, and went on my way.

Could I have done more? I’m sure I could have, but I felt I’d tried my best. I’ll leave it at that.

I started writing again so that, as a Christian, I could make occasional statements about the things that I see in a culture that appears to have lost its moorings. What I encountered this morning was a perfect example of that untethering.

Early on in the Old Testament, God gave Moses, the man who had led the “children” of Israel out of the bondage of Egypt to the land he had promised to give them.In addition to the land, God also outlined his expectations for his liberated people.. Those expectations came inscribed on stone tablets.  We know them as the Ten Commandments. Each of those commandments was supremely important, but the one I want to focus on in this essay is the fourth commandment. “Honor your father and your mother, as the Lord your God has commanded you.” That would be more than enough, but this commandment is the only one that has explicit seeds of blessing planted in it. “So that you may live long and that it will go well with you in the land the Lord your God is giving you.”

I suppose one could ask what it means to honor one’s mother and father. How should a person do that? Could that homeless woman’s son make the argument that by going to college he was honoring her desire for him to succeed in life? After all,  doesn’t any parent want their children to succeed in life? Could it have been that this woman hadn’t been a good parent? Possibly. Were there grievances that had caused a rupture between son and mother so deep they couldn’t be healed? Again, that might be possible.

With each question raised, however, there came an objection from heaven. There is no escape clause in the fourth commandment. It simply says we are to honor our mothers and fathers. We are commanded to honor them even if they haven’t been the best parents. We are to honor them even if it means we might have to sacrifice some of our goals and dreams to act on their behalf. There’s no line of demarcation, nothing that says we can honor them up to a certain point and abandon them when things get trying or difficult.

These are strange and difficult times in America. Our economy is booming. Our 401K’s are exploding. Yet, there are legions of us living on the streets. Are they all just down on their luck? Are they all worthless vagabonds? That’s not a question I can answer.

My mind keeps going back to that woman. She didn’t look like a vagabond, nor did she looked like the type of woman who would abuse her child. She simply looked desperate.

I find myself wondering how often we find excuses so that we can avoid doing what God expects of us. 

There’s an encounter between Jesus and the religious leaders of his day recorded in  the seventh chapter of Mark’s gospel. https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Mark+7&version=NIV The story begins with the religious leaders chiding Jesus and his disciples for not ritually washing their hands before they ate. I’m not sure what they were expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what they wanted. Jesus was furious and he let them have it. The full response follows:

“Isaiah was right when he prophesied about you hypocrites; as it is written: “‘These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me. They worship me in vain; their teachings are merely human rules. You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.”  And he continued, “You have a fine way of setting aside the commands of God in order to observe[c] your own traditions!  For Moses said, ‘Honor your father and mother,’ and, ‘Anyone who curses their father or mother is to be put to death.’[e] 11 But you say that if anyone declares that what might have been used to help their father or mother is Corban (that is, devoted to God)—  then you no longer let them do anything for their father or mother. Thus you nullify the word of God by your tradition that you have handed down. And you do many things like that.”

What Jesus was referring to in this passage was Jewish tradition called “Corban.” It was a tradition that allowed someone to set aside assets that would/should be used to take care of a parent and use those assets instead to avoid their responsibility. They brazenly called it a “gift to God.”

I’ve given thought to that woman since our encounter, I wonder what the modern day equivalent of Corban might me. “I’ve got to go to college.” “I’ve got a career and a life ahead of me to consider.” “She and I didn’t get along. Honestly, she drove me up the wall.” “The money is needed as part of the church building program.”

You can fill in the blanks from this point on. I’m done. I’ve said that I’ve said and that’s that.