“Therefore, my beloved brethren, be ye stedfast, unmoveable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord.”
I Coronthians 15:58 (King James Version)
I’m in the throes of a bout of writer’s block. Like anyone who enjoys the craft, I’m in a bit of a dry spell. It will pass. One of the tools I’m employing to move the process along is something I wrote last fall, a reminder of what it takes to keep the fires of inspiration burning.
That post, originally titled – “Inspiration – Lessons Learned on the Rubber Chicken Circuit” – now follows. Perhaps it will also help some fellow writer going through his or her creative valley:
“Use what talents you possess. The woods would be very silent if no birds sang there except those that sang the best.”
We’ve been back from Glorietta close to a week now. The afterglow of the creative fires we shared there travelled home with us. While the coals are no longer white hot, the embers still remain.
Over the past few days the question of how to keep those fires burning has crossed my mind. How does one stay inspired?
There are times I’m able to sit for hours, with words flowing like the milk and honey of the Promised Land. I can sense heaven above my head opened wide, revealing rooms filled with words, there for the taking. I find nouns, pronouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, prepositions, gerunds, clever catch phrases, sonnets, sermons, stump speeches, treatises on the nature and shape of illusion, grocery lists, or letters to the editor. Most often, though, I sit like Jeremiah, agonizing in the darkness of a well. I look up, casting prayers heavenward, only to have them ricochet back down to the subterranean depths. Each time this happens I try again, often with the same result. The heavens seem to be like brass, a dome above me preventing me from laying hold to the treasures I so desire. There are times in this painful process I wonder why I even try. “It’s too hard, too frustrating, there are too few immediate rewards,” I often murmur.
Years ago I went on a revival tour of the Ozarks, tugging on the coattails of a revival preacher who considered what he was doing as much a job as it was a calling. As we wound our way south from Kansas City he talked proudly about it. “This is my job, Phil,” he said over and over, as if there was a message I needed to hear in all the repetition. “This is my job, Phil.” “This is my job. ”His name was Earl Roundtree. He was a true revivlist, cut from the same cloth as great revivalists like Jonathan Edwards, G.C. Bevington, Aimee Semple Mcpherson, Kathryn Kuhlman, and Billy Graham
Once we got to our first stop the day to day logistics of making things happen seemed to drown out the four words I’d heard over and over as wed come down the highway. We were on the rubber chicken circuit and now we were going to get down to business. There would be no more talk of this being nothing more than a job. We were called men, on a mission for God, and early indications said as much. We sat, eating fried chicken, corn on the cob, country gravy, a few “praise the Lords” and “amen brothers,” the stuff that makes the rubber chicken circuit what it is. It was, as I saw it, the essence of being called.
Breakfast the next morning re-confirmed the message. The early morning was jump-started with eggs, biscuits, sausage, white gravy, and a few leftover “praise the Lords” and “amen brothers” from the night before. At about quarter to eight, Earl, the revivalist, told me it was time for us to go over to the church. “It’s time to go to work, Phil,” he said. I secretly wanted to protest. “The meeting doesn’t even start till seven tonight. Why are we going this early? I mean, there’s a lot of rubber chickening left in me.” But I went along with Earl, thinking and hoping that we’d be back sitting around the table “amening” within an hour or so.
We got to the church at about eight. As soon as we entered, Earl told me to start praying at one end of the sanctuary and he’d start praying at the other. A confused look came over my face. It must have been very transparent. “Pray for revival here.” “Pray for the fire to come down.” “Read your Bible.” “Listen for what the Almighty has to say.” Earl’s instructions came, in rat-a-tat-tat fashion, much like his words repeated over and over again on the highway the night before. “This is my job, Phil.” “This is my job.”
And so we prayed, read, and listened. At about noon Earl decided that his belly was hungry. At one we returned from lunch and went right back to work. The hamburger and fries seemed to energize Earl. “Oh, Lord,” he prayed over and over again as he walked up and down the aisles of the sanctuary. “I can’t make any of this happen. I need you to bring down your fire. Bring revival tonight, Lord. Touch hearts. Touch souls. Touch spirits.”
While my manner wasn’t as animated as Earl’s, I also prayed, quietly, much in keeping with my Episcopal roots.
At five-thirty we left the sanctuary. I thought we were going back over to the preacher’s house for more chicken, but Earl had decided to have dinner out at a small cafeteria he’d seen on our way to the church. “How come we’re not going back over to the preacher’s place? I asked as we pulled into the parking lot. Earl smiled. “Don’t wanna’ get caught up in table talk right now,” he said. “I’ve got a job to do and I need to focus on that.” We sat, silently eating for about twenty minutes. My curiosity made those minutes seem like hours. I couldn’t stand it. I had to ask. “Earl, is it like this every time you go somewhere to preach a revival?” “Like what?” he asked in return.
“You know. Eight hours in the sanctuary praying and listening. That sort of thing.”
“Yes. I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s my job, Phil.”
“What about your calling?”
“What about it?”
“I guess it’s the connotation of a job that’s bothering me.”
“Why?”
“A calling seems a lot higher to me than a job, that’s all.”
“Really.” Earl paused, then leaned over the table and looked directly at me. “Would you have anything to do with a doctor who only worked an hour or so a day and didn’t practice his craft? Would you trust a surgeon who did nothing but sit around with friends all day to cut you wide open? “
He’d made his point. The only correct answer to both questions was “No!”
“Besides,” he went on. “I’m working out my calling, Phil. You see, I’m called to work. To me, that means that there’s more to what I do than sitting around eatin’ chicken and swillin’ down iced tea.”
Earl’s words sunk in. “It’s your job,” I said knowingly.
What does all of this have to do with writing, and craft? I think there are a lot of times I stumble over the same things I did in the Ozarks so long ago. I can’t treat what I’m doing now like the rubber chicken circuit. Writing must be as much my job as it is my calling. I’ve heard it said that inspiration is at least two thirds perspiration. I need to remember that at those times when the heavens seem like brass, when the words won’t come or the prayers for inspiration seem to just keep ricocheting back at me. It’s at those times that I need to remind myself that inspiration isn’t magic, that more often than not, inspiration is two-thirds perspiration!
“Do not oppress a foreigner; you yourselves know how it feels to be foreigners, because you were foreigners in Egypt.”
Exodus 23:9 (New International Version)
Immigration! It’s the word that’s been on just about every American’s lips these days and a lot of the talk isn’t very nice. An issue that should be bringing out the best in us turned us into bitter rivals? Our southern border has become a seive, with multitudes entering the country illegally. Our poltical leaders seem to be approaching the issue with blind indifference to the will of the American people. Our immigration movers and shakers seem to be down right incompetent. Is Alejandro Mayokas, for instance, the type of leader who inspires confidence in those of us who are pleading with him to fix things? I think you know the answer to that question.
This is where we are. Our immigration system is a mess. It shouldn’t be that way, but it is. How, then, should, or could, it be? What would it take fo fix it?
I realize I’m just a front line troop in the third line trench, but I believe the solution to our immigration problems revolves around three ideas – opportunity, a willingness to work hard, and integration. An immigration system with those three core elements can, and will, succeed. It’s worked before in our history and it can work again.
For most of our history we have walked a fine line between acceptance and suspicion when it came to strangers coming to our shores. Our own individual histories taught us that America was a land of plenty, flowing with “milk and honey.” We believed there was room for everyone in this country. That sentiment was expressed admirably by Emma Lazarus, whose stirring words are inscribed on our Statue of Liberty that graces New York Harbor: “Give me your tired, your poor,
While the words of the poem are noble, if has often taken us time to live them out, particularly when it came to immigrants or strangers.
I can’t speak directly to the issue, but I am well acquainted of how difficult it was for my forebearers when they came to America. I’m the son of an immigrant woman from Newfoundland and a Irish-American man who grew up in Boston. My mother came here in about 1920. She had very little education (third grade) and even less money, But she was armed with grit and determination. She believed this country was a land of opportunity. My father died when I was six years old, but over the years I learned that, for all his problems. He was a loyal American, a man who wanted desperately to join the Marine Corps when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941.
As I was growing up, my mother would often tell me that my roots were Irish. Every time she told me that I’d ask, “How Irish am I?” She’d smile and respond, “You’re as Irish as Paddy’s pig.” I took that answer to heart and maintain to this day that I’m Phil Dillon and I’m as Irish as Paddy’s pig. I maintain that identity in spite of the fact that my D.N.A. says I’m only about 48% Irish.
The Irish journey from their homeland to America was long and often tortured. It started in 1690 when William of Orange invaded Ireland and laid siege to the castle at Athlone in County Westmeath. The castle was known at the time as “Dillon’s Castle.” Unfortunately, for the Dillons, or others who may have lived there, William of Orange defeated them and they fled to France.
For the next 150 years or so, the Irish were ruled by the British. In the 1840’s there was another pivotal event in Ireland’s history – the great “Potato Famine.” A massive blight came over the Irish potato crop and by the time it was over, over a million of the Irish people had starved to death. Their rulers, the British then made a fateful decision. Seeing that feeding the Irish would be quite expensive, they decided to ship them off to America in rickety sailing vessels described by Edward Laxton in his 1998 book as “The Famine Ships.”
The Irish, my descendants, have been here in this country ever since.
It hasn’t always been easy. The Irish were Roman Catholic, which set them at odds with many of their new countrymen. They occupied the lowest places on America’s social ladder of the times. In one particularly ugly chapter of those times, the infamous “Draft Riot of 1863” that took place in New York City. For several days, Irish mobs, protesting the inequities of the military draft of that time, turned he protest into a race riot. To this day, it remains a painful scar in the Irish memory.
Even with these ugly chapters, the Irish not only survied, but assimilated and flourished in America, and they did so without losing their distinctive Irish culture. The exploits of the Irish regiment called the “Fighting 69th” and their loyalty to America in World War I have become legendary. Every March 17th, America celebrates St. Patrick’s Day. It’s known as a day for “the wearin’ of the green,” parades, and plenty of Guinness. It’s the day you’ll see Americans of all social castes and races wearing buttons proclaiming “Kiss me….I’m Irish.”
The same holds true for other nationalities who have come to this county. I live in Emporia, Kansas for about twenty years. It’s a town nestled near the Kansas Flint Hills. One of the most amazing distinctives about the town is the fact that it is about twenty-five percent of its population is Latino, principally from Mexico. And, oh what wonderful assets they are to this country. I remember many morning strolls around Emporia, listening to migrants singing joyfully as they mowed lawns or nailed shingles into roof all around the town. Their joy was infectious, as was their love of their families. I always enjoyed my occasional conversations with a man named John Lopez when our paths crossed at the post office or a public meeting. Once in a while I would see his wife, Vickie at city hall, doing her due diligence to her duties as register of deeds or the county,
Like the Irish, Emporia’s Latino community celebrated “Cinco de Mayo,” celebrating a great Mexican victory over the French forces of Napoleon III at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. It has become a festive day in Emporia, with the other 75% of the city celebrating with their Latino friends and neighbors.
America has been graced by so many stories of immigrants who have come here. I think back to 1956. The people of Hungary were revolting against Soviet tyranny in the streets of Budapest. They fought courageously, but Nikita Krushchev’s tanks overpowered them. The free world took notice and many Hungarians were offered opportunities to live in democratic countries. The United States brought about 30,000 Hungarians to America in a way that wasn’t riddled with government bureaucrracy. Churches and social service agencies were asked to find American families who would host Hungarian families as they attempted to sink roots down in a new land. The program worked beautifully. While there were barriers like language and culture to overcome, the Hungarians assimilated to American life. They worked hard and contributed to the communities where they had been planted. Every once in a while at plant or office, some knucklehead would blurt out “Those damned Hungarianss are a worthless bunch.” That knucklehead’s statement was met immediately by an American worker. “You damned fool. I know Joe and I know his family. They are living with me and my family. They’re honest, decent, hard working people. Unless you’d like to out and play in the gravel with me, I’d suggest you apologize or shut up!”
I could go on and on. Our neighbors across the streets are Vietnamese. They’re delightful people. Many of them came here after Saigon fell to the communists in 1975. Some came on American transport planes. Some set themselves adrift on junks into the South China Sea. Not all of them survived the perilous journey, but the ones who did have become valued members of the American community, You couldn’t ask for better neighbors!
My son’s wife, Judy, is a first generation Laotian-American. Her parents escaped the tyranny of the Laotian communists. Their long journey to America wound its way from Laos to a refugee camp in Thailand. Judy’s parents actually met for the first time at the refugee camp. As fate (faith) would have it, they fell in love and rest is history. A generous American found them a place in America, with Ting, Judy’s father, getting a job at K.U. Medical Center. A generation later, their daughter Judy earned a PhD in School Administration and my youngest son, Michael, met and fell in love with her. They’re now married and have a son name Ronan.
I feel very blessed to be part of such an amazing convergence. We are now not only in-laws, but grandparents to a Laotian–Irish Amercan child. That’s what can happen when immigration works as it should!
There are a couple of recurring themes present in the lives of the immigrants I’ve told you about thus far. There three things that brought them here, opportunity, freedom, and a deep desire to integrate to the American way of life without losing the distinctive elements of the cultures they left.
During the early years of the new millennium, my wife and I were privileged to host young students from the Republic of Moldova, Vietnam, Colombia, and China.
While I could give you examples from our shared experiences with each of these students, there is one that stands out in our minds. It was our year of hosting a young woman from the Republic Of Moldova named Corina Nour. She had applied for and been accepted into a State Department program called FLEX, which matched prospective students from other parts of the world with American families. In Corina’s case it matched up a young woman from a former Soviet Republic with with my wife and me. At the time Corina’s approved application was making its way through the administrative network I knew little or nothing about Moldova, FLEX. or Corina. My wife and I had been on vacation and had just gotten home to Emporia. We got settled back in and my wife started reading the local newspaper to see what news we had missed while we were gone. There was a story about a need for host families in Emporia. As soon as she read it she told me that she’d like us to apply for one of the host positions. I was hesitant at first, but I could see that this was something Nancy really wanted to do. So, we applied to become hosts.
Not long after that we got a file from the folks at FLEX that included a brief profile of Corina that included an admiring essay she’d written about Thomas Paine’s “The Rights of Man.” I was really impressed. Now, I’m more of an Edmund Burke cconservatve myself, but I saw wome potential
for interesting kitchen debates with this young woman and realized how wise Nancy had been when saw this progam as a fit for us.
Whan I look back at that year I really marvel at the adventures we shared with Corina, the lessons we learned, and the love we shared. That year seemed to go by at light speed. For me, the most valuable lesson I learned about Corina was her dedication and drive to always do her best. I learned that her grasp of American history was much better than it was for her American counterparts. I was amazed at her grasp of languages. Her English was quite good, as was her Russian, Spanish, and French, and Romanian, her native language. And, her debate skills were extraordinary.
When the time came to take her to Wichia for the trip back to Moldova we had to fight back the tears. We were really going to miss her.
Time passed and we’d occasionally correspond with Corina. At some point we saw an opportunity to bring Corina back to Emporia. She’d told us she was exploring graduate programs in business. Nancy and I saw that Emporia State had such a program that might fit her need. We told her that of she wanted to come to Emporia she could stay with us. We’d under-write her first year and then when she saw more clearly how grasped opportunity and hard work can pay off in America she would be on her own. So, she took the opportunity and ran with it. And, how she excelled. I remember Nancy once telling her that she could get an occasional “B” in one of her classes, but that wasn’t going to work for Corina. It didn’t take her long to succeed beyond her wildest dreams. She became a graduate assistant and excelled at that. She would also occasionally go to the Emporia State’s Kansas City mini campus to help teach a course up there.
It all seemed so effortless. Corina always seemed energetic and happy. Then one day she came home and I saw something I hadn’t seen in Corina before. She looked like she was having a bad case of “the blues.” I asked her if she was alright and she tried, unsuccessfully, to convince me everythings was okay. I kept probing and she finally blurted out, “It’s not fair, Phil. I do all the things the professors I’m assigned to ask me to to do and then professors who have American graduate assistants come to me and ask me to help them. The American kids say they don’t have time or don’t want to do it, so they ask me to do it for them. That’s not fair, Phil!” I then asked her if she was able to keep doing it. She said she could, but it just didn’t seem fair. I told her she was right, but recommended she keep doing it. “These professors aren’t stupid. They’re well aware of who they can count on when push comes to shove. I’d bet when a really good opportunity comes up and they’re asked for recommendations for who might fit the bill for that position they’re going to remember that you were the person they could count on. So, Corina, my advice is to keep doing what you’re doing. It’ll pay off in the end.”
About three weeks after that conversation Corina got word that had earned a working internship at Cisco Sytems in California. It was a splendid opportunity and it was well earned. Corina had come to America to explore opportunity, worked hard, and reaped the rewards. She was starting on a rewarding professional path that paid very well.
Corina’s story doesn’t end there. While in California she met a young man whose parents had emigrated to America from Iran to escape the clutches of the mullahs in Tehran. They fell in love and got married in Lake Tahoe. As serendipity would have it, I had the privilege of officiating their wedding. It was the only time I have used my Masters degree in theology or my ministerial license. I will treasure that opportunity as one of the great privileges of my life.
This is the way immigration should work. My wife and I saw it with Corina. We saw those same elements at play in the lives of people like Thom, a young woman from Vietnam, QI Tan (pronounced Chee Than) from China, or Karen Martinez from Colombia and her husband Thiago Lins from Brazil. They all saw opportunity here in America, worked hard, and became integrated into the fabric of American life.
Opportunities are still available for those willing to pursue them. Less than a wek ago I met a couple of Uber drivers who had taken me to my appointments at the Veterans Administration Hospital here in Kansas City and then brought me home when the appointments were complete. One was a young immigrant from Ghana and the other was a young Ethiopian woman who had seen an opportunity, worked hard, and had integrated to our America life without losing their ethnic identities.
This is immigration as it should be.
Trragically, those threads of community seem to be fraying for a good part of the crop of immigrants that have been coming to America in recent years. Far too many are coming for some convoluted sense of entitlement that supplants opportunity and hard work. Worse yet, many don’t want to assimilate to the American way of life, with little or no desire to become part of the fabric of American life.
The problem stems, in part from the cultures some immigrants have left and in part due to what believe are foolish changes America’s political leaders have made when it comes to immigration. Our current policy, which bypasses the tried and true formula of opportunity, hard work, and integration is a disaster. And worse yet, millions are entering this country illegally, often seizing illicit opportunity or government handouts instead of working hard and integrating into the fabric of American life.
We desperately need to go back to the tried and true formula of immigration. We need to return to the philosophy that opens opportunity for immigrants, expects hard work in retturn, and the promise of a life integrated into the lifeblood of America.
It’s Sunday. Time, I think, for a reprise of Oswald Chambers. He was a truly gifted man whose life revolved around his deep love for Jesus.
His work as a spokesman for Jesus with the YMCA in Cairo and in the United States is legendary. His written works, like “My Utmost for His Highest” have inspired millions of Christians around the world.
What follows are a few of his thoughts about the prophet Samuel. It’s absolutely wonderful.
“1 The boy Samuel ministered before the LORD under Eli. In those days the word of the LORD was rare; there were not many visions. 2 One night Eli, whose eyes were becoming so weak that he could barely see, was lying down in his usual place. 3 The lamp of God had not yet gone out, and Samuel was lying down in the temple [a] of the LORD , where the ark of God was. 4 Then the LORD called Samuel. Samuel answered, “Here I am.” 5 And he ran to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.” But Eli said, “I did not call; go back and lie down.” So he went and lay down. 6 Again the LORD called, “Samuel!” And Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.” “My son,” Eli said, “I did not call; go back and lie down.” 7 Now Samuel did not yet know the LORD : The word of the LORD had not yet been revealed to him. 8 The LORD called Samuel a third time, and Samuel got up and went to Eli and said, “Here I am; you called me.” Then Eli realized that the LORD was calling the boy. 9 So Eli told Samuel, “Go and lie down, and if he calls you, say, ‘Speak, LORD , for your servant is listening.’ ” So Samuel went and lay down in his place. 10 The LORD came and stood there, calling as at the other times, “Samuel! Samuel!” Then Samuel said, “Speak, for your servant is listening.” 11 And the LORD said to Samuel: “See, I am about to do something in Israel that will make the ears of everyone who hears of it tingle. 12 At that time I will carry out against Eli everything I spoke against his family-from beginning to end. 13 For I told him that I would judge his family forever because of the sin he knew about; his sons made themselves contemptible, [b] and he failed to restrain them. 14 Therefore, I swore to the house of Eli, ‘The guilt of Eli’s house will never be atoned for by sacrifice or offering.’ “ 15 Samuel lay down until morning and then opened the doors of the house of the LORD . He was afraid to tell Eli the vision”
I’ve always found the dialogue between Eli and Samuel fascinating. Twice in the fog of his growing weakness and sleep Eli has told the young boy, “Go back to bed.” The third time, though, he realizes that God may be speaking to the boy and tells Samuel that if he hears the voice again to say, “Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.” The Lord does again speak and Samuel obediently responds, “Speak, for your servant is listening.”
I think about Samuel’s response and wonder what it would have been if he had lived in today’s climate of self appointed importance. His response might have been something like this – “Listen Lord, for your ‘anointed one’ is speaking.”
Oswald Chambers looked at another aspect of the account. In the aftermath of the dialogues Samuel becomes fearful to speak the words he has been told to speak. Chambers’ thoughts on the passage follow for your Sunday edification:
The Dilemma of Obedience
“God never speaks to us in startling ways, but in ways that are easy to misunderstand, and we say, “I wonder if that is God’s voice?” Isaiah said that the Lord spake to him “with a strong hand,” that is, by the pressure of circumstances. Nothing touches our lives but it is God Himself speaking. Do we discern His hand or only a mere occurrence?
Get into the habit of saying, “Speak, Lord,” and life will become a romance. Every time circumstances press, say, “Speak, Lord”; make time to listen. Chastening is more than a means of discipline, it is meant to get me to the place of saying, “Speak, Lord.” Recall the time when God did speak to you. Have you forgotten what He said? Was it Luke 11:13 or was it I Thessalonians 5:23? As we listen, our ears get acute and, like Jesus, we shall hear God all the time.
Shall I tell my ‘Eli” what God has shown to me? That is where the dilemma of obedience comes in. We disobey God by becoming amateur providences – I must shield ‘Eli,’ the best people we know. God did not tell Samuel to tell Eli, he had to decide that for himself. God’s call to you may hurt your ‘Eli,’ but if you try to prevent the suffering in another life, it will prove an obstruction between your soul and God. It is at your own peril that you prevent the cutting off of the right hand or the plucking out of the eye.
Never ask the advice of another about anything God makes you decide before Him. If you ask advice, you will almost always side with Satan. “Immediately I conferred with no flesh and blood.”
“Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.
In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: Who, being in very nature[a] God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage”
Philippians 2:1-6 (New International Version)
It happened sometime during the roaring nineties. The Dow was up and political morality was down. While the giddiness of profits was moving into the economic stratosphere, politics was descending into the gutter. It was, as Dickens once said, “the best of times and the worst of times.”
Nancy and I were working at FedEx’s Eastern Region headquarters in Parsippany, New Jersey. This placed us in a perfect position to not only work productively for a great company, but also to see all the culture and history of the eastern seaboard. It was during these times that we took one of our three or four vacations to Washington, D.C., ostensibly to see as much of the city’s history and culture that we could absorb. We spent part of one day watching a Senate debate about the North American Free Trade Act between Fritz Hollings and Ted Kennedy, which Hollings, surprisingly, won. The good senator from Massachusetts didn’t comport himself well at all. He appeared to me to be in desperate need of the hair of the dog. Seeing him in such a state reminded me of the times back in the sixties when I often woke up in the morning looking for the tomato juice and beer to relieve the results of the previous night’s merry-making. As I recall we also spent about a half an hour at the Supreme Court building. Nancy had often told me that there was a not-so famous Catron who had served as an Associate Justice on the Great Court. The evidence of her claim, a portrait of Associate Justice John Catron, hangs in the basement of the building along with the other mug shots. I say “mug shots” because I suspect a lot of Americans have famous relatives they’d rather not claim. Justice Catron was the famous black sheep of the Catron family for his unfathomable vote in the Dred Scott decision of 1858. Since that time, very few, if any, Catrons have had much use for lawyers.
There were also lighter moments. On our visit to the White House some knucklehead decided to test the rule against taking photos during the tour. As soon as his camera flashed three Secret Servicemen pounced on him, confiscated the camera, and had him in handcuffs. I’ve heard that Muhammad Ali claimed he could turn off the light switch and be in bed before the room went dark. Upon seeing the handiwork of the Secret Service, I think they’d give the champ a real run for his money. It was, if you’ll pardon the pun, over in a flash.
By the time the day was over, we’d also seen Hsing-Hsing the panda at the national zoo and Archie Bunker’s chair at one of the Smithsonian museums. All in all, it was a very rewarding, interesting day.
After dinner we made our way back to our room at the Lombardy, a very nice hotel in Foggy Bottom, about three our four blocks from the White House and all the other halls of America’s national power. My last fleeting memory as sleep began to envelop my body was being impressed with it all. There’s a lot of powerful stuff going on in our nation’s capitol. There are great debates and decisions, some good and some bad. There are monuments to great men. There’s the original copy of our Declaration of Independence. Little did I realize as I fell asleep that I was going to learn an even greater lesson about power from the night shift saint.
At about two or so in the morning Nancy nudged me. “Do you smell smoke?” she asked. I groaned and told her to go back to sleep. She nudged me again. “Slick, I think I smell smoke.” I sat up in bed, rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath. Nothing. “Go back to sleep, everything’s fine,” I reassured her. She nudged me again. “I’m telling you, I smell smoke. Let’s get up and go downstairs.” The third nudge told me that Nancy wasn’t going to be denied. We got up and made our way down to the lobby. By the time we got there Nancy told her story. Years earlier she’d lived in an apartment building that had caught fire. It was a devastating event. While she came out of it all okay, two or three people who lived in apartments close to hers died in the fire. Since that time she’s had a deathly fear of fire. I remember feeling badly for having taken her nudges so lightly and suggested we might find a place to get a cup of coffee. The desk clerk told us there was an all-night Burger King next door and we walked, hand in hand, over to an encounter like few we’ve ever had together.
I didn’t notice much when we first got there. One Burger King in Washington, D.C. is pretty much the same as any Burger King anywhere in the world. A Whopper in Washington, D.C. is pretty much the same as a Whopper in Tokyo. It’s the kind of familiarity that’s supposed to bring comfort. I like to think of it as the “hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us” syndrome. But, as we sat down at a table with our coffee, my stereotypes were about to be shattered. My first glimpse of the new reality came when I noticed several homeless people shuffle in. As they did, I made sure my wallet was secure and kept a watchful eye on them. They were ragged, dirty, and hungry, as is the custom of the homeless. They made their way slowly to front counter, eyeing the food being prepared. As they did a tall African-American man came out of the kitchen. He was tall, about six feet three, well muscled. His face was round and cherubic, giving the appearance of peace and grace under fire. I’m sure he’d seen it all on the night shift and there was little that appeared to faze him. He leaned over and asked one of the homeless men, “Whatchya’ want?” There was no answer. “Hungry?” he asked. They nodded in the affirmative. The man, who I now assumed was the manager, went back into the kitchen. A few minutes later he came back with mops and buckets in tow. “Here,” he said. “Mop up a bit and I’ll give you something to eat.” The homeless men complied and did what I’d call a creditable job. When their work was done the manager inspected it and gave them each a Whopper, fries and a Coke. They thanked him profusely, wolfed down the food, and left. As they did the manager waved and said, “See you guys tomorrow night.” Nancy and I sat watching, transfixed. “Did you see that?” I asked. She nodded. “Amazing, wasn’t it.” It was, as we were to find out later, only the beginning of the lesson.
As we sipped our coffee, Nancy called my attention to a man sitting at a table behind me and catty-corner to the right. The first thing I noticed was the navy blue beret perched on his head. As I made my way down I gazed at his long, thin face. It was weathered and worn. Then I was caught up in a blaze of white. It seemed that everything, down to his shoes, was painted white. It was as though he’d gone wild with a gallon or two of Sherwin Williams primer. There was a sketchbook on the floor propped up against his right leg. On the table in front of him sat a tin of what appeared to be a set of Woolworth’s water colors and a large piece of paper with some sort of avant-garde work in progress. Occasionally, the man would hold his right thumb up about a foot in front of his face and survey the restaurant. I assumed as I watched that he was doing some sort of abstract imitation of “The Potato Eaters.” After a while the manager made his way over to the man and leaned over. “Whatchya’ workin’ on? There was no response. The manager put his right hand on the man’s shoulder. “Can I see your sketches?” A trace of a smile came up on the man’s face as he picked up the sketchbook and handed it to the manager. After a minute or so of browsing, the manager declared the works to be masterpieces, patted the man on the back, and continued on his rounds. The man’s smile got broader. He arched his back and sat up straight. His thumb moved in front of his face once more as he proudly surveyed his living canvas.
At a table directly behind Nancy he stopped and began to talk to a fiftiesh man who appeared to be very troubled. There laid out on the table in front of him was a stack of papers. The manager pulled up a chair and sat down with the man. “You doin’ okay?” he asked. The man placed his face into his cupped hands. “Damned V.A.” he answered. “I don’t understand what they want from me.” After a few minutes of going over the paperwork with the man the manager determined that the V.A. was trying to get some answers about his disability claim. “I’ll help you with it,” the manager offered. “I’ll call them in the morning when I get off if you’ll trust me with the paperwork.” The man happily agreed. As he got up to go back into the kitchen, the manager offered a small prayer for the man. “Bless him lord, give him comfort and help.” It wasn’t one of those great prayers prayed by the booming baritones over at the National Cathedral. There was no mention of “The Ground of All Being.” It was, however, a prayer akin to the widow’s two mites, seemingly unnoticed, but heard loudly in the Halls of Heaven.
By about three-thirty Nancy was ready to go back to the Lombardy. As we made our way, our conversation was filled with a deep sense of gratefulness for what we’d seen and learned. We’d seen the night shift saint, laboring in obscurity, just a few blocks from the seats of our nation’s temporal power. While bills were being debated and billions spent, a tall African-American man with the face of a cherub and a heart close to God was doing the things most often unseen or recognized. A Whopper for a few minutes work. A kind word to a mentally challenged “artist.” A helping hand to a needy veteran.
I’ve heard it said that there are a lot of powerful people in Washington, D.C. After our encounter at the all night Burger King I’m sure there’s at least one. It’s the night shift
“The closer the collapse of the Empire, the crazier its laws are.”
― Marcus Tullius Cicero
A New York jury found Donald Trump guilty on all thirty-four counts of falsification of business records, which is a “felony” in New York.
Not long after the announcement of guilt, the opposing responses reverberate on the streets outside the courtroom, America’s cable and network news outlets, and just about Facebook page or Twitter feed from California to Maine. In some cases, the verdict was cause for celebration. Giddiness was in the air. Tears of joy were shed. There was dancing in the street and MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow seemed happy for the first time in years. It was a bit reminiscent of the celebrations that came after VE Day and VJ Day or the days after Neil Armstrong walked on the moon in 1969. The counter responses were decidedly unhappy. Anger and disbelief were the most common expressions. Cries of “kangaroo court” and “rigged verdict” grew louder and louder as the post-cerdict hours passed.
While I share some of the sentiments of the counter responders, I’m at a place where I believe I can see something far more important than the fate of Donald Trump, Joe Biden, and America’s media and celebrity cultture is at stake. It is the Republic itself that is now in mortal danger!
You might be asking yourself why would I make such an outrageous claim?
I’ll be delighted to explain. Let me begin with the state of the law. It’s broken. It can be twisted and manipulated in the most obscene ways, depending on the ethics of the lawyers and judges ovserseeing the system. As Sol Wachter, chief justice of New York’s Supreme Court, observed in 1985, “Any good prosecutor can get a grand jury to indict a ham sandwich.”
Chief Justice Wachter made that ominous observation about forty years ago. Things are much worse than that now.
While I’m no expert on the law, I did take the opportunity to peruse the U.S.Code, the compilation of all the laws on our books when I retired from FedEx. I’ll admit to being bored prompted my search, but in the end it proved quite enlightening. Did you know, for example, that our code has over 60,00 pages filled with laws and legal jargon? We’ve had laws on our books concerning condensed milk, like the “Filled Milk Act” of 1923 or the Employment on passenger vessels of aliens afflicted with certain disabilities act highlighted under 8 USC 1285.
Can an enterprising prosecutor like Alvin Bragg in New York or Jean Peters Baker here Kansas City indict a ham sandwich if they care to? You betcha! And, worse yet, they can indict you and me if we irritate them enough. In 2011, In 2011, Harvey Silvergate, a Harvard educated attorney, published a book titled “Three Felonies a Day – How the Feds Target the Innocent.”
How can something like that happen in America? It seems impossible, but it’s far more possible than we can imagine. Once you read the following quote from Amazon’s synopsis you’ll see what I mean:
“The average professional in this country wakes up in the morning, goes to work, comes home, eats dinner, and then goes to sleep, unaware that he or she has likely committed several federal crimes that day. Why? The answer lies in the very nature of modern federal criminal laws, which have exploded in number but also become impossibly broad and vague.”
It all makes me wonder if there is more in store for the future. Are we eventually going to get to the place where Lavrentiy Berea’s “Show me the man and I’ll show you the crime” will be all the law they need?
Cicero was right. One of the glaring signs of a collapsing empire is craziness in the laws. Another of the signs is a foreign policy so focused on enemies across the sea that it has turned us into a world hegemon. Since the early twentieth century we have gotten embroiled in conflicts all around the globe. Sadly, many of these enterprises have been demonstrations of raw power, with very few that benefitted us or the nations we claimed we wanted to support. We’ve gotten ourselves tangled up in Southeast Asia, the Middle East, Syria, Libya, Afghanistan, and other ports of call around the globe. We’ve expended huge amounts of human treasure and capital in these places, with little to show for our effort. The only conflict we’ve gotten involved in that was necessary was World War II, the war author Studs Turkel rightly called “the good war.” Americans in that conflict fought bravely and civilization was saved. Then, when the enemies of freedom were defeated, America undertook massive plans to rebuild the nations that had suffered so much during
the war, including Germany and Japan, our enemies. We were a truly noble nation back then.
After the war our national focus changed dramatically. The fear of enemies abroad led us to turn our attention away from America and the needs of the American people.
There were warnings about what might happen to us, but we’ve ignored them. In his 1838 address to the Lyceum in Springfield, Illinois, Abraham Lincoln warned us:
“How then shall we perform it?—At what point shall we expect the approach of danger? By what means shall we fortify against it?—Shall we expect some transatlantic military giant, to step the Ocean, and crush us at a blow? Never!—All the armies of Europe, Asia and Africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth (our own excepted) in their military chest; with a Buonaparte for a commander, could not by force, take a drink from the Ohio, or make a track on the Blue Ridge, in a trial of a thYet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, “The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”ousand years.At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide”
Less than thirty years after the Lyceum address, Abraham Lincoln was elected President of the United States. He was to take us through what was the most perilous time in the history of this nation. By 1865, he had been President for four years and had led us on a great national crusade to
blot out slavery, our great national sin. About a month before the Union won that war, Lincoln had been re-elected. At his second inaugural, Lincoln recounted the terrible losses both sides had incurred in the conflict:
“Yet, if God wills that it continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman’s two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn by the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said, “The judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.”
He closed the address with a statement of the noble purpose the nation was to undertake once the war was over – “to bind up the nation’s wounds.”
About the time Abraham Lincoln was making his Lyceum address, French philosopher Alexis de Tocqueville made the following observation about the America when he penned his famous “Democracy in America” in 1835:
“America is great because she is good, and if America ever ceases to be good, she will cease to be great.”Alexis de Tocqueville – Democracy in America.”
I’m not sure the same thing be said of the America I live in today. Our leaders are driven by an insatiable urge for power rather than service to the nation. Our journalism, one of the institutions that is supposed to serve as watchmen for the people, has been corrupted to the point that the people no longer trust journalists to tell the truth. Our entertainment is becoming increasingly obscene. Little children are “bumping and grinding” on stage while perverted adults cheer them on.
And so it goes. How long can such a nation survive, much less flourish?
As I see it, there is only one way forward. We must actually turn back and seek God. As Ezra put it in the Old Testament:
“If my people, who are called by my name, will humble themselves and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven, and I will forgive their sin and will heal their land.”
This is what I believe. The way forward is actually back.
