Unsettled

 The following reflects a series of pastoral visits I made to an elderly minister who served for 25 years as the pastor of my first congregation AFTER he retired.  The last few weeks of his life were at home where family and friends looked after him.

The old man asked a question

As he lay there waiting to die.

Well over ninety years of life

Had passed before his eyes.

 

He preached thousands of sermons

And held the hands of the ill.

So many had prayed with him over that time

Seeking to know God’s will.

 

He seemed to realize I was present that day

But his mind clearly was elsewhere.

He wrestled with thoughts and deep concerns

With almost a sense of despair.

 

So many decades immersed in the Word

Yet confusion and wonder remained.

He spoke to me, to himself, to no one

His expression was deeply pained.

 

He asked several times, “What is grace?”

Was it something for me to define?

No, I simply waited in silence.

The answer he sought was not mine.

 

The old man asked a question

As he lay there waiting to die.

But after all those caring and helping years,

Had meaning and truth passed him by?

Now You Know!

 

Someone named Emerald Robinson recently went on television to inform her viewers about the deleterious effects of getting the Covid vaccine.  She also let the Twitterverse know of her insights:

Dear Christians:  The vaccines contain a bioluminescent marker called Luciferase so that you can be tracked.  Read the last book of the New Testament to see how this ends.       

 Twitter suspended her account, and her employers at Newsmax, which I take it is a right-wing “news” service, pulled her off the air, to its credit.

It’s disturbing that so many absurd rumors, conspiracy theories, and otherwise inane “thoughts” and “ideas” are promoted, not only among their adherents, but over the public airwaves to be consumed and often believed by people.  It appears that fear and a sense of powerlessness, or the supposed threat of powerlessness, are the ruling mindsets among a high percentage of the population.

One thing I never understood was why some people are so fascinated by the “last book of the New Testament,” AKA Revelation.

First of all, the images used by the writer are practically indecipherable by people of our time/place/culture/worldview.  Secondly, readers of Revelation have, through the ages, leapt to the conclusion that the “prophecies” were directly related to the times in which they lived.  Someone always pointed to people, events, trends, etc., no matter their own century, that “fulfilled” what they read in the text. And, as Emerald Robinson demonstrates, (two can play at this game!) it still happens. (One theory I heard, giving me pause, though, was that the 666 designation of the “Anti-Christ” could apply to a name with the corresponding number of letters:  Ronald Wilson Reagan.  Yeah, I voted for Carter and Mondale.)  Thirdly, I am of the opinion that Revelation was an attempt by John to provide hope and comfort to First Century Christians who suffered under the thumb of Rome.  I could, believe it or not, be wrong about that, but I think it makes a lot of sense.

From Rudy Giuliani saying “It’s not my job” to verify the “facts” of his election fraud claim; to the My Pillow guy holding conferences to “prove” that Biden was fraudulently installed as president, and that Trump would be “re-instated” (supposedly last August); to Rand Paul blaming Dr. Fauci for the pandemic, we are bombarded with imaginative and fear-producing nonsense.

A new level of absurdity (not sure if it’s a high or low level) was attained recently as hundreds of people gathered at Dealey Plaza in Dallas, the site of the JFK assassination, because they were convinced JFK, Jr., who died in a plane crash in 1999, would show up.  Some apparently thought his father would accompany him.

It’s a convoluted notion, but some claim that Jr. is Q of QAnon, and that he has been hiding out, or assuming another identity (several are suggested) for the last couple of decades, only to finally be revealed as the vice president for Trump who “is lying in wait to destroy a secret cabal of blood-drinking, child-sex-trafficking members of the liberal elite,” according to a Rolling Stone online article by E.J. Dickson and Steven Monacelli.  It also seems many of the devotees of this “mindset” believe that every election and law passed since the late 1800’s will be invalidated, Trump will be the true 19^th President of the United States, and John John will be V.P. until Trump vacates the office to become the “King of Kings.”  This again, is a Revelation reference, from Chapter 17.

Hundreds, if not thousands, of people find all of this to be true.  Unfortunately for them, JFK, Jr. rudely failed to show in Dallas even though throngs stood in the rain waiting for him.

We’ve come a long way from the days of people denying the Holocaust, asserting that the moon landing in 1969 was nothing but an event staged on a Hollywood back lot, and insisting (and hoping!) that Elvis, sideburns and all, still lives.

Personally, the value in Revelation for me comes from Chapter 21.  After all the dragons, beasts, plagues, riders on horses, and other scary stuff John paraphrases the Old Testament prophet Isaiah (near the end of his “revelation” in Chapter 65):

Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,

“See, the home of God is among mortals.

He will dwell with them as their God;

they will be his peoples,

and God himself will be with them;

he will wipe every tear from their eyes.

Death will be no more;

mourning and crying and pain will be no more,

for the first things have passed away.”

And the one who was seated on the throne said, “See, I am making all things new.” (NRSV)

 

One day, long ago and far away, I was in the library at my seminary lamenting some forgotten ill.  I concluded my diatribe with a sigh and the observation, “It’s a crazy world.”

My friend Bill Harris, with whom I was speaking, said without hesitation, “I’m looking for a better one.”                      

"Is That A Caterpillar Under Your Nose?"

 

It was the summer of 1972, a few weeks before I left for college with the hope of becoming an East Carolina University Pirate.  “Earl’s not gonna like that mustache.”  Earl was Earl Smith, head baseball coach at ECU.   A former Pirate was sharing acquired wisdom. The mustache was mine. 

I was accustomed to archaic hair rules for baseball players.  Untamed tresses and facial fuzz, be it sideburns, mustaches, or beards, were deemed by all my previous coaches as inappropriate and downright un-American.

Cursing was allowed.  Tobacco use was allowed.  Alcohol consumption was allowed.  Caveman attitudes were allowed. 

Mustaches?  Not allowed! 

Things are different now.  Facial hair abounds in sports, professional and otherwise.

There also are some widely-observed events that actually celebrate such adornments.  “Movember” is one.  Men everywhere are urged during the month of November – officially Mustache Month -- to grow mustaches in order to engage others in conversations about men’s health issues, specifically testicular and prostate cancer.  The goal is to raise money for research into treatments and cures. 

The Air Force offers similar encouragement to airmen during Mustache March, a month-long honoring of Vietnam-era flying ace Robin Olds, lionized for flouting military grooming rules. Olds fought battles wearing a handlebar mustache – complete with wax -- until he finally received a direct order to lose it.  Allowing a little room for command-sanctioned protest and defiance is good for morale.

An official Mustache Day is less-established.  Dates in February and March are touted, but no consensus exists.

My first mustache sprouted early in my senior year of high school. Yes, it was the ‘70s, but I wasn’t aspiring to hippie status.  I wanted to be like Reggie Jackson, the home run-slugging outfielder of the Oakland A’s who neglected to shave his upper lip as the 1971 major league season wound down.  Many people, including me, noticed Reggie’s recalcitrance.

I endured clever responses as nature took its course.  “What’s this?” people asked, as they pointed to their own lips.  “Did you forget to wash your face?”  “Is that a caterpillar under your nose?”  It seemed my high school baseball coach thought I was a Communist.  He started calling me “Fidel.”  Although I shaved for the season, I rejoined my comrades when it was over, sans olive drab and black boots.

Men with mustaches sometimes are described as looking like a “’70s porn star.”  How do so many people know about that? 

Over the summer after the last time I chopped off my upper lip growth (to satisfy Earl Smith), I played baseball in a local league back home.  My mustache was bushy and my hair lopped over my ears.  Oddly enough, I still could play the game. Some of the flashing wits in opposing dugouts called me “Grandpa.”  I was 18 years old.  They were jealous. 

When I attended seminary a few years later I found a more welcoming environment for my outlandish appearance. On the first day of a class simply titled, “Isaiah,” as we took seats around a square table, our distinguished professor suggested we each introduce ourselves.  “And we’ll begin with the gentleman with the beautiful black mustache.”  He emphasized the second syllable, and he meant me. 

Beautiful black gradually gave way to salt-and-pepper, which now blend into a fairly consistent grey.  My upper lip now celebrates 49 years of liberation from razor blades. 

These days it seems when a mustache is cultivated it is met not with challenge and derision, but more likely apathy.  Years have piled up since anyone found it necessary to mock or chastise me for my bristly friend.  In fact, on the rare occasion anyone comments about my mustache, it’s an expression of admiration. 

I have achieved a state of whiskered peace and contentment.

But what’s with this trend of a three-day stubble?  Did those guys forget to wash their faces?  Do they need to borrow my razor?

What has happened to our standards??

Later, Willard

     The recent passing of Willard Scott brought back a few memories.  Yes, he was best known for being the weatherman on The TODAY Show, which originates from New York.  Willard, however, was a Washington guy through and through.

    Born just over the line in Alexandria, Virginia, Willard graduated from American University in the mid-1950’s.  Even prior to that, he began his 65-year career with NBC as a 16 year-old page at the network’s radio station in Washington.   Later, in television’s early days, Willard worked in those studios, as well.  When Eleanor Roosevelt arrived one Sunday morning for an appearance on Meet the Press, she handed him her coat as she prepared to be interviewed.  During the broadcast, Willard was dispatched on an errand away from the studio.  When it was time for Ms. Roosevelt to leave, he was nowhere to be found and no one had any idea where he stored her coat.  The former First Lady and U.N. Ambassador was not amused, but Willard eventually returned and her coat was retrieved.

    My first awareness of Willard was when he was on TV himself in the role of Bozo the Clown on a weekday show in the early 1960’s.  He hosted local children, showed cartoons, had guests, and generally entertained with silly antics and routines.  I recall one day when Superman appeared on the show and tore a telephone book in half.  At some point, Willard became the first person to appear on TV as Ronald McDonald in local ads for the burgeoning fast food chain.

    Willard and his college friend Ed Walker began a radio show during their American University days, and it eventually became a staple on WRC, the local NBC radio affiliate.  Eddie was blind and read from Braille scripts, as The Joy Boys  voiced various characters for their comedy bits, played records, and aired ads for local businesses, often with their own comments.  The show lasted some 20 years, and for a good while I was a regular listener.

    When my brother Dave was attending American University he got a weekend job with NBC News.  The offices and studios were located in the same building as WRC, just a few blocks from campus.  During his time there, Dave became well-acquainted with Willard and Eddie. On a few occasions I was in the radio studio during The Joy Boys broadcast, and also was with Willard at other times.  I can attest that with him, what you saw was what you got.  His on-air persona was no different from who he was in person:  joyous, lively, funny, and loud.

    For a few years during his Joy Boys days Willard also did the weather reports on the local Washington evening news at WRC.  Costumes and gimmicks often were part of his reports.  At some point, The TODAY Show came calling and Willard switched places with Bob Ryan who was the TODAY weatherman. So, of course, that meant a move to New York and the end of The Joy Boys. 

    Willard took his act with him, to the delight of many viewers of TODAY,  although co-host Bryant Gumbel proved not to be a fan.  Eventually, Willard scaled back his appearances on the show, and worked out of Washington for a few more years still doing the bit of spotlighting people who turned 100 years old, showing their faces on jars of sponsor Smucker’s Jam.  People still loved Willard.

    Meanwhile, Eddie Walker continued with various radio gigs around Washington until it all dried up for him.  At that point, Willard hired his old pal to work in his Washington NBC office, giving him an income until he finally retired.

    Willard Scott became a well-known national media figure in his lifetime, but to me he was a homeboy with a big personality and even bigger heart.

 

Sesquipedalianism                 

 

If you are symptomatic of hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia, this may not be the dissertation for you.  Such indications may lead to the postulation of incomprehensibilities, contingent on whether or not you accurately twig the eventualities of such linguistic meanderings.

The pondering of the query, “Why is abbreviation such a lengthy written expression given its connotation?” has flummoxed morphological intellectuals since chisels initially penetrated the fasciae of stone tablets.

Why articulate a conception with outsized manifestations when more diminutive ones suffice?

Perchance it is portentousness or verbal grandiosity.  Analagously, etymological histrionics conceivably divulge the practitioner’s diffidence. Such is to be pitied.

Conversely, an archipeligo of bewildering stipulations lend themselves to facilitating the interests of one contingent over another in contractual negotiations.  Habitually, the imploration is, “Unadorned English, please!”

Nevertheless, vernacular can be exploited as a contrivance of duplicity, coercion, and in a constructive signification, elucidation.

The verity of the subject at hand, nonetheless, is that the antecedent treatise purely is a paradigm of language manipulated in a modus implying floccinaucinihilipilification.                                                                                                       

No More Nukes!

     Recently, the day’s mail brought an invitation from the grandson of Harry S. Truman to contribute financially to the restoration of the Truman presidential museum and library.  The letter indicated that I was among a “carefully selected” group of potential donors.  Yes, I visited Kansas City once, about 20 years ago, and my name and address are on some list that generates letters from both President Biden and Dr. Jill Biden.   I would not, however, under any circumstances send money to honor a man who ordered the destruction of hundreds of thousands of innocent people, even if he, as the letter stated, was perhaps “America’s greatest president.”

    It seems the donor-selection process has its flaws.  

    Years ago I said in a sermon something to the effect of, “Until we say NO to nuclear weapons we are as guilty of idolatry as President Reagan and the other old men running our country who think war and the threat of war provide national security.”  There was an audible gasp in the congregation, and it being an election year, someone muttered, “I guess we know who he’s voting for.” 

     Yeah, and I voted for George McGovern in 1972, as well.

     When Reagan, who even admitted there would be no winners in a nuclear war, pushed for a continuing – and obscenely expensive – buildup of the military and nuclear arsenal to defend against the then-Soviet Union, I always wondered what we were defending.  Every dollar that went down the nuclear weapon drain was a dollar that could otherwise have been spent on addressing the educational needs of our children, or combatting the AIDS crisis, or creating employment opportunities for the growing ranks of the unemployed, or looking for solutions to homelessness, or other crises that affected the lives of countless Americans who were not among the upper crust privileged tax-break-beneficiaries.

       In some ways all that seems as if it occurred long ago.  Well, guess what?  Here we go again.

       There now are plans to update and modernize our nuclear arsenal at a cost of $1.6 trillion.  In the eyes of those who support this effort, it’s not enough that we already have hundreds, even thousands of nuclear weapons standing by to destroy the earth and its inhabitants, especially Russia, which, by the way, has similar arsenals pointed our way.   Most, if not all, of these weapons surpass the Truman bombs in destructive capability many times over.

         Yes, Biden wants to re-enter the Iran nuclear deal and is extending the START agreement with Russia, but new weapons are on the horizon.  Contracts were signed with only one bidder, Northrup Grumman, to develop and produce the Ground Based Strategic Deterrent.  The GBSD will replace ICBM’s, which sit in silos on a hair trigger, with new nuclear ballistic submarines and state-of-the-art bomber aircraft.

           Meanwhile, many Americans are evicted from their homes as a result of the pandemic. Some of them, and many others, are faced with food insecurity, including members of the U.S. armed forces. Racial and cultural tensions tear apart communities. The right and ability to vote is shrinking for those seen as “less than.” Healthcare remains a very expensive privilege rather than a right. Immigration is a constant political football. Gun violence claims lives randomly as well as targeted.  Billionaires compare the size of their rockets. 

            The “security” to be found in nuclear weapons remains illusive and elusive.  Despite the spending of more than a trillion dollars, some things never change.            

Another Memorable Person

 

Vic Kaufman was the Clerk of the Board of Directors of William Penn House in 1987 when I was hired to be the Interim Executive Director (a nine-month appointment).  At the time, neither he, the rest of the Board, nor I knew what was ahead of us.

A few weeks before my hiring there was a blow-up among the staff at William Penn House, with the prior Executive Director firing the House Manager.  Several interns, recently hired for a one-year term, quit over the dispute, and ultimately, the Board decided to relieve the Executive Director of his duties.  In short, it was a big mess.

My interview was on a Friday evening, Vic called the next day to offer the position to me, and on Monday I showed up for work.  My staff consisted of two interns, one of whom was appointed Interim House Manager, and a janitor.

My second day on the job featured a visit from a city construction inspector.  Just as I was coming on board at William Penn House, the D.C. government was cracking down on unlicensed “bed and breakfast” establishments.  A neighbor, likely fearing an under-performing property value potential, squealed to the boys downtown.  So, we were netted in their big effort to clean up matters, enhancing safety and city revenues.

Of course, I explained to the inspector what we were all about, that we offered seminar programs and lodging to visiting groups, that the money paid to WPH for the programs and accommodations really was “donations,” etc., etc., etc.   While cordial, he was unmoved.  We would have to get a Certificate of Occupancy issued by the city.  “OK,” I said, “how do we do that?” thinking I would fill out a form, pay a fee and that would be that.

It turned out the inspector was thinking of something slightly more involved.  He would look over the building, cite “corrections” that were necessary to meet safety codes, and send out the electrical, plumbing and fire inspectors, as well.  I took a deep breath.  “OK. We can get through this.”

When I called Vic to tell him what was happening, he was stunned.  Vic was a Ph.D. who worked for the National Bureau of Standards as a spectroscopist (look THAT up in your Funk and Wagnalls!).  He was Jewish by birth, and came to the Friends during the Vietnam era.  He was very active in Friends organizations for many years, including as treasurer of the Friends Committee on National Legislation (the oldest religious lobby on Capitol Hill), various volunteer roles with the American Friends Service Committee, and a variety of activities within his local Friends Meeting, in particular, a prison ministry.  In later years he looked after the personal finances of a few folks who needed that type of assistance. 

Vic was around 60 years old at the time I met him.  Not a tall or big person, he had a dark complexion, steel gray hair, long sideburns and a receding hairline.  His voice was gravelly and sometimes loud.  He was very direct, very intelligent, had a nice sense of humor, and despite an occasionally gruff manner, he was very caring.   I had the impression some felt he was difficult to deal with, but I came to see him as persistent, dedicated, confident, and capable of doing just about anything.  It wasn’t too long after I got to know him that I found a place for Vic on my list of All-Time Favorite People.

            The pursuit of a Certificate of Occupancy was challenging, to say the least, since William Penn House did not fit any of the zoning classifications identified by the D.C. government.  I spent a lot of time with lawyers, engineers, architects, construction contractors, and officials from a variety of D.C. government offices. 

            At one point, the whole process ground to a halt because the different government offices could not agree on how we were to proceed.  Of course, our program was dead in the water, which dried up our revenue stream.

            Finally, I contacted Mayor Marion Barry, explained who we were, what we stood for, what was happening with the crowd from various offices within his administration, and asked him to intervene.  Within a couple of days, the wheels on the ponderous, rusty machine began to turn once again.  I was amazed by how bureaucrats who didn’t seem to have a clue suddenly snapped to.  But then, I already knew the secret of Marion Barry’s political longevity.  Despite his personal difficulties and demons, he took care of the people.  And in this case, we were part of “the people.”

            Vic and the Board offered tremendous support, and finally, after two-and-a-half years we completed the renovations necessary for the Certificate of Occupancy.  Of course, we had to raise and borrow money from Friends across the continent along the way.  Vic chipped in with a couple of loans, and he actually converted one of the loans to a donation because he knew we were up against it, in terms of paying it back.

            Meanwhile, my nine-month interim period came and went, just sort of dissolving somewhere along the way, and I ended up staying at William Penn House for nine years.

            After my departure I kept in touch with Vic, who left the William Penn House Board a few years earlier.  At one point, his wife, Vena, was diagnosed with cancer and valiantly suffered for a while before her passing.  A couple of times I went to their house to offer personal encouragement and support.

            Following Vena’s death, I got together with Vic every few months for lunch and to catch up.  More than once I introduced Vic to people I knew, and when I explained our connection he always said something to the effect of, “I fired Greg’s predecessor.”

             At one of our lunches, Vic, a longtime smoker, broke the news that he had lung cancer.  I shouldn’t have been surprised, given his history of smoking and his age, but it still was stunning to hear.  He picked up on my distress, and assured me he was handling it well, that he had lived a long life filled with many blessings, accomplishments and happiness.  “I have no regrets.”  Typical Vic:  direct, analytical, strong, and realistic.  He wanted no sympathy, and while I was concerned, I gave him space.

              I checked up on him by telephone and heard about treatments or hospitalizations.  Finally, one day I called, and when his adult daughter answered the telephone, I asked to speak with Vic.  “Who is this?”  I told her and reminded her of my relationship to him.  There was a pause, and I instantly knew:  “Dad passed away yesterday.” 

Vic’s memorial service was held a month or so later at the Friends meeting house he attended, a large gathering of people expressing many tributes and giving support to his four children and their families.  It was difficult to imagine he was gone.  

Vic surely was someone I always will remember with great fondness and gratitude.

Just When You Think You've Heard It All

Forty years ago, just after I was ordained to Christian ministry, I stopped by my seminary one last time.  By coincidence I encountered a theology professor who happened to be my faculty advisor.

“Well,” I said in my facetious way, “I’ve been ordained, and now I’m ready to head out and convert the heathen!”

Without missing a beat, he replied, “Or be converted.”

Yikes!

True enough, over the years there was pressure at times to acknowledge and affirm ideas and convictions that were less than honorable or relevant to the faith.

There also were numerous incidents when people said things to me that I found to be utterly ridiculous.  For instance, one man, an elder (elected by the others as a “spiritual leader”) in one of my congregations remarked in an adult study group, “God invented war so man could resolve his conflicts.”

Someone else in that same church explained to me that she “and the Man Upstairs have an understanding.  Things will be alright between us as long as I have a roof over my head and two meals a day.”  How very understanding of her to require only two meals instead of three. I wondered what she would do to God if that contract was breached – stop attending worship??

Twice over the years there were offers, once by a man walking in off the street and once by a church member, to let the church sell their poems, either on wooden plaques or in brochures, as a way to raise money for the budget.  The stranger, who obviously expected a cut of the profits, said, “Who knows?  Maybe God wants me to be rich.”

At times folks made prayer requests that were so detailed and specific, covering multiple eventualities, that I hoped God was standing by to jot down the assigned “to-do” list.

One time, after a Christmas Eve worship service a man said to me, “You didn’t mention the mid-wife.”  The only response I could come up with was, “Huh?”

“You didn’t say anything about the mid-wife who assisted in the birth of Jesus.”

“Mid-wife? What mid-wife?  There isn’t anything in the Bible about a mid-wife when Jesus was born.”

As the man looked at me his wife tugged his arm and spoke up, “Dear, you’re thinking of that show we watched on TV.”  I wasn’t sure he was convinced it was a dramatization rather than Biblical.

I heard a lot during my career, some of it sincere wrestling with the faith, some of it just plain absurd.

There was a particular case when I really was caught off-guard. 

One Saturday the elders group of the church in Washington gathered for their regular meeting.  After it was adjourned, and I was having all the little post-meeting conversations with various people, one man lingered.

When all the others were gone, he seemed almost troubled.  I stood and looked at him trying to discern his level of concern.   He moved a little closer to me, and in low tones said, “I’m going to tell you something very few people know about me, including everyone who was here today.”

I braced myself for a gut-wrenching confession.

This man, probably in his late 50’s, whom I perceived to be a serious person of sincere Christian faith, and who was always dignified in his appearance and demeanor, took another step closer to me as I feared the worst.

In a quiet voice that sounded somewhere between conspiritorial and almost ashamed, this elder in the flagship church of our denomination said to me, “I’m a clown.”

As he looked deeply into my eyes for my reaction, I said, “A…clown?”

He told me his clown name and went on to explain that he took on the clown personna to visit children in hospitals, did face-painting at festivals and special events, and even wrote a regular column in a face-painting magazine.

As I released the tension over expecting to hear some terrible, dark truth about him, he asked me to promise not to reveal his secret.

I’m not sure why he felt the need to hide his alter ego, or to tell me about it, but I honored his request.  One day, though, we had a neighborhood gathering in the church parking lot, and there he was, all clowned up, painting the faces of giggling children.  I wondered if any of the other church folks in attendance realized it was him.  I certainly didn’t tell.