The Old Prophet

            The old prophet stared at the ink drying on the parchment. Perhaps he did not want to pass on these words, harsh sentences that condemned, “For they have sown the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind.” Hosea 8:7 Possibly he gazed out a window, ruminating on the truth these words carried. Considering the culture and geography in which he lived, these words spoke loudly about a society given over to self-satisfaction at the expense of the poor and downtrodden. Would his people, whom he loved, listen? Would they take heed? Would they alter their behavior? Perchance it was with a weary heart and soul, he picked up the quill and continued.

            Often during the past weeks as the protests in Portland have continued, discussions filling my Facebook feed raged with similar intensity. Some support the Black Lives Matter movement and their objectives. After all, we are a nation that supposedly embraces the ideal of “all men are created equal.” And they are correct. Others, point out that these protests have caused great damage, often turning into riots filled with wanton looting. And they are correct. Looting and casual destruction of property are wrong. We cannot simply ignore such behavior, but my mind turns toward the millennia-old phrase, “For they have sown the wind and they shall reap the whirlwind. I wonder if we are reaping the whirlwind today?

            No matter how you read our history, we consistently tell men and women of color that they do not truly have a seat at the national table. For centuries we’ve erected and maintained a variety of societal structures and institutions designed to keep those of color from truly accessing the American dream. We only grudgingly enact some minor modifications after great societal upheaval. Our intransigence in making any real change to these deeply ingrained structures has sown seeds of pain, frustration, and anger over four centuries.

            For some of us, life does not afford much in the way of opportunity to witness such deprivations. We live in areas that are largely homogeneous, or we live lives structured in such a way as to avoid confronting societal disparities. This is not my problem we think. But, even if we do not actively participate in enforcing the status quo, when we support those politicians that do, or policies that reinforce those walls that separate, we sow the seeds of discontent. When we disparage those who engage in peaceful protest, berating them, insisting that they are somehow unpatriotic for their stance, we sow the seeds of frustration. When we honor those who seek to keep minorities in their place, we sow the seeds of restlessness. Sooner or later these seeds sprout, and we must deal with their fruits.

            If we hope to make progress toward the noble goals articulated in such foundational documents as The Declaration of Independence, The Constitution, Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, his Second Inaugural Address, and King’s “I Have a Dream” speech, we must learn to listen, seriously listen, and then take appropriate action. I do not have all the answers, but I know that if we sit down together and listen instead of condemning all due to some bad actors, we might make progress towards a better, more United States. We can no longer relegate movements such as Black Lives Matter to the fringes of society or ignore them, labeling them as criminal or subversive. We must make real progress in removing those societal barriers and structures that keep large portions of our populace away from achieving their best success. If we want the words of our foundational documents to mean something, we must offer an open hand and not a closed, parsimonious fist. 

And There I Was #9 Don’t Drink the Kool-Aid

            We all stood at parade-rest beside our TA-50 laden bunks waiting for the arrival of the BDE CDR, COL Pride. It was the Army of the middle eighties and we were in recovery from a long exercise, in excess of forty-five days. We were ramping up for a NTC rotation. The BDE commander always liked to pick a company at random and do a walk-through inspection of the lower enlisted with their TA-50 laid out on the bunks. Colonel Pride, and yes that was his name, was a good commander, known for his fairness, attention to detail, and odd sense of humor.

            “Soldier, what is this,” squinting at an open soap dish during a walk through?

            “My soap dish, Sir.”

            “Why is your soap dirty? I mean, soap is supposed to get you clean. Yet, your soap is dirty. I can see the gray sludge all over it. How can you get yourself clean with dirty soap,” holding up a grimy bar of Irish Spring?

            “I don’t know, Sir. I, I, I, guess I’m just a dirty kind of guy.” Meanwhile the CSM and 1SG busily annotated name and rank for the next extra duty detail. But that was not all. One of COL Pride’s pet peeves was water in your canteen when not in the field. He hated the thought of water-induced mildew on plastic canteens. We had to follow a little ritual during these inspections. While you stood at attention next to your bunk, he’d pick up your canteen and give it a vigorous shake. If he heard water rattle inside, you had to lean forward while he poured it out on your head. While many might see this as demeaning, it was part and parcel of life in the Army of the ‘80’s and no one really complained. After all, to avoid the issue, you stood your canteen up on its nozzle over a paper-towel for a couple of hours, problem solved. So there we were, on a hot July day, waiting for COL Pride.

            As he made his way through the bay, he made his usual pithy comments and checked everyone’s canteen. So far, no one had endured the humility of bending over for a few dribbles of water. Then he came to SPC Franklin’s bunk. Eric and I were battle-buddies, crewing on the same CEV, and good friends. Eventually, I would serve as Eric’s best man. But that was a couple of years away. After exchanging a couple of innocuous remarks about the generally good state of Eric’s TA-50, COL Pride reached for the obligatory canteen. He picked up and shook it. A soft gurgle resonated in the stuffy open bay. This was going to be good. Not only had Eric failed to dry out his canteen, he hadn’t even emptied it!

           Without complaint, Eric bent forward. But I noticed a particularly anguished look on his face. I wondered why? He was going to get soaked, but other than a bit of humiliation and perhaps a day or two on detail, nothing would happen. But Eric looked like he was facing a firing squad. COL Pride shook the canteen once more, relishing the moment.

            He undid the cap and upended it over Eric’s head and I immediately knew why Eric looked so distraught. He’d made red MRE Kool-Aid in his canteen and forgotten it. In the summer heat of Fort Hood the high sugar Kool-Aid had molded and fermented. The sickly sweet odor filled the bay as the clumpy clotted mess ran down over his head and shoulders dripping onto what had been a pristinely waxed floor. The bay filled with muffled laughter and shouts of, “At Ease!” It was then that Eric wished he’d drank the Kool-Aid.

Family Matters

            “Matt, I want you to make sure that you take care of your mother. She’s getting older and is a bit feeble,” directed Aunt Mary, a slight wisp of a woman, herself in her 80’s. My Aunt Mary was always a vigorous active woman who traveled to Eastern Europe and Haiti on mission trips each summer, right up until she laid down and went to sleep one night, waking up in eternity. She gave me these instructions on her last visit shortly after my mother had broken her hip. She and a friend drove from Memphis, Tennessee to Lubbock, Texas. Aunt Mary was a steady, integral part of my life. As long as I could remember, we’d enjoyed visiting Uncle Tommy, Charles, Dale, and her during our annual summer treks to Memphis. They lived in a nice two-story home; Uncle Tommy had built on some property just outside Memphis. Aunt Mary was always patient with us, even when we came in muddy and smelling of creek water from an afternoon session of swinging over the creek on Muscadine vines. She’d simply hose us off in the backyard, tossing us a few old towels to dry off. Those pleasant, hot, humid summers complete with fried chicken suppers remain bright, vivid signposts in my mind. Aunt Mary was kind and trustworthy; when she spoke I paid attention. So when my bright-eyed Aunt Mary, by then the matriarch of the family gave me instruction, there was only one choice, compliance.

            So, as my parents walk the path of their twilight years, my brother and I work to take care of them in a way that she and the rest of the family might recognize and approve. My great grandmother, Grama-Harkey, lost her husband during the Great Depression. My grandmother, her three sisters, one husband, and assorted children lived together, moving through a series of farms scattered across the American Deep South. During these times of economic deprivation, they pitched in together and made sure that everyone had clothes to wear, food to eat, and a roof over their heads. I cannot imagine the workload my Uncle Waffie bore in order to make all of this happen. Despite the privations of the time, my family was happy and got along well together. I do not ever remember a cross word. Oh, they kidded each other, but laughter and joy mark my memories of growing up amongst my relatives. Without ostentation or showy displays, they took care of each other. After her husband’s death, Grama Harkey lived with her daughters, rotating through the four households. And, they never seemed to resent her presence. In fact, the closest they ever came to true argument was over who got Grama Harkey next. They all wanted her. Though she died when I was young, I still remember her calm abiding presence at family functions…she could cook a mean fried chicken. But the example of how her daughters loved her, taking care of her for all those years has also remained, an example of how to love.

            As a culture, we do not love our families well. Frequently when family members struggle with life problems we shunt them aside, especially the elders. In our self-centeredness, we consider any disruption of our plans anathema, justifying isolation, and abandonment. In our mad rush to satiate desires, we deprive ourselves of the rich experience springing out of close association with those we owe our existence to. My family profited from the presence of the patriarchs and matriarchs. Their accumulated wisdom passed down through casual conversation around the table, kitchen, garage, or back porch enriched our lives, building a reservoir of experiential knowledge and a sense of grounding and continuity. I happened to be around when my Grandmother decided that she did not want to use her cast-iron cookware any more. She gave all but a very small frying pan to me. I was able to spread them out between my brother and my children, everyone getting a piece and I still had some left over. Now, whenever I cook cornbread, my grandmother, aunts, and great-grandmother look on, making sure I get it just right. Without delving into metaphysical nonsense, I would not know many things without these familial ties.

            I would not know simple things such as, how to make cornbread with that delicious golden crust, how to tie a fishing hook on monofilament line, or how to complete simple car maintenance. I would also be ignorant to the deeper more complex issues of life, loving and staying true to my spouse for decades, putting in a good days work even when feeling poorly, holding fast to your faith despite the chaos of modern life, and facing dwindling physical prowess with calm grace. Those strong family ties, forged over time through continual presence, have and continue to teach me many things. Even after loved ones have passed on, lessons still immerge from conversations long past. Their voices and examples speak loudly across the gulf of time. In Hebrews 12, the writer speaks of a great cloud of witnesses surrounding us as an encouragement to perseverance. So, when we keep those familial bonds strong we add to this great cloud, building a great reservoir as it were of endurance for those inevitable times of trouble and testing. Our performance during those periodic difficult times speaks volumes about our character and faith.

            We proclaim our faith in how we care for our families. Of course, there are times when declining health saddles loved ones with care requirements that overwhelm our abilities, necessitating full-time professional care. My own grandmother spent a short time in a care facility before succumbing to the remorseless passage of time. Those decisions are convoluted and painful for all involved and necessitate grace. And, it takes great sensitivity to sense when assistance is needed and tease out a path that most honors individual independence. But all too frequently, we relegate family members to a dreary life in some sort of facility more out of convenience than necessity. In I Timothy 5:7-8, Paul reminds us of the importance of caring for family. As we pour out our lives for our loved ones, we loudly proclaim the worth of the individual and the sanctity and dignity of human life. Maintaining familial ties serves as an integral part of our gospel witness. After all, we are not designed to live alone.

            As we consider familial relations, we should remember that we need each other, even when it is inconvenient. Our society may encourage us to make decisions based primarily on what we perceive as our personal good; however, we stand to lose much, individually and as a community, by shuffling loved ones off to care facilities needlessly. We function best as a community. We thrive in a place where the individual is honored, accepted, and valued. When we marginalize the aged, simply because they are aged and perhaps inconvenient, we introduce a corrosive element into our society. Instead, we should cherish the richness and strength they bring into our community, honoring their work and worth as part of our family.

To Wear Or Not To Wear

            In the recent furor over masking and social distancing, I’ve noticed a common thread among those dissenting voices, “We have the right to refuse, or say no.” Apparently, some frame this issue in the context of personal liberty or rights. While this may be a personal rights issue, one thing we must keep in mind is that the Constitution does not afford us the right to disobey lawful directives from appropriate authorities. We can say no. We do have protected speech, but we do not have protections for doing no. The Constitution affords us the privilege to seek redress, to demonstrate, and to speak; but, the expectation is that at the end of the day we would comply with duly appointed or elected officials. Complying with authority is a key component of the social contract. Of course, we do not comply blindly; but, we must carefully think through non-compliance and weigh the possible consequences.

            When serving in the Army, I was often asked to do a variety of uncomfortable things, including wearing various types of protective gear. Even though it was often uncomfortable and confining we endured. We also endured knowing that this equipment was not 100% effective. But, being a soldier entailed both acceptance of risk and willingness to comply with orders we did not agree with. Even now, retired and off active-duty, I recognize the utility of a willingness to comply with guidance from an appropriate leadership. This compliance is part of the glue that holds a society together. Living as part of a society includes a certain curtailment of personal liberties. We willingly give up a bit of our personal freedom to enjoy the blessings of community. Sometimes these sacrifices cause pain as they constrict my behaviors; however, the benefits accrued outweigh the disadvantages. And in doing those hard things, I help build a better society.

            As a teacher, I regularly ask my students to do hard things. In fact, it is kind of a mantra where I teach. We believe that the pathway to personal success is paved with a series of hard tasks completed. Now, when my society asks me to do this hard thing, wearing a mask is not fun, how can I in good conscience refuse. Wearing a mask is uncomfortable, especially after a garlic-laden lunch, but not impossible. When considering my response to wearing a mask and other COVID related social distancing measures, how can I refuse simply because I find it difficult or uncomfortable? As a teacher, I’m always on display. I never know when I will run into one of my students or their family members. It was the same as an officer, you never really take off the uniform and as a teacher, you never stop teaching. It is a matter of responsibility.

            So when I consider masking, or any of the other annoying measures designed to combat the current pandemic, being a responsible citizen takes precedence over my personal comfort, pocket-book, or political belief. As this pandemic unfolds, those in leadership deserve my best compliance as they struggle with tough decisions, often in the face of incomplete facts. My students also deserve a teacher that is willing to set the example by doing hard things.