It's Christmas

For the last twenty or so years, our family has celebrated Christmas on or around Christmas Day. We have a shot gun approach. If we land somewhere in the latter part of December and before New Years, we were good.

Families make this necessary. Children and grandchildren off and involved. Responsibilities that keep one away from home or homebound. It is a part of a growing and expanding family. One cannot be shortsighted or selfish enough to require it to be just on the 25th. I have been surprised at how many couples could never get this simple concept.

So, they squandered their holiday with unpleasant relatives or demanding parents. They found themselves getting depressed and dreading holidays. The easiest money I ever earned was suggesting they dynamite those folks off of "their" Christmas Day celebration. And what joy began to shine on their faces when they realized they could give themselves permission to reserve a good day for a good gathering with folks they enjoyed.

My basic philosophy in life is that disagreeable people should be left alone to savor their own misery. They refuse to enjoy life and they should not be permitted to drag others into their swamp. Just because they are family does not give them an entitlement to continue to ruin our lives. I have the joy of being a part of a joyful family all of whom I enjoy spending time and holidays with. Sadly, others cannot say that about their family. So, I encourage to push those folks to the periphery of their holiday celebration. They are not to be neglected--although it would fit into their mold of misery. The more miserable and difficult they are, the further the gathering is from Christmas.

But we have also learned that as important as family time is, Christmas is really about receiving the renewing gift of the love of God in Jesus Christ, and reproducing such love and giving in an impoverished world of pain and grief. So, over the years our tree has had fewer gifts under it for ourselves and more gifts given to others who were not family.

This year, our church, missionaries, Salvation Army, and a little girl whose father is in prison, and a family our Sunday School class was helping will get our giving. There is also a gift for my mom who has instilled in our family a tenacity of spirit, a durable faith, and a love of laughter. And it goes without saying that there is something for our youngest child at home, and our grandchildren.

Christmas. It is my favorite time of the year.

Why them, Why now?

Duesenberg, Cord, Studebaker,Packard, and American Motors.
Some of those names anyone would recognize, some others perhaps not.

Each one was at one time a car maker in the United States. Each one produced a fine automobile for a time, but each one fell out of favor with customers for one reason or another and each one failed. In those days, government had too much to do to bail out each one. Government also did not succumb to the myth that any one sector of the economy was so vital that it could not fail.

Only recently with Amtrack and Chrysler has there been sufficient lobby power to make these ineptly run businesses indispensable. Interesting to me is that mining, steel, and textiles have slowly been shuttered in this country. Government did not step in to bail them out. Rather they let the market take its course and today we survive rather well with the changes such inaction has brought. Buildings still get built, heat still gets generated and yes, we still have clothes to wear.

What outgoing President Bush has done is give away the keys to the treasury to an arrogant elite whose sense of entitlement has impoverished us all. GM has believed its future is so entangled with the United States they cannot imagine one without the other.

I can. In fact, when the President gave GM and Chrysler good tax dollars to follow the billions they had squandered, I decided that I would not buy another American labeled automobile. I would assume that Ford will quickly follow which would make it a clean sweep. I am so incensed by such indefensible and irresponsible behavior, I will scratch these folks off my buy list. The fact is there are more brands to pick from now than can survive in a growing world market. As best I can tell, only us and the British have been foolish enough to attempt to prop up failing automotive efforts. Now RR is a BMW brand and Bentley a VW brand, and on and on it could go.

In the history of any technology, innovation and competition kept businesses alive and those who started the race often could not stay in the race. American car makers got lathargic and fat with mediocrity and greed and customer indifference. We kept telling them in surveys their work was shoddy and boring, we kept telling them we were replacing them in our hearts, and in showrooms across America their uninspiring creations stayed. Only arrogant, stupid people don't listen and they didn't.

So, now, in this United States of America where we have huge, huge problems with access to health care, growing unemployment, world wide political instability and rising national debt and deteriorating infastructure do we have the surplus tax money to prop up poorly run industries that will fail before 2009 is out.

Only in America.

Tragedy

I was awakened by an early call this morning calling me in to work. An officer's life had gone tragically awry and let behind hundreds of mourners.

Across my years in ministry, suicide has been a black hole that threatened to consume all who it touched. It obviously consumed the person who took that way out of their problems. It invites all that know the person to buy into the despair and hopelessness that fueled the life of the person they loved.

I started my morning off talking to some new officers about dealing with suicide. Suicide is always a hovering issue in prison life. It's easy to understand why. Offenders are given very small cells some of which are shared with another offender. For folks on death row, it will be home until or if they are finally executed. Then, if the offender carries a mental health diagnosis, suicide can be a way out of the weariness of dealing with intractable symptoms that often only go away with heavy, side affect laden medications. No wonder the mentally ill get weary and despairing.

So what did I say--what could I say? First, I am sympathetic, deeply sympathetic to the ones who remain. I remember vividly the day I heard about a fellow pastor who committed suicide. He was pastor of a church in town that had to face the reality their ancient and revered building was structurally unsound. The building had to be razed. As as churches often do, the journey was long, loud, contentious and not without causalities. The first funeral in their new building was the funeral of the pastor who took his life. The invitation to despair was almost overwhelming.

So, I said to the folks that they above everyone else on the planet should know that some folks spend their lives attempting to make others responsible for their lives. That is the story of many offenders. It's someone else's fault. But what we say to them is simply, "Every person is responsible for their own life." That is true for suicide. We cannot take personal responsibility for another's choice to live or die.

I also told them they could not accept the invitation to feel guilty. Suicide is always a race between folks: those who want the person to live and the person who wants to die. If the person wants to die, they will win the race. That is the reality of the situation.

I also told them if they carried away two lessons from this experience it should be: take care of yourself seeking help if you need it when you need it. To refuse help is to choose to self-destruct.
The other thing to remember is that innocent people always suffer when we are unwise in our choices. The final angry outburst toward others is the act of suicide.

Fortunately, there are not many days like today.

Off to Washington

It appears the place to be these days is Washington.

No, not because of the election, but because of the foolish, financial fiasco businesses in America have fostered on themselves and are attempting to push off on the American people.

I find myself wondering if it would be worth taking off from my job and jetting to Washington on a bankrupt airline. All for the opportunity to look for the window where one shows up with his hand out and gets buckets of tax dollars because, well, because business is greedy and Congress is stupid.

Sub prime mortgages have sank millions of families and hundreds of banks. I must confess I am not crying for the banks. To me banks are the boils on the buttocks of society. They have lobbied Congress to get extortion interest rates and fees to bleed the billfolds of the middle class.

Now their bottom line is hemorrhaging and I like that. When I canceled my Citi card last year, I told them I wanted to do my part to sink their ship since they had worked so hard to sink mine. I enjoy seeing Citi flounder, and no, I don't feel sorry for those overpaid glass hearted gluttons. I relish every billion dollars they write off.

And now, Congress has done such a good job of bailing out the banks that Detroit is driving to the capital to get their fair share. If they drive their own creations, they better take lots of gas and a spare car in the truck. Which is why they are in the spot they are in.

I have never owned a non American plated car and I have owned 12 autos during my adult life. I have owned GM, Chrysler, and Ford--mostly Fords. I own two Fords now. The most miles I have been able to churn out of an American plated auto is 185,000. The rest were best left along side the road before they reached 100,000 miles.

See, I think the Big 3 are where they are because for the last 50 years at least their products have been poorly made, poorly designed, and poorly maintained through dealers who were largely driven by greed not service. So, they are tottering on the brink of bankruptcy. I would feel more sorry for them if I knew they had not left millions of owners in broken down pieces of junk while they turned a deaf ear to their customers' appeals for help. I am not sure there is enough bytes of cyberspace to contain all the horror stories of American automobile owners stiffed by dealers, ignored by Big 3 "Customer Disservice," and slippery warranties worth about as much as the paper on which they were written. Very few motorists today who have bought a new or used automobile have not had one or more cars that should have never been built or kept. Out of the 12 I have owned, at least 6--50% were junk, good old fashioned, every day, ordinary, run of the mill junk. And now these Detroit underachievers, pockets padded with the hard earned money of hard working Americans want us to bail them out because they can't build a car Americans want to drive.

And Congress, more afraid of losing lobby money than losing voter support will buckle under the pressure and find some lame reason to give away billions more tax dollars. And for what? To keep underachieving Big 3 autos clogging the highways of the world.

It may be that American automobile owners may be so disgusted over this most recent stunt of the Detroit 3, they will rebel and flock to real cars made by real automobile makers who know how to make a four wheel transportation device that doesn't drain one's bank account, pollute the world, and fall apart about 1 year before it is paid for.

Let's not be afraid to envision a nation where greed and mediocrity in finance, in airline travel, in automobile manufacturing are finally laid to rest all together in a swampy marsh. I would suggest that all those unsold cars would make good personal burial devices. For once, they wouldn't pollute, and for once it wouldn't matter if the wheels fell off.

The occupants weren't going anywhere anyway!

The man with the parrot

I have loved getting acclimated to East Texas.

Since IKE, there has been the constant smell of pine in the air. The temperatures have been increasingly cool and my senses tell me that I am in the mountains. I love the outdoors here. They are indescribable.

So imagine my surprise when I was headed to town and looked to my right to notice a man walking away from me toward his house with a bag in one hand and a parrot on his shoulder. I looked for the limp, but there was none. Just an old bearded man with a very large green and red parrot on his right shoulder.

Where I work, occasionally, one of the offenders tell us there are birds in their cell, but more than likely if they are serious they are batty. But there he was or she was. I have never been good at telling the sex of a bird--well for that matter most everything else as well even to the upright species known as man/woman.

I thought about my mountain experiences where very interesting people flock to the hills away from the conventions and expectations of the rest of society.

So, to the senses of the mountains: the pines gently swaying in the wind; the wind ripe with the smell of pine smoke; the cool evenings that speak of mountain air and mountain temperatures; I can add the eccentric few who keep us ever watchful for the different and the odd.

An Open Letter to our New President

Dear President-Elect Obama,
I celebrate with the country the tremendous milestone your election represents for our nation. There are peoples around the world that have had hope rekindled because in America we have elected our first President from the African-American peoples.

I want to pass on to you some simple requests that will make a historic election a historic time in America.

Given so many in America are disillusioned with leadership and with Washington leadership, perhaps you can lead us from that to a renewal of respect. How?

Be the man of faith. Your faith is obviously real and personal and it often seems that you lean to the position of it being a private matter. It is, but men of genuine faith live differently for different reasons than men and women of unbridled ambition and greed. Live out your faith!

Be the father/husband your family needs. While you hold a vital place in the affairs of the world, to children and wives, absence is absence. One of the great arena's of leadership you can provide for American families is to make room for the family and let us see some of that. Too little value is placed on parenting our children in the midst of hectic, demanding days. I don't remember when it dawned on me that if I died doing my job, I could and would be quickly replaced. No so for my place in my family. There will be more presidents, there will not be another dad like you for your family.

Be the African-American man of our time. In the prison where I work, far too many of the offenders are African-American. Too many cannot read. Too many are without any reasonable hope of a meaningful future. I believe you can make a difference for Black America. You can stand as the abiding reminder that in an imperfect society with imperfect justice for all, that people of color can still aspire and achieve and lead the nation. I believe this is a day when a vital part of our shared life needs to be inspired to not throw away their lives on the more available temptations leading to destruction.

Finally, Just be our Commander in Chief with dignity and grace. These are days when partisanship gridlock is hurting the nation in every way a nation can be hurt. The powerless are pushed down by the monied and influential lobbies/lobbiests pushing their own agendas. Government must first protect those who are most vulnerable. Far too many children of every color go to bed terrified each night, often without enough food; without enough medical care; and without enough healthy adults in their lives to make sure they are safe and secure. There is no lobby for these folks. Rather, the gun lobby, the pharmaceutical lobby, the oil lobby, the farm lobby, etc, all have their spokemen. We need to think about the least of these in our midst.

We have also graduated to providing Wall Street welfare to the engineers of this financial debacle. We have moved from Welfare Cadillacs to Welfare Rolls-Royces and Mercedes. All the while, the government does not have the money or the will to help the elderly or the underprivileged child.

I know that I have no idea what kind of burden awaits you as our President. However, our nation is a praying nation. And the one thing every believer owes you our leader is our prayers and our support.

I pray you will soar on wings of Eagles. I pray that as you do, the hope and vision of many might be kindled and the sagging faith of many might be renewed. May the days of Obama be the beginning of new hopes and dreams for millions around the world.

If you attempt these as you govern, these will be days of renewed grace for the United States.

And the Loser Is . . .

The United States of America.

The man who triumphs at the polls today will be a tribute to money and the people who have it and gave it.

The elected offices of our land have slid into a massive purchase of privilege and power. While both candidates have railed against special interests and the influence they wield in Washington, these are the very folks who have bankrolled the presidential race, the senate races, and the congressional races. I get the feeling that the height of insincerity is the candidate who blisters the lobby groups while (wink, wink) knowing he has his hand in their deep pockets.

This election has helped me to learn that I am not middle class but lower class because I don't make $75,000 a year. Wow, talk about a downer. I have been living in poverty all my life and more sobering, so have my children--sorry guys, I thought we were living better.

This election reminded me that most candidates think I am stupid, stupid, stupid. Because I am so stupid, I won't notice they misrepresent the other person's position, lightly gloss over their own, and all the while appealing to their honesty and integrity. How stupid is that?

This election reminded me that insiders who accept no responsibility confess to one or more of the following:
If while serving in the Senate, they were not responsible for anything that has gone on, they are ineffective.
If while serving in the Senate, they were responsible for what has gone on, they are incompetent. If while serving in the Senate, they were out of the beltway loop, they were unnecessary.

And those were our choices.

While I have never quite understood the Parliamentary system, I do like the notion that elections are not perpetual cycles that plague the people like a chronic cough. We are well past the time when it should take four years to elect a president. Three months max! That is all that is needed, and really all we should stand. In order to accomplish that, politicians would have to forget the mud slinging and put forth the issues.

But, that is not today.

Today, the election belongs to the moneyed, and apparently, by definition, I am not one of that crowd.

And The Winner is....

The United States of America.
Yes, in a day when governments are changed by revolution and civil war, our experience today is a tribute the sturdiness of our system of representative government.

I love this ritual every 2-4 years where there is always the possibility the government in power could become the former government in power. Yet, it all happens without one shot being fired.

Around the world, peoples of the world look with envy at our way of changing governments or renewing ourselves through government. They live in countries where citizens never go to bed with confidence they are protected by their leaders. Some live in governments where leaders are expected to enrich themselves while they impoverish the people. Some live in countries where factions have paralyzed the government and any hope of a functional durable government.

For all its flaws and short comings, for most Americans, we never think of these days as anything else but a chance to express our opinion and take a hand in shaping our destiny. That is the wonder of our nation.

Surprise! Surprise!

I was minding my own business watching a little television in these waning days before the elections and then it happened.

I got splattered with the mud of campaign rhetoric.

After the elections, Congress and Legislatures convene to do the work of governing and they often marvel at the low opinion they carry in the eyes of the general public. The problem seems to be their memories are too short.

Just a few short months before, the airways and papers and campaign trails were full of folks talking about how one's opponent was a liar, a traitor, and a thief--not necessarily in that order.

It would appear to me these folks don't think much about the consequences of such campaign tactics. I do.

Someone is going to win the election. Generally speaking, it is someone who is running for the office. Generally speaking, it is someone who campaigns for the office. Generally speaking, it is someone that is muddy from "slung mud" and from "slinging mud." Rule of thumb is that one cannot throw mud without getting some of that mud on oneself. So here we are.

At least two campaign; both of which are portrayed as (see above). One wins and yet what is the general public to believe? Well, in my practice I have a phrase I use about destructive behavior. I call it "fouling one's own back yard."

That seems to be the current trend in the world of politics. If politicians want a better relationship between the voters and themselves, quit calling each other liars and thieves. No wonder we don't trust politicians. They have painted their opponents in the worst possible light, so what are we left to conclude? After the smoke clears, are they no longer what they were portrayed to be? Were they ever? Were differences of opinion called something else? Were these in fact simply different philosophical ideas, different approaches, different ways of understanding problems?

If Congressmen and women want the public to trust them more, perhaps they need to recast their rhetoric and get away from invectives and "mudding."

It might restore some confidence in the political system. Strange as it seems, that might be a good thing.

Hanna Banana

When you see a walking 6 foot banana at prayer meeting, well you know it is Halloween at church.

In the last few years, many churches have had a love-hate relationship with Halloween. Some think even acknowledging the holiday is somehow a betrayal of the Kingadom. Frankly, I have never understood such silliness. Every age places (we hope) the church in an antagonist culture with all kinds of influences. One needs to decide which issues are worth engaging and which are just meaningless cultural observances.

When I was growing up, Halloween was that way. Some teachers thought it important we know the roots of Halloween but most of us just knew it as a time when we got a costume, and went out and got lots and lots of candy from strangers. What could possibly be wrong with that?

I know times changed. The culture became more dark and broken. One of those areas was in the area of the dark side of mythology and gross misunderstandings of the power of evil. Another was in the danger of going door to door and accepting things from strangers.

So, some church folks began to think of Halloween as a celebration of the demonic and of evil. Others felt our society was fundamentally unsafe. I guess I never bought that view.

From that vantage point came the idea of alternative celebrations at local churches completely stripped of all the "stuff" that was seen as undermining the Christian message. Some of my friends and staff wanted to do that, and I would say, "As long as you don't forget the candy. Candy is inherently neutral in the culture wars. And as long as it's free, and as long as kids can get more than they need to eat in one sitting. They really need to get enough candy to make them sick if they eat it in one setting."

Of course, everyone would look at me--again--and wonder.

The fact is, kids need to have the Halloween experience. They need to see their world as a rather safe place in which to be. They need to see their neighbors as safe people to turn to, and if they are not, who is not and why are they not. They need to see the world as "kid friendly" and generous to children. And, unless there are serious health concerns, children need occasionally to be showered with candy. Candy is a wonderful comfort food which affirms the potential goodness of life.

So, bring on the giant banana--as long as it is followed by a bite sized Snicker's bar.

Texas's latest scandal

Hot air rises.

That is one of the few things I remember from my days in science. That could explain why I am not a nuclear scientist. But for me it explains a scientific phenomenon that appears to be true for both Austin and Washington. Apparently when hot air rises, (you guess the source)it gets thin and those who breathe it for long periods of time lose vital brain cells. It is sort of like asphyxiating yourself by breathing.

A significant number of these brain diminished people end up making laws for Texas and for the United States. Herein, to me, is the best explanation of why Legislators and Congressmen/women keep doing the same stupid things expecting different outcomes. In my circle this is also called insanity.

Case in point, the present prison scandal. While my heart goes out to the Senator whose family was threatened, I would point out to him that my family was threatened by an inmate in 1995 who was responsible for killing my two brothers-in-law. This offender promised to kill my wife and her sister and our children. Since we were just lowly taxpayers, we could not summons all the wardens to Austin to explain why they refused to manage the unmanageable with the unavailable.

But that is what the Senate did. Whenever anything goes wrong in the state government, the powers that be throw down a rag that says, "Let's have a hearing." It is misnamed for more than one reason, but primarily because nobody ever listens, and rarely is the problem addressed.

I predicted when the TYC fiasco broke there were still more state scandals to come. We had gone through prisons, CPS, APS, and TYC. Now us average Texans with only Master's degrees quickly noticed a theme going. Lowballing state human service agencies led to underpaid, overworked, turnstile workforces that fumbled the ball--well several balls. So now we are back to that again. The Senators, (breathing too much oxygen deprived air) have summoned the prison wardens to be accountable for why their prisons have so much contraband in them. More especially, why do offenders know the unlisted numbers of elected leaders and why do they feel free to call them and harass them. That job is really a senatorial poragative and they are deeply offended when death row inmates push in on their turf.

Now, a nurse I worked with today expressed it rather well if not colorfully, "It ain't hard to figure out how this happens when people who put their lives on the line every day are subjected to cursing, inmates throwing s___t and p__s and stabbling them with pencils and everything else they can get ahold of, and then the officers and nurses find out they are making less per hour than the convenience store employee."

Is it possible that some of the noble gray soldiers of our prison correctional officers corp, have found countraband a good second job? Possibly. Perhaps when it comes time to pay the gasoline bill, or the grocery bill, telling the clerk, "I keep your family safe from fellons, " doesn't rate much more than a stare. It certainly doesn't get them a discount or make their paycheck stretch further.

Every place except Austin and Washington does the adage "you get what you pay for" make sense. In those places, the part-time law makers and full time politicians think that people are standing in line to be put in harms way in horrible conditions, with horrible offenders for a nominal amount of money (what not even a handshake or a kiss?).

So, let me make a suggestion to our oxygen deprived lawmakers.
Take off your coat, take off your tie, put on a colored shirt and come work a day in a prison. The air is thick, sometimes rank, the food is--well--prison food, the co-workers are tired and underappreciated, and they do heroic work each and every day so the rest of us can sleep at night.

What is that worth? A lot more than they are getting.

Tubing on the rapid waters of change

There is a stress chart that most counselors use to help folks understand when their life stress reaches the breaking point.

Some visitors from the church we joined alluded to this when we described to them our last three months. My wife and I both made staggering career changes. I have gone from being a pastor to a supervising psychotherapist for offenders at a maximum security prison housing death row. My wife has closed her private practice. We have closed our home in Eastern West Texas, put it on the market and moved to East Texas where we currently reside in the top story of my brother and sister-in-law's house. I feel like a vampire bat in the bellfrie of life.

Then I began a job for which I had to learn nearly everything. I had to learn prison life and lingo, managed care life and lingo, mental health management and lingo, and finally, the particular clientele that is uniquely the incarcerated mental ill and the incarcerated mentally ill wantabes.
This was begun by moving me around the south east part of Texas to all the prisons in our system.

Then my wife fell down the stairs and broke her--vertebra. Surgery followed in downtown Houston--where only a crazy person would drive--and I found myself well suited. Then came IKE and my family was introduced to hurricanes up front and personal. When folks asked when we arrived, I tell them Hurricane Ike blew us in and we decided to stay.

And then my mother decided to have knee replacement. So I am spending the weekend with her as she recuperates from that surgery.

So, when I say we are on the rapid waters of change, I am not exaggerating. In the past, my biggest problem with tubing in the rapid waters, has been that if I could find a tube big enough to hold my butt, the water was too shallow to keep it from dragging on the rocks. Such is life. Is that not a metaphor for the routine of living? What one thing does well, something else takes away.

So how does one tube safely on the rapid waters of change? For me, I think I carry an innate sense that God has always held my life and holds my life still. I saw it years ago when I would arrive at the university dorm on a late Sunday evening not remembering the last 60 miles through the deer infested roadway. I felt it when I married, when my children were born, when my father died, when we traveled around the world with our luggage in the plane behind. I felt it when J.D. moved into our lives and I feel it each day that God gives me strength to step onto the infirmary unit where the offenders mistakenly call me "Doc," and one of the Docs call me "Doc."

I also attempt a lightness of heart. One of the offenders was telling me he was having trouble dealing with all the bureaucracy of the prison. He needed help in getting into the free world. I suggested to him that if he could manage the prison stuff, he was well practiced for life in the world. Everything today takes more effort, encounters more hassle, consumes more time, places you with more disinterested employees than ten years ago. A lightness of heart keeps you laughing when others just dissolve in tears or erupt in anger.

I also remember the old woman who said her favorite verse in the Bible was "And it came to past." She went on to say that everything in her life has come and passed. That is life. This big problem today is but tomorrow's memory.

I also have learned to value those things that don't change over time. I cherish my God, I cherish my family. I cherish some enduring friendships that go back to my youth. I cherish the health I have, not the health I wished I had. I also cherish the opportunity and privilege to serve the Kingdom where ever I am placed.

To me there are no promises I won't get seriously dunked, get my butt bruised and skinned, have folks on the shore laughing at me when my feet are where my head should be, but all the while, I too am laughing. Pity the man who takes himself and life too seriously. For me, the end is determined and it is a good end.

So, what's not to like about the adventure on the rapids of life?

The End of an Era

This past week, I submitted my resignation to my old University on whose board of trustees I have sat for more than 11 years since 1994. I communicated to the President that such service has been a labor of a debtor paying on a life long obligation. Every bit of it, and much of it was hard, was joy. In my mind, the debt is not discharged, but there is a time and season for everything.

I have come to this place for several reasons. First, there is simply the present reality for me. My new job only allows so much time off and that only begins after I have been on the job for six months. Technically, I have no days off, no comp time, no vacation until after the middle of February. I have already been through emergency surgery with my wife and Hurricane IKE. There is no time to take two days and do trustee duty.

Because of that, I cannot feel good about waiting until I have the freedom to resume my load on the Board. I have missed more meeting this year than in almost all the years previous. You can't help if you don't show up. I have not been able to show up. Attendance is basic. One builds from there.

There is another sadder reason for me. The trustee of a Baptist University holds that institution in trust for all Baptists in Texas. I can no longer do that and feel good about it. You see, the visible expression of Baptists in Texas is the Baptist General Convention of Texas and its visible expression, the Baptist Building staff and Executive Board of Directors. Simply, it is impossible for me to hold something in trust for people I no longer trust and do not respect. It is sad to say that I have more respect for some of the offenders with which I work than I do for some of the members of the Board of Directors, some of the Officers of the Convention, and some of the Executive Board staff. My case load can claim they were mentally ill when they robbed, killed, and beat folks up. BGCT people offer no such excuse. My offenders are also behind bars. Unfortunately, none of those responsible for the theft of money from the BGCT are.

The reign of Charles II is underway and for all the world, it looks like the reign of Charles I. Several months ago, I asked the Treasurer some questions about all the reserve money that had disappeared. My letter went unanswered until I blogged something about it and then she called. Ms. Larsen was going to get back with me and she--never did. I am not too surprised. That seems to be the new modus operandi for the new Kingdom of Charles II.

When I read the new Ex Director was recommending the old BGCT president for the new Associate ED position, I wrote him about the disastrous choice. Like his Ms. Larsen, not a word. I guess the approach the new Charles is taking is just look over and ignore. After a while they will tire and go away. Something incredibly arrogant about that approach to management, but that seems to be the way it is in BGCT land these days.

So, the State Convention that squandered $30,000,000.00 of its members' tithes and offerings, its investments and its reserves, wants me to hold in trust a university for them. Who is going to school me on the meaning of trust? Who is going to hold me accountable for that trust? Who is going to audit our books to see if I have done my job and all the money is where it is supposed to be? Yea, Right!!

You see the dilemma. The ones for whom I am to hold this institution in trust are profoundly untrustworthy. Their untrustworthiness has cost them the good will of hundreds of churches, millions of dollars, and a reputation for integrity that was years in the making.

I also find with great sadness I have lost confidence in those who keep the BGCT "safe." These days whenever I think of Texas Baptist Committed, I think of Martin Luther King and his statement "if we become the beast to defeat the beast, then the beast has won." In Texas, TBC has become the beast. It has supported corrupt leadership. It has stiffled constructive conversation. It has ostracised those who are not 100% on their team. And all the while they are allowing the BGCT to become irrelevant. Their courageous propheticism only extends to fundamentalism but does not include standing up to incompetent leaders who hide under the shadow of their great wings. The test of the character of any organization is how it deals with those in the ranks who fail. TBC did not lovingly confront and remove, they stonewalled and gaffed and hoped that Texas Baptists would forget the past as soon as a "Not Charles" appeared. That hasn't worked well, so now they recast those who are deeply concerned as neo-fundamentalists and they change the conversation. Some of us, we are not budging. Nothing is right until it is made right. And frankly, nothing, absolutely nothing has been made right.

As I leave the BGCT in my rear view mirror and head to the prison, I hear that old Country-Western song on my radio, "I have moved up to a better class of loser."

Pity the modern boss

I have lived a rather sheltered life working in the church. Generally employees in the church come in two forms--really, really good or really, really bad. Fortunately, I have had more of the former than the latter.

I have known for some time that many folks in the work world were time impaired when it came to getting to work, but only becoming a boss in the prison, did I discover that may be the least of a boss's problems.

Recently, I was coming in for my daily strip search that stops just short of completely stripping when in the line, was a petite little thing blond from her head to her toe. First, she was dressed like Dolly Parton except more so. She was wearing stiletto heels that made my nose bleed just looking at them. She was also wearing a push-up bra with wire supports. Now, you may ask, "how would he know this?"

Well, my little stiletto heeled low watt bulb couldn't get through the metal detector.
At first, I assumed it was all the metal jewelry she was wearing on her hands and fingers and toes and nose and lobes and neck and hair. But, after each of those were carefully removed while she giggled and cooed, she still set off the alarm.

While I was watching this barbie doll do her barbie doll thing, I found myself thinking of all the sex starved offenders behind the walls and wondered if we would find anything of hers left after she got on the unit. I expected it to be something like throwing meat to pit bulls.

It did not matter how much barbie took off, the metal detector kept going off. I began to wonder if it was a male machine (not really sure if they are gender specific) and he was enjoying the show. Finally, the screening officer, showing far more patience and restrain than I would have under similar circumstances, asked, "You aren't by any chance wearing a wire bra are you?"
Blondie giggled, "Why, yes I am. My push up bra has these wire underpinnings in it." Giggle, Giggle.

I never did know if she actually worked at the prison, but if she did, it was only for comic relief, nothing more. In our place, she actually set the cause of equal rights for blonds back to the stone age--make that jewelry age.

The Curious Case of the classic crazies

In the free world, (that is outside the world of the prison) mental illness is an interesting experience to diagnose and treat. In lay terms, we have not moved much beyond calling folks "crazy." This rather vague category can include your mother-in-law, ex-wife, and the person down the street who keeps saying that someone is coming in their house and stealing their peas. All are equally crazy. Your mother-in-law, because she has never liked you, your ex-wife because she quit liking you and became a raving shrew, and for obvious reasons the person down the street who has found the only burglar in town who craves English peas enough to break and enter.

Most persons and families are ill informed about mental illness and equally ill-informed about the symptoms, causes, and treatment of such illnesses. Treatment in the free world is about diagnosing, educating the person/family, and providing a treatment approach that addresses the broadest range of issues the illness brings.

In prison, it is slightly different. Since many of those incarcerated are there for using/dealing/selling illicit drugs, mental illness takes on a whole new set of twists and turns. And since most of the prescription medications for mental illness work on the same centers of the brain as illicit drugs, there is a whole new culture in prison called "med seekers."

Simply, they want to act mentally ill in order to be prescribed the medications so they can get high or sell them or exchange them for other things of value. So, the mental health worker spends his day dealing with folks who want to get off their medications because they are no longer having symptoms and those who want to get on psychotropic medications because (see above).

I am rather new to the place, but I have discovered when an offender comes into my office and tells me he is hearing voices six out of seven days for a period not to exceed a month, and that these voices are co-existent with his paranoia which has been unabated for a period not exceeding two weeks, while at the same time, he has had delusions and feelings of grandiosity, I suspect someone has been reading their DSM-IV-R--which is the diagnostic Bible of mental illness.

I suggested to our clinicians instead of going through the laborious process of learning everything in the DSM about diagnosing schizophrenia, schizo affective disorder, etc, we should just consult with the "med seekers" to see if the patient meets criteria. They have far more time than we do to get the symptoms right, and they are a walking encyclopedia of delusions, hallucinations, and paranoid ideations.

Course, my co-workers just look at me, shrug their shoulders and say to each other, "he's crazy."

You Are Not In West Texas Any More

You know you are not in West Texas when:
People prepare for a storm in advance.
When you are introduced to Bubba Jr.
When BMA (Baptist Missionary Alliance) is the brand of Baptist available most often.
When logging trucks cause a traffic jam.
When the humidity is worse outside than after the hot shower inside.
When your red car becomes black with the guts of "love bugs."
When you lose a significant part of your horizon to the trees.
When you have straight line winds without sand and dust.
When all folks talk about is their hurricane damage.
When a major appliance purchase is a generator.
When camp sites have trees for shade and are generally close to real running water.
When mushrooms are yard art.
When grass is green without ever being watered.
When bends in the road reveal more breath taking pastoral scenes.
When the smell of pine saturates the air.

Feeling The Threat

One of the concerns folks who know me have had about my career change is my personal safety. I have been cautioned and warned about being careless in a prison--especially a maximum security prison housing death row. Granted I am not always the most careful or the most surefooted, but I have tried to be wise, be alert, and always aware of my surroundings.

I have visited five prisons counting the unit on which I work. One other has been a maximum security prison which means it houses serious offenders. I have been in and out of these prisons most every day for a month, and have never felt threatened--until today.

It was surprising what happened and only after I was safe did I realize what a foolish thing I had done. It could have cost me my life.

My intentions were honorable, my heart perhaps overruling good judgment.

I had scheduled the first staff meeting of my new job. Between rarely being on the unit because of my training, two hurricanes, and sickness in the unit, my folks have been scattered for the last month. Today was the day. I planned a working lunch so that we could catch up on work but still have time to do some bonding and developing as a team. So, my idea was to bring in pizza for the Mental Health staff and treat them, starting our relationship on a hopefully upbeat note. We have lots of work to do and the work is never easy.

Doing anything is a challenge in the prison. So, I had to write a letter to the Warden asking for permission to bring boxed food to the prison. I discovered no pizza place delivered pizza out as far as the prison and we did not have a lot of choices to begin with. I moved the meeting time till later, planned to call in the huge order and go get it myself. I ordered an extra pizza to use as bribes as necessary.

It was only when I started the long walk to the front gate that I heard it. The staff camaraderie finally showed itself. The whispering was rampant, "Skip the cafeteria today, it is pretty bad." One of the perks of working in the prison is that staff can eat in the officers' cafeteria for free. Three meals a day are served and a staff person can dine breakfast, lunch, or supper. However, sadly, there are days when even being free isn't enough. Today apparently was one of those days.

So, I slipped out and brought back four large, hot, smelly pan pizzas with two boxes of cinnamon breadsticks.

I stepped in the front door and realized the danger in which I had placed myself. I was going to walk about one half mile, through six security gates during offender lunch hour with over 1900 persons going to or from the dining halls, being watched by over 150 Corrections Officers who knew not to eat in the dining hall. Yep, not one of my better days or smarter decisions.

Honestly, I wasn't worried about the offenders. It was the Corrections Officers that had that hungry, drooling look on their faces. I immediately realized I was in mortal danger.

One of the quirky features of my mind my imagination often zips to a newspaper headline detailing my demise. I remember the headlines preparing for the baptism of the morbidly obese man who was phobic of water. When he got anxious, he sweated profusely and was prone to pass out. You use your imagination. "Local pastor drowns in own baptistery." The lead line would follow, "Michael R. Chancellor, local pastor was finally pulled from the bottom of his baptistery following a baptism that took an unexpected turn. The 400 lb. candidate became anxious and passed out falling on the pastor and pinning him down in the water until he quit bubbling."

Yep, too many headlines have raced through my mind over the years.

Today it was simply but movingly sad, "Missing Pscho found buried beneath a mound of empty pizza boxes. Officers smeared in pizza sauce puzzled by events."

Home Again

Today we found our new home. It was wonderful.

More than anything else, believers need to find a new family of faith when they move to a new location. Nothing else seems to fall into place until that happens. I am not a shopper, but I am one who tries to understand where God wants us to be. This morning it was obvious.

We stopped a young lady in the street and asked her where we needed to go for worship. She was friendly and pointed us to the auditorium. It would have been easier, but this congregation is building a new worship center, and the hurricane has scrambled things a bit, so signs are down and and it was not quickly apparent to me where worship was located.

People greeted us all the way into the sanctuary. We found a place on the side of the building. It is a small building laid out like a cross and we found ourselves sitting at the front of one of the side beams of the cross. I liked what I saw. There was a youth right in front of us getting his electronic drums ready. A man came in with a trombone, another with a trumpet, another with a violin, and then the pianist and organist took their places. The powerpoint came up and people were greeting us as they entered. We felt at home--really at home. Then worship started on time. Those who know me know this is vitally important. It shows respect for those in attendance. Going long is not a problem for me. Starting on time is essential.

However the pastor apologized for the departure from the usual schedule. He needed to update the church on things going on as a result of the hurricane. The next 15 minutes was spent exhorting the church to give more assistance than they had already generously given. Arizona Baptists had been feeding over 5,000 meals a day with their disaster relief unit, and Central Baptist was going to pick up the work on Tuesday. They needed people to help cook and serve. I signed up for supper each day. I am off at 4:30 and would love to get involved.

Then, when all the ministry was taken care of the Minister of Music stepped up to the microphone with his shiny red electric guitar and we stood and began to sing. Folks were glad to be there and they sang with joyful hearts. On we moved from one hymn to chorus to hymn to chorus, everyone seemed to feel God's Spirit and moved with the flow. Anna and I worshiped.

The message was excellent and simple but had direction and purpose. Folks who know me know all of that is important. Hurricanes are bad enough in the world, but blustering wind and pointless stories don't do much for me or I suspect for the saints.

Perhaps the greatest affirmation for me was when the decision time came and we stood to sing congregationally, "The Untitled Hymn." Most folks call it "Come to Jesus." I have listened and wept and prayed through this great song, but today, I got to sing it with everyone else.

Yep, I have found my home. And now, we are really poised to get on with the rest of our lives.

The Chief Psycho is In

In government jobs, no one is assigned to design titles that easily fit on a business card. There is also no one responsible for creating titles that actually tell an outsider what one does.

So I have come to my new job and my title is "Responsible Psychotherapist." I have informed my co-workers they need to know two things about their new boss. If the organization had advertised a position for "irresponsible psychotherapist," I would have applied for it first. But, I have come to discover, those positions are already filled.

I also told them they were free to call me the "Responsible Psycho." Hence the conversation at the end of business yesterday. Offenders turn in a request to see the doctors, nurses and mental health folks. They are escorted to a large cage that houses about forty at a time. When it is their time, they are called out of the cage to see the respective person. My appointments didn't show up so I stopped by the Corrections Officer's booth to see if they were there. No, they were not I was told. Several offenders heard me and ask if I was the "psych guy." I replied in the affirmative. One said, "I don't have an appointment, but I will take the guy's who didn't show up."

"Why do you need to see me?"

"Doc. I have this little man that lives in my back pocket."

"How long has he been there?"

"oh, 'bout twelve years!"

"Well, why don't you have your imaginary friend call my imaginary assistant and he can set up an imaginary appointment to talk about his imaginary problems. "

This is going to be a great place to work

The Parade only a Hurricane can orchestrate

I watched parades all my life. Growing up in West Texas, we had a 4th of July Parade and my band often marched in it. Later on in life, we lived in a place that had their big parade at Saint Patrick's Day. In Abilene, any good occasion was a reason for a parade. So we had a Veteran's Day parade, a Stock Show parade, a 4th of July parade and a Christmas parade to name just the obvious.

But it took moving to Livingston and living through a hurricane to see the parades I saw these last few days. First, there was the parade of cars coming from the coast in preparation for Gustov. Then there was the parade of cars going the opposite way with folks frustrated by the close call and the expense of evacuating for no good reason.

Then came Ike. Parade going up the state and parade going home to some of the evacuated places. The damage from Ike is so extensive, some are not allowed home.

The best parade was the blinking yellow lights that adorned the multitude of energy companies dispatched to the area to restore power. I have never seen so many power company trucks and tree removal trucks as inundated our area. People were pulling over and applauding as they passed like proud troops in formation marching in a Veterans Day festival. Thursday evening, I was out late in the afternoon and the guys were calling it a day. It was about seven and the sun was beginning it nightly ritual of slow descent. And moving into town was a convoy of over 30 trucks amber lights blinking coming in as from a battle.

For many in this region, amber is the color of hope, and the sound of a diesel truck the sounds of hope.

Thanks to all the men and women who moved in and put us back into light.

Batten down the hatches, Here comes IKE

In Abilene when one finished a transaction, it was not unusual for the clerk to say, "Have a nice day."

It is a friendly benediction on one's purchase and patronage.

In Livingston, last week, the benediction was, "Be safe."

Why would anyone say that? Hurricane Ike was coming.

Every hurricane is a different experience. It all depends on where one is in relationship to the eye. If one is in the path of the eye, it will be wind, rain, calm, wind, rain, and then it is over. We ended up on the dirty side of Ike. That meant we were on the east side of the eye and there was no relief from the wind and rain and wind and rain. Because of that, the area received a lot of damage.

In the yard where we are staying, five trees succumbed to Ike. Curious the way trees can fall. Some looked like they were toppled by some giant moving through. Some were missing their tops but the rest of the tree was intact. Some were snapped at the base and others were laid over with huge root balls protruding from the ground and great craters left where roots once laid. Then there were the trees that looked as if the giant had reached down and twisted the trunk of the tree until it unraveled. I was told that was evidence of a tornado.

We were without electricity from Saturday morning until Wednesday afternoon. However, a generator helped us keep a modicum of comfort and life in place. The generator ran fans and refrigerators. Blue Bell helped us deal with the discomforts of post storm life. But then the Blue Bell ran out. Good thing my sister-in-law thought to buy "Jiffy pop." This old technology
popcorn can be accessed with a simple propane stove. So when the ice cream ran out, we did jiffy pop. Now these were not our only sourcees of nourishment. =They were our only source of comfort food which is equally important to surviving a hurricane.

Weather cooperated after the storm and the Monday night after Ike left town, we were sitting out on the deck, roasting chicken and feeling like we were in the mountains. In the air was cool breezes, the smell of pine and the smoke from pine branches. I could close my eyes and believe I was in the mountains of Colorado enjoying the atmosphere only the mountains could provide.

So, the hurricane isn't the worst experience I ever had.

That is still held by any number of kidney stones that decided it was time to exit the scene.

Going to the Hospital? BYOB

While most folks go to the hospital only when they must, it would seem a given that a good bed is essential to the healing process. Not so much.

Apparently hospital beds are an afterthought--much like the food that is erratically served in most places.

While bed frames now come with all the whistles and frills--like "in-console" TV controls and weight meters at the end of the bed, hospital mattresses are the eighth wonder of the ancient world. I believe that hospital mattresses in America were all made before 1945, then stored in an old barn until they were totally useless. Then someone got the bright idea to sell them to hospitals. After all, the people are too sick to complain! A lumpy bed is the least of their problems.

Adding insult to injury, family staying with the patients have been treated to fold out beds that masquerade as uncomfortable chairs. With luck, an engineering degree from MIT, the persistent person can reshape their uncomfortable chair into an equally uncomfortable bed.

In my wife's room, the fold out bed resembled a slab for a cadaver in the local morgue. It felt just as comfortable. I first discovered the fold out bed when I mistook the thing for a chair. When I sat down, the seat began to roll out and I quickly found myself admiring the ceiling. On the whole, hospital ceilings are rather understated and not given the attention they deserve.

Having discovered the bed, I began to attempt to assemble that feature of the furniture. Having previous experiences with such devices, I knew to start early and be persistent if I expected to sleep on the contraption come nightfall.

It only took two days to get it to work. The first night was like sleeping on the exam table in the doctor's office. You know the one: the shelf slides out for your feet. The only problem is the shelf is a full half foot below the rest of the table. Yea, it is so comfortable, a fold out bed has been designed for the hospital room using the same inspired design. The next night I discovered the shelf could actually be moved up and one could have a cadaver slab instead of an examining table.

So Anna on her bed, and me on mine, we dozed off blissfully confident that the $2500.00 a night was not for a "sleep master," extra cushioned, twelve pillowed bed. Nor was it for gourmet food tastefully presented and wonderfully nutritious. Nope, we were paying that much for Anna to come under the healing touch of a back surgeon whose knowledge and skill would stand up to bad beds and interesting meals.

And miracle of miracles, somehow, she would leave the hospital better off than when she came. The back would be repaired--no thanks to the bed in which she stayed. The body would be healing no thanks to the meals.

And the husband would be glad to move from the morgue to the bedroom.

Same Song Third Verse

If anyone had any question about how committed the BGCT was to real change in light of the previous administration's squandering of $30,000,000.00+, they need to look no further than the recommendation that comes for filling the position of Associate Executive Director.

This "leader" was not only asleep at the wheel, but did not see anything wrong with what had gone on the previous eight years. The fact that tithes and offering given sacrificially by rank and file Baptists, was misused, misspent and misdirected, did not matter to him. He indicated to me that he was proud of what the BGCT has done on his watch.

This "leader" is also a part of the new fundamentalism demonstrated by Texas Baptist Committed in their efforts to follow in the steps of the old fundamentalism of the SBC. In fact, I found myself feeling like I had lived the Amarillo convention before. And then I remembered when it was. It was in New Orleans when the fundamentalism ran rough shod over the opposition because they controlled the chair. I remember feeling like such action violated the basic tenants of Baptist life, so I was extremely surprised when Texas Baptist Committed orchestrated the same tactics at Amarillo. Those that control the chair control the discussion of which there never is any. Later I had confirmed the budget presented, approved by the Executive Board of Directors, and later presented to the convention, was unsustainable from the beginning. The building knew it, many on the Board knew it, and many in the audience knew it, but nothing was said.

Yep, what is ahead for the BGCT? Look at the last few years and you have your answer. When those who allowed the abuse of the past to flourish now are suggested to lead the staff you know where things are going.

Tragic choice that will bear bitter fruit undermining even a faint confidence that anything in the BGCT will be different.

It's Not Gas, Just My Ringtone

Every job has its war stories. Folks in ministry can tell both humorous and outrageous anecdotes about the life of the minister and the family of the minister.

Folks who work in law enforcement have their stories and those who work in prison have theirs.

So, my favorite so far is what happened on a unit in the area. Some years ago, Congress enacted what is called "safe prison" legislation that takes seriously the outcry of an inmate regarding sexual harassment, or threats of violence. Each outcry is supposed to trigger an investigation.

So, a man says his roommate is making improper advances toward him, and is immediately moved to a holding cell. This outcry triggers an investigation. When the cellmate is questioned, he denies the advances but offers this observation: "The guy wanted to move to get a better cell phone signal."

Cell phones are one of the many thousand of things that have become contraband in the prison for obvious reasons.

The officers drop their jaws. "He doesn't have a cell phone! We search his cell regularly!"

His cellmate is unmoved. "He has a cell phone and you won't find it!"

"Why is that?"

"He hides it up his butt!"

The officers, never easily phased, said, "Naw, can't be!" Then they look at each other. They leave and call the infirmary and schedule the guy for an X-ray. Word goes around the unit and when the X-ray is done, a crowd has gathered in the hall.

Sure enough, clear as everything, between his hips on the X-ray is an outline of a cell phone--and a charger! He had them wrapped in a latex glove.

It gives new meaning to the comment that wrong numbers are a pain in the butt!

He is commanded to "spit it up" or something sounding like that. He can't. So he takes a ride to Galveston where it is procedurally removed and confiscated.

Now, when someone tells me they have misplaced their cell phone, for some reason, I think of work.

My oldest Son

My oldest son is a police officer.

I got to visit with him this weekend and as he left, I suggested he could tell his friends that his father had finally gone to prison for his crimes! Tim smiled.

He is the miracle son, as is his brother.

When Anna and I married, we knew that we might not be able to have children. And it appeared our perception was going to come true as time passed.

Then Anna's brothers were murdered after Christmas and a great grief settled on the family. And then we discovered Anna was with child. Our first born was anticipated the following January.

Anna enjoyed every minute of her pregnancy and the first Christmas after her brothers death came and went. Anna went into labor and Tim was born a year to the date we buried Anna's brothers. We called him our miracle child because more than one gynecologist had told us having children was impossible. More than that, Tim became a symbol of hope to the family. He was not a replacement, but a deep expression of God's love at a time when our family needed an affirmation of His love and the hope of a better future than the recent past.

Tim grew up and finished college and he followed his brother to East Asia. Tim was drawn to an opportunity that meant he would back pack in the Himalayas sharing Christ. He loved his work but continued to suffer physically from the primitive conditions. So he returned home to marry and give us our only grandchildren(to this point).

In the faces of my grandchildren I see my sons growing up yet again. Yet, these little kids fill my heart with joy and not much responsibility. I look at them and remember a friend who remarked, "If I had known how much fun grandchildren were, I would have had them first."

Tim has had a short but distinguishing career as an police officer. He will be at his post five years after the first of the year. In those short five years, he has been honored as "Officer of the Year," become a field training officer, a fire arms training officer, a fill-in shift officer, and recently a member of the first SWAT team his department has ever had.

All of that aside, he is a son in whom I take great delight because--well because he is my son and that is enough in our family for the favor and blessing to rest.

I remember reading in seminary Myron Madden's book, "The Power to Bless." In it he tells about the parental power to bless or to fail to bless. The blessed child, according to Madden has the resolve to try new things, leave home, and take new challenges.

Long before Anna and I married, I resolved to be the kind of parent who "blessed" my children and communicated to each of them " I am glad that you are and you are the child in whom I take great delight." It has served us all well.

I remember when J.D. came to live with us, he soon picked up on how much his mother and I loved our other boys. He asked me one day, "Dad, do you love me as much as you love Tim and Joseph?" It was a good question for me. It was a sobering question. What does one say?

My answer? "I love you as much as is in my heart to love you!" To me, that is always enough.

Back in the Saddle Again

My family needs a church home. So, we are get acquainted with the churches in our new home town.

Last week we visited with our family's church and heard an elderly man ramble for 30 minutes. He concluded his message by singing all the verses to "Back in the Saddle Again."

It was a great spiritual moment.

Today we went to a BGCT church in the area. All I can say is from beginning to end, I found myself missing my home church in Abilene. I found myself thinking of how all of us in that fellowship had taken for granted our worship from week to week. We have extraordinary music both in variety and presentation. It was always such a joyful gathering.

Today, I was with the frozen chosen who were as joyful as a room full of people waiting on root canals. I wanted to stand and sing and clap my hands and infuse a little life into this group of believers. My quiet style of worship has been reset far beyond the experience of many rural Baptist churches.

I found myself thinking, "If we are going to heaven, why do we look like we are on a super highway to Hell? If we have life, why do we look like we are all recovering from hemorrhoid surgery?"

David danced before the Lord as he led the ark of the covenant into Jerusalem. How much more should we sing for joy as the presence of the Lord fills His people and His church?

While worship aught to be serious, it must be be overflowing with joy.

That will be the way I know it is Sunday and I am not in prison!

The Adventure of Life

When I have traveled, I can be a little high strung.

I have been known to get irritable if things don't go like they should, well, let's just say it is not pretty. And what I know is when I travel, something always goes wrong.

It was years ago, traveling into Amarillo to catch a flight to Austin for a conference that I came to a life changing decision. I decided to relax and enjoy the adventure of living and not sweat the small stuff. In fact what I decided was that rather than getting upset, I would try to see the humor and tell the story.

It happened this way.

I was with a friend who offered to drive. He had a root canal the day before and unknown to me, had taken pretty heavy pain medicine when he started the day. We were on I40 when he told me he was a little under the weather and was "on drugs." So getting to the airport was a feat in itself. Then we checked in with our non-refundable tickets. The clerk took my ticket and only after checking my bag told me our flight was being diverted from Austin to San Antonio because of the fog at Austin. I asked her when I would arrive in Austin, and she guessed that it would be late in the afternoon. At that point, I realized the absurdity of this and laughed. I found myself saying, "I am attending a 24 hour conference in Austin. That is why I bought a ticket to Austin. I know no one in San Antonio and have no business in San Antonio. Why would I want to board a flight to a city I have no business in instead of going to the city where I have business?"

She looked wide eyed at me, paused and said, "Well, that makes sense. I guess you wouldn't."

"Exactly! So, if you cannot get me to Austin, I might as well go home. So if you will refund my ticket, my drunk friend and I will return home." Her wide eyes became wider. "I can do that!" She set about to refund my ticket and then looked up and said, "I'm sorry, but you have a non-refundable ticket! I cannot refund your ticket price."

"Even if you cannot get me to my destination in a reasonable amount of time?"

Our discussion was cut short by the later word the fog had cleared and we could now board for Austin.

As we moved to the jet way, I found myself saying, "This is too rich to get upset about. It is something to chuckle about.

I have been chuckling every since. Little did I know that this little silliness was only the beginning of a life of travel and the ensuing glitches that inevitably come.

Whose been sleeping in my bed?

My orientation for my job began Monday in a facility 99 miles away.

My employer paid for me to stay in an "extended stay" hotel. "Extended stay" is a euphemism for "no maid service."

I don't exactly remember when my problem started with hotels, but when Anna and I were to marry, the hotel lost my family's reservations three times. That started a trend that varied from lost reservations, rooms with plumbing not working, doors kicked in, beds broken and various and sundry other small things.

This hotel first lost my reservations. The clerk was mortified. She kept apologizing and apologizing. I explained to her it was not unusual for this to happen to me. So it took about thirty minutes to check in.

Then I went to my room which was a handicapped accessible room because that was all that was left. I asked if the handicapped parking came with it. Sadly not!

So, after the drama of packing up the house, driving to a new home, I was glad to settle into a room with a semi-comfortable bed. I brought some popcorn and burned a bagful.

I crawled into bed for an uneventful evening of television on a channel I rarely see.

And then it happened!

My foot brushed against something at the foot of the bed. It felt like a dryer sheet, so I fished it out with my foot. It was not a dryer sheet!

What it was--a pair of woman's underwear.

I hurled it to the wall and jumped out of the bed. I was later surprised this old man had such agility and speed.

It occurred to me the lady's panties could have been mixed up in the wash and my bed was clean and freshly made. That did occur to me, but what if the other was true. Eeweeeee!

So, at my extended stay hotel, they made me feel right at home. Before I got to sleep, I changed the sheets on my bed. What an effort at hospitality.

Wet Hands, Who you gonna call?

We stopped our packing and made a mad dash to my favorite onion ring/hamburger/steak finger place. It is just a few blocks from our home, so I rarely use their facilities.

However, I forgot to wash my hands and they were dirty with all kinds of stuff one acquires when packing. So after I ordered, I went to the bathroom. I washed my hands and turned around. And there it was: the box.

It gave no indication of whether it was full of towels, partially full of towels or full of hot air. Yep, it just hung on the wall.

So I began to assemble the clues while my hands air dried. There were towels close to the trash can (for a men's room that is close enough). There was no big,round chrome button on the unit. In fact, there was no button at all. So I decided it was a new fangled towel dispenser that was activated by motion. It was certainly not activated by moisture. So, I began to wave my hands gently. Nothing! Then I waved my hands more vigorously. At that moment, I caught a mental picture of every man in the bath room waving his wet hands frantically in front of a rather unresponsive but mildly amused machine.

Bathroom fixtures have been mocking us for years. Perhaps I should more accurately say, bathroom fixtures have been mocking me for years. I am easily confused in the place I need to be the most straight forward.

If I have a problem figuring out the toilet, that is no problem, I just leave it for the next guy. Except in Taiwan. The swanky hotel we stayed in had a public men's room the toilet of which had a sophisticated seat not unlike a fighter pilot cockpit seat. It had controls, and gadgets, and widgets, and I strongly suspect an ejection seat.

Mostly, I have had trouble with sinks. I remember the British Museum of Natural History. One you got past the dinosaur in the lobby, everything else seemed so-- well, small.

But, in the men's room, I found myself standing across from an Asian man joining me at the fount looking for how to turn the darn thing on. We both had approached from different sides watching the water stream forth until--we stepped up. Then the water stopped. We waved our hands like we have been trained to do. We turned our heads sideways to see if there were some hidden faucets. Then like mimics, we shrugged our shoulders(the male universal sign of "what's up with this"). Then we watched as another man, obviously of English descent, come between us and like a pianist playing an instrument, hit the foot pedal and "walla" water.

There was a stainless steel hula hoop right off the floor when activated by the foot, caused the water to run.

So, my mirror image shrugged his shoulders again, washed his hands and off he went. I went off looking for the towel drier thingee.

Ella, The Way Under Dog

Our home was visited Sunday morning by an uninvited guest who came in through the window, left through the front door, with several hundred dollars.

Ella our "way under" dog either watched (as she misunderstood watch dogs are supposed to do)or she let out a non committal bark that frightened the burglar away.

Now, Ella is fierce when someone comes to the front door and rings the door bell. She acts as if she is the queen of the jungle. However, climbing through a window in the dead of night does not evoke the same response.

I have a theory that if Ella's groan did not frighten the thief away, she would go into her well honed skills of autosuggestion.

Ella is a good hypnotherapist. She can enter a room and scan the people and approach one. She will then stare at that person and project a powerful, irresistible thought into the mind of the person in front of her. It does not matter if it is male or female. All are equally susceptible to her powerful hypnotic rays. And what does Ella communicate? I have found her interests run along two lines:

"You want to pet me! You really want to pet me! The compulsion is so great you cannot resist petting me." And they do, they always do. Her mental powers are enormous.

Then there is the other suggestion: "You want to get me a snack! You must get me a snack! You feel the overwhelming urge to get me a snack--not that nasty snack, the other one!"

Excuse me, I need to stop this and get Ella a snack and pet her while she eats it. Resistance is futile.

It's that Time Again, YUK!!

Grit your teeth, hold your nose, it's election time again.

I should like to send out into the streets of America the V-8 "dope slap" team to help us get pass this distasteful plague on Americans.

Basically, the "dope slap" team would split off and go with every candidate large and small. Their sole responsibility would be to "dope slap" a candidate when he or she got off on telling everyone what his or her opponent believed instead of what he or she believed. Every time they reached down in the mud to hurl some at their opponent, the "dope slap" team would get there first, get the most, and hurl it back.

The problem is way too much money is being spent tearing down the other guy. So it should come as no surprise when the election is finally settled, about 50% of the population don't trust the winner, and most folks have doubts about them all.

If a candidate were going to persuade me to vote for him or her, I would need to know several things of substance.I would want them take about the roots of their character formation and who were their models and heroes growing up. I would want to know what was the basis of their moral code. I would want to know if they believed in supporting charities and mobilizing volunteers to be a vital force in American life. I would want to hear some practical ideas to make taxes better spent, programs more efficient, troops more prepared with all the equipment they need. I would want to know how to be a global power without a swaggering arrogance and how to lead the way in reaching out to the least in our world.

I would want to know if our model of democracy is adaptable to other countries and if not, why not, and what would work for those emerging nations. Tyranny is a non-starter for me.

I could even imagine an election one day where all we heard was great ideas, great philosophies, great cooperation, and great governing.

When I talk with conflicted couples, one of the first challenges I have is to change their way of thinking about each other. What is it I say to they? Simple really, "You guys are on the same team.In marriage, in raising a family, parent to child, mom and dad are on the same team. Forget that and you are dead!"

Our campaigns have forgotten that we are all on the same team. We may occupy different possessions and some will play defense to another's offense, but we both playing the same game.

Perhaps if we could get that through our partisan heads, the United States might begin to work together again.

My Wonder Boy

These are tough days for James. In some ways, he is better at moving than his mother and I am. By the time he reached us, we were this fifth set of parents, and James had lived in more homes than that.

So, like so many children who come from similar experiences, security is where you find it. James found his in stuff: working stuff, fancy stuff; battery powered stuff; broken stuff; and more than once, sticky stuff that gooed all over everything.

When James came to live with us he brought some clothes and boxes and boxes full of toys of all kinds. He had every game from every happy meal he had ever eaten and mixed in with those were some pickles and shriveled up fries--yum. It did not take long until there was no place to put anything and every effort to help him give something away was generally fruitless.

Around our first Christmas, we hit on an idea. Every new toy that came into his room meant he had to surrender one to give away. That began to work and off we went.

Fast forward a couple of years and James has found out we are moving and he will probably have less space in his room that he presently has. Nothing much else is said.

In a little while, James comes out of his room with his Nintendo 64. It came to him as a gift from us as a welcome home present. He had sense received an X-Box which is the focus of his attention. I asked him what he is doing with his Nintendo 64, and he looks up at me, and says, "I am giving this to Isaac. He doesn't have one just some games and I want him to have my old game box."

Wow, I stood and watched as this innocent little kid was taking some very positive steps toward being a responsible adult. Responsible adults think of others.

Yes, James is my wonder boy. And such a blessing to our family.

Men In White

Prisons and jails have the same smell.

It is the acrid smell of failure. From a distance, the population all dressed in white may give a rather interesting scene, but get closer and the high walls, the limited freedom, the smell inside the walls and there is nothing here to like. The prisoners don't like it, the guards don't like it, and everyone may wish they were somewhere else.

Who has failed? Well inmates have failed or they would not be in prison. At the very least, they failed to be represented by competent attorneys who could get them off. The larger picture is that person after person found societies rules too confining, societies ills to depressing, life too meaningless, and what other folks had more desirable than what they possessed. So they stole to buy, killed to rob, or just needed to settle a score that was not earlier settled to their satisfaction.

I also think families have failed. Many years ago, when I started pastoral ministry, I required young couples to have premarital conversations with me about their choices in marriage. Some of the prospective grooms were a little haughty about those things being none of my business. I had a standard reply, "If you marry poorly and propagate, which seems to happen to a lot of shaky marriages, then your children will grow up watching their parents scream at each other and them. They will grow up without supervision and without rules. You will either think they can do no wrong, or believe they can do no right. One way you don't discipline and the other way you break their spirit. In some ways it all comes out the same. Your kid goes out and steals my hubcaps. That makes it my business and all our business. You marry poorly, parent poorly, and we all pay. And that is what we have had.

I also believe churches have failed. I have been aware of my church's background was one of teaching the "don'ts" of life. Pretty dreary subject. I believe it really turned off teenagers during a time when they are wondering what they should do. Churches have talked little of meaningful sex, of understanding how sexuality is one of God's great gifts, and when it becomes blessing in our lives.

I believe society has failed. We are more swept away by fluff than substance. So, we get energized over the latest sport that is season, but can't do anything but yawn over UIL competition. What we exalt teaches children and youth values. What we sideline teaches children these things are not important. So we feed the body, entertain the body with bread and circuses, and trudge through an aching emptiness of soul.

Men in white reeking with the acrid smell of failure. It it were only a smell, a bath would cure it. This smell is mind deep, emotion deep, soul deep.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

I got my "Welcome to Polk County" Sunday evening.

The officer who pulled me over was my new best friend. We will also be close because with the stroke of a pen I now help pay his salary. The questions proved only slightly embarassing. When he asked what I would be doing moving to Livingston, I replied, "I am going to become the 'Responsible Psychotherapist' at the prison--except this is not too responsible!"

I have had this heavy foot problem for some time, but have managed to only pay up in small communities.

I have perfected the art of the "stupid, naive, ah shucks motorist." With highway patrol it usually works pretty good. Fortunately, they are not trying to earn their way with fines. The local police are equally nice but someone has to pay for their salary.

On this dark and stormy night, a tree limb had broken off, fell on a squad car and the building. The office told me it destroyed half their department. Somehow I had the sense I was going to pay my fair share of the repair. Oh, well!

Although I did not have the good sense to see the lower speed limit sign, I did have the good sense not to make some remark about the size of the department or that it was unfortunate that one more tree branch didn't fall and prevent our conversation. That would have been rude at best and strategically unwise.

So, off we go. New job, new town, but same old habit.

I really have to work on that!

Prison here I come

Did you know the greatest mental health provide in the state of Texas is our jails and prisons?

Sad but true.

So the prison becomes a wonderful opportunity to work with the "least of these."

I have thought a lot about this new door of ministry for my life.

My ministry has been shaped by listening. Early in the first church I served, I realized I was not trained to listen like I should. So I started learning and listening. In my opinion, the Spoken Word on Sunday needed to be supplemented by the listening ear on Monday. So, I started listening.

In those early days that was about all I could offer. But for many folks, that was enough. They needed someone to hear like God hears--overflowing with acceptance, grace, and mercy. They needed somewhere safe to park their secrets with out loud. Only later was I to learn the power of saying things out loud. But somehow God was in the room and grace and direction came.

So after years of listening theologically, pastorally, and patiently, I came to get an advanced degree in psychology. So, I was introduced to the interior of the human life and how we might think and feel and decide and even understand. Then came a license and an expanded ministry that been successful. The church I proudly served for 15 years allowed me to take to the road listening. First to missionaries on mission trips, and then to missionaries in their natural surroundings and in planes,trains, cars, board rooms and outside the board rooms.

Now my listening leads to prisoners in their natural surroundings.

Some predict failure in this new venture--but there were some naysayers about my pastoring. Some predict the confined environment will wash me out. Some said that about pastoring. Some say I won't be able to stand the horrible language. They have never sat in a deacons' meeting and heard what was said short of cursing. I knew some of the red faces were the language restraints they didn't observe outside the building.

But I believe they are wrong. Pastoring has toughened me up. It has made me stand up and hold my ground. This new venture will actually allow me to control my environment better that I have ever been able to do in a local church. I am led to believe by my new supervisor that bad behavior can be controlled in the prison and I can order a inmate back to his cell.

So, I recently drove by a woman's house who has given me fits for eight of the 15 years I have been here. She carries a diagnosis she refuses to acknowledge to me. But I found myself thinking, "In the prison where I am going, she would be in a cage and I would be sitting at a chair outside doing my work!

How cool is that!

One more passing grade on another test

I passed another test today.

At the beginning of the business day, the call came that I had passed my drug screening test. Most tests I crammed for and more than I can remember passed. But this test, this test was about peeing in a cup. Not just peeing, but peeing stuff that didn't have stuff in it. So I passed! Few tests have I passed by what I didn't have, but now it is official. I am hired!

So, on August 18, I shall begin the journey of becoming the Responsible Psychotherapist for one of the prison units out of Livingston, Texas where we are moving before the start date. Basically, I will run a mental health clinic in the prison for the inmates who need psychiatric services.

In some ways, I have been preparing for this all my life. When God began to woo me to ministry, I visited with my wise pastor about what I was sensing. He started with youth ministry. "Do you feel drawn to work with youth?" I was a youth and at time working with my peers was more like a prison sentence or a horror movie. No, I did not feel called to work with youth. "Do you feel called to do education?" Frankly, there was not an exciting way to say that. Education ministry is vital to church but to spend my life doing what I saw our Minister of Education doing was a non-starter. The same question about music, except this time he answered, "I have heard you sing, forget that!" We laughed but, my brothers had the voices not me.

And with that, in that day and age, the only thing left was being "called to preach." I did not feel that either, but I did know I was called to ministry. Far be it for me to know that such a sense and such a calling was the future in our midst.

In my time, what I do and call preaching is often called teaching. My definition of preaching in the popular church culture is still selling without substance, shouting devoid of Scripture, and enthusiasm that is infused but quickly dissipates like snow in our West Texas yard. I cannot think past the preacher who wrote in the margin of his message,"Weak point, yell like hell!"

Over the years, the weak points have come together to make a weak church. I know that is where I will struggle. I will launch out to find a pastor who can preach in ways that challenge, inform, inspire and lead me to better devotion and service. Matched with my own devotional life, I will love and serve.

So, my call to ministry has taken many paths of exploration. It all ended with pastoring, and I have loved it but I was open to missions, to chaplaincy, to pioneer missions, to counseling. All of those have passed before my heart and I have told God I was willing. I believe, in my heart, I would go anywhere God led--even out of Texas. But I was a captive in this great state. But, in this great state my pastoral ministry has been shaped by each of those great works.

Now that call leads to the prison.

And a crock pot too

Our church does Angel Food.

It has been a galvanizing vision that has captured the hearts of CHBC. Every volunteer has a story to tell about their service and the ministry they help.

Once a month, Angel Food delivers a pre-paid box of food to a person or family. This distribution takes place in our church and it is not unusual for us to greet and meet 600 people in three hours. Whole families come to pick up the groceries. We off load the food when it arrives, divide it out between frozen and non perishables.Then we set about to assemble the boxes according to each person's order.

It is amazing what this ministry in Abilene has done for our volunteers and our church folks. One thing we have learned is that many people don't just need food, they need contact. So many of them are shut away or too busy to sit down and get acquainted with someone. We have heard so many stories of people's struggle and heartache and anguish. Why, just because we were there to listen.

There have been funny moments and one of the best was Saturday. After the orders were filled, a man called back to the church after he had gone through his order. He wanted to know where his free crock pot was. The lady who answered was fully aware of the menu and remembered it mentioned nothing of a free crock pot and she was also aware that Angel Food did not do that. She said politely, "Well sir, where did you get the idea we were giving away a free crock pot with your order? He replied, "Well it said so on the menu, "A Marie Callendar' crock pot!" Our lady finally understood and said seriously but laughing inside, "Sir, that was a Marie Callendar Crock Pot Dinner. You furnish the crock pot and the packet has everything else in it for dinner."

That story got passed around and around. Great bargain on food and a crock pot too!

Pastoral Authority

One of the battle grounds in Baptist life over the past 30 years has been this business of "pastoral authority." My Catholic priest friend never quite understood the Baptist pastor and the authority he does not have. But, I have to give him a break because lots of Baptist pastors don't understand Baptist pastoral authority.

In Baptist life, "Pastor" is an paradoxically empty title full of expectations and responsibility but empty of any real authority. My Catholic priest friend scratched his head over this. Authority comes in the trenches of life as a pastor shows up and his presence helps the family or person in crisis. That person or family becomes open to the new pastor and his role as leader of the church. He develops credibility with them, love from them, and authority with them.

It is the one position of which I know that presumes the pastor is stupid and inexperienced even though he has degrees out the wazoo and comes with years of experience. The fact is that he is new here! He is unfamiliar to us, and we know the real Biblical authority is the preacher we listen to on the television or the author of the latest book we have read.

Pastoral authority is really like cotton candy. It appears to have substance until you taste it and it disappears on your tongue. The more you crave it, the more it disappears. In fact, the disciples represent the perception of pastoral authority. It is something to be coveted, fought over and ultimately passed down like one would a well worn coat.

Jesus knew better. In fact, each day of his earthly ministry the empty/full dimension of pastoral authority played out. The religious leaders were always questioning His authority, His miracles, His teachings. Jesus tried to steer them to the notion of humble service. In the local church, humble service opens the door to pastoral authority. It is not conveyed or bestowed. U have shared with my field work supervision students again and again. Authority is rooted in one's call to ministry, but it is confirmed by the congregation into which one pours ones life in service. It is not given by vote or action of the church. It is given over time as one proves himself or herself worthy.

It may not make sense but it is reality. And the wiser a young pastor is as he moves into a new church, the more he will determine to let authority come to him as he works the work of pastor. And come it does, if one stays long enough. The less sought the more given. The better it is used, the more is bestowed.

Putting a price tag on the memories

Today we finalized putting our house on the market.

It is not a fancy home by any standards, but it has been home for us while we have lived in Abilene. It has been the first home we ever owned and each room is full of memories.

The Realtor sat down with us yesterday. Today we finished the start of the process. There is just too much paperwork for anything good to happen in a reasonable time. There are questions I was asked about this house that really seem beyond the pale.

"Has anyone died in this house beyond natural causes and suicide. . ." Now, really, this house is forty+ years old. I can account for only 15 years and what difference does it make? Are we inventorying ghosts? Is the house worth more if someone was murdered here? What if there is a blood stain under the carpet? What if in a previous life this house was a Mafia safe house? If it will help sell the house or add to the value, I could make up something. I have tried to list everything wrong with the structure, but a good yarn that increased the value. . .

I know that not enough birds have died here. I know the family dog has ingested one every now and then. When I quizzed her on how she came to possess such a feast, she has remained mute--kind of like a dog which she plays the part of very well.

I know that few squirrels have perished on these premises, although the family dog has done her best to add that to her menu of offerings. She has done the same with a premise mouse that lives in a tree toward the back of the lot.

I know that I thought I was going to die a couple of times over the years but it was just kidney stones, dehydration, and then the trauma center bill. Beyond that, only the grass, assorted plants and other efforts at outdoor gardening have bit the dust. All the weeds have survived with a zeal that is envious.

So, lets get on with the sale. Although, now that you mention it, I think some Hollywood star broke down in our drive way.

The Coming Sad Farewell

I told my church family Sunday morning I was retiring from pastoral ministry.

After 15 years with them, it is a tough decision and a tough decision to hear. We have grown older together and like old shoes had finally, truly broken each other in. I knew them and they knew me. We both had scratches and bruises from living together as family.

Being a Baptist pastor is not unlike herding chickens. It is more art than science. Too much at any one time and they get scattered rather than gathered. Wading into them to lead is always noisy and can they cluck and cackle! Feathers are easily rankled and occasionally, the feathers fly. Some of the flock are just mean, but most are not. Sometimes all the effort produces eggs and all to often not.

For 33 years I have been a pastor--except for a six month period of time when the chickens won. In those years, I have been honored to serve four churches. It is appropriate that I finish my marathon at the best church with the greatest family. Not that the others weren't good. We just didn't stay long enough to get where we are with this family. No church was less than five years and each was hard to leave.

Now unless you are confused, I am not retiring to some retirement home on the waterfront. The churches I have served has never paid that much. Rather, we are moving closer to ailing family and undertaking new careers. Mine when finalized will be a real hoot. 33 years ago, I would never have seen myself doing what I will be doing. Yet, there it is. Staring right back at me.

What I do know is that I shall move off the scene of Baptist life. I won't much care who is fighting whom, and who is not taking care of whom. I probably won't even remember the new Executive Director's name or who is the next anointed President of the BGCT. I may even forget what those unwieldy initials stand for. Sadly, my convention home is not the bastion of integrity I once knew--or thought I knew.

Somehow that is all right with me. The cynic in me always knew what was going on. I was the best friend at the moment because I would ask the question no one else would ask and make the public comment no one else would make because it might come back on them politically. I was not politically naive, I just had no political ambitions. It is amazing how free that leaves one.

My folks will miss me and I will miss them deeply. Church family is just that, family. I will never forget them or get over them.

And across the coming years, I won't be surprised if a few of their feathers fall out on the floor of the new house where we live.