“If wishes were horses then beggars could ride.”

That old Scottish proverb helps me understand the demands placed on the candidates for President from the very beginning of this nation. George Washington lived his life aware his foundational use of power and grace would shape the nation as it settled into democracy and into freedom. The courage to restrain himself and the lack of courage to face slavery both shaped this nation down to this very moment.

I don't actually remember when I realized political promises were like wishes. Perhaps even as a young man I saw the fluidity of circumstances were such the President of the United States would either rise to the challenge or be overwhelmed by them. I pivoted to a different standard which I required before casting my vote. It ultimately bled into all of my participation at every level of government as a voter, tax payer, and as a citizen.

What was my standard? It was character, just good old fashioned character. The White House does not build character in the one who occupies the Presidential Chair, it stretches character, refines character, tests character in ways no other position does. At Cityview I am learning to operate a “jib camera” for our worship. It does not focus on any particular scene as much as sweeps the room. In the same way when you sweep the history of America we have largely found great men whose service to this nation made them greater. They were not perfect men as no person is. Some had embarrassing flaws when revealed troubled us all. Some were lesser lights but largely lights.

Until now. Now at one of the most troubling times in America, we are not being led by a “size 5 man in size 12 shoes.”

Historically, it is odd the sort of things we have placed on the shoulders of our Presidents. Some cynical religious leaders have stated our President is not a pastor or Sunday School teacher as if trying to dismiss the concerns which surfaced about this President's capacity for the basic rudiments of character and empathy. How different the lack of leadership is now even if the issues have not changed. There is a sense the issues we have today, this moment, are not the first time we have addressed or failed to address systemic problems in our culture and national life. To quote Yogi Berra, that great philosopher, “This feels like deja vu all over again.”

Beyond our shores, we still occupy a place in this world with all the perils and pitfalls which come to living in this world. From the beginning of this nation we had to find our place in this world. That place has constantly changed by what was happening beyond our shores. I am not sure any president has led in a true time of lasting peace and good will. Troubles of all kinds happened and still happen. It is a part of living in a broken world. Leadership is really not completely about aggressive initiatives and promises as it is about guiding a nation and a world to seek positive solutions to crippling issues.

Looking deep into the history of this nation is actually a journey into the soul of America. The Marshall Plan made it possible for us to help rebuild the homes of our enemies because we knew leaving Europe and Japan in ruins would only create more bitterness and resentment. The commonsense steps after the war could have easily been shut down by a bitter nation who has suffered deep family losses at the hands of our enemy. Yet, our leaders' character prevailed. Even while we deepened our blindness toward our social inequity to people of color. Why do we have to be reminded “Black Lives Matter?”

During our times of war, we have looked to our President to unite us and push forward with courage. In events like the bombing in Oklahoma City, or 9/11 we have needed the President to stand courageously, and with words and deeds comfort the nation. During times of domestic terrorism, we have needed the President to step up and lead with compassion and resolve. When social issues ignite demonstrations and rioting we must have a President who can talk with disgruntled leaders and find a way forward.

The time for this conversation is now. We cannot kick the can any further down the road. We have allowed malignant racism to have a place in this nation for too long. Like all malignancies, it spreads and ultimately kills. It is time for this to end. It is time for us to acknowledge significant numbers of our fellow citizens are marginalized, creating inequity which does not need or have any right to exist.

We cannot wish these issues away. We cannot allow ourselves to look the other way. We have done that too often for far too long. We must continue to build a great nation and the next phase is bringing all of citizens to the table, changing cultural attitudes toward our neighbor, and helping each and every one to feel valued, respected, and an equal partner in this America.

I look forward to the time where a wounded people no longer march in the streets carrying signs that state the obvious “Black Lives Matter.” They do, and we should with prayer, compassion and tenacity move this country forward to a more inclusive society.

Coming to terms with racism

Fourth in a series on racism
If I was to write an autobiography I think I would title it “Stumbling toward Christ” or something along that vein. Friends know I have said before with undertones of sadness, “I am one of God's slow learners.” I don't wear the label proudly, but with a deep understanding some of the lessons of God's grace have had to seep into my soul and mind. It was a slow process. I brought a lot of baggage and carried a lot of baggage through my walk with Christ. Two plus two in Kingdom math is not always easy to figure out. It is the way of grace, and the patience of God. That is what keeps us from perishing. He brings us into the family because He wants us, and is fully aware of what it will take to “raise us” to be a Kingdom Adult. I think I have always been at the back of the class.

Racism is not a word I often use because it is the more modern word, and as I frequently tell people, “I am old.” In my growing up it was called “prejudice.” Nice and neat, easily denied and more easily overlooked. My family knows and all who knows me this prejudice did not rest easy on my heart or mind. I just could not figure it out—or did not want to figure it out. Within the bubble of prejudice I saw the nobility of my mother and father's behavior toward the blacks who were in our sphere of influence. I remember my dad sending me down to “the flats” as they were called in our time to find a certain person. I don't remember why, but he told me, “Go down to the flats and stop at the first person you see and tell them you are J.L Chancellor's son and he has sent you down to pick up _______.” I did and they did. My dad was known and respected in the black community. I thought even more of my dad on that day. Then our cleaning lady died suddenly, and mom went to pay her respects. She was told Mae would not be prepared for viewing until her family came up with the money to prepare her and for the casket. Mom was shocked and she told the Funeral Director Mae had a funeral policy she paid on weekly. The Funeral Director knew nothing about that policy. Mom called dad sobbing. My mother has been a force of nature, but sobbing she is a tsunami. Dad did two things, first he said, “How much does the funeral home need to get her ready? I will write a check.” Then he called his insurance guy. As it settled out, Baker Life Insurance of Dallas had a salesman who would go door to collect weekly payments on insurance in the flats and pocket the money. There were no policies, all had lapsed. Dad was furious. Baker Life insurance paid, the salesman was fired and the tsunami passed over.

I look back and those memories and experiences frame my unease with prejudice. Within their experience and understanding, Dad and mother would never hurt anyone and was deeply loyal to each who works for them.

So my journey of trying to see, understand, and make sense of a nation whose founding documents were contradicted by the culture and the people who were sacrificed to make “a more perfect union.” My love of this country is deep and profound. I want to live no place else. I want to travel, but I always want to return to my bed in America. However, from the beginning of this nation, the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and then the Bill of Rights, a conscious decision was made to compromise on slavery and the buying and selling of people. George Washington was a part of that, Thomas Jefferson a part of that. The list is long and indicting.

It was my middle son and his family spending time at Cambridge England, that resulted in his perspective and that was, how poisonous slavery was to the American blood stream. It is our national original sin. Signing documents which affirmed the equality of all persons, and yet keep some ethnic groups imprisoned in slavery or as the object of extermination (the Native Americans). Theologically, we know the meaning of original sin. It simply means it is the the pool from which we all drink and are therefore poisoned. These were America's original sins.

My mind cannot unremember an encounter I had with a chain bus driver who brought a load of offenders to Polunsky. Those getting off at this prison stop and some came out of the bus. Some were returning from doctor's appointments, or other reasons. I remember that I called out to one of the offenders to get his attention. He was known to me. I prefaced his last name with the address “Mr.” The white driver went ballistic. “How dare you call them “Mr” they are convicts and criminals. You don't call them by that respectful title!” Fortunately I have learned to hold my tongue, but determined in the future if I ever dealt with him, I would simply respond, “You call them what you want to, I will call them by the address I am comfortable with. I raised by a father who respected all life.”

So at the ripe old age of certifiably old, I am still on the journey. My ability to quickly form opinions out of my vast knowledge has been laid aside because the truth is, I know less than I know for sure. That is why I listen, I read, I think, and I try to follow the Spirit's leadership as He helps me understand the heart of God.

I have no doubt God's heart is broken at this time in our culture. His word continually reminds of us of that. Hosea 6:6 sounds a refrain from the heart of God, “I desire mercy, not sacrifice. And acknowledgment of God rather than burnt offerings.”

As one of God's slow learners, I can tell you what this means in our time. It means we reach out beyond our comfort zone to care and understand. Caring has a way of covering a multitude of ignorance. It means we take the time to listen. I can tell you without equivocation there are voices in America that have not been heard. Hate, and fear has drowned them out. They must be heard, and more that that, they must help us find a better way.

All these years after the Declaration of Independence was signed as one of the great documents of history and people—real people are still oppressed and marginalized. We need to come around them, energize them with our strength, and create a force in our time that cannot be ignored, or dismissed. “Black Lives Matter” and white believers need to say that and believe that. It is not that “white lives don't matter,” it is that Black lives matter as much as any other life. That really is the point. Even today, that is not true. It is time for it to be different.

Wash your hands, mind the gap and be kind.

Post 3 in a series on racism in America.

I have recently been deeply impressed by the outcry of Hagar, who was bearing the son of Abraham, dealing with the jealousy of Sarah his wife, and yet as she fled, Genesis 16:13 she says “She gave this name to the Lord who spoke to her: 'You are the God who sees me,'”

In the prison, I learned again and again, offenders have no confidence anyone “sees” them. We practice selective vision. I know the homeless often feel this way. They are a problem to be moved along. Yet, so many of them have stories of soul breaking experiences, addictions, and dysfunctions. Our 20/20 vision does not see them. Seeing is the first step to caring and that can get complicated. Caring always gets complicated. I don't remember the first time I ran into the idea of God's simplicity. It took me by surprise and I wondered if this was some sort of liberal undermining of our concept of God. I soon learned when one speaks of the Simplicity of God, they are referencing his utter wholeness in knowledge, thought, love, grace, and mercy. We don't have that. We are “torn” between our love and our rules, between our compassion and our severity. We could go on and on. One professor I deeply respect coins the phrase “Think like an Octopus.” It is the capacity to think about “on the other hand.” Scripture tells us God is not torn between love and severity, grace and judgment. He is totally and completely integrated in all He is and all He does. Some of His people doubt that. They believe God should double down and be more severe in His judgment—to others.

Unfortunately, we are not.

So we wrestle with “mixed feelings.” “Sure I can help this homeless man but what if he is taking advantage of me?” Sure I want to see offenders change their lives but does that make me “soft” on crime.

At some point, I remember making the decision to not sweat whether my grace, kindness, and mercy were being abused by offenders. I am not a stupid man, but when you reach a point when you assess the best you can, digest the information available, you have to let God manage the outcome no matter how foolish you look when the game is up.

The most difficult time like this was working with a Black offender who had been bullied by two brothers in an orphanage. He finally had enough and torched the wing they were in. What he did not know was his best friend was in that fire and died. The guilt of what he had done had still haunted him. Honestly, he felt nothing for the boys who tormented him, but he grieved the loss of his friend which he only learned about years later when he made contact with the boy's mother. I was not his clinician but had occasion to see him and in response to his anguish, I printed and shared a story from the biography of John Newton the author of “Amazing Grace.” Those who do not know the story are unaware that before he became a pastor, he served on a slave ship that transported slaves from Africa to the Caribbean. I picked the incident because he was guilty of unforgivable barbarism and complicity in the death of many slaves who died on the voyage over to the home they never wanted. He took offense, deep offense. My purpose was out of my limited experience with historical events something might speak to his feelings of not being able to be forgiven, I picked John Newton. Not because he was anyone to admire, but rather because of the horrific crimes he did, he found grace and forgiveness in Christ. I believe he hated me from that day and began a “fraudulent” side effect of a medication that fooled not only me but all the physicians and specialists who examined him. One of my clinicians finally let me in on the rouse. I felt bad for a little while—bruised ego and all that, but decided at the end of the day, I did my best to help. Bruised as I was, I had no regrets.

I could say if one summed up the ministry of Jesus, it would start with, “I see you.” You can fill in the blank, the outcast because of leprosy, the blind, the lame, the gentile, the prostitute. The Christian church can do no less. We don't have to agree with them, we don't have to support their ideas or lifestyles, but we need to get better at saying, “I see you.” To Hagar, it meant everything. We should not end our work until we can say with grace and compassion, “I see you.”

Wash your hands, mind the gap, and be kind.

Things Remembered: Andrea Thomas

Things Remembered:

Andrea Thomas

So back to my statement, “I don't understand Black America.” I will refer you to a new series on my forgotten blog called “Out of My Mind”(go here:https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/8140572634127178933)

on which I will be posting these and other FB posts some of which will be more focused on my years at the Allan B. Polunsky Maximum Security Prison of the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. The more focused posts hopefully will find their way into a book which I aspire to publish shortly before I die unless, of course, I don't and then I won't.

For me, attempting to share what I learned is sometimes best told in stories of people I met in prison. Andrea Thomas was early in my time at Polunsky. For some reason, I was making rounds on Death Row and our department had received a referral about his behavior. Andre's story has been chronicled in Texas Monthy(https://www.texasmonthly.com/news/texas-murderer-andre-thomas-is-mentally-ill-but-is-he-insane/) so there is nothing I can share that is not in the public domain. I stood at his cell, and attempted to speak with him. At that time, there was no aggression and I certainly felt no danger. However, something was off. At that first meeting, I notice that Andrea had lost an eye but physical injuries was not uncommon among the offenders. Some were the result of violence done to them, some law enforcement did to them when they resisted arrest or used weapons against the law. You might say, “Oh, I didn't know that.” Well, I am not surprised because how much time have you spent thinking of where people who are injured, arrested, patched up, convicted, sentenced and sent to prison go? Exactly. Unless you are in some kind of prison ministry or have an incarcerated family member, you might not think about prison at all. The Texas Legislature counts on that. The out of sight out of mind worked until William Wayne Justice. At one point, he was labeled “The Most Hated Man in Texas.”Three significant rulings under his watch brought Texas unhappily kicking and screaming into the 20^th century: the end of school desegregation; reform of the prison system; and the provision for bilingual education for immigrant children in Texas.

So, I brought Mr Thomas down to a psych cell which we had on the premise for offenders who could be suicidal or had attempted to commit suicide unsuccessfully. It was a room of cinder block and concrete. It was the only place in the infirmary where the air conditioning worked too well—except for my office. There was a stainless steel toilet combined with a lavatory also of stainless steel and only cold water. I assumed it was because the suicide risk of an offender burning himself to death with a trickle of hot water was a risk TDCJ did not want to take. If the person was nice while in the cell, he would be given a “suicide blanket with which to cover himself, keep him warm, and protect himself from the cold air because we took all his clothes. If he was unkind to our blanket, or attempted to destroy it or had previously destroyed this indestructible blanket he did not get one. We got 3 days to work with him and attempt to figure out what he needed. The “manipulating outcriers” liked to end up in the cells because during the summer in East Texas temperatures in the cells could be murder. And some like to show off their man parts to the female nurses and clinicians. Many of these male offenders got their sex ed from porn so they lived with the mistaken belief that women swooned when they flashed their man parts. I know, you didn't see that coming.

Mr Thomas was the real deal. By that I mean he was unstable, but I was not convinced he was suicidal. TDCJ(Texas Department of Criminal Justice) had a policy that when an offender(their term for convict or inmate) entered TDCJ, their crimes were not common knowledge within the prison. The theory was each man was given a chance to begin a fresh start. It was also an attempt to protect sex offenders because they were so hated by the other offenders. It was a Topsy-turvy world where up was down, down was up, no one listened, and although mandated, respect was lacking for men who needed the core value of being respected. The one exception to that was the death row offender. His crimes were of such nature, it only took a quick search on the web to pull up the information about him and his crime.

I had no real information on Andrea Thomas. My dysfunctional and devastated department did not give me access to any pertinent information about Mr Thomas. That lack of information on my part would become significant, but all these years later, I am unsure what I could have done differently. Mid-morning I ordered Thomas to be moved to an open psych cell. He was brought down from death row, to the back of the Infirmary, stripped searched, all restraints removed(cuffs and leg irons) he was placed in the cell, and given a “suicide blanket.” I went and prepared the paperwork. Every offender has to be identified somewhere on the premise, suicidal offenders are no different. When the prison stops to count, they must be counted because if not, it could look like they escaped.

As I remember, I returned from lunch break with a nurse running down the hall screaming, saying something like, “I can't believe he did it,” over and over again. I guess in my new job, I overestimated the capacity of our nurses to lean into any situation with professionalism and a stoic “What needs to be done here?” First, lunch was not that good. I do remember that. Then I rounded the corner onto the left hall where two psych obs cells were located. Standing at the door was one from our department, and a security officer. People were responding unhelpfully. So I walked up to the cell and looked at my employee and said, “What happened here?” The person said, “He dug out his good eye and ate it.” Yep, it definitely was not that good of a lunch.

The cell was bloodied, his suicide blanket was bloodied, and as soon as we could, he was transferred to a hospital for treatment and then to the psychiatric hospital where he now resides. Andrea was a tragic story almost from the beginning. What I learned was it was not an unfamiliar story. Raised in a black community in Grayson County totally unfamiliar with mental illness, he showed early signs of being mentally ill. A kindly church lady started taking Andrea to church but he disappeared and she did not keep up with him or know what was happening. At the target age he developed full blown paranoid schizophrenia but still fell in love, married, and together they had children: two; a boy; and a girl. Then they separated and divorced but Andrea came calling one day stabbing his wife, their children and attempting to stab himself. Simply, it was murder-suicide gone wrong. Arrested, tried, convicted, sentenced to DR to be executed, I found him in 2008 and that morning not in good shape. What I did not know at the time was he took his other eye.

On that day, he was successful in totally blinding himself not realizing that without any vision he was now doomed to the hell of only seeing the horrific images playing again and again in his head. Sadly, that began a theme I saw repeated again and again in black offenders. In the black community, there was no access to mental health care or no awareness of how mental health could impact a person. So the most seriously mentally ill black offenders were never identified, never treated, never stabilized, until they came to prison. Sadly, prison gave them their first experience of getting the help they needed.

Things Remembered: I Don't Understand Black America

I don't understand Black America. There, I finally said it. I don't understand Black America or Black Americans.

Growing up in Odessa, because my father ran a service station, blacks were in my life from the time I was 6. As I recalled, there were always two men, one worked as the car washer and the other worked in the grease bay. When they were not working in the bay, they made service calls, and waited on the front. They always worked hard. Mom hired a house keeper/cleaner who she trusted to clean, cook and supervise three boys(which Mom would tell you was no small feat). When I look back, I remember three short snippets. I remember never, never being called “Mike” by any of our black employees. I think it was instead preferenced with “Mr.” It was the way of things. I remember Mae cooking a meal for me and having put it on the table, did not sit down and eat with me. I pressed her on why she would not sit with me and eat with me, and all she could say, “It's not done.”

Of course, years later continuing to the present, I would learn about the chronic life choking disease with which America afflicted itself and continues to suffer the ravages of called “slavery.” It is a cancer which began as the foundations were laid and a whole group of people, a huge group of people were ignored regarding the civil rights we enshrined in the Constitution and Bill of Rights. It is one of the reasons I reject the revisionist narrative that America was founded as a “Christian nation.” Our founding fathers were men like us full of courage and clay, willing to fight the British but afraid to fight slavery. It became a cancer on the soul of America.

This is what I don't understand. I understand why Minneapolis is burning, I understand why Watts burned and there was rioting and looting. What I don't understand is why there are not more. I don't understand why we have moved at glacial speed to address this social scourge.

You could say, my going to prison was my real education on Black America. See link below (http://www.justicepolicy.org/images/upload/05-02_REP_TXRaceImprisonment_AC-RD.pdf )
I found in the prison in which I ran the Mental Health Department about 70% non white offenders primarily Latino and African American. Over the nearly 7 years I was there, I got a profoundly sobering look into the African American family and culture. Frankly, it was not a culture of hope but a culture of violence, of unfocused rage, and sadly, incredibly fractured families. I carry in my heart the stories of some of these men and grieve over some of the choices they made, the incredible brokenness that comes from a culture of prejudice and unreachable opportunities. It must be like a children looking through the window of a candy store eyes big with all the choices, mouth savoring, thoughts of favorite choices, but finding the door locked but realizing even if it were not locked, the child had no money to buy what their eyes feasted upon.

I regret deeply I lost track of a young father who came to my “psych” cell shortly after I arrived at Polunsky. I stopped by at the end of the day and took too long to talk to him. It broke my heart and still does to this day. He was from Lubbock, attending Texas Tech, married with a young son. He was black. He had not been at Polunsky long or even in the system long, but it was enough to break him. Men don't weep in prison. He wept. And wept and wept. His life was in ruins, his son left without a father, He had tried his whole life to do it “right.” And now he was in prison for a crime he did not commit. It had become too much and he gave into despair. I don't remember the nature of his suicidal behavior, whether it was just thinking about it, telling a security guard, or an attempt. All I remember was I saw a broken man without hope. I remember having absolutely nothing to say from my storehouse of empathetic statements from 30+ years of working with people in difficult places. What I remember was it was about 6:00 in the evening, our staff was supposed to have left at 4:30 but all I could say was, “I am going to sit with you a while, if you don't mind.” So I sat down on the cold floor, pulled out my ever present hankie and he wept and I wept. And I prayed for wisdom.
We had 3,000 offenders which were constantly being moved around. You might ask, how do you remember that one. Well, because all these years later, after working with all the offenders I worked with, the suicidal patients who were manipulating(it is the way of prison) and insincere, I remember this young father and husband but I still believe, he was truly broken. And telling his story still hurts my heart.

Things Remembered "The Unexpected Journey" Forward

THINGS REMEMBERED:

An Unexpected Journey of Discovery

Forward

Today was my appointment to see my Neurologist. Surprised I was not given the option of doing the appointment in Austin by “telehealth,” I went in. The focus of the appointment was on my essential tremor which over time gets worse. It is not Parkinson's but may look like it to the undiscerning eye. Family can bless, and family can curse. Essential tremor has a history in my family. Dr Erik Krouse said that focusing on the tremor might be a little difficult if we did it by video.

During the course of the appointment, I mentioned the struggle with depression I was having and working with my primary care provider on getting off one medication and increasing the dosage of another. In that conversation, he mentioned suicide and wondered if during this sheltering in place the rate would go up. I reflected to him I was constantly reading but saw no spikes at this point in suicides. We moved on to talk about suicidal outcries in the Texas prison system, and after sharing some of my experiences, he repeated something he said previously “ You should write a book”. Perhaps being at a different place in my life from a previous visit, I seriously considered his counsel. It is from that fleeting conversation I have decided to move forward on telling a story about a journey I made reluctantly, but the results of my journey profoundly shaped everything that has come after.

There is a part of me that thrives on adventure—to a point. Anna and I have shared adventures around the world. We have been to Scandinavia(Norway), Great Britain, ate breakfast at the Dublin, Ireland airport, enjoyed South America in Ecuador, several trips to Brazil, and East Asia including Taiwan, Thailand, three cities in China, and alone to South Africa. Together we made our way to Eastern Europe stopping in Greece, Macedonia, Vienna, Budapest, Slovakia and Germany on several different occasions. And we have been to Prague. If you have ever been to Prague, you understand. I am adventuresome trying foods which ingredients I can recognize. Not so much with things which are unrecognizable.

Having said that, there is a deep, deep part of me which likes routine, sameness, and schedules. My day in years past has been preferred to be predicable, familiar, and without high drama. Saying that does not mean I have escaped high drama, however, if I was scheduling my day, I would plan for the predicable.

So imagine my surprise when being comfortably settled in an Abilene church for 15+ years, our world was turned upside down. Previous to this year of 2008, Anna had received her Master's in counseling, and I joined her in that pursuit. I finished a little ahead of her only because I started a little before she did. She was the greatest student and to this day, I stand in awe of her counseling, empathy, and skill.

What was it that changed everything? Anna's sister is the only surviving sibling she has. Injured in a wreck on her way to work, her knee would not heal and on her shoulders rested the total responsibility of the care of their parents. It was Sandy's choice. As long as she could, she would keep them at home. Her step dad's health failed and he passed away, Sandy is as amazing as Anna, but the wreck, the crippling load of trying to maintain two homes, and cook for her mom was getting to be too much. Add to that, Bonnie had been diagnosed with a stroke and dementia. The stroke was the surprise, the dementia had been long coming absent a diagnosis. We went down to Livingston a couple of times after the wreck and did what we could, but Sandy needed more and Bonnie needed more.

Having pastored for 33 years at that point, I knew the ways of Baptist life and Baptist churches. One does not jump and be called to a Texas Baptist church because there are few in deep East Texas. So, I reached out to a friend I knew was in Huntsville because we had gone through the same counseling program and I had tried to keep up with him. He was working for UTMB(University of Texas Medical Branch) in their Correctional Managed Care. I asked if there were jobs available and he pointed me to the website for the work, I went in and found out they were looking for a Manager for the Mental Health Department for the maximum security prison housed at Livingston. Truthfully, I had no idea what that meant. Mental Health care in Texas is poor and the prisons often offer the best hope for those with severe mental illnesses. When I speak of severe mental illnesses, I am talking about the diagnoses of Schizophrenia, severe bipolar, delusional, and psychotic patients. Depression and anxiety are a “walk in the park” next to these severe mental health conditions. Some come to this place because they have used illegal substances, but some come because there is history in the family. More than that are the personality disorders which are often found in Texas prisons. Antisocial personality disorder is a no-brainer. The definition is a “pervasive profound disregard of the rights of others.” Go figure. 80% of offenders in the United States would qualify for this personality disorder.

So I applied. I actually got an interview when my friend noted the need for clinician vacancies might be a good first step. His suggestion was wise—start with that and work my way up. Unfortunately, I had already been granted an interview and apparently I possessed the three qualities they were looking for: stupidity, naivety, and experience with dysfunctional systems. I got the job. Following the interview I was told I would hear from the committee by the following Friday. On Monday, the Senior Mental Health Manager called and told me I had the job. That call literally changed my life.

To be candid, law breakers are not high on my list on which to show compassion. My brother was in law enforcement, my son is in law enforcement, and I must confess that going to the jail to visit offenders was not on my list. I hated it actually. Then I came to Crescent Heights Baptist Church and there was a deacon who loved jail ministry. He dragged me along. I hated every minute of it. I hated the asking for prayer requests, I hated being there, and I hated not being able to say to the jail inmates, “if you were not so stupid, you would not be here breaking your mother's/grandmother's heart. Yep, I was cold hearted. That I think would cost me dearly.

You may ask, “What do you mean?” Honestly, I believe God is troubled by the cold hardheartedness of His people when we refuse to care about those who struggle in life. I was one of those. My compassion was selective. All my years of ministry did not help me see this beam in my eye.

So, Anna and I quickly adjusted our life plan, put the house up for sale, retired from the ministry and the church, and headed to Livingston to be there for Anna's mother and sister who had born so much grief in this life. For years, I had been the “point person” for my mom because my schedule was more flexible than my brothers, but in an unexpected move, Mom moved to San Angelo, and Jim and his family willingly changed roles. They were and are awesome. I was then free to focus on Anna's family and their needs. I could never forget how that Anna went to be with my mom for a month when the boys were young and her mother came to help me with them. She took my place, and Bonnie took her place. Those are deep connections one does not easily forget.

One does not just start with UTMB Correctional Managed Care. Instead you must be sent to Hell for a week of training. I say “Hell” because as a foreshadowing of things to come CMC does most of its meetings in incarcerated setting. More than that, a specialist in “onboarding” new employees gathers all the nurses, MH clinicians, doctors, and mid-levels in an extremely uncomfortable meeting area for 40 hours of mind numbing information to get one ready for the “work.”

All of that was just the beginning of the journey.

My first day at “work.” I went in early. I just wanted to get a feel for the setting. It must have been the second locked gate I passed through that brought me to the reality “I wasn't in Kansas anymore.” All I knew, or thought I knew would be challenged and sifted as I had to decide who I really was at the core of my being and what I was about.

It was a trans-formative experience. More than that, I thank God for that time. I hope you will share the wonder I experienced beyond the shell of the local church.

This morning while at the neighborhood HEB and watching some flaunt their careless, thoughtless lack of consideration for others by not wearing masks or trying to not run up on others in the isle, I found myself wondering about this strange time in our American culture. The current behaviors mentioned above are driven by a careless President and his followers many of who identify as evangelicals.

Growing up Baptist in Texas, I was one of the first pastors to identify myself as an evangelical. Those early years the Landmarkism movement championed in “The Trail of Blood”by James Carroll still had a hold on many Baptists. Some liked to give Baptists a different identity. We were “apart” from other mainstream Christians. Carroll traces a direct line to the apostolic times documenting(sort of) the Baptist claim to be the “only” true church. Course that was nonsense grounded in slanted research and end conclusions already drawn.

Today, the people I so easily identified with years ago are driving a movement which will take this nation to the brink. I have wondered, thought, prayed, read, trying to wrap my head around this resistance to the truth among folks who I have always been willing to name as one group of “my people.” I believe I was given some clarity this morning in the tomato juice isle at the grocery store.

This fervor of so many well intentioned folks is born of despair and desperation(not unlike the religious leaders during the time of Jesus). For many believers living in the late 70s and 80s, there appeared to be an erosion in America of respect and traditional family values. The Moral Majority burst on the scene in 1979. I was in my first church as pastor and what began to creep into our national dialogue was a seething fear and anger. Time passed and fear and anger became despair and the loss of hope.

All of this began with an elevation of a stream of reinterpreting the roots of the United States. In my opinion, and my study, the history of America was rewritten like Landmarkism of old. The conclusion was America had a special relationship with God and a destiny akin to being His Chosen People. Scripture does not support such a notion but can give us clarity to the real source of blessings and the moral issues we have faced as Americans.

Ephesians 5:25 is one of those nuggets of gold about the church nestled in a verse about husbands and wives. “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her to make her holy, cleansing her by the washing with the water through the word.” I would challenge any American believer to document the book, chapter and verse where God's Word says in the time of Christ he died for any nation, movement, or for that matter any denomination.” It simply is not there. However, what this simple verse says is that Christ loved the church, gave Himself up for the church, and has not wavered from the goals of making her holy and cleansed completely by the Word.” When that has happened to the church of the Living Christ, revival and spiritual awakening have reset the vitality of the people of God and born miracles of blessing to the culture in which that church resided. However, to see that happen, believers have to humble themselves and seek the face of God, turn from their wicked ways. (II Chronicles 7:14) The promises that flow from that verse are timeless, God will hear, God will heal, and God will heal the land. The problem is historically, that takes too long for some. Although, if God's people began in 1979 humbling themselves and calling out to God, history tells us we would be living in a different world.

So, despair is obviously palatable and Believers instead of straightening out the church house have turned to the nation. Desperation has driven the most unbelievable alliances, abuses of power, manipulation of influence and law, lack of compassion, and a reckless disregard of the neighbor in our midst. Our treatment of the poor and the immigrant grieves the heart of God.

No more likely than the President's hydroxychloroquine will cure COVID-19, will evangelicals rescue America by political effort.

Wash your hand, mind the gap, and be kind.