Questing Parson

How Do You Console the Widow of a Fallen Warrior?

The parson was sitting in his favorite diner, sipping a cup of decaf and reading a novel on his Kindle. Ms. Penny, his canine sweetheart, was visiting with some rescue dogs at the local pet rescue center.

As the parson touched the screen to move to a new page, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning he beheld another pastor from a nearby town. “Howard, how are you? I haven’t seen you for a while. How are the wife and kids?”

Howard caught the parson up on the antics of the children and the educational endeavors of his wife, as the parson directed him to sit across in the booth.

Betty, one of the servers approached, “Can I get you anything?” She asked of Howard. Howard hesitated.

The parson intervened, “Yeah, you can get him something,” he told Betty. “Bring him a slice of that apple pie and plop a big scoop of vanilla ice cream on it. And give him a mug of that special brew of coffee.”

Betty turned away as Howard began to make protest. 

The parson and Howard exchanged gossip about various elders serving in their area, the excitement around the conference over the new bishop, and other such preacher things.

After Betty had placed the pie with ice cream and a cup of coffee in front of Howard, he dipped his spoon into the ice cream and pie and made an audible sigh. The parson smiled.

Howard said, “So, Parson, what do you think about all this flap over the President not calling the widows of the fallen soldiers?”

The parson thought long. He took a deep breath and, then, said:

“Okay, Howard I’ll share my thoughts. First, the President waited too long to call. It’s inexcusable. But as much as I’m not a Donald Trump fan, I understand why it took so long. I also understand why he botched it in the end.

“Let me share a story with you. I had two good friends in college, Daniel and Julia. They were special. I loved to be with both or either of them.

“Daniel, was very patriotic. After college he went into the Army as a Lieutenant. He fought bravely in Vietnam. He received several citations. He was a hero. I remember him writing me one time and telling me how much he missed Julia. He shared with me some of the horrors of war. But, he confessed, it was what he’d volunteered for.

“Daniel came home after his first tour. I can’t remember how long he was home, but I know it was long enough to get Julia pregnant. And then he went back for his second tour.

“My memory is fuzzy. But I know he never got home before the baby was born. It was a boy. Julia invited me over the day she got home from the hospital and I helped her hang some of those baby things over the crib. I remember holding the baby while Julia did some Julia stuff in the kitchen. You know, Howard, to this day I can remember the smell of the baby.

“Strange, even with my fuzzy memory, I remember it was a Tuesday afternoon, a year or a year-and-a-half after the baby was born, when Julia called me. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘please come.’

“I headed to her house. I was the first one there after the two soldiers had come to tell her of Daniel’s death. The hero was dead. Julia’s heart was broken. A newborn baby had no father.

“Here’s the thing, Howard. I was a pastor. I had been certified in pastoral counseling. And when those two soldiers left I had not the foggiest idea of what to say or what to do.

“I took care of the baby. I made some supper, knowing no one would eat it. But I had to do something. Finally, darkness slowly closed the door to the sky. The baby slept. Julia and I sat on the sofa.

“‘Julia,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what to say.’

“‘There’s nothing adequate you could say,’ she said. ‘Daniel knew what he was doing. But this is so unfair.’

“I can’t remember any more of the talk that night. I know the television was on but I don’t remember any sound. Finally, in the quietness and the limited light I heard Julia’s voice, ‘Will you hold me?’

“She put her head on my shoulder, I wrapped my arms around her. She started weeping, hysterically weeping, body shaking weeping, snot coughing weeping. ‘Damn him. Damn him.' Her fists pounded my chest. 'Oh, I love him.’ The tears puddled in that little space formed by my clavicle until it filled and the tears ran down my chest with a tickle. She cried. She beat on my chest. She cussed Daniel again and again. She professed her love for him again and again.

“I don’t know what time it was. But eventually, well after the sun had risen I woke. She was still asleep on my shoulder. My arm hurt like something else, but it was nothing to her pain. My shirt was soaked with tears.

“She woke. She raised up. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ I said. 

“She sat up straight. ‘Do you know what’s going to happen next?’

“‘I do,’ I said. I explained the protocol of Daniel being brought home with honors. I told her about the military honors that were due him should she want them. I told her she would be given a flag from a grateful nation.

“I don’t know how long I stayed that day, Howard. All I know is that in all that time I was with her that night, and in all the days that followed, I didn’t know what to say to her. 

“So, Howard, I’m going to cut the President a little slack here. No one knows what to say to the widow or widower of a fallen warrior. There’s nothing appropriate to say. 

“Maybe all of us should just lift our prayers of gratitude to the Lord for a fallen warrior. We don’t have anything we can say to the widow or the widower. But we can be with them in their grief. I think that’s the most we can do."

The Real Scandal of the Election

Everyone is discussing the election results. Donald J. Trump will be our President. It’s a fact. Some rejoice. Some are stunned and disappointed. And me? I’m devastated. Here’s why.

I am not devastated over the results of the Presidential election. I’m devastated over the ballot I was presented with when I voted. On that ballot I had a choice of voting for Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton or Gary Johnson or Jill Stein. Following that vote I had a choice to vote for three candidates for United States Senator. But after that the choice were limited.

Following the listing of candidates for United States Senator, there were no more choices. Every office from that point had no choice. Only the incumbent was listed. No one was opposed. This is the scandal of our nation in the 21st century. 

Here’s the thing. Donald J. Trump is President-elect of the United States. But, Donald J. Trump will have a minimum effect on my life. The persons elected who will have a maximum effect on my life are the county commissioners, the tax commissioner, the various members of the school board. And, where I live, there was no contest. Only one candidate was listed on the ballot.

Let’s talk about the school board, for example. Why do people run for the school board? Well, some run, praise the Lord, to seek to provide quality education for the kids. Some run because they are pissed off at some teacher that didn’t give their child the grade they thought the child deserved. But the people who ought to run do not. 

I live in an area that is dominated by the flooring industry. Mohawk Carpet is, I am sure, the largest employer in this area. Here’s the thing: The candidate for the school board should be the CEO of Mohawk Carpet. He knows how to run a corporation and the school system is a corporation. The students in the schools will be the employees of his company in the future and the future success of his company depends upon the education of those students now.

But he didn’t run. In fact, no one ran other than the one who now occupies the office. 

Democracy depends upon choices. Democracy is corrupted when there are no choices.

A Dream

The parson worked hard. He deserved it. He'd worked hard all day. It was only Thursday and everything was prepared for the Sunday worship service. In addition, the front yard had been cut and the leaves raked up.

For some reason he decided to watch the Republican Presidential debate. In fact, he decided to bore himself so much he watched the Junior Varsity version of the debates also.

When the debates were over, the parson headed to the bedroom. He prepared himself for bed and then laid his head down and with a deep sigh fell almost immediately asleep. Then the parson dreamed.

In the parson's dream, there was another presidential debate. For some reason, in the parson's dream the debate had candidates from both parties, including the Republican JV team on the stage. There they were, each standing behind their non-descript podium, smiling for the cameras and hoping the next question would be directed toward them.

Before the candidates sat the questioners. There were three of them. Mr. Smile, Ms. Charming, and Mr. Well-Dressed.

The debate began with a question from Mr. Smile. The question was, "Senator What's-Your-Name, in regard to the question of entitlements, Social Security, aid to families with dependent children, and such, which take up such a large percentage of our federal budget, how would you address these issues if elected President of the United States."

Senator What's-Your-Name began his answer. He started talking. The parson rolled over in his sleep, moaning as he did so. Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion, sleeping in his bed next to the parson's, grunted in protest that his sleep had been interrupted. The parson's dream continued.

Senator's What's-Your-Name completed his answer. The next question came from Ms. Charming. She said, "Senator What's-Your-Name, my fellow journalist, Mr. Smile, just asked you a question. You didn't answer the question. You danced around it. I'd like to invite you to actually answer the question. The question was:  "Senator What's-Your-Name, in regard to the question of entitlements, Social Security, aid to families with dependent children, and such, which take up such a large percentage of our federal budget, how would you address these issues if elected President of the United States."

Senator What's-Your-Name seemed stunned. He quickly began to talk. And he talked. And he talked.

The parson rolled over again under his covers. He snorted a bit. This time Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion sleeping on his bed beside the parson's, did not protest as he was now in a deep, deep sleep.

The dream continued. Now it was the third journalist's, Mr. Well-Dressed, turn to ask a question. Mr. Well-Dressed said, "Senator What's-Your-Name, two of my fellow panelist tonight have asked you a question. You didn't answer either of their questions. That's kind of amazing as the question of each was the same. I wonder if you'd be willing to answer a question for me. The question is:  "Senator What's-Your-Name, in regard to the question of entitlements, Social Security, aid to families with dependent children, and such, which take up such a large percentage of our federal budget, how would you address these issues if elected President of the United States."

Senator What's-Your-Name stuttered. Senator What's-His-Name shuffled his feet. Senator's What's-His-Name took a deep breath .....

The parson woke. He rose. He pulled himself out of the bed. For a moment his mind was confused. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, rose from his bed, walked over to the parson, head butted him as was his morning custom. The parson patted his head and said, "I really had a weird dream, Charlie Brown, a really weird dream."

What Regiment Did Your Granddaddy Fight In?

So, on Friday the parson headed down to the Quik Trip to purchase some gas, some beverage, and, truth be told, this time, a lottery ticket (It could happen.).

He stood at the pump, filling the tank, when he noticed the red pickup truck directly in front of him, parked near the door of the building. Extending over the tail gate of the truck were two 5’ x 8’ flags. One was the Confederate Battle Flag; the other was another version of the same with the words, “The South will rise again.”

The parson watched, as the dollar numbers continued to roll over on the pump indicator, an African-American young man walking from his vehicle at a nearby pump. He was headed inside the store. Dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt with no sleeves, his biceps bulged. He stopped about twenty feet from the Confederate adorned vehicle and stared. Then he shook his head from side to side and headed inside.

The parson finished pumping the gas. As he was retrieving his receipt from the pump, he saw the young lady exiting the store. She was dressed in a tight t-shirt and shorts with a Confederate flag about two feet in length tied to a belt loop on her right side. She walked up to the red pickup truck with the Confederate flags extended over the tailgate. She turned and faced the store. [“Forgive me father for I have sinned,” the parson silently confessed. He had stopped looking at the Confederate flag hanging from her right belt loop and, instead, fixed his eyes on the substantial amount of butt cheek displayed below her short-shorts, complimenting her Southern heritage.]

Gas nozzle returned to the holder, receipt in hand, the parson got back in the car, drove it into the parking spot adjacent to the protectors of a sinful culture. Exiting the car, he stopped before going into the store. “Interesting flag,” he said. “What regiment did your granddaddy serve in?”

“What?” the young fellow in his mid-twenties asked.

“What regiment did your granddaddy serve in, wait, seeing how young you are it must have been your Great-great-great granddaddy.” 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, stepping toward the parson. At that point, Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion and his girlfriend Penny both stood up in the car seats.

“I’m just asking you what regiment your ancestors served in in the War of Northern Aggression. Mine served in the Georgia Fifth Infantry.”

“Are you making fun of me?” he asked.

“Yes,” the parson said. “I am.”

The wannabe defender of the Confederacy stated at the parson another half minute. Then the parson said, “Tell me, what does that mean?” He pointed to the flag which proclaimed “The South Will Rise Again.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “Are you making fun of me?”

“I told you already, I am,” the parson said. “Listen, the South will rise again when the Governor of Georgia pushes extending Medicaid benefits so the poor people of this state, like your cousins, can benefit more from Obamacare. The South will rise again when the legislature of this state raises the minimum wage so people can lift themselves up. And the South will rise again when you and your friends here stop flying these idiotic flags and do some to make the South a better place to live.”

The parson turned and walked in the store to the sound of both Charlie Brown and Penny growling.

Inside that fellow with the t-shirt with the cut-off sleeves was getting some pizza. “Thanks,” said the parson.

“For what?” he asked.

“For not responding to those flags,” the parson responded. “I know it offended you.”

“It did,” he said. “Look, I saw you talking to them. What did you say?”

 “Not much,” the parson replied. “Ignorance can be fixed. Stupid is forever.”

It's Time to Grow Up

When I was a child, a young child, my great-grandmother seemed to spend most of her life on the sofa in my grandmother’s living room. Often, when I scamper through the room on some mission of childhood fantasy, she’d stop me and order: “Come over here.” She’d point to a spot on the floor directly in front of her. I’d do as instructed. She’d lift my shirt up with her left hand and proceed to stick the end of her right index finger into my navel. At this point she’d proclaim: “See where the Yankees shot you when you were a baby.”

Whenever I tell that story there’s always one of two reactions. One reaction is, “That’s horrible.”  The other reaction is, “That’s funny.” Both reactions are right. It was funny; it was horrible. My great-grandmother spent her childhood in rural Georgia where the land was patrolled by an occupying army. It colored her views.

I couldn’t help but think of this as I reflected on the momentous events of this past week.

I grew up as a child of the South where racism was rampant. Segregation was the way it was. And yet, I remember the discussion in a high school history class when President Eisenhower sent the troops into Little Rock. The discussion centered on our feeling that African-Americans not being able to attend our schools was terrible. There we were, kids who didn’t have a driver’s license yet, more grown up than many of our parents and grandparents.

It’s time to grow up. Take the Confederate battle flag down. My great-grandmother died two generations ago.

This past year, in that same high school classroom, where I and my classmates concluded that segregation was wrong, blacks and whites are studying together, playing together, dating each other. The reason they are is the Supreme Court of the United States said discriminatory laws against races was unconstitutional.

One of the candidates for President of the United States said, in reaction to the Supreme Court decision, “An unjust law is no law at all.” He invoked the name of Martin Luther King, Jr. in citing that quote. And Martin Luther King, Jr was quoting Saint Augustine. He’s right. He just failed to acknowledge that it is the Supreme Court that determines which of our laws are just and unjust. If that wasn’t so there would be no black faces in that classroom where I went to school today.

Saying that “an unjust law is no law at all” is not an indictment of the Supreme Court’s decision that the LBGT community cannot be denied the right of marriage, it’s an indictment of the failure of the one speaking failing to grow up. It’s ridiculous. The Supreme Court long ago said that a law that denies a black person to marry a Caucasian is “no law at all.”

Basically, those who are saying the Supreme Court’s gay marriage decision bypasses the process of law apparently never sat in a history classroom like the one I sat in during high school. Civil rights are not a matter of voting. Civil rights don’t need a legislative vote. Civil rights are, help me out here, ah, ah, … civil rights are RIGHTS.

One more point. These arguments that the Supreme Court is going to force me to marry someone is the product of an uninformed brain. I am an ordained minister of the United Methodist Church. No one can force me to marry anyone. It’s based one of the principles the people against gay marriage keep pushing, the separation of church and state (unless the Court rules in favor of their desires). I once spent more than a few sessions with a couple, both white and both straight, in pre-marital counseling. There came a point when I told them I wouldn’t agree to perform the marriage service. They were upset, to say the least. They went to another pastor a few blocks down the street. He married them. They divorced six months later.

I’m not a lawyer, but my interpretation of the decision is does not interfere with my duties as a pastor. Instead, it is a decision that says the Clerk of the Probate Court has to issue the license. Truth is, I might refuse to marry them, but the decision will not be based on whether or not they are gay.

I find it amazing that certain people who have a record of demanding the Supreme Court enforce their own theological views stomp their feet and shake their fists and whine when the nation is screaming, “Grow up.”

Friday's Recap, July 11, 2014

The news, at least on cable news, this week has centered around the 60,000 plus or minus children that have come across our southern border. Allow me, please, to share some observations on this issue.

 

First, in my old country parson analysis, as long as there are third world nations in our hemorpheristic neighborhood there will be people attempting to gain entry into our nation.

 

Second, the building of a twenty foot high wall on our border will result in only one thing. It will provide motivation for Mexican entrepreneurs to open shops in Juarez where they call sell twenty-two foot ladders.

 

Third, there is a long history in this country of anti-immigration movements. In the 1850s the Know Nothing Party gained national prominence and influence in the political debate with their opposition to Irish Catholic immigration. In the 1875 the Congress passed the Asian Exclusion Act, which limited the number of Chinese immigrants who could legally enter this country.

 

Fourth, our anti-immigrant policies have more to do with our prejudices than immigration alone. Some time back, when Ms. Parson was alive, she rented one side of a duplex she owned to a really lovely Hispanic couple. We were both pretty sure they were illegal, but they paid their rent on time, they kept the place amazingly clean. And, frankly, we liked them. When the other side of the duplex came open the tenants recommended a cousin move in. We accepted, gladly. But when the new tenants went to have the water put in their name, the water department asked them to produce a Social Security Card. I went to see the Mayor. I told him that the utilities were still in my wife’s name after I married and I thought that was not very manly so I was going to have the placed in my name. He asked me why I was telling him this. I told him, “If they ask me for a Social Security Card I’m going to pitch a fit.” He wrinkled his brow and stared at me. Then I added, “If they don’t ask me for a Social Security Card I’m going to pitch a fit.” He asked me if he was going to read about this on the web. I smiled.

 

Fifthly, to emphasize point four, I know three people within two miles of where I live who are illegal. They have never been challenged. They are in no fear of being discovered and deported. They operate openly as though they belong here. Two are from Canada and one is from England. All three are as illegal as the Hispanics that rented Ms. Parson’s duplex. But they don’t live in fear, and the clerk at the Water Department never asks to see their Social Security Card.

 

Sixth, the current crisis occupying the news is not about immigration, legal or illegal. The current crisis is about children, children who are refugees.

The dictionary defines an immigrant as: A person who comes to a country to live there. That same dictionary defines a refugee as: One that flees; especially a person who flees to a foreign country escape danger or persecution.

 

The Christian Science Monitor has noted (November 10, 2009) that Guatemala has long cultivated a reputation as one of the Western Hemisphere’s most brutal places for women. Seventy-seven out of every 100,000 were raped in 2008. The Daily Mail on July 30, 2012 (dailymail.co.uk) noted that Honduras has the highest murder rate of any nation. In 2012, the Peace Corps members in that nation were withdrawn from the country. The Honduran President stated they had been withdrawn because of the effects of the crime rate. More than 300 women have been murdered in Honduras in the past decade. This country is considered to be the world’s deadliest by the United Nations. In 2010 thirty-six women were killed each month and in 2012 the number was up to 2012. Ninety percent of these murders have never been investigated. A woman being raped in her own home in a common thing in Honduras.

 

The children crossing the border and surrendering to the Border Patrol are from these countries. They have traveled a thousand miles to reach the United States. Think about that last sentence. How bad does it have to be for a mother to place her ten-year-old daughter into the hands of strangers in the hope she makes it to the United States.

 

These children are refugees. They are fleeing horrendous conditions, so horrendous their mothers are willing to gamble on them making it.

 

Seventh, citizens of the United States, both elected officials and ordinary folks, are acting like the north end of a south bound horse. Picture those idiots, yep, I said idiots, standing in front of those buses filled with the children who had crossed the border. They yell and scream they don’t want these illegals in our country. They are screaming at children on board a Border Patrol bus filled with children in the Border Patrol’s custody. Go figure.

 

Congresspersons make their cute little speeches on the floor of the Congress, no doubt when they are certain the C-Span cameras are rolling. They speak of the horrible dangers that face our country from these ten-year-old despoilers of all that is American. The sight of Toddler Terrorist just angers them.  “Send them back. Send them back. Send them back.” was the cry of one prominent Senator. Hmmm! That might be a good slogan glad speeches about this being a Christian nation. all the while they forget the basic foundation of the Judeo-Christian tradition is hospitality, welcoming the foreigner, the stranger. Here’s a reminder, according to the story, Sodom and Gomorrah were not destroyed because of homosexuality but because they did not show hospitality.

 

Eighth, I just can't resist this. Governor Perry, about your request for the President to mobilize the National Guard, why are you waiting on the President. Every Governor has the power to mobilize their state National Guard. So, mobilize the Texas National Guard. Of course, if you mobilize it your state will have to pay for it and put your money where your mouth is.

 

Finally, and here endeth this rant, Jim Wallis, the founder and editor of Sojourners recently wrote about speaking to his child’s fifth grade class. It was a school that was multi-cultural, multi-racial. In the room were African-Americans, Hispanics, Native-Americans, Asian-americans. As he talked about the immigration the failure of elected officials to solve the problem was discussed. “What are they afraid of?” asked one child. Jim Wallis said he had to think a minute. And then as he looked around the room, at the faces of so many children from so many ethnic backgrounds, he knew the answer.

 

“You,” he said. “You’re what they are afraid of.”

Political Suggestions

Hope you had a glorious Fourth. It makes it nice when our nation’s birthday falls on either a Friday or Monday. Mine was kind of quiet. I mowed the lawn, trimmed the shrubs, took a nap, watched a movie, took another nap, went on a long walk with the dogs. Whew! Now that the high temperatures have returned I’m getting tired just thinking of all I did on that somewhat cool holiday.

But the Fourth is now over. That means the politicians are now all geared up to do some really serious campaigning. You know, in this day and age, if you’re feeling lonely and unnoticed just make a donation to someone’s campaign. It doesn’t have to be much. But it will assure your email and your snail mail box is filled to the brim every day. I wouldn’t mind getting all that mail if they’d keep mailing me after the election, just to assure me I’m not just a means to an end.

Knowing the campaigning is cranking up, I’d like to address the would-be office holders, those that wannabe and those that already are.

First, when you put out those mailers and air those television commercials, don’t limit yourself to attacking your opponent. Here’s the thing: If I’m going to vote for your opponent I’m not going to listen to nor read your solicitations. I don’t want to know about your opponent’s weakness. I want to know about what you’re going to do when you get there.

Second, don’t quote the founding fathers unless you actually know what they said. You need to be aware that some of us had Mr. Schuller for our American History teacher and we know for sure what the founding fathers said and did not say. Please don’t put your words in their mouth.

Another thing, particularly if you manage to hold a national office. When those cable news people ask you a question, answer it. Answer it as though you are our representative in that national body. Don’t repeat what we just heard the senator from some state out west said. Whenever that great inventor of political party talking points sends you a list of them, toss it. You are my representative. I’d like to hear your answer.

During these next five months of campaigning, do you think it would be too much to ask if you and your opponents conduct yourself with a bit of dignity. My Mama said if you can’t say anything nice about someone body don’t say anything. So don’t repeat nor make veiled references to some alleged flaw in your opponent. I can’t speak for everyone, but I am more interested in your proposals, your character, your approach than I am your opponent.

Gracious, there are so many suggestions I have. But I know you’ve got to get on to that next speaking engagement and are pressed for time. So, let me finish with one other suggestion. Actually, it’s more of a request than a suggestion.

Decades ago I remember reading a news magazine article which made the observation that anyone running for a statewide or national political office has to have a bit of an ego. That’s not a criticism; it seems self-evident. In this regard would you please, after being elected, purchase some media time for your spouse? And during that time could your spouse tell us what would be the best way for us to deal with your ego?

President Franklin Rooselvelt's Prayer, June 6, 1944

My Fellow Americans:

Last night, when I spoke with you about the fall of Rome, I knew at that moment that troops of the United States and our Allies were crossing the Channel in another and greater operation. It has come to pass with success thus far.

And so, in this poignant hour, I ask you to join with me in prayer:

Almighty God: Our sons, pride of our nation, this day have set upon a mighty endeavor, a struggle to preserve our Republic, our religion, and our civilization, and to set free a suffering humanity.

Lead them straight and true; give strength to their arms, stoutness to their hearts, steadfastness in their faith.

They will need Thy blessings. Their road will be long and hard. For the enemy is strong. He may hurl back our forces. Success may not come with rushing speed, but we shall return again and again; and we know that by Thy grace, and by the righteousness of our cause, our sons will triumph.

They will be sore tried, by night and by day, without rest -- until the victory is won. The darkness will be rent by noise and flame. Men's souls will be shaken with the violences of war.

For these men are lately drawn from the ways of peace. They fight not for the lust of conquest. They fight to end conquest. They fight to liberate. They fight to let justice arise, and tolerance and goodwill among all Thy people. They yearn but for the end of battle, for their return to the haven of home.

Some will never return. Embrace these, Father, and receive them, Thy heroic servants, into Thy kingdom.

And for us at home -- fathers, mothers, children, wives, sisters, and brothers of brave men overseas, whose thoughts and prayers are ever with them -- help us, Almighty God, to rededicate ourselves in renewed faith in Thee in this hour of great sacrifice.

Many people have urged that I call the nation into a single day of special prayer. But because the road is long and the desire is great, I ask that our people devote themselves in a continuance of prayer. As we rise to each new day, and again when each day is spent, let words of prayer be on our lips, invoking Thy help to our efforts.

Give us strength, too -- strength in our daily tasks, to redouble the contributions we make in the physical and the material support of our armed forces.

And let our hearts be stout, to wait out the long travail, to bear sorrows that may come, to impart our courage unto our sons wheresoever they may be.

And, O Lord, give us faith. Give us faith in Thee; faith in our sons; faith in each other; faith in our united crusade. Let not the keeness of our spirit ever be dulled. Let not the impacts of temporary events, of temporal matters of but fleeting moment -- let not these deter us in our unconquerable purpose.

With Thy blessing, we shall prevail over the unholy forces of our enemy. Help us to conquer the apostles of greed and racial arrogances. Lead us to the saving of our country, and with our sister nations into a world unity that will spell a sure peace -- a peace invulnerable to the schemings of unworthy men. And a peace that will let all of men live in freedom, reaping the just rewards of their honest toil.

Thy will be done, Almighty God.

Amen.

President Franklin D. Roosevelt - June 6, 1944

Capitalism, Climate Change, Democracy

A Lesson Learned

September 11th.  Do you remember where you were on this day twelve years ago?  September 11th. It’s a day that punctured our national illusion, and, perhaps, led us to the plain of understanding as regards our corporate identify..

A month ago I spent some time in New York City with two of my granddaughters. The sixteen-year-old was there to participate in a dance workshop. (I’d tell you what dance company she was working with but you’d then accuse me of bragging.) Her younger sister was there to hang out with me. That younger one was only seven months old on that fateful day in September. For her the event is only read in her school history books. It is not something experience, a defining moment. She’s two generations behind me. I wonder how September 11th will impact her.

She has no visual to recall. For her the flames bursting from the towers, the bodies falling, the horrific fall of those buildings upon the firemen, policemen, and civilians within is not personal. As we passed up the Hudson River on our trip around Manhattan, I pointed out a docked fireboat. I told her how the boat, FDNY Boat 342, was give that number in memory of the firemen who died on September 11th. I explained that the boat was made from the steel salvaged from the wreckage. “I’ve read about September, 11th,” she said.

Later that day, on that same boat ride, we looked toward the New York City skyline. The new tower stood there. Beside it was something unusual for New York. Beside it was open space. That open space is, itself, a memorial. How does someone, like my granddaughter with no visual memory of those grand pre-9/11 towers, relate to the silent testimony of that open space?

It seems a bit surreal she’s so removed from that day. It seems surreal because much of the aftermath of that event has defined her life. Because of that day, when she travels with me she has to, even at her age, carry a picture ID. Because of those planes that brought so much horror, death, and tragedy, she’s subjected to being searched when entering a public .building or traveling on an airplane. Every day of her life, even before the day she took her first step, her country has been at war.

So much of the life of my generation and that of my children’s has been impacted by 9/11. So much of the interaction of nations has been complicated by that day. Since that terror attack the world has become more divided, more sectarian, more intransigent in so many ways.

What then will be the lesson I leave my grandchild as I tell her about this event. As I try and explain the reasons the planes came, as I try to relate the reasoning for the response of our nation in invading two countries, it seems to me it is imperative I find some eternal truth the generations who experienced that day can leave to those who come behind us.

I think I’ll tell her how the terrorist wanted to destroy the ideals of our nation, ideals we find difficult to live up to. I’ll try and explain how and why the terrorist hate us. And then I’ll tell her that both we and they have learned a lesson. That lesson, I’ll tell her, is: you cannot kill an idea with a bullet.