Dallin Malmgren's Blog, page 28

The Haircut

Unmerciful photo by Karen

After 41 years my wife decided she didn’t want to cut my hair anymore. I don’t blame her a bit—actually, I admire her decision. She had done it so many times over that period (I think I only went to a barber once, when she was away). Cutting someone’s hair is a thankless task, and it’s not that easy. She didn’t even have the barbershop accouterments, like the really cool chair and all the mirrors and the shaving/razoring stuff.

But it has to be done—have you looked at old men who are sloppy about hair grooming? So when we moved to Frisco, I had the new experience of going out to get a haircut. I went with some criteria: 1) It had to be fast—I know it’s not fun for the barber, but it’s not fun for the barbee either. 2) It has to be acceptable—if you’ve seen my hair, you know no one can turn me into Brad Pitt. Just make me look decent. 3) You have to manage the gross stuff—the wild eyebrow hairs and the ears and any random shoot popping out of nowhere. 4) Give me a reasonable price—I want a barbershop, not a spa. 5) I need Karen’s approval when I get home—obviously.

When you think about it, there’s a lot of vanity tied up in hair. My entry into the land of baldness was not a smooth landing. When I was 18 years old, a barber laughed while he was cutting my hair and told me I was going to be bald before I was 21. I didn’t really believe him until I was in my early 30’s and I saw a Christmas photo of me opening a present, shot from above and behind. There was no hair on the top of my head! Reversely, think about the gift of beautiful hair. I was sitting in the bleachers at a high school baseball game one time—the girl in front of me had lustrous brown hair. Little flecks of reds and purples danced off of her hair in the sunlight. It was more beautiful than high school baseball. Beautiful hair is easy to envy because there’s a lot of ugly hair out there too. Remember the wonderful O. Henry story where the wife sold her hair and her husband bought her a brush? We prize hair.

Here is the balance: Beauty is fleeting. We don’t look that good for very long. There is something sad about people who try desperately to hold on to youthfulness. Hair, like skin, is only young once. Putting too much value on outer beauty stunts the growth of inner beauty. It is just a haircut.

How often does a man need a haircut? Having no idea what other men would say, I vote six to eight weeks (that’s why I ask them to cut it short). I like barbers better than dentists or doctors, but it is still somebody operating on you. The fewer the operations, the better.

I have been to five barbershops in the Frisco area. The Iranian was the most interesting, but he is the farthest away. All four other barbers were women. I went once to a barber school, where it was a student who cut my hair while a supervisor moved up and down the rows of barber chairs. The young woman who cut my hair seemed like an amalgam of a hundred different girls I taught. I bought it as a Group-on, two for one, but I don’t think Karen wants me to go back for the second. Even I could tell it was a bit ragged—and she was slow.

I guess I have settled on Brittany—she’s nice, she’s quick, she’s thorough, and she works a half mile from my house. I have thought I should care more, be more meticulous about who cuts my hair and how they do it, but I don’t have it in me. I wear a hat just about whenever I go outside, and the only thing that impresses Karen about my hair is if it is clean and short.

Haircuts in heaven? I am almost sure not.

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Marital balance

“And the two shall become one flesh, so they are no longer two but one flesh.” (Mark 10:8)

Becoming one…

I think about this verse a lot…is it a promise? Is it a command? It is obviously not literal, since Karen and I are still walking around in our own skins 42 years later. This is what I’ve come up with: it is a statement of fact—from God’s point of view.

If my premise is correct, the implications are staggering. First of all, there can be no question about equality. If God sees us as one, there can’t be any better or worse that separates us. So all of our crazy critiques of one another are just babble. In order for us to become one in daily living, we have to be changed equally. This flies in the face of conventional wisdom, where we have the image of the long-suffering wife and the wayward husband (or vice versa). If your mind is settled that you are and will remain the aggrieved party in your marriage, I fear that your best direction is—out. I have observed spouses who want to go to marriage counseling so that the mate can realize what a bastard/bitch he/she is. Yeah, that probably will work.

The second implication is that we have been put together for a reason. Let’s face it, neither one of us entered the marriage as a work of art. Work in progress is the operative term. If the two become one, that means the work in progress has taken on a whole new dynamic. If the ultimate purpose of the work is for us to become Christ-like, i.e., one with God, that means the primary human relationship God is going to use to transform us is the person He sees us as one with. What a great plan!

The third implication follows logically: cleaving. “For this reason a man should leave his father and his mother and cleave unto his wife…” (Genesis 2:24) Your spouse has to be primary—the most important person in your life. The leaving father and mother is tricky enough—it really gets difficult when you add in children and relatives and friends and career. The significance of all those people is going to rise and fall as your life progresses. You have to remember that you are not one with any of them.

How does all this become more than idealistic blather? It never will without the grace of God. Fortunately, that is available. But I think the afore-mentioned equality is the key building block. One cannot be “more right” than the other. Her perception is just as important (but no more) than mine. If our marriage is a seesaw, the goal is to become maintain equilibrium—and the center of the balance is Christ. In healthy marriages, you strive to measure up to each other. If you have children, the greatest shared task in the marriage is parenting. Ideally, both mother and father accept an equal responsibility in seeing the family is moving in the right direction. That is an admirable goal. If all couples got near a 50/50 split, our divorce rate would disappear. But the path to 50/50 is 100% unconditional…total commitment leads to perfect equality—the magical ingredient is trust.

Which leads us back to Christ—we just don’t have it in us. To put someone else first? Our most basic instinct is to look out for ol’ number one. And yet, the Bible teaches us that the key to happiness is to put others before oneself. How do we reconcile this internal conflict? Thanks be to God through our Lord Jesus Christ.

I don’t mean to imply that Karen and I have achieved this state of equilibrium on the marital seesaw, staring at each other in perfect oneness. But I think we share this perspective (can’t say for sure…she hasn’t read this yet). I do know that the ups and downs are becoming less severe, and those harsh bumps where one end hits the ground have almost completely disappeared. The blessing of marriage is being confirmed in our lives—I pray the same for you.

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Snakes on a Brain

Edith’s birthday cake when she was four years old.

My granddaughter Edith loves snakes. She has a big stuffed one that she likes to carry around with her. She has a more realistic plastic one that she enjoys setting in strategic places. She has lots of snake books. She thinks it is hysterical that I am afraid of them.

I believe I know how that happened. I have a vague memory of going on a hike with my brother. We were on a family vacation, and I think I was about four or five. We came to this shallow creek that had a muddy, sandy bottom. So we waded in and started squishing around like it was quicksand, sinking deeper and deeper. I was in up to my knees. All of a sudden a big black snake was swimming through the water toward us. I couldn’t jerk my feet out of the mud. I guess we just splashed and the snake went away, but that one instant was terrifying.

During my short-lived (thankfully) hallucinogenic phase, I was in the woods with my friend Danny Dougherty, tripping merrily along. I looked into a crevice and I saw a snake. Its eyes looked directly into mine. I suppose they’re not to blame, but for some reason God chose to make snakes the most evil-looking organisms in His entire creation. (Thus the serpent in the garden.) I looked away from my snake…and suddenly the leaves on the ground teemed with snakes, the branches of the trees began wriggling and transformed into snakes. In abject terror I turned to my friend Danny. Our eyes met, only it wasn’t his eyes; they were now snake eyes, that cold, reptilian, soulless stare. Then Danny’s face morphed into a snake face! Hollywood couldn’t have done it better using CGI. I screamed and the next thing I knew the real Danny was shaking me, saying, “Dallin, Dallin, it’s only a bad trip.”

I took LSD five or six times after that, and whenever I took it I was immediately filled with fear and paranoia, terrified that my world would suddenly dissolve into a mass of writhing snakes. I’d stay in one room tenaciously clinging to reality while my brain absorbed the effects of LSD. I was such fun to trip with! In fact, one time I talked my friend Randy into a bad trip. I had just finished describing my bad experience to him, but he didn’t seem to get it.

“What are you afraid of?” I asked.

“Bugs.”

“Okay, so imagine that all of a sudden there are bugs everywhere, crawling all over the floor, flying, landing on you, crawling into your ears…”

The next thing I knew he was wrapped up like a ball, screaming his lungs out. Perversely, it made me feel better.

Why did I keep taking LSD? I guess because I knew the problem was not with snakes, it was with my psyche. Like the line from Bob Dylan’s classic “Talkin’ World War III Blues,” spoken by a psychiatrist: “I wouldn’t worry about it none, those dreams are only in your head.” My story has a happy ending, even though I certainly don’t advocate therapy by hallucinogen under any circumstance. The very last time I took acid, I was out on a hippie farm in Missouri. I went out into the woods by myself, trepidatious but determined. I had a revelatory experience sitting by a pond, a John Lennon-esque Primal Scream revelation. I was meditating and I felt myself going deeper and deeper into my mind, like pages were fluttering backward and I was getting younger and younger. I ended up in a fetal position, and I saw a tremendous flash of white light, which filled me with indescribable joy. I stood up and the world was beautiful, gorgeous, perfect. On the way back to the farmhouse, a big brown mottled snake slithered across my path about ten feet in front of me. I stopped and took a deep breath. I watched it move away into the underbrush. I walked on. I was cured. I was not a Christian back then, but I am certain God was very present in that whole stage of my development.

Okay, yes, I am still afraid of snakes—but not terrified like I was then. When I met my wife, we were both members of a zealous Christian community, I a new convert, she a passionate disciple. We were very drawn to each other, and so we would sometimes pray together, especially about what our relationship should be. We were doing that very thing one day in her backyard, and when I looked up there was a huge snake moving through the bush behind her. If I believed too much in omens, I would be without my lovely wife.

But I didn’t, and we married. A few years later I was mowing the back lawn and I glimpsed a snake moving through the grass. I ran in to tell Karen. “There’s a huge snake out there!”

“Does that mean you’re not finishing the lawn?”

“No, it means I’m putting on my boots.” And I did, tall ones.

A few rows later I saw the snake flash again, and the lawnmower got it. I went and got Karen, who came out to examine my kill. It was a 12-inch garter snake. She laughed her head off.

A few years ago I was in my garage and I watched a six-foot corn snake crawl in and hide behind some boxes. Did I mention that when Karen was a child, she used to attend classes at the St. Louis Zoo, and she once had large harmless snakes wrap themselves around her arms and neck? So I went and got her. She grabbed that sucker by the tail, carried it out to the wooded area behind our house, and let it go. I was very grateful that nobody drove by and saw us.

Edith’s daddy has promised her that someday he will get her a pet snake. Hmmm. Cross that bridge when I get to it.

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Abiding

One of my favorite books…

“Abide in me and I in you. Just as the branch cannot bear fruit by itself unless it abides in the vine, neither can you unless you abide in me.” (John 15:4)

I have often thought this verse expresses the key to a happy, victorious life. Happy? Victorious? I’ll bet that neither are words that you would immediately associate with most of the professed Christians that you know. Therefore, my conclusion is that we Christians have not mastered the art of abiding. I’ve been a Christian for 44 years, but for the large majority of them I’ve been a Hopalong believer. I ran my own life and allowed Jesus to hop on board when I needed Him (crises, illness, loss, tragedy). Oh yeah, I’d give Him the perfunctory Thank You when things went well, too.

When I retired, I resolved to make my relationship with Jesus my top priority. That quickly led to the stunning realization that He is with me, present, every moment of my life (see earlier blog post: “I am with you always..” October 6, 2019). Becoming aware of His presence and responding to His presence is what abiding is all about.

That has been my goal, and I frequently avow that goal, but I cannot say I’ve attained that goal. Hardly. Is it even realistic to hope to abide in Him? I believe it is, but not in the way that I have expected—I am not moving up into some higher consciousness, like an enlightened spiritual being. Rather, He is drawing nearer to me, making it easier to call to mind, say a prayer, remember a verse, see the situation from a larger viewpoint—as though He is joining me in my life instead of trying to transport me to another.

And then comes the astonishing revelation: every time you listen and do what He wants, there is a positive effect (what He refers to as “bearing fruit”.) Maybe not always apparent at the moment, but always inevitable and usually evident in retrospect. “My yoke is easy…” Man, I have struggled with that verse most of my life! I think I get it—the yoke is trust–you have to trust Him more than yourself.

Do I have to know I am abiding in order to be abiding (abiding is an active verb)? Absolutely not. Do you have to spend every moment with your wife to know you are married? I accept that I am married and am grateful for it: I want to carry that awareness into every moment I am living. I believe that I am abiding: I want to carry that awareness into every moment I am living.

It is a slippery slope—if you think you’re abiding, you’re probably not. You’re like a water skier who thinks he doesn’t need the rope and so he lets go. You can’t will to abide and you can’t fake it. There are activities that nurture the sense of abiding, the awareness. Prayer, of course, and spiritual reading, and service. It is a wonder when you do something nice for someone and see the face of Jesus in the person’s response. However, you can’t pick your spots to abide. Paul says: “…whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus..” Breathing is probably a good place to start.

It is another one of God’s wonderful paradoxes: my number one goal for the rest of my days (abiding in Jesus) is something that is already true.

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Live music, then and now

I just finished watching Rolling Thunder Revue: A Bob Dylan Story by Martin Scorcese. O, what a role that man has played in my life (Dylan, not Scorcese)! I used to tell my creative writing students that someday our society would look upon Dylan’s body of work the way we do Shakespeare now. Hyperbole, certainly, although he did win a Nobel Prize for Literature. But I don’t want to write about Dylan—I want to write about live music.

I came from a non-musical family—we didn’t create, but we did listen. My parents liked Broadway musicals, and me and my siblings know all the words to lots of them. Listening to us sing them (we’ve done that a few times on hikes) is definitely not a live music experience. My first memorable live music event was listening to a high school guy play guitar and sing around the campfire at a neighborhood block party in Drexel Hill, Pennsylvania—turned out to be Jim Croce. I thought he was supercool before I even knew who he was.

Music exploded into my consciousness in the late ‘60’s, and, like everyone else, I wanted to see it while I heard it. Unfortunately, I was a poor young man with no fiscal sense, very little ambition, and poor job prospects. But I could save and scrape for the occasional special performance. My only claim to fame as a concert-goer in the Age of Aquarius is that I did get to see the dead ones: Janis and Jimi and Jim Morrison of the Doors. Through the years I’ve made it to a number of concerts, but the number isn’t large and it doesn’t seem to be growing. The last stadium I went to was to see Willie Nelson and John Mellencamp and Bob Dylan (Diamond Dell Park in Austin)—Bob was terrible, John was a true performer, and Willie was Willie. I won’t do stadium concerts anymore.

See, I’m doing it too. One of my objections to the big concert scene is the prestige factor. Is the biggest motivation to go just to say you went? Is your t‑shirt more valuable than the memory? I hope it’s my faulty judgment, but I’ve heard people talk about who they’ve seen at what venue as if it provides a boost to their self-esteem—like I just did.

It’s the curmudgeon in me. The real reason I don’t go to live music anymore is that I’m uncomfortable in crowds, I like recliners better than fold-up chairs, I don’t like smoke (are concerts still smoky?), and I don’t like to drive at night. My idea of a great concert is Austin City Limits on PBS. I am old, I am old, I shall wear my trousers rolled…T.S. Eliot said that.

But the Rolling Thunder Revue reminded me of something. There’s a chauffeur driving one of the musicians, and the documentarian is interviewing the chauffeur about the previous night’s concert. The guy admits he’s never gone to a rock music concert before, but he plans to go to more now. He says “…I thought it was a most unusual occurrence—I never noticed as a part of the audience..I never paid attention to a response between the audience and the people on the stage—that to me was a show by itself. It was like one battery charging another. You not only could feel the vibes, you could almost see them. There was a love affair between the performers and the audience…” I have known that feeling—and it was a sublimely wonderful experience.

Back in my hippie days, six or eight of us would gather in my friend Charlie Baum’s apartment. Charlie had a friend named Dan who wrote songs, played guitar and sang. We’d smoke some pot and Dan would start playing. There were no separate conversations or cellphones or any of that. We would just listen. His songs were riotous and satirical and insightful and uplifting. Old Dan remains high on my list of favorite live music events.

The true joy of live music is the connection—the artist and the audience. I guess that’s the same with any art—except that live music is different. There it is a shared experience—one nurtured by both sides. I think I will try to catch a few more concerts after all…maybe.

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Happiness is not a warm gun…

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have been a hypocrite. I hold to certain beliefs and principles, and yet I have acted contrary to them for my own self-interest. I have no justification for my actions.

It all started with two handguns. They were owned by my father-in-law. They came into my possession when we moved him out of his apartment and into a nursing home. I asked my wife what I should do with them. We have never owned guns and don’t want to. I have only fired a gun on two occasions. The first time I blew a can to smithereens with a shotgun. I was dating a country girl, and her father felt that no one should have never fired a gun. The second time was skeet shooting with my son-in-law. I was terrible—never hit a thing.

My wife said I should turn the guns into the police. O, why didn’t I listen! Because I thought it was a bad idea—deep down I have a vague distrust of the police (another story for another time). The guns had value. I decided I should sell them.

How do I do that? I put the two guns in the trunk of my car. I went to a shooting range and asked the guy at the counter. They didn’t buy guns, and no, he didn’t want me to bring them in to see them. I decided to take the guns to my two friends, George and Lyndon, who know way more about guns than I do. They said one looked like a cheap, cheesy knockoff of a Colt .45, but the other was probably a pretty decent handgun. They talked about weight and heft and caliber. I nodded my head. Then we went to a bar.

George and Lyndon like bars and they know lots of people. A guy sat down to visit and somehow my handguns came up. He was interested. I showed him a picture of the guns on my phone. He wanted to see them. We went out to the parking lot and I opened my trunk. He looked them over, said he would give me $150 for them. I said sure. (I am blushing with shame.) He went off to find an ATM and fifteen minutes later we made the transaction. George and Lyndon looked at me weird. I sold two unregistered (as far as I know) handguns to a stranger in the parking lot of a bar.

It feels like a Tarantino movie. Flashback to the ridiculous steps that led a foolish man into making that exchange. Flash forward to the potential violence and tragedy that those two handguns could impart. What horrifies me most is that I went through that whole experience with almost no awareness of the moral implications of what I was doing. $150—it will help defray the costs of moving my father-in-law—good deal.

I woke up at 4:39 this morning realizing the idiocy and moral bankruptcy of what I have done. (Oh, I’ve thought of it before—this happened about 8 months ago—but I’ve quickly pushed those thoughts back under.) So I am making a $200 donation to the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence ($150=repayment, $50=penance). And I will continue to pray: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. I have been a hypocrite. I pray by Your infinite grace that those two handguns are locked safely in someone’s gun cabinet and will never be used to bring harm to another human being. And please, Lord, make me a smarter person.

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Closing out 2019.

artwork by Annalisa Barelli

Introspection and retrospection. There’s some value in both activities as long as it’s a pause, not a stop. Was there any progress? Where do my loose ends lie? Do I still believe in resolutions—if so, what shall I resolve? As I get ready to meet my old friend Dry January, these are questions worth considering.

Progress is a tricky one because my comprehension of the nature of progress is changing. In the past I thought of progress in terms of attainments, that is, in external measures—what have I accomplished? Now I see progress in terms of my ability to surrender. I used to ask What can I do for You, God? Now I want to know What can You do with me, God? Measuring my progress by goals, be it weight loss or bank account or fitness level or golf handicap or number of books read, is essentially an egocentric activity. Look at me. True progress is measured by a level of awareness. Here is my barometer: Love God and love your neighbor as yourself—vertical and horizontal. How well am I doing at living by those instructions moment by moment? To assess my progress seems kind of silly…like seeing how the earth is doing by looking at a rock. But I don’t want to dismiss the idea of progress. For the sake of introspection, I would say it goes well. I have far to go, but I am being moved.

The loose ends are more dangerous because more is visible. My loose ends are things I’m not satisfied with, or more positively, things I want to improve, like my body image, my financial stewardship, my relationships with my family (each one of them), how I spend my time (work and play), even my marriage. Shoring up the loose ends requires a change in attitude more than any regimen or vow or plan—I have to decompress and take the weight off my own shoulders. Take, for example, my body (please)—image is the key word here. How I see myself— if I try to control how others see me, I am lost. Healthy and fit are both better words than makeover. My finances: what do I covet? Money is not evil—it’s the love that gets you. The simpler I can keep my desires, the less I need. The less I need, the more I can give—according to the promise, that’s where the true joy lies. My time: I am definitely not ready for monkhood. I like sports and entertainment and sleep and just hanging out. I trust the Lord will continue to teach me how to enjoy those things with Him present. Ah, relationships: the horizontal part of my barometer. In my moment to moment life, my neighbor is not the guy across the street—it’s my wife, my daughter and two sons, their children, my brother and sisters, their families, Karen’s family, friends, and outward from there. Take one day and concentrate completely on loving your spouse as you love yourself—now that’s a real challenge!

Now the tough question: where am I with making resolutions? I am a sucker for resolutions—they reassure me that I am still trying. But I am losing faith in will-power—it is being swallowed up in grace. Trust changes me more than I can possibly change myself. I hope to take all my health, diet, exercise loose ends and surround them with My body is a temple for the Holy Spirit—a New Testament temple, not that stuffy Old Testament one. I want to notice my breathing more. I want to feed my mind from nutritious sources.

My number one would-be resolution goes back to my barometer. I want to love God with all my heart, mind, soul and strength. And I want to take advantage of all the opportunities He gives me. The Holy Spirit is trying to increase my awareness that love is active. I can be lazy—people are just supposed to know that I love them. It doesn’t work. So what do I resolve…to love more actively? That can sound spooky. How about turning the resolution into a request: Lord, teach me how to love.

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www.dallinmalmgren.com’s greatest hits (the early years)

I never even thought about my parents having sex. In retrospect, I’m sure they did—there are six of us children and only occasional suspicions about parentage. –from The Birds and the Bees…(7/21/2013)

To make a resolution implies that one is capable of change in a positive direction. As long as we operate on that principle, we can move forward in this world. The most stifling six words to the human soul are: “That’s just the way I am.” –from I do hereby resolve… (1/1/2012)

But there is really only one thing I will miss about my job—you. Of all the manifold pleasures God has created for us, the most exquisite ones revolve around people. The importance of family is obvious. The joys of friendship are undeniable. I think real fulfillment extends beyond these. It’s the countless other people who pass through our lives—the acquaintances, the co-workers, the unexpected encounters, the interest sharers—who give us the chance to shine. In my case, it’s the students who passed through my classroom, the hallways, the tennis courts. –from My Next Career (6/12/2013)

I give you John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath as another example. If you can read that without being moved by the plight of the poor, I don’t know where your heart is. A good book which inspires you to become a better person becomes a great book. –from A good book… (1/16/2012)

Conversation is an art, and art involves taking risks and self-revelation and exploration. The people I enjoy talking to most are the ones who don’t censor themselves too tightly—who are honest and open and funny and maybe even a little off-putting at times. I like conversations that surprise me. –from Insert Foot in Mouth (7/7/2013)

Because that seems to be where the battle line is drawn; a willingness to listen is an expression of interest in the inner workings of someone else’s mind, and the desire to speak is a determination to trumpet the inner workings of your own. –from A good listener… (1/29/2012)

In an earlier blog entry I said that children are God’s way of teaching us unconditional love. Marriage is His way of humbling us by demonstrating how consistently we fall short of that lofty goal. –from Spousal Arguments… (2/6/2012)

Karen has a special thing for weed-whacking. Not for doing it, but for having it done. For her, a mowed lawn without it is like peanut butter and bread without the jelly. And she wants peach preserves—none of that grape crap. Personally, I think a man’s lawn should reflect his character, and God knows I’m a little rough around the edges. –from Mowing the lawn… (5/28/2012)

So how does this work out, me and God and golf, on a practical level? Please don’t think I am so spiritually immature to think that God is blessing me when I’m playing well and disciplining me when I play badly. Results oriented interpretation of the will of God is utter bombast. That’s like sports fans who pray to God for their team to win. –from God and the 5th Hole (7/28/2013)

Teachers and writers share a common job hazard—they mostly don’t get to see the effect of their work. The lessons you impart are planted internally. The kid leaving the classroom looks the same as the kid who came in. It is usually a matter of faith that something positive happened. Have faith. –from My Retirement Speech (6/14/2014)

I remember after the 2007 championship I came up with the following body analogy for the Spurs core: Pop is the Brain, Timmie is the Soul, Manu is the Heart, and Tony is the Penis. (I know that makes Tony sound like a dick, but, c’mon guys, where would you be without your penis?) Now I have to add to the analogy. Kawhi, quite obviously, is the Hand, and R.C.—well, R.C. must be God, who knows and sees all things, and understands how it all fits together. –from Cinco Anillos (6/23/2014)

I can remember in a book group discussion I had one time, the prevailing opinion was that Jesus was a wonderful teacher, a peerless role model, a proof of what exists inside us all. If I had to follow that Jesus, I would wither in despair. It would be like being presented with a brand new shiny Corvette and not having the keys or any other means of starting the engine. Nice to look at but basically useless. He lives. –from Hello Jesus—my true confession (11/16/2017)

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A Child is born…a writer is down

photo by Karen

Sick again…Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!

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The Neglected Fruit

photo by Karen

“But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control. Against such there is no law.” (Galatians 5:22–23, NIV)

Talk about the forgotten step-child. Forbearance gets no hype whatsoever. Nobody talks about it. Love makes the world go round—all we are saying is give peace a chance—we practice random acts of kindness—and most of our scales trumpet the need for self-control. This is what the dictionary says about good ol’ forbearance: good-natured tolerance of delay or incompetence; tolerance and restraint in the face of provocation.

It seems forbearance is especially needed in our current political climate. Divisiveness and contempt for opposing opinions are the prevailing forecast. Climate change and immigration and abortion and healthcare can send each of us scooting for our dogmatic corners. It brings to mind an old Phil Ochs lyric: “Soldiers, disillusioned, come home from the war/ Sarcastic students tell them not to fight no more/ So they argue through the night/ Black is black and white is white/ Walk away both knowing they are right.” Not much room for forbearance there.

Politics is particularly factious within the Christian community. The world seems to believe that most of us are Trump supporters. That makes those of us who are not both testy and uncomfortable. Christianity Today, an Evangelical publication, recently came out in support of Trump’s removal from office. Numerous Evangelical leaders immediately repudiated the magazine’s position. The body of Christ is clearly divided.

I am compelled to offer my opinion: Donald Trump is an unfit leader for this country, not because of the Ukraine or Russia or North Korea or the wall or the environment or abortion or healthcare (although I disagree with him on most of those topics)—but because he demonstrates, in his words and his actions, a serious lack of those qualities (listed above) which should be the result of a godly life. His character dismays me. That is my opinion (the operative word is opinion).

Here is my conflict in a nutshell: I have two friends, a couple, who are ardent Trump supporters. But I also know them to be warm, generous, lovingly devoted followers of Jesus. When we talk politics, it goes very much like the Phil Ochs’ lyric above. But that is, and should be, a miniscule part of our relationship. What that part requires from each of us is forbearance.

I loved how Jesus handled it when the Pharisees tried to trap Him with the coin with Caesar’s image. “Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and unto God the things that are God’s.” Politics is Caesar’s—we are God’s! There is no division in the body of Christ—there could be in how we look at it. Our work is Kingdom work. Thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. That is the task of the body of Christ. And I feel certain it has more to do with love and joy and peace…and forbearance than it does with the Ukraine and the wall and climate change.

These are our marching orders: “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God? (Micah 6:8) While we are at it, let’s cultivate forbearance

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