Wendy Isaac Bergin's Blog: Podcast: Altitude Adjustment with Leon Davis, Jr., page 3

Three Stories

Everybody loves a good story, and I have three in mind to tell you about. To begin with, The Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien is one of the best. I’ve read it all the way through three times. If you’ve read it or seen the film version, you know it’s about a struggle between good and evil. It takes place in Middle Earth, which is inhabited by Elves, Dwarves, Wizards, Kings and Queens, and the small, insignificant Hobbits who mostly worry about what their next meal will be. I have to say I identified completely with the Hobbits. There are monstrous evil beings like Orcs, Balrogs, Cave Trolls, and the terrifying Nazgûl.

The Kingdom of Gondor represents the good and Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor represents evil. At the time the story takes place, there were no Kings in Gondor because the last king had died with no heir. So the realm was governed by the Stewards of Gondor. They were charged with watching over and administering the kingdom until it would be claimed by an heir of Elendil—the rightful King. The Stewards of Gondor never sat on the throne of the King. They sat in a simple chair of black stone placed below it. In the end, the Stewards relinquish their authority, because the rightful King, Aragorn Elessar, returns to take the throne.

So a steward is a person put in charge of the affairs of a large household or estate; one who acts as a supervisor or administrator of finances or accounts or properties for another who has more authority and power.

The Lord of the Rings is fiction, as you know. But the story I’m about to tell you is nonfiction; it really happened. It’s how I received insight into who I really am.

I have chickens at home that I raise for their eggs. I love chickens; I love to watch them free range, pecking and scratching, eating the petunias. Everybody loves chickens, especially coyotes, raccoons, and children with BB guns.

But I have a large dog and she protects them pretty well. For a long time, I had no problems. But then one of the chickens got sick.

The first thing I did was call the vet. The first thing the vet said was, “We don’t treat chickens.” However she told me about an over-the-counter medicine I could get at a feed store. I got it. It did not help.

I went to Plan B—the internet. I typed in the symptoms and looked for remedies. I added apple cider vinegar to her water, and I tried various other things. But nothing worked.

All this took place over the course of two weeks. And lest you think I am completely heathen, I prayed all during that time for help. I prayed God would help me figure out what to do. Well, I didn’t figure it out.

So then I decided God didn’t need a middle man. He could heal her directly. I prayed God would do that. I put my hands on the hen and prayed over her, asking God to heal her.

It didn’t work. In fact, the more I tried, the worse she got. The worse she got, the more frustrated I got. One afternoon, I went out to check on her. It was pitiful. She had stopped eating. She was bedraggled, weak, listless, and sitting with her head bowed down and eyes closed. And I couldn't do anything about it!

As I left the enclosure and walked back to the house, I was fretting and fussing at God. I practically yelled, “Come on, God, You can heal this hen. Why won’t you heal her?”

Then, out of the blue and clear as day, I heard these words, “IS SHE NOT MINE?”

I literally ducked and looked up. “Yes, she is. Everything is yours, Lord.”

Well, I was shocked. I realized a lot of things all of a sudden. First, I felt relieved. The hen belonged to God, and she was in His hands, not mine. He claimed ownership of the hen. He was in control, and her fate was up to Him. It took a burden off my shoulders.

Secondly, I felt naked, exposed and completely transparent. The Lord knew my every thought and everything I did.

Standing out in the yard, I looked at my house and the land it sits on with a new perspective. If the Lord owned the hen, which I thought was mine, then he owned everything else, too. God had given the house and land to me, but I realized that none of it was mine. Like everything else, it all belonged to the Lord.

That was when I realized I was a steward, a steward of all the good things He had given me. I was to take care of them, but I didn’t really own them. I would even say that of my son. He’s mine, but not mine—he belongs to the Lord.

Later that day, the hen died.

But death is never the end of the story. I don’t know why she died. The Lord’s purpose is His own. It is often mysterious, and we cannot see the end of it, so we have to trust Him. But it was a comfort to me that the Lord was present in the experience and aware of a little hen and aware of all my thoughts.

So if the Lord notices a small, insignificant hen, and if he knows all my thoughts, then he also knows all your thoughts, your hopes and fears and concerns down to the smallest detail.

This experience deepened my faith, broadened my understanding of who I am, and made me very thankful.

There is so much to be thankful for. The Lord has made the earth and everything in it. He has made you and me in His own image. He has provided all we need to live. He has put us into His own great and everlasting story. And this is the third story I mentioned.

This story is also nonfiction. God is its Author. It begins with the Creation of the world and the perfect Garden of Eden. Then comes the Fall of Man and the entrance of sin and death into the world. The giving of the law to Moses. After long years, God intervenes in the story in the form of Christ Jesus—his sacrifice and our redemption. And now amidst what appears to be growing evil, we wait with all Creation for the triumphant return of the Rightful King.

No story ever told can compare with the power and majesty and scope of this one.
And we are part of that story. God Himself has given us life and put us on this earth at the right time and in the right place in the greatest adventure ever. The Author of all things visible and invisible has given us a role to play.

There are many characters in this story. On the visible side, in addition to us, there are Kings and Queens, presidents, soldiers, and priests, musicians, and all manner of people. On the invisible side there are angels, archangels, principalities and powers. Some of them are evil—the fallen angels, demons, and Satan himself.

But standing at the beginning, at the end, and in the very center of this story is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords—the One who has given us everything.

There is so much to be thankful for. Therefore it is right to honor the Lord with our tithes. It is right to be the good stewards who await the return of the Rightful King.

Remember, way back in this story we’re in, there was a young, generous boy who gave everything he had, which happened to be his lunch. His lunch consisted of two fishes and five barley loaves. The Lord multiplied it so that it fed well over 5,000 people. And the young boy who had given all he had, lacked nothing. I’m sure he had plenty to eat, too. Giving to the Lord never results in lack—it only results in abundance.

But back to the present. This story we inhabit doesn’t end with death. We have the promise of the next world, too. Isaiah said it first, and it is quoted in Corinthians I: Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.

For them that love Him. That is the key. To condense it all, really, that’s our job, to love the Lord with all our hearts and minds and soul and strength and to love our neighbor as ourselves, and to be good stewards of His creation, all He has given into our hands.

One way to show that love is by cheerful, generous giving to the One who has given us more blessings than we could ever count.

When you write your check to St. Peter’s Episcopal Church (or whatever church it may be) out of love and gratitude, the real recipient is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

And now to him be all thanks and honor and glory forever and ever. Amen.

(A talk on Stewardship delivered on Sunday, October 29, 2017 at St. Peter's Episcopal Church, Brenham, TX)

A Different Game

As I mentioned in my earlier post, it’s football season. I happen to like the sport. Trouble is, there’s a new game in town. It has nothing to do with passing, running, and blocking. This sport is called POLITICAL FOOTBALL. Along with millions of others, I don’t like it. But, in any event, it's been interesting. Here’s the current score:

TRUMP 1 – NFL 0

Some Repercussions

It’s football season, y’all!

The New Orleans Saints football team traveled to Charlotte, North Carolina today to play Cam Newton and Co. The Saints were 0-2 going into the game and were expected to lose, which they do at a regular clip when they’re on the road.

BUT--they won. Saints 34-Panthers 13.

This win had quite an effect:

1) I thought I had tuned in to the wrong game when I heard the Saints were leading in the first half. I immediately contacted a friend to confirm that I was not hallucinating. He said, “No, you’re not hallucinating, but welcome to the Twilight Zone.”

2) The entire state of Louisiana rose 40 feet above sea level in sheer relief.

3) Many people cautiously removed the paper bags from their heads at half-time. By the end of the game Louisiana stock in paper bags had dropped precipitously. Check the Dow.

4) The very faithful (or very foolhardy), took a long-odds gamble and won a whole lot of money.

Well, we’re on a roll, Saints fans. Let’s see if this wild winning streak of ONE continues next week. Stay tuned.

Strange Beasts

Consider the platypus, whose existence is proof positive that truth is stranger than fiction. At some point, toward the end of creation, God apparently had body parts left over. Not being wasteful, He decided to knit them together and assemble the platypus. Upon completion, He plopped the animal down in eastern Australia, the Land of Weird Things.

Even the first Australians were uncertain about the platypus. In 1798, they sent a pelt and a sketch home to England so more educated minds could identify whatever the hell it was they had discovered. The English naturalists who examined the pelt and sketch were certain of one thing—they were not going to be fooled by those wily Australian explorers. They did their best to expose the hoax.

Meanwhile, at home Down Under, the improbable, unassuming platypus, with its duck bill, beaver tail, and otter feet, swam and hunted merrily as always in the rivers and streams. It also merrily laid its eggs instead of giving birth like other mammals. And if you crossed the platypus, you could be stung with its incapacitating venom, delivered by the male of the species with the spur on its hind feet.

Unlike the canine family, represented by dogs, wolves, foxes, and so on, or felines such as lions, tigers, leopards, and domestic cats, there are no other members of the family Platypine. There is only the lonely, homely platypus itself.

However, there is a counterpart to the platypus in the world of music, and it is, of course, another odd beast: the saxophone.

The body of the saxophone, like trumpets or trombones, is made of brass, but it is played with a single reed mouthpiece like a clarinet. Instead of valves, it has keys. Heretofore, it has not given live birth, but there are those of the species that have on occasion laid an egg or two.

The saxophone cannot be blamed on God. The responsibility for its creation rests on the shoulders of a nineteenth-century Belgian musician named Adolphe Sax. His purpose was to bridge the gap between woodwind and brass instruments and to make the most powerful woodwind ever.

He succeeded.

The saxophone habitat is not confined to eastern Australia. From its origin in Belgium, it migrated successfully (and insidiously) all over the world. It is usually an urban animal, although it can be found in rural areas as well. Like the platypus, it is primarily a nocturnal beast, but instead of being aquatic, it tends to inhabit dark, smoky bars.

This animal is quite vocal. Its mating call has enormous volume with a tremendous range of wails, growls, and grunts, which often excite the populace as much as a quarter mile away.

Whereas the platypus stuns its prey with venom, it is the saxophone’s powerful sound that produces immediate, astonishing effects. Within earshot of its wails, its victims suddenly exhibit strange head-bobbing, hip-swinging, foot-tapping body movements. With eyes closed or rolled back into the sockets, victims flail about, sweating profusely. Many try to relieve their delirium with nicotine, alcohol, and various other medications, to no avail. The uncontrollable motion lasts as long as they are under the saxophone’s sway.

There are also those sensitive souls who are allergic to the instrument. They become completely incapacitated by the sound, faint dead away, and are afflicted with excruciating pain in the ears that lasts for days or even months.

To return to the original subject, fittingly enough, there is no plural for the word platypus. Although it inhabits only a small corner of the planet, this unique beast is universally loved by Australians as a national symbol.

Opinions on the previously discussed musical animal, though it is found on all continents, are much more polarized. Although it is loved by many, there are those who carry a real grudge against Mr. Adolphe Sax. They wish most fervently that there were no plural in word or existence for the beast known as the saxophone.

Zoomers

I grew up in Louisiana and got my driver’s license at age fifteen, which means I have been driving a very long time. Traffic in the small-town South is almost non-existent. Mostly you have to look out for fearless toddlers on trikes, stray chickens, and erratic grandmas.

The traffic and rules of the road in and around a big city are a whole lot more complicated. This became clear to me about thirty years ago, when I moved to Houston. First of all, most people, especially the male of the species, think posted speed limits are merely suggestions, and lame ones at that. They created the +20 rule. It is understood that the true speed limit is at least twenty miles per hour above whatever is posted. That 30 m.p.h. sign in the neighborhood secretly means 50. So look out all you toddlers, chickens and grandmas.

Now there are also those exceptional drivers that scoff at the +20 rule. They make their own rules. I call them Zoomers, but they fall into several categories.

Perhaps you have had this experience while driving. You glance in your rearview mirror and the horizon is clear. You take a moment to adjust the volume on the radio, and suddenly, in a blur, a low-flying object passes you with a whoosh of air that rocks your vehicle. Before you can say, “What the hell was that?” another one whizzes by. These are Doomer Zoomers chasing each other through the traffic. They enjoy the small pleasures in life, like testing out their engine capabilities, especially the 140 m.p.h. range, practicing their NASCAR moves on the general public, and smoking those small, handrolled cigarettes while they careen across four lanes on two wheels.

The Loomer Zoomers are wannabe Doomers, but due to tight traffic, they can’t get by you. Therefore, they tailgate at a comfortable distance of four inches. They particularly like to do this while you’re driving 70 mph. in a 50 mph. zone. Should you speed up, they reduce the distance to two inches. The shiny grill of their pickup trucks fills your back windshield. The roar of their motors overrides all other sounds. Certain that you could only wish for more intimacy, they like to pull over to the left and flash their lights to get your attention. As you gaze in your rearview mirror at their flushed faces, they speak to you, those articulate devils, in really creative language. They truly hope you can read their lips.

Ruder Zoomers are often the aforementioned Loomer Zoomers who manage to pass you AT LAST. To mark the moment, they roar by with a one-finger salute. They generally punctuate the air with it at least three times. They are really quite thoughtful. Just in case you couldn’t read their lips, they want to make the message absolutely clear.

The most generous drivers are the Boomer Zoomers. They want to share their love of music with everyone. And never mind your silly objections. To accomplish this, they install custom stereo systems which they set at the decibel level known as Annihilate. They certainly don’t want you to miss out on their choice of delightful tunes even if you’re a half mile away. They are convinced that those pulsing sound waves will stir your soul, recalibrate your internal organs, and damn well cure what ails you.
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And, naturally, it’s the Boomer Zoomers who end up right behind you in the hour-long traffic jam caused by those Doomer Zoomers who, alack and alas, met their inevitable fates in a five-car pileup four miles up the road.

Advice to Tourists: Packin' Heat

If you ever visit Texas, there are some things you should know. In rural parts, you have to be careful when you take a walk. The woods and pastures may be picturesque, but there are dangers in them thar hills. There be not dragons, but there be rattlesnakes, copperheads, cottonmouth moccasins, and coral snakes. Scorpions and spiders roam there, too, and alligators thrive in the coastal wetlands.

These creatures are dangerous, but in all the years I’ve shared their habitat, I have suffered no harm from them. They are fairly large and visible, and for the most part, they avoid confrontation. If you wear boots and exercise a certain amount of caution in deep grass or around woodpiles, and don’t go swimming in the marsh, you can avoid injury.

The worst threat to life and sanity in these parts is invisible. Let me explain.

I was interested in buying small acreage in Central Texas in 2007. On a warm day in early June, I met a young realtor who showed me around 3.5 acres of rural property. We wore boots, jeans and T-shirts. The lot was heavily wooded and overgrown. We hiked uphill and down past wild grapevines and through heavy underbrush. A machete would have helped clear a path through the brush, but it would have been useless against the enemy we could not see. All unaware, we wove our way between full grown oaks and cedars. We pushed pliant saplings aside and walked in the dry bed of the seasonal creek. I decided to buy the property and made an offer.

That evening the misery began. My legs began to itch horribly, and large red lumps formed on my ankles, calves, thighs, the backs of my knees, my arms, my neck, and in secret, unmentionable places. The itching was intense and relentless. I found out two days later that the realtor had it worse than I. She made a doctor’s appointment and got medication. I just sipped benadryl and plastered myself with calamine lotion.

Of course, we were covered in chigger bites. I had had a few chigger bites before, but nothing of that magnitude. The misery lasted for a week or more, and it came in waves. At times the itching subsided, only to flare up full force later. It was sheer torment. Severe itching must be a foretaste of Hell. If so, then that’s a place I never want to go—it’s the narrow path for me.

Later, in addition to benadryl and calamine lotion, I invested in bug spray. I kept cans in my house and in the car for when I visited the property. I began to think about chiggers. A lot.

Whether they’re called chiggers or redbugs, they are the immature stage (larvae) of the harvest mite. In the nymph and adult stages, which come later, they are no problem to humans because they eat plant material. But they do get our attention in the larval stage.

Here’s a comforting fact: Chiggers do not eat blood; they eat liquified skin cells. Feel better now? The chigger takes a bite of you, and makes a tiny hole. Its saliva hardens the walls of the hole, which creates a kind of straw. Then the saliva (which also causes the intense itching) liquefies your skin cells and, slurp! they suck it up through the straw. Yummy.

Another fact about these insidious creatures is that the itching is delayed by several hours. What a modus operandi. They’re invisible; they ambush you, do their damage, and depart while you are completely clueless. If we incorporated that tactic into our military, we would win all our wars with no casualties.

Chiggers are practically invisible to the human eye, unless they group together. If you see a tiny moving red thing on your ankle after walking in deep grass, it’s probably a chigger convention. They are gloating about what a nice meal you make.

But don’t let that discourage you, tourists. Before you cancel your plane tickets to Houston, let me make it clear—rural Texas is worth the visit. However, do come prepared. Like the natives in this open carry state, you too can pack some heat. Leave the 9 mm. at home—just be quick on the draw with your 9 oz. Deep Woods bug spray.

A Timely Warning or Bird Feeder Blues

I live in an idyllic rural area where hilly pastures are interspersed with woods and creeks. Wildlife abounds. We have deer, foxes, bobcats, raccoons, squirrels, birds of all types. And I discovered that in addition to the ubiquitous roadkill that lines the highways and byways of Texas, live armadillos actually exist. I have seen them.

Well, all was peace until I bought a Squirrel-Proof Bird Feeder.

Fatal error.

A Squirrel-Proof Bird Feeder has a central clear plastic cylinder to hold the seed. There are six open ports at varying levels in the cylinder. Each port is lined by a metal ring with a small perch. A sturdy metal cage encloses the cylinder, and it is topped by a heavy dome-shaped lid which screws on tightly. The cage admits the birds, but keeps squirrels at bay. Theoretically.

I filled my bird feeder with seed, screwed on the top, and hung it from a post oak tree fifteen feet from my elevated deck. I placed a birdbath nearby in the shade of the tree. Thereafter, I retreated to my deck to observe. I sat in my Adirondack chair with a tall glass of ice water and a short glass of scotch.

The birds discovered the feeder very quickly. In a matter of hours, my yard was alive with cardinals, blue jays, chickadees, titmice (I hope that’s the plural of titmouse), and even painted buntings. Mourning doves ate the seed that fell to the ground. It was a pleasure to watch them.

By the third day, the squirrels discovered the bird feeder. Those busy little fellows went to work. They hung on the cage like children on monkey bars—some right side up and some upside down. They extended their tiny paws into the ports and shoveled out the birdseed until there was more on the ground than in the bird feeder. They occasionally rocked the bird feeder so hard that it came loose from the tree and fell to the ground, spilling seed everywhere. Either way, it was mission accomplished. They scampered down and proceeded to feast.

If I yelled at them or threw rocks (which I did with gusto), the squirrels ran away. Fifteen minutes later they returned.

At night, the raccoons showed up. Those bandits made the squirrels look like amateurs. Not only did the raccoons knock the bird feeder out of the tree, they actually dismantled the whole thing. In the morning, I found the lid still attached to the cage in one place, the empty cylinder and its attached bottom disc five feet away, and three of the metal ports torn off and scattered on the ground. The raccoons had unscrewed the darn thing and used enough force to bend the metal disc in the process. To put it back together, I had use a hammer to flatten and reshape the metal.

The poor birds, meanwhile, had to wait for the squirrels and raccoons to finish and hope there was something left for them.

So, here is my timely warning: A Squirrel-Proof Bird Feeder is a hoax perpetrated by the manufacturer. To make this $35 contraption truly squirrel-proof, one little accessory is needed: a .22 semiautomatic rifle. Although your birds will eat, and you will enjoy target practice, that does drive the cost up by about $500.

For another $699, you can throw in some night vision goggles and take care of the raccoons, too. So there you have an effective and truly squirrel-proof package for only $1,234.00.

Should you choose, however, to buy the $35 model, let there be truth in advertising; what you’re really getting is a Bird-Proof Dadgum Varmint Feeder.

Getting Earthy Here

After eight years in New York City and nearly nine years of living adjacent to an unpaved road in central Texas, I have found the common denominator between city and country—dust.

I just spent two hours vacuuming my house, which, thankfully, is small. In sweatshirt and jeans, bent over the vacuum cleaner with my pink silencer earphones on, I had a revelation. Housecleaning and childbirth have this in common: the end result is wonderful, but the process is agony.

To keep my mind off my aching back, I contemplated Enemy No. 1—dust. (In case you were wondering, Enemy No. 2 is spiders.) First of all, dust is everywhere. On the one hand it’s ridiculous, and yet it is the vehicle of the sublime.

Like an agent of the devil, it wears the cloak of invisibility. Monday, the house is spanking clean. By Thursday, the shiny black piano and all the cabinets are veiled with a light, gray film. Whitish-gray, weblike strands have gathered and whisper like mystic druids along the baseboards and in the corners.

Did I see it happen? No, the infernal Dust Demon crept in, sprinkled his granular grief and departed. I am left with two possibilities: 1) use my finger (not that one) to scrawl epithets on the dusty piano, or 2) haul out the vacuum cleaner once again.

I love persimmons (this is and is not a non-sequitur), but where do they come from? The tree draws all its life and makes its fruit from sunshine and water and dust.

I love my son, but where did he come from? Well, I won’t give you all the details, but ultimately he too came from dust. God created Man out of the dust and breathed the breath of Life into him.

Think not? The human body and the earth’s crust contain the same minerals and components. Oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, and nitrogen make up 96% of our body’s mass. The other 4% of body weight is composed almost entirely of sodium, potassium, magnesium, calcium, iron, phosphorus, sulfur, chlorine, and iodine. All these are found in our own terra firma.

Our earthly origin is akin to the substance I vacuum off the floor. Our divine origin, bestowed by the breath of God, and part of His own essence, makes me hope that someday, when this dust which is me returns to the dust which is earth, I might go to that place made of light, unreachable by all Dust Demons and even the most high-powered, souped-up vacuum cleaners imaginable.

Martin vs. Malcolm and the Mainstream Media

Here's Lee Habeeb's interesting article about the Reverend Martin Luther King and the secular press. It also contrasts Rev. King's Christian vision with that of his contemporary Malcolm X and the Nation of Islam.

The Secularization of Martin Luther King Jr.

Here's how the media strips faith out of his life — and how he and Malcolm X battled for the soul of America

by Lee Habeeb | Updated 15 Jan 2017 at 3:48 PM

It’s a story you won’t hear anywhere this week as the life of Martin Luther King is celebrated: the story of the battle for the soul of a nation between King and his rival, Malcolm X. The battle between a Baptist preacher and a Nation of Islam disciple.

And if you listen carefully, what you’ll hear is deafening silence about the one element of King’s life without which none of his efforts would have been possible: his devotion to his faith and his God — his devotion to Jesus Christ.

"To most Christians, the Bible is like a software license," Bill Maher once explained. "Nobody actually reads it. They just scroll down to the bottom and click, 'I agree.'"

Rev. Martin Luther King thought differently. Indeed, he found the Bible so compelling that his undergraduate degree was in Bible studies and his Ph.D. was in theology. To King, the Bible wasn't a software license. It was software code — a deep, mysterious code authored by God for man's eternal soul.

"Leaving God out of Martin Luther King's life," a friend once told me, "is like leaving naked young women out of Hugh Hefner's. It's like leaving the story of segregation out of Jackie Robinson's."


But that won't stop the media from redacting any and all references to the source of King's inspiration. You'll hear endless references to Dr. Martin Luther King this week — but never to Reverend King. The clips you'll hear, the videos you'll see, will be King's stirring secular rhetoric. What you will not hear are the parts of the speeches filled with references to God. Or the book from which sprang the source of this man's devotion to justice: the Bible.



You won't hear any mention of any of this in the media this week. That's how deep the antipathy toward all things Christian runs.

You won't hear a single word from King's remarkable speech "A Knock at Midnight," a speech any four-year-old can find on Google. King started the speech with a quote from Luke 11:5–6: "Which of you who has a friend will go to him at midnight and say to him, 'Friend, lend me three loaves; for a friend of mine has arrived on a journey, and I have nothing to set before him'?"

He then leapt right into the speech:

"Although this parable is concerned with the power of persistent prayer, it may also serve as a basis for our thought concerning many contemporary problems and the role of the church in grappling with them. It is midnight in the parable; it is also midnight in our world, and the darkness is so deep that we can hardly see which way to turn. It is midnight within the social order."

King then spent a short time talking about the miracles of modern science, but noted that even the greatest scientific theorem can't solve the moral and spiritual problems of the modern age. He then proceeded on to deliver a blistering critique of moral relativism:

"Moral principles have lost their distinctiveness. For modern man, absolute right and wrong are a matter of what the majority is doing. Right and wrong are relative to likes and dislikes and the customs of a particular community. We have unconsciously applied Einstein's theory of relativity, which properly described the physical universe, to the moral and ethical realm ... This mentality has brought a tragic breakdown of moral standards, and the midnight of moral degeneration deepens."

King didn't leave the church unscathed in this speech.

"When the man in the parable knocked on his friend's door and asked for the three loaves of bread, he received the impatient retort, 'Do not bother me; the door is now shut, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.' How often have men experienced a similar disappointment when at midnight they knock on the door of the church?"

King was referring to the white churches in the South that did little to correct the injustice of racial segregation. But in the end, King understood that sin — and man coming up short of the calling of God — was not new. It's as old as the Old Testament.

And King knew that real hope and change can only be found through God's love. Here's how he closed that speech:


"The dawn will come. Disappointment, sorrow, and despair are born at midnight, but morning follows. 'Weeping may endure for a night,' says the Psalmist, 'but joy cometh in the morning.' This faith adjourns the assemblies of hopelessness and brings new light into the dark chambers of pessimism."


I'd bet the family farm, if I owned one, that you won't hear a word of that speech this week. Or read a word from perhaps his most well-known piece of writing, "Letter from a Birmingham Jail":

"We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands."

Under what circumstances, King asked the readers, is it permissible for a man of God to violate man's laws? To answer that question, King turned to a higher power:

"How does one determine whether a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law."

In the week ahead, you will hear endless comments about King's courage. But he was courageous because he was faithful. He was great because he was godly. That's what made him so dangerous to segregationists. And that's why totalitarians in every era always go after believers first. They fear the power of God's love most of all.

It was love at the center of King's message. King always preached nonviolence, and always carried himself with dignity no matter the circumstances, and he did so because his God commanded it. He commanded that King love his neighbor as himself — all of his neighbors, not just those who treated him well.

Not everyone agreed with King's Christian approach. A young African-American Muslim named Malcolm X had a very different vision. A brilliant public speaker, Malcolm was a member of the Nation of Islam. He believed King's talk of love and mercy was weak, and often accused King of being an Uncle Tom.

In a speech in Detroit in 1963 called "Message to the Grass Roots," he said this of King and his Christian followers:

"The same old slave master today has Negroes who are nothing but modern Uncle Toms, 20th-century Uncle Toms, to keep you and me in check, keep us passive and peaceful and nonviolent. That's Tom making you nonviolent."

A bit later in the speech, he attacked King's nonviolent, Christian approach. And called for open rebellion:

"A revolution is bloody. Revolution is hostile. Revolution knows no compromise. Revolution overturns and destroys everything that gets in its way. And you sit around here like a knot on a wall saying, 'I'm going to love these folks no matter how much they hate me.' No, you need a revolution."

Malcolm wasn't finished. He then went on to mock King:

"Whoever heard a revolution where they lock arms ... singing 'We Shall Overcome'? Just tell me. You don't do that in a revolution. You don't do any singing; you're too busy swinging."


What a story it would be for the media to tell, the two competing visions for the heart and soul of America: Martin's vs. Malcolm's. Luckily for all of us, Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.'s vision prevailed, and Malcolm X's failed.

You won't hear any of this on TV or the radio this week. The media will ignore all of King's God talk — the God he loved to talk about right up until his tragic death.

The night before he was killed in April of 1968, he gave a speech at a church in Memphis that included over a dozen references to the Bible. It was a prophetic speech, as if the 39-year-old somehow knew his life would soon be cut short:

"And so I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man! Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!"

"Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I'm not concerned about that now. I just want to do God's will. And He's allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I've looked over. And I've seen the promised land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the promised land."

King was on fire in the speech, and the audience was, too. They didn't know — they couldn't know — he would be assassinated the very next day at the Lorraine Hotel.

King's deep sense of his own mortality, and deeper sense of destiny, is reflected in the speech's ending:

"And so I'm happy, tonight. I'm not worried about anything. I'm not fearing any man! Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord!"

Listen to the stories of Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. this week, and what you'll hear is the sound of a secular media hard at work stripping the animating spirit out of one of America's great men: the spirit of his Lord Jesus Christ.

According to biographer Taylor Branch, the very last words King ever spoke were to a musician named Ben Branch, who was scheduled to perform at an event that night in Memphis. "Ben," King said, "make sure you play 'Take My Hand, Precious Lord' in the meeting tonight. Play it real pretty."

The one enduring fact — the one enduring truth — the media can never rewrite, as hard as they might, is this: Martin Luther King Jr.'s desire to serve the God he loved changed forever the country he loved.

Lee Habeeb is VP of content for Salem Radio Network and host of "Our American Stories." He lives in Oxford, Mississippi, with his wife, Valerie, and his daughter, Reagan.

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And don't forget: books make great Christmas presents! They've got The Piper's Story and The Threshold of Eden in stock.