WHY NOT IN AMERICA?

"If it's perfectly legal and there's nothing going wrong there - well, why don't they have it in America ... ?"



- Harriet Harman, U.K. constitutional affairs minister, advocating the Guantanamo Bay prison be put under U.S. court supervision or closed. Source: BBC

POMP AND KLEENEX

Right now at Greater Atlanta Christian School the sun is setting on the Class of 2006. Parents, friends, family, and faculty are seated in the quadrangle looking up to the second floor of the Zenobia Tye Lyles Media Center watching robes of red walk on the candlelit balcony.

David Fincher just gave his eight minute speech telling one joke, the names of the colleges and universities the ‘06ers will be attending, and the millions of dollars worth of the scholarships these high achieving kids have earned. He gave a few tidbits of sage advice and in one of the great traditions of GACS, begun by Jesse Long, ceased his thoughtful address to allow the focus to be on the students.

A few moments before Dr. Fincher waxed eloquently, Sandy Spiceland, wearing a black suit and a red wrist corsage, spoke into the microphone loudly and clearly reading the dozens of achievements of Allison Turner.

Now I am starting to cry.

I always knew Allison would be valedictorian. I looked forward to listening to her speech and telling her to speak VERY slowly after all of the years in debate encouraging her to speak SO quickly.

Knowing Allison, I imagine every word well spoken and meaningful.

I believe Judge Turner would allow no objections to my testimony on this.

I miss seeing a turning point in a life lived with such curiosity, intensity, and competence. I miss the seeing the turning point in a life so reflective on things spiritual and ethical. I miss seeing the turning point in a girl so willing to work, to love and to laugh.

I miss Allison Turner and Lisa Warren the dozens of others students like them who have blessed me. It's such a joy to see such wonderful kids, growing, sharing, serving and learning together.

I miss Jenny Runkel and Melaney Cost and all the senior sponsors making graduation activities come together. I miss handing out honor cords and shawls.

I miss setting up the candles and roses on the balcony with Donna Strickland and thinking of nice ways to keep folks from saving seats too early. After all, even Jesse and Marilyn Long don’t save seats early.

I miss hearing the majestic sound of the music filling the sky through Mike Garner's amazing system.

Truthfully, I could get weepy over the dollars of scholarships in the speech.

Now it's dark, the candles are glowing and the caps are flying in the air.

A small civilization is ending.

Someone in the class through whom the light of Christ has shown is offering a benediction.

So I’ll offer mine.
In the words of Paul
“May the God of peace make you holy through and through. May you be kept in soul and mind and body in spotless integrity until the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. He who calls you is utterly faithful and he will finish what you have set out to do.”

DIXIE CHICKS RECANT RECANT; BUSH JUST CAN'T

The rage shown by Dennis Hastert and Nancy Pelosi may seem overblown to some. Today’s Washington Post editorial says as much. Disturbed enough by the unprecedented seizing of records from the office of Representative William Jefferson to do something jointly, the two have gotten the attention of President Bush. According to the Associated Press, the President has ordered that documents seized from the congressman’ s office be sealed for 45 days in an attempt to calm the tempest.

The President acknowledges the concerns of the House leaders, but has certainly not admitted that any mistakes or missteps were made by the administration.

The Post reasoned that a search warrant and subsequent seizing of records was all done appropriately.

After all, items seized had been subpoenaed months ago.

Isn’t this an odd bunch to be hard on folks who are slow about handing over evidence to investigators?

And isn’t it mind-boggling that this administration now bearing intense criticism from James Dobson, 11 retired generals who served in Iraq, 40 Nobel Laureates, and David Frum of the National Review, has even provoked Nancy Pelosi and Dennis Hastert to cooperate?

I heard today that the Dixie Chicks have recanted their apology offered to President Bush for disrespecting the Office of the President.

I wonder how many the Chicks would roil if they said today what they said in 2003?

OVER or NOT?

"FBI checking reporters' phone records"

According today's Christian Science Monitor, the FBI "acknowledged that it was seeking reporters' phone records to investigate leaks about secret prisons in Europe and warrantless wiretapping."

Up until today, I believed that the President's warrantless wiretapping activities would not work against them in the eyes of many average Americans. The response among my students, middle to upper middle class white Christian conservatives for the most part, reflect the I am not doing anything wrong, therefore I am not concerned about privacy; the President is keeping us safe by surveillance, so I don't mind.

There seems to be a belief among people I meet that the President and his men can be trusted to work for our security and are not violating rights.

This story today may tip the balance. Not that a large white middle class Christian minority will be overly bothered at first. Many seem to think having secret prisons in Europe to torture U.S. prisoners is necessary to our national security and telling on the government for doing this was wrong.

However, the freedom of the press to tell what the government is doing in an open democratic society is a basic right.

This may a turning point.

If the mainstream American press becomes convinced that this administration will violate all known standards to press its agenda to and prosecute members of the press, the administration may have to fight an uphill battle from the cub reporter to the evening anchor. It may be the Walter Cronkite moment.

I think this, and then I rethink. In the days that Cronkite turned against the war in Vietnam and the support of ordinary Americans turned away from the war, there was no Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity. There was no powerful alternative to the networks or mainstream press.

It may be now that conservative talk radio has such a strong hold on the thinking of many Americans, a wholesale rejection of this administration--this regime--by the mainstream press would lack the ability to influence the supporters of the administration.

So, we will see. We will hear.

MISSISSIPPI, JUSTICE, AND JOY

Haley Barbour, Governor of Mississippi and former chairman of the National Republican Party, stands to distinguish himself as “the first governor in U.S. history to refuse to pardon a man he has publicly proclaimed as innocent." I could hardly believe my eyes as I read this tonight on The New York Times website. The report quotes Barbour’s spokesman, 'The governor hasn't pardoned anyone, whether they be alive or deceased.''

Trumped-up charges of selling $25.00 worth of stolen chicken feed landed Clyde Kennard in jail for seven years. The NYT story explained the only witness against Kennard in the chicken feed case recanted his testimony.

What lies beneath the chicken feed is the story of Clyde Kennard’s offense of trying to enter the University of Southern Mississippi in the late 50s.

So what lies beneath Haley Barbour’s thinking in this case?

The Governor of Mississippi, of all places, must be responsive to the calls of justice.

My experience on Wednesday, May 3 at the University of Memphis intensifies my concern for this matter. Jerry Mitchell, reporter for the Clarion-Ledger of Jackson, Mississippi, spoke of his experiences in uncovering evidence leading to 20 convictions of Klansmen and others involved in civil rights era murders. I left inspired not simply because of the justice done in these cases, but in Mitchell’s unequivocal witness to the power, grace, and redemption of God in these affairs.

In government class today at the private Christian school where I teach in Memphis, I challenged my students to see themselves as able to work for justice and to be witness to the grace of God in any number of fields. I told them about Jerry Mitchell the journalist.

Two weeks ago we listened to voice of John Kamm who, while president of the Hong Kong Chamber of Congress, began speaking truth to power in China regarding oppression of religious persons. NPR reports that scores of political prisoners have been released.


Thursday we read about the Governor of Montana, Brian Schwietzer ending the “silence—and for some families, the shame” connected to the convictions of their parents and grandparents on charges of sedition during War War. He posthumously pardoned 75 men and women this week.


A journalist, a businessman, and a governor. All in secular jobs. All acting in the spirit of the prophets and of Christ.

I baited my students, “Why should politicians and others bother with these acts? Why not let the dead be dead?”

One 17 year-old boy suggested it would increase the legitimacy of the government if leaders took steps to right wrongs. Another young man said it could change generations of those families who might always be sad, silent, or cynical.

I mentioned hearing Jerry Mitchell’s voice on a Memphis radio interview Wednesday quoting Solomon, “When justice is done, it is a joy.”

From the mouth of babes-Justice creates legitimacy for the generations.
Justice, says the sage, fosters joy.

Barbour's distinction among America's governors and his alliance with Mississippi's governors-none of whom have given a posthumous pardon-begs the insight of children, the wisdom of Solomon.

CULTIVATING COURAGE, SIMPLICITY, DISCIPLESHIP

I read this today on Sojourner’s website:

"My sincere view is that the commitment of our forces to this fight was done with a casualness and swagger that are the special province of those who have never had to execute these missions - or bury the results."

- Marine Lt. Gen. Greg Newbold, former director of operations at the Pentagon's military joint staff, writing in Time magazine. Newbold resigned four months before the invasion of Iraq, but has only now gone public with his criticism of the war.
www.sojo.net

This quote reminds me of how I felt before the US attacked Iraq. I believed that idea that it would be a “cakewalk” smacked of arrogance and ignorance of the complexities of the Muslim world in general and Iraq specifically. I believed that Saddam was already contained and that further cooperation with the international community would be advantageous to us.

I was afraid to say what I thought.

If I am to write, I must cultivate courage.

I must also get settled in my new home.

We have sold and bought houses. We have been forced to think think think about money. What's a good price? What's a good offer? What's the wisest move? What if we lose? We sold our house with four bedrooms and a green room. The green room, our spare room, served at various times, as an office, a bedroom, and a sitting room.

We bought a house with two bedrooms and have kilzed a 1950s wood paneled room in our new-to-us-home into a green room. With all the tossing and paring I thought I did all summer, we bulge from the insides at this new address.

If I am to make a home, I must cultivate simplicity.

Today I was honored by Nick Michael, a senior graduating from our school. He asked me to be seated by him in chapel as a representative of our congregation who has had a positive spiritual influence. His invitation touched me and made me feel that I may still be a shadow of myself. We became acquainted when I taught the high school Sunday school class this winter. I am thankful that God made something good from that rough offering of the winter. After spending months sifting through stuff, thinking of houses, and meeting new folks, I find myself starving for quiet, for imbibing deeply in the Spirit of God, and being strengthened by his spirit within me.

If I am to be fully alive, I must renew discipleship.

STILLS, BEETLES, AND BREATHLESSNESS

We all know that people aren’t made to be lonely
They’re made to be trusted and loved by one only
That one special who’ll just let it be
And remember that Jesus gave love away for free

lyrics by Stephen Stills

Rolling along through the Ohio Valley into the hills of Western Pennsylvania in our yellow circa 1972 Volkswagen Beetle, Stephen Stills and his band, Manassas, wailed these lyrics from the 8-track player through the vents of the 2-55 air conditioner. (2-55 AC stands for two windows down while driving 55 mph.)

When Ken Dowdy, my groom of two weeks, taught me how to drive that VW, he never fussed or sighed when I ground the gears or rolled backwards for a few feet trying to get into first. He just taught me what was happening when I pushed down on the clutch and engaged the gears.

I found the environs of Carlisle Pennsylvania, our first home, breathtakingly beautiful.

I found the springtime of 1972 at Harding University, which followed our first Valentine’s Day, abloom with azaleas, dogwoods, and cherry blossoms, breathtakingly beautiful.

At the end of our freshman year of college when Ken took me to the hills of Huntsville, Alabama, where his family lived, the beauty there left me breathless too.

Or maybe it was just Ken.

We’ve shared 32 Valentine Days. We don't always give each other very good Valentine cards or gifts. We sold the VW a long time ago.

But

He still gives me the center of the cinnamon roll.
He still gives me the last bite of his Snickers.
He still makes me laugh at wadded up napkins expanding at the table.
He still holds me and says prayers over me when I am anxious.

He shows the same kindness and patience with our children as he showed me when we drove around hills of Carlisle.

He still plays good rocking music in when we are on the road.

He still sings “I Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” better than Elvis.

We still use a Realistic receiver with an 8-track player.

And he still leaves me breathless.

THE SECTARIAN STAGE
SCREEN MEMORIES OF A CAMPBELLITE DREAMER II


Basement cinderblock walls painted light blue boasted a sink with a plain white base cabinet. Cold, damp air cloaked the children seated around the plywood table top mounted on pipes with black rubber casters. Roger, David, Diane, Bev and I sat, happy to have moved up from the ladies’ bathroom with the knotty pine décor. Singing "This Little Christian Light of Mine" and "Jesus Loves Me" we marked workbook pages in a series called Gospel Treasures with Mrs. Waldrep, our teacher. With dark wavy hair and glasses she seemed about as old as my grandmother--about 150 years old.

I couldn’t wait to be four, because my neighbor, whom I called Aunt Betty--Mrs. Betty Whitlock, would be our next teacher. My heart beat a little faster when she opened her purse at church. She always found a piece of Juicy Fruit gum to share, something my mother never did. (I have forgiven my mom for this failure on her part.)

Mrs.Waldrep taught us that God’s church was not made with human hands. God’s church was made of his people. It was not a building. Somehow all of this confused me.

I imagined huge hands moving appartion-like shaping the people within the brick building-somewhat like the Invisible Man on TV. There were grease marks on the giant ghost-like hands as was common among the men who worked in the shops. Our dads, uncles, and neighbors all worked in shops. The ghostlike digits hovered over about half of the church's 300 seat auditorium. I believe we used theater seats because pews would be sort of denominational. Theater seats, I guess were not really spiritual, but I got the impression it was better to be like a movie theater than worship like another denomination of so-called Christians.

Sometimes I would sit in a grown-up’s lap and play a finger game: Here is the church; here is the steeple; open the church and see all the people

I couldn’t understand the game really because my Bible class teacher said the church was the people, and given our movement’s commitment to austere buildings in the 1950s, I thought only denominations had steeples.

One day the only preacher I had ever known, Brother Connie Wyatt announced his resignation. He intended to go preach at a Church of Christ in Kirksey, Kentucky. I got a chokey feeling and my eyes stung with tears. I recall one sermon by Brother Wyatt. He spoke of folks who followed God, but in ways not in accord with scripture. In the judgment, those folks would come up short and they would say, “But, ye, I thought.” Sadly, they thought wrongly, and found themselves in torment. Brother Wyatt said, "Ye, I thought" in a very kind, but sad southern voice about one million times.

The first grown up songbook song I remember was called “Trust and Obey.”

Trust and obey
For there’s no other way
To be happy in Jesus
But to trust and obey.

A tract in the back of the building with a sepia-toned bride on the cover was entitled, I Married a Catholic. Mom explained the problem was if one married a Catholic the church required a vow on the part of the non-Catholic to rear any children in the Catholic Church. Mom didn’t say this, but I had the clear impression that all Catholics were bound for hell, including the children of that sepia-toned bride.

I made a note to self--don’t marry a Catholic.

It saddened me to think of all the Catholics going to hell, because everyone at my school was Catholic except me; Suzie Smiley, a Lutheran; Linda Greene, a Baptist; and Sherry Hill, a Jehovah’s Witness. Sadder yet was thinking those other three were hell-bound as well. Linda Green’s church, the Van Dyke Baptist Church, even had a cross-shaped neon sign that read, “Jesus Saves.” Ouch! They didn’t realize they were just saying, “Lord, Lord” and not doing what God had commanded. They thought Jesus saved them before they were immersed, so whoever put up that sign must have been “sent a delusion and believed a lie.”

The Jehovah’s Witness part saddened me, but I thought at the time hell couldn’t be a lot worse than life on earth with no birthdays, Easter bunnies, or Santa Claus. At least Catholics had birthdays, Easter, Christmas, and First Holy Communion. First Holy Communion was particularly cool due to the white dresses, veils, and gifts of money.

My dad’s mother was a Methodist. After he became a member of the Church of Christ, once my Dad tried to convert his mother from the Wesleyan way to the Campbellite way. She thrilled at the way folks flipped through scriptures at our worship services, but was saddened that after all her years of following Jesus, praying to him, and trusting Him, Dad would suggest she be re-baptized. She told my Dad on the Chippewa reservation Epicopalian and Methodist missionaries baptized them every summer. She believed God accepted least one of those baptisms.

I used to have bad dreams about my Grandmother Choate being in a coffin and wishing so much that such a wonderful woman was going to heaven. In the dreams there was only darkness and a light brown pine coffin and me wondering why this was so.

By the time I was in the fifth grade, I was safely baptized, properly, of course, by the interpretation of our tribe. Yet, since I was still just a child, I found myself in a scary little mind game I began after I heard a sermon about the “unpardonable sin.” This was the game: if Dad drives past that light pole, that means I have committed the unpardonable sin.

Dad drove by the light pole.

So, I was condemned. But then, so was everyone else I knew except the people at my church. I anguished over my lost state. I bargained with God. If I would become a missionary and baptize hundreds and hundreds of people would he then forgive the unpardonable sin?

Finally, I heard a sermon on adding to God’s word. Adding to God’s word was a sin. So, saying that driving by a light pole was adding to God’s word. Nowhere in God’s word does it say if your Daddy drives by the light pole at Van Dyke and Nine Mile will you go to hell for committing the unpardonable sin. The unpardonable sin after all was blasphemy against the Holy Spirit.

Whew. I thought, at lease someone in the Church of Christ can receive forgiveness for adding to God’s word if they repent and ask forgiveness.

I finally disclosed to my mother this entanglement of sin and guilt. She seemed shocked because I think she thought I was smarter and more well adjusted than all that. She assured me if I were blaspheming the Holy Spirit, I wouldn’t really care if I was saved or lost anyway.

When I was a young teen, Arkansan Jimmy Allen, a fiery preacher and author of What is Hell Like? preached to thousands in Detroit's Cobo Arena. Over 300 people were baptized. It might have only been 10% of the harvest of Pentecost, but it was a dramatic experience for the Motor City congregations.

My freshman year at Harding University at the College Church of Christ in Searcy, Arkansas the same fiery orator, Jimmy Allen, preached, from Romans, a sermon on the grace of God.

For the first time in my life I heard that perfect knowledge and perfect obedience elude us all, but God's grace saves us through faith in Christ.

My Campellite life took a turn for the better that day, because though I had enjoyed many good memories on this spiritual walk, few of which I have recounted in this essay, I had never truly, to core of my being, experienced the gospel as good news until that night.

After studying Romans, Galatians, and the Bible in general, my sense of the gospel, grace, and salvation matured into a much sounder, much more joyful theology. Jesus did not come to judge but to save. He healed. He challenged sinners. He proclaimed the good news of the kingdom of God. Sharing the yoke of teaching and serving is a much lighter burden that taking on the mantle of judgement that even Jesus reserved for God.

Trust and obey
For there’s no other way
To happy be happy in Jesus
But to trust and obey

“CANCER GENES TENDER SECRETS”; FRIENDS, FAMILY SHARE JOY


Beverly Birdwell Blair, diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia Labor Day weekend 1999, searched fruitlessly for a bone marrow donor for weeks afterward. Various drug therapies failed her and by November, after suffering through a course of Interferon, she despaired of life itself.

Her husband Bob, always thoughtful, but disheartened as well, set up a five-foot somewhat straggly spruce for a Christmas tree that year. The two-story atrium in their living room dwarfed the tree.

Despite the obstacles, through prayers and tears Beverly determined that she wanted to live. She asked Bob to get another tree.

Bob delivered with 10-foot tall silk tree.

As the weeks went on, Bev, empowered by the love of her family, by the prayers of hundreds, and her desire to live, followed every possible lead for an effective treatment. She discovered Dr. Charles Schiffer’s study of the drug Gleevec going on at Karmonos Cancer Center in Detroit. Persisting until granted an opportunity to try the drug, Bev’s hopes soared.

Since beginning this drug in 2000, every test for cancerous cells has been negative including molecular level screenings. She emailed me a link to today’s New York Times piece, “Slowly Cancer Genes Tender Their Secrets” describing the development of cancer treatments based, “not on blasting cancer cells with harsh chemotherapy or radiation but instead of using a sort of molecular razor to cut them out.”


Becoming relentless fund-raisers for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, Bev’s brother Barry Birdwell and his wife Michele, train themselves and mentor more that seventy others though the Leukemia Team in Training program. Their goal this year is to run the Musical Marathon Series which includes four marathons. Barry serves on the Central Florida board of the society.

Beverly, my best-friend since childhood, thrives this Christmas of 2005. When she entertained the faculty from Warren, Michigan’s Lincoln High School, where Bob serves as principal, someone commented that Bev's tree was the most beautiful tree they had ever seen.

Under that ten-foot tree Bev celebrated the holidays with family including Bob’s sister Dr. Rhonda Blair, a drama teacher at SMU; her oldest son Jesse, a teacher and coach at David Lipscomb High School in Nashville, completing an MBA; her second born son, Zachary, a missionary in Guatemala this year and a likely law school student next year; her youngest son, Alex, an undergrad at Harding University; her brother Barry and his wife Michele working and running in Melbourne,Florida; and her mother Lois, living close by loving Bev and the boys.

From the age two until our twenties and marriage took us away, we spent every Christmas of our lives together. When I read the headline today, “Cancer Genes Tender Secrets…” I thought of the secrets tendered by best friends over the years. A flood of love and memories overwhelmed me and I had to pause to say thanks to God for the grace of friendship and for each day of life he has afforded us.

I know for Beverly Birdwell Blair thankfulness to God for his grace and Gleevec dwarf chronic myelogenous leukemia.

FESTIVAL OF CHEAP COOKIES

Iced oatmeal, brand-X vanilla crème sandwich, and very small, very round, very hard sugar cookies-this fare along with gallons and gallons of Kroger lemonade set the stage for a celebration at Greater Atlanta Christian each December of my last ten years.

At the yearly Festival of Cheap Cookies, entertainment consisted of a video primarily written, produced, and directed by Balloon Calves Productions featuring timeless characters like The Finch, Spartan Boy, GAC Man, and the Men’s Drill Team. Along with actions films, dramas occasionally emblazoned the festival screen. Dramas like the David and Angie Fann wedding drama.

Matt Elliott, Mr. Balloon Calves himself, part chaplain and part comic, extraordinary at both, launched the careers of a diversity of dancers and actors including Christopher Dowdy, Aaron Paul, Jared Thomas, Wade Roberts, Jimmy Chupp, Dana Davis, David Fincher, and Donna Strickland.

In between exams, for a short forty minutes, the GAC senior high gathered for bad cookies, weak lemonade, and riotous laughter.

Other traditions at GAC exuded more dignity, but the Festival of Cheap Cookies possessed a certain store-bought baked goods charm that I am missing right now.

Actually I miss a great deal about GAC. Not because there is anything wrong with Memphis Harding Academy, but because I feel like I never really got to say good-bye to my friends and to the students I love so much.

The other day I was in an assembly at church or school singing a song Matt taught us our first year at GAC. I felt myself a little short of breath. Not the short of breath one experiences from exercise, but more like the what I think folks may experience in a panic attack.

One moment I was in GAC chapel singing “Day by Day” while Chris, Afro and all, sang with the freshman a few rows back. A fifth grader, Trevor, just yards away, was singing praises too while wading through Alpha-psi-whatever and collecting pogs.

In dream-like time ten years passed. Now Chris, 24, and Trevor, turning 21, make their life music miles away and I too have left GAC.

The years in that moment enrich my life with memories of teaching politics, history, and high school psychology in a double wide trailer with Dr. Alan Henderson in the room next door leading minds to ponder Jeus and world religions.

Recollections of praise songs, debate trips, Rock for___ Concerts, presidential elections, Dana Davis Eagle conferences, faculty singing, construction projects, trips to the Czech Republic, senior trips to Orlando, valedictory speeches, and graduation ceremonies rush through my consciousness.

I cry when I remember saying goodbye to Doc Love.
I cry when I remember the class of ’99 and the loss of Melissa Davis.

I sense the sweetness of victories and the sting of disappointments and failures that dot the landscape of those years.

I embrace the precious moments in which I worked at GAC alongside my sister Kim and her husband Ted with all of our children here together. Sometimes my mom, JoJo answered the phones and we enjoyed what I think are God greatest blessings-family, community, meaningful work, and spiritual passion.

In those days, I would have worked at GAC for free. Every day was a delight.

I see Atlanta from Stone Mountain and relive the senior class devotional we shared the same week Lincoln Hamilton was baptized. I can almost feel the cold water in the Gulf of Mexico, a lake in Covington, Georgia, and a swimming pool in Birmingham, as I recall the baptisms of dozens of GAC students.

I hear Trevor telling me, "The guys in 8th grade guys are really happy I am going out for spring football. Mom, they are as excited as when I was baptized."

I count ways Matt Elliott, Clif Jones, Brad Kinser, Uncle Ted Thames and others inspired, loved, and encouraged my boys, but time constrains me.

My friends' faces appear in frames. I imagine them animated like the HP printer ads and wish they were here with me.

I recount the gifts from the faculty Christmas luncheons, although admit I still startle when the little reading lamp from last year starts to open.

I take some pleasure that in all that transpired, I escaped without ever receiving a gift from Brad Kinser and Thom Jacquet at Christmas.

I thank God for grace shown to me by this dynamic community of believers, full of lovers of God and doers of his Word.
I cherish the committment to quality education in a Christian environment.

I smile when I think of Matt Elliott and Balloon Calves Production moving to Buford, going from 0 to 3 in a few short years. But what a legacy, Matt--The Festival of Cheap Cookies.

So, today, in honor of a grand tradition, I eat iced oatmeals here in Memphis as I run off my final exams and raise a plastic cup of weak lemonade to my friends at GAC.

RUSH LIMBAUGH AND SILENT SAINTS

After imbibing chili with church members we gathered in the den to chat. As one of the fellow guests got up to leave I saw black letters from his orange t-shirt glaring “Club Gitmo.”

I asked him where he got his shirt. Smiling, assuming I was admiring it, he said, “Rush Limbaugh’s website.”

It was one of those moments.

It’s been said if someone is saying or doing something evil, and you don’t respond you are implying agreement.

I pondered.
Can Christians really make light of Gitmo?
Can Christians really advertise for Rush?
Should I disrupt the Christian chili-klatsch with what might be considered “liberal hand-wringing”?
Am I exchanging social grace for complicity?

Ryan Bieler, a web editor for Sojourners, links readers to Rush Limbaugh's recent remarks in response to the capture of four members of the Christian Peacemaker Teams:

“…part of me that likes this. And some of you might say, "Rush, that's horrible. Peace activists taken hostage." Well, here's why I like it. I like any time a bunch of leftist feel-good hand-wringers are shown reality. So here we have these peace activists over there. I don't care if they're Christian or not. They're over there, and as peace activists, they've got one purpose. They're over there trying to stop the violence.”

Bieler comments, “His (Limbaugh’s) reference to reality is intriguing, coming in support of an administration now widely regarded as out of touch with the reality in Iraq. Promises that we would be greeted as liberators, that Iraq would pay for its own invasion with oil revenue, that we knew where the weapons of mass destruction were, that only a few troops would be needed - all evaporated in the face of a reality that the likes of Limbaugh can only imagine, while the men and women of the armed forces, CPT members, and the people of Iraq experience its horror on a daily basis.”

Frequently conservatives decry an appalling lack of outrage on the part of Muslims throughout the world to attacks on civilians. Beiler’s essay emphasizes that Muslim politicians and clerics have called for the release of these hostages.

As the Bush administration sends Bush confidante Karen Hughes to listen to the Muslim world to help the US mission to win hearts and minds, they recognize that military force and buying the Iraqi press isn’t going to be enough to make things right.

Is it possible that courageous Christians actively pursuing peace through non-violence might speak to the Muslim world?

Undoubtedly, lovers of Jesus concerned about genuine threats to America’s security from Muslim extremists have opposing views of how to deal with these vital concerns.

Yet regardless of how you think about policy, how can Christians embrace the commentator Rush Limbaugh who says he “likes it just a little when he sees them blindfolded with guns pointed to their heads”?

I have to wonder what it will take for Christians to distance themselves from this man and his form of entertainment. How can some Christians have the energy to fuss and fume over the president’s greeting cards saying “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” and yet not be screaming that Rush Limbaugh is a little gleeful over this kidnapping?

Several gatherings remain on the holiday horizon. Otherwise sweet church-going folks sporting or spewing Rush-isms may abound.

Is silence at a party complicity?




"It is not enough to say we must not wage war. It is necessary to love peace and sacrifice for it."
Martin Luther King, Jr.

Veteran’s Day

She survived the Warsaw uprising, Auchschwitz, and Bergen-Belsen.

Less than five feet tall, Mrs. Diament’s size belies her strength. Well over 80, she drives daily from the suburbs of Memphis to her office downtown where she owns a paper company. She shared her story today at a World War II remembrance day at Memphis Harding Academy,

Asked if there were any good moments--any kindnesses shown to her by the Germans in the camps, Mrs. Diament said no. Whatever you have heard about the camps, she said, the reality was worse. Hungry for five years, she weighed 60 pounds when the Allies liberated Bergen Belsen.

Months after liberation, her husband came to the door of her sister’s home in Belgium. She had not seen him for three years.

Having no desire to live in Europe, they found their way to Memphis. For years, busy with work and family she did not dwell on the terrors of the camps. Now, her husband deceased and her children grown, she is often alone.

Memories haunt her loneliness.

When asked what message she would give to children today she seemed to wave the question way. She is pessimistic. She laments the way the “we must never forget” talk languished as cruelty raged through Cambodia, Bosnia, and Sudan.

She wanted to live at least one day longer than Hitler. Now, sixty years after the end of the war, she finished the interview, and briskly refused assistance as she walked off the stage.

Her strength sings.
Her pessimism stings.

EMBRACING THE SHATTERED

Gunfire shattered Tina Obsey’s apartment window Monday night.

Tina Osbey left New Orleans when told by officials to evacuate in anticipation of Katrina’s landfall. She and her three sisters, Crystal, Shasta, and Desiree, found their way to one the shelters offered by Christians in East Memphis. When the Osbey sisters and their families walked into the shelter, all seventeen of them opened their arms and hugged us all.

That embrace characterizes most of our experience together.

The children ranging from primary grades to seniors in high school enrolled in school and the sisters began their trek through the maze of assistance ostensibly available to evacuees. One queue after another followed by one snafu after another left them frustrated daily. I would be at school teaching all day and would drop by many evenings to see how things were going.

Weeks went by.
What did you find out from the city of Memphis?
What will the Red Cross do for you?
Did you find out what FEMA will do?

Day after day, line after line, frustration mounted.

One day when Desiree finally got to the front of the line, the two FEMA reps couldn’t agree on what would work.

As the weeks went by, one of the sisters, Crystal, left with her two children. She heard FEMA had their act together in Houston. She left one weekend in mid- September and moved into an apartment by the next Thursday.

The same weekend Crystal left, Ken and I went to Atlanta to put our home there on the market. On the following Tuesday, the same day the virtual tour of my suburban Atlanta house went online, Tina found an aerial view of her New Orleans home submerged near Lake Ponchatrain.

As I looked over her shoulder at the computer screen, I felt I was living through a Tale of Two Cities.

After weeks of wrangling, finally the Osbeys experienced a ‘yes.’ They received FEMA vouchers. They found some apartments close by the shelter. The children would be close to their schools. The sisters loved the quiet neighborhood. They paid their deposits.

The Osbeys waited three weeks until the anticipated vacancies come about. Last week as they sat at the table ready to sign leases, the word came from “corporate” that they didn’t want to lease their apartments to the evacuees.

“Corporate” would not accept the FEMA money.

Wonder why? Because these new residents were black? Because they were poor? The lease was paid for a year.

Quickly arrangements were made for them to move to another complex—miles from the shelter and from the children’s schools--miles from the quiet of the East Memphis neighborhood that had welcomed them so warmly.

Last Friday night I went with Tina to the apartment complex that accepted the FEMA vouchers. As they moved the few belongings they have accumulated while at the shelter, gangs of young men walked around everywhere, staring.

When we dropped by on Saturday, dozens of groups of younger kids roamed around staring at the Osbey family.

The apartments, I was told by a sister from church, is known for being full of gangs. She lives only blocks away.

Last week’s celebration going on over “the evacuees finally getting their own place” belied Tina’s sadness. Protective of her boys, longing for them to experience a calm neighborhood and good schools, she ached at the prospects of living in this place.

Sunday afternoon as the Osbeys tried to walk down the stairs of the apartment, a large group of young men sat on the steps forcing the family to walk over them.

Monday night Tina called. “Beverly,” she said, “someone just shot a gun through my window. My window’s busted out. The bullets went right by face.”

An assailant in a black hood shot numerous times at a fellow running by Tina’s apartment. Along with the bullets shattering her apartment window several other gunshots marked the hallway outside her apartment.

Scattered shells surrounded Tina’s car out in the parking lot.

The sister from church who lives in the neighborhood went over to check on the family. A bunch of young kids milling around the yard outside Tina’s place filled the sister in on the details and were about to describe the assailant’s car when the police finally arrived. Suddenly the children knew nothing.

The police seemed indifferent. The apartment management didn’t board the windows. Tina and the boys spent the night in Desiree’s apartment worried that the few belongings accumulated since Katrina would be stolen.

Tina told me the apartment was broken into overnight although apparently nothing physical was stolen.

According to Tina, the day manager seemed indifferent to reports of violence and the break-in.

The Osbey sisters, though strong and charming stand in the column of those battered by more than Katrina. When the youngest, Desiree was six years old, their father shot and killed their mother while eleven year old Shasta looked on.

Since the Osbeys came to the shelter, those of us working together to offer a theme a temporary home and some comfort, along with learning to love and laugh with them, have learned in bits of pieces a little of what its like to grow up black, in poverty, and in poor health.

We pray the embrace experienced at the temporary shelter will continue to encircle the Osbeys and the other evacuees who have captured the hearts of scores of Memphis Christians eager to offer to comfort and assistance.

We see the vast needs created by Katrina, exacerbated by issues of poverty and race, demand the combined efforts of Christ’s church, the business community, and the government.

Meanwhile Ken and I believe the pulling of the plug by “corporate” bears investigation.

We feel deeply that FEMA and all levels of government nearly breached the social contract in the wake of this disaster.

Monday night’s gunshot speaks of things shattered beyond the glass of Tina’s apartment window.

DARK ROOMS AND BEAUTIFUL FEET

“Dark rooms. There are some very dark rooms.” Shirley Dowdy Plunket, eyes closed, uttered these words under the influence of medications given after a surgeon amputated both of her legs last week.

What she saw in that altered state of consciousness reflected the reality of her journey over the last two years.

Many of you know Shirley Dowdy Plunket, the mother of my husband Ken, Jim Dowdy Jr., and Dorlea Dowdy Rikard. Through her marriage in her seventies to the late Lamar Plunket, she is the proud stepmother of Trudie Plunkett, Bonnie Plunket Barnett, Rodney Plunket, and Joe Plunket.

Reaching the status of octogenarian on September 23, friends and family members alike will quickly agree with Rodney’s wife, Margaret, that in spite of the fact that she is eighty; Shirley is simply not OLD. Her grandchildren, the Dowdy’s, the Rikards, the Plunkets, and Barnets, don’t think of her as old. Her grandchildren call her on their cell phones. The grandkids call, not under duress, but because they genuinely like talking to her.

Young people have always loved to talk to Shirley.

She’s not old, but in her eighty years the collection of folks for whom she has been a nurturer, a listening ear, a hostess, a bearer of gifts, an encourager, and a comforter may be akin to the descendants of Abraham—as hard to count as the stars in the sky.

After coming of age in the mountains around Denver, marrying her World War II GI sweetheart Jim Dowdy, and settling in Huntsville, Alabama, Shirley walked through life remembering what it meant to be a stranger. She turned that reality into a home renowned for hospitality. Scented by her cooking and baking and infused with her love for special occasions, every room in the Dowdy home sparkled with holiday décor and glowed with the warmth of her welcome.

The Christmas before Ken and I married she welcomed not only me to her home, but my mother and sister from Michigan, and my sister, her husband, and infant son from Atlanta.

Photos displayed in the hallway of her home included young men who had lived with them at various times mixed right in with the photos of Jim Jr., Ken, and Dorlea.

If there were pictures of all the weddings, showers, teas, and parties hosted by Shirley, the hall could not hold them all.

As bright as the rooms in the family’s home in Huntsville were, they could not keep Shirley from walking through the valley of the shadow of death. After over forty years of marriage, she lost Jim to cancer. Within a few years of that loss, she walked to the gravesides of both of her two surviving brothers.

Shirley turned that path into a ministry of grief recovery blessing scores of others surviving the loss of loved ones.

The brightly painted rooms in the home she eventually built in Florence, Alabama provide a light backdrop to picturesque displays celebrating her various affections—children and grandchildren, the Southwest, crystal, cookbooks, a plethora of cool gadgety items, and her years with Lamar.

Taken from her active church and social life, the joy of travel, and her usual paths of service by a devastating staph infection, for the last two years Shirley brightened rooms of hospitals and nursing homes by her spiritual response to the intense suffering she endured. Last Thursday she submitted to a double amputation of her legs due to the unrelenting infection in her knees.

Resolute and understandably a bit fearful, Shirley helped me and others around her cope with her condition. As time for surgery approached, it was gut wrenching to me to think of her losing her pedicured feet. I cried when I saw her closet and remembered how much she always loved shoes.

But as family members sat nearby and listened to her positive assessment of the situation and her faith in the Lord, I thought of the passage in Romans extolling the beautiful feet of those who carry the good news.

When she muttered about the dark rooms, I thought--Shirley Dowdy Plunkett, you have passed through some dark rooms, but no infection, no surgery, no power on this earth, can take away your beautiful feet.


She would love to hear from you.
Shirley Dowdy Plunkett
Mitchell-Hollingsworth Nursing and Rehabilitation Center
805 Flagg Circle
Florence, AL 35631

photo by Julia Elliot
Pictured standing on left-Rachel Formby Dowdy, Kiley Rikard
Seated-Shirley Dowdy Plunket, Dorlea Dowdy Rikard, Beverly Choate Dowdy
Standing right-Meagan Rikard Haney

I PROMISED THEM YOU WOULD PRAY

A year, maybe more, seemed to have passed between Thursday, September 1 and Monday, September 5.

My husband Ken’s new role as administrative minister at the White Station Church of Christ in Memphis put us in the middle of starting a congregational response to the Katrina. Once a team of folks got together and identified some needs, they decided to open a shelter on Friday night. So, dozens of brothers and sisters, all committed and competent folks, have been praying, planning, praying, scheduling, crying, recruiting, purchasing, donating, folding, organizing, crying and praying.

Sunday afternoon members of the Osbey family of New Orleans, including four sisters, one finace, and twelve children came to stay at the shelter. They told us that their first cousin Cherlyn Nettles left New Orleans with three children when the evacuation order came and went to Baton Rouge to stay with a relative. Her husband Terrell stayed behind with their 10 year-old child who had a handicap. When the flood waters came Terrell tried to keep the child elevated, but his ankle broke and he lost the child to the floodwaters. He was rescued and taken to a shelter in Arkansas.

Sunday evening, the Osbey sisters got word that the couple had found each other. Monday they received confirmation that the child’s body had been identified. Terrell is taking a bus this week to Louisiana to make arrangements for the child, and Cherlyn, Terrell, and their surviving children may come to the shelter on Quince Road in Memphis.

I told them that my friends at church and other places around would pray for them every day this week as they go through this ordeal. We are saving a place for them so they can stay with their cousins if that works out for them.

So, please write down their names: Cherlyn and Terrell Nettles and call them aloud to our Father. Please pray for their cousins, the Osbey sisters. Pray the Osbey children as they start school.

God have mercy on all the survivors.
May God have mercy on us all.

By the way, this makes the stress of selling our house in Atlanta and purchasing one here seem--how shall I say it?

Minimal.