Theology Time

More on the Sermon on the Mount. Some writer I read once said that the Galilean was almost breathless on that barren mountain. Whoever it was said the reading resonates more with modern audiences if one inserts, periodically, “And another thing …”

Well whatever. If we are to believe the Gospel of Matthew, our hero really “shucked the corn” back then. As they used to say in my day, “It was radical man,” or, just “Rad, man, rad.” (It sounds more meaningful with smoke in the air).

We’ve already beat The Beatitudes to a fine dust. It’s still fun to think of how “rad” it must have been to the conservative Roman rulers, the bankers, and the Temple Vision evangelists to hear a man say that their worst nightmares—the poor in spirit, the meek, the mourners, the merciful, the peacemakers, the righteous, and so forth—were standing by to inherit the next world.

Today’s “out of context” crowd stays busy with all that. Maybe they wouldn't have heard it correctly.

Either He had a mighty fine voice, or it must have been hard to hear that day. That possibility occurs in the film spoof by Monty Python, The Life of Brian. One of those at the fringe of the crowd wonders why He is saying something about “Blessed are the cheese-makers.” That might, in fact, make more sense to men in those Manhattan skyscrapers and their third, fourth, or fifth wives.

Let's take a look at some of the other radical things he said:

"If you say, 'You fool,' you will be liable to the hell of fire." (5:22)

"If your right eye causes you to sin, tear it out and throw it away." (5:29)

"Whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery." (5:32)

"Do not refuse anyone who wants to borrow from you." (5:42)

"Do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear." (6:25)

"The gate is narrow and the road is hard […] and there are few who find it." (7:14)

Maybe that’s why, in a 2006 speech, President Barack Obama (perhaps the last president we’ll ever have who could quote this masterful work), said, the Sermon on the Mount was so "radical" the Defense Department wouldn't survive its application. Earlier he suggested the economy couldn't get along without it.

Rad, man. Rad.

On the theist side, Augustine called the Sermon on the Mount "a perfect standard of the Christian life."

On the doubting side, Thomas Jefferson thought it was "the most sublime and benevolent code of morals which has ever been offered".

For the young fans of the Harry Potter series, Albus Dumbledore quotes the Bible word-for-word in placing an inscription on the tomb of his mother and sister, "Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." 6:19-24

Not all of the Sermon is comforting, however. Think of how members of the “Tax Cut Cult,” when dreaming of their latest riches, must find it a bit troubling that the Galilean said, "No one can serve two masters, for either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve God and money."

Rad, man. Rad.

Radical, beautiful, or both?
I report. You decide.

Saturday Musings

It’s been mostly about politics lately. Actually, it’s been mostly about hatred of one another. That’s mostly what politics is about these days. It mostly makes me nauseated. Too bad.

I’m trying to take anger out of my leanings. Further, I try to make decisions based on my evaluation of facts and circumstances. That is not always an easy process. Done well, though, it can be a rewarding one.

Social media is all aflame, for example, with opinions as to whether or not true patriots wear flag decals on their lapels. It frankly doesn’t bother me much, although I’ve always found the practice slightly offensive—wearing a flag lapel pin that is. Too many verified scoundrels, hypocrites, draft dodgers, and worthless politicians don them for my liking. It seems to be a cheap way of showing that you can talk the talk without ever having walked the walk.

That said, do I hate people who don’t think like me? No. I don’t think highly of folks who choose opposite paths out of racial, gender, social, or sexual bigotry. But hate them? I’m not allowed to. The Galilean forbids it for one thing. Consider the following.

No long ago, I spent some time in a large room full of people, most of whom, if the research could be done, were related or near related to me. I suspect that the vast majority, maybe 95 percent or more, were good, honest, trustworthy, dependable, and mostly loving people. They were good to their families, hard-working, and kind to their neighbors. There were many former veterans and probably no former felons in the room. Had they known who I was, to a person they would have welcomed me and stood ready to help if I needed them.

As I survived the crowd, the fact settled on me like a cold morning midst. There may not have been another soul in that room who voted for same person I did in the last presidential election.

Do we worship different values? I suspect not many. Do we perceive good and evil differently? I suspect not materially. If we got to know one another well and could discuss politics with empathy and logic, would we end up despising one another? I suspect not.

So what is the damned problem with us Americans these days? I wish I knew. To arrive at my own personal answer, I think I’d better consider my own prejudices first. Here goes.

I am a veteran of the United States Navy, having served in an armed detachment, called Naval Security Forces, in Vietnam. Our president’s party dishonored the service of two people I consider spiritual shipmates, John McCain and John Kerry. It will take some time for me to get over that. Maybe someday. I’ll try.

Someone very close to me was born with a disabling syndrome. The leader of one of two major political parties mocked a man with a similar disability. I’m sorry, but I took that personally.

I’m not what you would call a religious person, but I love some aspects of the Galilean’s story. I believe strongly in the separation of church and state. I find it too easy for the ill-willed among us to highjack religion, so I think its best that we keep it to ourselves and out of the halls of government. That having been said, I use the Sermon on the Mount, as presented in the Gospel of Matthew, as a guide to the moral side of political guidance. Of course, that tilts me toward the progressive side of things.

If I am an expert on anything, it is certain aspects of government and I believe that government can be a positive force for good. That tilts me away from politicians that seek to dismantle our governmental structures.

As one can see, I have my prejudices, but none of them involve flag decals.

I believe we'll make
our Eagle smile again.

 i

Faith and birth ...

Grains and Flowers

By Jimmie von Tungeln

Something stirred in the damp cell, a breeze perhaps. The man drew his blanket tighter and turned toward the small window. Through it he saw the moon as a small cloud scuttled across its surface. Holding the blanket around him, he rose from the stone ledge that was his bed and stood on aching legs. “Nearly morning.” he said to no one.

            He walked to the window and placed his head close to the wooden bars. There, the fresh scent of the late winter breeze replaced the cold, dead smell of the cell. He saw the feathered helmet of the guard to his left and spoke in a soft voice. “Soon.”

            The guard did not move, but the man saw him stiffen. “I do think the flowers are beautiful,” the man said. “What a shame.”

            “No talking,” the guard said.

            “Oh,” the man said. “Shall I be punished?”

            The guard turned his head in one direction, then the other. “You should be proud,” he said. “You have lived a blessed life.”

            “Of course,” the man said. “The best, most powerful, and strongest among a throng of pygmies.”

            “Do not blaspheme,” the guard said.

            “I won’t. The flowers do bring joy to both the weak and the strong.”

            “But,” the guard said. “You are not flowers.”

            “No,” the man said. “I am grain, the sustainer of life.” He looked past the guard to where a serape hung, its surface laced with dried grain stalks. Next to it hung a small chain containing wooden replicas of local flowers painted in gaudy imitation of real ones.

            A soft sound floated across the open field between the cell and the mound that was beginning to take shape on the pre-dawn horizon.

            “It begins,” the man said.

            As if being triggered by his announcement, a light appeared from the woods to the right of the ramp, then another, and another. Then there was a line of torches moving first to, then up the ramp of the mound. The uneven steps of the bearers gave the lights a sparkling effect, like the sun shining on the scales of a moving serpent. Both men watched in silence.

            Then the man spoke. “They will sleep well tonight.”

            “Silence,” the guard said. “We each do our part.”

            Something in the cell moved behind the man and he turned. A small girl, her age being two smiles before womanhood arose from the other bed and moved into the pale light provided by the watching moon. She wore a woolen dressed, decorated with painted flowers. Her hair was braided like the tips of cornstalks, two black strands tied together in back. She wore a necklace of silver trinkets, each in the shape of a flower. Smaller replicas dangled from each wrist. She walked in leather moccasins. They, like her dress, were covered with painted replicas of flowers.

            The girl walked to where the man stood and looked at him. She smiled the smile of a harlot and began to dance. Swirling across the room, she spread her arms in rhythm to the stamping of her feet. The beauty of her joyous face made the man’s heart ache as if a knife of ice had pierced it.

            “She believes,” he said.

            “More than believes,” the guard said. “She knows.”

            “She thinks she does,” the man said as the girl swept by him, her hands grazing his shoulder. “Do they ever stop believing?”

            “Hardly ever.”

            “How do they do it?”

            “Do what?”

            “Load such belief into a heart.”

            “They begin to build faith at the mother’s breast,” the guard said. “Faith is a powerful force if directed properly.”

            “But sometimes it weakens?”

            “Sometimes,” the guard said. “As they are placed in view of the crowd, the evil serpent Jemsnella places the sin of doubt in their eyes.” He turned for the first time. “But you know of doubt and of battles and of the warrior’s creed. One must not carry doubt into danger.”

            “Great warriors do not carry doubt into danger,” the man said. “But they often carry doubt away from danger.”

            “Do not blaspheme. You should be proud that the flowers will bloom.”

            “And that the grain will grow,” the man said as the girl danced by again, the trinkets on her necklace and bracelets making a sound like the words "shin-ing, shin-ing.” She grinned lasciviously as she passed. “So say the gods,” the man said. 

            “Do not question the ways of the gods,” the guard said.

            “I do not question the ways of the gods,” the man said. “But sometimes I wish they could find ways that are less ….” He stopped as the guard turned around and looked into the cell. The girl finished her dance with a grand and graceful bow.

            “Less what?” the guard said.

            “Cruel.”

"... whoever believes in him shall
 not perish but have eternal life."

New ground. New adventures.

Last time we visited, my young wife and I had just decided to purchase a Victorian cottage at 2107 South Broadway, built by a man named Fox for his family in 1898. It is now considered be quite a part of the “downtown” area of Little Rock. Back then, Mr. Fox’s employer, a Mr. Gans, accused the Fox family of “moving out into the country,” rather than building a home in town as would have any normal family.

Anyhow, we now wanted to own it. Oh, the bank didn’t want us to. Back then, they hated loaning money for homes in this area. Rumors were that somewhere, in the secret lairs of the banks’ deep caverns, they had big maps with red circles drawn around specific areas of town. The property was in such an area, and should have been untouchable. Two things worked for us, though.

First, the powers that be had decided long ago that South Broadway would be a commercial corridor from the Arkansas River to Roosevelt Avenue. The old houses would have to go. They added nothing to the potential commerce of the city. When commercial came, the properties would be valuable enough to absorb the paltry cost of the residences. If the property sold twice when commercial showed up, what the hell? Progress was what they called it.

Second. We were white.

White people were fleeing such neighborhoods, even fleeing cities that had such neighborhoods. But the couples who had been buying properties therein were working-class professionals and excellent at paying their mortgages. Further, the couples purchasing the properties wanted to live in them. They didn't seek to convert them to apartments, an act that sometimes created near-instant slums. So, these stupid kids would keep the area stable until the developers showed up with their deep pockets.

It was what we now call a "win-win." Back then we called it, "Play along. Get along."

Anyway, if commercial developers showed interest, the banks could pull the mortgages. They had threatened that before, both to induce sales, and to squelch protests over the demolishing of what the youngsters (laughingly in the eyes of prominent businessmen) called, “historic properties.”

It had worked. Commercial development was working its way north from Roosevelt. A block south of our property, the lower half of Broadway had transitioned to commercial. A used car dealership spread over the south half of the west side. The story was that thugs would show up at the house remaining on that portion of the block after midnight knocking on the door and asking if the owner wanted to sell. She was an elderly lady from an old Little Rock family and was beginning suffer the effects of old-age. They must have terrified her. She faced them off, but time was on their side, or so they thought.

That was life in the old days. The traffic counts on South Broadway overrode any love of history.

We were young and dumb and full of optimism. We didn’t care about all that. We just smiled and signed the papers, beginning the rip-roaring, and damndest, adventure a young married couple ever set sail on, and we had no idea what was coming.

Next: our first road bump.

None of our future neighbors
belonged to a country club. Should
that have told us something?

While my neighbor and I were training for a marathon, my wife and I were working on an old Victorian cottage we had bought in the old part of Little Rock known as “The Quapaw Quarter.”

I don’t know what got into us.

It just seemed like the fashionable thing to do the time. Our friends were restoring old homes. There was a defined little gang of “downtown people” who had bought cheap property in the old neighborhood around Downtown and were busy, and happily it seemed at the time, restoring them to their once sparkling beauty. Yes, all our friends were doing it.

Not a soul appeared, not even my sainted mother, to mention jumping off cliffs.

The house had been built in 1898 by a man named Fox, who worked for a Mr. Gans. The Gans building were they worked after it was built in 1903, still stands on Second Street. Our house, located at 2107 South Broadway, had been remodeled a couple of times. The last remodeling had removed the Victorian porch and replaced it with a 1930s monstrosity.

Like a couple of idiots, we decided to restore it back to its original luster.

It was to be, as they later said about military life, not a job, but an adventure.

Our little cottage.
To the left of the big house.

Running buddies and old friends ...

I’ve told about the decision my neighbor and I made once to run a marathon. We made the decision in the fall of 1979 and were training in serious by the end of the year. We had picked up some compadres since then. One was the late John Woodruff, who lived six or seven blocks from us. Another was the late Robert Johnston who lived, for a while, across Broadway. The others are still living as far as I know, and probably wouldn’t want their association with me made public.

John Woodruff figured largely into this marathon thing. He wasn’t a fast runner, so when we ran in a pack (yeah, kind of like a wolf pack), the others would sometimes take off at a faster pace and leave the two of us. I guess the others felt that as long as I was with John, that qualified as adult supervision.

John was a journalist. He worked for the Arkansas Gazette, the “oldest newspaper west of the Mississippi.” He covered North Little Rock, the politics and all. This was a plum assignment back then for the city was known for its “rip-roaring” approach to life, as exemplified by its legendary mayor Casey Layman. He was, in fact, too colorful to write about in a family-oriented blog. Let’s just leave it at that.

Anyway, John and I put in some miles together and shared an unforgettable experience I’ll cover later. For now, John was a glorious companion. He talked slowly, choosing his words with care, as you might expect from one who had spent years writing sentences that would be dissected and attacked from the nastiest of editors to the ACLU. He had this habit of turning his head slowly and looking at you when he wanted to say something important. And John didn't waste much time on unimportant things.

One of the most touching stories he told, as we were on a long run together, involved journalism as they practiced it in the old days. He told me how he would return from a City Council meeting, and pound out a piece in time for the next day's paper. Having finished his work day, he would sit in the press room with other reporters and relax. Then he told how, after some time had passed, the old Gazette Building would start to rumble and shake.

It was the presses starting up and announcing that the First Amendment was secure for another day.

John died of cancer a few years ago. Maybe it's good that he didn’t live to see a day when that precious piece of our Constitution is in such danger. I miss the comfort that people like John Woodruff bring to this world.

You don't meet many like
John in this short life.

Theology Time

Why am I stuck on the Sermon on The Mount? Maybe because I think it begins with some of the most beautiful words in literature, The Beatitudes.

It also contains, I think, some troubling and contradictory passages. Consider:

17: Think not that I am come to destroy the law, or the prophets: I am not come to destroy, but to fulfill. (KJV)

That spells out support for some of the most drastic and unfathomable strictures of Leviticus and must, by inference, condone the actions of Moses against the Midianite women, children, and virgin girls. Then he has to go and amplify it with the next verse.

18: For verily I say unto you, Till heaven and earth pass, one jot or one tittle shall in no wise pass from the law, till all be fulfilled.

I suppose that if I were an educated theologian, or a Biblical scholar, I might say how, in addition to being a singular figure, he was also a pragmatic salesman, one who knew better than to irritate the hardcore evangelicals of his day. (Of course, later on, he did just that.) Best to ease into things.

This morning early, while we were having our “coffee-talkee” (actually, he likes tea better), I asked the Galilean about these contradictions.

“My ways ain’t your ways,” he said, and changed the subject.

After he left, I began to derive some genius in his approach. First, he seemed to narrow the stricture.

19: Whosoever therefore shall break one of these least commandments, and shall teach men so, he shall be called the least in the kingdom of heaven: but whosoever shall do and teach them, the same shall be called great in the kingdom of heaven.

Was he just talking about the Ten Commandments? That would simplify, particularly had he told us which ten. But anyway, stability, maybe that’s what were talking about … stability.

Consider that the present ruler of the United States and his minions express neither respect nor regard for our laws that have been around for years and years. Then consider the instability and insidiousness that this causes.

Stability, that’s what we are talking about. Now it makes some sense. Next, he seems to slap some of those very fanatics in the face.

20: For I say unto you, That except your righteousness shall exceed the righteousness of the scribes and Pharisees, ye shall in no case enter into the kingdom of heaven.

That’s a fairly easy mandate for us these days. It’s certainly not hard to “exceed the righteousness” of a Franklin Graham, the demonic hordes of TV “evangelists,” or leaders who cover up child molestation amongst their clergy.

Then he gets into some of what I call amplifications. “Holy high-standards Batman.” I can agree with some adversaries, but POTUS would be a challenge. An adversary that mocks a physically-challenged person would require some extra-high-power agreeing. I know, I know, the Galilean didn’t say a darn thing about how you could wait until your adversary agreed with one of his adversaries first.

Let’s move on to a real dandy.

27: Ye have heard that it was said by them of old time, Thou shalt not commit adultery.

28: But I say unto you, That whosoever looketh on a woman to lust after her hath committed adultery with her already in his heart.

Being somewhat familiar with the making of laws and regulations, I immediately sought the list of “exceptions.” Alas.

A later one is a little easier.

31: It hath been said, Whosoever shall put away his wife, let him give her a writing of divorcement.

32: But I say unto you, That whosoever shall put away his wife, saving for the cause of fornication, causeth her to commit adultery: and whosoever shall marry her that is divorced committeth adultery.

I never had much trouble with this one. I am confused, though, when I hear about churches with special Sunday School classes for young divorcees.

Sometime I think the Galilean is just messing with us. He denies it, but …

38: Ye have heard that it hath been said, An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:

39: But I say unto you, That ye resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.

40: And if any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloke also.

41: And whosoever shall compel thee to go a mile, go with him twain.

42: Give to him that asketh thee, and from him that would borrow of thee turn not thou away.

43: Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy.

44: But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you;

45: That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

46: For if ye love them which love you, what reward have ye? Do not even the publicans the same?

47: And if ye salute your brethren only, what do ye more than others? do not even the publicans so?

So, where do we start?

Those things are hard. I guess
he meant them to be.

Saturday Dreaming

 Saturday mornings I arise early and watch three hours of old Hopalong Cassidy films. Oh, I play them in the background and multitask. Still, one might wonder why such a dashing urbanite and intellectual would spend a morning a week while involved in such activities. Well … it relaxes me. It takes me back to more gentle times. Not a bad way to spend some time.

Hoppy respected the law, protected immigrants, supported our neighboring country, Mexico, and defended our Indian friends. He advised his “little pals” to respect police officers, obey their parents, and look both ways before moving. He makes me think of what America might have become.

Sometimes, though, it makes me think of ludicrous thing in movies. I’ve mentioned my favorite, so I won’t bring up the issue of semi-automatic pistols again. Oh heck, yes I will. They just don’t go “click click” when you fire the last shot. Everyone but scriptwriters knows that. Here are some more examples.

- Cowboys riding across deserts with no provisions for their horses or themselves.

- Cowboys, or stage coaches, galloping a horse(s) all day without food or rest.

- Raising cattle on a farm in Monument Valley.

- Never noting on Gunsmoke that Miss Kitty was a prostitute.

- Oh, and speaking of pistols, shooting and hitting someone with one at more than 20 feet.

- I won’t mention women’s hairdos that match the period at which the film was made.

- Indians riding horses with saddles under a blanket.

- There was the time that Hoppy got shot in the shoulder and then proceeded to whip the bad guy in an extended fistfight.

Oh. And the ludicrosity (Is that a word?) doesn’t end with westerns. How about the following?

- In Saving Private Ryan, a buck private refusing an order from an Army Ranger captain.

- War scenes in which everyone in a rifle company carries a sub-machine gun.

- Filming 1965’s Battle of the Bulge in the desert, sans snow.

- In the most dishonorable war movie in history, The Green Berets, John Wayne patting a young Vietnamese boy on the head while they watch the sun set to the east over the South China Sea.

- Clark Kent taking off his eyeglasses and nobody recognizing him as Superman.

- Oh, and hats that never fly off when people drive or ride in convertibles.

Then there is the matter of casting. How about David Carradine as Woody Guthrie in Bound for Glory? From all my reading and delving, Woody was sort of what Southerners call, “a little piss ant,” talented but small and feisty, far from how he was portrayed as “Kung Foo Woody.” And there was that cute and adorable little doll that played hard-nosed Mattie Ross in the regrettable Coen brothers remake of True Grit in 2010.

Okay, I’ll stop. I think there’s a neat film coming on that features Tom Cruise as adventure-novel hero Jack Reacher. Stay tuned.

Woody, not David

Bad Days and Margaritas

Some days you’d just as soon forget. Yesterday was one. Oh, I can’t say that. Any day that ends with you still standing and on the right side of the grass isn’t bad.

It’s just that yesterday wasn’t all that good.  It was the Donald Trump of bad days.

Here’s what happened.

It started the night before. We went to bed as usual, thinking “grand thoughts of the morrow.” Just before I dove off into dreamland, I heard thunder but didn’t think much about it. I was off on a trip with some high school buddies headed to Chicago to join the Mafia. Somewhere along the line, we picked up Ursula Andress and Bo Derek. That’s all I remember. Just as Bo took my hand and Boléro began to play, my roommate, best friend, and guardian of morals stirred and woke me up.

It was pitch black. No electricity. How can you make out with Bo Derek in total darkness?

I didn’t think much about it at the time. We were staying at our house in Lonoke, AR and the electricity goes off from time to time because of all the beautiful old oak trees the town is known for. No problem. I would awake and all would be well. I’m optimistic that way, or I used to be.

Anyway, my aged bones were complaining so I went to the den and switched to a recliner. All went well until the sun came up and the light awakened me while I was still calling for Bo to come back. Odd … the electricity didn’t usually stay off that long. I went back to sleep.

 

Photo courtesy
Brenda von Tungeln

An hour or so later, I gave up on Bo, and thought maybe I should take a look at things. I went to the front porch and looked. Oh my goodness. A huge oak lay against the house across the street. The owners have been working on it for nearly two years. Now a tree had crashed into it and one limb had pierced the roof.

I went outside in my pajamas. Across the intersection diagonally, a massive oak lay across the wing of a house.

Across the side street from us, a tree lay against the power line. There was nothing against ours, just some small limbs in the yard. Thought I’d best awaken El Jefa. I went in and spoke gently, “Our house is fine, but I think there has been a big storm.”

And so it began. While talking to some of the neighbors, I found that the storm had covered a large area, including around our farm. We rushed there. All was well, just a couple of limbs across the county road. My traveling companion moved them.

Then I learned it had hit Little Rock and surrounding cities. My cell phone contained a gentle inquiry from my magazine editor concerning an overdue deadline. It was finished, but I needed internet service. So off to LR we went. Things were calm at the condo. They had gotten the electricity on about 2:00 a.m. with some water damage on the first and second floors. The router was working so I sent the work in.

By this time, we needed a break. Luckily, we knew this Mexican restaurant where they serve frozen margaritas. Just the thing to help one calm down after a storm.

While we were there, the security system let us know that the electricity was back on the Lonoke house. So we rushed back there. All was well, so be early afternoon we finally made it back to the farm to do a little work.

Farewell June 20^th. I’m gonna “Scarlett O’hara” you. Today is ... guess what?

Day Off

Out earning today. Will just leave you with a simple thought.

I'm a victim of Reverse Jimmy Buffett/Ernest Hemingway Syndrome. Yes, that's the syndrome exemplified by the entrenched belief that, no matter where on the planet you are, you are the only American that the natives love.

The natives always hated me. So did the in-country folks, I believe.

I was never chosen for a sports team.

No girl ever danced with me when I asked.

Teachers didn't learn my name until the semester was over.

I was the "Marty" (Remember the movie? One of my all time hits.) of my world, except the woman who finally did pay attention was knock-down gorgeous.

Oh, I guess I had, still do, some extraordinary friends.

Well, there were some bosses that paid me well and taught me things.

I've always had good neighbors.

Some great musicians have befriended me.

Come to think about it, I've been pretty darn lucky.

Have a good day.

Tax law and training bras ...

My wife called him “your little running buddy” and we did go out jogging almost every morning the weather allowed. Now that he had talked me into training for a marathon, we became serious about it. It was in the fall of 1979 that we began our quest, so we would meet mornings way before sunrise and head off north from South Broadway. Sometimes we would drift over and make a circle into North Little Rock and sometimes we would turn west and head out Markham Street and back.

In addition to tacking on distance, I found that he had quietly increased the pace. He was just a tad shorter than I, and probably weighted less than 160 pounds. It was pure torture and I would complain if he got too aggressive. Saturdays and Sundays, we began to extend our routes, mostly pushing our distances to the ten-mile range. "Be a man," he would say when I whined, as if manhood were a choice.

Why I was doing this, I had no idea. I guess the most obvious plea would be insanity.

In inclement weather, we would meet at the reliable old Downtown YMCA. There, we carried out our daily mission on an indoor track that measured at 16 laps per mile. Mornings usually weren’t crowded, so it allowed for collegial conversation as we circled for what seemed like days. We talked of history, literature, politics, art, and sometimes tax law. Oh yes, tax law. That’s what he taught at the law school and he enjoyed pontificating about it. It eased the boredom of the incessant circulation, so I listened. I always felt they should have given me credit for taking his class had I entered law school. On practical matters involving litigation, he remained reticent, fearing, I think, that he might unknowingly give legal advice.

I’ll leave us there, spinning around that little track like specks on a phonograph record. These days we walk, my wife and I, around a similar track at a local gym. We manage a mile or two a day, which at our age might be considered respectable.

We don’t talk about history or literature now as we circle the track. I can’t keep up with her, so we each walk alone with our separate thoughts. I recently read somewhere that enjoying quiet time alone with those thoughts each day improves your memory. I hope so for our sakes, though I feel for the youth of today, whose greatest fear seems to be having a quiet, lonely moment, sans cell phone, forced upon them.

Oh well, it’s time to don my gym attire and head for a walk. Today I think I’ll try and see if I can remember anything about tax law while I stroll.

Nah. Who am I kidding? I'll probably see if I can remember anything about Betty Anne Bohanon, the only girl in Junior High who, they said, never bothered with a training bra. For the life of me, I can't recall why I ever found that to be interesting.

Now that I concentrate,
it's coming back to me.

Life's Challenges

 I think I mentioned once that right near the end of 1979, my next-door neighbor, and jogging partner, said one morning, quite casually, “Let’s run a marathon.” He sounded quite a bit like Mickey Rooney’s character in the old films, when he would say, “Hey kids, let’s put on a show!”

It made about as much sense.

Yes, I had been jogging for nearly five years. Yes, I had shed over 50 pounds. Yes, my blood pressure was a steady and reliable 120/80. Yes, I had actually run 10 kilometers once without stopping. Yes, that was 6.2 miles, and over rough terrain. Yes, we were jogging, on average, five miles per day. Yes, I was a strapping 36-year-old, if you can believe that.

But a marathon is 26.2 miles. In a nod to Greek history, the first marathon commemorated the run of the soldier Pheidippides from a battlefield near the town of Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C. According to legend, Pheidippides ran the approximately 25 miles to announce the defeat of the Persians to some anxious Athenians. Not quite in mid-season shape, he delivered the message "Niki!" (Victory!) then keeled over and died. (https://www.livescience.com/11011-marathons-26-2-miles-long.html0.

Get that? He died. People die trying to run marathons, maybe not as often as the ones trying to climb Mt. Everest, but they do die. They expire. They fall down and achieve ambient temperature ere the ambulance arrives. They are referred to as “the late imbecile” by their spouses and friends. It makes no sense. Your body completely runs “out of gas” before it is over. They call that “hitting the wall.” I had no desire to experience the phenomenon. The very idea was ludicrous. Five years earlier I had been a wobbling slob. Further, I had failed at every sport to which an American child was subjected back then. Who was he kidding? I would choose to live a while longer.

“What marathon?” I asked.

“The Arkansas Marathon,” he said. “It will be in Booneville on March First.”

“March First? We can’t ready by then.”

“We could if we tried.”

“Well, I’m not going to try.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“No way.”

“We’ll move up to seven miles a day and be at ten a day by the end of the year. Then all we’ll have to do is work in some long runs after the first of next year.”

“You must be kidding.”

“No, I’ve started making some notes for a training schedule.”

“Well, erase my name. The very idea is ludicrous.” I used words like “ludicrous” when talking to him. He was a graduate of Harvard Law School and I thought it made me sound less like a country bumpkin that could be led around like a trained pig.

“I’ve already mapped out a seven-mile route,” he said. “We can start it on Sunday.”

“Take your seven-mile route and put it … uh … don’t assume collaboration on my part.”

“We’ll have to leave 30 minutes earlier than we’ve been leaving. That will still get us to work on time.”

“I don’t see how we could make it by March.”

“I knew you’d come around.”

“Where’s this new seven-mile route you’ve worked out?”

Thus began one of the strangest episodes in an already strange life.

Do you remember that life insurance
policy you were talking about getting?

Belief Bridges

Theology Time: In an America desperately in need of what I call “belief bridges,” I find the Sermon on the Mount particularly compelling. By “belief bridges,” I mean things that may create harmony between people of differing worldviews, even for a short time.

We have covered the opening “blessings” previously. Though you could, as I have pointed out, chase some of those who today claim to be “Christian Leaders” with a copy of the Beatitudes, most thinking people would regard them as a guide to those whom the Galilean deemed happy. Why? Because, though they are set upon today, a better world awaits them. Others view them as a guide to fulfilling a Christian life. Others simply say, “Those are my brothers and sisters with special needs, and I am their keeper.” Whatever. They, these simple blessings, still have the power to shake the foundations of rational belief as part of the immortal Sermon on the Mount.

Summarizing this wondrous work in a few words is impossible. Simply consider some of the more well-known passages.

You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden. Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your Father in heaven (5:14-16).

You have heard that it was said, "Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth." But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also (5:38-39).

Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moths and vermin do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also (6:19-21).

No one can serve two masters. Either you will hate the one and love the other, or you will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and money (6:24).

Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you (7:7).

Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it (7:13-14).

Consider how “The Sermon” has been cited by both real and fictional personages. At one end of the belief spectrum, Jonathan Pennington, associate professor of New Testament interpretation and director of research doctoral studies at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, said this about the Sermon on the Mount, “… it’s wisdom from God, inviting us through faith to re-orient our values, vision, and habits from the ways of external righteousness to whole-heartedness toward God. This isn’t ‘law’ but ‘gospel.’ Jesus is inviting us into life in God’s kingdom both now and in the future age. This is grace.”

At the far end of the spectrum, that of non-belief, scientist and writer Carl Sagan says this of his atheist protagonist of the novel Contact, “Ellie, was deeply moved by the Sermon on the Mount.”

This concept of religious writing, one that serves to unite us, build bridges between us, and open the narrow gate to an exalted life, may seem strange to many in today’s America. I suppose that’s why we don’t hear much—even from those who claim to love the Galilean—about The Sermon on the Mount.

Too bad for us.

Youthful Heroes

Have you ever had such a pleasant surprise that it changed your life? It happened to me once maybe 20 years ago. Pleasant wasn’t the word for it.

It happened this way.

I had responded to a call from a worker at our state’s Office of Volunteerism and had agreed to some pro bono work for the City of Alma, Arkansas. That’s a nice community in the far west of the state, almost to Oklahoma. Yes, you remember right, it’s where Buck Barrow and another of Bonnie and Clyde’s gang members murdered a town marshal back in the 1930s. Anyway, it’s a long way from Little Rock.

 I figured I would drive there and do my thing, then drive back. But no, the man from the state insisted on driving the both of us in a state car.

Drats. I barely knew him. His name was Hal Naylor, and was a fastidious sort of guy—tall, thin, neat, and no-nonsense. And here I was, well, much the opposite in some ways. But I was stuck with Hal for maybe four hours in a car, just the two of us. Maybe I could keep him occupied by relating my fascinating life’s story. Maybe not. Drats.

We took off. Somewhere about the western city limits of North Little Rock, something motivated him to tell me about his life. First thing was, he was distantly related to Dwight Eisenhower, the Dwight Eisenhower. Hal told about how, when he was a young boy, the Colonel had stopped by to visit family when passing through Kansas. Hal had met him and still remembered how splendid he looked in his uniform and highly shined boots.

Then it really got interesting. Hal was a college student when World War Two broke out. He left college, joined cadet pilot training program, and, at age 21, found himself piloting a B-17 Flying Fortress and its nine-man crew, ten counting Hal. Holy wingspan! Now, I’ve nothing against the youth of today. I’m only thinking how few 21-year-olds I would let take my car in for an oil-change.

Oh goodness. On the flight over to England, the Germans hacked the plane’s communications and he landed in a neutral zone. After being hustled out, he made it to England and began bombing runs over France and into Germany.

We were halfway to Alma by then, but I hadn’t even noticed.

On, if I remember right, their sixth mission, they got shot down. Being the pilot, he was the last one out, barely making it through a hatch jammed by the heavy winds of a fast descent. His parachute was tied to his leg, so he had to slip it on as he fell. Somehow, he made it onto German soil.

I’ve always thought it interesting that he, although quite talkative, didn’t have a lot to say about how they carried out his rescue. He just said, “I walked through Germany to a designated spot.” Still classified after all those years? Maybe. Anyway, his rescuers told him to hide in the woods at the edge of a clearing where, a plane would land at 0130 Hours, a while after midnight. It would turn around, a hatch would open, and he had 30 seconds to be through the hatch before the plane took off.

He’s 21 years old, mind you, in Germany and facing certain death if anything went wrong.

The plane came, landed turned and waited. The hatch opened and our young escapee started running.

“Then,” he said, “I heard all the footsteps behind me. I made the conscious decision that if they caught me and killed me, I would be as close to that plane as I could get.”

Somehow, he reached the plane before they overtook him and he dove through the hatch. Another body dove in behind him. Then another, and another and another. Soon, the cargo space was full of young Americans and the plane took off for freedom. Seems they had all been waiting with no knowledge of another person anywhere around.

On that day, I took the shortest ride to and from Alma, Arkansas that I ever took. Gee, I wish I could take it again.

Old friends

I knew I was really back for another conference of the Arkansas Municipal League when a hand grabbed my shoulder and said, "Hello Jim. Good to see you again." It was Jeremy.

Jeremy, and I'm tempted to call him a young man but he's not so young now, works at the convention center where they hold these summer conferences. I first saw him nearly 22 years ago when the center was part of the Excelsior Hotel, then the Peabody, now the Marriott. He was 16 years old then. He'd catch your eye because he worked so hard, amidst all the confusion of attending to over a thousand attendees. His job wasn't one that usually entailed a long career.

But years passed and he showed up just as I did, like clockwork. Then one day I commented on the fact that he had been on the job a good while. We talked about it and this pleased him quite a bit. I don't think anyone else had ever noticed. Soon, we began to joke about it at each new conference. "Good to see you again. We made it another year. How's it going?" It was probably against the rules, talking to the guests, but we didn't care.

Now it's moved to a handshake and hug. We've each gotten older, maybe a little bigger. But greeting one another is sort of a milestone, a little continuity in a world in which instability is the only stable element which one can expect.

You don't find folks staying at the same job for 20 years these days. Moreover, you don't find people staying that long and seeming to enjoy it.

It's nice knowing Jeremy, just a person I see once a year, sometimes twice. It's nice knowing there are things in this world you can count on, even if it's only a friendly face. It's just nice, that's all.

Off Working

Off to the second day of the Arkansas Municipal League summer conference. If I hear any juicy gossip, I'll, uh, probably keep it to myself. Actually these affairs are hot beds of respectability, so I don't expect much.

Had a long talk with colleague Jeff Hawkins yesterday. We discussed "movements" in our profession and how they tend dissipate as they are dashed against the sunken reefs of reality. He went off on one long rant and I called him an old grouch.

He just cackled and went on.

Later.

New friends. Old memories.

I’ll be off for a couple of days maybe. I will be attending the Arkansas Municipal League summer conference. That’s always a hoot. I appear on the schedule to speak twice. It’s nice to know there are people who still think you have something worthwhile to say. I hope I think of something between now and then.

It promises to be a little bittersweet for me, this one does. For the first time in over 20 years, my first move won’t be to find my niece, the late Candy Jones. She always represented her firm in the exhibition hall and we would enjoy greetings and visiting mutual friends. Right now, I can hear her yelling to her friends, “Ya’ll come over here and meet my uncle.” Cancer ended her career earlier this year and there will be a great hole in things this week.

That sums up the joy of these conferences to me. For nearly three days, I greet and visit with a subset of the finest individuals in the world. Oh, and I visit with some ghosts, as well. Some are real ghosts, who’ve left this life. Some are just memories of friends moved into other careers, other endeavors, or just a well-deserved retirement. In all, our state has been lucky to call these people its servants.

Oh, and the League staff. Let’s not forget them. What a crew of talented professionals. They even extend to me the courtesy of being an associate. They could just as easily think of me as the crazy old uncle that drifts through from time to time mumbling war stories.

I’ll report later on anything interesting, like the time former Forrest City Mayor, and minor legend, Danny Ferguson and I were standing at the edge of things watching the crowd. He turns to me and says, “Remember when we use to stand here and say, ‘Look at all them old goats’ and laugh?”

“Yeah,” I said, half-listening.

“Know what?”

“What?”

“We are the old goats now.”

“So, this old goat is headed to be with a group I proudly call friends: the public servants of our state. It’s not easy serving in office these days, and there certainly isn’t any great profit in it. They do it out of a sense of duty, a love of their cities, and a feeling of obligation to a great state and country.

These are things that old goats appreciate more than most. See yah.

Friends like these folks from
Twin Groves, Arkansas. I get
paid to go visit them.

It happened to me yesterday. My German cousins call it Schadenfreude. It occurs when another person's misfortune elicits pleasure in you because now feel better about your own miserable life, or something like that. I may have spruced up the meaning a bit. No exact English translation exists. That’s not to say that it doesn’t apply to Americans. It did to me

It happened this way.

We have his house, you know, in the pleasant town of Lonoke, AR. We bought it when we cared for B’s mother, The Lady Hazel Cole, and we spend a lot of time there. Well, it has a lawn sprinkler system and each spring I have it turned on and checked over. Since climate change, which doesn’t exist, and weather, which doesn’t change, has designated Arkansas for rain-forest status, the one thing our lawn hasn’t needed in a while is water. But, out of habit, I arranged for our maintenance company to come anyway.

Now it gets juicy, very juicy. I decided to empty the accumulated water from the system’s water meter box, that non-existent climate change has kept flooded for the last year. I figured that I could appear “handy” if I went ahead and dipped out the water. I attired myself properly and waited until the long-legged blond who’s been working on the house across the street and was wearing a belt fashioned into a pair of shorts could see me.

Did I mention that it was still muddy around the meter box? Did I mention my invalid status, still recovering from knee surgery and deserving of succor, not sarcasm or Schadenfreude? Did I mention that I have purchased one of those little green things that you see advertised that allow you to kneel in comfort? Did I mention that I had donned knee pads to further protect my damaged body? Did I …, oh yes, I did mention that it was muddy at the work site.

All went well. I dipped and dipped until all the workable parts of the meter box appeared. The blond was busy in the yard across the street, pretending not to see me. At that moment, I chose to rise like a conquering hero and gaze proudly at my handiwork.

Did I mention that the little green thing isn’t stable in the mud? I found that to be the case when I attempted to rise. The thing tipped. My cell phone that I had carefully deposited on it so the thing wouldn’t fall in the water sailed through the air and I sailed after it. I found myself sprawled in the mud face down, attempting, it seems, the breast stroke.

I heard laughter.

The second attempt ended as the first. I heard more laughter.

Finally, on the fourth try, I made it to my feet and fished my cell phone from three inches of mud. I made my way around the house to the nearest water house, covered in filth.

Ah, help. The only person in the vicinity with whom I was intimately acquainted enough to ask for love and understanding came around the corner. I immediately sought help, all I could get. After 46 years, it wasn’t an “until death us do part” moment but it sure was a time or marital support. Alas, she was seized with such a paroxysm of laughter, non-stopping guffaws, “Dr. Pepper out the nose” hillarity, and giggling that I had to send her away.

Left to tend to myself. I was clean and freshly clothed when the maintenance guy came. The affair had taken on a humorous tone by then, so I told him about it. He smiled. “Oh,” he said, “next time, I have a pump to get the water out of the meter box.”

When I turned to walk away, I’ll swear I heard him giggle.

Love thy brother as thyself.
I think someone said that.

Climate data source: Fox "news."

A Love Story

A funny thing happened to me yesterday. I never thought it would at my age. Took me by surprise it did. What was it? I fell in love. Blindsided, you might say. Don’t tell anyone.

It happened this way.

Each year, the MacArthur Museum of Arkansas Military History sponsors a performance by a wind orchestra on the grounds of MacArthur Park with the historic Arsenal Building (where the General himself was born) as a backdrop. They play Sousa marches and other things. There’s free ice cream and chilled water. The Boy Scout troop from Pulaski Heights Methodist Church makes sure that everyone has plenty of both.

Oh yes, and flags. Everyone gets a flag.

I always try tmo make the affair since it’s right across the street from the condo and I serve on the Museum’s commission. I always enjoy it, especially when they perform the Armed Forces Medley. When your theme song comes up, you stand if you served. (The standers get fewer each year, for less than one percent of Americans now serve).

Anyway. I waited patiently but respectfully until they broke out with “Anchors Aweigh.” They play it last, the Navy being maybe the oldest and certainly the most respected of the forces. We stood, we few, we too-seldom-honored few. It took me back a few years and I teared up, just a bit. I ain’t no crybaby, you understand.

Then it happened.

The orchestra went into “Stars and Stripes Forever.” Now if that doesn’t make you blood stir, nothing will. I’ve heard it even heals bone spurs.

Anyhow. Everyone stood this time, flags just a’waving. To my right were a family with young kids getting excited about the music. To my left was a group of friends, including a couple of vets. In this old park, with the honored and majestic building in the background, I could see not one shred of hate, avarice, anger, or wroth. Just Americans.

At that moment, I realized that I love this country. Oh, it’s made some mistakes, and paid a price for some of them. It has withheld its dream from some and bestowed its blessing unjustly on others. But in the years after I put aside its uniform, it made progress in righting the injustices. There were signs that we might reach a point someday where Stars and Stripes Forever resonated with all Americans.

Then a group challenged that dream, wanting to take us back to the ugliest of times.

I ain’t about to stand by while that happens. My America doesn’t mock the disabled. My America doesn’t denigrate the service of brave people who answered its call and paid dearly for it. My America doesn’t reward people who “make their bones” spreading hatred for groups of other humans. My America doesn’t allow churches to stamp their individual, and sometimes insidious beliefs upon the unwary. My America doesn’t march forward on propaganda-induced and artificial patriotism. My America believes in redemption, not in ruining the lives of people who are now doing good but may have a lingering scab from some decades-ago transgression. My America believes in salvation for all humans, not just for deserving sub-groups.

My America believes in love, not lapel pins. My America believes in respect, not slogans.

So step aside. I can be silent no more. Lead, follow, or get out of the way. I’m standing, with Stars and Stripes still sounding strong in my ears.               

See, I love this country.

The Boy Scouts were concentrating
on doing their job. Photo by the MacArthur
Museum of Arkansas Military History.

 

On Being Poor

For Theology Time this week, imagine that on November 19, 1863, shorthand writing had not been perfected and paper was scarce. Imagine further that individual reporters had been free to quote from memory. Might one have quoted President Lincoln as wishing that “ … government of the landed, white, male people, some who own slaves, shall not perish from the earth?”

That’s the predicament we find ourselves in when we try to compare the “Sermon on the Mount,” in the Gospel of Matthew with the “Sermon on the Plain,” as presented in the Gospel of Luke.” Heck, they couldn’t even agree on where he was.

Oh don’t worry, I’m no person to join in the countless volumes written by serious scholars, sincere Christians, charlatans, the wise, and the sinful trying to explain things. They only confuse us more. After all, mine is, Theology by a Heathen.

We all know the basics. In Matthew, Jesus speaks eight blessings, (some say nine) but in Luke he speaks only four, which are then followed by a series of “woes” in which he effectively curses people who are the opposite of those he has just declared blessed (Luke 6:24-26). Thus, “Blessed are you who are poor” is accompanied by “Woe to you who are rich.”

Say what?

Some say that Matthew’s beatitudes are more spiritual, while Luke’s are more down to earth. In Luke, Jesus blesses the poor, but in Matthew he blesses the poor in spirit; in Luke, Jesus blesses people who are hungry; in Matthew, he blesses those who hunger for righteousness.

Some claim the differences between texts to be on account of theological considerations of the Gospel authors.

Some say, and I drift toward this thesis, that mischievous scribes, devious popes, and malicious bishops, changed the wording to conform to their personal predilections and social needs.

That doesn’t explain some major differences between these four beatitudes. Consider that Luke writes in second person plural “yours” and Matthew in third person plural “theirs”.

Some say that Matthew tightened up Luke’s blessings After all, he had to pass the collection plate too. Some scholars have drawn links between the woes and the Matthean sermon, which suggests that Matthew knew the woes and decided against using them. Perhaps he saw that later preachers would have to take into account the existence of hyper-wealthy patrons.

Consider that we will never hear the likes of Joel Olsteen, Kenneth Copeland, or Jesse Duplantis employ Luke’s “Blessed are the poor,” preferring instead, “Blessed are the poor in spirit.” Actually, we probably won’t hear them speak of this moment in the Galilean’s life at all. As I say, you could probably chase a diehard evangelical with a copy of The Beatitudes, whichever version you chose. They would certainly act like a crucifix to a vampire when waved at Franklin Graham and his pals.

Could it be that, although his mission is first to the Jews, Luke's theology includes the Galilean’s  concern for social outcasts, such as immoral women, tax collectors, Samaritans and the poor. Someone once pointed out that it is especially clear from the Gospel of Luke that the author has a special concern for the economic poor of his world and much of the content of the beatitudes and the Gospel at large reflects this.

Perhaps, above all, as someone once suggested, the beatitudes teach us that we have both privilege and responsibility and for these, we must suffer, living out humility, meekness, hunger, thirst, mercy, purity and peacemaking in a world which will reject and revile us for the name of the Galilean.

Remember that the next time someone calls you a Libtard.

Deserving poor? or
Spiritually poor?