My wife was doubled over, laughing hysterically at me. And I wasn’t the least bit amused.
A recent storm had unhinged the door to the crawl space beneath our house. For a few days, our two Schnauzers, Max and Baylor, had been nervously smelling the floor vents. I finally put my ear to one of them and heard it: a faint but unmistakable meow.
A cat was under our house.
My apologies to cat lovers: I am not one of you. Cats and I have an understanding: I don’t bother them, and they don’t bother me. It’s not that I’m actually scared of cats; they just make me nervous. And the closer I get to one, the more uneasy I become. My natural defenses kick in. If your friendly cat jumps in my lap, I will smile, and say, “Nice kitty,” but I will be suppressing a flinch; your lovable pet will put me on edge.
So, ok, maybe I am a borderline feline phobiac.
I can trace my cat aversion to my childhood friend’s cat. Rex Martin’s cat joined us as we were playing under a cardboard table with a sheet over it, pretending it was a secret hide-a-way. All was well until something made his cat want out. I was in the way. Rex was laughing uncontrollably at the specter of his cat wrapped up with me in that sheet, the cat clawing and scratching, me crying and screaming.
The cat did eventually find its way out, but when it was over, a permanent maker had written the words in my memory with large letters: BEWARE OF CATS. In fact, it took a birthday party with cake and ice cream to coax me back over to Rex’s house. Even then, I stood on the doorstep and required the promise of cat security before I would enter.
So, the other night, when I realized a cat was underneath our house, I first tried leaving the crawl space door open, hoping the cat would find its way cat out. Nothing doing. Finally, that fateful night, Lori leaned over the vent in our kitchen. “I hear it too,” she whispered. “Poor kitty, probably starving.”
Then she did the unthinkable. Pulling the grate off the vent she called, “Here kitty.” I stepped back, shaking my head, “no,” but before I could warn her not to do that again, she did it, “Here kitty, up here kitty.”
Then it happened.
Maybe it was Lori’s sweet voice, or perhaps it was the smell of dog food to a hungry cat, but it happened.
Suddenly that cat crawled up the vent and into our house. Lori ran to open the door, but the Schnauzers intercepted the cat, chasing the feline fugitive around, under, and over the kitchen table.
Where was I? I don’t know how I got there, but I was standing on our couch, horrified, palms of my hands on the side of my head screaming, “There’s a cat in our house!”
The cat circled around the couch where I was standing, Max and Baylor in hot pursuit. Lori took one look at this bewildering scene, and like Rex Martin of years ago, howled with laughter.
I was pointing to the grate, thinking one of us should put it back over the vent, forcing the cat out the door. I froze; Lori kept laughing.
And then, as quickly as that cat had emerged from the underworld of my house, it found its way back down, a cat’s paw in front of the Schnauzers who screeched to a halt, yapping and peering down the vent at the disappearance of the cat’s tail.
Lori was trying to gain her composure; the Schnauzers ran to me, stopped in front of the couch, and looked up as if to say, “That was so much fun, can we do it again?”
And there I was: standing alone on the crouch, feeling like Quasimodo before the crowd, crowned the king of fools.
Some stories have profound moral implications; others are simple reminders that most of us suppress secret, seemingly silly fears deep within our psyche. And sometimes it helps to know that about ourselves. And even admit it. It might make us more understanding of others’ anxieties.
In case you’re wondering, I, yes even I, finally got the cat out alive from beneath the house and in doing so, somewhat redeemed myself.
But that’s another story.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Are you all there when you are there?
“One thing about him, when he was there, he was all there.”
I was listening to Dr. Gibson Winter, then Professor for Christianity and Society at Princeton Theological Seminary. Dr.Winter had this wonderful way of sharing an aside--- an “oh by the way” story--- which would invariably have a meaning all to itself, staying in my mind long after the words of the lecture had been snuffed out by the stuffy air of Stuart Hall.
On this particular occasion, he was describing a colleague, whose name I’ve forgotten. The man, the subject of his anecdote, was notorious for getting so immersed in his work that he would on occasion be a tad late for a faculty meeting or even his own lecture. He was the proverbial absent-minded professor: almost at times comical, yet respected and beloved. Upon arriving, he would light up the room, engaging others in lively conversation, making it easy for them to overlook his occasional tardiness.
Then Dr. Winter capsulated his description of his colleague in that one phrase: “When he was there, he was all there.”
I could visualize this man; indeed, I felt as though I already knew him. You know him or her, too. These rare individuals are all there when they are there.
They are the ones you wait on at the theater, or save a seat for at the restaurant, or strain your neck for as you anxiously anticipate their arrival at the ball game. “Where could he be?” you ask. “Do you think she remembered the address?” you wonder. “Did he get so immersed in his research that he forgot our engagement?” you question.
And you want them to be there.
I could see Dr. Winter’s friend arriving with disheveled hair, wearing in his flannel coat, wrinkled shirt, and blue jeans. He opens his arms wide to embrace his friends, apologizes for being late, and smiles as he asks how they are. And he means it.
And suddenly everyone’s little measure of agitation evaporates as they grin in return. He’s there now, all there. Wherever this person is, he lives that moment to the fullest. And like moths attracted to light, people naturally drift in his direction.
I’ve often wanted to be more like that man, whoever he was. Unfortunately, I haven’t always been all there, once I was there. Too often I’ve been distracted by the place I had come from or the people I would see next. I’ve brought the problems of the past into the present or pre-played the worries of the future into the now. And in short, I wasn’t there.
I’ve learned, ever so slowly, little by little, that life is lived in the moment, or it isn’t lived at all; if I’m not here, I’m either in the past---which is no more--- or I’m in the future, which is not yet. If I’m still wandering around in the hallways of the past, lost in a maze of regret, or trying to catapult myself from the present into the next time zone, which can’t be entered until it arrives, it’s not simply that I’m not here: I’m actually nowhere.
Like T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock---lingering on the outside looking in, fearful of the present, doubting, wondering, questioning whether he has “the strength to force the moment to its crises?” anxiously awaiting the future, mistakenly believing that, “There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet”--- we miss the thrill and excitement, victories and defeats, struggles and accomplishments of the present when we aren’t fully alive in the moment, willing to risk ourselves in it.
Life must be grasped, breathed, and lived for all it is now: “This is the day the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24), the Psalmist proclaimed. And Jesus warned, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries” (Matthew 6:34).
So, with you, Dr. Gibson Winter’s friend, whoever you are, O Captain my Captain, we declare: Carpe Diem. We knew you would finally arrive, at last. Have a seat and stay awhile, for after all, now that you are here, you are all here.
And at last, we join you.
Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his new website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
I was listening to Dr. Gibson Winter, then Professor for Christianity and Society at Princeton Theological Seminary. Dr.Winter had this wonderful way of sharing an aside--- an “oh by the way” story--- which would invariably have a meaning all to itself, staying in my mind long after the words of the lecture had been snuffed out by the stuffy air of Stuart Hall.
On this particular occasion, he was describing a colleague, whose name I’ve forgotten. The man, the subject of his anecdote, was notorious for getting so immersed in his work that he would on occasion be a tad late for a faculty meeting or even his own lecture. He was the proverbial absent-minded professor: almost at times comical, yet respected and beloved. Upon arriving, he would light up the room, engaging others in lively conversation, making it easy for them to overlook his occasional tardiness.
Then Dr. Winter capsulated his description of his colleague in that one phrase: “When he was there, he was all there.”
I could visualize this man; indeed, I felt as though I already knew him. You know him or her, too. These rare individuals are all there when they are there.
They are the ones you wait on at the theater, or save a seat for at the restaurant, or strain your neck for as you anxiously anticipate their arrival at the ball game. “Where could he be?” you ask. “Do you think she remembered the address?” you wonder. “Did he get so immersed in his research that he forgot our engagement?” you question.
And you want them to be there.
I could see Dr. Winter’s friend arriving with disheveled hair, wearing in his flannel coat, wrinkled shirt, and blue jeans. He opens his arms wide to embrace his friends, apologizes for being late, and smiles as he asks how they are. And he means it.
And suddenly everyone’s little measure of agitation evaporates as they grin in return. He’s there now, all there. Wherever this person is, he lives that moment to the fullest. And like moths attracted to light, people naturally drift in his direction.
I’ve often wanted to be more like that man, whoever he was. Unfortunately, I haven’t always been all there, once I was there. Too often I’ve been distracted by the place I had come from or the people I would see next. I’ve brought the problems of the past into the present or pre-played the worries of the future into the now. And in short, I wasn’t there.
I’ve learned, ever so slowly, little by little, that life is lived in the moment, or it isn’t lived at all; if I’m not here, I’m either in the past---which is no more--- or I’m in the future, which is not yet. If I’m still wandering around in the hallways of the past, lost in a maze of regret, or trying to catapult myself from the present into the next time zone, which can’t be entered until it arrives, it’s not simply that I’m not here: I’m actually nowhere.
Like T.S. Eliot’s J. Alfred Prufrock---lingering on the outside looking in, fearful of the present, doubting, wondering, questioning whether he has “the strength to force the moment to its crises?” anxiously awaiting the future, mistakenly believing that, “There will be time, there will be time/To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet”--- we miss the thrill and excitement, victories and defeats, struggles and accomplishments of the present when we aren’t fully alive in the moment, willing to risk ourselves in it.
Life must be grasped, breathed, and lived for all it is now: “This is the day the Lord has made, we will rejoice and be glad in it” (Psalm 118:24), the Psalmist proclaimed. And Jesus warned, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries” (Matthew 6:34).
So, with you, Dr. Gibson Winter’s friend, whoever you are, O Captain my Captain, we declare: Carpe Diem. We knew you would finally arrive, at last. Have a seat and stay awhile, for after all, now that you are here, you are all here.
And at last, we join you.
Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his new website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Victims of Abuse Deserve True Love
“Look for the girl with the broken smile
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
And she will be loved”
---Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”
Lowering her eyes, the young lady, still a teenager, turned away, trying to conceal the evidence: But it was unmistakably there. The marks on her face were painful reminders; she had indeed become another girl with a broken smile.
Like thousands of other victims of domestic violence, her bruises would heal, but the scars on her heart would last a lifetime.
The statistics on women’s abuse are shocking: Nearly one in four women in the United States reports experiencing violence by a current or former spouse or boyfriend at some point in her life; 84% of spouse abuse victims are women; and on average, more than three women a day are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in the United States.
Apparently, patterns of domestic violence frequently begin early in a woman’s life. Females ages 16-24 are almost three times more vulnerable to intimate partner violence than any other age group. And nearly one-half of adult sex offenders report committing their first sexual offense prior to the age of 18.
And just in case you’re wondering, it’s not just a heterosexual problem. In a study of gay, lesbian, and bisexual adolescents, youths involved in same-sex dating are just as likely to experience dating violence as youths involved in opposite sex dating.
That’s why the news that pop artists Rihanna and Chris Brown are releasing new duets is so disturbing. It’s sending a wrong message to their impressionable followers. “Domestic violence is just another new normal,” their actions seem to indicate. “It’s not perfect, but it’s okay: Learn to live with it,” the unspoken message appears to convey.
No one should learn to live with domestic violence. Until that problem is resolved, the relationship should be placed on hold.
Three years ago we viewed that leaked photograph of Rihanna’s bruised and bloodied face, her smile broken by the savage blows from the hands of her then boyfriend, Chris Brown. It’s difficult to get that image out of the mind, no matter how attractive their new music may be.
Of course, Chris Brown deserves another chance. Maybe he has been transformed. It’s certainly possible. Perhaps he has worked through his anger issues and has come to terms with how he can better control himself.
But we have reason to doubt. Only last March he reportedly lost his temper, yelled at a TV producer and shattered a window in the green room during an interview on Good Morning America.
And there are reports alleging that the assault three years ago was not the first time Brown and Rihanna had a physical fight.
Patterns can be broken, but it’s not easy, and it usually doesn’t happen quickly, if it happens at all.
Why then would Rihanna, or anyone, even think about reconciling with an abusing partner? Rihanna herself sang the provocative lyrics with Eminem in the 2010 song, “Love the Way You Lie,” about a woman who keeps believing a man who promises he’ll never hurt her again. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/Well that’s alright cause I like the way it hurts,” Rihanna sang.
“We can never ignore the fact that many abused women actually love the men who hit them because the men who hit them don’t always hit them,” thestar.com quotes Dr. Walter DeKeseredy as saying. DeKeseredy, professor of criminology at the University of Ontario Institute of Technology, has been researching domestic violence for 25 years
It’s a dangerous cycle that can result in death. The same week that Rihanna and Chris were rumored to be reuniting, former University of Virginia lacrosse player George Huguely V was found guilty of second-degree murder in the 2010 death of his ex-girlfriend. Theirs was reportedly an abusive relationship.
Rihanna and Chris Brown aren’t the problem; they are only representative of a violent subculture that is increasingly growing more and more calloused to violence in many forms.
They deserve better, if only they would demand it.
As the young lady, still a teenager, walked away, maybe she hopes she will find love, or that love will find her, a true love that will not only heal a broken smile but unbreak a broken heart in a place where she can stay awhile, a safe place, a place where love can blossom, a place where she will be loved. Truly.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Ask her if she wants to stay awhile
And she will be loved”
---Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”
Lowering her eyes, the young lady, still a teenager, turned away, trying to conceal the evidence: But it was unmistakably there. The marks on her face were painful reminders; she had indeed become another girl with a broken smile.
Like thousands of other victims of domestic violence, her bruises would heal, but the scars on her heart would last a lifetime.
The statistics on women’s abuse are shocking: Nearly one in four women in the United States reports experiencing violence by a current or former spouse or boyfriend at some point in her life; 84% of spouse abuse victims are women; and on average, more than three women a day are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in the United States.
Apparently, patterns of domestic violence frequently begin early in a woman’s life. Females ages 16-24 are almost three times more vulnerable to intimate partner violence than any other age group. And nearly one-half of adult sex offenders report committing their first sexual offense prior to the age of 18.
And just in case you’re wondering, it’s not just a heterosexual problem. In a study of gay, lesbian, and bisexual adolescents, youths involved in same-sex dating are just as likely to experience dating violence as youths involved in opposite sex dating.
That’s why the news that pop artists Rihanna and Chris Brown are releasing new duets is so disturbing. It’s sending a wrong message to their impressionable followers. “Domestic violence is just another new normal,” their actions seem to indicate. “It’s not perfect, but it’s okay: Learn to live with it,” the unspoken message appears to convey.
No one should learn to live with domestic violence. Until that problem is resolved, the relationship should be placed on hold.
Three years ago we viewed that leaked photograph of Rihanna’s bruised and bloodied face, her smile broken by the savage blows from the hands of her then boyfriend, Chris Brown. It’s difficult to get that image out of the mind, no matter how attractive their new music may be.
Of course, Chris Brown deserves another chance. Maybe he has been transformed. It’s certainly possible. Perhaps he has worked through his anger issues and has come to terms with how he can better control himself.
But we have reason to doubt. Only last March he reportedly lost his temper, yelled at a TV producer and shattered a window in the green room during an interview on Good Morning America.
And there are reports alleging that the assault three years ago was not the first time Brown and Rihanna had a physical fight.
Patterns can be broken, but it’s not easy, and it usually doesn’t happen quickly, if it happens at all.
Why then would Rihanna, or anyone, even think about reconciling with an abusing partner? Rihanna herself sang the provocative lyrics with Eminem in the 2010 song, “Love the Way You Lie,” about a woman who keeps believing a man who promises he’ll never hurt her again. “Just gonna stand there and watch me burn/Well that’s alright cause I like the way it hurts,” Rihanna sang.
“We can never ignore the fact that many abused women actually love the men who hit them because the men who hit them don’t always hit them,” thestar.com quotes Dr. Walter DeKeseredy as saying. DeKeseredy, professor of criminology at the University of Ontario Institute of Technology, has been researching domestic violence for 25 years
It’s a dangerous cycle that can result in death. The same week that Rihanna and Chris were rumored to be reuniting, former University of Virginia lacrosse player George Huguely V was found guilty of second-degree murder in the 2010 death of his ex-girlfriend. Theirs was reportedly an abusive relationship.
Rihanna and Chris Brown aren’t the problem; they are only representative of a violent subculture that is increasingly growing more and more calloused to violence in many forms.
They deserve better, if only they would demand it.
As the young lady, still a teenager, walked away, maybe she hopes she will find love, or that love will find her, a true love that will not only heal a broken smile but unbreak a broken heart in a place where she can stay awhile, a safe place, a place where love can blossom, a place where she will be loved. Truly.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, February 16, 2012
What Becomes of the Brokenhearted?
His lips quivered as tears moistened his eyes. But maybe that was just my imagination.
No, I could have sworn I saw his lower lip quivering. And no mistaking, I heard his voice cracking just a bit.
It was all there---the suppression of grief, the futile effort to hold the emotions in check, the chin lowered to the chest---exposed. His mournful tale has been told by others for eons: the friend who disappointed, a relationship destroyed, the future uncertain.
And as he sulked away, dissatisfied with explanations, I couldn’t help but hear Jimmy Ruffin singing his 1966 Motown hit, “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?”
And maybe Mick Jagger too, if not answering Ruffin’s question, at least offering hollow consolation to the brokenhearted: “You can't always get what you want/But if you try sometimes/well you might find/You get what you need.”
Unfortunately, there’s usually an enormous stretch between getting what you want and accepting what you need. Broken relationships can pain the heart, sear the emotions, and tear asunder an otherwise intact character.
Some relationships are unhealthy and even toxic. It’s not always easy and often takes courage to walk away from an abusive relationship, regardless of whether the abuse is verbally or physically administered.
And then some relationships end because of disappointment in the people involved. Sometimes friendships end abruptly; other times they die ever so slowly. Some can be repaired; more often, they remain severed.
How can we weather the storms of a broken relationship and at least allow for the possibility of healing?
Here are some ABC’S for a fractured relationship:
Admit to your part for any damaged emotions. Readily claim responsibility for your mistakes in the relationship. Shirking accountability stymies further personal growth. Is it remotely possible that you are not perfect and that the other person may not be totally wrong? Even if it is not feasible or appropriate to speak personally with the offended person, evaluating and admitting, if only to yourself, your own shortcomings will make fruitful relationships more likely in the future.
Be your better self. Rather that descending to the lowest common denominator of raw emotion verbalized in hurtful words, expressed in unkind actions, and enacted in retributive behavior patterns, be the best you can be. Rise above the flack.
Compassion is best expressed in the action of one four-letter word: L-O-V-E. Try sensing how the other person might feel. Rarely is anyone totally base. At least try to imagine the loss they might be experiencing. Restoration may not be advisable, but love in some form might be available. A compassionate heart comes as we walk through our own experiences of pain and loneliness.
Henri Nouwen spoke of this loneliness and how embracing it can become part of our journey towards healing hurt emotions. In his essay, “Stay with your Pain,” he wrote: “It is not easy to stay with your loneliness. The temptation is to nurse your pain or to escape into fantasies about people who will take it away. But when you can acknowledge your loneliness in a safe, contained place, you make your pain available for God's healing.”
What then becomes of the broken hearted who may not get what they want but what they need? It all depends on whether they allow their open wounds to be immersed in the healing waters of God’s grace.
That healing may not come all at once, but it ever so surely flows to those who venture reconciliation with God, themselves, and others. “I am the Lord who heals you,” (Exodus 15:26), God reminded the wounded nation of Israel.
It’s in the midst of the brokenness and strife that we may find some kind of peace of mind, maybe--- for after all, if life is to be lived, it must be lived in the midst of the failed relationships, forced alienation, and damaged emotions of brokenhearted people. If peace can’t be found there, it won’t be found--- for the world of the brokenhearted is the world we live in.
And what becomes of the brokenhearted is what becomes of us.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
No, I could have sworn I saw his lower lip quivering. And no mistaking, I heard his voice cracking just a bit.
It was all there---the suppression of grief, the futile effort to hold the emotions in check, the chin lowered to the chest---exposed. His mournful tale has been told by others for eons: the friend who disappointed, a relationship destroyed, the future uncertain.
And as he sulked away, dissatisfied with explanations, I couldn’t help but hear Jimmy Ruffin singing his 1966 Motown hit, “What Becomes of the Broken Hearted?”
And maybe Mick Jagger too, if not answering Ruffin’s question, at least offering hollow consolation to the brokenhearted: “You can't always get what you want/But if you try sometimes/well you might find/You get what you need.”
Unfortunately, there’s usually an enormous stretch between getting what you want and accepting what you need. Broken relationships can pain the heart, sear the emotions, and tear asunder an otherwise intact character.
Some relationships are unhealthy and even toxic. It’s not always easy and often takes courage to walk away from an abusive relationship, regardless of whether the abuse is verbally or physically administered.
And then some relationships end because of disappointment in the people involved. Sometimes friendships end abruptly; other times they die ever so slowly. Some can be repaired; more often, they remain severed.
How can we weather the storms of a broken relationship and at least allow for the possibility of healing?
Here are some ABC’S for a fractured relationship:
Admit to your part for any damaged emotions. Readily claim responsibility for your mistakes in the relationship. Shirking accountability stymies further personal growth. Is it remotely possible that you are not perfect and that the other person may not be totally wrong? Even if it is not feasible or appropriate to speak personally with the offended person, evaluating and admitting, if only to yourself, your own shortcomings will make fruitful relationships more likely in the future.
Be your better self. Rather that descending to the lowest common denominator of raw emotion verbalized in hurtful words, expressed in unkind actions, and enacted in retributive behavior patterns, be the best you can be. Rise above the flack.
Compassion is best expressed in the action of one four-letter word: L-O-V-E. Try sensing how the other person might feel. Rarely is anyone totally base. At least try to imagine the loss they might be experiencing. Restoration may not be advisable, but love in some form might be available. A compassionate heart comes as we walk through our own experiences of pain and loneliness.
Henri Nouwen spoke of this loneliness and how embracing it can become part of our journey towards healing hurt emotions. In his essay, “Stay with your Pain,” he wrote: “It is not easy to stay with your loneliness. The temptation is to nurse your pain or to escape into fantasies about people who will take it away. But when you can acknowledge your loneliness in a safe, contained place, you make your pain available for God's healing.”
What then becomes of the broken hearted who may not get what they want but what they need? It all depends on whether they allow their open wounds to be immersed in the healing waters of God’s grace.
That healing may not come all at once, but it ever so surely flows to those who venture reconciliation with God, themselves, and others. “I am the Lord who heals you,” (Exodus 15:26), God reminded the wounded nation of Israel.
It’s in the midst of the brokenness and strife that we may find some kind of peace of mind, maybe--- for after all, if life is to be lived, it must be lived in the midst of the failed relationships, forced alienation, and damaged emotions of brokenhearted people. If peace can’t be found there, it won’t be found--- for the world of the brokenhearted is the world we live in.
And what becomes of the brokenhearted is what becomes of us.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Pardon my Blush
I could feel the veins in my face grow suddenly warm as I imagined my cheeks glowing bright red, signaling to all that I was blushing.
It happened in the post office. Clinking shut the little door to my mail box, I whirled around to see the usual long line waiting at the counter. And there with her back turned to me was one of my parishioners. I sneaked up to her and bending my finger to form a knuckle, tapped her on the arm, mouthing a clicking sound as I did, thinking she would laugh when she saw that it was me, her pastor who was teasing her.
Only when she turned around in surprise, it wasn’t my friend; it was a complete stranger.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I attempted an apology as I stepped away from her. “I…I thought you were someone else.”
By now, everyone else in line had turned around, curious to see what was happening, wondering what exactly I had done to this innocent victim of my misplaced prank. I thought I noticed one lady edging closer to the counter.
I backed out of the post office, in the words of Roberta Flack, “all flushed with fever.”
Later that day, right after lunch, I happened to see my friend’s son-in-law downtown. I told him my story of how I had thought I had seen his mother-in-law at the post office but startled someone else. We both laughed.
Moments later, back at the office, I glanced in the mirror.
What was that on the side of my face? Oh my goodness, a splotch of brown balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing from lunch. Now I wondered if the son-in-law was laughing at my story or the brown tobacco-juice-looking stain glaring on the side of my mouth.
And again, I felt, “all flushed with fever.”
That evening, I was telling my wife the story of my two faux paus.
“Did you have any appointments this afternoon?” she asked.
“Just one,” I answered. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got mustard on the front of your shirt.”
She wasn’t kidding--- there it was, bright shining and yellow, between the third and fourth buttons.
It was all in a day’s work: Through each awkward event I felt that rush of blood to my cheeks and a faint light-headedness.
It’s called blushing, and scientists believe it’s is a common human reflex that developed in our evolutionary process over tens of thousands of years. It’s akin to a “flight or fight” response to our nervous system, an involuntary reaction. We have a sudden rush of adrenaline, our pupils grow larger, and our digestive system slows down to allow the blood flow to be directed to our muscles.
One theory is that blushing came to signal that a social norm had been broken. Neuroscientist Mark Changizi in his book, The Vision Revolution (BenBella, 2009), claims that we developed unusually strong color vision so that we could detect subtle hue changes in other peoples’ skin and could thereby deduce their emotions. His results “showed that in the context of transgressions and mishaps, blushing is a helpful bodily signal with face-saving properties. It seems therefore unwise to hide the blush or to try not to blush in these types of contexts.”
In other words, blushing actually evokes sympathy and in effect disarms an otherwise threatening situation.
Ahh, so that explains that dear lady’s kindness to me in the post office, “That’s okay, I understand,” I thought I heard her say as she beamed an empathic grin. And what’s a little tobacco, I mean balsamic vinaigrette, on the side of the mouth but a cue for more sympathy? And mustard dribbled down the front of my shirt? Bring on the compassion.
Come to think of it, as I reflect on that day, I believe I was the recipient of more warm heartedness than usual.
I’m getting up extra early tomorrow to practice a little blushing. And if I can’t come by it that way, I’ll just wear a brown penny loafer on my left foot and a black wing tip on my right.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his web site, www.davidbwhitlock.com
It happened in the post office. Clinking shut the little door to my mail box, I whirled around to see the usual long line waiting at the counter. And there with her back turned to me was one of my parishioners. I sneaked up to her and bending my finger to form a knuckle, tapped her on the arm, mouthing a clicking sound as I did, thinking she would laugh when she saw that it was me, her pastor who was teasing her.
Only when she turned around in surprise, it wasn’t my friend; it was a complete stranger.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” I attempted an apology as I stepped away from her. “I…I thought you were someone else.”
By now, everyone else in line had turned around, curious to see what was happening, wondering what exactly I had done to this innocent victim of my misplaced prank. I thought I noticed one lady edging closer to the counter.
I backed out of the post office, in the words of Roberta Flack, “all flushed with fever.”
Later that day, right after lunch, I happened to see my friend’s son-in-law downtown. I told him my story of how I had thought I had seen his mother-in-law at the post office but startled someone else. We both laughed.
Moments later, back at the office, I glanced in the mirror.
What was that on the side of my face? Oh my goodness, a splotch of brown balsamic vinaigrette salad dressing from lunch. Now I wondered if the son-in-law was laughing at my story or the brown tobacco-juice-looking stain glaring on the side of my mouth.
And again, I felt, “all flushed with fever.”
That evening, I was telling my wife the story of my two faux paus.
“Did you have any appointments this afternoon?” she asked.
“Just one,” I answered. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got mustard on the front of your shirt.”
She wasn’t kidding--- there it was, bright shining and yellow, between the third and fourth buttons.
It was all in a day’s work: Through each awkward event I felt that rush of blood to my cheeks and a faint light-headedness.
It’s called blushing, and scientists believe it’s is a common human reflex that developed in our evolutionary process over tens of thousands of years. It’s akin to a “flight or fight” response to our nervous system, an involuntary reaction. We have a sudden rush of adrenaline, our pupils grow larger, and our digestive system slows down to allow the blood flow to be directed to our muscles.
One theory is that blushing came to signal that a social norm had been broken. Neuroscientist Mark Changizi in his book, The Vision Revolution (BenBella, 2009), claims that we developed unusually strong color vision so that we could detect subtle hue changes in other peoples’ skin and could thereby deduce their emotions. His results “showed that in the context of transgressions and mishaps, blushing is a helpful bodily signal with face-saving properties. It seems therefore unwise to hide the blush or to try not to blush in these types of contexts.”
In other words, blushing actually evokes sympathy and in effect disarms an otherwise threatening situation.
Ahh, so that explains that dear lady’s kindness to me in the post office, “That’s okay, I understand,” I thought I heard her say as she beamed an empathic grin. And what’s a little tobacco, I mean balsamic vinaigrette, on the side of the mouth but a cue for more sympathy? And mustard dribbled down the front of my shirt? Bring on the compassion.
Come to think of it, as I reflect on that day, I believe I was the recipient of more warm heartedness than usual.
I’m getting up extra early tomorrow to practice a little blushing. And if I can’t come by it that way, I’ll just wear a brown penny loafer on my left foot and a black wing tip on my right.
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his web site, www.davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Should Christians Pray for the Death of President Obama?
Although the Republicans have been going at it for several months, we are not yet into the heat of the presidential race, and already some Christians are praying for the early demise of President Obama.
When I say, “demise,” I mean death.
At least that’s the implication of the recent email sent by Mike O’Neal, the Republican speaker of the Kansas House of Representatives. That email followed a previous one in which O’ Neal had referred to Michelle Obama as “Mrs. Yomama.”
I doubt O’Neal will be a dinner guest at White House any time soon.
O’Neal is not the first to invoke a prayer for the early exit of President Obama. Soon after his election, some conservative Christians circulated a bumper sticker which called on Christians to pray, tongue-in-cheek, for the president: The “prayer” cites Psalm 109:8, a Bible verse in the
form of a “prayer for Obama,” which says, “May his days be few; may another take
his office.”
O’Neal’s email was an extension of that bumper sticker mentality.
The problem is in the phrase, which neither O’Neal nor the bumper sticker purveyors quote directly, but which immediately follows their scriptural citation. It reads: “May his children become fatherless, and his wife a widow. May his children wander as beggars and be driven from their ruined homes.”
Although O’Neal issued an apology saying he only meant that Obama’s days in office be few, the Scripture, taken in context (and O’Neal is apparently interested in the context for his email stated, “At last — I can honestly voice a Biblical prayer for our president! Look it up — it is word for word! Let us all bow our heads and pray. Brothers and Sisters, can I get an AMEN? AMEN!!!!!!”) calls not just for the cessation of employment, in this case the presidency, but for the cessation of life for the person of interest, the enemy---in this case President Obama.
For centuries thoughtful Christians have struggled with this passage, since Christians are not supposed to curse their enemies. The psalm is part of a group of psalms called “imprecatory psalms,” because they call on God to deal with enemies, in some cases, as in Psalm 109, by removing them from planet Earth. Many of the Early Church Fathers dealt with the problem by interpreting this psalm as a prophesy of Judas, since Peter quoted it in the upper room after the suicide of Jesus’ traitor.
Christian apologist and philosopher, C.S. Lewis, spoke of how Psalm 109 “strikes us in the face…like the heat from a furnace mouth.” Lewis pointed to the spirit of hatred expressed in these psalms as a way of reminding us of the evil that resides within each of us, directing us to the humility and love we find in the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.
Certainly Christians should be mindful that Christ’s love prevails over hatred and evil. But, in regard to the Scripture O’Neil and other Christians like to cite in hopes of a convenient termination of the Obama administration, they should be mindful that the interpretation of this psalm hinges around verse 6, where the cursing of the enemy begins. Some maintain that David, traditionally believed to be the author of the psalm, is not cursing anyone but is rather quoting those who are cursing him. Indeed, some modern translations, like the New Living Translation, supply the words, “They say,” at the beginning of verse six.
In that case, by citing this passage, O’Neal and certain right-wing Christians are actually siding with the enemies of King David, the ones who made the false accusations against God’s anointed one, the ones David cried to God for help and protection against, the ones who prompted David to pray: “Let them curse me if they like, but you (God) will bless me!” (Psalm 109:28)
By analogy to the current situation, Obama would be the one falsely accused by the enemies of God---in this case, the Christian right.
Those summoning God to respond to their “Obama prayer” of Psalm 109 should not only reflect on the legitimization of calling on a loving, forgiving, merciful God to slay another Christian (President Obama is a professing Christian, regardless of what one thinks of his political agenda), but they should also be mindful, as they so cavalierly quote Scripture, of whose side they find themselves on.
Praying for the judgment of an enemy is easy.
But loving one is Christian.
And thoroughly biblical.
When I say, “demise,” I mean death.
At least that’s the implication of the recent email sent by Mike O’Neal, the Republican speaker of the Kansas House of Representatives. That email followed a previous one in which O’ Neal had referred to Michelle Obama as “Mrs. Yomama.”
I doubt O’Neal will be a dinner guest at White House any time soon.
O’Neal is not the first to invoke a prayer for the early exit of President Obama. Soon after his election, some conservative Christians circulated a bumper sticker which called on Christians to pray, tongue-in-cheek, for the president: The “prayer” cites Psalm 109:8, a Bible verse in the
form of a “prayer for Obama,” which says, “May his days be few; may another take
his office.”
O’Neal’s email was an extension of that bumper sticker mentality.
The problem is in the phrase, which neither O’Neal nor the bumper sticker purveyors quote directly, but which immediately follows their scriptural citation. It reads: “May his children become fatherless, and his wife a widow. May his children wander as beggars and be driven from their ruined homes.”
Although O’Neal issued an apology saying he only meant that Obama’s days in office be few, the Scripture, taken in context (and O’Neal is apparently interested in the context for his email stated, “At last — I can honestly voice a Biblical prayer for our president! Look it up — it is word for word! Let us all bow our heads and pray. Brothers and Sisters, can I get an AMEN? AMEN!!!!!!”) calls not just for the cessation of employment, in this case the presidency, but for the cessation of life for the person of interest, the enemy---in this case President Obama.
For centuries thoughtful Christians have struggled with this passage, since Christians are not supposed to curse their enemies. The psalm is part of a group of psalms called “imprecatory psalms,” because they call on God to deal with enemies, in some cases, as in Psalm 109, by removing them from planet Earth. Many of the Early Church Fathers dealt with the problem by interpreting this psalm as a prophesy of Judas, since Peter quoted it in the upper room after the suicide of Jesus’ traitor.
Christian apologist and philosopher, C.S. Lewis, spoke of how Psalm 109 “strikes us in the face…like the heat from a furnace mouth.” Lewis pointed to the spirit of hatred expressed in these psalms as a way of reminding us of the evil that resides within each of us, directing us to the humility and love we find in the grace and mercy of Jesus Christ.
Certainly Christians should be mindful that Christ’s love prevails over hatred and evil. But, in regard to the Scripture O’Neil and other Christians like to cite in hopes of a convenient termination of the Obama administration, they should be mindful that the interpretation of this psalm hinges around verse 6, where the cursing of the enemy begins. Some maintain that David, traditionally believed to be the author of the psalm, is not cursing anyone but is rather quoting those who are cursing him. Indeed, some modern translations, like the New Living Translation, supply the words, “They say,” at the beginning of verse six.
In that case, by citing this passage, O’Neal and certain right-wing Christians are actually siding with the enemies of King David, the ones who made the false accusations against God’s anointed one, the ones David cried to God for help and protection against, the ones who prompted David to pray: “Let them curse me if they like, but you (God) will bless me!” (Psalm 109:28)
By analogy to the current situation, Obama would be the one falsely accused by the enemies of God---in this case, the Christian right.
Those summoning God to respond to their “Obama prayer” of Psalm 109 should not only reflect on the legitimization of calling on a loving, forgiving, merciful God to slay another Christian (President Obama is a professing Christian, regardless of what one thinks of his political agenda), but they should also be mindful, as they so cavalierly quote Scripture, of whose side they find themselves on.
Praying for the judgment of an enemy is easy.
But loving one is Christian.
And thoroughly biblical.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Surprised by a daughter's prayer
Why don’t you go with me?” I had asked my daughter to accompany me to the Abby of Gethsemani. She was home with us for a few days during the Christmas holidays, visiting from New York City. Mary had been to Gethsemani with me before.
“Sure, I’d love to,” was her ready response.
It had been a long December, and in the middle of it, I wasn’t sure this year would be better than the last. Trying to hold life’s inevitable tensions in balance---the pull of decisions that had to be made, the push of the consequences that would come from them, the internal wrestling match that thrashes across the mind, sometime after 2 a.m. ---had worn me down till I cried for a time out.
What “might be,” was obscured by the fogginess of “what is.”
I knew it was time to head to Gethsemani Abby. In the solitude of the monastery I would pray, I would ponder, I would percolate: God’s Spirit would infuse me with a supernatural oxygen rush that inevitably refreshes, rejuvenates, revitalizes.
But this time was different.
Or so it seemed.
The cacophony of this world overwhelmed the quietude of that world.
My escape to Gethsemani appeared futile; I had carried the baggage of my responsibilities into the lobby of this holy place. Gethsemani seemed too familiar that day, too close to the anxieties of the outside. The cares and concerns of the world had invaded the walls protecting the quiet and calm of Gethsemani.
And it was my doing.
Mary and I joined the monks from the gallery and prayed as they prayed, chanting their prayers with them, singing the Psalms at the None prayer time. I waited for relief from my strain but found only heaviness; I couldn’t seem to shake the angst of the world, even in this place of tranquility and repose.
Walking around the back of the cathedral after prayers, Mary and I quietly chatted in subdued undertones. Staring at the naked trees across the valley, letting the December wind tickle our faces, we stood in silence, the whine of the wind whirling in our ears.
And then, quite to my surprise, my daughter prayed for me a prayer of comfort, peace, and renewal.
Somewhat humbled by a daughter’s prayer, my mind swooshed back to May 30, 1990, so many years ago, but only “just yesterday,” when Mary, age two and a half, prayed for me in her own way for the first time: “I love you, Daddy,” she told me after bedtime prayers. I took that in itself as a child’s form of prayer. And a few days later, after praying for her at night, she proclaimed from her bed, “I wanna follow Jesus, too.” Then a few months later, in response to my question before bedtime prayers, “What should we thank God for?” she smiled and answered, “Let’s thank him for Jesus.”
Prayers continued through the passing years.
Straight to that day in the middle of a long December.
And so in the dead of December, waiting for Christmas to come and go and remind us of life in Christ Jesus, I should not have been surprised.
Sometimes God speaks to us through the holiness of monks, sometimes through the beauty of nature, sometimes through the revelation of his Word, and sometimes through the prayer of a child grown to adulthood.
Elijah the prophet stood before the windstorm, but God was not in the wind. Then Elijah withstood the earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. Elijah endured the fire, but God was not in the fire. Then, there was a gentle whisper. And Elijah heard God’s voice.
Having heard God’s voice in the whispered prayer of my child, I was ready to leave. And having left my momentary spiritual retreat, I knew the world still waited with the same stresses and strains, trials and troubles.
But all was different from within, for I---having let the still, small Voice hold me in balance within the eternal present moment, even as it passes and yet remains forever--- was ready to embrace the long December, and seize the eternal, today.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
“Sure, I’d love to,” was her ready response.
It had been a long December, and in the middle of it, I wasn’t sure this year would be better than the last. Trying to hold life’s inevitable tensions in balance---the pull of decisions that had to be made, the push of the consequences that would come from them, the internal wrestling match that thrashes across the mind, sometime after 2 a.m. ---had worn me down till I cried for a time out.
What “might be,” was obscured by the fogginess of “what is.”
I knew it was time to head to Gethsemani Abby. In the solitude of the monastery I would pray, I would ponder, I would percolate: God’s Spirit would infuse me with a supernatural oxygen rush that inevitably refreshes, rejuvenates, revitalizes.
But this time was different.
Or so it seemed.
The cacophony of this world overwhelmed the quietude of that world.
My escape to Gethsemani appeared futile; I had carried the baggage of my responsibilities into the lobby of this holy place. Gethsemani seemed too familiar that day, too close to the anxieties of the outside. The cares and concerns of the world had invaded the walls protecting the quiet and calm of Gethsemani.
And it was my doing.
Mary and I joined the monks from the gallery and prayed as they prayed, chanting their prayers with them, singing the Psalms at the None prayer time. I waited for relief from my strain but found only heaviness; I couldn’t seem to shake the angst of the world, even in this place of tranquility and repose.
Walking around the back of the cathedral after prayers, Mary and I quietly chatted in subdued undertones. Staring at the naked trees across the valley, letting the December wind tickle our faces, we stood in silence, the whine of the wind whirling in our ears.
And then, quite to my surprise, my daughter prayed for me a prayer of comfort, peace, and renewal.
Somewhat humbled by a daughter’s prayer, my mind swooshed back to May 30, 1990, so many years ago, but only “just yesterday,” when Mary, age two and a half, prayed for me in her own way for the first time: “I love you, Daddy,” she told me after bedtime prayers. I took that in itself as a child’s form of prayer. And a few days later, after praying for her at night, she proclaimed from her bed, “I wanna follow Jesus, too.” Then a few months later, in response to my question before bedtime prayers, “What should we thank God for?” she smiled and answered, “Let’s thank him for Jesus.”
Prayers continued through the passing years.
Straight to that day in the middle of a long December.
And so in the dead of December, waiting for Christmas to come and go and remind us of life in Christ Jesus, I should not have been surprised.
Sometimes God speaks to us through the holiness of monks, sometimes through the beauty of nature, sometimes through the revelation of his Word, and sometimes through the prayer of a child grown to adulthood.
Elijah the prophet stood before the windstorm, but God was not in the wind. Then Elijah withstood the earthquake, but God was not in the earthquake. Elijah endured the fire, but God was not in the fire. Then, there was a gentle whisper. And Elijah heard God’s voice.
Having heard God’s voice in the whispered prayer of my child, I was ready to leave. And having left my momentary spiritual retreat, I knew the world still waited with the same stresses and strains, trials and troubles.
But all was different from within, for I---having let the still, small Voice hold me in balance within the eternal present moment, even as it passes and yet remains forever--- was ready to embrace the long December, and seize the eternal, today.
Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com
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