Pastor Fred Phelps’ God is mad. Phelps’ God is mad at most everyone, except Phelps and his congregation, the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kansas. According to a press release on their website, GodHatesFags.com, a group from the church was scheduled to picket outside the church I pastor in Lebanon, Ky. But, they travel far beyond Kentucky; Phelps and his gang may be coming to your neighborhood soon. Why? Because at opportune times, the dark side of religion inevitably emerges.
Whenever a group within a religion so elevates one aspect of their belief system that those who don’t adhere to it are depersonalized as “heathen” or “infidels,” as “anathamas,” or “fatwas,” the dark side of religion becomes evident. While the possibilities for labeling are endless, the result is the same: the unbeliever becomes a non-person, an object, a “thing” to be hated, ridiculed, bullied. Given the right political and social circumstances, religious people can in the name of God, commit acts of hate, violence, torture, and even murder.
Most of us associate this dark side of religion with fanatical Islam. But it is possible in any religion, including Christianity. It’s history bears this out: from the Crusades and Inquisition of the Middle Ages, to John Calvin’s Geneva, where Micahael Servetus was executed in 1553 for his anti-Trinitarian views, to radical aspects of the Anabaptist movement of the 16th century, such as, for example, Jan van Leiden’s religious dictatorship in Munster, Germany, resulting in the besieging of the city and the deaths of many. And Christianity had yet to arrive in North America. All this in the name of religion.
Fred Phelps and his followers prove the dark side of religion is still alive and well, and is as dark as ever.
Emphasizing that God chooses some people for salvation and some for damnation, then exalting this belief above all others, Phelps identifies the “damned” with the United States, claiming this nation is the modern day equivalent of Sodom and Gomorrah. Why? Because The United States tolerates Gay people and even has laws protecting them as citizens. Phelps, by the way, prefers to call Gays, “Fags,” because faggots will burn them in hell, hence the title of his website.
Because he believes God is mad at the United States, it makes perfect sense to Phelps that whenever an American soldier is killed in action, it’s because God is taking out his wrath on a nation that doesn’t prosecute homosexuals as outlaws. But Phelps believes God’s anger is not reserved for soldiers who protect this godless nation of ours; God orchestrates other tragic events to make his point. For example, in a sermon preached on April 21, 2010, Phelps maintains that the recent coal mining tragedy in West Virginia in which 29 workers died is an example of what he calls, “GodSmacks.” And true Christians are to rejoice when God smacks this nation in violent ways.
And that’s why they threatened to picket outside our church, Lebanon Baptist, in Lebanon, Ky., this past Sunday. It was the funeral service for Sergeant Randy S. Segley, Jr., a member of my congregation, who had served his country until his death in Afghanistan. Sgt. Segley was remembered as an honorable man, a friend of many, a decorated soldier. His parents, who wept during the service, were praised as having raised Randy well.
None of that matters to the protestors of Westboro Baptist Church. It is their practice to hold signs for grieving families to see as they exit the funeral. Signs that say: “You’re Going to Hell”; “God Hates Fags”; “God Hates the U.S.A.” And, with their children usually standing in front of them, the religious picketers denounce the deceased. According to Mike Sexton, Central Kentucky’s Ride Captain for the Patriot Guard, an organization that attempts to shield fallen soldiers’ families from the Westboro Baptist members, a typical vituperation is “God bless the I.E.D. (Improvised Explosive Devise) that killed your son.”
It’s theology gone bad; the dark side of religion.
The Patriot Guard lined the outside of our church, ready to shield the family as they left for the graveside; the Guard held flags; the motorcycles they had driven to the funeral were close by, ready for them to start and drown the religious hecklers’ voices.
But the Westboro Baptists didn’t show this time. “Probably because it wasn’t televised, and this is a smaller community. They do like publicity,” Sexton, a native of Richmond, Ky., whispered to me. And then he added, “This is their practice: they threaten to show, and we always have to be ready; you never know which funeral they’ll be at.”
I sighed with relief. And as the casket passed my way, the irony hit me like a flash of lightning: here we have soldiers fighting and dying for the freedom of a nation that allows the dark side of religion to exist--- along with a religious right and a religious left, homosexual people and “straight” people, fundamentalists and liberals, orthodox and the unorthodox. And I thanked God that I live in such a country.
And I wondered if somewhere deep down in the darkness, Phelps might too.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. Dr. Whitlock’s website is DavidBWhitlock,com. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 22, 2010
That Magical Masters Moment
Some moments--- unrehearsed, unexpected, perhaps even unintended, become magical--- capturing a feeling, releasing an emotion, finding a destiny, taking on a significance beyond the moment itself.
Another Masters Golf Tournament has come and gone, now embedded two weeks in history. But Phil Mickelson’s victory will endure as much as for what he did for his wife as for his brilliant performance on the golf course. It was after he won the championship that he seized the moment, and made it magical.
When Mickelson arrived at his rented home near the golf course in Augusta, Ga., the week of the tournament, he was alone. Not only had he not won a championship since 2003, but his family had not been able to join him on the tour for the past 11 months. Then two days into the week, they surprised him. For the first time since last year’s Players’ Championship, when his wife Amy first learned she had breast cancer, Mickelson’s family was able to join him for a tournament. “To have Amy and my kids here to share it with, I can’t put into words,” Mickelson said. “It just feels incredible, especially given what we’ve been through. To be able to share this kind of joy means a lot to us.”
But that moment when Mickelson’s family arrived, as encouraging as it must have been, was not the magical moment. They had done something special for him; now he was to do something extraordinary for someone else. And who could be more important than his wife, Amy, still battling cancer and struggling with the effects of medication? But it would not be a planned moment, intended to catch the attention of the public; it would be a spontaneous expression of love between a husband and a wife. Like any true magical moment, it was not on the program; it was unscripted.
It happened before Mickelson donned the green jacket, reserved for the Masters champion, before he was congratulated, interviewed and trophied. It happened while he was still on the golf course. Moments after he clinched the championship with a birdie putt on the 18th hole, Mickelson walked to Amy, and with tears in his eyes, embraced her, paused for a second, and kissed her. All that was missing was the Drifters singing in the background, “This magic moment/While your lips are close to mine/Will last forever/Forever til the end of time.” But the Drifters were unnecessary; the moment was magical without the music. Mickelson would later choke back tears as he spoke about Amy, “We’ve been through a lot this year. And it means a lot to share some joy together. She’s an incredible wife, an incredible mother and she’s been an inspiration to me, going through what’s she’s been through.”
With all the media attention on Larry King’s and Shawn Southwick’s divorce (Did they have a pre-nup? Do we care?), Jesse James’ infidelity to Sandra Bullock, John Edwards’ relationship with his mistress, Reille Hunter, by whom he has fathered a child, and Tiger Wood’s sex addiction---it is refreshing to see a husband kiss and embrace his own wife in a public place and by so doing affirm his loyalty and her personhood in the midst of her life threatening illness.
The truth is, the magical moment didn’t really happen on the 18th green: it happened when Amy was sick from chemo, and he didn’t cut and run; it happened when she couldn’t be there for him, and he was there for her; it happened when she was afraid, and he stood strong.
Magical moments become magical because someone was real when no one was looking, when no trophies were given, when no crowd was applauding. Magical moments are magical only because someone mastered the ordinary moment, giving it to someone else, believing it for all it can be, embracing it for what it is--- commonplace, familiar, normal. And in the mundaneness of that moment, magic sparks fly.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit Dr.Whitlock’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
Another Masters Golf Tournament has come and gone, now embedded two weeks in history. But Phil Mickelson’s victory will endure as much as for what he did for his wife as for his brilliant performance on the golf course. It was after he won the championship that he seized the moment, and made it magical.
When Mickelson arrived at his rented home near the golf course in Augusta, Ga., the week of the tournament, he was alone. Not only had he not won a championship since 2003, but his family had not been able to join him on the tour for the past 11 months. Then two days into the week, they surprised him. For the first time since last year’s Players’ Championship, when his wife Amy first learned she had breast cancer, Mickelson’s family was able to join him for a tournament. “To have Amy and my kids here to share it with, I can’t put into words,” Mickelson said. “It just feels incredible, especially given what we’ve been through. To be able to share this kind of joy means a lot to us.”
But that moment when Mickelson’s family arrived, as encouraging as it must have been, was not the magical moment. They had done something special for him; now he was to do something extraordinary for someone else. And who could be more important than his wife, Amy, still battling cancer and struggling with the effects of medication? But it would not be a planned moment, intended to catch the attention of the public; it would be a spontaneous expression of love between a husband and a wife. Like any true magical moment, it was not on the program; it was unscripted.
It happened before Mickelson donned the green jacket, reserved for the Masters champion, before he was congratulated, interviewed and trophied. It happened while he was still on the golf course. Moments after he clinched the championship with a birdie putt on the 18th hole, Mickelson walked to Amy, and with tears in his eyes, embraced her, paused for a second, and kissed her. All that was missing was the Drifters singing in the background, “This magic moment/While your lips are close to mine/Will last forever/Forever til the end of time.” But the Drifters were unnecessary; the moment was magical without the music. Mickelson would later choke back tears as he spoke about Amy, “We’ve been through a lot this year. And it means a lot to share some joy together. She’s an incredible wife, an incredible mother and she’s been an inspiration to me, going through what’s she’s been through.”
With all the media attention on Larry King’s and Shawn Southwick’s divorce (Did they have a pre-nup? Do we care?), Jesse James’ infidelity to Sandra Bullock, John Edwards’ relationship with his mistress, Reille Hunter, by whom he has fathered a child, and Tiger Wood’s sex addiction---it is refreshing to see a husband kiss and embrace his own wife in a public place and by so doing affirm his loyalty and her personhood in the midst of her life threatening illness.
The truth is, the magical moment didn’t really happen on the 18th green: it happened when Amy was sick from chemo, and he didn’t cut and run; it happened when she couldn’t be there for him, and he was there for her; it happened when she was afraid, and he stood strong.
Magical moments become magical because someone was real when no one was looking, when no trophies were given, when no crowd was applauding. Magical moments are magical only because someone mastered the ordinary moment, giving it to someone else, believing it for all it can be, embracing it for what it is--- commonplace, familiar, normal. And in the mundaneness of that moment, magic sparks fly.
Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit Dr.Whitlock’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com
Thursday, April 8, 2010
There's Something about that Face
“I’ve just seen Jesus,” I whispered as I gazed into his face.
No, I was not in a deep meditative trance; I was not half-awake at an Easter sunrise service. I was watching television: the History Channel has produced a wonderfully intriguing program, “The Real Face of Jesus,” a two hour documentary featuring the work of digital artist and scientist Ray Downing, president of Macbeth Studios, who, by using information encoded into the Shroud of Turin---the blood stained linen cloth that many claim was the burial wrapping for the crucified Christ--- recreates the face and bloodied body of Jesus, transforming it into a 3D image. The program aired twice last week, Holy Week, and can be seen several more times this month.
Downing’s computer enhanced Jesus is a very Jewish, swarthy, Middle-Eastern Jesus, not the typical, lily- white, Renaissance Jesus. “I have a lot of information about that face and my estimation is we're pretty darn close to what this man looked like," Downing told ABC News. The shroud, Downing reminds his listeners, wasn't hanging on a wall; it was wrapped around a corpse. “That's the crux of the problem - the face is hidden in there," he said. How so? According to Downing, “The presence of 3-D information encoded in a 2-D image is quite unexpected, as well as unique. It is as if there is an instruction set inside a picture for building a sculpture." Researchers “lifted” the blood and isolated it on computer imagery so that it would sit “in air” on a transparent background. Downing claims his technique of computer imaging actually uncovered what substance created the image on the shroud and enabled him to see for the first time the actual face of Jesus.
But what about the 1988 carbon 14 dating that proved the Shroud to be a medieval forgery? The accuracy of that test has been called into question. Some scientists, including Christopher Ramsey of the Oxford Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit, as well as Shroud of Turin Research Project scientist John Jackson, contend that the findings are inaccurate because of the multiple fires the shroud endured. Carbon monoxide, bacteria, and other contaminants have further distorted the carbon 14 dating. According to Jackson, a 2 percent contamination is capable of skewing results by 1,500 years.
Other scientists, including Raymond Rogers of the Los Alamos National Laboratory, believe that the outer section of the shroud, the part used for carbon 14 testing, is not the same fabric that makes up the rest of the cloth; it was a material used to repair the damaged outer edge of the shroud during the Middles Ages.
Also intriguing, and lending support to the authenticity of the shroud, are the findings of Vatican research scholar, Dr. Barbara Frale, whose work is published in a new book, La Sindone di Gesu Nazareno (The Shroud of Jesus of Nazareth). Frale believes she has discovered, in the secret archives of the Vatican, the burial certificate of Jesus. In letters barely visible to the naked eye, the words on the shroud read, “Jesus the Nazarene,” or “Jesus of Nazareth.” Like the image of the man himself, the letters are in reverse and only make sense in negative photographs. Palestine was a Roman colony during the time of Jesus and someone buried with a death sentence could only be returned to the family after a year in a common grave. A death certificate was therefore attached to the burial shroud for identification purposes. This was apparently the case with Jesus, even though he was buried not in a common grave but in the tomb offered by Joseph of Arimathea.
Dr Frale maintains that the text could not have been written by a medieval forger because the words did not refer to Jesus as Christ but as "the Nazarene". This would have been "heretical" in the Middle Ages, since it defined Jesus as "only a man" rather than the Son of God.
Whatever one believes about the authenticity of the shroud, it cannot be denied that it continues to baffle scientists. How is it, for instance, that the wounds of the dead man correspond, even in light of modern medical science, to the wounds descriptive of Jesus? Further, the image was produced without paint. And blood has been verified on the shroud.
The Vatican has no official position on the shroud. Pope John Paul II said in 1998 that the church “entrusts to scientists the task of continuing to investigate,” but that the shroud nonetheless has deep religious meaning.
But not everyone is on board the shroud train. In 2009 Italian scientist Luigi Garlaschelli, for instance, claimed to have reproduced the shroud and declared that “this could be done with the use of inexpensive materials and with a quite simple procedure.” There are and always will be skeptics.
Just like on the first Easter morning: John, the disciple, for one, was apparently too afraid , or still too overcome with doubt, to step inside the tomb and investigate the linen wrappings lying there; Simon Peter, surely shaking with each step—partly for fear and partly in hope---raised an eyebrow (I think), saw the burial cloth… and believed.
They saw; they believed. Jesus told Thomas, who demanded more, “Blessed are those who believe without seeing.”
Christians cherish those post-resurrection words of Jesus, even as, ( hoping for scientific proof?), they look at the digital enhanced image of that face… that face that comes to us, authentically, only by faith. How else, after all, would there be anything eternally significant about that face?
Life Matters by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit Dr. Whitlock’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at doctordavid@windstream.net.
No, I was not in a deep meditative trance; I was not half-awake at an Easter sunrise service. I was watching television: the History Channel has produced a wonderfully intriguing program, “The Real Face of Jesus,” a two hour documentary featuring the work of digital artist and scientist Ray Downing, president of Macbeth Studios, who, by using information encoded into the Shroud of Turin---the blood stained linen cloth that many claim was the burial wrapping for the crucified Christ--- recreates the face and bloodied body of Jesus, transforming it into a 3D image. The program aired twice last week, Holy Week, and can be seen several more times this month.
Downing’s computer enhanced Jesus is a very Jewish, swarthy, Middle-Eastern Jesus, not the typical, lily- white, Renaissance Jesus. “I have a lot of information about that face and my estimation is we're pretty darn close to what this man looked like," Downing told ABC News. The shroud, Downing reminds his listeners, wasn't hanging on a wall; it was wrapped around a corpse. “That's the crux of the problem - the face is hidden in there," he said. How so? According to Downing, “The presence of 3-D information encoded in a 2-D image is quite unexpected, as well as unique. It is as if there is an instruction set inside a picture for building a sculpture." Researchers “lifted” the blood and isolated it on computer imagery so that it would sit “in air” on a transparent background. Downing claims his technique of computer imaging actually uncovered what substance created the image on the shroud and enabled him to see for the first time the actual face of Jesus.
But what about the 1988 carbon 14 dating that proved the Shroud to be a medieval forgery? The accuracy of that test has been called into question. Some scientists, including Christopher Ramsey of the Oxford Radiocarbon Accelerator Unit, as well as Shroud of Turin Research Project scientist John Jackson, contend that the findings are inaccurate because of the multiple fires the shroud endured. Carbon monoxide, bacteria, and other contaminants have further distorted the carbon 14 dating. According to Jackson, a 2 percent contamination is capable of skewing results by 1,500 years.
Other scientists, including Raymond Rogers of the Los Alamos National Laboratory, believe that the outer section of the shroud, the part used for carbon 14 testing, is not the same fabric that makes up the rest of the cloth; it was a material used to repair the damaged outer edge of the shroud during the Middles Ages.
Also intriguing, and lending support to the authenticity of the shroud, are the findings of Vatican research scholar, Dr. Barbara Frale, whose work is published in a new book, La Sindone di Gesu Nazareno (The Shroud of Jesus of Nazareth). Frale believes she has discovered, in the secret archives of the Vatican, the burial certificate of Jesus. In letters barely visible to the naked eye, the words on the shroud read, “Jesus the Nazarene,” or “Jesus of Nazareth.” Like the image of the man himself, the letters are in reverse and only make sense in negative photographs. Palestine was a Roman colony during the time of Jesus and someone buried with a death sentence could only be returned to the family after a year in a common grave. A death certificate was therefore attached to the burial shroud for identification purposes. This was apparently the case with Jesus, even though he was buried not in a common grave but in the tomb offered by Joseph of Arimathea.
Dr Frale maintains that the text could not have been written by a medieval forger because the words did not refer to Jesus as Christ but as "the Nazarene". This would have been "heretical" in the Middle Ages, since it defined Jesus as "only a man" rather than the Son of God.
Whatever one believes about the authenticity of the shroud, it cannot be denied that it continues to baffle scientists. How is it, for instance, that the wounds of the dead man correspond, even in light of modern medical science, to the wounds descriptive of Jesus? Further, the image was produced without paint. And blood has been verified on the shroud.
The Vatican has no official position on the shroud. Pope John Paul II said in 1998 that the church “entrusts to scientists the task of continuing to investigate,” but that the shroud nonetheless has deep religious meaning.
But not everyone is on board the shroud train. In 2009 Italian scientist Luigi Garlaschelli, for instance, claimed to have reproduced the shroud and declared that “this could be done with the use of inexpensive materials and with a quite simple procedure.” There are and always will be skeptics.
Just like on the first Easter morning: John, the disciple, for one, was apparently too afraid , or still too overcome with doubt, to step inside the tomb and investigate the linen wrappings lying there; Simon Peter, surely shaking with each step—partly for fear and partly in hope---raised an eyebrow (I think), saw the burial cloth… and believed.
They saw; they believed. Jesus told Thomas, who demanded more, “Blessed are those who believe without seeing.”
Christians cherish those post-resurrection words of Jesus, even as, ( hoping for scientific proof?), they look at the digital enhanced image of that face… that face that comes to us, authentically, only by faith. How else, after all, would there be anything eternally significant about that face?
Life Matters by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit Dr. Whitlock’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at doctordavid@windstream.net.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Senior Coffee, Anyone?
Where were you when you first recognized you were getting older?
We remember where we were for other significant moments, don’t we? I remember, for instance, where I was when I learned that President Kennedy has been assassinated: Ms. Speck’s second grade class room at Washington Elementary School, Altus, Oklahoma. I recall where I was when the Challenger went down: in my apartment in Louisville, Kentucky, working on a seminar paper for my doctoral requirements; and 9/11: driving down Prien Lake Road, Lake Charles, Louisiana, listening to the radio, intrigued by the unusual news about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. We remember where we were when those significant nation-altering events occurred.
But, what about getting older? Do you perchance remember where you were when you first realized that was happening? Were you at the optometrist office and learned you needed bifocals? Was it on your own driveway when your child outran you to the street? Or was at the pharmacy as you ordered cholesterol medication? Or was it at the college campus for your child’s orientation?
For me, it was a fast-food restaurant. I was on my way to a lunch meeting with my oldest daughter. Feeling drowsy, I stopped along the way for coffee in Danville, Kentucky. And then it happened: like Rip Van Winkle, I slumbered into a time warp, a twilight zone of somnambulation, and before I could process what was happening, I was at the order counter.
I requested a small cup of coffee. Simple enough. To my surprise, the young man at the counter said, “$.55.” I was thinking, “This is a good deal, $.55 for a cup of coffee. It must be on sale.” I stepped aside to receive my order, and then I heard the server announce in a voice loud enough to travel to Cincinnati, “SENIOR COFFEE!”
“Senior coffee?” I thought, “Me? You don’t mean me, do you?” I looked to my right and to my left. No senior guy to pick up this coffee. I had heard correctly. Like Socrates taking the hemlock, I stoically, without objecting, took the coffee. “Senior Coffee,” I mused, “surely not me; surely not yet.” But there it was in my hand, my coffee, my Senior Coffee.
The worst part was that the young man who took my order didn’t bother to ask. He assumed I was a senior. He didn’t say, “I know you’re probably much younger, and excuse my ignorance in asking such a young looking man as you, but I’m required to ask, so, do you get the Senior Citizen Discount?” No, it was as if I walked into that restaurant, suddenly grew a grey beard, donned an “I’ve been everywhere” traveling cap, put in a pair of hearing aids, and ordered my coffee, my Senior Coffee.
I stood there, slack-jawed, not knowing whether to give the coffee back, explaining that this was a case of mistaken identity, offering to pay the regular price for a small cup of coffee, laughing at the naiveté of the young man who took the order--- a youngster who obviously couldn’t tell that I can do a hundred push-ups, run on my elliptical trainer for thirty minutes, work ten hours a day, and most obviously, (can’t you see?!) quite obviously---a young man who couldn’t manage to recognize that I have a full eight months, (that’s 240 days or 5,760 hours) before I am considered by any standard a senior citizen!
In a split second, I decided to leave it alone. It didn’t matter. I smiled and walked away, sipping my coffee, my Senior Coffee. And to my surprise, I liked the flavor.
So then, fully awake, I could see it clearly: I’ll take the senior coffee…savor each sip...and change the world, “old” as I am.
David B. Whitlock , Ph.D. (www.davidbwhitlock.com) is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact him at doctordavid@windstream.net
We remember where we were for other significant moments, don’t we? I remember, for instance, where I was when I learned that President Kennedy has been assassinated: Ms. Speck’s second grade class room at Washington Elementary School, Altus, Oklahoma. I recall where I was when the Challenger went down: in my apartment in Louisville, Kentucky, working on a seminar paper for my doctoral requirements; and 9/11: driving down Prien Lake Road, Lake Charles, Louisiana, listening to the radio, intrigued by the unusual news about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. We remember where we were when those significant nation-altering events occurred.
But, what about getting older? Do you perchance remember where you were when you first realized that was happening? Were you at the optometrist office and learned you needed bifocals? Was it on your own driveway when your child outran you to the street? Or was at the pharmacy as you ordered cholesterol medication? Or was it at the college campus for your child’s orientation?
For me, it was a fast-food restaurant. I was on my way to a lunch meeting with my oldest daughter. Feeling drowsy, I stopped along the way for coffee in Danville, Kentucky. And then it happened: like Rip Van Winkle, I slumbered into a time warp, a twilight zone of somnambulation, and before I could process what was happening, I was at the order counter.
I requested a small cup of coffee. Simple enough. To my surprise, the young man at the counter said, “$.55.” I was thinking, “This is a good deal, $.55 for a cup of coffee. It must be on sale.” I stepped aside to receive my order, and then I heard the server announce in a voice loud enough to travel to Cincinnati, “SENIOR COFFEE!”
“Senior coffee?” I thought, “Me? You don’t mean me, do you?” I looked to my right and to my left. No senior guy to pick up this coffee. I had heard correctly. Like Socrates taking the hemlock, I stoically, without objecting, took the coffee. “Senior Coffee,” I mused, “surely not me; surely not yet.” But there it was in my hand, my coffee, my Senior Coffee.
The worst part was that the young man who took my order didn’t bother to ask. He assumed I was a senior. He didn’t say, “I know you’re probably much younger, and excuse my ignorance in asking such a young looking man as you, but I’m required to ask, so, do you get the Senior Citizen Discount?” No, it was as if I walked into that restaurant, suddenly grew a grey beard, donned an “I’ve been everywhere” traveling cap, put in a pair of hearing aids, and ordered my coffee, my Senior Coffee.
I stood there, slack-jawed, not knowing whether to give the coffee back, explaining that this was a case of mistaken identity, offering to pay the regular price for a small cup of coffee, laughing at the naiveté of the young man who took the order--- a youngster who obviously couldn’t tell that I can do a hundred push-ups, run on my elliptical trainer for thirty minutes, work ten hours a day, and most obviously, (can’t you see?!) quite obviously---a young man who couldn’t manage to recognize that I have a full eight months, (that’s 240 days or 5,760 hours) before I am considered by any standard a senior citizen!
In a split second, I decided to leave it alone. It didn’t matter. I smiled and walked away, sipping my coffee, my Senior Coffee. And to my surprise, I liked the flavor.
So then, fully awake, I could see it clearly: I’ll take the senior coffee…savor each sip...and change the world, “old” as I am.
David B. Whitlock , Ph.D. (www.davidbwhitlock.com) is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact him at doctordavid@windstream.net
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