Dr. David B. Whitlock

Should Christians Pray for the Death of President Obama?

2012-02-02T18:45:00.000-05:00

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.

Surprised by a daughter's prayer

2012-01-26T19:59:00.001-05:00

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

It's all in the numbers

2012-01-23T18:32:00.000-05:00

“Why can’t you do something like that?” My friend jokingly posed that question to me while we were waiting for a church deacons meeting to begin.

Several of us had been talking about Denver Broncos QB Tim Tebow throwing for exactly 316 yards in the Broncos’ overtime playoff win over the Pittsburg Steelers. Not only was it a career high for Tebow, it apparently stupefied many because of the apparent correlation of the number 316 to John 3:16, the biblical reference Tebow used to etch on his “eye black,” to avoid sun glare, during his days as QB for the Florida Gators.

The Bible verse, Tebow’s favorite, says, “For God loved the world so much that he gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life.” Tebow, easily America’s most popular Christian athlete, has had a close public association with that verse.

The 316 total passing yards was not the only 3:16 connection. He also threw for 31.6 yards per completion. And there’s more: during the final quarter of the game, the TV rating was 31.6. And one final association with the John reference: Tebow works for two men, both of whom have the first name, John.

Can you hear the background music from the Twilight Zone?

Then again, for more rational thinkers--- maybe not.

In answer to the question, “Why can’t you do something like that?” I rejoined, “Tim Tebow only had to look at the Pittsburg Steelers’ defense, not a bunch of ornery Baptist deacons.” (They really can be ornery, but I didn’t say that.)

In all seriousness---since some people do take these numbers seriously, maintaining that the statistics point to John 3:16 as a divine affirmation of Tebow’s witness--- what do we make of this?

I’ve long believed God uses a variety of ways to draw attention to his Good News. And if the statistics can be used as an opportunity for that discussion, then believers can use it in a positive way.

But they should also be extremely cautious when it comes to reading messages from God into football statistics. As Josh Tinley (Kneeling in the End Zone: Spiritual Lessons From the World of Sports) observed in his blog, two of the numbers cited in that playoff game were 31.6, not 3.16.

Why not look for a book in the Bible that has a 31:6, like II Chronicles 31:6, which says in part, “The people…brought in (their) tithes.” And, besides, many Bible passages other than John have a 3:16. How do we know that those statistics don’t refer to one of them?

Then there is the matter of other football players, who like Tebow, are Christians. For example, Colt McCoy, QB for the Cleveland Browns, is active in the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Why not see if any of his statistics connect with a Bible passage he has publicly quoted at some time? What would that reveal?

Or, what if an athlete was of another faith, say Islam? Would evangelicals be disturbed if some of his statistics connected with a passage from the Koran?

The point is, we can substantiate all kinds of beliefs---some true, some erroneous---when we gaze long enough in the tea leaves. Michael Shermer, a religious skeptic, uses this truth to challenge the very essence of religion. In his book, The Believing Brain, he maintains that the brain is “a belief engine,” which looks for and finds confirmation for beliefs in patterns; we naturally find meaning in connecting the dots, infusing those patterns with meaning, which only serves to reinforce the beliefs with which we began.

So, perhaps believers would do better to practice “tebowing” (so named after the way Tebow kneels in prayer on the sidelines) and remember the words he often speaks, “First and foremost, I just want to thank my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He’s done so much in my life.”

Having done that, leave the statistics to the people in the press box. After all, those stats are only numbers.

And, so much of athletic success---and, yes, even some so-called miracles---is all in the numbers.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D, is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Only pictures on a calendar?

2012-01-13T19:40:00.001-05:00

The New Year already has flown, leaving its newborn status lying flat in the nest.

And I’m left with all these extra calendars---two from local businesses, two from churches which somehow think I will be interested in adding their agenda to my schedule, and another complimentary calendar from a company wanting me to buy calendars to give people next year, assuming, I suppose, that I somehow believe others will be interested in my agenda next year.

But I like the pictures on these calendars, anyway.

Most appealing to me are calendars with pictures of nature coinciding with each season, which is nice, especially if you live in a place where you don’t have distinct seasons. In Oklahoma, where I grew up, we could have a brutal winter followed by a miserably hot summer---both of which seemed to endure forever. But fall was a weekend fling, and spring was a whiff in the air. So I loved gazing into those calendar pictures of a New England fall foliage or a radiant springtime in Kentucky. Ahh---how relaxing they seemed, especially to a high strung high school kid.

Why do so many calendars have pictures of animals---dogs, cats, horses? I suppose if petting a dog or having a cat curl up in your lap can steady your emotions on a roller coaster day, maybe the next best thing would be a picture of a likeable creature. And that’s nice, especially when so many of the human species aren’t.

Calendars with mountain or ocean scenes can bring relief from the harsh realities of life, too. Just imagine you are there, and that can smooth wrinkled emotions.

But, of all the calendars I enjoy, one calendar stands above all the rest.

That’s happens to be the custom calendar my wife created online. Each month is filled with pictorial memories of my family. I turn to January and there is Mary and me, having a cup of Community Coffee in the kitchen; in April Lori is baking a birthday pie for Madi; I look to July and there’s Dave and Madi splashing in the pool with our two Schnauzers; a glance at August and Mary and Madi are cooking an Italian dish for grandparents; and finally, I’m in December smiling at Harrison opening presents.

Relax, release, rejuvenate.

Calendar pictures of family soothe me amidst the stress and strain of life, reminding me, as I close my eyes with those pictures in my mind’s eye, of life’s priorities. Unlike the old flip books, which created an illusion of motion as you thumbed through them, glancing through the calendar’s family photos does quite the opposite: It halts the movement into a single photo shot, a sort of mental composite, leaving us with an image of what’s really important: family.

I’ve never known anyone in their dying moment wish for more time at the office. But I have seen, time and again, person after person, finding comfort as they lay dying in the presence of their family.

Death brings the living together---at least for a dying moment.

On this calendar day, I’m standing with a young couple at the graveside service for their stillborn child. Grieving the memories of memories that never happened---their baby’s first cry, the giggles, the words “Dada,” and “Mama,” the baby’s first steps---the parents seem mesmerized by the tiny box containing the body of their baby.

Having closed the service, the harsh January wind whips across our faces as I ask: “Would you like a little time here just to yourselves, apart from the rest of your family?”

“No,” the father whispers, “we can only make it as a unit.”

A unit--- a family unit.

I doubt that cemetery scene will be on a calendar picture next year or ever, but I hope the words will echo for that family through the months of each year: “We can only make it as a unit.”

Death is a part of living, and though it’s usually an uninvited and unwelcomed guest, it still intrudes onto our calendars without our invitation or embrace, reminding us that it has an appointment with each of us on a number somewhere between one and thirty-one. But the family pictures, those memories of life---or even the desire for it---breathe significance into what is past and cast hope for the future: We can make it as a unit, a family unit.

And that’s the truth---no matter what pictures are on your calendar.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, or visit his web site, davidbwhitlock.com

Another earth, another you, another year

2011-12-30T22:00:00.001-05:00

Scientists have finally discovered another earth. Well, sort of.

Earlier this month NASA’s Kepler space telescope team announced the discovery of “Kepler-22b,” located in what is called a “habitable zone,” meaning an environment that’s not too hot or too cold for the possibility of life. And just last week, the team unveiled two other earth-sized planets, Kepler-20e and Kepler-20f, although they are not in the habitable zone.

“This discovery shows that we Homo sapiens are straining our reach into the universe to find planets that remind us of home. We are almost there,” said Geoff Marcy of the University of California, Berkeley, one of the world’s leaders in the search for planets.

But apparently a lot of space exists between those two words, “almost,” and “there.” Being reminded of home and finding another earth is more than a world or an earth apart. Kepler-22b for instance, is 600 light years away. Traveling by space shuttle, it would take 22 million years to get there. And Kepler 22b’s size, 2.4 times the size of earth, makes it too big for an atmosphere like earth’s, according to planetary scientist Lena Noack.

Yet scientists are invigorated by the possibility of finding another earth: “You can bet that the hunt is on to find…a true earth twin,” avers astronomer David Charbonneau of Harvard University.

Although I’ve never been a science fiction fan, the dreamer in me is fascinated with the concept of another earth and what it would be like.

The 2011 film, Another Earth, explored the idea of another earth as an opportunity for a second chance in life, a place where a parallel you exists with another, possibly better life. The producers used astrophysicist, Dr. Richard Berendzen, (author of Pulp Physics) for the background voice asking the probing questions about a parallel earth and our place in it: “Could we even recognize ourselves, and if we did, would we know ourselves? What would we say to ourselves? What would we learn from ourselves? What would we really like to see if we could stand outside ourselves and look at us?”

The truth is, we don’t have to travel 22 million years in space to find a place where we can ask those or similar questions. Standing on the precipice of a New Year is occasion enough to step outside ourselves and take inventory of who we are, really.

Do we know what to say to ourselves? Do we know the self to whom we speak? Are we strangers to ourselves?

C.G. Jung, the Swiss psychoanalyst, wrote about an inner dimension he referred to as the True Self. For Jung, this Self, as author Sue Monk Kidd points out, doesn’t refer to the ego, as in myself, but to the Center of our being, the image of God within us. As we find and cultivate that place we discover our True Self.

It’s the place Jesus of Nazareth described as being, “The Kingdom of God within you” (Luke 17:21), and when we reject it, we also deny our True Self. As Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk of Gethsemani Abby said, “My false and private self is the one who wants to exist outside the reach of God’s will and God’s love...And such a self cannot help but be an illusion.” For Merton, the secret of our identity, our True Self, is “hidden in the love and mercy of God.”

Sometime between now and the New Year, I think I’ll step outside and peering into the universe, ponder the possibility of another earth, and then, I’ll look within, and even though I’m not there---still without all the answers---I’ll find comfort in the words of the young theologian, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who before being martyred by the Nazis, concluded his poem, “Who Am I?” with the line, “Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am Thine!”

Knowing the same One who has me also has the universe and all that’s in it, I’ll then say “Yes,” to my True Self, and taking God’s hand, step boldly into another New Year.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Surviving Christmas in a blended family

2011-12-22T20:52:00.001-05:00

Christmas can be tough, especially for blended families. And apparently there are plenty of them. It’s been estimated that more than half of Americans live in some form of a blended family. Stepfamily therapist, Steven Straub, believes that the blended family will become, if it’s not already, the predominate family structure in the United States.

One of the major stressors during the holiday season involves the dynamics involved in blending a family. The holiday season comes packaged with enough tension already, what with gifts to buy, traffic to fight, and programs to attend. When you throw in the jealousies of a step grandmother, or the vengefulness of an ex-spouse, or the hurt feelings of stepchildren, or the insecurity of stepsiblings, (the variables for family strife are virtually endless) a veritable boiling cauldron of emotions threatens to spill over into the dream of the quaint family Christmas, scalding any possibility of what peace and joy might have been.

Eight years ago I experienced my first Christmas with our blended family. With each Christmas our family has drawn closer as together we’ve experienced the challenge of each holiday.

I’ve learned a few lessons that have helped me grow with my blended family during the holiday season.

I ceased chasing that perfect Christmas; it doesn’t exist; there never was one and never will be. God could have made that first Christmas a perfect one, but he didn’t. No room was left in the inn; and the holy family was homeless. Maybe God was trying to tell us something: Life is experienced in the struggle---in brokenness, in hurt, and in pain. Just as he was there in a dirty stable the first Christmas, so God is in the midst of our families’ messiness.

Releasing the pressure of finding the perfect Christmas freed us to try new things. We’ve taken past traditions and incorporated them into our family in ways that created something different. For instance, we open some presents on Christmas Eve (a tradition from my family) and some on Christmas morning (a tradition in Lori’s family), and in so doing started a new tradition.

I’ve also learned that no matter the number of children (we have four) in a blended family, each child is different, and each child is the same. Each has unique characteristics, but they all have the same basic emotional needs: love, acceptance, security, attention. In healthy family relations those needs can be met. Maybe that’s why the biblical character, King David, described God as a “father to the fatherless, a defender of widows,” a God who “places the lonely in families” (Psalm 68:5, 6).

Christmas season bristles with emotions so tense they sometimes seem to ricochet off the walls. I like the words of the Apostle Paul when he admonished his readers to “take care of those who are weak” (I Thessalonians 5:14). Often, during Christmas, those in blended families are experiencing the deep pain of broken relationships or feeling the emptiness of a loved one who is no longer there. Or maybe both.

It’s perhaps the sense of loss---the absence of a parent or child at Christmas, the grief of what once was and never will be again---that is most pronounced in blended families. But, the void felt by changed circumstances cuts across the emotional landscape of all family structures, however “family” may be defined.

My mother and father are encountering the emotions experienced with their first Christmas in a retirement facility. “I miss the smells of cooking in my own kitchen, decorating my house, and inviting friends over,” Mom confided to me the other day. And then with added insight, “One thing about it, life is about change, no matter your age or where you are.”

Or the type of family you’re in.

It’s true; it’s inevitable: Change is the permanent constant. Successfully blending a family is only saying, “Yes,” to the possibilities for new life, knowing that whether it’s Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Easter--life is found in the One who never changes, the One who calls us forward, the One who knows blending our life with those we love is what life is all about.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

All I want for Christmas is my nip and tuck

2011-12-16T17:40:00.001-05:00

Back in 1944, while teaching music in public school, Donald Gardner asked his second grade class what they wanted for Christmas. Noticing how almost all his students answered him with a lisp because they had at least one front tooth missing, Gardner sat down and wrote the song, “All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth.”

Unfortunately, at least for many youth, it takes much more than two new front teeth to fit into the norm physically; it takes a nip here and a tuck there.

Many, if not most, adults get cosmetic surgery because they don’t want to look their age; they don’t want to look like the rest. They want to be noticed in the crowd.

What’s interesting is that the increase in teenagers getting cosmetic surgery (cosmetic surgical procedures on youths 18 and younger more than tripled from 1997- 2007, with the controversial procedures, breast augmentation and liposuction, increasing six fold) appears to be for the opposite reason adults choose plastic surgery. In a report by Camille Sweeney in the New York Times, Dr. Frederick Lukash, a cosmetic surgeon in New York City who specializes in treating adults, said, “Unlike adults who may elect cosmetic surgery for the ‘wow’ factor to stand out in a crowd, to be rejuvenated and get noticed, kids have different mantra. They do it to fit in.”

Undergoing surgery to fit in is not without risks, risks most teenagers don’t think through.”Teenagers are often oblivious to the well-documented long-term health consequences of smoking, tanning, and other risky behaviors, and are likely to pay less attention to the risks of cosmetic surgery, making informed consent difficult,” warns psychologist and women’s health expert, Dr. Diana Zuckeman.

That’s not to say all corrective surgery is wrong. On the contrary, some cosmetic procedures have worked wonders for a child’s self esteem. Michael Laudiso, now an adult, reported to Camille Sweeney that having his large ears pinned when he was ten was a life saver: “That surgery made me free.”

Neither is there anything awry or unusual with trying to improve how we look or taking measures to look younger. Jane Fonda decided to go under the knife when she walked by a mirror, caught a glimpse of herself and wondered who that face belonged to. “I thought, ‘Oh my God, it’s me,’” Fonda told TODAY’s Matt Lauer earlier this month. “I just decided I wanted to buy myself some time and look more like how I feel.” said Fonda. She had work on her chin, neck and under the eyes.

But, the real danger lies when we adults create a cultural environment where a young person thinks every tiny detail has to be picture perfect, and where we ourselves think it’s necessary to undergo countless procedures to keep getting that “wow” effect.

We forget the inner beauty that lies much deeper than our aging skin, a beauty that can grow even more attractive with age, a beauty that can’t be touched by a scalpel.

Apparently, Lauren Scruggs’ beauty is more than skin deep. She’s the 23 year-old model who walked into the propeller of a an airplane, fracturing her skull, severing her left hand, breaking her collar bone, injuring her brain, and causing extensive damage to her left eye. Her first spoken words after regaining consciousness were, “I love you.” And, when Lauren used a mirror to see her face for the first time after the accident, her response was, “That’s not that bad.”

I thought of her words as I was getting my haircut the other day. Glancing in the mirror at myself, I noticed a new wrinkle here and some sagging skin there. “Who is that guy who seems to be getting older quicker than I thought he would,” I thought. Then, with a hidden smile, I repeated Lauren’s words to myself, “That’s not that bad.”

And thanking the Lord for the gift of life itself, I said it again, “No, not that bad at all.”

Email David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com

Finding Common Ground at the Manger this Christmas

2011-12-08T20:31:00.001-05:00

“What part of Christmas do you find most stressful?” I asked my secretary the other day.

“The shopping,” she said, without hesitating.

“The shopping,” those two words just about cover it all.

The traffic---trying to find a parking place, struggling to drive from one store to the next--- and the crowds, rushing to get in line, scurrying by other shoppers in the mall---all come with the shopping. It’s an all inclusive non-bargain.

And, unless you have the patience of Job or the placidity of the Dali Lama, you’re most likely to bring your little gift bags of shopping stress and strain to your home, or work, or even---dare I say it?---your house of worship.

December---the month when Christians are supposed to be focusing on the birth of the Christ child---is not immune from the same conflict and discord that characterize the world the other eleven months of the year. December just seems to get hit hardest that way.

The angel’s words to the shepherds, announcing the birth of Jesus, seem to mock our frequently misplaced priorities: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men” Luke 2:14).

“Yeah, right!” our cynical side snickers.

But wait! There’s still the possibility of a peaceful Christmas. We don’t have to stumble through this season, arriving on the 25th, battered, bruised, frustrated and drained. We are, after all, in charge of our choices and ultimately, our feelings.

Just as a swimmer in turbulent waters finds calmness beneath the surface, we too can find peace if we will only take a deep breath and dive deep, descending to the epicenter of Christmas, the ground zero of the whole tradition, the place where it all began: the night a baby was born in a manger.

For those who choose to celebrate a Christmas with Christ in it, this is where it begins and ends, if they are to find a peace that produces unity not division, hope not despair, light and not darkness.

That peace brings a sense of well-being and purpose not only to families upended by the world’s agenda, but also to houses of worship as well, and it has the potential to galvanize a united front of Christians standing in unity at the common ground found in the manger.

In this world where political agreements are stymied by entrenchment, where once married couples fight custody battles, where the have nots camp in protest of the haves, people yearn for solutions. Christmas can be a most opportune time for the Christian community to demonstrate a unity based on the peace found in the One they claim to follow.

Father Jonathan Morris, speaking recently on the talk show hosted by former evangelist, Reverend James Robison, urged Protestants and Catholics to find common ground. Father Morris, a frequent contributor and analyst for the Fox News Channel, and who currently serves as one of the vicars at the Basilica at St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral in New York City, issued an impassioned plea for Christians to work together. Speaking to Robison, Fr. Morris said, “Not that you believe every single theological thing that I believe…but we have so much in common, we have one person in common, that is Jesus Christ…(so) we have to work together, we have to have courage to walk together no matter what anyone says.”

Maybe a start in that direction could be made if Protestants stepped inside a Catholic Church and Catholics stood in a Protestant church and sensing the traditions of the place, found a manger scene or at least a picture or image of the Christ child.

Having done that, maybe believers could try gazing at the scene and perhaps even imagine the smell of the dirt the in that cattle stall where Jesus was born. It’s the dirt from which we all came; it’s the dust to which we all return.

But in the manger we find something beyond ourselves, something that unites us as we encounter Jesus; we discover in him the common ground that brings peace on earth and good will towards all people.

It’s in that common ground that we might just find Christmas, after all.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct teacher at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Email David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

Autumn Garden: Christmas Light

2011-12-08T20:27:00.001-05:00

“You’d better get what’s left of your garden in; we’re going to have a hard freeze tonight,” Glen, my gardening mentor, warned me several weeks ago. And so I carried in the tomato vines, picked the peppers, and salvaged what okra was left. In the garage, they are now ripening so fast that some are beginning to rot before we can get them eaten. My wife tolerates my boastful proclamation: “It’s November, and we still enjoy the garden,” as if this justifies the time devoted to working the ground this past summer.

Having saved what was left to be saved, I tramped through my garden late this evening. Only vestiges of life remain of what once was: Now, the garden lies fallow as winter approaches; now, it is stripped of life; now it fades into a deep sleep.

The outlines of the garden beds themselves preserve the memory of the high summer’s sun that produced an abundance of lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions, okra, potatoes, and corn; and over there, on that side of the garden, I crawled from row to row, weeding, harvesting, sometimes lost in wonder and awe in that maze of produce.

And now as I slowly pace each erased row, I commit the remnants to their winter’s grave: The plant labels---“Cayenne pepper,” “Bell Pepper,” “Okra,” “Better Boy Tomato,” “Celebrity Tomato,”--stand like miniature tombstones marking the places where the vegetables once grew. I accidentally step on a tomato or pepper resting on the ground, exposed, unburied, ghostly white--- their corpse-like remains reminding me of life’s inevitable cycle. And I feel somehow I’ve intruded on their hallowed ground.

And the dead vines look like slender fingers reaching up from the underworld, desperately trying to grasp one last ray of life before they are mulched into the humus from which they emerged.

Yet, something magical is happening beneath the earth’s surface as nutrients, helped along by earthworms, are preparing the soil for next year’s crop of plants.

Christians have for centuries observed this interim time of the yearly solstice as an opportunity to anticipate the not yet---the birth of Jesus the Christ---even as they grieve the present: the dominance of darkness that still mars the world. The season is called Advent--- the preparation for the celebration of Christ’s birth, bringing with it new life in the deadness of winter.

For hundreds of years, God’s garden---his people---thrived only to die again: “You brought us from Egypt as we were a tender vine;…You cleared the ground for us, and we took root and filled the land…But now…The boar from the forest devours us, and the wild animals feed on us…Turn us again to yourself, O Lord God Almighty” (Psalm 80:8, 9, 12, 19). For centuries the Hebrew people looked to a time when they would once again be “a well-watered garden” (Isaiah 58:11). And then, quite sudden-like, but by no surprise to the Eternal Eye, in the “fullness of time, God sent forth his son” (Galatians 4:4-5), a light shining “in the darkness” (John 1:5), and for those who believe the Christ-story, a new light and life in the midst of the darkness and the deadness.

Beneath the surface, the mulch had been prepared for the birth of something new and vibrant.

I know, it’s only a vegetable garden, after all, and maybe it’s not necessary to bring God into it. But as the sun sets so gently on the horizon, I stand in the middle of my garden and remember a greater light that shines the way to more wonderful things: a life grounded in the hope of a brighter tomorrow---a day filled with the abundance of all that is new, and good, and everlasting.

All because a child was born in Bethlehem some 2000 years ago.

Imagine that: All this, in a simple garden-variety birth…

…of the miraculous kind.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Autumn Garden: Christmas Light

2011-12-08T20:27:00.000-05:00

'Twas the Night Before Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T21:40:00.001-05:00

I’ll take the night before Thanksgiving over Christmas Eve any year. Christmas Eve is a tired ol’day, worn out by the flurry of activity preceding it, and by the time it arrives, usually too soon, it’s all out of breath as it plops its burden of stress and strain---last minute shopping, checklists, nagging questions (Did I get her the right gift? Will it fit him? Should I have just given the kids money and been done with it?) ---at your doorstep.

But the night before Thanksgiving is different. At least it is for me. It’s tucked in between Halloween and Christmas, and if you’re not careful, you’ll miss it. While the world rushes to Christmas, Thanksgiving just sits there, calmly inviting whosoever will to come and visit a while.

Some families get together the night before Thanksgiving, and that in itself is something of a miracle. When they do, the focus is usually more on each other than in exchanging gifts.

My family would usually travel to my mom’s side of the family for Thanksgiving. Grandmother’s house was small, simple and plain. By the time we arrived from a three hour trip, it was well nigh impossible to corral my three brothers and me. But somehow they did, and we even liked it. In that little house almost on the prairie in Glencoe, Oklahoma, we visited with each other.

And I got to know my grandmother that way.

Soon we would pile in the car, Grandmother with us, and drive to Aunt Dee’s and Uncle Leo’s house where we would stay the night. Maybe it was because I had just been to Grandmother’s, but their home seemed enormous to me. It allowed plenty of room for roaming, and its hidden nooks, which seemed to me expressly made for hiding, invited us boys into them only so we could leap out of them, scaring unsuspecting victims. At some point in all the jumping and running and hollering and hiding, Uncle Leo’s booming base voice would bellow, “Time for dinner,” and like hungry bear cubs running to their den, we would dash to the table.

And then the calm, allowing space for conversation.

And I got to know my aunt and uncle and cousins that way.

I hope we haven’t forgotten the night before Thanksgiving because it just might be the best preparation for Thanksgiving Day. If we forget it, it’s because we’ve lost our sense of thankfulness; it’s because we’ve become consumers and receivers---getting, receiving, leaving, exiting: “See ya next year,” we wave, rushing, with thoughts of specials on “Black Friday,” toward another commercial Christmas.

Giving thanks isn’t the norm. In the story of the 10 lepers Jesus healed, only one returned to thank him. “Where are the other nine?” (Luke 17:17), Jesus asked the one who returned. Like so many today, having received what they wanted, they were too busy to say, “Thanks.”

Before you bypass the night before Thanksgiving, try pausing and enjoying it, even if just for a little while. That’s what I plan to do. Hopefully, it will set me on the path to being more thankful.

So, I’m going to step outside, stare into the night sky, and if the stars are out, I’m going to smile as they twinkle back at me. Then I’m going to step inside and give thanks for my family, each one of them.

Then I’m going to call some family members who live far away and thank them for being who they are.

And as I drift off to sleep the night before Thanksgiving, I’m going to give thanks for a God who cares.

And waking to Thanksgiving Day, I’m going to give thanks for the smell of hot coffee brewing, for the glowing sunrise that chases away the early morning fog, for the blue sky or gentle pitter patter of rain, for the turkey and dressing with all the trimmings, for the quiet glow of the setting sun, for the twitter of birds preparing for rest, and for the cycle of life---even for all its spins, and turns, and starts, and stops.

And then, the night before Thanksgiving and Thanksgiving Day will be history once again.

But if we live it right, “thanks living” can become a way of life, making each moment a gift in the most wonderful time of any year.

Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

Say it ain't so, Joe

2011-11-17T19:52:00.001-05:00

When I first heard the news of Joe Paterno’s failure to do more to protect the kids in the case of Jerry Sandusky’s alleged crime, my first thought was, “Say it ain’t so, Joe”---the line the little boy supposedly spoke to baseball legend Shoeless Joe Jackson as he walked down the steps of the courthouse after appearing before a grand jury for allegedly fixing the 1919 World Series.

Conspiring to throw a ball game for money, the accusation---never proven--- made to Jackson and seven of his teammates, may be shameful and tragic, but not doing more to stop a man who allegedly raped a 10 year old boy in a locker room shower is not just shameful and tragic, it’s horrifying and disgusting.

The salaciousness of it, the manner in which it was overlooked, and the little ones who could have been saved from molestation---all this stunned a university and a nation.

Say it ain’t so, Joe.

But unfortunately, it is so: "This is a tragedy," Paterno said. "It is one of the great sorrows of my life. With the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done more."

Why didn’t he? Why did a man who built what he called the “Grand Experiment,”--- combining a championship football program with academic excellence---a man who built a career on the qualities of character and integrity and sought to instill those characteristics in his players--- why, why didn’t he do more?

The institution---in this case Penn State football---became bigger than life and in this instance protecting its life caused a terrible lapse in judgment. Paterno did what was legally required; he didn’t do what was morally right. He shuffled the problem down the hall to the next administrative level and went back to work, recruiting, coaching, and winning. Success can be intoxicating, causing the best of people to rationalize or ignore wrong.

The success of an institution is never worth endangering the lives of children.

The comparison to what happened in the Roman Catholic Church can’t be missed: Jonathan Mahler observed in The New York Times, "The parallels are too striking to ignore. A suspected predator who exploits his position to take advantage of his young charges. The trusting colleagues who don't want to believe it -- and so don't."

And so a pristine image is tarnished, an icon is shattered, a legend has fallen.

Previous to this terrible episode, Paterno spoke on ESPN of his legacy: “You coach when you’re young to prove that you can do the job, and then there comes a point when you’ve got a family and you need to make a certain amount of dollars, and then there comes a point when the money’s got nothing to do with it. It comes to a point where you say to yourself: ‘What are you going to leave?’”

No one ever thought Joe Paterno would leave a mess behind him.

He has been condemned, and rightly so, for what he didn’t do. But Paterno’s life is not over. We should remember the words of historian James Anthony Froude, “The worth of a man must be measured by his life, not by his failure under a singular and peculiar trial.”

Healing starts where last week’s football game began: with the Penn State and Nebraska players kneeling together at midfield and praying for the victims in this tragedy. Remembering them will hopefully help prevent the further exploitation of children.

Joe will never be able to say it ain’t so; his honor is tarnished. But perhaps in time he can find a way to speak words of healing and maybe remind those who loved him that despite his own failure of integrity, his team’s motto, “success with honor,” is still possible for leaders and followers. Indeed, this horrendous episode can underscore the need for constant vigilance in protecting the honor in all individuals, especially the weak and vulnerable.

Maybe someday Joe will have a voice again, but he will always walk with a painful limp as he tells the sad story.

David B. Whitlock. Ph.D. is Pastor at Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct instructor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

Listen before telling of your own beliefs

2011-11-12T17:51:00.001-05:00

We had just left the Hindu temple when I noticed the red dot on my mother’s forehead. It was the “tilaki,” the third eye or mind's eye, associated with many Hindu gods, also symbolizing the idea of meditation and spiritual enlightenment. I, a recent graduate of a high school education, feeding on my scholastic possibilities, feeling strong in my evangelical superiority, upbraided my mother: “You let them mark you! And, that’s a false religion.”

My mother was neither intimidated or perturbed by her 19 year old son: “How else can I find out what they think and how they worship if I don’t interact with them?”she calmly responded. “And besides,” she said repressing a chuckle at my religious apoplexy, “just because they put the red mark on me doesn’t mean I believe it. Remember son, the importance of civility, cordiality, and respect before you tell them about your faith.”

It was lesson I took to heart. “Maybe there is some truth in their faith,” I surmised. “Perhaps I don’t have an exclusive corner on all eternal truth.”

I was with my parents those thirty- some years ago, on a six-week medical mission ministry to Bangalore, India. It was then that Mom and I had had that brief conversation that redirected me to a more sympathetic view of other faiths.

I hadn’t thought of that encounter with Hinduism for years until I read of Senator David Williams’ attack on Kentucky Governor Steve Beshear’s participation in a “ground blessing” Hindu ceremony where the site of an Indian company is building a factory in Elizabethtown, Ky. Williams took issue with Beshear: “He’s sitting down there with his legs crossed, participating in Hindu prayers with a dot on his forehead with incense burning around him. I don’t know what the man was thinking.”

Williiams himself has taken it on the chin for his remarks as many across the state were angered by his criticism of Beshear in the heat of the campaign for governor.

But Williams, despite his religious hyperbole--- was it simply a last gasp endeavor to reverse his lag in the polls? ---unwittingly did us a favor: He broached the question about the interaction of various faiths in a pluralistic society, such as ours, and reflection on the issue may help us clarify where we stand on the matter.

In the increasingly smaller and more pluralistic world we live in, it’s essential that people of different faiths learn to get along with each other. Today, Christians are persecuted in various parts of the Middle East. The steady resurgence of Tibetan Buddhism is raising tensions in China as followers of that faith seek religious rights. And in Carrolton, Ohio one sect within the Amish community has taken up the practice of forcibly cutting off the beards of men in the more mainstream Amish faith.

The more intense some grow in their own ideology, the more intolerant they become of others with different beliefs. But passion for one’s faith doesn’t have to translate into offensive words or harmful actions towards others.

And that brings me back to momma: “Remember son, the importance of civility, cordiality, and respect before you tell them about your faith.” That may or not be the right tactic when you are behind in a political race, as was Senator David Williams, but it deserves a look in the real world we live in.

We are linked with others, like it or not--- and closer culturally, economically, and religiously, than ever before in human history. Getting along doesn’t mean we have to give up the uniqueness of our faith traditions, but that we honor the endeavor of truth in others. This involves genuine dialogue, which presupposes that we know the persons to whom we speak and that we respect them in their cultural and religious identity. It also means that we expose ourselves, in the sense that we allow for the possibility of more truth in our own belief system. For Christians, giving an account of the hope within, (I Peter 3:15), may require proclaiming the gospel, free from a cultural triumphalism that expects those in “inferior” cultures to receive automatically the particular brand of “good news” various Christian denominations may proffer.

In essence, it means respecting and honoring the faiths of other people. It requires an attitude of humility---something those who engage in a win/lose form of religious conversation aren’t accustomed to having.

But maybe it’s time they did.

Just ask David Williams.

David B. Whitlock is pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Kentucky. He also teaches on the adjunct faculty at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. Contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. or visit his website, davidbwhitlo

Keep the light on: Don’t miss the victory

2011-11-03T19:55:00.000-04:00

I couldn’t take it any longer. Fatigued at the end of the work week and convinced my St. Louis Cardinals would not survive Game 6 of the World Series, I turned the light off and was fast asleep by 11:15 p.m., EST.

Early the next morning, Lori asked me who won. “Oh, the Texas Rangers did,” I mournfully informed her. “I stayed with the Cardinals until they left the bases loaded and fell behind 7-4.”

I didn’t go into detail because she is not a baseball fan, but the Cardinals weren’t playing well, I thought. Not only had they left the bases loaded and blown a chance to take the lead, they had also committed three errors---something they hadn’t done in a World Series since game 3 of the 1943 Series. I had tried to help my team by repeating my baseball mantra, “Get a hit, get a hit, get a hit, get a hit,” or “Strike out, strike out, strike out, strike out,” but the baseball gods weren’t listening: Our pitchers were getting hammered and even Albert Pujols was hitless. So assured was I that the Cardinals were dead that I had not even bothered to turn on the TV and check the score, just in case…

Just in case of what? That they would win? No way.

I was pouring myself another cup of coffee when I heard Lori shout from upstairs: “David, your team won! They made a comeback and beat the Rangers.” I raced to the TV and incredulously watched the 6 a.m. sports summary of the Cardinals’ victory; I couldn’t believe it, but it happened: They had miraculously won.

I had missed one the greatest World Series games ever.

There was a lot of baseball left after I had called it quits. The Cardinals rallied behind the bats of Pujols, Lance Berkman, and Allan Craig, as the game went back and forth and into extra innings. Twice the Rangers were one strike away from winning the game and the Series. (The last time a team blew a lead with only 1 strike away from the championship was the 1992 Blue Jays in Atlanta.) Then Cardinals David Freese, who would be named the World Series MVP the next night when the Cards won the Series with a 6-2 win over the Rangers, homered in the bottom of the 11th to force the first game 7 of the Series since 2002.

It was described as “one of the best (World Series) games ever,” by sports columnist Jeff Passan.

And I missed it.

Later that morning as I was smiling at the thought of their victory, and a bit remorseful at not having cheered them through it, I think I had a tiny inkling of what the followers of Jesus must have felt three days later, after they had turned off the light of hope and cried themselves to sleep, convinced that the stone covering the tomb was a permanent fixture, wondering why they had spent three years following someone who wasn’t the Victor after all.

They missed it too.

“You had to be here to believe it,” Cardinals manager Tony La Russa said. “We never quit trying. I know that’s kind of corny, but the fact is we never quit trying.”

And said Cardinals general manager John Mozeliak, “Those two [game-saving] at-bats were epic and historic as far as Cardinal lore. No matter what, if we’re down to our last strike, we don’t quit.”

I understand gentlemen; I’ll keep swinging, too.

And most of all, I’ll keep the light on and one eye open until He returns in victory.

I won’t miss that one.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.

Occupy in a Culture of Discontent

2011-10-27T19:13:00.001-04:00

“Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Trying to make ends meet
You're a slave to money then you die”
---The Verve, “Bittersweet Symphony”

The first time I saw one of the many people in the “Occupy Wall Street” movement holding a sign that said, “We are the 99%,” I thought, “That has to include me. I’m certainly not in the 1%.”

There is some comfort in being in the 99%.; at least I know I am not floating all alone on a sea of economic uncertainty.

I remember reading about the Great Depression when I was in elementary school. Dad assured me it would never happen again, “…what with all the checks and balances we have since those dark depression days.”

“But what if it did happen again, Dad? What would we do?”

“In that case,” he tried to assure me, “everyone would be in trouble, and we would all be in it together.”

And now, we are all in it together.

At least the 99% are.

The 99% who occupied Wall Street did so at least in part to band together and find some comfort in a community of distress.

The “Occupy Wall Street” movement was conceived in a bed of dissatisfaction, birthed in economic hard times, and is struggling to take its first baby steps in the playpen of world crises.
Regardless of how one views its current status--- Is it primarily mainstream leftism? Just another example of radical extremism? A positive expression of progressive activism?--- what should concern us is its future, for the movement can be a shining light toward a better tomorrow, a dark cloud raining disorder upon an already disgruntled society, or an evaporating fog which when lifted leaves everything quite the same.

Whatever happens to it, the movement is itself symbolic of the culture of discontent that pervades the 99%: Opportunity has fallen far short of aspirations; expectations have exceeded painful realities; goals have evaporated on a horizon forecasting misery.

The United States economy creeps at an anemic growth rate of 2%; college students are graduating with abysmal prospects for jobs while saddled with burdensome college loans; the unemployment rate of people over 55 has doubled since 2007, and those over 55 who have lost jobs during the recession are less likely to find new ones and when they do, it takes 30% longer, according to a report on NBC nightly news; an AARP poll reveals that between 2007-2010, 24.7% of people over 50 exhausted their life savings; the 9.1% unemployment rate doesn’t even include the millions of jobless Americans who have been unemployed so long that they have lost hope and are no longer looking for work; and perhaps worst of all, the misery index---a combination of inflation plus unemployment rates---has risen to 13.0, the highest since 1983.

Whether the 99% includes both the Occupiers and the Tea Partiers, or more likely, a million different people from around the world, the fact is, people are clamoring for a change that’s deeper than mere cosmetic surgery on the way things are; they are seeking a revolutionary transformation of the way we do things economically; and they want the financial pain they feel to be addressed.

This will involve more than another job’s plan, or stimulus package, although that may be a place to start. But, both Washington and Wall Street should first listen rather than dismissing the 99% as too radical, or mistaken, or irrelevant. Then the White House and the Financial District should cooperate with the people in solving the fundamental problems in our broken economy. And until they do, the Occupiers must occupy.

Let’s hope the 99% can stay on track for positive change and that the 1% ---whether located in Washington, Wall Street, London, or Melbourne---will also see the need to occupy and help the rest of us as we together look for ways to create a new economy and give hope to the hopeless in a culture of discontent.

Otherwise, at least economically, much of the 99% will be left with a life that is, sadly---not much better than a bittersweet symphony.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com

Lost in a GOP Gameday Nightmare

2011-10-20T19:28:00.002-04:00

While awaiting the Republican presidential candidates’ debate, I fell asleep, sitting there on my couch. I awoke with a jolt, glanced at my watch, and realized the debates had already started. Hurriedly turning the channel to CNN, I anticipated the debate, this one broadcast live from Las Vegas.

Instead I got College Game Day. I flipped the channel back and tried again: still College Game Day. I checked my clicker and tried once more: College Game Day again. In fact, every channel on TV was College Game Day.

I rubbed my eyes. “This can’t be,” I thought, “I must be in some kind of media warp.”

But there was Chris Fowler hosting College Game Day, “Live,” he was saying, “from Las Vegas.”

“What?” I asked. “The Republican debate on College Game Day?”

But the camera spanned the football stadium, and sure enough, right there on the field, the Republican presidential candidates were warming up in football uniforms.

Then I saw the Game Day crew: Fowler, Lee Corso, Kirk Herbstreit, and Desmond Howard. It was true; I could hear them speaking:

FOWLER: “This promises to be another wild one.”

HERBSTREIT: “No, doubt. And you’ve got to like Herman Cain as a favorite tonight. He’s rocketed like a meteor to the top of the polls and appears to be on a roll; his offense is really clicking with that 9-9-9 plan. It’s amazing, but this unlikely candidate could run the tables and find himself in a BCS bowl or even in the Championship Game with President Obama.”

CORSO: “Not so fast! Michelle Bachman has slipped, but she’s not done yet. The feisty little former IRS tax attorney has an aggressive offense that will shred that 9-9-9 plan by exposing its inconsistencies and mistakes. Cain better be ready! He could go down as quickly as he shot to the top. ”

HOWARD: “I don’t think any of you guys comprehend the efficiency and professionalism of Mitt Romney’s offense and defense. He may not be very exciting, but he’s paid his dues and has the experience to get the job done. And just look at him down there warming up. That uniform fits him perfectly. I mean, he looks sooo quarterbackish.”

HERBSTREIT: “Well, I tell you, Obama would love to face off with him; the clash between Obamacare and Romneycare could be revealing, an epic matchup.”

CORSO: “Not so fast, again! You’re forgetting Governor Perry. Remember, you don’t mess with Texas.”

FOWLER: “Where is the governor, anyway? I haven’t seen him on the field.”

HOWARD: “He’s just reentered the stadium. He was scheduled to appear at a pre-game prayer breakfast, and now he seems to be scooting away from a preacher who’s wearing a T-shirt that says, ‘Thank God I’m a Baptist,’ on one side and ‘Mormons Need not Apply,’ on the other.”

At that moment, President Obama himself joined the Game Day crew, smiling, wearing sun glasses, and sporting a ball cap that said, “It’s not my Fault.” (41% of the fans booed; 22% cheered; and 37% were chanting, “We want Chris Christie.”)

FOWLER: “Welcome, Mr. President. Hey, how much did you pay for that snazzy cap?”

PRESIDENT OBAMA: “$29.25, including tax.”

CORSO: “Taxes, ugh. That’s ridiculously high!”

PRESIDENT OBAMA: “You’ve got to remember the financial situation I inherited from my predecessor and what with this Republican Congress…”

CORSO: “Oh, I wasn’t being critical; I think you’re doing a fine job.”

PRESIDENT OBAMA: “You do? Really? Oh, well, sorry, in that case, I’ll just sit down and scout these candidates as they rip each other. And, haha, I don’t even have to get sweaty and dirty! I can just relax and enjoy the show.”

Everyone laughed; the College Game Day crew faded as the camera spanned the lights of Vegas from far above the city.

Then I thought I could hear someone call out my name: “David, David.”

It was my wife: “You must have fallen asleep again,” she consoled.
“You won’t believe it.” I said. “I went to a political debate and a football game broke out. Was it in a dream? Was it just a dream? I know, yes I know. It seemed so very real, seemed so real to me. You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one…”

“Sure,” she sarcastically quipped.

“She’s right,” I admitted, “that was just a dream.”

Walking away from the TV, I could barely hear David Gregory hosting Meet the Press. “Welcome to today’s program,” I faintly heard him saying, “our panel of political experts will continue our debate of which college football team will win the national championship…”

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. at davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com

Lost in a GOP Gameday Nightmare

2011-10-20T19:28:00.001-04:00

Always a reason for hope, even with cancer

2011-10-13T20:57:00.001-04:00

The words had inadvertently found their way on the printed page; they were obviously not meant for anyone to read. Only two words: “No hope.” But they said so much. Too much.

They were printed next to the name of a cancer patient for whom we prayed. I flinched when I read them. No one is beyond hope--- not even those who appear to be victims in the last stages of cancer.

Cancer is indeed a powerful foe. It’s taken down the tough (Lyle Alzado, Mickey Mantle, Walter Payton), the entertaining (Bette Davis, Milton Berle, Jack Benny), the rugged (Yul Brenner, U.S. Grant, John Wayne), and the brilliant (James Baldwin, Steve Jobs, Enrico Fermi), just to mention a few. There is no vaccination against cancer, and no society is cancer free. You have a relative, or a friend, or a neighbor with cancer.

Maybe you have cancer.

According to Dr. Siddhartha Mukherjee, author of The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer, because we are living longer, cancer has more time to strike us, making it a “new normal,” in our lives. In advanced nations, cancer attacks two to three people during their lifetime. But we are making progress in the fight against cancer. Although the incidence of cancer is rising, cancer mortality is actually going down, says Dr. Mukherjee.

And so we hope.

Yet even as we hope in advances of medical technology and the benefits of healthier lifestyles, we know our time is limited. As cancer victim Steve Jobs said in his commencement address at Stanford University shortly after his cancer diagnosis in 2003: “No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don’t want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one had escaped it.”

I’m not sure what Jobs’s concept of the afterlife was. A convert to Zen Buddhism, perhaps his hope was in an enlightened state of rebirth, or a dissolving into a blissful nothingness. Or maybe Zen provided the underpinnings for a more secular form of hope with no need of dogma or revelation, where this world is all there is and all we need. Christianity Today editor Andy Crouch’s observation in The Wall Street Journal seems quite correct: “Mr. Jobs’s Apple is a religion of hope in a hopeless world---hope that your mortal life can be elegant and meaningful, even if it will soon be discarded like a 2001 iPod.” As Crouch notes, for many in this secular age, that’s enough.

But for others it’s not.

For the one whose future was mistakenly labeled, “no hope,” it wasn’t. He clings to hope---a hope that he, still in the prime of young adulthood, will by God’s mercy overcome cancer and avoid death, at least for a while, at least until he can leave the hospital where he has been confined for more months than he cares to count, imprisoned in a bed where he hears of life on the outside, of days other people enjoy, days of sunshine and fun, of breathtaking sunrises and glowing sunsets, of weddings and parties with friends, days stolen from him by cancer’s curse; days forever gone, dissolved by the slow drip of chemotherapy.

As I conclude my prayer, he signs the cross---a motion of his faith--- and I join him, as we both hope in something more than a miracle cure, something that’s beyond death, something grounded in the hope expressed by the apostle Paul, “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all.”

In the hope of that eternal glory we can rest, finding within it reason to live in a world bounded on its four corners by death, breathing the oxygen of a hope that survives the misery of our happenstance because it’s a hope in the One who takes us by the hand now and promises to carry us home then.

In that hope, we find reason enough to live for another day.

And rest in peace forever.

Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com. David is Pastor at Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky.

Your Cheatin' Heart Will Tell on You

2011-10-13T20:54:00.001-04:00

So begins the first line of Hank Williams Sr.’s classic hit, “Your Cheatin’ Heart.” And if your own cheatin’ heart won’t tell on you, someone else’s cheatin’ heart will. Or someone will connect the dots that place your cheatin’ heart in the crosshairs. It’s almost certain.

Almost.

It’s that lure of the “almost,” the bet on the card that says, “You’re an exception; you can get by with it,” that entices the moral gambler to roll the dice.

But the odds are not in lady luck’s favor.

Just ask the recently arrested former and current students at the prestigious Great Neck North High School (ranked among the top 100 best high schools in the U.S., the school boasts of Nobel Prize-winning biologist David Baltimore, filmmaker Francis Ford Coppola, and Olympic figure skating champion Sarah Hughes among its graduates) in Long Island, New York.

These students allegedly paid Sam Eshaghoff, 19, a Great Neck North graduate and now a student at Emory University, between $1,500 and $2,500, to take the SAT exam for them. He did so with great success.

But faculty at the high school had heard rumors that some students had paid another student to take the SAT for them. Then administrators noticed large discrepancies between these six students’ academic performance and their SAT scores.

I could almost hear ol’ Hank Sr., crooning, “Your cheatin’ heart will tell on you,” when I saw the handcuffed Eshaghoff and the other students covering their heads with their jackets as they were being led to the police station.

A cheatin’ heart lurks within each of us, and given the right circumstances, it emerges, muddling our decisions, dragging us into the murky moral mire that begins comfortably enough with dismissing caution, gradually descends into covering mistakes, and ends with perfuming the stench of wrong doing. And stench inevitably draws flies, flies that are attracted to a decaying, cheating heart, a cheating heart that will tell on you, sooner or later.

Cheating rivets our culture to the degree that you may feel cheated if you don’t cheat: If everybody in your reference group is doing it, you may feel left behind if you don’t, penalized for playing by the rules. “If the opportunity is there, take it,” our culture tells us, “regardless of whether it’s right or wrong or who gets hurt.” One of the students at Great Neck North High School said in a report on the NBC Today Show, “If they (the accused students) had the money on hand, and I guess they can, if they have the opportunity, it’s just not that surprising.”

I feel for those students who buckled under the pressure to achieve. They wanted something good, but went about it in the wrong way. They were trying desperately to be something they weren’t by claiming something they did not deserve.

We’ve all been there, more or less, in greater or lesser degrees. David Callahan maintains, in his book, The Cheating Culture, that more Americans are cheating and feeling less guilty about it. And Dan Ariely’s research in behavioral economics reveals that when people in our reference group cheat, we are more likely to cheat. Both truths are causes for concern: Those youth maturing in a culture where cheating is increasingly becoming the acceptable norm will be the ones leading change--- for good or bad--- in American politics and government, as if it could get worse than it already is.

Cheating didn’t begin with the United States; it’s as old as the oldest story in the Hebrew Bible. Eve bought the lie that God was cheating her of pleasure, and in seeking an end run to gratification, she tried cheating God of forbidden fruit, a choice that Adam seconded, landing them both outside the garden of gardens, hiding their shame with fig leaves.

We would do well to remember those original cheaters whenever we are tempted to cut corners in wrong ways. For if you’ve been there and done that (and bought the T-shirt with a capital “C” emblazoned on it), or if only you’ve seen the harm it does to others---you surely don’t want a cheatin’ heart to tell on you.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Till Alzheimer's Do Us Part?

2011-09-22T20:05:00.001-04:00

When I first heard Reverend Pat Robertson’s comment, I thought of Ronald Reagan’s response to incumbent President Jimmy Carter during the 1980 presidential debate, “There you go again.”

“There you go again, Pat,” I thought. But Robertson wasn’t in a debate, he was responding to a caller on his television program, “The 700 Club.” This is not the first time Robertson’s statements have placed him in the center of controversy. In 2010 he blamed the earthquake in Haiti on a pact he said the Haitians made with the Devil 200 years ago.

This time he was counseling a man wanting to know how to advise a friend whose wife was so deep into dementia that she no longer recognized him. The man’s wife as he once knew her was gone, and now he was seeing another woman.

"I know it sounds cruel, but if he's going to do something, he should divorce her and start all over again -- but make sure she has custodial care and somebody looking after her," Robertson said.

But what about the vow, “til death do us part?”

Alzheimer’s is a “kind of death,” a “walking death,” according to him.

Robertson was overlooking the fact that while in many cases caregivers do form relationships with others, few seek to divorce their spouse, and in fact, Alzheimer’s frequently brings families closer together. Robertson was obviously thinking of the caregiver more than the patient.
Neurologist James E. Galvin, director of the dementia clinic of New York University’s Langone Medical Center, said in an interview with the New York Times that victims of this horrible disease still tend to recognize those people who have been closest to them. And Susan Galeas, CEO of the Alzheimer’s Association of Southern California, observes that even as victims of the disease progress toward the end stage of the illness, they are still individuals nonetheless, benefitting from loving relationships, enjoying a rich history filled with personal experiences.

Robertson was clearly struggling with the issue. He advised his listener, “Get some ethicist besides me to give you the answer, because I recognize the dilemma, and the last thing I would do is condemn you for taking that kind of action.”

Robertson’s comments, as misapplied as they may be, should push us to think about this issue. Rather than simply pulling the, “Thou shall not divorce card,” and condemning everyone taking that route, perhaps we would do better to recall Jesus’ “new commandment,” the one about loving each other, the one that says “Just as I have loved you, you should love each other” (John 13:34), and ask ourselves how love is expressed for both care givers and patients in the grip of this grim disease.

More of us will be facing this unfortunate dilemma. An estimated 5.4 million Americans have Alzheimer’s disease, and with the number of baby boomers soon entering their senior years, that figure is bound to increase. Nearly half the people over the age of 85 already have Alzheimer’s. It’s the sixth leading cause of death in the United States. It has no cause, no treatment, and no cure.

My conversations with my Alzheimer’s friend move in the same circular fashion: Her mind malfunctions like a record hopelessly getting stuck in the same place, returning to the same beginning. “Now who are you?” she asks for the third time in 10 minutes. I remind her again; she answers the same: “Oh, yes, I know who you are.”

Her eyes fill with tears as she remembers her deceased husband’s love. And then having remembered him, she forgets him.

“How old am I?” When I remind her, she frowns as she reflects, “I just didn’t know people lived that long. I can’t figure out why God let me live this long, too long.”

“The church, your church still loves you,” I say, trying to reassure her of her place with our community.

In an instant, her frown disappears; a smile spreads across her face as her eyes brighten. “The church,” she says as if an old friend has walked into the room, “the church, I’ve always loved the church, I still love the church.”

Instead of thinking of reasons to go on without them, maybe we should look for reasons to go on with them, for when all the memories have slipped away, the love of relationships remains, and even when the present is only a fuzzy haze, they may still feel love, a love as familiar as a well worn glove, often tenderly received even when they can’t remember the face or the hands that give it.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Be Careful with those words, they could be your last

2011-09-22T20:02:00.001-04:00

“And isn’t it ironic…don’t you think?”
---Alanis Morissette, from the song, “Ironic”

In a month of bad news---Standard and Poors lowered the U.S.’ sterling credit rating, 30 US service members (including 22 Navy SEALS) were killed in the single deadliest loss for U.S. troops since the Afghan war began in late 2001, in Somalia 3.2 million people need food and aid immediately, and the stock market plunges again and again and again (Is this the new normal?)---it’s refreshing to hear a good story, one of heroism, courage, and irony.

Yes, irony.

Antonio Diaz Chacon, the 24-year-old man who saved a 6-year-old girl from a kidnapper in Albuquerque, N.M. last week was rightfully honored as a hero. Diaz happened to be in the right place at the right time when he saw the girl abducted. He immediately hopped into his black pickup truck and chased down the kidnapper, pulling the girl from the wrecked van. The irony is that Chacon, a mechanic, wasn’t supposed to be there to save that little girl, for Chacon is an illegal immigrant. He’s married to an American and has been in the country four years. But getting an attorney to acquire the legal documents required for illegals was too difficult, time consuming, and expensive for Chacon.

At the ceremony where Albuquerque Mayor Berry hailed him as a “hero” and proclaimed the day, “Antonio Diaz Chacon Day,” New Mexico Governor Susana Martinez said Chacon “acted courageously and as an outstanding Samaritan.” But the Governor’s “outstanding Samaritan” acknowledgement is in itself ironic, for Martinez is trying to repeal a state law that allows illegal immigrants in New Mexico to obtain a driver's license. With no driver’s license, Chacon would quite possibly not have had his job as a mechanic, nor would he have been able legally to use his pickup truck to chase the kidnapper.

But Chacon believes he was supposed to be there that day, and now that it’s happened, he hopes people will see that undocumented immigrants aren’t necessarily criminals. Christina Parker, a spokeswoman for Border Network for Human Rights in El Paso, Texas, said the episode "points to the fact that most undocumented immigrants living in the United States are not criminals. Most are just working to support their families and to take away their driver's license would be detrimental to that."

The constant threat of deportation is also detrimental to familial support and well-being.

What would have happened if Chacon had been living in a state that was cracking down on illegal immigrants, say Arizona, Georgia, or Alabama? Would his possible deportation and subsequent absence from his wife and two daughters have been in the back of his mind when he saw the girl thrown into the van? Would he have paused a split second before deciding what to do? Would his wife have hesitated before dialing 911? And would that moment of ambivalence have allowed the kidnapper time to get away?
I hope not; I think Chacon would have done the right thing anyway. But the very fact that in one state Chacon could be a hero one day, while in another he could perform the same act of heroism and be torn from his family the next day, points to the ironies in our immigration system.
The solution towards a path to legal status for undocumented immigrants lies somewhere in that complicated middle ground between amnesty for all unauthorized documented immigrants and criminal prosecution and deportation of them.
Finding that path is not easy, and in light of Washington’s apparent inability to resolve complex issues, perhaps churches could shine a light for them and others. The Scriptures do have something to say about how we should treat the 15 million undocumented immigrants: “You must not mistreat or oppress foreigners in any way” (Exodus 22:21). And when Jesus warned, “When you did it to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!” (Matthew 25:40), wouldn’t “the least of these” include undocumented immigrants?
The moral majority of Jesus’ day may not have appreciated his inclusion of the despised Samaritan in his story of the Good Samaritan. In their eyes, he wasn’t supposed to be there.
But Jesus put him in the story anyway to teach us a lesson about doing what is right, compassionate, and good to anyone in need, regardless of their legal status.
And there is no irony in that.

(This article was published 8-29-2011)

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

Hero Status of Illgeal Immigrants Raises Questions

2011-09-22T19:53:00.001-04:00

“And isn’t it ironic…don’t you think?”
---Alanis Morissette, from the song, “Ironic”

In a month of bad news---Standard and Poors lowered the U.S.’ sterling credit rating, 30 US service members (including 22 Navy SEALS) were killed in the single deadliest loss for U.S. troops since the Afghan war began in late 2001, in Somalia 3.2 million people need food and aid immediately, and the stock market plunges again and again and again (Is this the new normal?)---it’s refreshing to hear a good story, one of heroism, courage, and irony.

Yes, irony.

Antonio Diaz Chacon, the 24-year-old man who saved a 6-year-old girl from a kidnapper in Albuquerque, N.M. last week was rightfully honored as a hero. Diaz happened to be in the right place at the right time when he saw the girl abducted. He immediately hopped into his black pickup truck and chased down the kidnapper, pulling the girl from the wrecked van. The irony is that Chacon, a mechanic, wasn’t supposed to be there to save that little girl, for Chacon is an illegal immigrant. He’s married to an American and has been in the country four years. But getting an attorney to acquire the legal documents required for illegals was too difficult, time consuming, and expensive for Chacon.

At the ceremony where Albuquerque Mayor Berry hailed him as a “hero” and proclaimed the day, “Antonio Diaz Chacon Day,” New Mexico Governor Susana Martinez said Chacon “acted courageously and as an outstanding Samaritan.” But the Governor’s “outstanding Samaritan” acknowledgement is in itself ironic, for Martinez is trying to repeal a state law that allows illegal immigrants in New Mexico to obtain a driver's license. With no driver’s license, Chacon would quite possibly not have had his job as a mechanic, nor would he have been able legally to use his pickup truck to chase the kidnapper.

But Chacon believes he was supposed to be there that day, and now that it’s happened, he hopes people will see that undocumented immigrants aren’t necessarily criminals. Christina Parker, a spokeswoman for Border Network for Human Rights in El Paso, Texas, said the episode "points to the fact that most undocumented immigrants living in the United States are not criminals. Most are just working to support their families and to take away their driver's license would be detrimental to that."

The constant threat of deportation is also detrimental to familial support and well-being.

What would have happened if Chacon had been living in a state that was cracking down on illegal immigrants, say Arizona, Georgia, or Alabama? Would his possible deportation and subsequent absence from his wife and two daughters have been in the back of his mind when he saw the girl thrown into the van? Would he have paused a split second before deciding what to do? Would his wife have hesitated before dialing 911? And would that moment of ambivalence have allowed the kidnapper time to get away?
I hope not; I think Chacon would have done the right thing anyway. But the very fact that in one state Chacon could be a hero one day, while in another he could perform the same act of heroism and be torn from his family the next day, points to the ironies in our immigration system.
The solution towards a path to legal status for undocumented immigrants lies somewhere in that complicated middle ground between amnesty for all unauthorized documented immigrants and criminal prosecution and deportation of them.
Finding that path is not easy, and in light of Washington’s apparent inability to resolve complex issues, perhaps churches could shine a light for them and others. The Scriptures do have something to say about how we should treat the 15 million undocumented immigrants: “You must not mistreat or oppress foreigners in any way” (Exodus 22:21). And when Jesus warned, “When you did it to the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!” (Matthew 25:40), wouldn’t “the least of these” include undocumented immigrants?
The moral majority of Jesus’ day may not have appreciated his inclusion of the despised Samaritan in his story of the Good Samaritan. In their eyes, he wasn’t supposed to be there.
But Jesus put him in the story anyway to teach us a lesson about doing what is right, compassionate, and good to anyone in need, regardless of their legal status.
And there is no irony in that.

(This article was publised 8-22-2011

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

In search of Grandma's misplaced soul

2011-08-18T21:07:00.001-04:00

The words surprised me, especially since they came from Grandma.

“She says she can’t find her soul, and she’s ready for God to take her home,” my mother-in-law told me on the phone, her voice cracking as she spoke through her tears, trying her best to quote Grandma. By “home” Grandma meant heaven. That made sense. Grandma had not been feeling well for days, and after all, she is one month shy of being 102 years old.

But her words, “I can’t find my soul,” puzzled me. She didn’t say she didn’t know where she was going or that she was clueless about who would take her there. No, she was ready for God to take her home to heaven.

Where is the soul, anyway, and why couldn’t Grandma find hers?

For skeptics like Michael Shermer the soul is located in the patterns of information coded in our DNA and neural memories. In his book, The Soul of Science, he states that “it appears that when we die our pattern is lost.” The soul is the mind and dies when the brain ceases to function: “Either the soul survives death or it does not, and there is no scientific evidence that it does.”

But British scientist Dr. Sam Parnia, in studying heart attack patients, says he is finding evidence that suggests consciousness may continue after the brain has stopped functioning and a patient is clinically dead. Parnia is even conducting research to isolate where in the brain such consciousness is located. Would that be where the soul is?

Although he is by no means a scientist, I wonder if philosophy professor and literary giant, William H. Gass, would agree with Shermer and the scientific skeptics. With his typical piercing intellect, Gass states in his wonderful book of essays, Finding a Form, “I am going to insist that what we sometimes call the soul is simply the immediate source of any speech---the larynx of the logos--- a world without words would be a soulless one…”

Grandma may not have known where her soul was, but she knew she had one and that it lives forever; she may have been momentarily confused about its place--- was it somewhere in her neural memories? between heaven and earth? deep within herself, in whatever gives rise to words, i.e. thought itself?---but she was certain God would take her soul home.

Maybe Grandma was going through something like what St. John of the Cross termed, La noche oscura del alma, “the dark night of the soul,” a painful, lonely time of hardship and suffering when God often seems far away and praying is difficult. When I called to pray for Grandma, she didn’t feel like praying, (unusual for her) but was grateful that I would pray nonetheless.

In the midst of pain and suffering it’s easy to lose our place, forgetting our souls, interpreting the darkness of the night as the obliteration of light, the fogginess of the moment as the suspension of forever.

But God is there even when we have lost our footing and feel like we are hopelessly slipping into an endless quicksand of doubt. St. John in his gospel quotes Jesus as saying that no one or anything can take the soul of a believer because God’s children are safe and secure in his hands: “No one can snatch them away from me, for my Father has given them to me, and he is more powerful than anyone else” (John 10:28-29).

Grandma knew God was there, really, all along, even when she couldn’t find her soul.

When my sister-in-law, Lisa, called her and asked about what Grandma had said, Lisa tried to help her. “Did you mean the nursery rhyme you’ve prayed before, 'Now I lay me down to sleep?’”

“Oh, yes, that’s it, honey,” Grandma said. And then she repeated the prayer with Lisa, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."

If Grandma couldn’t remember for the moment, at least she knew where she could find her soul: safe in the hands of God who will keep it and not take it until he is ready for her.

Contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, Davidbwhitlock.com

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Midnight Wherever You Are

2011-08-11T20:48:00.000-04:00

It’s been quite a summer for movies: I was hijacked to Bangkok by Hangover II, thankful for the bad bosses I haven’t had in Horrible Bosses, reminded that women can be just as flat-out stupid-crazy as men in Bridesmaids, and glad I’m not anyone but me in The Changeup.

But my favorite film of the summer is one that catapulted me back in time to another era, a golden age. Is there any such thing as a golden age, an age marked by prosperity, happiness, creativity, and achievement? Most of us have a personal golden age---perhaps it’s an earlier day in our life or another age in history altogether. What if you could actually go back to that time in your life or that period in history?

That question is explored in Woody’s Allen’s wistfully charming and at times hilarious, Midnight in Paris. Owen Wilson plays Gil Pender, a disenchanted Hollywood screen writer who visits Paris with his materialistic fiancé and her boorish parents. No one appreciates Gil’s enchantment with Paris or his desire to write a significant novel. “I'm having trouble because I'm a Hollywood hack who never gave real literature a shot,” he admits.

Mostly to escape his company, Gil wanders the streets of his beloved Paris. And that’s when the magic begins. At midnight he tumbles back in time to the Paris of the 1920s, escaping to his personal golden age, the City of Lights that was in that prolific decade of the 1920s the center of the artitistic universe.

Gil encounters a magnificent array of authors and artists and even manages to develop a crush on Pablo Picasso’s mistress. But alas, she mirrors Gil’s own ennui, is dissatisfied with the Paris of the 1920s, and wants to time travel to the Belle Époque, her golden age.

It’s then that it comes to Gil: he realizes the truth in Peter De Vries observation, “Nostalgia isn’t what it used to be.”

It never was.

It’s in the present moment that we live the life given us. The past is never what we think it was or remember it as. Escaping the present by retreating to the past cheats us of the only time we have: now.

Those who lived in what we think was a golden age rarely recognized it as one. And we ourselves lose today anticipating tomorrow, waiting for a better day, never realizing, as Carly Simon crooned, that “these are the good old days.” The adage, “Wherever you are, be there,” is a good reminder for us to wake up and smell the present moment in all its aroma.

But wait a minute, that’s not entirely right either.

We can gain inspiration for the present moment by returning to the past. That’s one reason why people go to the Holy Land, make Renaissance tours of Europe, and visit Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. There is something about being there in that place where something significant happened, if only in our minds, that place and time that beckons us back in hopes of returning to the present with some of that past surging through our veins.

That’s what happened to Gil, who like a fish out of water, was suffocating on the shore (recall his name, Gil), of the wrong era, dying a slow death in fear of a meaningless existence, confused about his role in life, doubting his capabilities as a writer and authenticity as a person. It took someone from the past, Gertrude Stein, to remind Gil of his purpose in writing: “The job of the artist is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.”

But that was only Woody Allen speaking, not Gertrude Stein, right?

Right, but what does it matter? It’s still a magical thinking that returns us to the past, giving us strength and courage for today and hope for tomorrow.

Yes, I believe in that magical thinking: By embracing the past we can return to the present more fit and ready to live the life we were always meant to live now.

And that, in my opinion, is a golden age in any age.

Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

“Lord, I want to thank you for my smoking’ hot wife…”

2011-08-04T21:15:00.000-04:00

No, I didn’t say it! (My wife warned me if I prayed that publicly it might be my last prayer.) Those are the words of the Reverend Joe Nelms, Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Lebanon, Tn., praying at NASCAR’s Federated 300 Nationwide Series Race in Nashville, Saturday last week. Pastor Nelms became an instant star on the internet with comments about his prayer ranging from “the greatest prayer ever,” to “blasphemous.”

It is neither.

As far as I can tell, it’s simply the heartfelt prayer of a man, in this case a pastor and life-long NASCAR fan (this wasn’t the first time he has prayed at a NASCAR event), who didn’t want to pray what he called, “ the cookie-cutter prayer.” Every NASCAR event begins with an invocation, and like most prayers before public events, they are generally quite the same. And most people don’t pay attention.

But Pastor Nelms woke them. The Bible says we should give thanks in all things, and that’s exactly what Nelms did. He thanked the Lord for Toyotas, Dodges, and Fords, for Sunoco racing fuel, for GM performance, and most of all, as he put it, "Lord, I want to thank you for my smokin' hot wife tonight, Lisa…'"

Actually, Nelms adapted the line about his wife from Ricky Bobby’s (Will Farrell) prayer to Baby Jesus in the movie, Talladega Nights. Pastor Nelms was, I believe, trying to communicate something spiritual in a humorous way.

Our church custodian picked up on it, although he may not have realized it at the time. On Monday morning of last week, as I arrived at church, he summarized the latest weekend news (he does this most Mondays), and at the top of his broadcast was the story of Reverend Nelms’ prayer. My instinctive response was, “Well, is she? (Smokin’ hot, that is.)

“I don’t know,” he said, “she must be to him.”

Good answer.

With all the publicity about his prayer, pictures of the Reverend Nelms and his wife were all over the internet. If by “hot” one means a female that resembles Ricky Bobby’s wife, Carley (Leslie Bibb), or Miss Sprint Cup (any Miss Sprint Cup), then Ms. Nelms isn’t there. And some of the snide remarks posted on the internet made that observation. But they’ve missed the deeper lesson.

If she’s “hot” to Pastor Nelms, that’s all that matters. She, or anyone---male or female--- doesn’t have to fit the American cultural image of “hot” to be “hot.”
Security in a long term relationship must have as its basis something more than mere physical attraction. In a recent poll taken by askmen.com and cosmopolitan.com, half of the men surveyed say they would drop their partner if she gained weight. Twenty percent of the women said the same. Maybe we’ve let the Miss Sprint Cup and Dallas Cowboy Cheerleader image of “hot” determine what’s acceptable and what’s not for us. But sooner or later we will be disappointed.

The important thing is to love and appreciate the one you are with, extending unconditional acceptance in relationships.

It works both ways---for male and female---this expression of gratitude for the one you are with. And there are benefits to being grateful; sometimes it ricochets back in unexpected ways.

When things get a little tense on my home front, as they invariably do in most normal relationships, when an annoying habit of mine (Did I just admit to having those?) grates on my wife’s last nerve, when I see those beautiful eyes start to narrow (signaling anger), her right foot begin tapping (a sign of frustration), her pretty face turning away from me (a sure indication of exasperation, warning me of imminent danger), I know it’s time for the NASCAR PRAYER.

I look heavenward, stretch my arms wide, and utter those words, “Lord, I want to thank you for my smokin’ hot wife.”

Her frown instantly transforms into that familiar cute grin as she coyly turns her face back towards me, rolls her eyes and exclaims, “Oh, you!”

Ahh, God has once again intervened. And lo! I am forgiven.

And then my prayer she doesn’t hear, “Lord, I really do thank you for my smokin’ hot wife…

And for your mercy!”

Contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Empty Rooms filled with Memories

2011-07-31T20:38:00.000-04:00

“All that had been used to make it a dwelling place, by my folks on back, by Grover and me… all the memories of all the lives that had made it and held it together, all would come apart and be gone as if it never was.”
---from Sold, a short story by Wendell Berry

The rooms were empty by the time I arrived. Except for a few heaps of trash here and there, and some stuff no one wanted, it was finished, done. The auction for the contents of my parents’ house was over. And there I stood with my sister-in-law, Joy, and my brother, Mark, who had witnessed the whole thing. Now they were exhausted, the auction (it was 107 degrees the day of the sale, forcing one of the auctioneers to the emergency room with heat exhaustion), had taken its toll on them, physically and emotionally. Moving slowly, almost painfully ambling from room to room, their eyes darting over every square foot of floor space, they searched as if still expecting to find something beautiful and worthy, something cherished that had been somehow overlooked.

But it was all gone. All that was left was empty rooms.

They looked at me with tears in their eyes like I had arrived at the ER a few moments too late and had just missed the passing of a loved one. Glancing out the back window where I used to chat with Mom on the porch swing about life, and dreams, and why mosquitoes like me so much, my eyes blurred as I choked out the words, “It looks so sad when it’s so empty.”

I then walked through each room alone, just the empty space and me. It was my way of bidding adieu to the home place. And in each room I took a mental picture. I could almost hear my imaginary camera clicking as I paused in each room. I stood in the informal dining area, and click, I captured a picture of our family gathered around the table laden with steak, baked potatoes, fried okra, and corn on the cob. We were singing “happy birthday” to one of us.

I glanced across the room and click, I was taking a Sunday afternoon snooze over there on the couch, the Sunday newspaper draped across my chest.

Then I was in the kitchen and click, there was Dad watching TV while Mom was brewing hot tea.

I walked through the den when click, I got a great shot of all of us at Christmas, exchanging gifts, laughing, and then, click, I got one last picture of my annual reading of the Christmas story. My brother is smiling as I read. He always did.

I tip-toed down the hallway and click, I caught a glimpse of Mom putting on make-up in her bathroom, then click again, and I was in my old room sleeping in my bed, back home for a visit.

In the dining room reserved for special occasions I clicked and saw us at Thanksgiving dinner, turkey and dressing piled high on our plates as we stand around the table, pausing to give thanks.

And so it was, I clicked my way through the house until I arrived back at the place I had left my brother and sister-in-law.

Tears again clouded my eyes, but not for empty rooms; I had just filled them with memories of what they always truly were: spaces where people gathered to be family. And I could carry the moments, the pictures, with me, tucked inside the canyons of my soul, waiting to be explored again for the first time--- a new time.

“I think I may come back tomorrow for one more look,” I said to my brother as we left. But I knew I wouldn’t, for there was no longer a need to return to the old place when I could always draw on the freshness of what it was and is in my heart.

Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.Davidbwhitlock.com

My stuff is not junk

2011-07-28T21:18:00.001-04:00

“You’ll find you’ve brought too much stuff.”

The words were softly spoken---almost as if to himself--- by a retired Pastor, a resident of my parents’ retirement community. He seemed to know by observation and personal experience: we take too much stuff with us.

I take too much stuff with me most everywhere I go, even to the beach. “Let’s see, towels, sun screen, sun glasses, iPod, watch (do I need my watch?), keys, cell phone (do I really need my cell phone?), Kindle (can I even get service for it?), beach shoes---oh my goodness, I can’t carry all this stuff!”

Even when I flew to Oklahoma to help relocate my parents, I took tiny versions of larger stuff in my life: a miniature shaving kit, tooth paste and brush, hair brush, and compact case of contact lens solution. The fact is, I take too much stuff with me.

And that’s our problem: we want to take our stuff with us, even when we retire. And I suppose, even to our grave.

I heard the refrain again and again from other retirement home residents as they watched me breaking down the boxes from my parents’ move: “Downsizing is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.” Not looking up, I nodded in agreement.

My parents’ generation matured in a growth economy that tended to equate consumption with success and happiness. Growing up on the heels of a Depression era characterized by lack and want, the accumulation of stuff in times of prosperity equated with security. “Keep that stuff; don’t throw good stuff away; you never know when hard times may hit, and you or someone else may need it again.”

I have a friend whose grandmother built a large room and basement, almost the size of the original house. Why? So she could keep all her extra stuff in it. Then she moved and built a larger house that kept all her stuff. Now, her son has another house to keep her stuff, plus all of his stuff. What happens when they die? Call the auctioneer.

During breakfast at the retirement facility, I asked one dear couple what had been the hardest thing about moving. “Leaving our home--- our home of so many years, and departing with most all we had in it.”

My heart ached for her as I listened, sitting next to Dad, who was on his first day away from his home of 58 years, experiencing the same pain that lady expressed.

And I wanted to kick myself for asking the question.

It can be a disheartening situation. Dr.David J. Ekerdt, who directs the gerontology center at the University of Kansas, has extensively researched the matter of senior adults having to downsize. Based on his interviews with social workers, geriatricians, retirement community administrators and family members, Dr. Ekerdt has concluded that the sheer volume of objects in a typical household--- including the tremendous physical and mental stress involved in sorting out what’s essential and the psychological effects of parting with what’s not — can lead to what he calls a “paralysis that keeps seniors in place, even when the place isn’t the best place.” In other words, possessions become an obstacle that often keeps senior adults from better managing their health and well-being.

My brothers and I could no longer wait for Mom and Dad to direct us in what to keep and what Dr. Ekerdt calls “household disbandment,” that is, disposing of possessions. The house had sold, the moving van would soon be in the driveway, and the retirement facility would not wait forever.

It was painful.

We ferreted through photograph albums, newspaper clippings, clothes and more clothes---and more stuff, behind every nook and cranny, more, more, more.

And finally, exhausted, we fell back. But we had it on the truck.

I arrived back home with a mission: get rid of my extra stuff. I plowed through the overloaded mail box in my office, throwing away old journals, magazine subscriptions, newspapers, and the junk mail that was cluttering my life. I sighed with relief at my little accomplishment.

And then I arrived home. “The packages came in today,” Lori informed me. The packages included the boxes of stuff I couldn’t bear to see thrown away from Mom and Dad’s house. “It was a ‘package deal,’” I quipped, that included the pictures of my first haircut, my brother Mark throwing me the football, my brother Lowell in his 1963 Altus High School letter jacket, and my brother Dougie and me playing together.”

No, that’s not junk. Junk belongs to someone else.

So, I’m keeping my stuff…

At least for now…

Or until our kids can go through it…

Someday…

Somehow…

And decide what stuff they want.

Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

Grateful for the generations that brought us freedom

2011-07-03T18:16:00.000-04:00

The black and white picture of the B-24 on the front of the time worn postcard caught my attention. I flipped it over to find my dad’s barely legible handwriting, smeared as it was by an aged water stain. It was postmarked, December 12, 1944, from San Marcos Army Air Field, San Marcos, Tx.

“Dear Folks,” it began---“folks” being the word Dad used to address his parents---“boy am I tired! We had a night/day mission last night…” He was in training as a navigator for the Air Force during WWII.

Dad was only 20 then, younger than my two sons. I’ve seen his military pictures: full face, rosy cheeks, bright eyes, chest thrust back, proud to be wearing his USAF uniform, anxious to serve his country, more anxious to survive and put his arms around my mom.

I was not even a glint in his eye then.

And his “folks,” my grandparents, were more than ten years younger than me the day I read that postcard just last week as I helped Mom and Dad move out of their home town of 58 years, the town they returned to after WWII and the Korean War, the place they chose to settle, raise a family, and fulfill their version of the American Dream.

Tom Brokaw appropriately coined the phrase, ‘The Greatest Generation,” to describe the men and women who came out of the Depression, won the great victories of WWII, and made the sacrifices to build their world---the fruits of which we enjoy today.

Not all the letters in Brokaw’s book, The Greatest Generation Speaks (1999), are from people on the front lines. Some are from those who did not see action but were nonetheless willing to serve wherever they were asked.

Roger Newburger was one such man. He was with the Army Core of Engineers on Oahu and never made it to the front. “I would have tried to do whatever I was told to do, but I think the guys would have been safer without me.” Years later, after seeing the film, Saving Private Ryan, Newburger went to his car and wept for 30 minutes, so affected was he “because of what the real warriors went through.”

My dad was a Roger Newburger---willing to serve wherever he was asked but grateful he didn’t have to face the enemy eye to eye. Thankfully, WWII came to a close before he was deployed, and he served as a dentist in a medical facility in Seoul, South Korea during the Korean War.

My neighbor and childhood friend, Kim Parrish, had a picture of his dad---whom I respectfully addressed as Big Jim---in his WWII army uniform. Big Jim served in active combat. Stone-faced in that picture, he stared intently straight ahead, as if he knew danger was imminent. And it was. I admired him immensely and begged him to tell me war stories. He refused, and I was too young to understand why.

Even though Dad was not in combat, I was no less proud of him and appreciative of others like him who were willing to go to the front, even if they never had to.

So, this Independence Day I shall not only celebrate freedom but remember and reflect on the sacrifices of those who served wherever they were asked---those of the Greatest Generation as well as the others---generations of people who have secured for me the freedom to enjoy a day of celebration.

And I shall be sad yet grateful for those who didn’t make it home to embrace their spouse and hold their children and pursue their dreams.

As I walk with Dad down the hall of the retirement center which is his and Mom’s new home, he grasps me tightly by the arm to steady himself. His is now a different kind of tired than the one he wrote about as the 20 year-old navigator in training.

And as we walk, we pass two elderly women chatting.

“You say you have a brother who is buried in the country?” the one shouts so her companion can hear the question.

“Yes, yes, I do,” her friend responds with like volume. “He went to the war years ago…but he made it back.”

I’m glad he did.

And for others like him.

Especially the one who holds my arm as I walk him to his room, so he can finally rest.

Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

Moving Mom and Dad

2011-06-19T18:47:00.001-04:00

As I walked away from the emergency room, I felt a heaviness for my friends who had just brought in their elderly father. They were rightly concerned about his health issues. But their dad wasn’t. In fact, he was angry that his adult children had insisted on admitting him to the hospital.

There he rested on the gurney, pouting because he wasn’t home. His lower lip was turned up, childlike, which enhanced the scowl on his face as he weakly waved me away.

It’s not easy parenting parents.

What my friends’ father was feeling is normal for the elderly in those situations. Agitated because they aren’t home, fearing what lies ahead ---“Will I get to go home? Are they putting me away? Why are they doing this to me now?”--- they often react in ways their adult children perceive as harsh and insensitive. And at the same time, the elderly parents frequently view their children as cold and uncaring.

Reversing parental roles isn’t easy. Being a caregiver for parents can take more and more time which can put a strain on the caregiver’s family. Often there are unexpected financial commitments, further stressing the caregiver’s family. Then there is the emotional toll paid by caregivers: “I can’t stand to see mom and dad go down like this. Am I doing the right thing? I feel guilty about not wanting to take care of them all the time.”

It’s a growing problem in our society. As Jane Gross notes in her recently published book, A Bittersweet Season, never before have there been so many Americans over the age of 85, and never before have there been so many Americans in late middle-age---that burgeoning baby boomer generation---responsible for the health and well-being of their parents.

The dilemma I observed in my friends and their father, I now see on the horizon for my parents and me. This Father’s Day, I will be helping my two older brothers as we move Mom and Dad to a life care facility. Instead of the home they’ve known and the town they lived in for the past 58 years, they will be in another location and a different home---an independent living unit. In time, they can transition to assisted living or skilled nursing.

Because I live farther away from my parents than my two older brothers, they’ve taken on most of the responsibility for moving them. My oldest brother has taken care of administrative details for their move; my other brother and his wife, living in the same town as my parents, have taken on the herculean task of helping Mom and Dad wade through a mountain of stuff in their house as they get ready for the move next week and an estate auction next month.

I will be there for both events. It’s my turn.

Mom and I talk most every day, and I hear the repeated refrain, “I wish you were here.” Moving Mom and Dad will be emotional for them and me. No longer will they be in the town where I grew up. The landscape bounding our lives will never be the same. They will no longer be where they have always been.

But they will be where they are supposed to be.

On one of my daily early morning conversations with Dad--- which always begins the same way, “Where are you and your buddies eating breakfast today?” and ends the same way, “Love ya Dad,” I told him about proofing one of my son’s research papers.

“He really didn’t need me,” I said. “It was fine just like it was. But I think it gives him a sense of security just to have me look at it. I guess he likes knowing I’m there.”

Then Dad told me something his dad, my granddad, said years ago. Granddad was in his late 70s and his dad, my great-granddad, was almost 100. (He lived to 104.) “Son,” Granddad said to my father, “no matter how old you are, and even when your dad can’t get around much like mine and is unable to do anything for you, there’s still some security in knowing your dad is still there.”

That’s something worth remembering this Father’s Day.

Mom and Dad won’t be where they were. But, they will be there, where they are supposed to be.

And there is some security in knowing that.

Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

When Steeples Fall

2011-06-12T16:27:00.001-04:00

Two old codgers from Kansas decided to make a trip to California. On the way, they stopped at the Grand Canyon. Staring down at the Colorado River 6,000 feet below, gazing at the far side of the Canyon 18 miles away, awestruck by the canyon’s multi-colored layers of rock, the two men stood speechless. Finally, one drawled, “Sumpum musta happened here.”

Yep. It took several million years, but something indeed happened there. And it’s a beautiful display, many would say, of God’s handiwork in nature.

If you could have flown several hundred feet over Tuscaloosa, Alabama, or Joplin, Missouri, or Monson, Massachusetts, the day after tornadoes struck their cities with devastating force, you could have joined the old timer’s declaration of the obvious: “Something must have happened here.”

But unlike the gradual formation of the awe-inspiring beauty of the Grand Canyon, it took only a few minutes to wreak havoc in Tuscaloosa, Joplin, and Monson. And it was horrible.

We observe the creation of the Grand Canyon and stand amazed at how God put it together; we look at the tornado’s destructive path and wonder if God went to sleep on the clock.

Tornadoes descend from the sky with strike force efficiency, destroying hospitals, high schools, and homes.

And houses of worship, too.

Harmony Heights Baptist Church in Joplin was hit by the tornado on Sunday, May 22, 2011, killing three women. Pastor Charlie Burnett believes it could have been much worse. "It has to be from God," Burnett said. Fifty people walked away from the church "when it looked like they should have died."
More than one church was hit by the tornado that trounced Alabama on April 27, 2011. Among those churches was the First Assembly of God in Pleasant Grove. Pastor Lamar Jacks tried to make some sense of it, “I don't understand it," Jacks said. "If I try to tell you I understand it, I'm lying. God's saying to us, do you trust me? Don't lean on our own knowledge. Just trust in him. God can take the bad and the hurts and lift up his name."

And in Monson, Massachusetts, Pastor Robert Marrone, on June 5, 2011, the Sunday morning after the storm hit his community, was also trying to make sense of it all. In his sermon, he asked where God was during the storm, “Did he take a break between 4 and 6?"---the time the tornado struck Massachusetts. It knocked down the steeple and severely damaged the historic church he pastors. But, Marrone saw evidence of God at work shortly after the storm. People began checking on and helping each other.

The technical term for these explanations is a theodicy---an attempt to defend the goodness and justice of God in the face of evil and suffering. If God is good, why does he allow tornadoes to strike buildings with people in them? It’s one thing for him to permit a gradual transformation in creating something beautiful like the Grand Canyon. But what to do with a Tuscaloosa, a Joplin, or a Monson?

Somewhere between a view that attributes all suffering to a capricious God who uses natural tragedies as a way of punishing people---a God who destroys one house while leaving another intact, a God who grabs one baby from one mother’s arms while leaving another alone---somewhere between that and the view that pain and suffering is somehow an area God didn’t quite “fix” in his universe, lie the words of Jesus, who himself, although he never turned down someone in need of help, including healing, did not rush in, constantly intervening in the course of natural laws.

In speaking of who is responsible for tragedies, either from the hands of ruthless rulers or in construction accidents, Jesus made it clear it was not the result of wrongdoing on the part of the victims. Then warning his audience, Jesus said, “Unless you repent, you too will likewise perish” (Luke 13:3).

In other words, make sure you are straight with God, for you know not when the steeple may fall in your life.

So maybe we don’t need to defend God. After all, he doesn't explain himself. And if he did, who of us could comprehend it all? Rather than giving an explanation, God gives himself.

Whether it’s in the breathtaking view of the Grand Canyon or the heart-wrenching tragedy of destroyed buildings and lost lives, God is somehow there--- in us--- helping us respond to the beauty of the canyons or the beast of the calamities.

When steeples fall, he is there.

Even when words are beyond explaining how or why.

Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

The garage sale: an old-fashioned social network?

2011-06-02T21:17:00.000-04:00

I was so deep in thought---reading a book about evil and the justice of God, that when my cell phone rang, I flinched. It was my wife, Lori: “I thought this weekend would be a great time for a garage sale,” she informed me.

It wasn’t the news I wanted to hear.

“Why?” I pleaded, glancing at the book about evil and the justice of God, trying to resist the temptation of associating the first word of the book with garage sales.

Thousands of people love garage sales; they thrive on them--- anticipating the weekend thrill of making a profit or finding a bargain---browsing here, looking there, returning home with trophies of something for next-to-nothing.

I am not among the garage sale devotees: I dread them; I dodge them; I deny their existence.

Lori is by no means a garage sale enthusiast, either. But she is not as staunch an opponent of the trade as I am. So, whenever we pass a garage sale, and Lori is tempted to stop, I pretend not to hear. “What? What? Oh, I’m so sorry; I couldn’t quite make out what you said. You… (Here it helps to pause), you don’t want to turn around now do you?’

Sometimes it works; usually, I find a place to turn around.

Now, her reason for the garage sale: “Next weekend is that ‘Million Mile Garage Sale’ (she meant the annual “400 Miles of Antiques, Collectibles and Stuff,” sale, which includes our city), and remember, the last time we had a garage sale, it wasn’t a good time because we had it during the ‘Million Mile’ thing, and no one wanted to come all the way down our street, since there was so much to shop for on the highway.”

She was right. Only the lost or the true garage sale professionals took the time to leave the abundance of stuff on the highway to drive down our road. The lost found their way out; the pros turned up their noses at our paltry sale. It wasn’t a good day.

“But don’t you remember that day?” I protested. “We vowed never to do it again.”

“Yes, but we need to get rid of some things, and we could use the money,” she rejoined.

She was right on both counts.

And so the deed was done; the date was set; no more reading about evil and the justice of God: a garage sale was coming my way.

An elderly saint of a man was once asked what his favorite verse of Scripture was. “And it came to pass,” he responded. Some life experiences are of the “and it came to pass,” category.

Garage sale day is one of them.

But in between the jolt of people arriving thirty minutes before we opened at 7:30 a.m. on Saturday and the last customer leaving as we were boxing up everything that didn’t sell, more than just a little good came my way. There was the excitement I saw in the eyes of that young engaged couple looking for furniture, the elation in the voice of the single girl finding the perfect couch for her first apartment, and the satisfaction in the demeanor of the lady purchasing a bedroom suit she liked and could afford.

And, how relieved we were to get rid of that porch swing which no longer had a swing, the flower arrangements that no longer fit our interior décor, and the antique piece that never did suit Lori’s taste.

But the best part of garage sale day was reconnecting with people. “I haven’t seen you in months. How are the kids? Remember how we used to get together…”

“Oh, yeah, those were good days, and what are you doing now?”

And so it went through the day: it was a garage sale reunion---a place where people reconnect, an old-fashioned kind of social network.

And sooner than I thought possible, it came to pass.

With a sigh of satisfaction, Lori and I looked out at the back patio, now clear of the porch swing that didn’t have a swing. “You know,” she said, “I was thinking about looking for some patio furniture, and that million mile thing is this weekend…”

“What? What was that? I am having trouble hearing,” my voice trailed away from her as I hustled to the garden.

You can contact David B.Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com

The Rapture Racket: Cashing in on the Apocalypse

2011-05-25T23:32:00.000-04:00

Oops. He missed it again---the date for the rapture, that is. But that’s okay, miscalculating the date for the end times is nothing new for Harold Camping.

In 1992 he published his book, “1994?” in which he predicted September 6, 1994 as the beginning of the end. Undeterred by that non-happening, Camping did some re-calculating and published another book in 2008, “We Are Almost There!” He conveniently forgot to mention his 1994 prediction’s failure to launch.

Then, last summer, Camping and his followers made another effort to spread the word: “The rapture is nigh!” Specifically, May 21, 2011. At exactly 6 p.m.

Now that it didn’t happen, Camping simply revised his date…again. He apologized, sort of, for not having the dates “worked out as accurately as I could have.” May 21 was a “spiritual judgment.” The world won’t really come to an end until October 21, 2011.

Aren’t you glad he clarified that?

Camping was preceded in his revision by one of his own followers, Robert Fitzpatrick--- who plunked his entire life savings of $140,000 into advertising the rapture.

Give it some time, and we can anticipate more of the same from rapture rousers.

That’s because there is something comforting in being assured that you will escape the worst of times by being whisked into the heavenlies. And the harder the times, the more urgent becomes the call for the apocalypse.

People are curious; they want to know: when will it happen?

Those who claim to know created a rapture racket that has reaped big financial dividends.

According to Family Radio’s IRS filings, contributions and grants to Camping’s organization topped $18 million last year. Warning the doomed of their fate in the predicted apocalypse wasn’t cheap. Family Radio spent as much as $1 million on the billboard campaign alone. But, what’s a mere $1 million when your radio network’s net worth is about $122 million?

So, when 6 p.m. May 21, 2011 came and passed uneventfully, Harold Camping may have been hurt, but not financially. He still sat on a personal net worth estimated at $72 million.

That’s right, $72 million.

“$72 million,” I whimsically thought to myself at approximately 6:01 p.m. Saturday as I scanned the horizon for any paranormal activity. Later, I repeated the figure aloud to myself, sitting in my lawn chair on our back patio, picturing how many hungry and homeless people could be fed and housed with just half of $72 million, and fantasizing what I would do with just a fraction of the revenue gleaned from the rapture racket.

Camping is not the only one who has profited from the prediction of the world’s end. Bart Centre, an atheist, sells insurance policies to those who might be worried about what will happen to their pets in the event that the raptured believers will leave their dearly beloved behind.

Then there is Mark Herrod, who according to the Wall Street Journal is a 52-year-old Evangelical Christian who created a business for believers who want emails sent to friends and relatives in the event of the rapture. He has over 100 clients who pay $14.95 a month for the service.

And then there are those who hawked T-Shirts and assorted paraphernalia. There was the "I Survived Judgment Day! and All I Got Is This Lousy T-Shirt" shirt for $25, the "2011 Rapture Survivor" mug ($15), the "Darn, I Slept Through Judgment Day" baby onesie ($15), and the truism, "If you can read this, we're both sinners--- 5-21-11," available in shirt, mug or thong ($15-25).

And I’m on the patio, warmed by the glow of the setting sun even as I’m plagued by thoughts of the homeless, hungry and hurting, and yes, rising expenses in my own house.

Then, I recall that Jesus never promised it would be easy this side of eternity, even though ultimate victory is promised to the believer. The trouble is, we just don’t know what the date is for that final triumph, for Jesus himself put a damper on rapture predicting when he said, “No one knows the day or hour when these things will happen, not even the angels in heaven or the Son himself” (Matthew 24:36).

And Jesus had stern words for those who focus on the irrelevant as they grab more and more while ignoring the needs of people in front of them: “When you refused to help the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were refusing to help me” (Matthew 25:45).

Now, that’s the message I’d like to see on a T-shirt or billboard---somewhere, anywhere. The only problem is---this side of the apocalypse, who on earth will buy it?

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. and an adjunct instructor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

Pornography: Unplug the Drug

2011-05-19T18:53:00.001-04:00

Why did the news that the Osama bin Laden’s residence contained a sizable amount of pornography grab our attention? After all, our culture is saturated with pornography; it’s everywhere; it’s even an accepted part of life for much of society.

So why are we surprised? Bin Laden--- mass murderer that he was--- nonetheless exuded an image of religiosity. Professor Akbar Ahmed, Ibn Khaldun Chair of Islamic Studies at the American University in Washington DC, observed in an interview on ABC news that “it is surprising that pornography was found because he (bin Laden) was known to be a rather austere man, a rather religious man, a man who…gave up the world.”

Even if he turned his back on the world, pornography followed bin Laden---at least into his compound. ABC news correspondent Martha Raddatz reported that although we can’t know for certain that bin Laden actually viewed the pornography, it was found right there in his bedroom, and according to Reuters news, it was a fairly extensive amount of pornography at that.

It is the suspicion of hypocrisy that attracts our attention. Bin Laden was unequivocal in his denunciation of what he believed was the US exploitation of women. In a 2002 letter to the American people, he railed, ''Your nation exploits women like consumer products or advertising tools, calling upon customers to purchase them,'' he wrote. ''You plaster your naked daughters across billboards in order to sell a product without any shame. You have brainwashed your daughters into believing they are liberated by wearing revealing clothes, yet in reality all they have liberated is your sexual desire.''

That’s a fairly accurate description of a pornographic industry that is worldwide today, an industry that may have seduced an otherwise religious and austere Osama bin Laden.

That’s why pornography is usually a private affair: secrecy conceals shame and shuns embarrassment. But hidden habits lend themselves to hypocrisy. And we flinch at hypocrisy, especially when we sense it in a person who wears a religious image.

It’s difficult to keep something as potentially powerful as pornography under the bed forever. Like a drug, pornography can be addictive. Scientists surmise that dopamine and oxytocin are released in the male brain during intimacy. According to behavior therapist, Andrea Kuszewski, it’s a “biochemical love potion.” But, these same neurotransmitters fire when watching porn. “You’re bonding with it,” says Kuszewski, “and those chemicals make you want to keep coming back to have that feeling.” Men, in effect, can develop a neurological attachment to porn.

Of course, the negative downside of that sensual high is that pornography replaces real relationships. In her article, “The Porn Myth,” feminist Naomi Wolf argues that the internet has “pornographized,”our culture. The effect is that instead of amplifying men’s sexual activity with their actual partners, it renders men less sexually responsive to real women. That’s because erotic images replace real people.

The result: some men prefer porn over real life partners. The recently released movie, No Strings Attached, has Alvin (Kevin Kline) complaining to his roommate, Adam (Ashton Kutcher), “I can’t focus on my porn with all this real sex going on.”

With porn on the brain, meaningful intimacy is a challenge. As a 43 year old composer put it an interview with New York Magazine: “I’ve got to resort to playing scenes in my head that I’ve seen while viewing porn. Something is lost there. I’m no longer with my wife; I’m inside my own head.”

No doubt, porn messes with the mind. But it’s a matter of the heart as well, as Proverbs 4:23 would remind us: “Above all else guard your heart for it determines the direction of your life.” And Jesus of Nazareth took dead aim at those who pretend that as long as it’s a secret, it’s not really a sin: “Anyone who even looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:28).

Maybe bin Laden would have agreed with Jesus, since his own holy book, the Qur’an states, “Tell the believing men to lower their gaze and protect their private parts. That is purer for them. Verily, Allah is all-aware of what they do...” (24.30-31)

But apparently it was difficult for bin Laden to unplug the drug of pornography, especially since it was in the privacy of his bedroom, where certainly no one would ever intrude without an invitation.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He is also an adjunct instructor in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can email David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website www.davidbwhitlock.com

Saluting those incredible canine heroes

2011-05-16T14:41:00.000-04:00

I could have sworn my dog, Max, quietly napping on my left side, perked up when Diane Sawyer introduced the story about the Navy SEAL dogs on the evening news. Max’s brother, Baylor, with eyes half closed, was perched like a cat on the arm of the couch. But when Diane mentioned those heroic dogs, he snapped to attention, instantly turning his head in the direction of the television.

At least I thought he did.

My miniature Schnauzers are about as close to being Navy SEAL dogs as I am to being a Navy SEAL. But we three enjoyed the story anyway.

Those Navy SEAL dogs are really something. When the 79 valiant Navy SEALS made their surprise visit to the Bin Laden residence, they were accompanied by one of their highly trained canine comrades. These dogs are capable of sniffing out explosives, finding enemies and when necessary, chasing them down. They are highly outfitted too. The dogs wear protective body armor, and some are trained to communicate with their handler up to 1,000 yards away by means a speaker attached to a vest. The vests are equipped with infrared and night vision cameras that allow the handlers to see what the dog sees. The canine commandos are capable of parachuting, rappelling, and swimming. And they can pack more than a punch with a bite that has a force of between 400 and 700 pounds.

Navy SEAL dogs are not the only doggie heroes. Dogs can be trained not only to detect bombs but to sniff out cancer as well. According to Japanese research published online by the British Medical Journal, studies have confirmed that a cancer scent exists and may be circulating in the body. Dogs are capable of nosing out cancer in stool and breath samples.

According to a report on ABC news, Dr. Sheryl Gabram-Mendola, a breast surgical oncologist at Winship Cancer Institute of Emory University, maintains that cancer causes the body to release certain organic compounds that dogs can smell but people cannot. She and her team of researchers developed a test that allows dogs to smell the breath for evidence of cancer in the body.

"Dogs smell different things and they understand different things," says Charlene Bayer, a principal research scientist at Georgia Tech Research Institute. “They may not know what’s wrong, but they know there’s something that’s not normal, that you don’t smell the way you normally do,” she told ABC news.

As Diane Sawyer closed the evening news report on the Navy SEAL dogs, I was feeling better and better about my own furry companions’ distant relationship with those doggie heroes. Neither one of my Schnauzers can ferret out terrorists or corner criminals. The only thing Baylor is trained to do is roll over on his back so I can dry his wet paws, and Max, faithful dog that he is, doesn’t even do that, although when I command him to quit digging in the dirt, he obeys almost 50% of the time. But, perhaps like their cancer detecting counterparts who can sense when something’s wrong with us physically, they do curl up to any family member who isn’t feeling well, and they will bark furiously when a stranger, or a bird for that matter, enters our property. And what would my morning be without the dogs begging me for a hug?

As I clicked the channel to another station, both dogs simultaneously raised their noses as if to sniff something. Were they about to detect an explosive in the room? Were they going to smell a terrorist hiding in the house?

Nope. Instead of sniffing, they yawned, closed their eyes, and silently slipped back to sleep.

Email David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.

2011-05-05T21:43:00.001-04:00

Weather Watchers Watching Over You

2011-05-05T21:40:00.000-04:00

I used to wonder why my wife Lori and her family are such avid weather watchers. Whenever we are in a storm warning in Kentucky, my mother-in-law in Oklahoma usually knows about it before I do. Not long ago she called me on my cell phone: “Are you okay?”

I had no clue why she asked. I quickly glanced around my office for vandals, felt my pulse and answered, “I guess so. Why?”

She didn’t call me a doofus, but neither could she hide her surprise at my ignorance, “Don’t you know you are in a tornado warning?!” She was in the process of checking on my wife and kids. (No, I didn’t ask her if I was the last one she dialed.)

Thank God for people who care enough to warn others.

That particular day, I was the only one left in the building. I could have been in real trouble had a tornado actually hit.

My wife, Lori, is like her mother. When a storm awakened us at 2:30 a.m., last week, I only wanted to put the pillow over my head and continue snoring, but Lori turned on the television, watched for the storm path, and proceeded to call any of our children living in the vicinity of the storm.

“Why is she like that?” I asked myself as I rubbed my eyes and gave up on sleeping.

Later the answer came to me when she asked me a question. “Where would we go in case of a tornado?” As I thought of an adequate response (I didn’t have one), I remembered what it was like growing up in southwestern Oklahoma during tornado season. When the sirens went off, warning us of a tornado, we would hustle across the street to the Parkers’ house. They had a storm shelter. The men would then gather at the top of the shelter’s stairs and watch while the women and children would huddle below.

And our source of information in Altus, Ok. was radio station KWHW. Lori’s dad, George Wilburn, was part-owner of the station, and he was the guy we listened to. George was by the necessity of his job, a storm chaser.

He had a few close calls with storms and naturally encountered people in dangerous situations. One time he was reporting on the path of a tornado when he saw a pregnant lady lying in a ditch. She lived in a trailer house and was trying to escape the oncoming tornado. George rushed her to the local hospital. “I thought she might name the child after me, but she didn’t,” he teased.
Chasing storms as a hobby began in the 1950s. One of the pioneers in that field was a man named Roger Jensen. As far back as he could remember, Roger was fascinated with storms. Roger lived near Fargo, North Dakota. The rumbling of distant thunder, the crack of lightning announcing the approaching storm, the swirl of wind in his ears---all this Roger loved, and he became virtually addicted to the thrill of the storm. Roger said he was “born loving storms.”

Some people, like Roger Jensen, are “born loving storms.” But storm chasing can be dangerous. The 1996 film Twister and the television series, Storm Chasers, both depict the risks involved in chasing storms. At one point in Twister, Dusty (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) spots a tornado and yells to his fellow storm chaser, Bill (actor Bill Paxton), “It’s coming! It’s headed right for us!”

And Bill screams back, “It’s already here!”

Storms are like that. All at once, they are “here.”

My father-in-law was not a storm chaser by choice. But he warned others. And when he could, he would rescue people in trouble. That quality was transferred to his family.

What I interpreted as a storm obsession was really a concern for people who could be in distress.

So, when that destructive tornado descended on Tuscaloosa, Alabama and unleashed its fury, I didn’t hesitate. I picked up the phone, disregarding the time, and dialed the number of my close friends, Butch and Cindy Larkin in Livingston, Alabama, not far from Tuscaloosa.

“Are you okay?” I hesitatingly inquired.

“We’re fine, David. We’re fine,” Cindy told me.

Then I waited while she paused.

“Thanks for caring,” she said.

Email David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com

Heaven, for Real?

2011-04-28T20:45:00.001-04:00

Stories about dying, going to heaven (or hell) and selling books about it has become a veritable cottage industry these days.

Two pastors, Don Piper and Steve Sjogren, both wrote about visions of heaven in their death or near-death experiences. Piper’s 90 Minutes in Heaven, (2004) was followed by Sjogren’s, The Day I Died (2006).

The stories of two children and their encounters with heaven were published in 2010. The boy who came back from heaven, A remarkable account of miracles, angels, and life beyond this world, recounts 6-year-old Alex Malarkey’s journey into heaven while he was in a two-month coma. The story of Colton Burpo, who was almost four-years old at the time of his surgery when he had his visitation of heaven, is described in Heaven is for Real, A Little Boy’s Astounding Story of His Trip to Heaven and Back.

In Colton Burpo’s heaven no one wore glasses, no one was old, everyone appeared to be in their twenties, but everyone Reverend Don Piper encountered in heaven was the same age they had been the last time he saw them---“except that all the ravages of living on earth had vanished.” The people Colton saw in heaven had angel-like wings, a detail unique to his vision. Alex Malarkey’s heaven is a lot like earth, only it’s perfect and has a hole that leads to hell. Sjogren didn’t actually have a vision of heaven, although he heard the voice of God.

Colton’s father is forthright is stating that Colton’s experience of heaven happened while he was in surgery.

Malarkey’s injuries were severe, but he was never pronounced dead.

Sjogren’s heart stopped, but neither was he pronounced dead.

Piper’s claim of death comes from the testimony of those who were at the scene of his car accident: “Someone examined me, found no pulse, and declared that I had been killed instantly.” It would be 90 minutes before another EMT checked on Piper and again found no pulse.

Could a distracted EMT have missed something? Or was Piper actually dead?

We can’t know for sure.

What should we make of these accounts?

Dr. Kevin Nelson, M.D., Professor of Neurology at the University of Kentucky maintains that near death experiences are in the brain. After the heart stops, brain activity continues for another 10-20 seconds and develops other wave forms. As the blood flow stops, memories become very discombobulated.

Furthermore, during cardiac arrest there is often a small amount of blood flow to the brain, allowing the brain to go in and out of consciousness, even though those around the person don’t know it. Nelson concludes from his research that in near-death experiences, the brain blends REM (rapid eye movement) with non-REM sleep, and this gives near-death experiences many of their important qualities. Out of the body experiences are a part of this phenomenon and have even been clinically reproduced by disrupting the temporal parietal areas of the brain.

During near-death episodes, people are likely to draw on life memories that are most significant to them---hence the visions of heaven and encounters with people of personal significance. Nelson documents his findings in his just published book, The God Impulse, Is Religion Hardwired into the Brain?

His conclusions would help explain why people of different faiths and cultures frequently have varying visions of heaven during near-death experiences. Other studies report, for example, a Hindu entering heaven on the back of a cow and a Muslim identifying the bright light as Allah.

I have no doubt that something profoundly spiritual happened to the Burpo and Malarkey children, as well as the pastors, Piper and Sjogren. I also am convinced they have no deceptive motive; they are sincere and convinced that the events they describe truly happened.

And maybe they did.

And maybe they didn’t.

That’s why we must not anchor our belief in the reality of heaven on such accounts.

Now, if someone were to come back after being dead several days, and in doing so fulfill a myriad of ancient prophesies about the event, and if this person were to live on earth in a resurrected body for several weeks before ascending into this heaven--- well, that would be something worth banking a belief in heaven on.

Hmm, wouldn’t that be the story about Jesus, the One whose resurrection Christians just celebrated last Sunday?

Wherever he is, that’s heaven. Whatever it’s like, that’s where I want to be.

You can contact David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or on his website, davidbwhitlock.com.

The Sad Side of Easter

2011-04-21T21:37:00.000-04:00

My family followed traditional American Easter traditions, so when I was a child---in addition to preparing for the Sunday morning worship of the resurrected Christ---we anticipated the Easter event by dyeing Easter eggs for the family Easter egg hunt, sending Easter cards, and exchanging little chocolate Easter bunnies. Dad was a dentist and candy was generally discouraged in our house, so chomping down on one of those miniature chocolate Easter bunnies was a rare and unusual treat. (One year my older brother Mark was lucky enough to receive a life-sized chocolate bunny, not a tiny one--- but he was permitted to eat only one bunny ear on Easter day.)

Ahh---Easter, a very happy celebration of life.

It wasn’t until years later that I came to know the sad side of Easter.

It came not at once but in a slow accumulation of events---beginning with the death of my brother, Dougie, my buddy, my playmate, my friend--- and the realization at age 6, that he wasn’t coming back from up there in the sky, that death was permanent. It continued with other tragedies along life’s way: the assassinations of John F., Bobby, and Martin Jr., ---- their murders marking the end of innocence--- grandmother’s funeral, then another grandmother’s funeral, and granddad too. Then my “happily ever after, I do,” was followed after so many years, by the death of my wife--- and the subsequent massaging of grief in the lives of my two children who no longer had a mother.

Easter brought no one back, nor did it preserve life from other tragic events.

But neither was it meant to.

After all, Lazarus did at last die--- once and for all.

The sad side of Easter is life before Easter, without Easter---life without the hope of Easter-life.

That means the road to Easter cannot be an easy one. Millions of Christians will celebrate Easter this Sunday. But to get there, they must go through Good Friday. And Good Friday is no walk in the park. At least it wasn’t for the One who made it Good Friday. For him it was anything but good. The betrayal, the scourging, the crown of thorns, the leering crowds, the nails piercing his hands and feet, the spear in his side---that’s not exactly a T.G. I. F. day.

Tragic events of life remind us that there is a sad side of Easter. It’s real. And it’s painful.

The recently released film, “Soul Surfer,” depicts that unpleasant truth in the life of surfing champion, Bethany Hamilton, whose left arm was ripped off in a shark attack in 2003, when she was 13 years old. Refusing to give up on her dream of becoming a professional surfer, Bethany learned to surf with one arm and went on to compete successfully.

But she struggled with why it happened; she burned with jealous feelings when she saw beautiful girls with pretty arms; she had to train hard to do what once came easily.

And she worked through it.

“God put me on earth to serve Him, and I know He’s gone through so much worse things. I know that having one arm is the way He uses me. And I’m so happy,” Bethany said in a 2006 interview.

When Bethany spoke of God going through so much worse than she had experienced, I assume she was talking about the suffering of Jesus---something Christians observe this week in what is called Holy Week, which culminates with Jesus’ death on Good Friday.

Good Friday is good only because of the bad that Jesus endured. I like the way cartoonist, Johnny Hart, put it in a poem he has one of his “B.C.” cartoon characters write. Wiley sits under a tree and pens the words:

“When History has recorded it all/Events both happy and sad/Good Friday shall reign as the worst and the best/that mankind has ever had.”

The worst and the best, the very same day, gave way to what Easter is: an invitation to life.

I think Bethany Hamilton would agree. And so would all of Jesus’ followers--- at least those who know how the sad side of Easter can lead to its happy side, come Sunday morning.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is a resident of Marion County and is an instructor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or at his website, davidbwhitlock.com

It's in your smile

2011-04-14T13:42:00.000-04:00

I was at one of my favorite restaurants, Jason’s Deli, when I noticed the man sitting at another table, eating with his wife and three young children. He was a big, raw-boned, burly guy, who towered over me when I walked by him, both of us on our way to sit down. He plopped onto his chair, perhaps exhausted from work. I slid into the booth with my wife.

That’s when I took a good look at him. Stern-faced and serious, he cast what seemed like an intimidating aura over his family as they ate together.

On a second trip to the salad bar, I couldn’t help but overhear a piece of his conversation with his oldest boy, who appeared to be about 8 or 9 years old. “You got three RBIs, but I think you can do even better,” he said, rather gruffly, obviously referring to his son’s little league baseball game.

Immediately I began creating a personality profile of the man. “He must be one of those dads,” I thought to myself. You know, the father who pushes his children to excel in sports. As he sat there at the dinner table with his brow furrowed, his big hand enveloping his fork, which he used with rapid-fire efficiency to attack his food, and his broad shoulders slightly slumped over his plate, I found myself visualizing him at the ball park, barking orders to his son to throw farther, hit harder, and run faster.

Interesting, isn’t it, how quickly we form first impressions, and in our mind create an image of what someone is like? Based on someone’s facial expression, body language, demeanor, and dress we make a quick evaluation. And, once our opinion is formed, it’s difficult to change it.

Evolutionary psychologists argue that making snap judgments is an evolutionary adaptation necessary for survival: life or death situations demanded speedy decisions. The prehistoric hunter couldn’t dally before concluding either to run from a wooly mammoth or gather a team of hunters and spear it for dinner. And assembling a team of hunters was itself an evolutionary social development that required quick evaluations.

In his book, Blink: The Power of Thinking Without Thinking, Malcolm Gladwell, author of The Tipping Point, concludes: “The only way human beings could ever have survived as a species as long as we have is that we’ve developed another kind of decision-making apparatus that’s capable of making very quick judgments based on very little information.”

Inviting a co-worker over for dinner, for example, is a conscious decision. It’s something we think through. A spontaneous decision to argue with that co-worker is made unconsciously from a different part of the brain. “Whenever we meet someone for the first time, whenever we interview someone for a job, whenever we react to a new idea, whenever we are faced with making a decision quickly and under stress, we use that second part of the brain,” says Gladwell.

Sizing up that dad at Jason’s Deli, I was forming an instant image of who he was. And imagining him swaggering over to my table and demanding my dessert, that part of my brain that evaluates danger would instantly process the situation--- and estimating the size of his arms compared to mine, his large body frame next to my smaller one, a spontaneous decision would be made: relinquish the dessert, grab my wife, and run to the car.

Then something unexpected happened that totally changed my image of this man.

The big guy got up with his wife and kids to leave. For some reason, I glanced at his children, and approvingly smiled at them. Then my eyes met his, and in that unspoken communication, one dad connected with another dad, one father---with a daddy-smile to another’s children, spoke to the other dad without saying a word, “I see your precious children, and they are beautiful.”

In that moment, his stiff upper lip melted into a soft smile, and with his eyes gleaming, it was as if he said, “Thanks, I appreciate that.”

My image of the dad was suddenly transformed from that of a hard-driving, performance-requiring, disciplining-demanding sergeant into a teddy-bear of a pappa---a daddy who might invite his kids to sit in his lap while he read Winnie the Pooh, a guy who could break into a grin, and nodding in agreement to my smile, whisper, “Aren’t kids great?”

It happened, all in an instant.

First impressions can’t be avoided. But they aren’t always right. And when we are willing to take a second or third, longer look---and maybe flash a sincere smile--- our whole perception can change for the better.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., can be contacted at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or at his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Are you out of your mind? Or is it March Madness?

2011-03-31T17:28:00.000-04:00

What causes us--- normally restrained, responsible people with jobs and families---to lose our minds, whoop and holler, jump up and down, pump our fists in the air, and shout “YES!” as we high five each other?

It’s March Madness, of course, the NCAA Division I basketball tournament which results in the national champion. And if your team didn’t make it, you can find a favorite. For me, it’s usually an underdog---and with the bracket Kentucky had to claw through this year, they surely qualify as one.

In the surprising moments that that make March Madness what it is, anything can happen. For a few hours, we forget about the heavy stuff: economic uncertainties, tragedy in Japan, turmoil in the Middle East, stress at work, problems at home, and we breathe in the moments that make March Madness what it is. In the words of Dick Vitale, “It’s unbelievable, baby!”

But wait a minute, before you stay up too late enjoying the Kentucky-UConn matchup this Saturday night, you might want to know there’s something amiss on the court, and it’s not a conspiracy by the referees to give the Big East representative an advantage over the Cats.

No, it’s more serious than even that, according to U.S. Secretary of Education, Arne Duncan. The real March Madness is the fact that 10 of the 68 teams invited to the NCAA tournament this year did not meet the Knight Commission on Intercollegiate Athletics proposal that teams should be eligible for postseason play only if they are graduating at least half of their players. Although Duncan acknowledges that the NCAA has made progress in boosting the academic performance of Division I basketball teams, there is still much, much work to do.

And that’s not all: In the last five NCAA tournaments, 44% of the $409 million distributed to the teams with top performances went to teams not on track to graduate at least 50% of their players

But that’s not all. There’s more; it gets worse. Not only did 10 of the 68 teams fail to meet the Knight Commissions proposals, but there also exists a growing disparity between the graduation rates of blacks and whites, with a national average of 91% of white players graduating compared with 59% of blacks. (The University of Kentucky graduated 31% of their black players, compared to 100% of their white teammates.)

And March Madness gets more problematic. Richard Vedder and Matthew Denhart, in an article published by The Wall Street Journal, contend that this whole business of March Madness is just that, a business, specifically a business in which the athletes are being exploited by the coaches they play for and universities they represent. The athletes bring in much more revenue for the university’s athletic program and the bloated salaries of the coaches than the players receive in return. The authors suggest that the players should unionize, or something like that.

And silly me, all I wanted to do was enjoy a March Madness moment. After all, isn’t it the moment we wait for? It’s the team’s go-to-man charging down the court with only a few seconds left, the ball leaving his fingertips, the crowd cringing, the ball swishing through the net just as the buzzer signals game over. One team rejoices in victory; the other falls prostrate on the floor. Isn’t that it---the reason we watch, and isn’t that why we lose our minds over a game?

I believe it is. It’s Kentucky coach John Calipari flashing that proud papa smile at DeAndre Liggins as coach embraces player; it’s Virginia Commonwealth coach Shaka Smart leaving the court with the net around his neck; it’s Kansas star Markieff Morris crying as he walks slowly off the court. Yes, the moment.

The real March Madness is caught up in a series of moments the summation of which is a collective craziness that helps us keep our sanity for the real world we must face on Monday morning.

So, for a brief period of time this weekend, I’m going to enjoy the moment. I’m going to put the Knight Commission’s proposals on the backburner; I’m not going to think about the graduation ratio and the question of whether players should band together for a better deal than an opportunity for a college education and a chance to make a lot of money.

I’m going to enjoy the moment, and if I run yelling and screaming through the house as the Kentucky Wildcats score the winning basket, don’t accuse me of being out of my mind. It’s only March Madness.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches on the adjunct faculty at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com

Daylight Saving Time: How's That Working for You?

2011-03-24T13:36:00.001-04:00

Daylight saving time (DST) --- how’s that working for you?

Apparently it’s not so good for many of us. According to a study at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, DST may not be the best thing for our health, since it comes as such a jolt to our cardiovascular systems.

Have you been dragging out of bed since March 13, the date we moved our clocks forward this year? It’s worth it, isn’t it? After all, we do get that extra hour of daylight. Well, that extra hour of afternoon sunshine is associated with a 10% increase in the risk of having a heart attack on the Monday and Tuesday after moving the clocks forward, according to Martin Young, Ph.D., Professor of Cardiovascular Disease at UAB. The opposite occurs in the fall when we move the clocks back; there is a 10% decrease in risk of heart attacks.

Why the potential for harm in moving the clocks forward? One theory, Dr. Young says, is that each cell in our body has something like an internal clock that allows it to anticipate change. When there is an abrupt change---like springing forward one hour---the cells don’t have time to readjust, creating stress, resulting in a detrimental effect on the body.

Maybe that’s why there is a higher incidence of traffic accidents and work place injuries on the first Monday and Tuesday after moving our clocks forward.

So, here I am, almost two weeks into this time change, and I’m still groping for that lost hour of sleep, dragging myself to the coffee pot at 5:30 a.m., reminding myself---with every heavy, burdensome, languid step--- that it’s really 4:30 a.m., at least according to the circadian rhythms of those cells in my body, which obviously haven’t had time to readjust to this barbaric method of enjoying an extra hour of afternoon sunlight.

I feel like Bill Murray as the character Bob Wiley in the film, What about Bob? Bob awakens himself each morning by repeating the words in his half-awake state, “I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful... I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful... I feel good, I feel great, I feel wonderful...” I’m with you, Bob; it’s just that the internal clocks in my cells haven’t gotten the message yet.

It should remind us that as slippery as time is, we are still subject to it. Even something as small as a one hour time change can throw our systems into confusion for days, even weeks. Last Sunday, one of the persons who meets regularly for prayer was absent. Seeing her later in the morning, she simply explained, “Time change. I’ll get used to about the time it changes again.”

I understand. I get that.

Time. That’s all it is, after all. And time in its essence is well nigh impossible for us to grasp. Who after all invented time? God? Not necessarily, at least according to Stephen Hawking. In his book, A Short History of Time, he states, “So long as the universe had a beginning, we could suppose it had a creator. But if the universe is really completely self-contained, having no boundary or edge, it would have neither beginning nor end: it would simply be. What place then, for a creator?”
Other scientists have proposed a mulitverse—a theory that describes the continuous formation of universes through the collapse of giant stars and the formation of black holes. And physicists Paul Steinhardt and Neil Turok have postulated a model where two universes collide to produce a new beginning for the universe. Time changes; it reaches back and forward beyond time, meta-time.
I still want to leave room for God in his universe, even though I have difficulty articulating the concept of time. That’s why I’m with St.Augustine, who believed in God as the creator of the heavens and the earth and of time itself. But when he tried to explain time, he too was at a loss for words, “What then is time? I know what it is. If I wish to explain it to him who asks, I do not know.”
Wiping the sleep from my eyes, shuffling toward the coffee pot, I know time not as a theory to be explained but as a drag on both hemispheres of my brain.
One little hour reminds me of my weakness, my vulnerability, my dependency on the One who cared enough to enter what he created---our little time zone here on this terrestrial ball, our little moment in time---and deliver us from it, awakening us to more, even as we make our way through the daily routine.
Even through, God help us, Daylight saving time.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., can be reached at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or through his website, www.davidbwhitlock.com.

An Act of God?

2011-03-22T14:12:00.001-04:00

"Frightening beyond belief. I have no words."
---Resident of Sendai, Japan, victim of the tsunami

Most of us who saw the telecasts of the tsunami’s destruction in Japan could understand that man’s reaction to the horror of the cataclysmic event. Your jaw drops. Your eyes widen. You have no words.

The devastation in Japan was so enormous----it’s beyond words. In Minami Sanriku, a town in northeastern Japan, it’s estimated that 9,500, people---half the town’s population---may be unaccounted for. The death toll in Japan has exceeded10, 000. Multiple nuclear meltdowns threaten thousands more. Japan’s prime minister said it is the nation’s gravest disaster since World War II. In the words of President Obama, it is “heartbreaking.”

The question inevitably edges in somewhere between the televised reports of the heartache and pain, between the visuals and the commercials, between the interviews and analyses, just as it did in other major natural disasters---whether it’s Hurricane Katrina in 2005, the 2008 cyclone in Myanmar, or the 2010 earthquake in Haiti ---the question arises and begs an answer, “Where is God in all this?” Where indeed? Why does God allow natural disasters like tsunamis, typhoons, tornados, earthquakes, and hurricanes?

The question is not only reserved for the monster sized disasters. Yesterday morning while updates of the tsunami were being broadcast on television, my wife received a text messaged prayer request. A friend of hers has a relative whose two day old baby is undergoing open heart surgery.

Included in the message were the heartfelt words, “I can’t help but wonder how and why this is a part of God’s plan.”

Anyone who has felt the fear of loss and the agony of grief can empathize with the words in that text message. Even Job, righteous as he was, asked the question. Having been slammed to the canvas of life’s tragedies, having lost everything except a nagging wife, he wanted to know why and just what in the heck he had done to deserve it. Is this pain of ours a result of random chance or an act of God? Rather than giving Job an answer, God revealed himself to him. And, in the presence of God, all Job could do was lay his hand over his mouth.

Which is another way of saying, our question of who is responsible is unanswerable.

Nature itself, the apostle Paul tells us, is fallen, waiting for complete redemption. We can study nature and point to reasons for natural disasters. Hurricanes can be traced to warm waters and gale force winds, tsunamis are caused by underwater earthquakes, earthquakes are caused by the earth’s shifting plates, and there is, I’m sure, a medical explanation for what caused the infants’ heart problem.

The question on our minds is, why didn’t God do something? Why didn’t he direct Hurricane Katrina to some harmless place in the Gulf of Mexico? Why didn’t he divert the earthquake in Haiti to an obscure place? Why didn’t he take that tsunami into an unpopulated area in the middle of the Pacific? And why didn’t he intervene in the life of the baby, preventing that heart problem from ever occurring? After all, he is God, isn’t he? Isn’t he in charge?

And the answer is yes, God is God. And at the same time, we live in this world and not another. The hurricane that died in the middle of the ocean doesn’t make news, the tsunami that rocked the middle of the Pacific where no people live is a five second report on the Weather Channel, and God isn’t questioned when the baby is healthy. God is rarely mentioned in those instances.

In the world we live in, it is inevitable that we will experience disasters. It’s the natural order of things, and for God to intervene in every unsavory instance of our life would place us in a different world altogether. As C.S. Lewis wrote in his classic work, The Problem of Pain: “Fixed laws, consequences unfolding by causal necessity, the whole natural order, are at once the limits within which (our) common life is confined and also the sole condition under which any such life is possible. Try to exclude the possibility of suffering which the order of nature and the existence of free wills involve, and you find that you have excluded life itself.”

It’s the world we live in; it’s life itself, painful and tragic as it is.

It’s an act of God.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, Ky. He also teaches as an adjunct professor at Campbellsville University in Campbellsville, Ky. You can contact David at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or through his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com

The Days Go By

2011-03-10T12:27:00.001-05:00

It’s a line from the Eagles 1975 classic hit, Tequila Sunrise: “The days go by.”

And they do. Whether you like it or not, whether you waiting for (or enduring) a tequila sunrise on a beach in Acapulco, or working in a coal mine in eastern Kentucky, or trading stocks on Wall Street, or writing songs in Nashville--- the days go by. Like wet sand slipping through our fingers, the days go by.

Lori and I have a friend who takes old videos and transfers them into a DVD. People give him their wedding ceremony, children’s birthday parties, anniversaries, and other significant life events. The quality on the DVD is better and more enduring.

So Lori has been going through all our family videos to see which ones we want our friend to convert onto DVD. The other night after dinner, she asked me, “Want to watch some of the family videos?”

Two and a half hours later, teary-eyed and smiling, we turned off the VCR. I went to bed, thinking that was the last of our family viewing. But the next morning, instead of the news in the background of our get-ready-for-work routine, Lori was playing another family video. “Look at that, would you?” she chuckled while putting on her make-up, pointing to then three year old Madi’s recitation of the Pledge of Allegiance.
That evening when I arrived home, there was Lori again, glued to the TV, video in, on the road to becoming a family video junkie--- this time watching the then young Dr. Whitlock preaching. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “Your preaching style has changed. You used to be sooo loud, and you preached FOREVER!” I think it was a compliment, but all I could see was a fuller head of hair, no gray---and smoother skin on my youthful face.
We are a blended family, so our family video viewing takes twice as long. There was Mary-Elizabeth dancing, Harrison being awakened on Christmas day by the kisses of Skittles, his new puppy, Madi with her baby dolls, and Dave playing in his Davy Crocket outfit. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters---they were all there, through all those years.
The days go by: Mary-Elizabeth gave up ballet long ago; Madi’s baby dolls are somewhere; Harrison and I buried his Christmas day puppy, by then the grizzled Skittles, several years ago; And it’s been years since I could hold tiny Davey high above my head--- balancing him in one hand, the toddler sucking on his pacifier, kicking his chubby legs, giggling uncontrollably---and proclaim while laughing with him, “Behold, the child!”
Each moment was a moment, caught in time, pictured on camera, fleeting ever so easily, always so quickly, passing through time---time, the common denominator that levels us all until we are all equal, everyone of us dust.
But not dust in the wind, floating along random like, drifting in the currents of time, without meaning or purpose. Seeing years compressed in minute segmented videos reminds us of our two inescapable boundaries: birth and death. But as long as we travel, we can and should sing because we have hope of a forever life that endures beyond the family movie. As Moses said it in his prayer, “Satisfy us each morning with your unfailing love so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.”
Yes, Moses, to the end of our lives, and beyond, to a life that extends beyond our lives. William Faulkner put it like this in his 1950 Nobel Prize speech, “I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among the creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.”
Maybe, just maybe, Don Henley and Glenn Frey---sipping straight tequila, waiting on the sunrise---were somehow, somewhere deep within themselves hoping for hope, thinking that there must be more, more than what is here, as “the days go by.”
And there is.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., can be reached at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com or through his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com

Finding Hope in Rehab

2011-02-23T16:23:00.001-05:00

“They tried to make me go to rehab but I said 'no, no, no'”
---Amy Winehoue, Rehab (2007)

She sat in my office, a mother worn out from caring, emotionally drained, sharing her pain of a son who had been in and out, in and out of drug rehab. Now he had left rehab again. And she didn’t know what to do.

It’s a problem that’s affecting more and more families. I could trot out statistic after statistic to prove what we already know: alcohol and drug abuse is a real problem no matter where you live. A friend of mine, a local police officer, tells me the increase in drug usage during the last ten years in our town, Lebanon, Ky., is, in his words, “unbelievable.” His statement could be echoed by police officers in Anytown, U.S.A.

For the burdened mother who sat in my office, only one drug statistic mattered: the one that involved her son. When it’s your son or daughter, husband or wife, it’s one, that one. And that one hurts. Deeply.

Once that one, your one, steps into that world of drug and alcohol abuse, it’s difficult to step out and stay out. Just ask Ted Williams, if you can find him. You remember Ted Williams, the homeless man with the golden voice who became an overnight sensation on Youtube? After being cleaned up, and fed, Ted’s story of hope and second chances appeared on all the major news broadcasts. But Ted had a little problem that loomed ever so big: alcohol. According to his daughter, during Ted’s sudden rise to fame, he "consumed at least a bottle of Gray Goose a night. That's not including the Coronas he ordered, that's not including the Budweisers he ordered, the other alcohol, the wines. He drinks heavily." But with the support and encouragement of Dr.Phil, Ted entered rehab, but is reported to have checked out only 12 days later. Let’s hope the best for Ted, wherever he is. It’s an uphill climb. Celebrity status doesn’t change the addiction within.

Charlie Sheen should know it, even if he hasn’t hit bottom yet. Sheen, as of 2010, was the highest paid actor on television, earning $1.8 million per episode for appearing on Two and a Half Men. But Sheen’s personal problems abound: Partying with reckless abandon landed him in rehab once again. A few days later, Sheen announced his decision to rehab in the comfort of his L.A. mansion. We wonder how seriously he is about rehab when he admitted to radio host Dan Patrick, “I was sober for five years a long time ago and was just bored out of my tree." Sheen then confessed, "It's inauthentic -- it's not who I am. I didn't drink for 12 years and, man, that first one, Dan. Wow." But Sheen knows the fragility of his condition. Addressing the producers of Two and a Half Men, Sheen warned, “Check it. It's like, I heal really quickly. But I unravel pretty quickly. So get me right now, guys."
And there she sat, the broken hearted mother in my office, a mom with images of a son lost to an addiction and memories of an innocent little boy who played in the back yard, loved his guitar and four-wheeler. A good kid. Just like Ted Williams and Charlie Sheen, and thousands of others who have been sucked into a black hole of addiction, a hole where the drink or drug of choice drains life, dulls the senses, dissolves right from wrong, true from false, and once having destroyed a life, tosses its lifeless victim into the lap of grieving loved ones who are left to ask--- “Where did we go wrong? What didn’t we do?”---crying aloud like coyotes in the loneliness of the midnight air.

But even in despair there is hope. As one man tells it in the classic book, Alcoholics Anonymous, “I once knew a woman who was crying before a meeting. She was approached by a five-year-old girl who told her, ‘You don’t have to cry here. This is a good place. They took my daddy and they made him better.’”

Addiction is an illness. But there are treatments. And there is One who helps, never abandoning the distraught, the depressed, and, yes, the despised, the One who hears the humble prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com

People are Work

2011-02-17T21:53:00.003-05:00

“People are work, brother. A lot of work. Too much work.” So said Detective Frank Keller (Al Pacino) a New York City detective in the 1989 movie Sea of Love. Keller had just solved an emotionally draining, life threatening, relationship changing investigation of a serial killer. In the movie, Keller falls in love with Helen Cruger (Ellen Barkin) who happens to be a main suspect in the case and doesn’t know that Keller is an undercover detective. They begin a serious relationship, but she rejects Keller, who had just saved her life, because she felt deceived by him. The “people are work” quote comes close to the end of the movie, when Keller is venting his frustration in a bar to his friend and fellow detective Sherman Touhey, played by John Goodman.

On occasion I have echoed the Pacino quote. I can identify with the minister in the cartoon that shows him arriving home late for supper. When his wife asks him why he is an hour late, he replies, with a tired, bewildered look on his face, “I asked Mrs. Jones how she was doing.”

People can be work indeed. And some people are as Pacino observed, “a lot of work.” We all know those special folks who try our patience, push our buttons, and unravel our day. As Mme. de Stael said, “The more I see of man, the more I like dogs.”

I recall my dad, a dentist, shaking his head late one Saturday night after a patient called him. Seems this man had a real emergency, a toothache that was unbearable. “And how long has it been bothering you?” Dad asked. “All week,” the man replied. “But I just didn’t have time to make an appointment earlier in the week, and now, I can’t stand it, Doc. Can I meet you at your office now and get it pulled?” “Now,” happened to be midnight.

People are work. The problem is, unless you are a hermit or a solitary scientist in a think tank somewhere, people are an unavoidable part of work. Without people, we have no work. That reminds me of the burned out school teacher who confessed, “I love teaching; it’s just the students I can’t stand.”

So, what to do with those few---those ones who are “a lot of work,” the minority whose voices cackle with the loudness of a majority, the small ones who can gulp huge portions of our time and attention?

Psychologists recommend sharing your frustration with someone you totally trust. That’s what Pacino was doing. If you have no such person, get alone and shout it out. Let off some steam. And, as much as possible, don’t take it personally. Conflicted people bring conflict. And even though you have to stand your ground, don’t fight back. The Psalmist said, “Seek peace and work to maintain it.” A dear elderly lady used to say to me, a young, inexperienced pastor, “Just rise above it.” That’s not bad advice, regardless of your profession. Within that, remember, maintaining boundaries is essential because some people will dominate you, sucking the joy from your life, draining you of the energy you need for the ones who matter most.

And sometimes people surprise us. In my first full time pastorate, I didn’t mow the lawn of the church parsonage. Soon after I had I arrived, one of the church members grumbled to me, “Our former pastor mowed the lawn.” I responded, tongue in cheek, “Well, I called him and he doesn’t want to come back and mow it.” The disgruntled church member wasn’t amused with my stab at humor.

But in time, my grumpity critic invited me to join him and some others on a mission trip to help build a church in Indiana. And I hesitatingly agreed. Maybe it happened on the road trip, or perhaps it was in working side by side, but somewhere in the process, he ceased to be “a lot of work” and became a friend. He requested that I preside at his funeral. And years later, I did.

Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, those “a lot of work” people enlighten our eyes to new and fascinating vistas of life. After all, in that movie, Sea of Love, Helen Kruger forgave Frank Keller (Al Pacino), and if they got married, she would have become Helen Keller.

People are work, but sometimes they can help us see that even in darkness, there is light.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com

This Valentine's Day: Send a Love Letter

2011-02-09T16:56:00.000-05:00

Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane,
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone, I'm a-goin' home,
'Cause my baby just a-wrote me a letter.
---“The Letter,” The Box Tops, 1967

My heart beat faster as I slowly opened the mail box. Was it there? Did she write? Three weeks of anticipation was wearing on me, three weeks of fumbling through the mail, three weeks of mumbling, “That’s not it, not that one, nope, not that one either,” three weeks of closing the mail box, sighing to myself and then hoping for tomorrow. I was about to break under the pressure.

And then it arrived: the letter.

And so began a flurry of love letters between Lori and me. Well, at first they couldn’t be classified as love letters. We weren’t “there” yet. But we would move in that direction. And soon I would write her weekly love letters. I even vowed to continue my practice of writing weekly love letters after we were married.

And I did for a while. But gradually, the weekly flow of love letters trickled into one a month and then dribbled into an occasional note. The Don Juan of love letters collapsed into the reticence of Briscoe Darling’s boys.

It happens. There are kids to raise, bills to pay, laundry to wash, a house to clean, meals to cook---not to mention responsibilities of the day job. And in the midst of all that, Lori and I got connected to the internet, and we learned to text.

With life as busy as it is, it’s so much easier and quicker to text a, “Love you,” or email an, “I was just thinking of you when I read this article I’ve enclosed.” It’s not necessarily that romance has waned, it’s simply more convenient to tweet your sweet, to communicate by email rather than by snail mail, to send an instant message rather that find paper and pen, and struggle with hand writing.

But yet, there is something about getting that handwritten letter and seeing love words written in that color of ink on that particular stationary. Lori still has a letter I wrote her from Bangalore, India over thirty years ago. I can read the writing just now (even then I didn’t properly cross my t’s), and she cherishes a card and letter I sent her when I was a lovesick freshman at Baylor University. How much nicer and neater I wrote back then. Was it because I took more time?

Time, that’s it. It takes time to write love letters. Time---something we seem short on. The express lane of life moves too quickly to slow down for romance.

When I was home several months ago, I read love letters my dad wrote my mom when he was stationed with a medical unit in Korea during that war. Dad filled lonely nights---no television, no internet, no cell phones--- with writing letters to Mom. Those love letters are now sixty something years old, but the faded ink still shines with passion and drips with the longing Dad had for Mom. I carefully handled the fragile, military issued stationary and imagined what kind of pen Dad used when he wrote those letters in some M*A*S*H* like tent on some cold winter’s night, warmed as he must have been by the flame of love.

But it didn’t end in Korea. I also read a more recent love letter of his. “I am so glad we met at the tennis courts some 66 years ago,” Dad wrote. “You still look cute and beautiful to me. And you still have that quality of life that inspires and excites me!!!”

I read where, according to a survey, 2/3 of women ages 18-70, said their most cherished gift on Valentine’s Day wouldn’t be that diamond, that luxurious dinner at a five-star restaurant, that trip to an exotic resort, nor a dozen roses. It would be a letter, a letter!----a signed letter, handwritten by their lover, sealed and delivered by mail.

Did you get that?

So here’s my challenge: Mark out some time, maybe thirty minutes to an hour between now and Valentine’s, get a pen and some paper, go to a place where you can have the quiet to write, and simply tell your lover how much you love him or her. Be specific. Give examples of what your lover does that you admire, and what your lover is and means to you. Make it personal. Write from your heart. The main thing is to do it.

That’s exactly what I am going to do this Valentine’s. I’m going back to the good old fashioned handwritten love letter. Then I’m putting a stamp on it and mailing it.

But please don’t tell Lori. I want to surprise her.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is Davidbwhitlock.com.

Just One Word

2011-02-02T09:32:00.000-05:00

All it took for Doris Troy was, “Just One Look,” in the words of the hit song she wrote and sang to the top of the charts in 1963. “Just one look/ That's all it took, yeah /Just one look.” Good and right for her.

But sometimes, in other situations, all it takes is just one word--- one word to change a life forever.

We---my wife Lori and I--- waited for that one word, having been told we would receive the results of Lori’s biopsy between 2 p.m. and 4 p.m., Thursday last week. Actually we had been waiting for over a week, including the time for the scheduling of the biopsy itself and the determination of the results.

Waiting can be an unnerving experience: the human mind is capable of a thousand possibilities, mostly negative, creating one more worst case scenario, allowing our ever imaginative thoughts to wander, recalling people we’ve known somewhere---that one where it so suddenly happened to her, or the other one where he went so fast, or the one where she fought so bravely for so long, and the one that so heavily weighs on you just now, the one you await---yours: “What will the one word be: Benign? Malignant?”

It’s just one word; but what a difference one word can make.

Cancer kills more than 1,500 Americans a day and costs over $200 billion a year in medical bills and lost productivity. In Lori’s case the particular biopsy was for breast cancer, a cancer which about 1 in 8 women will develop in the course of their lifetime. Almost 40,000 women were expected to die from breast cancer in 2010. Only one other cancer, lung cancer, claims the lives of more women in the U.S. You are probably thinking of people’s names as your read those statistics. Maybe they died this last year or perhaps they are battling cancer today. Maybe the name you are thinking of is your own because you are struggling with this disease.

And so Lori and I waited for that word: benign or malignant.

“The word ‘benign’ has to be the most beautiful word in the English language,” one of my friends later declared.

“Then ‘malignant’ has to be the ugliest,” a second quipped.

I know something of that. My first wife, Katri, died of breast cancer after a six year fight with that formidable foe. In her unfortunate case the news came like a terrorist bomb on a peaceful parade, exploding on us as we hypothesized the cause for her mysterious symptoms, scratching our heads, all of us, including doctors---experts looking in the wrong direction, searching for the cause of her pain, examining relentlessly--- until the disease, with a Jared Lee Loughner smirk, proudly exposed its sinister self, and snickering at our surprise, “ha!” went on to announce with warped glee, “Breast cancer it is, fourth stage, metastasized to the bones.” And that was the cause for her pain, a pain among many that would dominate the remaining 6 years of her young life.

And now this day, Lori and I anxiously awaited her test results:

2:30 p.m., “I’m good, how ‘bout you?” I tried to exude confidence.

3’clock: “Half way there, they should call any time now.” I was still attempting to console.

3:30 p.m., “It’s okay, but what’s taking them?” I tried to remain upbeat.

3:45 p.m.: “Maybe you should call and see if they forgot.” Now I was getting aggravated.

3:55 p.m.: “For goodness sakes, what‘s wrong? Just call!” Frustration had found a parking place in my soul.

3:59 p.m.: Finally, the phone rings, Lori answers. My ears are attuned. Life hangs in the balance, “Okay, Yes… Yes…Yes. Thank you. Oh, thank you for the good news!”

“Benign.”

I sigh with relief.

Just one word. A wonderful word. Not malignant. Benign. Praise God!

“The Lord giveth.”

“The Lord taketh away.”

In just one word.

For now, I’ll rejoice in the “giveth” and in that one word: “benign”--- at that moment the most beautiful word I could have heard.

Until it’s time for another test.

But that’s another day.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com

Questions Women Ask

2011-01-26T22:06:00.000-05:00

“Do you remember the color of that sweater I gave you when I was a sophomore in high school?” my wife nonchalantly asked me. “You remember, don’t you? It was the first real gift I ever gave a guy. I was so proud of that.” We had been admiring the sweater our daughter had given me for Christmas. I stroked the sweater as my mind raced back 30 plus years, trying to remember and think of a proper response to her question. I could hear Ulysses Everett McGill (George Clooney) whispering in my ear the same words he spoke to his endangered companions in the film, O Brother Where Art Thou, “We’re in a tight spot!”

Trying to avoid hurting her feelings and at the same time wanting to appear as her romantic repository of cherished memories, I struggled between confessing my ignorance and rolling the dice to guess the color. The color of the sweater our daughter had given me was brown; perhaps the odds were in favor of brown for the sophomore sweater. But then again, maybe it was the crew neck collar that reminded Lori of her love gift.

Fumbling for the right words, I sputtered; I stalled; I stammered: “It had a crew neck just like this one, didn’t it?” I asked, still holding the new Christmas sweater in my hands and hoping my question would spin our conversation in another direction. No such luck was mine. “Oh, yeah, it did,” she responded. “But you don’t remember the color, do you?”

Now her cards were on the table. But it was possible I could recover with a royal flush by coolly expressing my surprise at her question. “Of course I remember, you silly,” I could say. “It was brown, just like this one I got for Christmas. Do you really think I would forget the first gift you ever gave me? C’mon now!”

But if it weren’t brown---be it any other color--- my bluff would be called, the truth would out and my royal flush would morph into a pair of clubs. And I would be emotionally indebted for days, weeks, months, who knows---maybe years.

And so there I was--- the cowardly gambler, beads of sweat forming on my brow, my lips quivering, all the time thinking, Lord, why do women ask such questions? Why does it matter to them? And, how do they remember these things?

Men---we are different. John Gray underscored what most of us knew in his best seller, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. “Without an understanding that men and women are supposed to be different, it is such a temptation to think that men shouldn’t be ‘that way’ or women shouldn’t react ‘that way,’” Gray wrote in the introduction of his book. Since then, Walt Larimore, M.D., and his wife Barb, have co-authored, His Brain, Her Brain, that documents their thesis that, “there is ample scientific evidence that supports the fact that many of the dramatic differences between his brain and her brain are inborn.” In other words, there is no unisex brain. We are wired differently in areas that include sight, hearing, taste, smell, and touch. So, there was a difference in how we saw that sweater. “Rod-shaped cells (rods) on the retina are photoreceptors for black and white, while cone-shaped cells (cones) handle color. Women have a greater proportion of cones than men. So women can see colors better than men,” the Larimore’s point out. No wonder Lori could recall the color of that brown sweater when I couldn’t!

But the biology didn’t matter in that moment. I couldn’t say, “Oh, Lori, you remember the color of that sweater because you have more rod-shaped cells on your retina and poor pitiful me, I have fewer to act as photoreceptors on my retina, and therefore, compared to you, I virtually see in black and white. Silly girl, did you really expect me to remember the color of that sweater?”

No, even if science were on my side, I had to come clean, and so I folded, “I’m trying to pull that up, but I just can’t recall. Tell me about it.”

And she joyfully did. It was from the Surrey Shop, where I used to work in high school. And yes, it was a brown crew neck.

And to think my hunch had been right all along.

“And by the way,” she continued, “you do remember what you gave me that Christmas, don’t you?”

Okay, Ulysses Everett McGill: time for your line again, “We’re in a tight spot!”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com.

Triumph Over Tragedy in Tucson

2011-01-19T22:04:00.000-05:00

The stories of the heroes who stepped up to help and in some cases save the victims of the Tucson tragedy keep rolling in. The first and most prominent was Representative Gabrielle Giffords’ college intern, Daniel Hernandez, the young man who helped her after she was shot. While many people call him a hero, Hernandez insists he is not one: “I think… anyone would have done the same thing for anyone, because it's a human being, and you need to make sure that you help those in need.”

Then there is Patricia Maisch, the 61 year old lady who managed to grab the shooter’s magazine and keep him from reloading. What does she remember about the events that happened so quickly? “That tiny, tiny space between the first shot and the rest of the shots, just in my head. And then deciding to drop to the ground instead of running, expecting to be shot because the woman next to me was the last one to get shot.” She doesn’t see herself as a hero, but if people persist in calling her one, then she insists on calling the man who saved her life a “superhero,”---Col. Bill Badger (Ret.), who wrestled alleged gunman Jared Lee Loughner to the ground. But Badger too shies away from the hero’s honor: “I did what anybody else would do. And I'm just so glad that I had the opportunity to do what I did…”

Then there is Dr.David Bowman, the physician who was shopping in the Safeway when the killings took place and quickly rushed into the fray to help treat victims. Neither does he consider himself a hero: "I think that there were maybe heroic things done by normal people.”

And then there is Anna Ballis, who was, that fateful Saturday, simply going shopping and then went to Rep. Giffords’ event to see what was going on. Giffords' district director, Ron Barber, owes his life to Ballis, who applied pressure to his wounds. If given the choice between being dubbed an angel or hero, Ballis prefers angel.

Extraordinary actions performed by seemingly ordinary people---some intended to attend the event; others were on their way to someplace else---responding to tragedy in the only way they knew how: instantly, compassionately, courageously.

We wonder how we would react in a similar situation. Would we be an Anna Ballis, a David Bowman, a Bill Badger, a Patricia Maisch, a Daniel Hernandez? Would we respond with similar acts of heroism?

Or would we, God forbid, be a George Constanza---the character in Seinfeld--- who, in the episode, “The Fire,” runs out, abandoning the helpless and handicapped. No one is hurt, but George’s cowardice is exposed. The fireman asks him, “How do you live with yourself?” And George’s only explanation is, “It’s not easy.”

Funny, yes, but in real life we yearn for better. We wish for and anticipate within ourselves and others a heroic response, even as we hope that test never comes. We vicariously identify with the heroes at tragic events, whether it be a Ground Zero, a Virginia Tech campus, or a Tucson.

And isn’t that at least something of the reason for the resounding response to the President’s memorial service speech in Tucson? Over 14,000 gathered at the University of Arizona arena to say, “We mourn for the victims; we hate the evil; we celebrate the heroes because they represent the better part of ourselves---that part of ourselves that empowers the triumph of good over evil, of love over hate, of courage over cowardice.” And they interrupted the President’s 30 minute speech 50 times, often with thunderous applause, occasionally with laughter, and in the end with a standing ovation.

By living that better part of ourselves and seeing it in others, by speaking kinder, gentler words that heal rather than hurt, by living for Something beyond ourselves, we can in these daily actions nurture the hero within as we honor the fallen by helping the living.

True heroes do not aspire to be heroes. They are most often ordinary people who care about others. When we in those daily, ordinary, mundane occasions care, truly care about others, then in that unexpected moment---“that tiny, tiny space between the first shot and the rest of the shots”--- the true hero within emerges. And even if that moment never comes, and we pray to God it doesn’t, as we quietly, anonymously, methodically do the right thing in obscure places, we ordinary people join the heroes of Tucson, Virginia Tech, Columbine, and Ground Zero--- in the triumph of good over evil.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com.

Faces of Hope in the Tears of Tucson

2011-01-14T11:58:00.001-05:00

You see their faces splashed on television: the victims of that horrible crime, the murders in Tucson. For just a moment we had been enjoying the cheerful news of good fortune in the life of Ted Williams---the once homeless man whose golden voice captured the internet and who now is inundated with golden offers, including a five second appearance in a Super Bowl commercial----when suddenly the images of Ted’s smile were replaced by pictures of tears in Tucson. The sad irony of the Tucson tragedy is that so many faces of hope---smiling, optimistic, and buoyant faces---were instantly, maliciously attacked by the face of despair and the hand of hate.

And in that second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever.

By now you know of the youngest victim: nine year old Christina-Taylor Green. Christina-Taylor, with her big brown eyes, long brown hair, and innocent smile, arrived at the parking lot of Safeway in hopes of meeting one of her heroes, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Christina-Taylor never got the chance. Ironically, Christina-Taylor’s life was framed by tragedy: she was born on a tragic day---September 11, 2001---and died on another tragic day, January 8, 2011. Christina-Taylor was one of the 50 children featured in the book, Faces of Hope, representing babies born on 9/11. And a face of hope she was, even on 1-08-11.

Another victim, U.S. District Judge John Roll, was a widely respected federal judge and public servant. He was also a grandfather who was simply shopping at the Safeway where the shooting took place and walked to speak a kind word to Giffords. He owned a tender and gentle smile that evoked a sense of confidence and trust from others. John Roll---another face of hope in the tears of Tucson.

Rep. Giffords was meeting with voters outside the grocery store. “It’s not surprising that today Gabby was doing what she always does, listening to the hopes and concerns of her neighbors,” President Obama said of her. Her smile exudes optimism, courage, and strength coupled with humility. Her warm and inviting smile is yet another face of hope in the tears of Tucson.

And the alleged gunman who went after Giffords, the mentally unstable college drop-out, Jared Lee Loughner, had a smile… but not one of hope. Steven Rayle, a former ER doctor, was there. He had come to meet Giffords. What did he see in Loughner? A young man with a blank expression on his face. “I looked up and saw a man with a gun shoot her (Giffords) in the head and then continue firing, rapid-fire, with just point blank at everybody who was in the area.”
When did this young man lose hope and turn to violence? We may never know. But he was not, at least at one time, beyond feeling the pain of isolation. In an interview with Clarence Williams of the Washington Post, Loughner’s friend Timothy Cheves recalled a conversation with Loughner in which Cheves encouraged him to get his life on the right track. “I was telling him about God and all that. And he broke down, crying, and he gave me a big ol’ hug, and said, ‘Thank you, you’re one of the only ones that ever listened to me.’”
And then, it happened. In the second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever. And beautiful faces, full of hope, are no more.

We want an explanation for the unexplainable; we want to find meaning in the senseless; we seek reasons in unreasonableness. And it’s not there.

Sometimes all there is to do is let the tears fall. And enjoy the bit of life we are given, recalling those faces of hope that have graced our journey. And in the remembrance of them, be one, too, because in the second it takes for a tear to fall, life can change forever.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

Resolution Revolution

2011-01-05T22:25:00.000-05:00

I resolve to stage a revolt against making New Year’s resolutions. I’ve had it with them; they don’t work for me. The New Year is still in infancy, and I’ve already broken 75% of my resolutions.

It’s not that I didn’t try; I just forgot: the pressure of the moment distracted my attention from keeping the resolution.

Take my first resolution, for example. I read that being impatient can lead to hypertension. I tend to be impatient, and I don’t want hypertension. ”Patience,” I said to myself as I stood in line at the grocery store a couple of days before New Year’s, tapping my foot as I wondered if the next line was moving faster, “patience is something I could work on.” Thus, resolution number one: be more patient; don’t sweat the small stuff. Since Lori and I had already planned to be away during New Year’s, I would have a nice, relaxed atmosphere to begin my first resolution. On the morning of January I, I took my time as Lori and I casually walked to the breakfast buffet. I was silently complimenting myself on how well I was doing on resolution number one when Lori informed me she had forgotten the breakfast coupons---part of the weekend package with our hotel. “You forgot the coupons?” I grimaced. That initial, suppressed grimace was followed by a bigger, more obvious one when the hostess told me there was a 45 minute waiting list and that I would have to check at the front desk about the possibility of reclaiming the breakfast vouchers. Glancing at the long line at the hotel registration desk, I grumbled to Lori, “I’ll wait in line while you see if you can remember where you put the breakfast coupons.” When Lori couldn’t find them, I decided to conduct a thorough and proper search myself, and voila, I found them…in the cabinet on my side of the bed. “Oops.” I kinda forgot I put them there.

So much for resolution number one.

Getting the proper amount of sleep, I have been told, is essential to our health. My 5-6 hours of sleep a night isn’t adequate, I concluded. Thus, resolution number two: get more sleep. I proudly announced to Lori on New Year’s Day---after apologizing for breaking resolution number one, of course--- “I’m going to bed early tonight.” That was a bold statement for me, and one I had to promptly retract when I remembered that my OU Sooners played in the Fiesta Bowl that very night and that the broadcast didn’t begin until 8:30 p.m. (EST) So, there I was whooping and hollering my team to victory at 12:30 a.m. And preachers can’t sleep in on Sunday mornings, you know.

So much for resolution number two.

Resolution number three: maintain a more healthy diet, went down with the New Year’s breakfast buffet, as did resolution number four, cut back on my caffeine consumption. (Free refills came with the buffet, what was I to do?) I’m managing to chase resolution number five: read through the Bible again this year, although I’m already 8 chapters behind. Resolution number six: cash instead of credit---good, except for the gas card. Resolution number seven, journal each day---already days behind, although I have at least located my journal; resolution number eight: have a book proposal ready by March 1---I’m working on it. And number nine, read at least one hour a day---I’m on it. Resolution number ten---stop the nervous habit of picking my fingernails---was lost in the excitement of the OU game.

There you have it: as far as I can figure, I’m only hitting 250-300% on my resolutions.

But wait a minute: Isn’t the highest career professional baseball batting average Ty Cobb’s? And isn’t his record a “mere” .366? That means that almost 60% of the time, when he stepped up to the plate, he didn’t get a hit. And that’s the best career average EVER.

So maybe I don’t need to start a resolution revolution after all. Maybe the revolution I need is a continuation of the good in what I have resolved, not a cessation of the goal itself. As John Norcross, psychology professor at the University of Scranton in Pennsylvania said recently in The Wall Street Journal, “Keeping a resolution isn’t a 100-yard dash. It’s a marathon.”

That’s it: a marathon. In a marathon, I can get bumped to the side and even trip and fall and still get back up and finish the race in respectable fashion. And somehow in the running of the race, I can feel like a revolutionary, a revolutionary because I resolved to persevere, and even though I may finish with a limp, I nonetheless can cross the finish line, aiming for a goal far beyond 2011.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and his website is davidbwhitlock.com

Keep the Christmas Lights Burning

2010-12-30T10:51:00.000-05:00

Now that Christmas has come and gone, what’s left but to take down all those decorations? It’s a task most of us dread. I suppose that’s why some people leave them up until spring. And a few never take them down.

In my family, we (“we” being my dad, myself and brothers) would have them down by January 1, in accordance with the Book of the Law of my mom, who decorated the interior of our home. Many people contend it’s appropriate to keep them up until January 6, Epiphany. Leaving them up beyond that date becomes borderline tacky, some say.

In any case, taking down decorations makes me wonder why I put them up anyway. Why do that? We did it, I suppose, because it had become a family tradition. Dad would get them out shortly after Thanksgiving, and I, being the youngest and smallest, would be ordered to shimmy up there or crawl over here to hang them. But my talents were limited; I was and am something of a mechanical incompetent.

You’d think, as much time as I spent helping dad put up Christmas lights, I would be a stickler for carrying on that tradition with my own household. I did for years but somewhere wandered away, and far from home, with my own brood up and gone, conveniently forgot this family ritual. Perhaps it’s because I am such a mechanical disaster; beyond the simple task of changing a light bulb, when it comes to anything electrical, I can be dangerous. When putting up the lights, I would usually have visions of Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, where he can’t get his 25, 000 lights turned on and when he does, momentarily compromises the city’s electrical power.

Or maybe the reason I dropped the tradition was that I was indelibly scarred by memories of taking those decorations down, boxing them up, and carrying them to the attic year after year. I love Christmas traditions: the decorated tree, the mistletoe, even chestnuts roasting over an open fire---but I’ve managed to avoid the aisle in the store where Christmas lights can be found.

That’s why I was so surprised when I found my son, Dave, home on his first day of Christmas break from Centre College, rummaging through the garage on Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks ago. “What are you doing?” I queried.

“Just getting out the nativity scene.” He was referring to the outdoor nativity scene we used to put in the front lawn. I felt a bit shabby for letting Mary, Joseph, the baby Jesus, the camels, sheep, shepherds, and wise men lie neglected in the corner of the garage during Christmas. “And while I’m at it, I think I’ll get that wreath down too,” he continued. I felt a slight twinge of guilt; Lori, who was out of town, had mentioned the wreath to me, but her hint had fallen on my dull ears.

“Need any help?” I hesitatingly asked Dave.

“No,” he responded “I can get it, but I’ll holler at you if I do.”

He didn’t.

What’s an outdoor nativity scene without lights? A trip to the store for floodlights and a timer for them, wire to hang the wreath, and a few hours later Dave had our nativity scene looking alive. And my lone contribution was holding the ladder.

Whether Dave knew I was overwhelmed with work in my study, or whether he simply wanted to protect himself from a dad’s mechanical ineptitude, I don’t know and won’t ask. I do know he made Lori smile. “I love the lights!” she excitedly exclaimed the next day when she returned.

“That’s Dave’s gift to you,” I informed her.

Later that night, I reminded Dave how much Lori liked the lights. “But let me ask you,” I inquired, “why did you do that? Why did you go through all the trouble of putting up the nativity, the lights, the wreath?”

He paused a moment, smiled, and said, “Just carrying on an old family tradition, Dad, just carrying on an old family tradition.”

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com David’s website is DavidBWhitlock.com

Have a Merry Life This Christmas

2010-12-24T10:59:00.000-05:00

“We are so happy to be alive. Life means a lot more today than yesterday,” said Panama City, Florida School Board member, Jerry Register, the day after deranged gunman, Clay Duke, opened fire on the School Board and the School Superintendant, William Husfelt.

Looking into the barrel of a handgun has an interesting way of bringing life into focus. For Register and the others who endured what must have seemed to them at the time to be the longest school board meeting ever, life would, could never be the same--- at least that’s what they said in the days following their harrowing experience. The threat of losing life can give deeper meaning to life, once it’s returned.

In an effort to calm Duke, the School Superintendant spoke of his wife and family, and how he wanted to live and enjoy his loved ones. Later, in an interview with Anderson Cooper, Husfelt said, “I do not have a death wish. I know if I were to die today, I know where I’m going and I was fine with that, but I did not want everyone in that room killed.”

People who have had close encounters with death often talk about how important family, friends, and eternity become in that moment of suspense between life and death, that moment of transition from death in the third person, “People die,” to death in the first person, “I’m about to die.” One’s “to-do” list gets pared down rather quickly.

And what about the gunman, Clay Duke? Did he have similar thoughts of family, friends, and eternity before he placed his gun to his own head? Or was he incapable, in that moment, of thinking such rational thoughts? "The economy and the world just got the better of him. And, along with his bi-polar, it just set him up for this horrible event," his wife said.

Is it coincidental that this shocking event happened during Christmas season? Christmas---the season of joy, of anticipation, of holiday fun--- glides precariously above of the turbulent surface of other emotions: despair, doom, depression, anger, and hate. And sometimes, those emotions invade Christmas, upending it in abrupt ways.

What is it about the Christmas season that brings this out in people? Is it the shopping, the shoppers, the cards, the decorations, the gifts, the parties, and the greed that cause the impatience, the frustration, the anger, the hatred that is expressed in the rudeness, the meanness, the threats, the cursing and even the violence? It’s Christmas season: nerves are on edge; finances are stretched; emotions are frayed; people explode.

But for a few, like Mr. Duke, it goes beyond that. It spirals downward into hatred and violent actions.

Whether Christmas stress was a catalyst for Duke’s actions is something we will probably never know. His story will soon be lost for most people, another faded news item for all except those directly involved in the sad event. And that in itself is sad because the story can remind us during this season that savoring the gift of life in each moment can quell the despair, the anger, and hatred that accompany a season that is supposed to proclaim joy, hope, and peace. And it might even cure the sickness of a desperate soul like Clay Duke, who could be your neighbor, or co-worker, or friend, or family member, or you.

Somehow, it’s comforting to know life was really no different that night Christ was born: no room in the inn; taxes to be paid; dirty, irritating people everywhere; a menacing government demanding more; trouble and sorrow on every corner.

And there---in that small little corner of nowhere, a place where it was said, no good thing could possibly come, where the poor were oppressed and the rich gloated---he was born: “Peace on earth, and mercy mild; God and sinner reconciled.” And yes, by the way: life for all who come to him--- a life more meaningful today than yesterday. Everyday.

You can write David B.Whitlock, Ph.D, at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com and visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.

Doubting Christmas?

2010-12-18T01:52:00.000-05:00

“Who gave you permission to tell Charlie there was no Santa Claus? I think if we're going to destroy our son's delusions, I should be a part of it.”
---Scott Calvin, (played by actor Tim Allen in the movie, The Santa Claus, 1994).

“Some of the kids at school say Santa’s not real, but I don’t believe them. Santa is real. I just know it.” My sister-in-law, Lisa Suriano, was quoting her 8 year old son, Cooper. “What do you think I should do?” Lisa asked me. “Should I tell him?”

I didn’t need to ask, “Tell him what?” I knew exactly what she meant: the truth about Santa Claus.

Should parents tell their kids that Santa Claus is not real? Or is it okay to “play along,” and enjoy a child’s season of magical thinking with Santa at Christmas?

For some parents this is a big issue, and they are quite intense in their conviction: participating in the Santa tradition is tantamount to deceiving children, setting up a situation that can cause a child to doubt the trustworthiness of the parent.

But for others, it’s a healthy way of experiencing the joy and anticipation of receiving gifts. And, in those homes where the Santa tradition is welcomed, he is enjoyed for a while until the kids discover he is a myth. For some, as with our daughter Mary-Elizabeth and son Harrison, it comes when they see mom and dad, or an uncle or aunt, putting out the Santa gifts; for others, as with our son, Dave, it’s another sibling who breaks the news about Santa’s demise; and then for some, like our daughter, Madi, it’s schoolmates who are the informants about Santa’s fictional identity.

I don’t think any of these children, although they may have been disappointed at the time, experienced emotional trauma at the discovery that Santa doesn’t exist .Nor did it lead them to doubt their parents on larger life issues.

But, still, I have a concern here about how this plays out: a distinction should be made somewhere in the conversation with children between what is true about religion and morality and what is simply playful make-believe. I fear we may undermine the reality of the religious event we celebrate. We may inadvertently communicate to our children that it’s all just a story, nothing more than a myth: the birth of Jesus and Santa; Christ’s resurrection and the Easter Bunny--- both melt into the same fictional genre: simply children’s fairy tale stories we outgrow.

But Santa Claus does have a history, although it’s embedded in tradition. His story grew from St. Nicholas, who was a bishop in a region of what is now Turkey. According to tradition, he was known for his love for his church and for the plight of poor children. St. Nicholas was reputed to have secretly delivered three bags of gold down a chimney to a poor family to provide a dowry for three unmarried sisters. From this developed the tradition of Santa Claus, a Dutch version of St. Nicholas.

Perhaps, by telling about St. Nicholas and how the story of Santa came from him, those who want to keep the Santa tradition can uphold the spiritual aspect of this season and still let Santa come down the chimney. Maybe they could say to their children something like, “Santa Claus is a wonderful story about a person who gave gifts and loved and cared for people. The main thing we need to remember is that Santa reminds us that God is the greatest gift-giver of all, and that’s what Christmas is really all about.”

What parents do with Santa is a personal matter; each family must come to terms with their own family traditions. But no matter what we do with Santa, it is unlikely we will shield our children from the possibility of doubt---and that includes the “real” Christmas. After all, Jesus’ own cousin, John the Baptist, had his doubts. In prison, he found himself knee deep in confusion. “Is it true? Is it him? Is he just another self-proclaimed messiah? Should we wait for another? Is it just another story?”

So John asked. And Jesus answered, “Go back to John and tell him what you have heard and seen—the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cured, the deaf hear, the dead are raised to life, and the Good News is being preached to the poor. And tell him, ‘God blesses those who do not turn away because of me.’”

Notice, if you will, Jesus never said, “I’m the Messiah, for certain; without a doubt, I’m the one.” He only pointed to the evidence. He answered, but his answer still left room for the necessity of faith. For without faith, Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas, would it?

No doubt.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.

A Glimmer of Hope

2010-12-02T14:48:00.000-05:00

It’s been a tough week for world peace. Tensions between North and South Korea are severely strained after North Korea launched a deadly artillery attack last week; the war in Afghanistan drags on as U.S. leaders ponder the duration of our presence there; a strategic arms pact with Russia appears to be on hold, at least for now; a new English-language web magazine produced by Al Qaeda entices alienated American Muslims to “attack the enemy (America) with smaller but more frequent operations” that will “bleed the enemy by a thousand cuts;” a 19 year old American-Somali man, Mohamed Osman Mohamud, was accused of trying to blow up a van full of explosives during Portland, Oregon’s Christmas tree lighting ceremony; and we have yet to see the full impact on national security that the newly released WickiLeak documents will have.

Meanwhile, millions of us barreled past Black Friday and then with grand élan, having taken a breather over the weekend, millions more enjoyed the convenience of shopping online for Cyber Monday. And somewhere in all this---oh yes, Sunday--- the first day of Advent lie hidden in the corner of the church house, quiet as a mouse.

If we aren’t intentional, amidst all the crises of our world and the cries from retailers beckoning us to catch the next best buy, we will miss the true celebration around the manger. That’s what Advent is about: taking the time to prepare for Christ. Taken from the Latin word adventus, meaning coming, Advent is observed by many Christians in the West as a way of preparing for the celebration of Christ’s birth 2,000 years ago. Even churches that don’t formally observe Advent have different ways of anticipating the celebration of Jesus’ birth.

The time to do that is now, not December 24th. And that requires something most of us are short on: patience. We do not like waiting on Christ, nor preparing for him. We prefer him to catch up with us. The French philosopher and Christian mystic, Simone Weil, said, “Waiting patiently in expectation is the foundation of the spiritual life.” Expectant waiting takes place most often in the quiet, in the secret place of a heart yearning for more than the world can offer. It’s heard in the strained voice of one crying in the wilderness, “Prepare the way of the Lord.”
Some eight centuries before the birth of Jesus Christ, when a foreign military superpower, Assyria, threatened tiny Judah’s national security, the prophet Isaiah proclaimed hope in the midst of despair. It may have only been a glimmer, but that was all the hope necessary to give words to his vision of a better day, a time when the nations would “hammer their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks.” In a day of fear and intimidation, distraction and disarray, dishonesty and corruption, Isaiah, waiting patiently, caught a glint of hope--- eight centuries yet away. But he saw it. And he wouldn’t let it go.
Sometimes small glimmers of hope are all that is necessary to birth a new tomorrow, even when that tomorrow seems an eternity away.
Tempted to despair this Christmas season? Small wonder. It’s the way of our world; the world we know, the world of anxiety, anger, and ultimately annihilation. It’s only in looking away from it that we can gaze into another world, the world within the Word---a strange and mysterious world where miracles happen, where a virgin gives birth to a Savior, where good news announces freedom to captives, hope for the despondent, and light for those dwelling in darkness---the world you’ve longed for, where the songless choir is given the rhythm of joy by which it rejoices with heaven and nature, singing: “Joy to the world, the Lord is come!”
It’s a world worth waiting for, and as we listen, ever so intently, we can almost see it, faintly, obscurely, dimly, but undeniably there---peeking over the morning horizon: a glimmer of hope. Do you see it?
Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. David’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.

Skipping Thanksgiving

2010-11-24T21:38:00.000-05:00

Have you noticed how easily we pass from Halloween to Christmas, from October to December, from “Trick or Treat,” to “Here Comes Santa Claus”?

And Thanksgiving gets bypassed once again. Only now it happens with greater celerity and casualness. We’re beyond feeling any guilt about it.

I understand. I feel it, too. Thanksgiving’s absence matches the seasons: October is filled with fall foliage, arresting in its brilliant colors of orange, yellow, amber, and red as the maple, ash, oak, and hickory trees reach the peak of their autumn display; December, with the Christmas decorations of green wreaths, red and white candy canes, shiny silver tinsel over boughs, is a month of anticipation: the possibility, the hope, for a blanket of white snow on Christmas Eve, the jolly St. Nick Christmas stockings in red, white, and green, hanging over the warm glow of the fire place, awaiting the descent of Santa down the chimney in his contrasting uniform of red and white with black boots and belt.

But Thanksgiving falls in November, when the fall leaves have disappeared and have to be raked, the tree limbs are starkly naked, the sun sets before you get home from work, and a gray drabness seems to permeate the universe with a dismal somberness. Thanksgiving, set in between the ghosts and goblins of Halloween and the Santa and elves of Christmas, doesn’t stand a chance with its hapless turkey marked down on special at the local grocery store. Thanksgiving is in-between, and like the insecure middle child, seems uncomfortably out of place, having to fight for attention and recognition.

But it goes deeper than merely the differences in seasons. We Americans identify ourselves, the United States, as a consumer nation, and we do so with good reason: with only 5% of the world’s population we consume 25% of the world’s energy resources. We accumulate stuff and rent spaces to store the stuff we’ve bought on credit. And our lifestyle has come to roost on Wall Street with a financial debacle, in our environment with compromised resources, and in our health with overstressed bodies. We take and take, and stretch and stretch, for more and more, until we have made ourselves sick with Halloween candy and driven ourselves in debt with Christmas gifts.

And there sits that lonely turkey in the middle of the table. We barely have time anymore to pause, and sit, and share stories with family about life, and memories, and journeys, so busy we are with our rushing, and work, and previous commitments.

We would do well, this Thanksgiving Day, to reflect on our thanksgiving roots, remembering that the first Thanksgiving was born out of adversity: a few pilgrims and Native Americans, having survived the harsh winter of 1620, gathered to give thanks for the harvest of 1621. Grateful for the basics of life---God, family, and friends---they shared some food, laughed, talked, and rejoiced amidst their grim circumstances. It wasn’t until 1863 that the thanksgiving tradition became an official holiday. President Abraham Lincoln, spurred by journalist Sara Josepha Hale, declared the last Thursday of November a national day of Thanksgiving. You’ll recall Lincoln’s situation was less than ideal: the future of a United States was in serious question, the carnage of thousands of young men at Fredericksburg, Antietam, and Gettysburg was fresh on his mind as he called for all Americans to pause and give thanks for, “the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy.”

Instead of skipping Thanksgiving perhaps we would do well to draw on the spirit of thanksgiving past, pulling up a place and a time where not so long ago, amidst trying circumstances, people propped their chairs back, talked and listened to one another, reflected on life, and thanked God for it.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is DavidBWhitlock.com

Forgotten Things Remembered

2010-11-17T21:52:00.000-05:00

Forgotten Things Remembered

I hadn’t seen or touched it in almost 49 years. It was a homemade schoolbook satchel before the days of book bags. It belonged to my older brother, Doug. He carried it home the last day of school, 1961. Having completed the first grade that day, he skipped home from Washington Elementary School, proud of his report card and happy to be officially a 2nd grader. And I, being one grade behind him, was as usual anxiously waiting for him to get home so we could play. And that was the last day I touched that satchel or saw my brother. That’s because that was the day my brother died.

Now, almost 49 years later I was back home, helping mom go through boxes and boxes of things long forgotten. And we had only scratched the surface.

That’s when I found myself holding a white satchel with “Douglas” neatly written in big, red block letters across the top of the bag. Drawings of sports cars had been sewn on the front of the bag. It was a bit soiled--- definitely a boy’s bag, a tough survivor of the first school year.

The satchel was just as it was the day he dropped it in our room to go out and play with me. It even had his writing tablet and the “Crayola Crayons,” still inside. And tucked to one side, his report card, signed by Mrs. L.D.Whitlock every six weeks, with the lonely exception of that last six weeks, the one left to be signed, left blank forever.

Mom had buried all this in that box, entombing it in a crypt of memories, leaving it there these many years until I--- reverently holding it in my hands as if it were an urn containing sacred artifacts of a historical memory---flashed back to that day 49 years ago, to that emergency room where the two of us---brothers, playmates, friends---were being treated after a car accident, and where I heard him speak his last words to me, “Am I gonna die?” And I didn’t know what to tell him.

When asked the question, “How long does it take to get over a death?” grief therapist, Dr. Harold Ivan Smith, says, “As long as it takes.” Sometimes, perhaps especially with the death of a child, it doesn’t necessarily get better, it just gets different. In his book, Grievers Ask, Smith tells about Izzy, Dwight D.Eisenhower’s three year old son, who died in 1921. Eisnehower, a WWII general and two-term president, said of his son’s death, “It was the greatest disappointment and disaster in my life…the one I have never been able to forget completely.”

Holding my brother’s 1st grade school satchel in my hands, choking down a golf ball size lump in my throat, and seeing the tears in my mother’s eyes, I would have to agree with Mr. Eisenhower. And folding up that book bag, not knowing exactly what I would do with it, I realized as I carried it home, that in its burial, it had become much more than just a bag: it was a satchel full of memories, a bag full of grief, a receptacle of sorrows, the opening of which released images long forgotten, surreal-like as they rose to life, floating before my eyes like moving scenes on an 8 mm family film, portraying a little boy laughing his way home from school, wrestling his little brother in playful fun, chasing his dachshund to the car, edging his way in front of his little brother into the front seat, crashing onto the hood of the car, lying lifelessly with his brother in shattered windshield glass, crying in his brother’s arms on the way to the hospital, asking little brother that final, most ultimate question, and not receiving an answer.

Memories have a way of apprehending us when we least expect it. Pain is the price we pay for having loved, and grief is the residue of memories long forgotten but always remembered.

Overstuffed with Stuff

2010-11-15T13:12:00.000-05:00

I have too much stuff. I know I do.

But on second thought, do I? How do we know when we have too much stuff? Who is the judge of that?

My guess is, I’m not alone in thinking I have too much stuff; most Americans would join me in the “I’ve got too much stuff” confessional. In our consumer driven society, owners of speciality stores make money helping us find ways to store more of our stuff so they buy more stuff for themselves.

In your estimation, my stuff may be worthless, while in my eyes, it may be precious. And to me, that stuff you’ve saved for years might be junk. We all have our special stuff.

Take books, for example. I love books, not only for the story they tell or the information they convey. I love to hold a new book, open it and smell the new pages. And I can tell you when, where and why I purchased most of my books. Superstar author Stephen King sees the advantages of e-books, but he still loves physical books. “I have thousands of books in my house,” he recently admitted in a Wall Street Journal interview. “In a weird way, it’s embarrassing…it’s crazy, but there are people who collect stamps,” he rationalized. I started getting rid some of my books. Then just the other day, I recalled a section from one of my books I read years ago. It was apropos for a class I am teaching. I raced into my library to pick it up. Gone. I growled as I remembered its location: Half –Price Books.

My wife and I need only a few coffee mugs Thanks to me, we have way more than we need. But, each one has a memory of the time I got it, or the people I’ve enjoyed coffee with while sipping from that mug. Many times I’ve started to toss them, but then I balk.

Knowing when we have too much stuff is not always easy, and having too much can be a hazard. Like most everything else there is a disorder for this. It’s a compulsive disorder called “hoarding.” Hoarders are people who accumulate far too much stuff and are unable to throw anything away. Their houses are so filled with stuff they can barely move around in them. According the American Journal of Psychiatry, “Compulsive hoarding is most commonly driven by obsessional fears of losing important items that the patient believes will be needed later, distorted beliefs about the importance of possessions, excessive acquisition, and exaggerated emotional attachments to possessions." Uhh, hmm.

Years ago, comedian George Carlin developed a routine around the concept of stuff. “That’s the whole meaning of life,” he joked, “trying to find a place to keep your stuff.” I suppose that’s when our stuff becomes dangerous: when accumulating it truly does become the meaning or purpose of life. You don’t have to be afflicted with hording syndrome to live a life for the sole purpose of acquiring more stuff. The stuff we own then owns us. We essentially become the stuff we’ve accumulated. That’s when we’re overstuffed with stuff.

Surely life has a higher purpose than storing up things only for ourselves or our own family.

Jesus warned us about this when he told a story about a man who tore down his barns to build bigger barns so he could store more of his stuff. And that very day, his soul was required of him. Jesus’ story hits home with most of us. After all, I’ve never presided over a funeral where the hearse had a U-Haul behind it.

Getting rid of my unnecessary stuff reminds me of what is really important; it gives me a sense of inner peace that frees me for the most worthy things in life. I realize that.

But I’m still going to sit down with a good book and some java in one of my favorite coffee mugs.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is, DavidBWhitlock.com

The Bully in You

2010-11-11T20:57:00.000-05:00

It seems bullying is epidemic these days. The cruel facts reveal that 23% of elementary students report being bullied one to three times in the last month; 77% of students report having been bullied; and each day 160,000 kids stay home from school for fear of being bullied.

I remember being bullied. It happened in my own front yard. I was in third grade, maybe fourth. We were playing football when some kids in junior high invited themselves to our game. Being bigger than us, they quickly took the game away. Then it got ugly. They began to call us names, “Punks,” “Wimps,” “Sissy’s.” Abusive language for the 1960s. The name calling escalated into pushing and shoving. We were intimidated by these older, bigger kids.

And then, from nowhere, or so it seemed, my older brother, Mark, showed up. Somehow he had seen what was happening. Mark was a stand-out football player for the Altus High School Bulldogs. He walked into our humiliating situation, took the football in his grip and zinged it at one of the bullies. It stung the kid, slipping through his hands and bouncing off his chest. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a ball thrown that fast?” Mark challenged. “Well, if you can’t play with the big boys, why are you picking on these little kids who are younger and smaller than you?”

That’s all it took. They lowered their heads and sulked away. Mark tossed the ball back to us and left without saying another word. Nothing more needed to be said. Case closed.

But what happens when no older brother or friend or parent shows up? What happens when our protectors are no longer there? Therein is the problem.

Experts tell us to communicate with others if we are bullied. Tell a parent or some authority. Also, stay in a group, and if possible, stand up to the bully, but don’t fight back.

People bully for many reasons. In one survey, 1 in 5 students admitted to having been a bully or bullying others at some point. Perhaps the root cause for bullying is a sense of insecurity on the part of the bully which expresses itself in a feeling of superiority over someone whose character the bully despises. Unfortunately, gayness has been an object for bullying. In the month of September, 2010, alone, nine young people, gay or suspected of being gay, took their lives after being bullied.

So, what’s the solution? Maybe the best place to start is for everyone to take a look within and ask, “Is there a bully in me?”

All of us have voices from the present and past that haunt us and cause us to engage in less than admirable behaviors. Sometimes the bully within whispers in our ear, “You’re a loser; you’re not worth it; you can’t.” And so, in frustration, we speak words of condemnation to the child in our home, or our spouse, or that different girl or guy at work or school. And we think somehow the negative feelings we receive from the bully within us will be abated by putting another down. Hurting others will make us feel better, we think. But it’s an illusion. It only reinforces negativity; we become less authentically human as a result.

Perhaps the key is to address that bully within. To say, “I am better than that,” is not to exalt oneself above others but to acknowledge God’s positive plan for us. We can live with others who are different--- with red and yellow, black and white, gay and straight, for they are precious in his sight. God loves people. Period. To bully one of God’s creatures is an affront to the God who made them. We don’t have to bully others to prove who we are. We just have to embrace the “Yes,” from the One who loves us always, just as we are, so we can love others just like they are. And then enjoy a life lived with that forever, “Yes.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is davidbwhitlock.com

Political Ads Gone Wild

2010-11-03T09:23:00.002-04:00

Note: This should have been posted two weeks ago. Sorry for not having it in earlier

Mama always said, “Not all attention is good.”

Whew, we’ve seen the truism of mama’s dictum in political ads this campaign year. Politicians, Republican and Democrat, conservative and liberal, have in an effort to draw attention to the flaws of their opponents, used attack ads, and more often than not, drawn negative attention to themselves.

Take, for example, “The Ad,” in what is now being described as the ugliest campaign in the country, the campaign for the Kentucky U.S. Senate race between Kentucky Attorney General Jack Conway and Dr. Rand Paul. Conway’s ad draws attention to Rand Paul’s involvement in a secret society while an undergraduate at Baylor University. I do recall as an undergraduate at Baylor in the late 1970s, the group to which Paul would later belong. Known for their pranks and satirical writing, they were not taken seriously; they did not take themselves seriously. “What will they do next?” we would ask. Unfortunately for them, Baylor President Abner McCall did take them seriously, especially when some of them streaked across campus, a popular activity back then. McCall booted them and their running attire or lack thereof, off campus.

Now, Conway has used Paul’s involvement in that organization not, presumably, to attack Paul’s religion, but to expose him as part of a lunatic fringe, unfit for office. But in the process, everyone gets hurt, not just those involved in this particular political race.

Indeed the ad got attention on all the major television networks and landed Conway interviews with Matt Lauer (NBC Morning Show) and MSNBC’s “Hardball,” with Chris Mathews. Speaking of the ad, Mathews said, “I think it questions his faith.” And Lauer cited Jonathan Chait’s statement in the New Republic---which Lauer characterized as a “fairly liberal publication,”---that “This (Conway’s ad) is the ugliest, most illiberal political ad of the year.”

“That’s not exactly an award you want to win,” Lauer quipped.

The tragedy of negative ads, of which Conway’s is only the latest example, is that it brings everyone down: I wince every time I see the commercial, “Did Paul really do that?” Then I wince even more, “Did Conway really run that ad?” Stuart Rothenberg correctly dubbed the ad a “thermonuclear bomb.”

It hurts not only both candidates, but all of us, although Conway may not realize that yet. Supposing it does work, and he pulls it off, what does it say about the emerging trend in the political process?

It says to anyone with future political aspirations: “If you’ve ever, done anything inappropriate or perhaps even borderline inappropriate, it can and will be used against you.” The danger here is that we will lose qualified, effective leaders who could help America revive from a punishing recession, change the bleak economic forecast, compete with countries and their growing economies, and more effectively face the unknown challenges beyond the current horizon. We lose potential leaders’ wisdom; we lose their acumen; we lose their abilities. We all lose. Why? Because we have allowed an environment to thrive that few wish to enter. After all, who wants to put themselves or their families through political hazing? Columnist Peggy Noonan, no newcomer to American politics, recently wrote in her Wall Street Journal column about speaking with an entrepreneur, an effective leader with fresh ideas that could help our country. When Noonan urged him to enter politics, his response was, “I’ve lived an imperfect life. They’d kill me.” And they would.

Attack ads have another devastating effect: they spawn cynicism, fuel frustration, and create skepticism among the electorate. People are angry with politicians whom they no longer trust and find increasingly harder to believe. In an interview on Fox News, democratic strategist Richard Socarides defended Conway’s ad: “When the stakes are high you have to use extreme measures.” Who, then, defines, “extreme measures”? Each politician? Having wallowed into the gutter of politics, it’s difficult to shake its stench. And politicians seem surprised with an aggravated electorate.

Conway is by no means the only politician to use “extreme measures.” His ad simply happens to have the attention at the moment. And that’s the problem: Just as water flows naturally to the lowest level, so do we, unless we determine to seek higher ground. And unless we do, the political process will only get sleazier and slimier, as it slips and slides in its descent into chaos. In so doing, we all suffer; it injures all of us. And then, as we look askance at the mayhem in the political arena, which to a large degree determines our national future, we will perhaps with a tinge of sadness be reminded of that other parental warning: “Mama told me not to come.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com, and his website is davidbwhitlock.com

What’s Going on with Those Monks?

2010-10-19T21:59:00.000-04:00

The pick-up truck was barreling straight towards me, oblivious to the fact that I was prayer-walking, blind to my existence, ignorant of my conversation with God. Glancing at his menacing headlights, I scooted across the road, tucking my tail like one of my Schnauzers when scared, and gasping for breath as I reached the entrance of Gethsemane Abby, I was grateful that I was secure on the other side of the road, a side where I longed for and found, time and time again: calm, peace, tranquility. And once having crossed the road, I realized how easily the world crashes into our spiritual safety zones.

Gethsemane Abby in Gethsemane, Kentucky, has been that for me: a quiet room for my soul to rest and refresh, an area where my cell phone has no service, a spiritual compass redirecting my life, a frequency retuning my spiritual ears to God’s voice, a time zone resetting my spiritual clock to God’s timeless and eternal one. It’s holy ground for me, a place where I remove my shoes, as Moses did before the burning bush, and listen to the still, quiet, but all powerful voice of God.

Having been raised an umpteenth generation Protestant of the Southern Baptist flavor--- and a preacher at that, I remember having no clue what to expect on my first visit to Gethsemane. Would I have to wear one of those long robes and don a pair of sandals? Upon the suggestion of one of my colleagues at Campbellsville University, I had scheduled a four day retreat.

That was three years ago. I have learned that these Cistercian monks are very integrated people who simply, quite simply, operate in another realm where life revolves around prayer---seven times a day, beginning at 3:15 a.m. and not concluding until 7:30 p.m. ---a slow reading of the Scriptures, called lectio divina, work, and leisure. And I, a man in love with his wife and four children, embraced that monastic vision. It’s affected more than my prayer life, too. St. Benedict encouraged work with hands. So, I took his advice and planted a garden. Thanks to St. Benedict, and the coaching of some good ol’ Southern Baptist farmers, I enjoy vegetables from my own backyard. St. Benedict considered work in God’s presence part of our prayer life, too.

For the last three weeks I had scheduled a long overdue personal day at my spiritual resting place, Gethsemane Abby. And every week that pick-up truck of the world kept careening into my plans, piling first one thing and then another into my life. That’s life, as we know it. It is like that. That’s why it’s essential for us to get to a place where life is not like we know it.

It felt right to get back into the monastic liturgy that day. And having prayed with the monks at 5:45 a.m. and through the day, I walked, and prayed, and prayed and walked, until I found myself on the other side of the road, where the truck had a bead on my soul, jerking me back into a reality I knew too well, that world of a Day-Timer filled with meetings to attend, deadlines to make, bills to pay, people to meet. And so, I ran, finding safety, at least momentarily, across the road, in the arms of God, there at Gethsemane.

Just a few hours later I was in my car, heading home. The radio was already on as I started the engine, tuned to a pre-programmed station, playing the The Black Eyed Peas, “Let’s Get it Started in Here.” Smiling to myself, I turned it off, having the distinct impression that the monks already had it going on.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.

It's More Than Just a Game

2010-10-08T17:36:00.001-04:00

The program stands upright, encased in plastic, holding a prominent place on a bookshelf in my office. “Kansas City Chiefs vs. Boston Patriots, Municipal Stadium, November 20, 1966, 50 cents (including tax),” is written in bold letters, displayed on the front of the program. Beneath that announcement, a black and white picture shows Chiefs’ quarterback Len Dawson rolling out, behind the block of fullback Curtis McClinton.

It’s the program for a game I never got to attend.

My Uncle Don, Don Krouse, lived next door to Jack Steadman at the time. I was eleven years old. Jack Steadman was for four decades chairman, president, and general manager of the Chiefs football organization. Knowing how I, as a young boy, practically idolized college and pro football players, Don, with the help of Stedman, made some things happen for me. For beginners, Don took me to watch the Chiefs practice. Then, I was allowed into the Chiefs locker room where Head Coach Hank Stram smiled at me, shook my hand, told me to grow a little, and come play for the Chiefs. And, to this day I have a football signed by members of the Chiefs team that played the Green Bay Packers in Super Bowl I. I cried when the Pack beat the Chiefs.

But I didn’t give up on the Chiefs; I stayed with the sport because of something I learned from Uncle Don. It was a small thing, and he probably forgot about it, but I never did. It happened on one of our visits to Kansas City. Don had done it again; this time we were to sit with Lamar Hunt in the owner’s suite. And after the game, Don told me, I might actually have the opportunity to meet some of the players.

Unfortunately for me, as soon as we arrived I got sick and missed the game.

But the lesson was learned after that game I didn’t see. Uncle Don tapped on the door of my sick room. “How ya doin’ kid?” he inquired in his raspy smoker’s voice, now even more hoarse from yelling at the game. “Thought you might like this.” It was a program from the game, with autographs of Len Dawson, Jerry Mays, Bobby Bell, Chris Buford, and Jim Tyrer. Forgotten now to most sports fans, they were my heroes then. And along with that autographed program, Don handed me a play by play synopsis of the game. I watched the replay of the game the next day and had fun “predicting” what would happen with each play. Uncle Don had helped a disappointed youngster feel better, and more significantly, in the process he taught me a valuable lesson.

Football is football most of the time. But on occasion it becomes something more than just a game. Whether or not you know what a first down is, you can understand human compassion, expressed most often in small ways, in little actions, like giving a dejected kid an autographed program, a play by play summary, and a tender smile. As important as it is to make every effort to win, the relationships formed as one person cares genuinely for another trump the won-loss record.

I thought about that just the other day as I hung up the phone, having received the news of my Uncle Don’s death. Staring at that program in my office, I recalled that moment with him when I missed the game but learned a lesson. And for the life of me, I couldn’t remember who won the game.

Just a Little More

2010-10-01T22:49:00.001-04:00

Perhaps the most quoted line from the blockbuster movie, “Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps,” (It was the top money maker last weekend, grossing over $19 million, underscoring the truth in its title, “Money Never Sleeps.”) will be the line where Gordon Gekko (Michael Douglas) ---having served eight years in prison for insider trading--- speaks before a standing room only crowd of mesmerized listeners. Gekko says, “Someone reminded me I once said, 'Greed is good.' Now it seems it's legal."

But the line that stayed with me was not Gekko’s; it came from his antagonist: the equally greedy and ruthless Bretton James (Josh Brolin). It’s a classic one liner that comes in answer to the question of the younger, up and coming Wall Street trader, Jake Moore, played by Shia LaBoef. It’s a question about what amount of money it would take for James to be satisfied. Moore asks what that financial figure is. James looks puzzled until Moore explains. Everyone has a figure; everyone has an amount of what it will take to leave with the satisfaction having made enough. James answers with a wry grin, “More.”

More indeed. The character Bretton James is not the first and won’t be the last to want just a little more.

That, it seems, is the essence of greed; it’s the insatiable desire for more. Legend has it that John D. Rockefeller was once asked, “How much money is enough?” Rockefeller is supposed to have replied, “Just a little more than what you have.”

Gekko, who describes America’s lust for more as a cancer, is himself a victim of the disease he warns against. Has he come out of it? Has he experienced a spiritual transformation, or is he simply a snake who has shed another skin? One thing is sure: eluding greed is not easy. For the alcoholic, liquor is a necessity and not a delight; for the sex addict, sex is mechanical and not meaningful; but for the greedy, the addiction of which seems to encompass the former two vices as well, enough is always elusive and never satisfactorily attained. More is never enough, no matter what the particular desire.

Is there a financial figure at which most people can find satisfaction?

According to a recent Princeton University survey the answer is, yes. The magic number, the study concludes, is $75,000 a year. Why that figure? It allows us to pay our basic expenses and have some left over for some enjoyment; but more than that seems to clutter our life with so many extra responsibilities and stress factors that we forfeit our emotional stability and quality of family life.

And to think I’ve asked the Lord that if I’m going to be tempted--- at least one time--- let me be tempted with having too much. Now I know, at least according to this study what “too much” is.

Or do I? “Too much” will be defined by the values each person has adopted for one’s own life. Some of the most satisfied people I know on this earth are those who own nothing: the Cistercians at the Abby of Gethsemane, monks who have taken vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. The walk away figure for them was a life of prayer.

Leo Tolstoy wrote a story about a peasant farmer who had acquired more land and yet complained that he still didn’t have enough land to satisfy him. He says, “If I had plenty of land, I shouldn't fear the Devil himself!" Then the peasant received an unusual offer. For 1,000 rubles he could buy all the land he could walk around in one day. The only catch: he had to be back at his starting place by the end of the day. He began at day break and walked as fast as he could, all the time thinking of how he would build more wealth on the land he paced. As the sun was beginning to set, people could see him at a distance. He began to run with everything he had, desperately trying to make it back before the sun set on him. Gasping for breath, clutching his chest, he staggered across the mark where he had started earlier that day. And then he collapsed. As the people gathered around him, they bent over to find him unconscious, with blood oozing from his mouth. In a few moments he was dead. His servants dug a grave the dimensions of which were roughly, 6 feet by 3 feet.

The title of Tolstoy’s story? How Much Land Does a Man Need?

Finally, when life is done, about all we need is 6 feet by 3 feet. Unless of course our walk away figure included an investment in eternity. Then, a little more includes forever.

Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com.

You Say “Goodbye,” God says, “Hello”

2010-09-24T23:25:00.000-04:00

Last week while waiting to pick up our oldest daughter at the airport, I noticed that the security area for departures was only several yards from the arrivals area. I witnessed a young soldier’s brave good-byes as he held back tears, giving his wife one last hug---and then one more--- while she, teary eyed, finally let go even as she held hands with her sister or close female friend, slowly walking away, repeatedly looking back over her shoulder toward her husband, leaning with her every step on her companion. Almost simultaneously, only several feet from them, I witnessed a middle-aged couple greeting with open arms what appeared to be their teenage granddaughter. They embraced as if they hadn’t seen each other for a long time. All three were smiling broadly, interlocking arms as they walked away together. “Do you feel like getting a bite to eat?” I heard the grandmother ask the granddaughter, who coyly replied, “Sure.” The three floated on wings of joy.

Although they are only a few yards apart, the departure and arrival areas are separated by two worlds: hello and goodbye. As I anxiously anticipated seeing my daughter, I thought, “Next week I’ll be there on the departure side. My time of sadness will come.” Then in an instant I saw my daughter smiling (I nicknamed her “Smiles,” long ago) as she reached out to me for a welcome home hug.

Although I have no concrete evidence to prove it, I contend that the space between life and death---this side and the other side--- is a closer distance than that separating the departure and arrival sites at Louisville’s International Airport. And although we may not all be living dangerously, we are living on the edge, never knowing when our time of departure here will announce our arrival there.

Heaven may be closer than you or I think. While the New Testament Scriptures speak of heaven as a place, it is not limited to boundaries as we know them. For all we know, heaven could be in another realm of time and space, adjacent to us at this very moment, here where only this life separates us from that other place, that different dimension.

One passes through the departure area; another walks past the arrival gate. We say, “Goodbye,” Someone else says, “Hello.” Only a few steps and eternity separates the two worlds. A thin veneer of life appears to our time and space limited minds as a veritably indomitable wall, a barrier blocking us from a life we don’t know and often fear.

Five days later it was my time. Instead of being the happy greeter to a welcome home party, I was saying “Goodbye” to the daughter I would not see again until…until who knows? As my wife and I hugged and then waved bye, we had a longing for security in our hearts. We were saying “Goodbye,” but who would say “Hello?”

As I glanced back at the departure security check adjacent to the arrival area where people were leaving and arriving simultaneously, people oblivious to the others side’s presence, I was reminded that the God who is at our departure and arrival is also most aware of where we are at every point and moment in between, even when we can’t, and sometimes don’t want, to see it. The One who is waiting for us on the Other Side to welcome us home assures us of our safe arrival. In the instant we say, “Goodbye,” He is already there, saying, “Hello.”

Starting our car to leave the airport, I found a familiar and comforting security in that. I had heard it before, “I am with you always, even unto the end of the age.” We say “Goodbye,” even as He is saying, “Hello.”

That’s true for here and for there. For now and for then. Forever and for always.

Life Matters is written by David B.Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. His website is DavidBWhitlock.com.

Is it Time to "Get Low"?

2010-09-16T21:52:00.001-04:00

I’ve thought about preaching my own funeral. Really. I’m serious. Oh, I would pawn the obituary on a previously selected person, preferably someone who knew me, as opposed to startling some hapless soul who happens to arrive early at the funeral, “Hey, would you mind reading this?” But the sermon, prerecorded of course, I prefer to reserve for myself, rather than depending on some distracted preacher in a hurry to get the thing done and not miss tee time, or fishing, a ball game, or a soap opera.

When I shared this with my wife, her response, after making sure I hadn’t received a bad report from my physician, was, “That’s just plain weird, especially the part about a prerecorded funeral sermon.”

“But they play prerecord music at funerals all the time,” I protested.

“Not music of the deceased!”

I suppose she has a point. Unlike music, a funeral sermon is not something we necessarily enjoy hearing. “Don’t you think today is a good day for a funeral sermon, dear?”

“No.”

I had dismissed the idea of showing up for my own funeral until last week when I saw the movie, “Get Low,” starring Robert Duvall, with Bill Murray and Sissy Spacek. Duvall plays the character, Felix Bush, a self-imposed hermit who has lived alone in the woods for 40 years. The movie gets it title from the first conversation Duvall has with the financially troubled funeral director, played by grim Bill Murray, who is thrilled at the monetary prospects of a funeral. “It’s about time for me to get low,” Duvall says as he states his intentions to plan his own funeral.

The laconic Duvall has determined to show up for his own mock funeral where people will tell stories about what a strange and mysterious person he is. The film is based loosely on the story of a man in Tennessee named Felix “Bush” Breaseale, who threw his own funeral party back in the 1930s. Over 12,000 people showed up, creating something of a national sensation: the event was covered by the AP and Life magazine.

In “Get Low,” Bush has a secret that he needs and wants to tell, but isn’t sure he can. It’s the reason he has imprisoned himself in his woods. “Getting low,” takes on a deeper meaning than simply preplanning a funeral. It connotes the humility that comes with sharing something painful about our past, something that has shamed us, burdened us, driven us into a hermitage of our own choosing--- an isolation than allows us to live in denial of who we are meant to be, disconnected from those who could benefit from our mistakes. In that secret hiding place deep within our soul, we bury the thing that needs telling, supposing it will go to the grave with us, even as we intuitively sense that as we live, that thing of our past creates a false self, not the one we were meant to be.

Forgiving others is not always easy, and forgiving ourselves can be even harder still. Voices of the past lock us in a prison of our own making, haunting us with the verdict: “Unforgiven.”

And I thought a funeral party would be more fun than the sermon. But as Felix Bush experienced, “getting low,” is not that easy; like Bush, we have something that needs to be told, but we aren’t sure we can say it; it’s like having a dream where we’re urgently trying to shout for help but can’t utter a word. Fearful that we might die choking on the words, we silence what we need to share.

I think I’ll let the only One who can truly say it, do it for me: “Thy sins are forgiven. Thy faith has made thee whole.”

That’s a good thing to hear if you plan on showing up at your own funeral; that’s a good thing to receive before you get there, before it’s too late to “get low.”

“Life Matters,” is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. Dr. Whitlock’s website is davidbwhitlock.com.

The Dream is Bigger Than the Game

2010-09-02T14:31:00.000-04:00

It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.

Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.

But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).

We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.

As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.

After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”

I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”

I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.

“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”

‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.

Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.

But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).

We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.

As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.

After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”

I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”

I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.

“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”

‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

“The Dream is Bigger than the Game”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.

It had taken us three years to accomplish our goal, but we did it, last weekend.

Three years ago my oldest son, Dave, and I talked about our wish list for the baseball parks we wanted to visit. That included some of the oldest and most prestigious stadiums in professional baseball: Fenway in Boston, Yankee Stadium (now the new Yankee Stadium, not the one we dreamed of) in New York City, and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Of course, the new Busch Stadium, home of our favorite team, the St. Louis Cardinals, was a must. Dodger Stadium was high on our list too, as was the Great American Ball Park, home of the Cincinnati Reds.

But time---I do have three other kids, plus Dave and I didn’t want to be away for more than a day---and money, we didn’t have much, forced us to narrow our list to the ballparks within a day’s drive that wouldn’t require an overnight stay. That left three ballparks: Bush Stadium (St. Louis), Wrigley Field (Chicago), and the Great American Ball Park (Cincinnati).

We started in Chicago three years ago (Wrigley turned out to be my favorite ballpark, although it doesn’t host my favorite team) where we watched the Cubbies defeat our Cards, moved last year to St. Louis where our Redbirds beat the Orioles, and just last weekend we ended up in Cincinnati where we witnessed the Reds pounding of the Cubs.

As we were driving back after the Cincinnati game, we thought of making another run of it, a new three year plan: why not the new Yankee Stadium, the Oriole Park at Camden Yards in Baltimore, and Nationals Park in D.C.? How about an East Coast Baseball Dream? “Yeah,” I said, “that would be awesome,” even as I was thinking of the time and money, mainly the money.

After leaving Dave at Centre College in Danville, KY., I drove on alone to Lebanon, KY., and deep in my thoughts, wondered what was so important about those games. The atmosphere of the ballpark is great, but it’s more than that. You couldn’t pay me to go to a ball game and sit by myself. Then I reflected on the movie, Field of Dreams, and the words of “Terrence Mann,” played by James Earl Jones, who said, in that luxurious voice of his: “People will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom…And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again.”

I got it. We went to Wrigley, and Busch, and the Great American Ball Park, not to study stadium architecture, but to relive baseball moments of former days: summer evenings at the Astrodome in Houston, TX., a blistering afternoon at the Ball Park in Arlington, TX., many a sweltering practice at the Prien Lake Little League Park in Lake Charles, LA., and our own imaginary games (our team always managed to win) in our front yard everywhere we’ve lived. And with every ball park we enter, those memories are resurrected; they’re embedded in our psyche, drawn forth with the aroma of fresh, roasted peanuts, the echo of the crowd in the stadium’s corridors, and the shout of the umpire, “Batter Up!” Ghost ballparks come alive too, like the old Sportsman’s Park, predecessor of Busch Stadium, where in 1963, I sat enthralled, watching Stan the Man Musial in his last year of play, thinking to myself as I scanned the stadium while chomping down on a hot dog as big as myself, “I’m in a real baseball stadium.”

I don’t know where we will be next year---maybe we’ll revisit one of the ballparks, but wherever we are, I want to be all there, living a dream--- completely alive in that moment.

“Thanks for taking me, Dad, we did it.”

‘You’re welcome, Dave, but we’re not done yet. Keep dreaming.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email is drdavid@davidbwhitock.com. You can also visit David’s website, www.davidbwhitlock.com

Ripe for the Picking

2010-08-25T20:44:00.000-04:00

I tightened the lid on the 24th jar of tomatoes I had canned. Don’t ask me why I do this. I still have 6 jars left from the thirty-something I canned last year. And that doesn’t include a refrigerator full of quart, pint, and half-pint jars of salsa.

Maybe the novelty of “putting up maters” hasn’t worn off yet, this being only the second year I’ve indulged in this little project. (I still had to ask a friend for instructions on how to can tomatoes. “Now how did I do that last year?”) According to my normally patient wife, it’s no longer a “little project,” especially since I’ve added the salsa to my tomato-preserving repertoire. Elbow deep in tomatoes, I offered my best defense: “I’m a victim,” I explained. “I have all these ripe tomatoes. How can I watch them die without a home---either on the table, in the jar, or in the salsa?”

Maybe it all goes back to Mom. Can I blame her? “Son, don’t waste your food. Eat what’s on your plate.” Wouldn’t ripe tomatoes fall into the category of, “what’s on your plate?” Who am I to disobey Momma’s rules?

So, how did I adopt so many tomatoes? I became the proud owner of a trunk load of tomatoes because of the prolific garden and generous heart of one, Bernard Sandusky. His brother, Glen, called me the other day. “Bernard wants to know if you want some maters.” Without hesitating, I said, “Sure. Do you want me to pick them up, or do you want to bring them to town on your next trip?” Glen related my query to Bernard.

“Well, I sure ain’t gonna pick any more.” I could hear Bernard chuckling in the background.

The next morning, Bernard walked me to his garden, and what I saw made my eyes widen, my mouth water, and my heart palpitate. I was admiring the tomato garden of all tomato gardens, the veritable Taj Mahal of tomato gardens, overflowing with tomatoes--- juicy, red, plumb tomatoes, ripe for picking, from small to hamburger patty size, tomatoes upon tomatoes, some hanging on the vine, most on the ground, sprawling across what seemed like a half-acre of hay-covered dirt.

“Preacher, pick as many as you want. My wife told me not to dare bring anymore in the house. She’s canned all she’s gonna can.”

Pointing with his cane, Bernard gave me instructions: “Start on this side of the garden, work your way up and then back down the other side.” I thought I heard a suppressed laugh when he said, “Work your way back down the other side.” It was a daunting task, but one any tomato-lover would relish.

I was on my hands and knees, crawling like a mole through the garden, first picking this beauty, then that treasure. And all the while, the Godfather of Gardeners was urging me on. By the time I got to the back side of the garden I already had more tomatoes than I ever dreamed of bagging.

With sweat now burning my eyes, I squinted as I looked up at Bernard. Maybe it was the heat, maybe it was my blurred vision, but he looked vaguely familiar, towering over me in his jeans, faded, plaid, short-sleeve shirt, suspenders, and that cane, pointing to yet another prize tomato. Ah, yes, it was The Captain, the tyrannical warden in Cool Hand Luke, “What we have here is a failure to communicate.” I obediently reached for that tomato, fearful that The Captain might rap my knuckles with his cane.

But then I quickly came to my senses; there was Bernard himself by my side, gathering tomatoes, practically giggling with delight each time he picked a piece of that luscious fruit.

Days later I was handing Bernard and his wife, Sandra, a sample of my salsa, made with their tomatoes. “I’m glad you made good use of those tomatoes, cause I’d had enough,” Sandra quipped. “I told Bernard, ‘Don’t you bring any more in the house. They may have been ripe for picking, but I’d worn myself out canning ‘em.”

I smiled in agreement. I knew what she meant. Precisely.

Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com

“Checking Out can lead to Crossing Over”

2010-08-20T09:24:00.003-04:00

Unresolved anger, planted in the soul, eventually gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation.

By now you’ve heard the story: Jet Blue flight attendant Steven Slater had a bad day, maybe a string of bad days, 28 long years of being polite to rude passengers. Finally he had enough. Whether the passenger provoked Slater by cursing him when he asked her not to stand up to retrieve her bags while the plane was taxiing, or whether Slater himself had been edgy and snarly to passengers from the beginning of the flight is a matter of perspective and opinion. What is clear is that Slater had enough. Maybe he was channeling the character Howard Beale, whose rant in the 1976 film Network, galvanized the nation with the words “I’m mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore.” What is clear is that Slater cursed the passengers over the plane’s intercom, and then checked out on his job, sliding down the plane’s emergency chute, a beer in each hand.

And now he has become a cultural hero. In fact, t-shirts are for sale that say, “I wish my job had an emergency exit.” This message of escape resonates with thousands who have felt like checking out and jumping down the chute.

Americans are agitated with life as it is in our country. A Wall Street Journal/NBC poll inferred that Slater’s actions reflected a broad public anger, a resentment that in November will fire the politicians now in office. A “Jet Blue Nation” has had enough; it’s “mad as hell” and is “not going to take this anymore.”

And so, here we are: unresolved anger, planted in the soul, gives rise to resentment, which when unchecked, produces the fruit of retaliation. And retaliation, we all know, can get ugly. When widespread, it can unleash forces that tear apart the fabric holding a nation together.

Most of us have indulged in fantasies of retaliation, and that is not necessarily a bad thing. They can actually help us process our anger and douse the potential fires of revenge. It’s when our visions of addressing those who have wronged us become primarily violent in nature and predominant in our thinking that professional help should be sought.

It’s all about relationships. And relationships can be difficult. That’s because we can’t control what people do to us. All we can truly control is our attitude. As pioneer psychologist William James said, “Whenever you're in conflict with someone, there is one factor that can make the difference between damaging your relationship and deepening it. That factor is attitude.”

We have all been hurt. Whether it’s someone’s insensitive behavior on an airplane, or a spouse’s vindictive words in the home, or child’s temper tantrum in the grocery store, or a boss’ verbal abuse in front of peers, or a friend’s cutthroat betrayals at the office water cooler, we all have grounds for reprisal.

And, sometimes, particularly in harmful situations, we have no other option than to check out, exit the scene, slide down the chute, and start over.

Even within that, especially within that, there is hope. Perhaps that’s why Elizabeth Gilbert’s bestselling book Eat, Pray, Love, now made into a movie starring Julia Roberts, has connected with so many people. Despite the less than favorable movie reviews, it grossed $23,700,000 last weekend, second to The Expendables. For some reason people identify with Gilbert, who has experienced a bitter divorce, a confusing rebound relationship, and a frightening depression. She sets out on a journey, financed by an advance on the book (Gilbert is a writer, by profession), to Italy, India, and Indonesia--- to find, among other things, who she is, to feel life again, and discover how she can live in balance.

In one scene from the movie, Julia Roberts (playing Gilbert) is engaged in conversation with friends. The question is asked, “What word describes who you are?” Roberts isn’t sure how to answer but responds with, “Writer.” A friend reminds her that her word is a description of what she does, not who she is. By the end of the movie (and book), she has her word. She finds it as she receives the wisdom of her spiritual guru, Ketut, "To lose balance sometimes for love is part of living a balanced life." She then declares her word to her lover, Felipe, whom she has decided to love, truly. Her word is the Italian word, “attraversiamo.” It means, “Let’s cross over.”

For some it’s magical thinking in fantasy land. And to a degree it is. But it’s better than drowning in anger, or being isolated by rage, or destroyed by grief.

Journey together. Grow together. Heal each other’s wounds. Soothe each other’s pain. Fight each other’s fears. Together.

A fantasy? Perhaps. But let’s try, anyway.

Let’s cross over. Together.

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website at davidbwhitlock.com

Letting Them Fly

2010-08-13T13:23:00.000-04:00

“I’m doing better this time,” my wife Lori said as I answered the phone, “I’m not crying…at least not much.”

She was leaving our youngest daughter’s apartment. No, they hadn’t had a mother daughter spat; nothing negative had prompted Lori’s emotions. She was saying “bye” to Madison… for the second time. We had moved her to Lexington, KY., where she will soon start school. Lori informed me it was necessary for her to return the next day, “to help get Madi settled.” That was true, but I knew more: finally letting go is difficult for parents, especially when you are the mother and the child is the youngest daughter.

We have had all four of our children, in this blended family of ours, fly to different places: we felt a lump in our throats when Mary-Elizabeth flew to New York City; we longed for laughter after Dave moved to Danville, KY., and we carried a heavy heart when Harrison left for Campbellsville, KY. But when that last one leaves the nest, it makes all the children’s absences seem even more permanent. Now, when we returned home, only Baylor and Max, our two miniature Schnauzers, awaited us.

The next day, as I walked through the house in the early morning hour, an eerie silence reverberated through the walls, echoing the children’s giggles, booming their music, resounding with the clamor for help with homework, resonating with the cry for answers to life’s ultimate questions, like “When will supper be ready, finally?” and “Why can’t I stay out later?”

But I’ve noticed several positives to this empty nest situation: I have more room in my driveway, making it easier to buzz in and out of the garage; I can rattle around the upstairs of our two story house in the wee hours of the morning and wake no one; I have acquired, in the past four years--- three empty bedrooms, giving me a morning, afternoon, and evening study--- whichever I so desire; instead of planning weekly meals, Lori can ask me at 6 p.m., “What do you want for supper?” and I can respond, “I dunno,” and that’s okay; I no longer walk through the house at curfew, making sure the kids are in, checking the locks on the doors, and turning off lights; and I don’t have to rush to get in the shower before the kids deplete the hot water supply.

The most rewarding and satisfying benefit of letting them go is the influence those young ones can have in the world. Children, after all, are meant to grow up, leave, and make a difference. As painful as it is to let them go, it’s more hurtful to keep them home when it’s time for them to fly to freedom. Granted, circumstances sometimes necessitate a longer stay with mom and dad, yet even within those situations, parents can release children to new expressions of freedoms and the gradual acceptance of more adult responsibilities. Even when the children do leave, whether it’s sooner or later, until they are completely independent, they most often return---some more than others--- if not for a home cooked meal, at least to do their laundry.

Yet, when it’s time, it’s time. Good-byes may not be forever, but they are steps along the road to maturity. And ultimately, a child leaving the security of home for a dream, risky though it may be, is better than one who stays for fear of failure.

As I glanced in my review mirror at Madi waving bye, I was reminded of that episode from Andy Griffith, “Opie, the Birdman,” where Opie Taylor has accidentally killed a mother bird with his new slingshot. Opie then raises the baby birds to maturity. But then, when it’s time to let them go, Opie has trouble. Andy Taylor convinces his son, “to let’em go; let’em be on their own; let’em be free like they was intended.” And Opie does. Each bird flies to freedom. Then, Opie looks at the bird cage. To him it looks “awful empty.”

And Andy, the wise, sage of comedy, agrees but then adds, “But don’t the trees seem nice and full?”

Having raised them as best we can, we let them go. And instead of looking at the empty nest, we do well to look at the trees---the possibilities that lie ahead for them, the fullness they can bring to others’ lives--- and with a sigh of satisfaction, say with the good Sherriff of Mayberry, “My, but don’t the trees seem nice and full?”

Yes, indeed.

David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

When Lightning Strikes

2010-08-06T13:11:00.001-04:00

In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.

My friend Ronnie Lindsey was struck by lightning. Ronnie is an electrician and had just completed a job for his company, Lanham Refrigeration Heating and Air Conditioning. As he was leaving, the person who had needed the repairs half-jokingly warned “Be careful and don’t get struck by lightning.” It turned out to be no laughing matter.

As Ronnie was putting his tools back in the company van, he heard thunder. Glancing skyward, he started to step away from the van but before he could, he felt the lightning surge from his feet through his body. Momentarily stunned, Ronnie immediately took stock of himself and realized he had survived a lighting strike. All he could say was, “Thank you sweet Jesus for letting me live.”

Thank you indeed.

Ronnie’s chances of being struck by lightning were about 1 in 700,000. Yet, there are enough electrical storms out there to make lighting strikes one the leading causes of weather related deaths in the USA. An average of 73 people are killed by lightning each year and about 300 are injured. The fact that Ronnie had been handling metal tools increased his chances of attracting lightning. But Ronnie was partially in the van, which had rubber tires, and that may have lessened the severity of the shock. One thing is for sure: Ronnie Lindsey is grateful to be alive. Getting struck by lightning has a way of bringing life and death into focus.

In an instant--- less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.

In Ronnie’s case, it’s the same but different. Even though he has the same job with the same people with the same duties in the same town with the same family, life can never be quite the same. Close encounters with death are reminders of life’s precarious nature.

Like the storms they accompany, lightning happens when we least expect it. The once intact marriage is quite suddenly broken; the financially secure retirement evaporates as quickly as you can say, “Stock market crash;” the promising job opportunities vanish, it seems, the moment you get that diploma; and the once secure job is as tenuous as the clean bill of health. In a flash, the bat of the eye, the lightning-strike-moment, it’s all gone. Everything we depended on as certain, nailed down--- is all at once up in the air, floating away, just beyond our grasp.

People, not just the weather, change: that person you’ve lived with for 25 years surprises you; the co-worker you shared your heart with turns on you; the friend you trusted takes you to court; the child you dreamed for, undoes you.

Maybe it was inspired by Linda Keith, a Rolling Stones groupie---the former girlfriend of the band’s Keith Richards--- but it is true for many of the people you know: “Goodbye Ruby Tuesday, who could hang a name on you?/ When you change with every new day/Still I’m gonna miss you.” Ahh, the people who change, the people we somehow miss. It’s sad but true: some people change with every new day. They increase the odds of you getting struck.

And then suddenly it happens--- the lightning strikes, revealing the reality of the hypocrisy, the evasiveness of the truth, the masquerade of the façade. And life is never the same for us.

In an instant---less than a second, in the flash of lightning, life can change. And then life is never the same.

Mr. Daws, in the film, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, was struck by lightning, not once, not twice, but seven times. Like Ronnie, and many others, it happened in the ordinary activities of life. For Mr. Dawes it happened once when he was in the field just tending the cows, once when he was in his truck just minding his own business, once when he was repairing a leak on his roof, once when he was crossing the road to get the mail, once when he was walking his dog, and…and… what about the other two times, Mr. Dawes? Oh well, it doesn’t’ matter. Once you’ve been struck by lightning, you lose count. It happens to all of us, doesn’t it? It’s happened to you, hasn’t it? More times than you care to number.

You’ve been struck by lightning. And I believe you can identify with Mr. Dawes description of himself: “Blinded in one eye; can't hardly hear. I get twitches and shakes out of nowhere; always losing my line of thought. But you know what? God keeps reminding me I'm lucky to be alive. Storm's comin'.”

Yes indeed. Despite the previous hits we’ve taken, storms are still coming. And we are lucky to be alive. Aren’t we?

“Thank you, sweet Jesus, for letting me live.”

Life Matters, is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. David’s email is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www.DavidBWhitlock.com.

Juggling Little League, Family, and God

2010-07-30T10:36:00.002-04:00

I had heard the complaint before in other places, at other times. “I struggle with wanting my child to participate in summer little league baseball and still have time for our family events, not to mention participation in church,” the concerned mother told me over the phone. “It just seems like we can’t do it all.” In her particular situation, baseball games were being scheduled not only on Sundays, but on Sunday mornings--- a definite conflict for Christians who want their family to worship together. As a parent, and as a pastor, I understood.

This is not an isolated, local problem. The Wall Street Journal printed an article on July 21, 2010, about the challenge parents face when involvement in organized team sports begins to overwhelm families, interfering with vacations, stealing visits from grandparents, aunts and uncles, consuming weekends, leaving no time for family leisure and outings. Although the story focused on elite youth sport teams that often requires a year-long commitment, the gist of the report was that parents are pushing back and sometimes withdrawing their kids from these programs so that the family can maintain a more balanced and healthy lifestyle.

Let’s face it; few if any of the kids who play little league sports will ever make a career of it. Even of those that play competitive sports in high school, less that 1% ever makes it to the pros. For baseball it’s 0.44%; for football, 0.08%. If becoming a pro is the dream, the odds are not in your favor.

But team sports do have a definite positive side: sports can teach young people how to cooperate with one another in attaining a common goal; they can teach basic life skills---like how to deal with conflict--- and develop athletic abilities for further participation in competitive sports. Involvement in youth sports has been traced to improved self-esteem, lower obesity rates, and improved grades in school.

So, what to do about the time constraints youth sports--- particularly summer sports--- put on families? The problem is best dealt with before the season begins. When we give other people the permission to establish our priorities, they inevitably will. If we let the city’s little league game coordinator determine our summer schedule, he/she will. And it will likely be at our expense. A clear sense of priorities is the only way I know of steering the family ship through the sea of summer frustrations.

If the goal for your child’s involvement is to make him/her a more complete and integrated person, then let the coach or little league committee know your goals from the very beginning. If your priorities are God first, family second, and summer league baseball third, then why let a summer sports scheduler reverse the order of your life purposes?

After all, just how much is that first place trophy worth, anyway? Is it worth tearing up your family’s summer schedule? Only the parent can determine that. But remember, your priorities do reflect your values.

As a parent who rarely missed one of my son’s little league games, I have observed that the problem of over emphasizing competitiveness in youth sports is more frequently driven by parents who are trying to fulfill their own dreams as athletes through their children. Kids will generally take the sport about as seriously or lightheartedly as the parents and coaches do. I recall watching a coach shout at a 4th grader in a city league football practice: “What do you think this is?” he screamed, “Fun? This is football; it’s not supposed to be fun.”

“Really?” I thought. If it’s not fun how do you expect a child to continue playing the game? I switched my son to a different team with a coach who had a sports philosophy more compatible with mine.

Parents have to remember they are ultimately in control of their children’s activities.

Here’s the bottom line: if the parents refuse to have games on Sundays, or Sunday mornings, it won’t happen, unless coaches are willing to import players from another part of the country. And if they are able to do that, some city has too much money and somebody is thinking too hard about how to waste it. Remember this: youth sports are meant to be fun. In the words of Benny Rodriguez, in the 1993 film, The Sandlot, “Man, this is baseball. You gotta stop thinking. Just have fun.”

Life Matters is written by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com.

"Hot Town, Summer in the City"

2010-07-22T08:50:00.001-04:00

“Hot Town, Summer in the City”
David B. Whitlock, Ph.D.

It’s hot. We are in the middle of the hottest summer since they started keeping records in 1880. And to think that only a few months ago we were complaining about the cold weather.

We tramped out of an unusually cold winter only to find ourselves trudging through a scorching summer. It has proponents on both sides of the global warming issue shouting at each other. The most convinced are the most strident.

This past winter the skeptics of global warming gloated. You recall temperatures were dropping to record lows in many places. It prompted Oklahoma Senator Jim Inhoffe to have a little fun at former Vice-President and global warming spokesman Al Gore’s expense. Inhoffe and family built an igloo with signs that read, “Al GORE’S NEW HOME,” and “HONK IF YOU LOVE GLOBAL WARMING.”

Today global warming advocates are jabbing back, “Are you warm enough yet?” “Feeling the heat?”

I’m not debating; I’m trying to cool off. I’m too tired to argue.

The heat wears us down, draining our energy, replacing our once spirited buoyancy with tired flatness. It’s got me feeling like Pete Bancini, one of the hospital patients in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, who continually declares, whether anyone is there to listen or not, “I’m tired.”

Fatigue has a close friend; they are almost inseparable: irritability. Ahh, the grumpy factor, a nasty side effect of a long, hot summer. I’m trying to confine my crotchety moments to myself. I can grumble, and then quickly shake it off when I see someone coming. But once in a while, I get an unexpected surprise from a summer heat- lover who sneaks up on me with a “doncha ya love this weather?” greeting, chuckling as he slaps my back, not giving me enough time to change my mood.

But, I’ve got a good excuse for my heat-provoked grouchiness: It’s inherited. I know it is because I can recall the moment I got it. It was a miserably hot summer, 1966. I was sitting in the back seat of my parents’ car. We were in “the city,” that is, Oklahoma City. Shopping never was one of my dad’s favorite activities, and that’s what we were doing. All day long. Because this was before the arrival of indoor shopping malls, we were in and out of one downtown store after another, getting hotter and hotter with each stop. Finally, much to my father’s relief, Mom announced we were finished, and we plopped into the car. Dad immediately flipped the air conditioner on “high” and raced away, trying to beat the afternoon traffic.

I could feel the grumpiness factor invade our automobile almost immediately after I asked Dad for the third time to turn up the volume on the radio, which was attuned to KOMA, the rock and roll AM station, playing at that very moment one of my favorite songs, “Summer in the City,” by the by the Lovin’ Spoonful. I was again about to ask for a little more volume, when Dad, mumbling about how much he hated city traffic, glared at the radio as if it were the reason for the heat, the traffic, the arduous day. “I might be able to maneuver in this traffic better if it weren’t for that blasted radio.” And with that he emphatically twisted the “on” knob to “off.”

No more Lovin’ Spoonful. But the “hot town” aggravation hung with me, and would return through the years in moments of extreme heat, erupting like a volcano letting off steam.

Sitting there in that heavy quietness, I felt---consciously for the first time, I do believe--- grumpity too.

And that’s when I was inoculated with summertime grumpiness.

I started to protest the radio ban with Dad, but I knew I’d best not.

That’s why I’m not arguing about global warming, too: I’d best not, not if I want to keep that summertime grouchiness under control. And I plan to stand firm in my resolve. At least until the first snow in winter.

David B. Whitlock is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, Campbellsville, KY. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com

“Lying to Lindsay”

2010-07-17T00:45:00.000-04:00

What do you do with Lindsay Lohan? Lock her up and throw away the key? Laugh? Shake your head in disgust?

How about looking yourself in the mirror and making sure the person you see is the person you really are? Maybe there is more of Lindsay in us than we would like to believe.

Several weeks ago, I couldn’t have told you whether you whether Lindsay Lohan was a singer or an actress or both. Now I can’t help but know. The media has made sure of that. They’ve pounced on her and won’t let go. And Lindsay has given them no reason to back off; her outrageous antics continue. From her party-hardy lifestyle, to the Los Angeles DUI requiring her to wear an alcohol monitoring anklet, to the missed court dates, to the “f&-k you” message on her fingernail during her last court appearance, Lindsay has been on a roll.

Legal experts say she will likely only serve two weeks to a month of her 90 day sentence, due to the sheriff’s practice of releasing non-violent offenders because of overcrowding. Even so, Lindsay hasn’t given up the fight yet: she and her mother have talked with Chicago defense attorney Stuart Goldberg about helping Lindsay. She reportedly maintains that her human rights have been violated and intends to appeal her sentence.

And the saga continues.

Until what? Until she completely crashes and burns? Why this kind of behavior? Is it simply another spoiled celebrity who earned too much, too soon, and too easily? Is it just one more case of drug and alcohol abuse?

Or is there more to this? What causes people---not just celebrities---to destroy their lives? Is it a “death drive,” Freud’s theory that a force within us, pulling us down to self-destruction, rivals the upward push toward success? What compels people towards self-destroying addictions in the first place?

The 19th century psychologist and philosopher William James observed, “The sway of alcohol over mankind is unquestionably due to its power to stimulate the mystical faculties of human nature, usually crushed to earth by the cold facts and dry criticisms of the sober hour.”
The power of denial and the compulsion to anesthetize oneself from the “cold facts and dry criticisms” of life cannot be underestimated. Recovering addicts know that the first step toward healing is to admit you have a problem. But that first step is oh so difficult because the addiction hides the truth. The person you see in that mirror may not the person you truly are; lying eyes under the influence deceive.
Sheryl Crowe’s 2004 hit song, “Strong Enough,” contained the lyrics: “Lie to me/I promise I’ll believe/Lie to me/But please don’t leave.” It’s sad when such words are written for a lover; it’s sadder still when the lover is a drug.

Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. David’s email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. You can also visit his website, www/.davidbwhitlock.com

Rogue Rosaries and Captive Crosses

2010-07-01T12:06:00.000-04:00

Wearing rosary beads has become fashionable, among gangs. That’s right. Gangs are wearing rosaries--- beads grouped in series of tens, attached to a crucifix. For hundreds of years rosaries have been a helpful means of prayer for many Christians. But the gangs are using them for something other than prayer. “It's become part of the look,” said Victor Castro, a detective and school resource officer who leads gang awareness training in Hillsboro, Oregon. "They use it as a reminder of protection.”

Schools have for over a decade banned gang-related clothing, bandanas, and hairstyles. But no one is sure where the trend for wearing rosaries began. “One gang started it---who it was, nobody knows. Another gang saw it and thought it was cool and started using it, too,” says Robert Walker, a former head of the gang identity unit for the South Carolina Department of Corrections.

The rosary beads identify the gang. Red rosary beads are worn by the Bloods; the Crips wear blue, for example. Even the arrangement of the beads on the rosary has significance: it identifies the member’s rank within the gang.

Rosary-wearing gangs would not have created a stir had not Raymond Hosier of Oneida Middle School in Schenectady, New York, been suspended for wearing his rosary-like crucifix to school. Civil rights groups rushed to his defense, claiming the school had violated his constitutional rights. Other states---including California, Oregon, Texas, and Virginia---have a no-rosary rule, the object being to protect other students from gangs.

This is by no means the first time people have used religious symbols and paraphernalia for purposes other than that for which they were first intended. Adolph Hitler, for example, restored the use of the Iron Cross, which had been used by the Prussian army as a military decoration, to prominence. He issued it for military valor and even designed another cross, the War Merit Cross, for non-combatant military recognition. The War Merit Cross appeared on certain Nazi flags. The cross, signifying freedom in Christ’s death and resurrection, was momentarily captive to a political regime, in this case Nazism.

And, equally bizarre, Nazario Moreno Gonzalez, head of a Mexican drug cartel, La Familia Michocana, known for gunning down police and beheading and dismembering its opponents, has penned a book, filled with images of the cross and replete with admonitions to pray the rosary and read the Bible.

This should serve to remind us that what symbolizes exclusion, racism, violence, hate, and even murder to some may connote love, peace, freedom, and spirituality to others. One person wears rosary beads to identify rank and order within a certain gang; another wears them as a reminder of a spiritual presence. One person lifts the cross to condemn; another raises it for freedom. The purpose for which religious symbols are used has everything to do with the behavior that follows. As Christian author Jon M. Sweeney says, in explaining why rosary beads are part of his daily attire, “I carry the prayer beads with me every day in my pocket along with wallet, business cards, and Palm Pilot. I don’t carry them as a talisman to ward off evil or as a good luck charm. But I do keep them in my pocket precisely so that I will be reminded of them, of my prayers, and of Christ throughout the day.”

Now the question: why did Raymond Hosier wear rosary beads to school? He says he wears them in memory of his brother who died in a car accident: “When I wear the rosary beads, my brother's memory is alive." His brother, Joey Hosier, was holding the rosary when he died.

So, this has become a civil rights issue and should be considered as such by public institutions, including schools. While schools do have a right and responsibility to protect students from gangs, the best means of evaluating how religious emblems are being used is to look at the behavior of those who claim them. It’s the behavior that should be examined, not the wearing of religious pendants themselves. To do otherwise may prohibit the expression of free speech, guaranteed by the first amendment, and prevent forms of authentic prayer or at least the admirable devotion to someone or something.

What kind of personal behavior the wearing of or adherence to religious regalia produces will reveal the intent--- good or bad--- and the devotion, sacred or secular. When praying the rosary results in a spiritual person and when cherishing the old rugged cross produces love for others, the meaning behind the symbol is revealed. As Christians like to sing, “They will know we are Christians by our love.” In the meantime, let the rogue rosaries be and the captive crosses stay.
They only serve to underscore the authenticity of the real thing.

David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is Pastor of Lebanon Baptist Church in Lebanon, KY. He also teaches in the School of Theology at Campbellsville University, in Campbellsville, KY. You can visit his website at www.davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

Your Retirement Day May be Nearer than You Think

2010-06-24T22:36:00.000-04:00

“Are you ready for retirement?” I asked myself that question last week at my dad’s retirement reception. Of course I’m not ready for retirement. Unless someone drops a couple of million into my bank account, it will be years before that day arrives in my life. But, preparation for retirement begins long before actual retirement. The question, “Are you ready for retirement?” has to be asked with a measure of urgency, and the sooner the better. In a sense, we have to get in the retirement mode, which is difficult for most of us. Someone said it like this: “When you retire, think and act as if you were still working; when you're still working, think and act a bit as if you were already retired.”

When we fail to plan for retirement we plan to fail in retirement. This past year millions of Americans awoke on their retirement day with some sobering news: apart from either government assistance or family support, they do not have the resources to survive their retirement years, much less enjoy the fruit of their labor. For thousands, this is the direct result of the 2009 financial collapse; for others, simple negligence is the cause.

The truth is, less than half (43%) of Americans have calculated how much they will need to retire. I’ve learned it’s much more than I thought. One reason it will take more than many anticipated is because of the simple fact that we are living longer. The average life expectancy in the US was 72.6 years in 1975; by 2007, it had increased to 77.9. For many people who will live into their 80s, 90s, and even 100s, this means they will be retired longer than they worked, says Carl Macko, CFP, president of Synergy Capital in Smyrna, Georgia. But there are other reasons, according to Forbes.com reporter Lisa LaMotta. Adult children can have money problems, which can quickly drain the parents’ financial resources. In addition, health care costs and taxes, inflation, and home repairs are all potential problems just waiting to absorb your retirement fund. Financial advisors, I hasten to add, strongly recommend not touching retirement savings to address these unexpected situations.

But, the question still remains, “Are you ready for retirement?” Let’s suppose I did win the lottery, and won millions. Would I be ready for retirement? We can have all our financial “ducks in a row” and still be “sitting ducks,” unprepared for what awaits us. Our inner lives will not suddenly be different at retirement than now. A good retirement begins with a good today.

Each today leads to another tomorrow; each day is filled with whatever we choose to put into it, which is the condition for what we receive from it. How we live each passing moment will bear the fruit we will eat in later years.

The day after Dad’s retirement reception, Dad, my two brothers and I, met for coffee. I couldn’t help but overhear a worker say at mid-morning break, “I just can’t wait for this day to be over.” I understand, I’ve had days like that. But then again, I wondered if that was her life, one day at a time.

The retirement reception for Dad was outstanding. My sister-in-law, Joy, had been there to make it happen. All I had to do was show up, and then at the close, help Dad up the steps. It was there, holding his hand, that I caught his smile again, and as he glanced my way with that smile, it was quite suddenly early Saturday morning, December, 1962. I could feel my dad’s steady hand lifting me into the air between steps as my seven year old feet, striving to keep in step with his fast pace, were lifted by the strength of his arm. Hurrying alongside Dad, left hand warm in my coat pocket, right hand secure in his, I was afraid of missing the moment, in this case, arriving at Art’s Boot Shop before he closed at noon, anxious as I was for a new pair of Christmas cowboy boots. And in that moment, looking up at Dad, I felt his smile, as he too anticipated what lay ahead.

Now on this day, 45 years later, as I slow my walk to match his hobbled, uncertain ones, I embrace that same smile, grasping the adventure of walking together. Retirement day is only the culmination and continuation of life’s crooked, meandering, and thrilling uphill climb. The walk is as much the adventure as the arrival. And retirement is just another step in the mystery of this life we live, even as it reminds us of our boundaries, our limitations, and our expiration date.

Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can contact David @ drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com. or visit his website, davidbwhitlock.com.

“Al and Tipper: After all those years, Smash!”

2010-06-17T11:38:00.001-04:00

Barney Fife is steaming, once again. In an effort to make Barney suffer for having taken her for granted, (“I’ve got that little girl right in my hip pocket,” he boasted), Thelma Lou goes out with Gomer Pyle. Barney is nonplussed; then he is completely unglued, and Andy Griffith comes to the rescue. Trying to calm Barney down, Andy first asks, “Barney, is anything wrong?

“Wrong?” Barney sarcastically responds. “Just that everything’s gone smash, that’s all! We’re all through, Thelma Lou and me. It’s all shot. It’s all come to an end. After all these years, smash.”

You can’t help but wonder if anyone ever asked the Gores that question, “Is anything wrong?” It seemed to us, on the outside looking in, that the question needn’t be asked. After all, theirs was the placid, stable, almost boringly steady marriage, solidly anchored in a love that safeguarded them in the turbulent sea of American public life, while the marriage of their counterparts, the Clintons, was rough, unsteady, stormy, and seemingly adrift. Yet, the Clintons are still “Together,” while the Gores are “Split.” This doesn’t mean the Clintons necessarily had or have a better marriage than the Gores; it only means the appearance of “better” is no guarantee of endurance.

“This is very much a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration," the Gore’s email said.

Does the Gore’s breakup spell trouble for baby-boomer marriages? Does their separation signal a new trend for late-stage marriages? The fact is, even under the best of circumstances, marriage has always been a precarious institution because the people who enter into it are so often unpredictable, subject to the emotions that make them who they are: sometimes passionate, sometimes passive, often careless. Not every picture perfect marriage is what it appears to be, once you step inside the picture frame.

Let’s face it: no marriage comes with a warranty, not even, as with the Gores, after forty years, four children, and three grandchildren. When someone stops paying attention, eventually the relationship goes “smash,” more often with a silent “smash,” or in the words of T.S. Eliot, “not with a bang but with a whimper,” so that the news, when it finally comes, surprises and shocks, as if it were something that happened that day and not as it is, a death that occurred long ago.

Maybe the Gores are causalities of love’s slow fade, where love itself is taken for granted and once taken for granted, assumed, then ignored, and finally, missing. Like sandcastles on the seashore, swallowed by the retreat of each outgoing tide, so love can be eroded by neglect and strewn across the sun bleached beaches of moribundity, desiccated by apathy. Multiple factors---sometimes money, sometimes differing values, sometimes a lack of interest, sometimes someone more exciting or just different---serve to gradually pull two people apart until they awake, and upon discovering themselves strangers to one another, decide getting reacquainted is too much effort. Saying good-bye becomes as antiseptic and dull as the marriage itself, “a mutual and mutually supportive decision that we have made together following a process of long and careful consideration."

Do I hear a yawn? Apparently, the Gores did for quite some time.

How then can you make love last in a marriage? Before his death on June 4th, Hall of Fame basketball coach John Wooden was asked that question. Not only was he the greatest college basketball coach in NCAA history, winning 10 national championships, including seven straight (1968-1973), Wooden also had a successful marriage to his wife, Nellie, who died in 1985 after 53 years of matrimony to Coach Wooden. Until his death, he would write his deceased wife a love letter on the 21st of each month and gently place it on her pillow. So, what was his key to making love last? “Only one way,” he said. “Truly, truly, truly love. It’s the most powerful thing there is."

I take it from the repetition of the word, “truly” that he meant: genuinely, consistently, devotedly, wholeheartedly.

Wooden’s degree of love for Nellie is extremely rare. For most of us, living love day in and day out is much easier said than done. But it is possible, especially when it truly is love. And when it comes from the heart, truly, and is more than empty words, it’s right, so very right, even if we get it just right only now and then. After all, the adventure is in the striving.

So, “Is anything wrong?”

“No, Andy, everything is right, just right.”

Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is published weekly. You can visit David’s website at davidbwhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

"It Breaks Your Heart"

2010-06-09T23:44:00.001-04:00

Angelo Bartlett Giamatti, former President of Yale University and before his untimely death in 1989 at the age of 51, the 7th Commissioner of Major League Baseball, said of the game he loved, “It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.”

Anyone who watched the replay of Armando Galarraga’s elation in that split second when he rightly assumed he had pitched the perfect baseball game---only the 21st perfect game in baseball history, the first 28-out perfect game, the first perfect game for a Detroit Tiger pitcher--- anyone who watched him rise to baseball heaven in that ecstatic moment, anyone who winced in sympathy with his pain when an umpire snatched him from it in an instant, pulling him from the joy, pushing him to the agony, and all because of a botched call, anyone who watched the replay where perfect was called imperfect, flawless declared flawed, faultless found blemished, anyone who watched the wry smile on Galarraga’s face at the realization of the loss, anyone who saw the tears of personal disappointment on umpire Jim Joyce’s face upon admitting he made an enormously inexcusable mistake, anyone who viewed that historic scene would agree with Giamatti, “It breaks your heart.”

And that’s why I love baseball.

Baseball is life, really. Not in the sense that it in itself gives us a meaning, a purpose, or a reason for living. Rather, the game of baseball mirrors so many of life’s realities: it is completely fair and subject to an umpire’s mistake; it’s frequently dramatic and often mundane; it’s intense and relaxing; it keeps you on the edge of your seat while you wait and wait for something, anything, to happen; it’s a game in which many are overpaid and more don’t earn enough, a game where a player’s mistakes might be published daily and his perfections forgotten in a moment; it is a sport that displays the spoiled rottenness of some and the graceful compassion of others. Just like life.

And that brings me back to pitcher Armando Galarraga and umpire Jim Joyce. Joyce, who is by no means an incompetent, made a mistake. Until he saw the replay, he was convinced had made right call. As soon as he recognized he hadn’t, he headed to the Tiger’s clubhouse to apologize, requesting to speak personally with Galarraga. Joyce then publicly apologized with sincere sympathy for Galarraga: “I took a perfect game away from that kid over there who worked his (*#*!) off all night.” And Galarraga graciously accepted. “He really feels bad, probably more bad than me,” he said. In a public display of forgiveness, the next night Gallarraga presented the lineup card to Joyce at the beginning of the game. Both shook hands. Then, Joyce wept.

This baseball episode will be a favorite rerun more for the authentic and spontaneous exhibition of compassion and forgiveness in the leading characters’ roles than for the missed call or the perfect game.

And isn’t that like life when lived as it should and can be? What we give in love, kindness, and forgiveness is what endures. We often make mistakes, sometimes enormous ones, publicly. And it’s embarrassing. But, every now and then we get it all together at just the right moment. It’s perfect, beautiful. But it only takes one person who mistakes a work of art for the mediocrity of an amateur, and the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of the artist can die in an instant. And sometimes the artist and judge are one and the same: ourselves. It’s then, when we, the judge or the artist, must do what Joyce and Galarraga did: admit our mistake and extend the hand of forgiveness, knowing in our heart that when we pitch the perfect game, no one can take it away, even when no one recognizes it for what it truly is, even when no one recognizes it at all.

And that’s life. It breaks your heart. It’s designed that way.

Will My Dog be in Heaven?

2010-06-03T12:28:00.001-04:00

People sometimes ask me if their dog will be in heaven. My short answer is, tongue in cheek, “Heaven? Yes. Hell? No!”

I do believe dogs will be in heaven, but since they are not capable of making moral decisions, hell is not an option. It is only by God’s mercy that dogs, or humans for that matter, will be in heaven. Now, before you protest that mercy is reserved exclusively for humans, since only they are responsible for moral decisions, let me explain.

In the first creation account in Genesis, animals were placed under the care of humans. In time, because of humanity’s disobedience, so the story goes, God brought judgment on the earth in the form of a worldwide flood. When God spared Noah and his family, they took animals on board the ark. Animals, incapable of choosing right and wrong, were by God’s mercy, spared. God’s plan for a renewed earth obviously included animals, and I suppose my two Schnauzers’ ancestors were on board then.

But that’s not all. Apparently, God’s plan for a new earth, or kingdom, or heaven, includes animals as well, if you believe the Hebrew prophet Isaiah, who foresaw a new heaven and earth where, “The wolf and the lamb will feed together. The lion will eat hay like a cow.” This harmonizes nicely with the Apostle Paul’s belief that “all creation has been groaning” under the curse of the fall and “eagerly awaits” complete deliverance. “All creation” would surely include animals. (My Schnauzers raced through the house, over and under the furniture, in rapturous joy after I sat them down on my lap and shared this thought with them.)

Of course, some scientists and philosophers scoff at all this as nothing more than poppycock. They maintain that dogs, for example, are nothing more than “social parasites,” which means our canine friends have learned to mimic certain human behaviors, ingratiating themselves to us so that we love them, mistakenly thinking they “love” us. Dogs need us for food and shelter and this explains why they, in the evolutionary course of nature, have attained this ability, and raccoons, rats, and squirrels have not: the latter creatures don’t need us for survival as dogs do. (I reminded my dogs how much they needed me just the other day as I chased them down the street and from under the skirt of an innocent neighbor at her mailbox).

But, this misses the point. Just as all creation “groans,” and not just those at the higher rung of God’s evolutionary ladder, so all will be released from the “curse.” And we could assume then, that the qualities of God would be reflected in his creatures. As Randy Alcorn notes in his book, Heaven, “Once the Curse is lifted, we’ll see more attributes of God in animals than we’ve thought about.”

All right then, that explains why, when I first let my Schnauzers out of their crate in the morning, they can’t wait to lick me right smack dab on my nose: those aren’t the kisses of a “social parasite,” training me to feed them and let them outdoors; those are drops of God’s love, teasing me towards the anticipation of better things to come. So, when I get home tonight, I’m going to rub my dogs’ tummies, trust that God’s Word is right and throw in with Will Rogers, who said, “If there are no dogs in heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went.”

Life Matters, by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com

Unspoken Prayers Sometimes Speak the Loudest

2010-05-28T10:52:00.001-04:00

Sometimes it’s the silent prayers that speak the loudest.

For years my mother has prayed for me on Sunday mornings before I preach. Last Sunday, Lori and I had taken our oldest daughter, Mary-Elizabeth, to the airport to fly to New York City where she is interning with Harper’s Bazaar for the summer. As Lori and I were driving back from Mary-Liz’s 7 a.m. flight, we talked of how we were excited and somewhat apprehensive about her opportunity in New York. And then back home, on my way to church, I asked mom to pray for Mary-Liz as she was at the moment in flight.

Mom started to pray for her granddaughter, and in mid-sentence stopped. Thinking it was a dropped call, I looked at my cell phone, then spoke, “Hello? Hello!” Nothing. Then I realized it wasn’t a dropped call or a dead area but an unspoken prayer. Mom’s voice, a tad weaker after 88 years of life, falters easier than it did in younger years. And I could sense she was tired that day. But something else was happening too.

Sometimes we simply can’t say the words. The emotion inside can squelch the strongest of voices. The intercessor whose soul searches for words expressing the yearning of the heart--- a heart sometimes burdened with the plight of others, sometimes exuberant with joy, sometimes pained with past failures, but nonetheless seeking a connection with God, a God who receives the inexplicable, the unutterable, the unspeakable with infinite understanding---on occasion can only gasp for words. And that was what happened as mom prayed. Her prayer was silenced.

But it was heard, ever so clearly. As Origen, the early church father of the third century observed: “God pays less attention to the words we use in prayer than he does to what is in our heart and mind.” The Searcher of hearts is attentive to those desiring him, those desperate ones, those delirious for him. And when we, prompted by the Spirit of love are moved by compassion, care, and concern for others, even as we search for the Finder of hearts, then the One dwelling in us speaks the unspoken for us. This knowledge gives the speechless believer hope. The hope is that prayer, even when inexpressible, is ultimately the declaration of a life seeking its purpose beyond the self. As the Cistercian monk of the Abby of Gethsemani, Thomas Merton, said, “The purpose of our life is to bring all our strivings and desires into the sanctuary of the inner self and place them all under the command of an inner and God-inspired consciousness. This is the work of grace.”

When mom couldn’t speak, I spoke for her. I prayed what I thought she wanted to pray for Mary-Elizabeth. But words were not necessary. They had already been spoken. Sometimes it’s the silent prayers that speak the loudest.

Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. You can visit his website, DavidBWhitlock.com., or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

Avoiding the Graduation Blues

2010-05-21T20:15:00.001-04:00

It can happen to you most anytime and anyplace; all that’s required is a stuffy auditorium filled with graduates in caps and gowns, a principal or president or superintendant who directs the program with boring predictability, speaks in a monotone voice with a staccato cadence, and of course, a guest speaker, who is prone to talk long after most have stopped listening.

And then, quite suddenly in the midst of this, you are overcome by the graduation blues.

It’s happened to me, in lesser or greater degrees, every time I graduated. I thought with my last and final degree I had certainly earned perpetual immunity to this strange and mysterious malady. But alas, it struck me again just last week when my oldest daughter graduated from Eastern Kentucky University. In what seemed like a nanosecond, the blues enveloped me, time traveling me back to every crowded auditorium where I had once sat just like those graduates did that day last week, transporting me back to Altus, Oklahoma, carrying me down to Waco, Texas, lifting me to Ft. Worth, thrusting me miles and miles from there to Princeton, New Jersey, and finally depositing me in Louisville, Kentucky. It was the same scenario in every graduation ceremony: the anticipation of the event, the slight nervousness just before my name is called, the excitement in holding the diploma, then the deflation as I step down and walk back to my place, and finally, the uneasiness, the angst, as I sit down.

What causes this? I thought about that as I watched each graduate walk across the stage last week. I felt for them, entering this uncertain economic climate, a climate with stiffer competition for fewer jobs, and even if they plan for graduate school instead of immediately entering the job market, there is the reality of no longer being at the top but orienting to a new program filled with unfamiliar faces and unknown ways. In each seat in that auditorium, there sat a person facing doubts and fears about themselves and the world around them. A chapter of life closes, washed over with memories of friends who will move on. Even though they can reconnect in many ways, it is never really the same.

Anxiety about an uncertain future disconnected from friends only submerges us further into the deep freeze of the graduation blues. The fear is that all the fun that is to be had is gone. As Jenny (Carey Mulligan) says to her headmistress in the 2009 movie, An Education: “If people die the moment they graduate, then surely it’s the things they do beforehand that count.”

But, as Jenny painfully learns, it’s not. Graduation day is a milestone, but not the end, certainly not of an education, which should continue for a lifetime. Graduation may close one chapter, but it opens another, and another, and another. In fact, every day is in some way graduation day.

The graduation blues are not all bad; they do serve a purpose: by forcing us to slowdown for at least a moment, we can reflect on where we’ve been, where we are, and where we’re headed. It’s okay to shed a tear--- or even two--- as we, diploma in hand, glance back at the stage. Yet, we can be happy: we can, after all step forward; we do have control of our lives, at least most it; we can walk boldly and confidently into the future, knowing we can make a positive contribution. The cure for the graduation blues lies in embracing them and realizing that we are what we choose to be, that every tomorrow has its own opportunities, and we don’t die the moment we graduate.

Next week my youngest daughter graduates from high school. As she walks away from the platform, I will look forward with her to a hopeful future that’s promised to none but possible for all, a future filled with possibilities but not certainties, a future we can shape but not control. And as I do, I will be thankful for everything, including the graduation blues, even as I wave goodbye to them.

Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D. is published weekly. You can visit his website at www.DavidBWhitlock.com or email him at drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com.

The Curious Case of Aaron Glascock

2010-05-13T11:49:00.001-04:00

Daisy: You're so young.
Benjamin Button: Only on the outside.

Time is slipping away for Aaron Glascock. It daily slithers through his fingers, snakes unseen through the iron bars that keep Aaron confined, clandestinely floats by the security doors at the Federal prison’s entrance, and happily rises to freedom, leaving Aaron behind, stuck in a past he can’t reclaim, aging ever so quickly, growing older from the inside out.

Aaron’s youthful, twentyish-looking face, fit, athletic build, and boyish grin betray an inner age far beyond his 33 years. Now eleven years into a thirty year sentence for conspiracy to distribute cocaine, Aaron, native of Lebanon, Ky., and member of the church I pastor, remains hopeful that somehow, someway, his sentence will be commuted. Federal law requires that he serve at least 85% of his sentence. He will be 48 years old when he is released. Aaron’s last great hope is that President Barack Obama will commute the sentence to time served.

His case is curious in many ways and points to inconsistencies in the federal judicial system.

How is it that a young man in his early twenties, a law-abiding, church-going, well-rounded young man with a steady girlfriend, a young man who was a model pre-med student, a biology major at an academically respected Catholic school, Bellarmine University, how is it that he, in his last semester before graduating, gets charged with conspiracy to traffic in drugs? Perhaps the answer lies in a young man’s desire for a father’s relationship.

In the spring of 1998 Aaron’s father, who had not been a part of his son’s life for years, suddenly took an interest in him. He began taking Aaron, by then a college student at Bellarmine, to Florida when Aaron was on spring or summer break. His father was supposedly buying homes, making needed repairs, and selling them at a profit. Aaron would help with electrical wiring. He liked staying in a beach-front hotel and hanging out at the beach. He didn’t bother to ask where the money was coming from. Three such trips had been made when his father asked Aaron to do something curious: make a trip not to Hollywood, Florida, their usual destination, but to Gainesville, Florida, and travel not with his dad but with his father’s friend. They were to start working on repairing homes until the elder Glascock could arrive.

The first night in Gainesville, early on the morning of March 11, 1999, officers with the Drug Enforcement Agency (D.E.A.) knocked on their hotel room door, burst in, read Aaron his rights, and charged him with trafficking in cocaine.

His life would never be the same. Time would pass, but Aaron would remain frozen in 1999, aching from within, holding on to his childhood dream of becoming a physician, slowly aging on the inside as his dream slowly faded until, like the early morning fog, it finally disappeared at high noon with the rejection of Aaron’s third appeal.

Aaron could have admitted guilt and received 12 years, or he could have cooperated and been sentenced to 3 years. That was the “deal” the government offered him. He turned down both options, refusing the first, since he maintained he knew nothing and was therefore innocent; he would not cooperate, believing that justice would surely prove his innocence, allowing him to pursue his life-long dream: a medical career.

Now Aaron waits. And works. And reads, mainly the Bible and newspapers. He keeps one eye on the world above; and the other on the world outside. And both feet in prison.

Some people think Aaron knew what was going down on those trips when he accompanied his father, and maybe that’s the way it happened; others think he not only knew but cashed in, and maybe that’s the way it happened; and others think he was a totally innocent pawn in someone else’s game, and maybe that’s the way it happened.

One thing is for sure: the punishment exceeds the crime, especially when you consider the sentence given Glascock is longer than that given to Manuel Noriega, the former Panamanian dictator and drug smuggler, longer than the ten year sentence for conspiracy to murder given to John Walker Lindh (alias Sulayman al-Faris), who was captured by American soldiers as an enemy combatant in Afghanistan, and it’s longer than the average amount of time actually served by first time sex offenders.

Curious? Indeed.

In prison, Aaron rests in Psalm 23, finds solace in Jesus’ words that we are not to worry about tomorrow, and prays for mercy.

As I leave, walking through the prison gates, wondering if there are other Aaron Glascocks behind other prison walls, the wind hits my face, awakening me to the freedom on the outside; the setting sun’s orange glow reminds me that another day is passing into infinity; and my heart cries for an explanation to a curiosity: how a man’s soul---worn by the routine of prison life, wizened to the skill of prison survival, scorched by disappointment in the court system---can be aging so quickly and yet still be so alive, even as that burdened soul is hidden beneath a hopeful outlook, a warm handshake, and words that promise a new tomorrow.

Life Matters by David B. Whitlock, Ph.D., is published weekly. Visit David’s website, DavidBWhitlock.com. His email address is drdavid@davidbwhitlock.com