Category Archives: Uncategorized

Random: Part I

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Somewhere around the first of every month I read back over the previous month’s journal entries, and make note of a couple of things I want to ponder a little longer. Here’s some random thoughts from last month.

– I don’t think Judas is a scapegoat. I believe that, like most characters in scripture, Judas is actually a reflection of us.

Judas couldn’t be trusted when it came to money (John 12:6). Judas betrayed Jesus for money (Luke 22:5, Matthew 26:15).

We abuse Creation and allow others to be exploited in order for us to have more money, comfort, and pleasure.

Judas came to horribly regret his choices. Likely, we will too.

– Somehow a significant number of church folks have gotten the idea that they have permission from God to be selfish, individualistic, ignore the common good, exploit creation, and feel superior.

-Often when asked what they wanted, people asked Jesus for sight. True seeing changes you. You see wonder. You see suffering and pain. How could true seeing not change you?

-My personality is such that I often feel a tug for “more.” More what? I have plenty, even too much of pretty much every thing.

-Good advice from Titus: “Don’t be overwhelmed, stay focused, challenge false teaching, pass on pure doctrine, and don’t forget the importance of good deeds.”

-A couple of weeks ago my word was “release.” In my prayers I released my family to their own path, and prayed that I have been an authentic example of one way to be a human being.

-Sometimes when I sit with Creation I take the attitude of, “I’m here now, the party can start.” I think Jesus calls such an attitude, taking the higher seat. Perhaps I am being invited to simply ask the squirrels for permission to sit with them for a bit.

In Memory of Mac

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Some of my family went to a very difficult funeral last week. They’ll probably get why Mac, one of my best friends in high school, has been on my mind lately.

Mac was good looking. I don’t have any actual photos of him, not even yearbook pictures to prove it, but I do have a memory that may convince you. He’s sitting on his front porch steps when me and an old girl friend pull into his driveway. Athletic build, dark hair with peroxided bangs (used to be a thing if you were cool enough to pull it off), and movie star smile.

“That’s without a doubt one of the best looking boys at South Mecklenburg High School,” she says. That’s how good looking he was. Your girlfriend says stuff like that with you sitting right next to her.

We spent hours hanging out and listening to forty-fives on the record player in his room. If you want a sound track, cue The Box Tops singing about how they needed a ticket for an aeroplane cause they ain’t got time for a fast train. Over and over and over again.

I’m also remembering Mac’s fifty-three Chevy. No seat belts. No power steering. A rolling tank that we painted a pretty ugly brown with paint and brushes meant for houses.

One night, as Mac wrestled the beast into a left turn, the passenger side door flew open and out went Louie. He flipped and flopped in the dust for a bit, but was unhurt and didn’t spill a drop of his beer. We know that because when he got back to the car he bragged, “Didn’t spill a drop!” and when he took his thumb off the top of the bottle of Bud he had been protecting, we were drenched from the spew.

We fought a bit in our neighborhood. One afternoon Mac was goaded into a fight with a fellow about his size but with a little more experience in schoolyard brawls. Even so, having wrestled and boxed with Mac, I knew Mac would take him. I was wrong.

In order to win, Mac would have had to truly hurt the other fellow. Mac didn’t have the heart. He could have. I know it. But he quit, and everyone went home declaring Mac the loser. He was not a loser. I saw what I saw.

It was a no good afternoon when I heard about the accident. Mac and a two other fellows were trying to clean a basement floor with gas when it ignited. All of them were burned, Mac severely. I didn’t really know what it meant in those days, but I remember, “Third and fourth degree burns over most of his body. He may not survive.”

At school the next day I got word that some guy had jokingly wondered how “Crispy” was doing. When I spotted him in the cafeteria I was on him before he could blink. I shoved his lunch tray at him, smacked him a couple of times on the head and in the face, grabbed him by the hair, and said if Mac died, I’d be back. When Mac died, I lost interest in the lame comedian.

I did get to see Mac in the hospital. They let us in his room two at a time, and I rode up the elevator and walked down the hall with one of my good friends, a girl from the neighborhood. She went in first, stopped and grabbed my hand. Mac was unrecognizable. Even a seventeen year old struggling in Basic Biology knew that if he lived, well, “third and fourth degree burns over most of his body.”

“Jimbo!” Somehow he lit up when he saw it was me, but I failed him. I did what I learned as a pastor not to do. I let my face tell him how bad he looked. Then I proceeded to talk, without a smidge of belief, about how he was going to be alright, and we’d be hanging out again real soon. When I saw the light leaving his eyes I knew I was saying the wrong things, I just didn’t know what the right things were.

That “Jimbo!” haunts me and blesses me still. I think it may have been the next day, he gave up the fight.

Almost sixty years later, I carry all this and more. Occasionally I whisper to Spirit, “If you’d give Mac a message, I’d appreciate it. Tell him I remember him.” Perhaps Mac can hear me without need of a messenger.

Epilogue: I’m afraid this wouldn’t be a true story if I didn’t add this. I got a call a few years later from Mike, one of the guys in the basement with Mac. Mike has scars on his wrists and hands from where he tried beat out Mac’s fire. He said Mac’s mom had died, and they needed me to be a pall bearer. I told him I couldn’t. I lived in another state now. I was an Operations Manager for a national trucking firm. Successful for my age. A boss. Pretty close to the next rung. I’d have to take a vacation day. The VP would get mad. Mike said, “Okay, talk to you later,” but we never did.

I carry this as well. Mac would have come.

My Land’s Story

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Inspired by Randy Woodley’s book, Becoming Rooted: One Hundred Days of Reconnecting with Sacred Earth, I’ve been pondering and doing a little research on the land I live with. Woodley got me saying “with” instead of “on.”

To start, I have a lot history with the land stretching from western McDowell county to East Asheville, NC. I have played, studied, worked, loved, laughed, and cried here. A good bit.

When my father announced in 1968 that we where moving from Oteen, a community east of Asheville, to the Atlanta area, my homing device clicked on. While it took me 47 years, I finally returned full time to my thinnest place on earth June 2015.

I currently live with seven wooded acres, on the side of a mountain, a few miles south of the town of Old Fort, NC. These acres straddle McDowell and Buncombe counties.

A generation ago, while I was running around in woods along the Swannanoa River in Oteen, the local boys in the Crooked Creek area outside Old Fort hunted and roamed the hills and woods that surround our cabin. I’ve found a couple of their glass coke bottles on the logging trail that runs below our place. For some reason, these boys, now old men like me, are a little taken back by the gate at the entrance to our community.

Before their time, there were loggers. I can still see the marks they left when they harvested the ancient forest.

Before them it was the pioneers. Many with a Scottish heritage that I share. They built Davidson’s fort, the fort that gives Old Fort its name. It’s said to have been “a crucial buffer” between the natives and settlers. As things played out, I am not sure the buffer went both ways.

Before the pioneers, it was the Cherokee people. And a little to the east, the Catawba, who give the Catawba River its name.

I often sit a the foot of the waterfall nearby and wonder if a Cherokee elder ever sat on the same stone. I wonder if he pondered things similar to the ponders that rise up for me as I watch the water pour over the cliff.

He has actually has become a little more than imaginary to me. I wonder if his grandchildren walked the Trail of Tears. I try not to think of my grandchildren ever enduring such.

Before them, a couple of periods I am not familiar with. There were the Mississippian people (800-1600 CE), whose people were mound builders. A couple of their mounds remain near here.

Before them, was the Woodland Period 1,000 BCE-1,000 CE). Perhaps the stone at the waterfall held them as well.

Speaking of the stone, it was once covered by thousands of feet of earth. That was when the Appalachian mountain range, perhaps the oldest mountain range on earth, was one of the tallest ever.

That’s about all the geology I have though. Sorry, Mrs. Bennett. (my sixth grade teacher who tried hard, and others represent her efforts better)

I have also learned (Perhaps relearned. Again, sorry, Mrs. Bennett) that the first Europeans in this area were led by a Spanish explorer named, Juan Pardo. His mission was to find a short cut to Mexico in order speed up the delivery of silver to the home country.

In 1567, Pardo left a fort he had built near what we now call, Morganton and headed toward Tennessee. I feel the need to note that the fort was built on grounds that were a gathering place for the Mississippian people. Likely a place of harmony and community for them.

I’m assuming that for the same reasons I-40 is presently there, Pardo marched up the Swannanoa valley, about eight miles north of my present home.

An article I read about this journey had some phrasing that I found interesting. It said that as they traveled, “they extracted food and corn from indigenous communities.” It went on to say that there was “Native resistance” and they “grew hostile,” eventually destroying the forts Pardo left behind and killing all but one of the soldiers that were there.

It may just be me, but I found “extracted” to be an interesting word for marching uninvited through people’s homeland, while taking food and corn they had stored for their families. It also read like resisting and growing hostile to such was something of a surprise.

Anyway, thank you Randy Woodley.

Land indeed has a story.

Team Jesus

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I am a Christian. I respect other traditions, and have benefited from their wisdom, but my jersey says “Team Jesus.”

I truly believe that if I asked Saint Paul for a reference letter it would say something along the lines of, “Jim has some rough edges and a few things he needs to work on, but he is definitely one of us.” And, as Paul said, I wish for everyone to have a walk similar to mine. One marked by fellowship with Christ and love for others.

That said, I should confess that I have been looking for other ways to describe myself without using the word “Christian.” President Trump says “Religion is back” and Christianity is strong, but I’m not so sure. I am sure that he and I use those words to describe different things.

I believe that Christianity, patriotism, and his administration’s agenda are three separate things. He seems to think the words are interchangeable.

Along with mine and the president’s differences, too many of my Christian siblings have attached things to their walk that have nothing to do with authentic Christianity. Things like, who you vote for, who you need to be afraid of, and a good bit of “My beliefs beat your beliefs.” (Read, “I’m sorry but, you other guys are going to Hell.”)

So, since those folks seem to be holding the podium right now, and I find it awkward to immediately go into what I’m not when I say I’m Christian, I’m looking for another word or two to use. Maybe you can help. Here’s my rambling list of things I believe, and things I am trying to do and be.

I believe there is a universal and perennial wisdom, a Logos to use John’s word, that was taught and lived out by Jesus of Nazareth, but it is not contained by him. I believe one good name for this is Christ. Sacred is another good word, and really good one is Love, but words fall short for what I am talking about.

I believe that when we are awakened to our connection to Christ, we see that we are all connected, all One, and we love our neighbor as our self (not like we love our self, but as our self, part of us)

I believe everything and all things are loved and sacred. Nothing is simply a commodity to be used selfishly. So, I seek to see and listen to all people and things as clearly as I can. This is one way I seek the truth that makes us free.

I believe that practices consistent to these beliefs are: prayer, acts of mercy, promoting justice, graciousness, generosity, respect, kindness, and forgiveness.

There’s more, but for now, I’ll close by saying it’s a way of life, a commitment, and a hope to be transformed into Love’s likeness.

I believe that is a Christian list. What may bother some folks though is that it’s not an exclusively Christian list. Others could say that they believe those things. Friends, that in itself is part of what makes it Christian. Jesus wasn’t exclusive.

So, help me out. What’s a good word or words to use to describe this walk? And no, I won’t accept “Heretic.”

I guess for the foreseeable future, I’ll call myself “Christian,” and see if folks want to talk about what I mean by that.

My Lane

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“Know your role. Stay in your role. Star in your role.” (Doug Collins, American basketball player and coach

I’d like to share two conversations I recently had with the Spirit.

No, The Sacred Other and I don’t regularly sit around and chat, but I do pray and I often listen. And, when something comes from outside of yourself, a thought you wouldn’t have had on you own, I believe it’s Spirit.

Conversation One:

Over the last couple of years I have become friends with a fellow that reads the King James Bible exclusively. And I do mean exclusively. According to him, all other translations are potentially harmful and the KJV is the only true bible.

I on the other hand. believe the KJV is actually a pretty poor translation, and has some harmful cultural bias in it from the 1600’s. Not to mention the fact that it’s hard to read.

So, I was riding down the road the other day and I prayed, “Lord, how can I help Tommy? I don’t know what to say to him about his thing with the King James.”

And it came, “Why to you think you have to help him. I like him like he is.”

Conversation Two:

It likely comes as no surprise to anyone reading this that I am not President Trump’s biggest fan. In fact, I believe that whenever you see a list of things that Jesus tells us to beware of, Trump usually checks them all.

Because my feelings are no secret I got an email from another friend that is trying to organize a faith based response to MAGA. It read in part, “Folks, we really need to get together to talk about how to counter the messages of division and hate being sent by our neighbors and friends… I have tried to ask questions and reason with some of my more fundamentalist friends regarding their comments. I’ve made little or no headway.”

So, I was walking down a mountain trail the other day and I prayed, “Lord, what would you have me tell my MAGA friends?” And it came, “Tell them I love them.”

Hopefully y’all are picking up on this not being a “Here’s what you need to do,” essay. It’s me putting it out there that I’m getting in my lane, and I want to do my best to star in my role. Sharing God’s love.

James Finley of the Center for Action and Contemplation teaches a concept that I find extremely helpful. He says that if we could be interiorly awakened so that we could see what Jesus saw, we’d see God all around us because Jesus saw God in all that he saw. It didn’t matter whether he saw the joy of those gathered at a wedding or the sorrow of those gathered at the burial of a loved one. It didn’t matter whether he saw his own mother or a prostitute, whether he saw his disciples or his executioners or a bird or a flower. He saw God in all, in everything.

So, as Bob Marley said, this is my message for you. Those of you that read the KJV exclusively, and those who are biblical scholars. It’s my message for Proud Boys and Democratic Socialists. It’s for those whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower, crossed the Bering Strait, endured the middle passage, or maybe they recently snuck across the Rio Grande. It’s for those who talk to Allah, those who are sure to end prayers “In Jesus name,” and those who have no intention of ever praying. It’s even for our four legged, no legged, and winged cousins.

God so loved the world. That’s you. And everyone else.

That said, I’ll leave it to y’all to figure out what you want to read and who you want to vote for.

In Memory of Me

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I’d like to be remembered. At least for a bit.

I’d like to be remembered as a Granddaddy that laughed loud and loved big. One you knew was in your corner.

I’d like to be remembered as a father that protected as best he could, provided, gave good guidance, and loved without condition.

I’d like to be remembered as a husband, amazed that he went through life with such a woman, and so wanted her to have a better husband. And that it’d be him.

A solid friend. Trusted. There for you. Every time. Well, almost every time.

And, one who helped to bend the arc toward justice.

As one who tried.

I’d like to be remembered. At least for a bit.

I guess a lot of that’s on me.

Somewhere Today

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I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that this MLK Day in America:

– A powerful man with multiple residences, and more money than he will be able to spend, sought ways to gather more without regard to the people his actions will hurt.

-A man, who spent the afternoon begging on a busy street corner, gave his coat to the sick fellow that lives in the tent next to his.

-A bully shoved a young woman that had been assigned male at her birth.

-An grandmother in a nursing home whispered “thank you” to a queer CNA for changing her soiled sheets.

-A frustrated young man posted on social media that everyone that voted for Trump is racist.

-A middle aged man with one of those red hats stopped on the interstate to change a tire for an African American mother and her children.

-A good looking young preacher spoke to a large gathering and used the word “they” scores of times.

-A tired pastor spoke to a handful and used the word “we” a lot.

-And, some as they looked around, and recalled the legacy of King, became more committed to not imitating the powerful, and not hiding the candle of love’s way.

Wrote This, But Can’t Remember Who To Send It To

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I have more than a thousand stories from my time as pastor at the children’s home. There’s one that I’ve never told. Until now. I share it now with love, and because I believe it deserves to be told.

I got to Epworth Children’s Home in Columbia, SC about four years before she did. Of course, she had been in the system her entire life.

She was on her fifth placement, second adoptive family, and third complete name change. That means that in less than fifteen years, she was born, given a first, middle, and last name; put up for adoption, given a new first, middle, and last name; then those adoptive parents decided having a child wasn’t their thing, so she lived in a couple of foster homes until she got adopted again and was given a brand new first, middle, and last name. The newest parents turned her over to a children’s home to “get straightened out.” (I was a part of many meetings concerning her goals and objectives, but was never clear on what “straightened out” meant.)

I am pretty sure she is the only kid I ever cussed in front of. As in, “Damn, you’ve had three completely different names?” “Yep,” she said with a sheepish smile and a shrug.

We’ll call her Rachel here. What’s one more name?

Speaking of names, we were pretty formal at the home when I got there. It was Mr. Smith, Ms Jones, Dr. Brown, or in my case, Reverend Hunter. Rachel went with “Rev” and it caught on.

“What’s up, Rev?” “Where ya going, Rev?” “Can I go, Rev?” “I got a question for ya, Rev.” You’re not that funny, Rev.”

To help you picture her, think taller than average, wavy, light brown hair, fair-skinned, lively light eyes, contagious laugh, smart, poised, and graceful. Depending on her mood, she was completely beautiful, straight up pretty, too cute, or sadly unattractive. She could do them all, but straight up pretty was her go to.

A lot of girls in foster care develop an edge. A tough veneer that’s hard to get through. It’s actually a pretty handy survival skill, but Rachel didn’t have it. She was not tough, perhaps too trusting, and on top of that, she wasn’t very good at basketball.

When I was at the home, girls’ basketball was a big thing. A huge thing. We had a great coach, a good facility, did well in state tournaments, and actually went undefeated over the course of a couple of seasons. A lot of girls became pretty good players. A handful went on to play in college. Rachel came to the gym, and hoped no one would pass her the ball.

I think she was more interested in proms, sleep overs at her friends’ houses, clothes that were stylish, and telling her mom about her day. You know, all the stuff that girls who live in a children’s home don’t have.

She did give a high school beauty contest a try though. I told God it’d be awesome if she did well. Truth is, I told God I’d owe him one if she won.

She was plenty pretty and plenty talented, but white girls fixed up by black house parents, using donated clothes… well, that look is a little too eclectic for an upscale high school.

I told her that winning didn’t matter. I said being brave enough to try as your authentic self deserved a trophy bigger than one those folks could give her. She smiled, said thanks, but her eyes told me she thought she had come in last.

She did excel at church though. Choir, youth group, Bible study, parties with other churches, sharing her faith with folks, and mission trips. I can still see her on a scorching South Carolina summer day, with those paint splattered overalls, a tool belt around her waist, grinning as she told me about her new friends, and the family that lived in the house with the new roof. Hard to say how many adults that week told me how impressed they were by Rachel. “She’s awesome!” “I love her!”

She was a rock star church kid. Except when she wasn’t.

She’d do super Christian for months, and then go on a school skipping, getting high with her current boyfriend spree, and the sadly unattractive look would settle in. I tried so very, very hard to tell her there is a lot of living space between super Christian and lost girl. I don’t know why, but it was always all or nothing for Rachel.

I guess a lot of us have trouble giving up on perfection. Especially if we think it may win us love and belonging. Perfection’s just so damn hard to maintain.

A couple of years passed, and the parents decided to give it another shot. Another couple of years passed, and I left the children’s home and went back to being a regular pastor.

The connection grew weaker, but I’d hear stuff.

It was a bumpy ride. Rachel had a little girl that she gave up for adoption. Then she got her balance, married a loving young man, and they had two beautiful daughters. They were hard working and making it. They got very involved in a good church. Sunday School leaders, the works. Almost perfect. Almost a good ending.

I paused for a bit after writing that last sentence.

It was few years ago, a couple of days after Mothers’ Day, when a former colleague called to tell me that early that Sunday morning Rachel had taken her own life. Sunday. Mothers’ Day.

Of course I went to her funeral. A lot of us were there from the old days. We hugged each other, and didn’t even try to find words. Then we quietly found our seats, and spent the next hour wiping our eyes a good bit.

The pastor did a good job. He held the balance between celebrating her life and the almost unspeakable tragedy. He said she died from mental illness. I thought I was going to be almost okay. Nope.

The family was walking out when the youngest daughter, maybe three or four years old, began to weep and loudly cry out, “No! I don’t want to leave! You said we were going to see Mommy! I want my Mommy! Where’s Mommy?!”

I thought about the Mothers’ Days for the rest of that little girl’s life, and then I cussed in front of Rachel for the second time. This time from the heart, with conviction, and a good bit worse. This time I cussed right at God. It’s been a few years now. Can’t say I’m completely over it.

Addendum: A good friend that was my partner in ministry at the children’s home has connected with Rachel’s oldest daughter, the one she needed to put up for adoption. I’m told the young woman is awesome and wants to learn every thing she can about her birth mother. My friend has shared bunches of memories, and gave her all the pictures she had of Rachel. Except one she keeps in her office.

And she tells her Rachel was beautiful inside and out. Because she was.

I just wish Rachel had been able to believe it.

Granddaddy Musings Post Holiday Season

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Musing One:

Granddaddys are cool toys. They are like magic dragons, or bears that live in hundred acre woods, and a lot like velveteen rabbits. An awful lot like velveteen rabbits.

They buy ice cream, tell stories, holler at soccer games, drink imaginary tea, and the next day help you learn to drive. They know stuff, can do stuff, and make you laugh.

Then one day, you beat them in foosball, they have h-o-r-s-e before you have a letter, and you see that there is a good deal of foolishness mixed in with the wisdom.

And, they wonder why they should expect a sixteen year old and a seventy-three year old to have a lot to talk about. Not an awful lot in common. Except a bunch of love and hearts full of memories. And, that’s a lot.

Musing Two:

My legacy is not going to be that I changed anything. The poor remain, and the powerful continue to take what they want with disregard for the pain they inflict.

The best I can hope for is that I will leave enough evidence for my descendants to see clearly that I was trying to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.

My prayer is that when they see this evidence they won’t think I was foolish and weak. I don’t mind being called foolish and weak, but it will mean that they chose a different path.

Musing Three:

There is a growing number of loved ones sitting around the table of Christmas past. Perhaps more than the number sitting around Christmas present.

As more of my heart crosses over, the veil gets thinner.

Sometimes I whisper, “If possible, tell them I said hello.”

And sometimes Spirit whispers, “They said, hey back.”

Autobiography

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Out of silence.

In the womb, I was knit.

Love awakened me.

I spoke, thought, and reasoned as a child.

Love gently called, “Awake, my child.”

I dozed off. Deeply forgetting.

Love shook me. Twice. A third time.

I remembered.

To stay awake I poured a big mug of righteousness. Filled to the brim with rightness.

Love took that mug, gave thanks, and broke it.

Broke the next one too.

Threatened to continue if I didn’t remember to pour in a good bit of fresh mercy every morning.

These days, Love and I walk in the woods. I whisper, “Love, awaken me.”

One day, silence will come again.

I’ll be still. As death.

Love will whisper, “Awake, my love.”

This I believe on every level of my being.

But, if I should die before a I wake.