RUM-A-PUM-PUM

[Adapted from my Once for a Shining Hour book, available through amazon.com.]

The birth of Jesus stirs the imagination of storytellers and musicians.  So let’s use our imagination with “The Little Drummer Boy” in the song that arrived at the manger in the 1950s and became a fast favorite.  

The story mustn't get lost in the “rum-a-pum-pum” of the drumbeats. The little drummer at the manger is almost hidden from view by the regal Kings from the East.   He is self-conscious as they place their gold, frankincense, and myrrh on the ground before the Baby.

His drum is strapped around his neck, as it always is when he goes about. But he has absolutely nothing to place alongside the costly gifts from the Kings to the little Baby King.  

As the boy thinks it over, he feels relieved that he has nothing.  Anything he has ever owned in his whole life would look shoddy by comparison.  

He wonders what led him here in the first place.  Just then, the woman looks his way.  He doesn’t know her thoughts, but he feels he is no more out of place than those ragged, dirty, smelly shepherds who have gathered around, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, looking at the Baby and His parents.  It’s the Kings who make the drummer uneasy — and the Baby they call King.

Earlier, he heard the shepherds talking among themselves — about angels and bright lights on the hillside beyond the little town of Bethlehem, how the angels told them to come to town and hunt this Baby whose coming is good news to everyone, for shepherds and, perhaps, he thought, even for a boy with a drum.

With all the to-do of the Kings, dressed in their elaborate robes as they bring expensive presents, the lad isn’t sure what he should do or could do.  Maybe he ought to slip away quietly and play his drum to himself as he heads for home.

He loves to play his drum, and he’s been told, lots of times, that he’s good with it.  Oh, sometimes his mother gets on him for playing so loudly while she’s cooking and doing housework. When that happens, he drifts out along the dirt road of the village, playing his drum as he goes.  That’s when he gets lots of compliments.  

An old man down the street has helped him learn different rhythms.  A couple of times, the old man even let him keep time on his drum when some other men were playing their lyres and pipes.  That helped him gain confidence.

At the manger, as he’s wondering whether he should leave, a thought flashes through his mind: He does have one thing he could offer the Little King.  He could play his drum.  But then, he thinks; the woman and man might frown and tell him to stop the noise and get out of their way, just like his mother when she wants some peace and quiet.  

Well, should he offer to play, or not?

Yes.  

No.  

Yes. 

No.  

Yes!

The man and woman look up at the shepherds and the Kings and then right at him.

Now’s his chance.  So he asks, hurriedly: “Shall-I-play-for-you-and-your-little-boy?  On-my-drum-I-mean.”

The man smiles.  The woman nods her head, as if to say, “Go ahead.”

So he starts playing, playing with all his might.  One or two of the shepherds join him, slapping their knees and bellies as he does some special licks he learned from the old man down the street.  He plays and plays, giving it his very best.  Everybody in the stable seems to be in rhythm.  A passerby stops to look in, then starts snapping his fingers, trying to keep up with the drummer.  Feet are tapping.  Even one of the Kings is patting his hands together.

For moments, the boy forgets where he is as he pours himself into his rhythms.  Then he happens to glance down at the Baby.  “He’s looking at me!  He’s looking at me!” the boy thinks. “Can you believe it? He’s smiling!  The Little King is smiling.  He’s smiling at me! He likes my drum!”

Then he stops playing.  Everyone is silent.  Nobody moves or says anything for several seconds. Then he hears applause.  People gather around him, patting him on the back.  

“Great rhythm.”  

“Good show.” 

“How long you been playin’?” one of the shepherds asks.

The drummer is speechless.  He feels almost outside himself as he continues looking at the Little King and His parents.  As the others drift into the night, the Drummer still stands, still looking in awe at the family in the stable.

Finally, he puts his sticks in his belt and turns to go.  But then, he feels a firm hand on his shoulder.  He looks up into the kind, steady eyes of the man.  “Thank you, young man.  Thank you very much.”  

“Oh, no,” the boy says.  “Thank you, sir.  Thank you for letting me play for your little boy.”

As the woman begins wrapping the Baby more securely in the wide bands of cloth, she, too, thanks the drummer. “That was so special.  Thank you for coming to see us tonight.  When he’s old enough to understand, we will tell our son what you did.”

“I wish I had something I could leave with you.”

“Oh, you do.  You do.  You gave us a memory we will long cherish.  The sound of your rhythms will linger in our minds longer than you imagine.  You gave him a truly unique gift, something only you could give.”

Those words ring in the drummer’s ears as he starts for home.  

His fingers tap rhythms almost silently on the drumhead as he walks briskly through the chill night air.  He smiles to himself as he says over and over, “The Little Baby King smiled at me.  He smiled at me.  He smiled at me and my drum.”

Can we let our imaginations run wild as we think what we can offer that would bring a smile from the Newborn King?

Whether we have the wealth of the Three Kings, the simple possessions of the shepherds,  or nothing but the inner resources of the Little Drummer Boy, if we offer our best, we will see the smile of the King.

Thanks Acrostic 2: General Thanksgiving

T Today (and Every Day)

Turkey (and the Trimmings)

TV

Telephone

H Home and Health and Hope and History and Hindsight

A Anderson University, where I taught twenty-three years in two separate tenures 

N Nights (time for rest)

K Kitchen and Kisses 

S Sunshine

G Groceries: Grits, Gravy, Granola, Grapes, Goobers, Goodies; Gravity

I Imagination, Intellect, Ideas, Ideals

V Vision, Voice, Video, Vitamins, Violins, Violets, Victory in Jesus

I I (Myself), Individuals, Income, Internet, Invitations

N Noon, Newspaper, New Testament

G Giggles

Thanks Acrostic # 1: Extended Family

On this Thanksgiving Day 2016, I give thanks for my extended family: Pansy and me in South Carolina; Russell and Sabina in New York City; Jonathan and Vicky and Ethan and Addie in Chicago; the whole mob of Webbs, Ways, and Culps in Texas as far west as Greg in Midland; Caitlin and Charles in the Northwest; and Evelyn and Kisaku, Masaki and Yuri in Japan.

T Travis, Terry — nephews

H Hopkins, Roy  — Brother-in-law, Pansy’s brother   

A   Addie, granddaughter 

Apologies to any I have inadvertently omitted on this list

N   Nieces whose names don't fit the acrostic: Evelyn, Crystal, Caitlin, Lindsey, Jullia, Rachel, Stephanie, Miranda

K   Kisaku, Kathy, Kathryn, Karen

S Sister, because there’s no “M” for Marie

Sibs, since there’s no “L” for Leonard and Lew

Susan, Shelia, Sheila Rene, Schaila  

Spouse, because there’s no “P” for Pansy

Sons, because there’s no “R” for Russell or “J” for Jonathan

Sabina Wolfson, Russell’s wife

G   Garry Don, Greg, Gus  

I   In-Laws: Gay and John Rush; Marie Webb, Shelia Webb,

V   Vicky, Jonathan’s wife

I   In Memoriam: 

Travis and Vandelia Webb

Roy and Mazie Hopkins

Leta and Jeff Culp

Larry Culp

Lee Roy and Lila Webb

Judy Webb

Don Way

        Lloyd Wayne Webb

Randall Webb

N     Nephews whose names don't fit the acrostic:

Lloyd, James, Jack, Sam, Josh, Richard, Zach, Chase 

G Grandson, because there’s no “E” for Ethan

Great Grand Nieces and Nephews not otherwise identified

Labor Day Insights

Labor Day is special.

It’s the end of summer, for all practical purposes.

It’s the last long week before Thanksgiving.

It’s time at the lake — picnicking and boating.

It’s special sales at the mall.

It’s All the Above.

But it’s much, much more.

The First Monday in September became an official national holiday when U. S. President Grover Cleveland pressed Congress to rush through a bill in June 1894, establishing Labor Day.

The first official Labor Day parades marched on September 3 of that year.

Behind the pleasant, family-style last lazy day of summer lurks a dark blot in U. S. history. With the rise of the Industrial Revolution, working conditions in the factories soon became abominable:  
• Workers put in twelve hours a day in the factories, often seven days a week, with no established minimum wage.  

• With no child labor laws, children as young as five and six years old toiled in the sweat shops.

• Corporations provided slum-type housing for employees and deducted rent from the meagre paychecks.

Desperate, despicable conditions continued in the early decades of the twentieth century causing Carl Sandburg to give a poet’s eye report on the lives of many in Chicago.  In his poem, “Jack,” the title character “was a swarthy, swaggering son of a gun” who “worked thirty years on the railroad ten hours a day” and then died in the poorhouse.

Sandburg describes the “Ice Handler” who broke the noses of two scabs who loosened the nuts on the wheels of six ice wagons, causing the wheels to come off and the ice to melt before it could be delivered.

In “They Will Say” the poet says the worst thing people will ever say about Chicago is that they 

“took little children away from the sun and the dew” and “put them between walls” to “die empty-hearted” for little pay.  

“Mill Doors” tells much the same story.  He says good-by to the young as he says, “You never come back.” They go in “hopeless open doors .  .  . for—how many cents a day?”

His “Muckers” shows twenty men who watch workmen in the muck whose boots slosh in “suckholes” as they dig to prepare to install new gas mains.  Ten of the twenty onlookers say, “It’s a hell of a job.” The other ten say they wish they had the job.

The title character, “Anna Imroth,” was a young factory girl working upstairs with others like her when a fire broke out.  All her work companions jumped to safety, but Anna died.  Sandburg quotes  the oft-heard pious but unthinking statement, “It is the hand of God.” But then he adds “.  .  . and the lack of fire escapes.”

To combat intolerable conditions such as Sandburg described, workers formed unions and began making demands of the companies.  When those fortunate enough to have existing jobs struck for higher pay and better working conditions, corporation officials turned deaf ears, and violence often erupted. Both sides initiated violence.  

When Pullman workers went on strike in May 1894, the larger, broader American Railroad Union called for a supporting boycott. One hundred and fifty thousand railway workers in twenty-seven  states joined the strike, refusing to operate Pullman rail cars.  This stoppage prompted President Cleveland to call for the holiday as a token appeasement of the strikers.  

Six days after the first Labor Day, however, with passenger service and mail train service virtually at a standstill, railway leaders pressured Cleveland to take action.  In response, he invoked the Sherman Antitrust Act,  declaring the stoppage a federal crime. He sent in twelve thousand federal troops to break the strike.  Fighting and riots went on for days. Strikers overturned and burned railcars. Troops responded with violence, killing as many as thirty workers before the strikes ended and train service was restored. 

In my comparatively luxurious living, I may tend to sniff at Sandburg’s descriptions, considering them exaggerations or, at least, remnants of the unpleasant past.  I may tend to condemn what I consider excesses of union protests and think unions no longer useful or necessary. But before I write off unions, I need to remember how their efforts brought shorter hours and improved pay, paving the way for greater improvements with Social Security, Medicare, the Affordable Care Act, and other laws that make life better for many additional citizens.

When I read or re-read a little history, this day off at summer’s end looks a bit different.

Hearing from Lots of Friends

More than one-hundred-sixty friends and family members sent me birthday well wishes.

You might say I asked them to do this, and I suppose you would be right:

I put my picture up on Facebook and announced it was my birthday.  Otherwise, I could have counted the number of birthday greetings on my fingers and toes (without actually going to my toes).  And that was a wonderful number in itself.

But back to Facebook.  About half those responses were “Likes.” It was fun to read through the list of those who checked the “Like” icon. Clicking “Like” — you should pardon the expression — might be likened to driving by and honking or waving but not stopping to say “Hello.” With this gesture, the “Likes” told me they saw my — shall I say — likeness and let me know they know I’m still alive after eighty-two years.

Beyond the “Likes,” an additional eighty or so took the trouble to say a few words or write a sentence.  

A few wrote paragraphs.  

Some put up art work with candles and cakes and posters and balloons.  

One of my most outrageously creative former Anderson University students sent a wild video-to-end-all-videos, with explosions, fires, cakes, and an echo-chamber voice calling my name and wishing me “Happy Birthday.”

The list of “Likers” and “Writers” included nephews and nieces, great nieces, a fellow minister or two, colleagues from journalism graduate school, fellow members of community volunteer boards, a neighbor, fellow church members, my barber, fellow emeritus professors, members of Lifelong Learning classes I’ve taught at Anderson University, just plain friends, and a whole raft of former students at AU.

International greetings came from a father in Germany and his son in an internship in China.  The son lived with a family next door to us a year or so back as an exchange student.

Stateside, I heard from Wisconsin, Alabama, Georgia, Virginia, the District of Columbia, Michigan, Tennessee, Texas, Missouri, North Carolina, Maryland, Colorado, Iowa, and Mississippi.

It’s hard to grasp that I heard from one hundred sixty-plus people on my birthday, even though these responses came after I posted my mug shot.  Most of those folks, I count as personal friends.  Not all intimate friends, but friends all the same.  A few on the list, I hardly remember.  After all, I turned eighty-two the day I put up my picture. :0)

I consider a post from Ivan Liechty, one of my former students from Anderson College (now Anderson University), especially significant for any day of the year.  Ivan gave me permission to quote his post which follows:

“Happy Birthday! Thank you for your mentorship when I was at AC; even though I took a turn in the wrong direction for a little while, I did come back to a better life and am so thankful for everything. 

“By the way, Inherit the Wind [a play I recommended that he read] is still one of my favorite books and movies (the Spencer Tracy version). I commonly tell people that nobody is all good and nobody is all bad and that as soon as our statues get a crack on them we are too quick to want to tear the entire thing down (paraphrasing). That book has taught me to always look at the motivation behind someone's actions and even if I disagree, frustrated or angered, as long as their actions are not malicious in intent then everything can be worked out and forgiven... At the same time I hope that my misgivings and misunderstandings are never caused by malicious intent on my part.”

Inherit the Wind is a drama based on the so-called Monkey Trial in Dayton, Tennessee in 1925.  A high school biology teacher, John Scopes, was on trial for teaching evolution, which was against the law in Tennessee. The trial attracted international attention in part because two famous lawyers headed the legal teams: Clarence Darrow, for the defense, and a former secretary of state, William Jennings Bryan, for the prosecution.

This is a dramatization, written several decades after the trial, and not a transcript of the proceedings. But in the courtroom scene, Henry Drummond, the character representing Clarence Darrow, says he is trying to establish that everyone — including the judge — has the right to think.  The judge says the right to think is not on trial.  Drummond-Darrow insists it is “very much on trial” and “fearfully in danger” in what is happening as witnesses are interrogated by the prosecution.

The playwrights, Jerome Lawrence and Robert E. Lee, may have been looking beyond 1925 when they put those lines in about the right to think being on trial.  Several states in the Deep South, including Tennessee where the Monkey Trial took place, keep on passing anti-evolution laws.

My point in having students read this play and other provocative material was to try to get them to think new thoughts.  I am haunted by the memory of a request from a young man who came to my office many years ago: “Mr. Webb, can you tell me some books it will be safe for me to read?”

I don’t know what I said in response to that request.  I probably sputtered and stuttered and stammered.  I had never been asked that before and have never been asked it since. 

As I hear from my students — on my birthday and other days — my hope continues to be renewed that I succeeded at times in my efforts to get them to think along lines that may not always be safe.

Lawrence Webb, August 31, 1934-August 31, 2016

No.  This is not an obituary.

But as I write this on my 82nd birthday, I'm reminded of the oft-told story of "Life in the Hyphen."  A man visiting a cemetery noticed the hyphen between the date of birth and the date of death on each headstone and started wondering what went on in the lives of these people between the time they were born and the time they died: What did they do during the Hyphen?

I started thinking about other marks I could use to punctuate my life.

! The Exclamation Point marks times of excitement, and I've had my share.  In retrospect, one of the most exciting days of my life came on July 17, 1965, when Pansy and I stood at the altar in a church in Charlotte, North Carolina, and pledged our lives to each other, "from now on! Other exciting times include April 7, 1969, and August 22, 1972, birth dates for our sons, Russell and Jonathan, respectively!  I could add exciting times when we've traveled to London! Paris! Madrid! Rome! Yellowstone! the Grand Canyon! and on and on and on and on and on!  And on!

? The Question Mark also has made its appearance many times in my 82 years: How am I going to pay for my college tuition now that I've committed my life to the ministry? Answer: One step at a time?  Why did Randall, one of our premature twin sons, die after 13 days? I'm still waiting for a good answer.  What am I going to do with all my time when I retire?  Dumb question. Plenty. Teach the Baraca Radio Sunday School Class from First Baptist Church every week.  Minister in retirement homes each month.  Direct plays in community theatre. Serve on volunteer boards: Anderson-Oconee Council on Aging (now Senior Solutions), Project Challenge Playhouse; Literacy Association, ACLU Upstate Chapter; Upstate Chapter of Americans United for Separation of Church and State, Cooperative Baptist Fellowship Coordinating Council, Friends of the Library, Lifelong Learning Institute at Anderson University, Foothills Writers Guild.  Write books.

, The Lowly Comma symbolizes a pause.  Pansy says I need to add a few more of those after all those activities I listed with the Question Mark.  Point well made and, I hope, well taken, as I have left several of those to other people.

. The Period serves a useful purpose, but I'm not ready to use it yet because it indicates a stop.  I've made various stops along the way, such as graduating from high school, college, seminary, and graduate school; and leaving various jobs in church and denomination and higher education.  But none of these has been a complete stop.

The Cedilla looks a lot like a comma, but when it is attached to a letter, it gives a special pronunciation, such as in “Façade,” making it fuh-sod instead of fack-ade.

Every writer or speaker likes to give special twists to his or her presentation from time to time, such as making this to-do about diacritical marking.

The Tilde gives a special emphasis in Spanish, as in mañana.  But my Spanish is limited to trying to say huevos rancheros in Mexican restaurants.  So I won’t go there.

‽ The Interrobang, a late-born child in the punctuation family, combines the Exclamation Mark and the Question Mark: The adrenaline pumps, as I’m not sure what to make of a situation.  Will Trump or Clinton win the presidency, and what difference will it make either way, and where is Bernie now that we need him‽

; The Semicolon shows up when I feel I must say much; I have many more things I need to tell you; things just keep coming to my mind; I don’t know where to stop.  Life goes on; things get so exciting; never a dull moment; I don’t know where to stop.

'The Apostrophe usually indicates something has been left out.  The story has it that Robert Frost was asked what promises he felt he had to keep before he could sleep (in his poem, "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening").  The poet replied, "If I had wanted you to know, I would have told you.”  At this point, you don’t feel I’ve left anything out.

: The Colon comes into play when there’s more to be said: Life is not over.  Another Baraca broadcast to prepare for.  Other Communion services at retirement centers. Other Lifelong Learning classes to teach. Other books on my Bucket List.

Blasphemy on the Net

“The choice should be easy for Christians. It's Trump ... or it's the end of America.”

That statement is the blasphemous punchline from a long rant that rates the current Republican presidential candidate with Almighty God.  

Here is my non-partisan response to the article a friend forwarded to me.  The forward did not identify the original author.

I cannot put my Christian hope in any politician — Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton or anyone else.  I don’t believe God is relying on either of them, or the people they eliminated in the primaries, in order to “save America.”

The writer says, “God is about miracles.“  

Then he adds, “I believe Trump is our miracle.”

He quotes a familiar verse from the Hebrew prophet Isaiah: 

"Even the youths shall faint and be weary, And the young men shall utterly fall,  But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up   with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint" (Isaiah 40:30-31).

But in quoting this verse, the writer equates Donald Trump with the Lord.

“It’s almost like God created this verse for Donald Trump and this moment in history.”

Instead of the Lord renewing strength, this writer says, “Trump renews our strength. .  .  . With Trump we mount up with wings like eagles. With Trump as our leader there is nothing we can't do. .  .  .  Trump inspires us. Trump gives us hope. Trump gives us confidence in victory. Trump gives us just a touch of arrogance. Maybe God understands that's exactly what we need right at this late stage to save America.”

This is outright heresy.  The writer finds Trump a fitting substitute for the Lord.  

This attitude toward Mr. Trump is as misguided as a prayer a pastor out in Davenport, Iowa, prayed on October 11, 2008, at a John McCain rally. I have heard the prayer on video on the Internet. In the prayer, the pastor actually told God twice that God’s reputation was at stake if He let Barack Obama win.   Here is his prayer:

“Our God, we want to honor You today as the Sovereign Lord of this universe.  You tell us in Your Word that You raise up leaders and You pull them down.  So we know that You are in charge of everything that’s going to happen between now and November.  

“And Lord, we just appeal to You for this event.  We want to ask Your blessings on our time together today. Please energize Senator McCain as he seeks to share his vision and what he thinks we need to do for the problems we face in this country. And Lord, help us to be good listeners, ready to hear what he has to share.

"I would also add, Lord, that your reputation is involved in all that happens between now and November, because there are millions of people around this world praying to their God -- whether it's Hindu, Buddha, Allah -- that his opponent wins for a variety of reasons. 

“And, Lord, I pray that you would guard your own reputation, because they’re going to think that their god is bigger than you, if that happens. So I pray that you would step forward and honor your own name in all that happens between now and Election Day.

"Oh Lord, we just commit this time to you, move among us, make your presence very well felt as we are gathered here today in Jesus's name I pray. Amen.” 

You can find this prayer on YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5g0d3_KE5js.  The minister was Arnold Conrad, former pastor of Grace Evangelical Free Church in Davenport.

Questions come to my mind as I think of this current writer’s confidence in Donald Trump, the same questions that come to mind regarding Pastor Conrad’s prayer on behalf of John McCain and against Barack Obama:

What will it tell us about the power of Almighty God if Donald Trump does not win?  More to the point: Looking back to 2008, what does it tell us about the power of Almighty God when we realize John McCain did not win but Barack Obama did win?  What has come of God’s reputation?  What do those people of other religions think about God?  Is He a Has-Been?  Has God forsaken this country?

The outcome of the 2008 election says much more about the presumption of Pastor Conrad than it says about the reputation of the Eternal God.

The current article also reeks of presumption as the writer links “American exceptionalism, capitalism and Judeo-Christian values,” as if these are divinely interconnected.  The will of God is not synonymous with any country on the face of the earth. Various systems of government and finance come and go, while the Creator and Sustainer of the universe remains supreme.

I had most of the stars knocked out of my eyes many years ago regarding politicians as saviors.

I don’t believe God will put either Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton in office.  I don’t believe God put Barack Obama in office or George W. Bush or Bill Clinton or George H. W. Bush or Ronald Reagan or Jimmy Carter or Gerald Ford or Richard Nixon or Lyndon Johnson or John Kennedy or Dwight D. Eisenhower or Harry Truman or Franklin D. Roosevelt or on as far back as you wish to trace it.  

I don’t believe God favors or supports any political party.  God is not a Republican .  .  .  or a Democrat.

The email praising Donald Trump is wrong-headed.  As I said, I have no more confidence in Mrs. Clinton than I do in Mr. Trump as our spiritual deliverer.  That’s just not what a political office is about.  To put our trust in any man or woman in that way is to put that person right up there next to God.  I cannot do that.

In the Wake of Orlando

I sent the following letter to some Muslim friends, whom I have gotten to know in recent months, after learning some details of the mass slaughter in Orlando:

Dear Ahmed, Mustafa, and Imam Omar,

I believe most residents of the United States are deeply grieved today over the mass murder of the young people in Orlando, and I know each of you is deeply grieved that Omar Mateen committed the murders in the name of Islam.  I know, too, that it is as unfair to blame all Muslims for Mateen’s actions as it is to blame all professing Christians for acts of violence by irresponsible people who claim the name of Jesus.

As a longtime happily married heterosexual, I cannot fully understand homosexuality or alternative sexual orientations, but I have no right under the U. S. Constitution or — more significantly — under God to take the life of any person, for whatever perceived wrongdoing he or she may have committed.  I try not to judge any man, woman, or child.  I try to leave judgment to God the Merciful.  But I can find no justification for the horrific deeds done by Mr. Mateen.  His actions should sadden all thinking people, especially all of us who claim a religious motivation in life.

In your Ramadan reflection, you no doubt will find occasion to think further and sorrow deeply about this tragedy that transcends religion, race, gender, ethnic background, political persuasion, or sexual orientation.  I join you in sorrowing over the profanation of your holy month by this action in the name of Islam.

Our U. S. President John F. Kennedy, when he visited the Berlin Wall in 1963, said, “Ich bin ein Berliner (I am a citizen of Berlin).”  As a Christian, I hope I am not trespassing on your faith if I paraphrase President Kennedy and say, “Today I am a Muslim.”

I must acknowledge, I have no ongoing association or friendship with any Muslims, but, in the wake of this tragedy, I would welcome the opportunity to sit down in fellowship with any or all of you, to know you better and perhaps build small bridges between our respective faiths and various nationalities.

In the love of God,
Lawrence Webb

DSG Syndrome

     I am afflicted by a malady that sometimes makes it difficult to live a mere 19 miles from the reputed Sports Capital of the World.

     My Daddy was an avid sports fan. He listened to baseball and football on the radio and then later watched on television.  He passed along his sports interest to my three brothers: Lee Roy, Leonard, and Lew.  But something short-circuited with me, his second son.

     Though I have consulted neither my General Medical Practitioner nor an Athletic Trainer for a scientific diagnosis, I have studied the evidence and determined on my own that I was born with  a Defective Sports Gene, commonly known in athletic circles as DSG Syndrome.

     In our growing-up years, my sisters and brothers and I spent the fall months in the cotton fields of West Texas instead of in the halls of learning.  So, Lee Roy, my older brother, and Leonard, my younger brother, did not "come out for football," although they longed for the chance.

     By the time Lew entered the world, Leonard (the baby of the family until then) was nearly thirteen.  So, for all practical purposes, Lew grew an only child.  He did play high school football, with Daddy's enthusiastic support.

     My active interest in sports withered and died in grade school when I realized I would always be the last chosen at recess when two jock-to-be types chose sides for the prevailing seasonal sport.

     I went to football games in high school and college and in my early years in the "real world." Then I woke up one day and realized I went because it seemed expected -- the thing to do.

     It's been thirty-five years since I've been in a stadium.  

     The last game I went to, Pansy and our boys and I lived in Waco, Texas, and I went to a Baylor game with my dear older brother-in-law Jeff who had an extra ticket. 

     I don't know who won. I don't remember the Bears' opponents.  My only clear memory  of the afternoon is the moment when I stood with Baylor fans as they sang "That Good Old Baylor Line" and stretched out their arms with their fingers curled to represent Bear claws.

     These days, as orange athletic supporters go ga-ga over bowl games and trips to Phoenix, I'm sure I'm missing something.  But I have no idea what it is.  Or maybe I do.

     I've often heard it said that football is a religion.  I've often said "Amen" to that.  But now I have proof positive:

     Coach Swinney will soon be canonized Saint Dabo as he gives glory to God for his win over the Oklahoma boys.  I'm not sure where this leaves the coach from the Southwest.  Is he less than favored in the eyes of the Almighty because his boys lost?  Is Dab more holy than his 2015 competitor as God gave "us" the victory?

     After the Orange Bowl, a fan told me, "I'm on a spiritual high after that game!" I looked my friend in the eye and scratched my head as I asked, "Really?"  He probably thought my head-scratching was a sign of dandruff.

     Then there was the sports writer's Facebook post, quoting from the "love chapter," First Corinthians 13, in tribute to The Coach with God's Blessing.

     Does God give wins to His (or Her) favored teams?

     Does God give a good care about which team of rowdies scores more points?

     Will the coach and the guys up the road in Tigertown be better Christians after a winning season?

     Will they be even better Christians when they are crowned National Champions?

     Will "we" be better Christians because "we" won?

     

     Many of my friends -- or former friends -- are sadly shaking their heads .  .  . if they've read this far:  Poor Lawrence.  We knew he'd flipped.  We just didn't realize the extent of his DSG Syndrome.   

What Will It Matter That I Have Lived?

What can I do to make any difference that I have lived thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, or ninety years on Planet Earth?

“All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference.”

Brian Doyle wrote those words in the Sojourners magazine regarding raising your children, maintaining a happy marriage, and doing your job well.

Doyle wrote the reflective article for the January 2016 issue, the time of year we associate with looking forward and simultaneously looking backward, after the fashion of the two-faced Roman god Janus.

To hope for the future, you must believe “being a very good you matters somehow,” the editor of Portland Magazine at the University of Portland in Oregon wrote.

Another urgent belief, according to Doyle, is “that trying to be an honest  and tender parent” will have reverberations among your descendants for centuries to come.

Still another point in Doyle’s credo is that people beyond your range of knowledge will benefit as you do “your chosen work with creativity and diligence.”

Through all your good work, however, you likely will never get proper credit or be properly understood, except by Jesus, whom Doyle calls “the Arab Jew.” He realized good had gone out of Him the instant a sick woman dared to touch the hem of His garment. Few of us have such perception.

Doyle says realizing our limits should bring humility, knowing “we are all broken and small and brief.” But, while acknowledging our limits, we need also to know, where there is love, “there is everything else.”

Salenthiel C. Kirk, summed up this message in his 1912 song, “Our Best”:

Wait not for men to laud, heed not their slight;

Winning the smile of God brings its delight!

Aiding the good and true ne’er goes unblest,

All that we think or do, be it the best.  

Every work for Jesus will be blest, 

But He asks from everyone his best.  

Our talents may be few, these may be small,

But unto Him is due our best, our all.