Einstein's Brain

      Einstein was quoted as saying that man only uses 10% of his cognitive ability.

     One of my high school teachers told of having seen the old man. The quirky genius stood out in a crowd. His wiry, white hair was long and unruly. He wore baggy pants and woolen sweaters that seemed more characteristic of a janitor, than a genius. He was a singular fellow. A Dreamer among dreamers!

     Einstein died, as all people do, and a particular medical doctor was charged with doing a final autopsy on the great man. However, without the family’s permission, Einstein’s brain was not only examined, but sliced, dissected and made into microscopic slides, which were subsequently sent to various research facilities throughout the country. The remainder of the brain was cut into chunks, stored in formaldehyde, and is still “housed” at the same pathologist’s home in New Jersey.

     Researchers never discovered anything particularly unique about Einstein’s brain tissue. It appears to be the same gray, wrinkled material common to all of us. “The jury is still out,” but it’s doubtful that anything extraordinary will ever be found.

     But we were all born for greatness! Every one of us. We were destined to fulfill specific and particular plans on earth. I love the verse,

 

     “I know the plans I have for you, (says the Lord;) plans for good, and not for evil to give you a future and a hope.” (Jeremiah 29:11, KJV)

     There’s a book called Dream Releasers (by Wayne Cordeiro.) I’ve just purchased the little volume and look forward to reading it. A quick scan of the book separates it from many other similar volumes.

     God has placed me in the role of a “Dream Releaser.” It’s an awesome responsibility, for He is using me as a catalyst and trigger mechanism to begin a domino effect in the lives of both individuals, and groups of people. If my “powder is wet,” it’s doubtful I’ll see extraordinary results in the lives of those I mentor.

      But we cannot hope to inspire greatness, if we, ourselves, are not inspired to GREATNESS.

      There was a wonderful race horse named Citation. His record is among the best of the 20^th Century. He was singular among thousands of other equines. It is said that, though he ran magnificently on the track, he was almost uncontrollable in the Winner’s Circle. Each time his jockey brought him to that famous circle, he would buck and kick, and standing still was out of the question.

     However, the grand horse’s trainer finally came up with a novel idea. On a particular day after a particular race, and after Citation had “brought home the bacon,” the champion was lead to the Winner’s Circle. But this time the horse was turned to face the field of his labors. Amazingly, Citation stood still, ears intent on the next sound, eyes focused on the racetrack. After every win his jockey performed that same tactic, and from that moment it always worked.

     The fine animal, having just run and won a race, was keen to do it again.

      I think we must keep our eyes focused on the prize. I think we must be more tuned in to the track, than to the Winner’s Circle. There are enough people looking for acclaim, to be seen; to be noticed.

 

      We cannot hope to inspire others to dream, if our dreams are covered with cobwebs. We cannot lead others when we, ourselves, refuse to be led. We cannot inspire our subordinates, if we're more content to linger in the Winner's Circle than to run the race.

      We must “set the standard.” We are Dream Releasers.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

 

 

 

Falling Into My Own Trap

     The year was 1962. I had turned just turned thirteen. Though I was in the eighth grade, and working part-time in a plant nursery after school, I maintained more childish notions, as well.

    A friend of mine suggested that we build a fort. It was a magnificent little structure, but only we might have characterized it as such. It was actually little more than a wooden shack. But we were innovative. We decided we needed a trap door in the floor of the hut, and we made it so. The trap door led to an underground tunnel, constructed of 55 gallon drums, with the ends knocked out. We were getting downright fancy! David and I actually spent the night in the tunnel, at times.

     But we were far from being finished with our work of art. Some adolescents are subject to a mild form of Paranoia, and we were no exception. I came up with the idea of setting Vietnam-style traps around the little building. We set twelve or fifteen of the traps, digging foot deep holes, and laying blocks of wood, peppered with nails in the bottom of each. Finally, the holes were covered over with small branches and grass.

     I asked my mother to visit our hut, and she finally found time to walk the two hundred yards from the house, to investigate our work of art. As she walked slowly along the trail, with my three year old sister in her arms, one of her feet disappeared from sight! I had forgotten the large trap we had dug on the main trail! She screamed, immediately dropped to a seated position, and began to wrench the nasty thing from her foot. Just as quickly she began to confront my stupidity. “Royce, what’s wrong with you? What were you thinking? If your sister had been walking ahead of me, these nails would have gone totally through her foot!”

      I can’t imagine why, but my Mother decided not to tour my fort that day. Somehow she regained her footing and composure, and stormed off towards our house. On her way out of our “contonement area” she was heard to say, “Son, you had better cover every one of your traps. This isn’t right. You could hurt someone seriously!”

      Well, you can imagine the shock that registered on my face. What had happened to her wasn’t my purpose or agenda. Our little traps were meant for “our enemies.”

     So, I set to work covering over the traps. Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t diagrammed the locations of these little weapons. I fell into a “woe is me” attitude, and begin to think that I deserved the same fate as my Mother. I remember saying, “I hope I fall in one.” Well, I had covered several traps when, you guessed it… one of my feet disappeared from sight. I had fallen in to my own trap!

 

     We rationalize and justify our vindictiveness and bitterness towards those we once, or never loved. We store up those emotions ‘til they exude from our very pores. We unleash our retribution both verbally, and non-verbally. Unforgiveness rules the day. So like those traps I set for unsuspecting foes.

      Scientists, medical doctors and researchers have learned much about the effects of negative emotions. We know now, that unforgiveness and bitterness turns inward to inhibit our ability to properly relate to other human beings, and make cognitive judgments. We can develop anxiety and depression. Some experience organic disorders, such as Arthritis, and possibly, various forms of Dementia. So like my experience of falling into my own trap. I was my own worst enemy that day.

     More specifically, in terms of unforgiveness, we suffer “stuckness” that inhibits our ability to mature and move forward. The “unforgiven” may go on with their lives, never realizing the depth of our emotions towards them. While a unforgiven memory or event prevents the “victim” from fulfilling God-given expectations and goals for their life.

     Like falling asleep with our feet in a wet gray mixture, we awake to find it’s concrete.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

 

 

The Sentry & the Sniper

     Ira Sankey was a rich singer of Christian songs and was widely known and loved throughout all of America. He was the George Beverly Shea of his day.

     Ira had served the Union during the Civil War. During that horrible war, he often found himself on picket duty, and he would wile away the hours with tunes he’d learned at home and in church. Even then his music was nothing short of marvelous to hear. Restless troops slumbered peacefully beneath it’s spell.

     It was a fine night. A cloudless sky offered Ira a better view of the stars than usual. His songs were more copious and more beautiful than ever this evening. It was then that a Confederate soldier “drew a bead” on the sentry across the river; the sentry with the short name of… Ira.

    The Civil War ended, and years turned into decades.

    A riverboat rounds the bend, and we hear music. Suddenly, on the night air, we make out the rich baritone of a gifted singer. We board that boat, and go into the dining hall.

    The fine singer has just concluded his program, and sits down. Applause fills the air, and the crowd begins to converse, and eat meals that have grown cold, as they sat in rapt attention.

    One particular man steps up to Ira, and introduces himself. There is a bit of small talk, and Mr. Sankey recognizes a Southern accent. The stranger begins to ask some mind-stirring questions; questions that revive the war years again.

    “Mr. Sankey, were you at such and such a river, on such and such a day during the war?” Ira’s face registered curiosity and interest. “Yes, I was there. How could you know?”

     The stranger smiled a whimsical smile, and asked another question. “Were you on sentry duty during the few days your unit was camped out on that river?”  

     Again, the answer… “Yes, I remember it well.” Finally, the last question, “Did you sing aloud as you sat sentry?” Ira blinked. “Yes, Yes, I always sang on sentry duty.”

    Well, you could have knocked the stranger over with a feather. He looked at Ira with an expression that registered such love, and wonderment that Sankey could not draw his eyes away from him.

     “Mr. Sankey, I was just across the river from you that night. I was also doing sentry for my unit. Upon hearing your songs, I scanned the banks, and noticed you there, all alone. I thoroughly enjoyed your music, and lingered there for what seemed like hours. And then I realized that I had a job to do. I raised my rifle to my shoulder, and “drew a bead” on your chest. I put my finger to the trigger, and exerted a bit of pressure. Again, and again, I paused, and lowered the weapon, only to bring it back up to my shoulder. In the end, I could not shoot you. Your Christian songs were too beautiful, and beckoned me towards home. Had I shot you, it would have been like killing Christ Himself.”

     We cannot know what hand “Fate” will deal us. We do know Who holds our hand. We can rest assured that “all things work together for good to those who love God.” (Romans 8:28, KJV) We can be sure that He will use us ‘til He is through, and will ultimately give us a home in heaven.

     Paul speaks of this concept in the wonderful book of Philippians. “I cannot know whether God will leave me here, or whether He will take me on to my reward. Perhaps for your sake, He will give me favor to remain for awhile.” (Chapter One, MPV)

“But this life, and the lust of it is passing away, but he that does the will of the Lord endures forever.” (1^st John 2:17, KJV)

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

God With Flesh On

I love the book. I adore the movie. "Les Miserables." Victor Hugo produced nothing short of a masterpiece.

    The convict needed a place to stay that night. He was newly escaped, and wasn’t interested in falling into the hands of the police. He mused about the feasibility of knocking on the Priest’s door. This priest was well-known for his kindliness, and good works among the poor.

    Well, what did he have to lose anyway? He encouraged himself and knocked three times on the door. Almost immediately the servant woman peeked out of the barely open portal. The door slammed as quickly as it opened, and seconds turned into what seemed like minutes.

     Just as Jean Val Jean turned to go, the door swung open wide, and a wisened old priest stood in the threshold.

     “Yes, may I help you, Sir?”

     Jean automatically looked behind him. He couldn’t remember when anyone had called him, “Sir.”

     “Uh, yes, Father… I need a place to stay tonight.”

     Almost embarrassed for asking, Val Jean continued to stand there. The priest didn’t hesitate, but invited the felon to share his home for the night. Meanwhile, the servant woman began to hide the silverware and candlesticks. No pitiful creature like this was going to take advantage of her unsuspecting master.

     Afterwards, they all lay down for the night, and the house grew silent. A few crickets chirped in the distance, and muted voices talked somewhere down the block. Had Val Jean been outside, even he would have appreciated the magnificence of the night sky.

     But he was inside, and he was up to no good. He crept out of his bed, and past the sleeping priest. He was intent on doing the old man harm, not out of spite, but out of what he considered necessity.

 

      Morning broke early, and the sun rose as it had for eons, and would for time immemorial. The priest had been busy with prayers and scripture for an hour by now, and had only just noticed that Jean Val Jean was missing. Suddenly, the old servant virtually sprinted up to him. "Oh father, that man you took in has taken the silverware."

     Odd, hardly any concern registered on the face of the aged priest. It took a lot to surprise him anymore. He knew men and he knew their temptations and weaknesses. But the old woman would have none of it. Hot tears of fear and anxiety swept down her face.

     A knock at the door! She hesitated, but the kindly priest threw it open wide. Outside stood two policemen and… Jean Val Jean! The policemen spouted their usual greetings and then got down to business. They presented the convict to the priest and recounted what he had told them.

     “Yes, these silverware is mine. A kindly priest gave it to me."

     Of course they couldn’t believe such a story. Impossible.

     The old priest smiled a sad smile, and assured the policemen that all was well, and that he had indeed, given the silver treasure to Val Jean. After much urging they left with a final word, and the priest turned to the lying convict. Val Jean could not speak. He was too full of emotion, and tears flowed copiously down his cheeks.

      “My Father, forgive me. Forgive me. I am an unworthy man and black with sin.”

     Father Pierre smiled that same old sad smile, but there was a fresh twinkle in his eyes, and he pressed two silver candlesticks into Jean's hands.

     “This day has Christ enlightened you. I have bought your soul with the price of this silver, Val Jean. You are no longer your own. You are bought with a price."

 

     What else is there to say? Such overwhelming forgiveness. Some people only know God in us and through us. They need to see “God with flesh on.” What a wonderful role model we have in that old priest.

     Salvation had visited Val Jean in the guise of a loving servant of God.

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "Unconventional Devotions" Copyright 2005

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Indian Snake in an American City

The local news reports in Florida the past couple of days are replete with stories about a missing

… Cobra.

It seems a recent storm damaged a building in which a wildlife expert kept his exotic pets. One of the poisonous critters escaped and is, theoretically, somewhere on his 10 acre estate. Theoretically, because it could have easily moved beyond the man’s self-styled animal preserve, and into some nearby neighborhood.

While wildlife officials are scouring the area, and hope to capture the snake, a local mother mused,

“Well, I hope they don’t make a good show of it for the next few days, and finally just give up. We’ve got to live with that beast, and you never know where he (or she) will turn up.”

News reports said the so-called expert owned two Cobra’s. Hmmm.

I only hope the critter isn’t

… PREGNANT!!!

 

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 6

Andy

There are some people you meet along the way that you will never forget.

 

Andy Bos was one of them.

 

As one looks towards the pulpit, he sat on the second pew on the right side of the church. He was as faithful to the house of God as a new clock, and his mind was as sharp as a tack; though his 9 plus decades had taken a decided toll on, (as scripture characterizes it) “the outward man which perisheth.”

 

His wife having pre-deceased him years before, and being “foot loose and fancy free” Andy began to date the widow, Naomi; another aged member of our church. It seemed the duo spent every available moment together, inside and outside the sanctuary, and were often seen at the local McDonald’s, the city park, the library, and other local venues. In spite of their obvious affection for one another, they never married. And their failure to enter into the blessed state of matrimony remained a mystery to one and all.

 

I was privileged to spend time with, and converse with Andy. And often, on Sunday mornings during our “meet and greet” time, we would converse about, well, any conceivable subject. But it seemed the focus always came back to “leaving.”

 

He was simply ready to go on to his reward.

 

(A second, but “but well down the rung” topic with my aged friend, were the Hollywood exploits of his great grandson, the actor Taylor Lautner; noted for the “Twilight” series of movies. He often mentioned having mailed some of my Wednesday night topical presentations to the young man; hoping that these spiritually-oriented teachings would have an impact on him).

 

And though Andy lived in an assisted living facility, even well into his 90’s he did his own driving. At least ‘til increasing frail health precluded his getting behind the wheel. And after one or two parishioners offered to transport him to church, and subsequently “petered out,” my wife and I took on what I considered to be a privileged responsibility to assure he had the opportunity to worship the One he loved, with those whom he loved.

 

Eventually, Andy “took to his bed” and prepared to meet his Maker, and travel to that place which he had referred to on an almost obsessive basis.

 

As my friend’s demise drew near, I could not help but visit with him one last time. And as Jean and I walked into his room, Andy awoke, opened those kind eyes for which he was so well known, and attempted a weak smile.

 

We walked over to him, and made the smallest of small talk. And then, I asked Andrew if he’d like me to sing to him. (He had often told me how much he enjoyed my solos, and I thought this sort of “send-off” would be a fitting tribute to him). He immediately acquiesced. Though I sing many of the same songs often, I depend on sheet music for the words. As a result I decided to sing THE national anthem of the Christian church; one that I’ve never had any trouble remembering.

 

“Amazing Grace.

How sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost,

but now I’m found,

was blind but now I see.”

 

I had hardly begun when Andy raised those frail little arms towards heaven, and mouthed the words,

 

“Hallelujah. Hallelujah.”

 

We took our leave shortly thereafter.

 

If we are to believe angels have names, I have often fancied the death angel who ferried Andy to “the other side of the Jordan” was also an Andy. (Perhaps I’ve watched too many “Touched By An Angel” broadcasts).

 

My friend was finally Home; with a capital “H.” No longer would he talk about it. Now he would had the inestimable opportunity of experiencing it.

 

The longer I live, and the closer I get the more I think about my eternal destination, (though I’m only 30 as long as I avoid mirrors). I used to accuse my friend, Andy, (behind his back of course) of focusing far too much on heaven, and far too little on this life. But as I get increasingly closer to my end, and increasingly further from my beginning, I get increasingly fonder of the destination in which my friend already resides.

 

And perhaps one day someone who follows will accuse me (behind my back of course) of focusing far too much on my eternal Home and far too little on the only home I have ever known.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 6

 

 

Wheel of Fortune

I was 12, 13 tops, when my cousin and I sat down on the floor of her house, and began to play with her Ouija Board. True to form the cursor began taking us places we had never planned to go, and over which we seemingly had no control. And sooner, rather than later, I stepped away from the game, and recognized it for what it was. I only played with that thing a ma jig… once. And never again. It scared me spit-less.

Later, I recall playing with what might better be classified as a toy; an “8 Ball.” No problems here. Just some “pre-printed” answers.

Then there are the fortune tellers. Don’t even get me started. You find them scattered about in half broken-down houses, and store fronts. If they were such soothsayers of all that is not yet, but will be, they could easily rake in millions on horse racing or the lottery, and leave the fortune telling to the amateurs.

In years gone by, perhaps less so today, Americans were “taken up” with horoscopes, and some still talk about what sign he or she was born under; (which is absolute “tommy-rot” since how can the stars, (which are inanimate objects) have any impact on the lives of animate people? There are those among us who swear by horoscopes, at least they take time to read them at the breakfast table, and talk about them at the conference table. It never ceases to amaze me that the average connoisseur of horoscopes apparently doesn’t take time to realize that letters don’t magically fall out of the sky, and organize themselves into blessings and cursings on the pages of a newspaper. Someone is paid to write the “stuff.” (There’s a better word for it, but I won’t use it here).

And then there are those who are absolutely “eat up” with angels. Scripture has described the cherubim and seraphim as messengers of the Most High God. (And indeed, I think they are).

I saw an angel the other day.

(Yes, I did).

And no, I’m not one to see angelic beings every other day, and behind every tree. I was biking in the wee hours recently, and as I stopped my trusty, (but oh, so slow) bike at a stop sign, I looked to the right, and saw this young man walking down the sidewalk towards me; perhaps fifty feet away. There is a six or eight foot wall to a gated community which runs along that stretch of sidewalk, and that wall was situated to his immediate left. On his right was a four lane highway. I looked away for a moment, as I prepared to cross the road, and then cast my eyes again to the right.

The “man” who had been walking towards me, only a moment before, had vanished. Humanly impossible, for there had been nowhere for him to go.

And while I believe in angels, and I believe that which I saw that night was angelic in substance, and that they have their role in our lives, the current interest in angels is entirely misplaced, as is our culture’s involvement in fortune tellers, and horoscopes and stars.

As scripture admonishes us,

These men deliberately forfeited the truth of God and accepted a lie, paying homage and giving service to the creature instead of to the Creator,

… who alone is worthy to be worshipped for ever and ever (Romans 1:25)

By William McDonald, PhD. "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 6