TEAR OFF THE LABEL. Pts. 1-3

4480

Pt. 1

Rev. Tim Hill, a well known evangelical minister, once shared a message in which he presented a poignant illustration of a childhood memory.

I will allow him to tell the story (paraphrased)

My family didn't have much when I was a child. We just got by. And, as you might imagine, when it came time for Christmas, my seven siblings and I got just one gift.

My mother, in particular, was very practical. (Considering my parent's income, she had to be). As a result, each of us received "sensible" gifts for our birthdays and Christmas.

I was eight or nine when the holidays rolled around that year, and on Christmas day, my parents lined us up in the living room; from the oldest to the youngest.

Now, mama walked down the line, and handed each one of us a custom wrapped gift; each one a duplicate of the previous one.

Stripping off the red and gold wrapping paper, my brothers, sisters and I found ourselves holding... matching pillows.

(I kid you not).

And now, without exception, each and every one of us smiled the biggest smiles we'd smiled in a long time.

You see, we were used to sleeping on old hand me down pillows.

The pillows we held in our hands were large, comfortable, clean, and white, and covered with pillow cases bearing illustrations of sun flowers.

Pt. 2

We had all been laying our heads on old, worn out pillows for years, and we were thrilled to get something soft and clean. Tonka trucks and baby dolls, (depending on our respective gender), was the last thing on our minds that day.

I simply could not wait to lay my head down on my prized possession that Christmas night.

And after dining on a simple meal of turkey, and dressing, and green beans, and corn on the cob, mama kissed us, and shooed us off to our bedrooms.

I had already laid my pillow exactly where I would plop my head down that evening. And without further adieu, I eased my head down on my beautiful "rectangular cloud" and pulled my old gray cover up around my neck.

Oh, how good that new Christmas pillow felt!

However, as I moved my head, I felt something rough rub against my neck. Suddenly, I wasn't all that comfortable.

Making sure my door was closed, I turned on my bedside lamp, and examined my pillow. It was then I saw it. A three by two inch label. I began to read it.

"All new cotton pillow case, and pillow. Sterile chicken feathers."

And then, my gaze shifted downwards, and I read the last line of print...

"Under penalty of law, do NOT remove this label."

Now, I read those nine words a second time, and I thought,

"What? Are you kidding me?"

(and)

"I've never even heard of the Pillow Label Police!"

(But, I could just see a couple of the men in blue wearing specially designed badges, engraved with those three words, knocking on our front door)!

It was then that I summoned up the courage to... tear the label off the pillow! Noone was going to tell me I had to lay my head against that rough label for the next several years!

And with this, I stuffed the label down beneath whatever happened to be in my trash basket at the time.

Pt. 3

Which leads me to the implication of Rev. Hill's message...

Tear Off the Label!!!

As a counselor I have met with multiplied thousands of men, women, boys and girls over the years. And I can tell you, one of the most egregious characteristics I have encountered is the presence of "labels" in their lives, and the genesis of these labels was, more often than not, during their formative years.

Some were told they were too stupid to amount to anything.

Others were told they were too ugly, and would never find someone to love them.

Some were teased about a physical characteristic.

Others were tormented about a speech impediment.

And then, there are those who have managed to label themselves, and have accused themselves, and mischaracterized themselves all their lives.

Well, my friends. It's time to tear off the labels!!!

I love a line in the Victorian novel, "Jane Eyre"...

"Your wounds are sad to behold, but you are NOT your wounds."

We must not allow our wounds to characterize us!

Whoever said "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me" didn't have a clue what they were saying.

It behooves us as believers to throw off the verbal and psychological shackles which have kept us bound for far too long. And we simply can't do this by accident. Only wrecks happen by accident. It has to be done on purpose. It is a whole new mindset.

Our Lord has said, "I have loved you with an everlasting love."

And when someone asked Him how much He loved us, He spread His arms out to His side, and received those ghastly wounds in His hands, and shouted,

"THIS much!"

Tear off those labels which have characterized you for far too long, my friend! The only "Label Policeman" is our soul's natural enemy, and he is a defeated foe! Our Lord has loved you with an everlasting love, and He has given you a new label.

"Declared worthy and ever loved of the Father. Property of the King of kings and Lord of lords. Sons and Daughters of the Most High God!"

by Bill McDonald, PhD

DR. STANLEY'S PRAYER CLOSET

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I was watching a video of the legacy service for Dr. Charles Stanley yesterday. The new pastor, Anthony George, had stepped to the pulpit and was sharing a few stories about his and Dr. Stanley's relationship with one another over the course of several decades.

 

It seems Rev. George had been hired as the associate pastor during the 1980's. There was a wide range in their ages, as he was about 40 at the time, and Dr. Stanley had turned 80. Before much time had elapsed, Anthony realized that he was much more a personal assistant to the lead pastor than his actual title conveyed.

 

There were times when the divorced and evidently lonely Dr. Stanley would ask his associate pastor to come over for pizza, and they would settle down with a movie like, "Patton." (You might surmise correctly that this writer was a bit surprised by that particular choice in movies as "Patton" is replete with some pretty strong language).

 

One story stood out from among the rest for its abject humor. Rev. George was still new on the job when Dr. Stanley said,

 

"Anthony, let me introduce you to my prayer closet."

 

The good understudy promptly followed Rev. Stanley to a 10x10 room in a nondescript hallway. Opening the door, the two men stepped in, and the pastor closed the door, and proceeded to turn out the overhead light. Blackness permeated their surroundings, and the younger man wondered what would happen next.

 

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness a bit, enough light permeated the threshold beneath the door to provide the assistant a clue, and now he watched closely.

 

"Dr. Stanley dropped to his knees. I followed his lead and dropped to my knees. Now, he got down on all fours. ('Pretty agile for a man of 80,' I thought). And now, now he prostrated himself on the carpet. I did the same."

 

Several hundred men, women and children seemed captivated by his story. I know I was.

 

"I was new at this 'prayer closet' thing, and I figured I would just do and say what Dr. Stanley did and said. Suddenly, my mentor 'let out' with a 'Yes, Lord!' I echoed his words. 'Yes, Lord!'"

 

By now Rev. George's listeners were laughing.

 

"And then silence permeated the dark prayer room. It seems the good pastor thought of prayer as a conversation between him and God; as if they both had something to say. And then, just as suddenly as before Dr. Stanley seemed to muse,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

"I promptly responded with,

 

'Hmmm!'

 

The laughter grew louder.

 

"And then only silence for several minutes 'til the 'Yes, Lord's' and 'Hmmm's' began again. I can tell you that Dr. Stanley was a prayer warrior, and though my prayer room experience with him wasn't the most comfortable thing I'd ever done, I was blessed to have him as my friend and mentor for several decades."

 Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

 

LOSING A PRESIDENT

 4478

I missed one day of school during my entire 1963-1964 school year. As the day dawned clear and a bit cool, I wasn’t feeling well, and I asked my mother if she would allow me to stay home. It seemed a shame to ruin my perfect attendance, but my mom realized I wasn’t a “sluff-off,” (as we referred to a slacker) and she nodded her approval. (By this time, re. last chapter, we were on better “footing” again.)

I happened to be watching television about the lunch hour, comfortably situated in our family’s business office, sitting in my mother’s typing chair, and with my feet propped up on her desk.

Suddenly, there was a news break; something which rarely happened in those days. In recent years, we may see two or three so-called “news breaks” a day on networks like CNN or MS-NBC, but fifty years ago the old television cameras had to be warmed up prior to a coming on the air with a live broadcast. Thus, (as I recall) on this particular day a photo of Walter Cronkite was posted on the screen with live audio feed.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Walter Cronkite. I’m coming to you with what appears to have been a shooting in Dallas, Texas. We’re in the process of validating the following information, but it appears President Kennedy has been shot by an unknown assailant in the City of Dallas. There are also reports that Governor Connelly of Texas was also hit as their vehicle drove past the Texas School Book Depository. We will be joining you in a live, extended report momentarily.” 

After a few minutes, live footage of the world famous newsman flickered on the screen. The veteran anchor was obviously anxious, and he stumbled over a few of his words. And every half minute or so, he pulled his glasses off his face and spoke directly into the camera. Cronkite repeated his previous remarks a couple of times with minor variations. It was definite now. The president had been gravely wounded, and his limo had just arrived at Parkland Memorial Hospital.

The minutes ticked by and sometime after 1PM Eastern Time, old Walter confirmed what, based on the news reports, Americans expected to hear.

“It has been substantiated now,” and taking off his glasses, and looking up at the clock on the wall, “President Kennedy died,” his voice faltered, and tears appeared in his eyes, …“President Kennedy died at approximately 1PM, CT.”

The date was November 22, 1963, not unlike an equally traumatic day which transpired two decades earlier, “A Day that will live in Infamy.”

Over the next 72 hours, America witnessed Lee Harvey Oswald arrested and accused of the murder of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, we watched fascinated as our beautiful, cultured first lady stepped off Air Force One, her beloved husband’s blood obscuring the natural color of her legs, we watched the accused assassin  gunned down on live television, the funeral of our beloved president was televised, and while millions lingered in a state of shock, his mortal remains were interred on a hillside in Arlington National Cemetery.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

 4477

Pt. 1

There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 10:30pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).

Pt. 2

Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.

Pt. 3

Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).

Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.

Pt. 4

And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.

I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.

Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

Pt. 5

And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

 

Bottom of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

 

So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.

 

*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

THE LITTLE SPACECRAFT THAT COULD

 4476

(I first preached this sermon almost a decade ago)

If you’re inclined, you can turn with me to Hebrews Chapter 1

10“In the beginning, Lord, you laid the foundations of the earth,
    and the heavens are the work of your hands.
¹¹ They will perish, but you remain;
    they will all wear out like a garment.
¹² You will roll them up like a robe;
    like a garment they will be changed.
But you remain the same,
    and your years will never end.”

Tonight I want to spend some time with what has been commonly known as “The Space Race,” and more specifically with one particular spacecraft which was launched almost twenty years after the advent of the Space Race.

And I might say that by the time I conclude my message tonight, you should be able to grasp why I would talk about such a seemingly secular topic behind this church pulpit.

But let’s step back in time a few decades, and allow me to share some personal and national details which are relevant to our discussion.

I recall sitting in Mr. Ball’s 6^th grade class at Bartow Elementary School. The year was 1961. (Interestingly enough, the famous evangelist, Billy Sunday, preached a sermon on what is now the playground of this school; half a century before I attended there). At any rate, on one particular day, Mr. Ball turned on the black & white television in the classroom, pulled up the rabbit ears, and turned the knob to one of the only four channels we had at the time. It was inauguration day. President John F. Kennedy raised his right hand and took the oath of office. Of course, we all remember that fateful day in November of 1963 when an assassin’s bullet took him from us. But some of you may recall something he said during those 1000 days in which he served as the chief executive of the United States.

“During this decade is out, I propose that the United States build a rocket capable to taking man to the moon and bringing him safely back to the earth.”

I can assure you that such stuff fascinated me, and held my attention. No doubt you remember “The Mercury 7” astronauts. The movie, “The Right Stuff” details the competition surrounding and appointment of seven men who would be launched, one by one, into orbit around the earth. My own distant cousin, Alan Shepard, was the first American in space, and John Glenn followed closely behind him.

During my late elementary years and throughout my teen and young adults years, I followed the Space Race very carefully; throughout the Mercury, Gemini and Apollo programs.

As an adolescent, I visited Cape Canaveral a couple of times, and watched from a nearby beach, as an unmanned version of the Saturn moon rocket lifted off, and disappeared into the clouds. Just a couple of years ago I toured the space center again. As a twenty year old, I sat in front of my television set, and like many of you, watched that grainy black and white live video footage, as Neil Armstrong dropped off the lunar landing module ladder onto the dusty gray soil of our nearest neighbor, the moon.

But as I previously inferred, I am more concerned this evening about one spacecraft, in particular, referred to as Voyager 1, which lifted off from the east coast of Florida in 1977. And as you might imagine, the purpose of this unmanned spacecraft was the exploration of the universe, or at least our little portion of the universe which we refer to as the “Milky Way.”

And also, as you might well imagine, the Voyager 1 spacecraft was outfitted with a myriad of instrumentation designed to not only take photographs of the planets in our solar system, but to measure the composition of the rings of Saturn and atmosphere of Jupiter, and to analyze the solar plasma of the sun, and the fading intensity of its light, as its journey took it further from our nearest star, the sun.

And of course, our scientists would have been left completely unawares without the capability to retrieve the information which Voyager 1 generated. As a result, this spacecraft was outfitted with a radio transmitter, and over the next 40 years it has faithfully continued to transmit data to a team of full time researchers who have faithfully analyzed the information they have received. At this stage, the Voyager is 12 billion miles from earth, and its radio signal takes 17 hours to reach our planet. And surprisingly, since the distance is so great, and the signal so tiny, NASA currently uses dozens of radio telescopes to concentrate the signal enough to make it intelligible, and to be able to interpret it.

The “little spacecraft that could” reached an important milestone five years ago. After a 35 year journey, Voyager 1 left our solar system, and journeyed into what is referred to as interstellar space. Take a moment to consider it. Our solar system, though vast, is just a speck in the Milky Way galaxy; one of billions of similar galaxies in our continually expanding universe. Consider it, if our little spacecraft had the capability to move at the speed of light, 186,000 miles per second, (and it doesn’t) it would take four years to travel to the nearest star, Alpha Centauri.

It is estimated that in three years our little Voyager will be too distant for scientists to receive its signal, but its mission will have only begun.

 For you see, on board the one ton robot is a gold record containing sounds and images selected to portray the diversity of life and culture on Earth, and which are intended for any intelligent extraterrestrial life form, who may find them. Interestingly enough, given the vacuum of space, this record is expected to outlast the estimated two million years left in the lifespan of our solar system, and will still be able to be deciphered a billion years from today.

Please turn to John Chapter 1, Verse 1-9

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. ² He was with God in the beginning. ³ Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. ⁴ In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. ⁵ The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome^[a] it.

⁶ There was a man sent from God whose name was John. ⁷ He came as a witness to testify concerning that light, so that through him all might believe. ⁸ He himself was not the light; he came only as a witness to the light.

⁹ The true light that gives light to everyone coming into the world.

He lights every man, woman, boy and girl who has lives on the earth, or who has ever lived on the earth.

I think the implications of this verse are enormous. And while I have never heard this verse preached, at least not in this manner, it occurs to me that this sentence is all about Christ’ entire ministry towards the population of Planet Earth; including his death on the cross, and His resurrection from the grave.

However, the gold record designed to notify someone out there that billions of intelligent individuals exist, or once existed on a little blue marble called Earth will never be retrieved, nor viewed by someone in a distant civilization in this universe. For you see, there’s simply no one else out there. We are it. There are no other intelligent beings in the universe.

For you see, if there were we can be sure that the angelic being referred to as Satan would have tempted them, as he did Adam and Eve. And it would have been necessary for Christ to have also died a substitutionary death for that civilization, as He did for our own. But 1^st Peter 3:18 tells us that “Christ suffered once for all sin.”

And if He suffered once, we can be sure that He did not suffer twice or three times, and thus He never visited another intelligent civilization for the purpose of dying for them. You see, Voyager 1 is the single most intelligent creation in interstellar space. It is out there “all by its lonely.” Since the spacecraft was created by man, and man was created by God, that little metal flying robot might, in essence, be referred to as, “God’s Grandchild.”

At least the lack of another intelligent civilization in this universe is my theory. And I believe I just finished adequately supporting it. Christ suffered once, and only once for the only populated planet in this universe.

Sometime ago, it was decided that the Voyager 1 spacecraft would turn its camera towards Planet Earth, and take the longest distance ‘selfie’ ever taken; for the elements of which it was formed originated on this planet. As a matter of fact, each of our eight or nine planets, depending on how you count them, ‘posed’ for a photograph that day.

Recently, I was watching a documentary about Voyager 1, and an image of that photo was flashed onto the screen. There in a band of light and debris, you can just make out a tiny speck of light. And as that photo appeared, the narrator spoke.

“From such a vast distance, you can just make it out. A small, blue marble containing earth and seas, and eight billion souls, and the only home that every man, woman, boy and girl ever given the privilege of life would inhabit.”

And my friends, with this, an involuntary sob rose up on my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes. Perhaps you would have had to have been there. But the tiny point of light that is our earth, and the insightful descriptiveness of the narrator just overwhelmed me at that moment.

My friends, we are fearfully and wonderfully made, and the innate abilities which God gave us to do the most magnificent things is nothing short of remarkable. We have been created by an awesome Creator, and have been made in His likeness. And He has bestowed the most remarkable intelligence and abilities upon us, and will to create within us. The Voyager 1 spacecraft is a prime example.

In Psalm 8, we read,

3When I consider Your heavens, the work of Your fingers, The moon and the stars, which You have ordained; 4What is man that You take thought of him, And the son of man that You care for him? 5Yet You have made him a little lower than God (or the angels,), and You crown him with glory and majesty!

In conclusion, let us say, for the sake of argument, that a billion years from now, when our sun and planetary system no longer exist, as we know it, that some alien scientist manages to retrieve that ‘little spacecraft that could,’ and manages to decipher that golden record on board the craft.

And as he or she or it, as the case may be, views photographs depicting the high surf of Hawaii’s Sunset Beach, and the glorious mountain peaks of Scotland’s Isle of Skye, and the ancient Redwood trees of California, and he goes on to listen to the musical strains of Glenn Miller’s orchestra, and the contralto voice of Frances Langford, and he marvels at the architectural wonder which is the new World Trade Center, and he acknowledges the Omnipotence which produced passages such as Genesis 1 and Psalm 23 and John 3:16, perhaps that golden record will serve as a sort of a witness to the glory of the unseen God, and His love for the work of His hands.

(To be sure I believe intelligent life only exists on one planet in the universe. But, it's interesting to conjecture)

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

WHAT ABOUT BOB?

 4475

It was during the mid-90’s that my daughter, Mary, was placed in the G. Pierce Woods mental facility in Arcadia, Florida. The background is far too long and tedious to enumerate here, but suffice it to say that Mary had been exhibiting some bizarre symptoms and behavior, and had previously been diagnosed with Schizophrenia. 

My wife and I would drive the hundred miles to Arcadia once a month, and spend time with her. We’d sometimes drive off campus, as Mary would get a day pass, and we’d frequent a particular restaurant there. Curiously enough, in this town which “boasted” a large mental facility, every painting was askew; hanging crooked on the restaurant wall.

One weekend as we drove up Mary was standing on the parking lot curb. But she was not alone, as she normally was. No, alongside her was this great hulk of a fellow, obviously another mental patient, well over six feet, and rather overweight.

My first inclination was, “Oh, no. I didn’t come here to entertain, nor spend any time with this guy,” and the anger seethed within me. My wife and I dismounted the car, and walked the few steps towards Mary and “Bob,” (as in “What About Bob?”) You would have to know the movie.

Mary introduced me to Bob and he immediately proceeded to share the most heart-rending little story.

“No one ever comes to see me. Not my daddy, not my mother, not my friends… Would you hug me?”

Uh!!! Never in my life had I heard such a sad plea. And as the result of that poignant plea… everything changed. My entire mindset metamorphosed. 

And right there before God and everybody, as the phrase goes,… I wrapped that big lug of a fella in my arms.

And I think for that one moment in time, Bob realized that someone took time to care, to love and empathize with his plight, and for that one moment of time I think that Bob must have experienced the smallest measure of peace and contentment.

By Bill McDonald, PhD

A PILGRIMAGE TO SALEM

 4474

Pt. 1

 

I have always wanted to visit Salem, Massachusetts.

 

It is a sad and convoluted story, but I have family ties there; undesired, undenied, but undisputable ties there.

 

As any serious student of history knows, between 1692 and 1693 dozens of Salem's citizens were accused of being witches, and approximately thirty were not only judged, but found guilty. As a result, most were hung by the neck 'til dead, at least one was pressed to death by heavy stones, and several died in prison.

 

I regret to say that two of my ancient uncles, Joseph and Jarvis Ring, were involved in that nasty business.

 

Fast forward exactly three and one third centuries.

 

Recently my wife and I were in Massachusetts. Our daughter had undergone surgery in Boston, remained in the hospital several days, and was released to return home. Having been released, Kristy insisted on driving the two hours which lay ahead of us.

 

However, we had hardly left the hospital when our plans abruptly changed.

 

Our daughter spoke.

 

"How about we take a slight detour? Haven't you always wanted to see Salem?"

 

To which I replied,

 

"Well, you have just completed a serious operation. Wouldn't you rather head on home?"

 

Not to be deterred, Kristy was determined to follow through with her plan.

 

Pt. 2

 

 

Not knowing Massachusetts, I had no idea I might have almost walked the 15 miles between Boston and Salem. We were there before a half hour had elapsed.

 

I had read the testimonies of my maternal 9th great uncles, Joseph and Jarvis. I knew they had accused, and testified against a particular woman.

 

While we were in Salem, my daughter and I took a trolley tour; a tour which focused on the sites where the accused citizens were interned, and, ultimately, executed. We drove by the site of the old prison, and the location of the hangings. Having been hung, their bodies were thrown off the brow of a hill. (It is said that their relatives retrieved their bodies at night, and provided them a primitive burial).

 

I had seen photos of the Salem memorial stones; each one bearing the name of one of the accused so-called "witches."

One of the stones was inscribed with the name, Susannah Martin; the lady against whom my ancient relatives gave false testimony.

 

I stood there for the longest time. And I found myself doing penance, as it were; on the part of mouths long since stilled, and which no longer had the wherewithal to utter an accusing word.

 

"I am so, so sorry, Susannah. You were wrongfully deprived of a long, good life. I ask your forgiveness. My family asks your forgiveness."

 

It seemed a weight, almost as heavy as that memorial stone, fell off my shoulders.

 

Old Testament scripture speaks of generational blessings and curses. I think if the dynamic of curses applies in the New Testament, it is largely due to bad role modeling, and a conscious willingness to emulate one's forebears' behavior patterns. Those who have placed their faith in a merciful Savior, who have been forgiven of their sins, and have been saved by grace have, I believe, been removed from the curse.

However, I not only did what I had to do that day. I did what I had desperately wanted to do.

 

As a counselor I have often told my clients,

 

"There are no time machines."      

 

And yet, I like to think I fulfilled a personal mission that day which will serve, as best just one man can, to reconcile a severe injustice inflicted upon someone who in no way deserved it.

 

Rest in peace, Susannah. Rest in peace.

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD