The Dual

The Dual   (OK It was actually a footrace)

Duals are part of the masculine mindset.  It is primal to the products of testosterone to settle some things with some contest of skill or display of aggression.  Southern men grow up with a pecking order of who can “beat up” who.  The Southern “alpha” male may not be the biggest or even the strongest, but the one who has the most fear inducing ability.  As one old saw puts it, “It ain’t the size of dog the in the fight but the size of the fight in the dog.” 

In olden times these events were a recognized part of male culture.  Some offence against one’s honor or some other kind of dispute was settled by personal combat, often with deadly consequences.  Pistols, swords, or old fashioned fisticuffs have settled such disputes and left a winner and a loser to their separate fates.

“Jimmy” blamed me for his cousin’s unemployment.  Even though the reason “Billy” was fired was because he showed up for work late and hung over I was the one hired to replace him and so, in “Jimmy’s” mind, I was the guy who pushed Cousin “Billy” out of his job.  “Billy” had a wife and kids.  They were his blood.  Now this outsider comes in and dares to work at the same work station that “Billy” had worked on for over two years.  The fact that I too had a wife and a baby on the way was of no concern to him.  Kin is kin.

The problem was that 19 year old “Jimmy” was so full of resentment toward me and misplaced filial devotion that he couldn’t even abide my presence.  More than once he made some snide comment; and he never looked at me without staring a hole through me.  He tried to get in my face and start a fight a few times when the foreman wasn’t looking.  Since he was single and only 19 years old he thought risking getting fired to be preferred over letting me get away with the damage done to his cousin, but if he could keep his job and still punish me all the better.

I was about 6 inches taller than “Jimmy” and, though he didn’t suspect it, was no stranger to the art of personal combat.  In my younger years I had a reputation for being quick fisted and had never been beaten when the odds were one on one.  It would not have been very hard to give him a lesson on respect that he would never forget, but my vow as a preacher, and my desire to stay employed, kept me from becoming his schoolmaster.   I simply took it.  I took it until others thought I was a coward.  I took it until it hurt me on the inside to see my status shrink in the eyes of my co-workers.

One day “Jimmy” got on another tirade about why I wouldn’t fight him and accused me in front of others of being “yellow”.  I don’t know where the idea came from, but I tried to think of a way to settle this thing without violence and the only thing I could think of was to let a footrace settle it.  He was such a proud fellow that my challenge to him turned the tables completely!  Now he had to accept or reject MY challenge to HIM!  He started out by saying how stupid that was and I countered with, “What’s the matter?  You afraid I’ll beat you?”  Little did he know that I was pretty fast and had won many races as a sprinter in high school.  I was fairly confident that I could beat him and at least we could both say we had gone up against each other in some way.  I couldn’t get fired for having a “friendly” footrace on break time.

He asked me if he won what would I do, and I said that I would keep on ignoring his mean talk, but I still wouldn’t fight him and I still wouldn’t quit working there.  I said, however, that if I won that he would have to leave me alone and get off my case.  That was the deal.

The crowd had gathered by now and “Jimmy” had to answer me.  He informed me that he was the fastest one on his football team and he could beat an old “has been” like me without even trying hard. (At twenty five I was hardly a “has been”.)  I said, “Lets’ go!”

The break horn blew and two lines were formed along the side driveway.  It was a nice level concrete drive for about 30 feet, and then it began to incline for the next 30 feet to meet with the road.  This was our field of honor. It would be settled here. Someone stood at the top of the drive and held a red bandana up in the air.  “Jimmy” took off his boots, but left on his socks.  I was confident that I could beat him without risking my feet to abrasions so I left my boots on.  He looked with a crooked smile at me, and then we both fixed our eyes on the red bandana.

It was released and we both bolted at the same time.  “Jimmy” took a quick lead, but by the time we reached the incline I had closed the gap.  Both spotters called it a draw.  We both reached the line at the same exact time.  I asked “Jimmy” if he was satisfied, and true to nature, he demanded a rematch.  “I have to beat you” (and then he let out some profanity) “I ain’t ever been beat and YOU sure ain’t gonna beat me.”

This time I took off my boots.  The backs of my legs were still burning from the previous sprint, but the adrenaline was pumping and I was ready to show him what I could do.  The red rag dropped again but this time we started even and held even until just before the incline where I began to pull ahead.  “Jimmy” desperately tried to close the gap, but when he hit the incline he began to lose his footing and went tumbling into a mass of legs and arms.  As I crossed the finish line and looked behind me I saw “Jimmy” on the ground trying not to react to the pain of scraping his ankles, both knees and one elbow on the pavement.  His new Levi’s were torn and he was bleeding in several places. I could see the anger in his eyes, but I could also see a look of pain, the pain that comes from humiliation and defeat.  He wanted to light into me right, then and there, but everybody was watching, and since I had not laid a hand on him he knew he had no right to strike me.  He had been beaten fair and square by a man who he bragged couldn’t beat him.

For a short time after that, things were a little better around the mill.  “Jimmy” was quiet most of the time, and when he wasn’t around to hear them, people would talk about how the preacher had beaten “Jimmy” in that race and “Jimmy” got himself all torn up on the pavement.  Some of the younger guys would pat me on the back and say, “That was something!  I ain’t never seen “Jimmy” get beat at runnin’ before.  You’re one fast dude!

Later “Jimmy” lapsed a time or two and tried to get me to fight him, but for the most part he left me alone.  I still like to think that God, in His heaven, sent an angel to trip that hateful young man and give him what he had coming to him.  “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.”  I was glad I let the Lord handle him instead of giving in to my own impulses.  I hope this story may help someone who has struggled with how to respond against a bully or antagonist.  There is usually some way to avoid being drawn into a fight.  God has a mysterious way of avenging his servants.

A Traditional Southern Black Funeral

A Traditional Southern Black Funeral

For the benefit of those of you who have never had the privilege of participating in a traditional black service, and maybe never will, I offer the following account.

For the first time I had the opportunity to participate on the platform of a very traditional, black Baptist church.  I have attended funerals in black churches before but just as a spectator.  One of our member’s mother died and because I am a minister in the family's circle of friends I was asked to do the N.T. reading and lead in the opening prayer at her mother’s home church downtown.

To describe this church one has to picture a Deep South low income black neighborhood with old shotgun houses built so close together you could jump from one roof to the next and a church building with iron doors and a chain link fence with barbed wire on the top.  Inside there was a very high suspended ceiling with mismatched tiles.  Behind the platform was (I'm not kidding) a large home-made painting of Jesus getting baptized. Both John and Jesus were portrayed as black men with 70s style afro hair. I noted that Jesus looked very much like Apollo Creed in the Rocky movies. The chairs on the platform were of the throne type, high backed, red velvet cushions, and ornately carved wood.

There were a few "missionary women" there who were decked out in all white clothes.  They look just like nurses in uniform. They even wear the caps.  Everyone else was dressed in black. Everyone.  The men and the boys all had on suits and the women were dressed sharply with oversized broaches and hats.  My wife Carolyn and I were the only white people present in a packed house.

There were four of us on the platform. I managed to avoid sitting in one of the "thrones" by going more to the side of the platform where there was a bench similar to those on the floor.  (I just felt funny sitting in that regal looking chair.)   The choir assumed their places.  It was Tuesday in the middle of the day so it was composed of mostly women and some few men.  The organist was a pleasant looking young man who was an extremely talented musician.  He was expert at doing that unique black church organ accompaniment thing to everything that was done in the service.  For those who have never heard this it is the interpretive skill of the organist to mimic somewhat the cadence and inflection of a speaker.   This has the effect of turning a speech into a kind of song made up on the spot.  The music was mostly unfamiliar to me until they got into a snappy version of "Rough Side of the Mountain".  They really did that one up right and I found my foot tapping.  You just can't help it.  Your foot will tap.

I got up the read the scriptures and when I did I found myself joined with a swelling of "amens", "yeeeesss's", "uhmm hummmm's" and "that's right's".  I found myself feeling like I was preaching when I was just reading the scriptures.  It is easy to get caught up in that and I felt energized by the encouragement.  When I began my prayer, the organist did his thing.  At first I was distracted by it, but it grew on me quickly as he punctuated my voice tones with celestial riffs and heavenly harmonies from his skilled fingers.  For about 5 minutes I was an honorary black minister! You cannot hear that organ play and maintain that typical “white” delivery style.

After a host of people shared memories and gave encouragements to the family, the preacher got up and preached.  In typical Deep South African-American fashion the delivery started out slow and deliberate but grew bolder and more poetic to reach a climactic plateau in which he was almost singing as well as preaching.  The organist followed and sometimes even led him as he delivered his message.  It was not a solo performance but definitely a duo.  As the speaker got to an especially intense run of speech the other men on the platform stood up and swayed forward and backward. 

At a point one of them reached out to touch the speaker on the shoulder as if the say "I'm with you brother!"  I kept my seat but felt strange about this not knowing if it might be presumptuous on my part to join them in this exercise of support, me being a visiting pastor, or if I was guilty of appearing aloof by my remaining seated.  I consoled myself that some traditions are best kept by those who have them built into their souls from childhood rather than by those for whom it is foreign and awkward.

Finally at the close we greeted the family one more time and then the most orderly "recessional" took place I have ever seen.  As if under silent direction, the flowers were all taken out by the deceased's grandchildren.  The congregation then moved out of the building in order beginning at the left rear of the auditorium moving first to the front and then along the other side to exit the door in the back.  Each row waited respectfully for the previous row to clear before moving out into the isle.  Finally all were outside where the hearse, Sheriff Deputies and long line of cars were waiting.  I have never seen such a display of order and reverence with no visible signs of direction.

I am glad that I was able to experience this little piece of Southern culture and thought maybe others might enjoy reading the report.

Pot Luck Dinners

Holding "Pot Luck Dinners" is a long cherished church tradition.  Churches are famous for this type of fellowship where people just show up, with whatever they have prepared, and with little or no menu coordination, end up with a pretty well rounded meal with a surprising variety of good things to eat.  We somehow develop a running idea of who does what and end up with a success.

Oh, sometimes there may be too much potato salad and not enough green vegetables.  Sometimes there may be way more fried chicken than any other kind of meat, but for the most part it works out that everyone gets plenty to eat and it isn't too hard on any one person.  We share the work load and enjoy the food we all brought.

The success of a pot luck or anything else in life depends on what we bring into it.  What we bring is what is on the table.   What we bring is what we have to work with.  Church life is like that.  The quality of our services depends on each participant bringing his or her best.  Whether it be the choir number, the scripture reading, the music or the sermon, diligent and loving preparation results in a good spiritual table spread for the benefit of all who attend.  The Holy Spirit often surprises us with his "higher planning" as some call it, and we see that the harmonious exercise of spiritual gifts resulting in real worship. 

While the services are conducted with what is brought by those on the platform, there is also a very important factor that can make or break any given service.  What did YOU bring, as an individual, in the area of personal preparedness?  What expectations did you bring?  What prayers did you make anticipating God's presence?  What attitude came in the door with you?  What plans did you make to be a blessing to someone else today?  These types of things are what we bring with us to worship. The collective contributions of all of us makes up the spiritual meal.  We feast from a common table.

If you bring love, you will get to partake of love and enjoy the love another brought!  If you bring faith, you will enjoy faith and see it increased!  If you bring optimism and enthusiasm you will also find that others brought their healthy energies as well and the feast becomes a buffet table of blessings! 

We also bring our appetites.  Our hunger for God will determine just how much we benefit from the spiritual table.  If we are weak we can take a good serving of strength.  If we are sad, we can feast on joy.  If we have need of forgiveness and restoration to fellowship, we can find God's grace and draw closer to Him. 

What do you plan to bring to the table of life today?  In the work place or in class, others will bring something too.  Maybe some of it isn't even good to eat.  But, if enough people will bring their best, the sharing will result in all true souls getting what they need.  Bring it with you.  Put your best stuff on the table.  I can’t help but believe that God will work it out that you get your own needs met.