might be baloney

Scripture: James 1:6

In the 1960s, the Andy Griffith Show was a popular television series. Set in the fictional town of Mayberry, North Carolina, writers created scripts that made viewers laugh while offering wisdom too.

One episode, finds Sheriff Andy Taylor struggling to believe his son, Opie. Andy assumes Opie is using his imagination to create an imaginary friend, Mr. McVeebee. When Andy confronts him, Opie is adamant—Mr. McVeebee is real.

After hearing Opie out, Sheriff Taylor, despite his doubts, tells his Aunt Bee and Deputy Barney Fife that he “believes in Opie.”

Unlike Sheriff Taylor who believes in his son, when it comes to the Christmas story, I’m like James 1:6: “you must believe and not doubt, because the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea, blown and tossed by the wind.”

Clearly, there have been many times in my life when our complicated world has ‘blown and tossed’ me further away from this Christmas story of love.

And yet when I drift away, it is the loyalty of love found with Abraham and his son, Isaac, the Good Samaritan saving the beaten, robbed stranger, and Mary’s unshakeable love of God, Joseph, and Jesus that draws me back to believing.

Even Sheriff Taylor wasn’t tossed by the sea. His power of believing was affirmed when he really encounters Mr. McVeebee.

This Christmas, it is time to toss my doubts, and believe.

Prayer: God, this Christmas anchor my heart to believe in your loyal love. Amen

Note from the author: On Friday, December 20, 2024, I was honored to have “I Believe In Opie” published in the Advent devotional booklet by the Society of St. Andrew.

Recently, in a classroom at our church’s pre-school, the tabletops looked like a disaster area. Boys and girls were making Christmas decorations. Everyone was busy with materials and glue. Some students were even covered in materials and glue. One student asked his teacher about glue. How is it made? Where is it made?

That tidbit of conversation made me think about glue from a different perspective. What bonds my life together? What keeps me from unraveling? Who is the glue in my life?

During Christmas, the pursuit of perfection can make a person become unglued. It all starts before Halloween when big box stores start displaying Christmas decorations. In the words of Barney Fife, those early unnecessary displays “just frost me!”

When I consider what holds me together, I think of my late parents. I grew up in a stable family with a mother and father who were strong role models for loving, caring, and providing for my sister and me.

In that framework was a weekly guarantee—going to church. Unless someone was “half-past dead,” we were in church on Sunday. I’m not sure that is always the case with families today.

Just before Christmas in 1972, my mother and sister were on their way home from running errands. A driver who ran a stop sign broadsided my mother and sister. The impact severely injured our mother. In the aftermath of the accident, one of the key factors in her recovery was her faith and the support of our church. That unwavering glue helped her to heal.

In my life, my wife is a vital piece in keeping me intact. Without my commander supreme, I’m in trouble. Her “to do lists” are a reminder of her attention to details, details that drive her professionally and in managing our home.

However, I’m certain my wife would tell anyone that the traditional expectations of Christmas and all its trimmings create extra stress. Christmas isn’t as simple as it once might have been.

For years, I was an Easter and Christmas church person. With the arrival of our children, we returned to church. Today church is part of my glue. In many ways, church is another family for me. Without a daily devotional, scripture reading, prayer, and interaction with my church family, I would unravel.

I can name people who continue to be a part of the glue in my life, but Christmas glue boils down to my heart. A time worn Christmas carol “In The Bleak Midwinter” states what the good Lord needs from me: “Yet what can I give Him, give my heart.”

Turbulent headlines from around the world can make our hearts bleak, but in the book of James, we are encouraged to: “be patient, strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near.”

Undoubtedly, the commercial blitz of Christmas is a distraction for me.

Yet each Christmas, part of my Christmas glue is— hope. Hope that my heart can shift away and change from being overawed by the commercial marketing of Christmas.

To do this, perhaps I need to revisit the simple innocence of the chaos created by the children in that classroom with their glue and materials.

I wonder how these words from Kathleen Norris apply: “Disconnecting from change does not recapture the past. It loses the future.”

Maybe with guidance from those creative and curious pre-school children, I can use scissors, materials, and glue to figure out how to disconnect from the commercial weariness of Christmas.

Pursuing that change means means finding a balance from the past to ensure that in the future my heart is strengthened by the hope found in the glue of Christmas.

Author’s Note: On 12-17-14, this piece was submitted to the Richmond Times-Dispatch for publication consideration for the Faith and Values column. I believe it was published with submissions from other local contributors in the Christmas Day edition of the paper. The version posted here was edited for the blog post.

Tucked away deep in the storage vaults of our brains are memories. Neatly filed away, available for recall, some pleasant, some not so pleasant, and categorized on just about any subject matter, like Christmas.

Over the last several days, I’ve put my brain in the search mode for Christmas memories.

Because of my great dependence upon my parents, I can remember as a youngster being pushed out of my comfort zone to talk with Santa Claus at the Sears in downtown Burlington, North Carolina.

I can also recall as a fourth grader looking for something in my parents’ closet one afternoon. Surprisingly, I found unwrapped toys. These were the same choices that I had communicated to Santa that I wanted for Christmas. I was puzzled.

I was even more puzzled as an adult taking an early morning run on a reservoir trail in West Hartford, Connecticut. It was a cold Christmas Eve morning.

At some point, I looked up and saw Santa Claus. He was gliding over the gray tree tops of the Connecticut hills in a hot air balloon.

Alma Coble triggered a Christmas memory. Coble as I called her was a kind hearted former neighbor.

Early in our lives, my sister and I spent a lot of time in Coble’s house. Coble and her family took care of my sister and me and other children while our parents were at work.
Coble was a true Southern cook who made real fruit cakes. Her kitchen was an like an artist’s studio at Christmas.

Family visits with the relatives were simple. Christmas Eve with my Dad’s side of the family, Christmas Day with my mother’s side of the family.

On Christmas Eve, before heading to Greensboro where the Pike’s gathered, we drove to Snow Camp. Snow Camp is where Uncle Everett lived all alone. Everett was my grandmother’s brother.

Everett was almost toothless, difficult to understand his speech, and missing a finger or two from working in the feed mill. The big heart of my dad always made sure that Everett was present at the Christmas Eve gathering. Everett left those gatherings with a covered plate of food and a few gifts.

My mom’s side of the family had their equivalent of Uncle Everett —Aunt Nellie. She wasn’t toothless, had all her fingers, and she was articulate in her speech.

Aunt Nellie was a loner too. She lived by herself, but I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe she was difficult to be around or maybe, she was misunderstood. As a kid, I remember hearing whispers about her. I never recall Aunt Nellie attending a Christmas gathering.

As a lover of snow, I recall one Christmas that was almost white. Seems like a freezing rain, with sleet pellets, and a few snowflakes storm hit us the day before Christmas Eve. It wasn’t pretty, but maybe it extended my winter weather hope.

When I married Betsy in 1975, the potential for snow at Christmas improved. We started spending this holiday time at her parents home in West Hartford.

One year, a few days before Christmas, in our tightly packed Ford Pinto, we left Martinsville, Virginia headed for New England. North of Baltimore, the sky was winter gray.

As we neared the Delaware state line, cars heading south had snow on them. By the time we reached the Delaware Memorial Bridge, it was snowing so hard that we could barely make out the massive framing of the bridge.

Yet, I think my best snow memory was a Christmas Eve in West Hartford. There was no prediction of snow, but when we came out of the midnight service at St. James Episcopal Church everything was covered in snow.

To contrast the beauty of that snow covered scene, there was the Christmas of 1972.

My dad and I were at home trying to figure out what the game plan was for dinner. My mom and sister were out shopping. Even though we didn’t say anything to each other, I think my Dad and I knew that they were way overdue to be home by now.

Then, the phone call came. It was the Burlington police. My mom and sister had been broadsided by a car that ran a stop sign. The collision had been on the driver’s side of the car. Our mother took all of the impact. It was too close of a call.

My sister had bumps, cuts, and bruises. Our mother had multiple internal injuries including a nasty concussion. Yet, somehow she had the strength and the will to recover.

The arrival of our children dramatically changed operation Christmas. Packing our car for the road trip to Connecticut wasn’t fun. I cursed the luggage, the presents, and all of the items needed to sustain three kids. I dreamed of loading the car and all that stuff into the cargo bay of the massive military C-5 Galaxy cargo plane.

Without a doubt, the craziest trip was the one where we planned to drive through the night to West Hartford.
Our parental instincts convinced us that the three kids would sleep during this dark trip.

We were wrong. Maybe an hour from West Hartford the car was finally quiet.

However, it was the stress of these pilgrimages that helped us to put our feet down. We diplomatically told our families that we were starting our own Christmas traditions by staying at home in Richmond. I can tell you that the first one in Richmond was the most relaxed Christmas we’ve ever had.

Christmas memories, everyone has them, and I could easily fill a few more pages, but I want to talk about Clarence. You know Clarence, the angel recruit who is trying to earn his angel wings by redirecting George Bailey back to reality in the classic holiday movie, It’s A Wonderful Life.

As Clarence helps George to reflect about his life, he finally gets George to the point to where George desperately states to this hopeful angel: “ Clarence, get me back.”

During this Christmas season, it seems to me that like George Bailey, we are in dire need for Clarence to “get us back” too.

This Christmas as we reflect about the year that is almost at its end, what will we remember— the country that was demolished by Hurricane Mitch, the possible impeachment of our President, the ethical struggles of Congress, bombs dropped and cruise missiles fired toward a devilish leader that will probably never hit him, or the people of America who appear to be slowly losing their way from acknowledging the heavenly Clarence and his colleagues.

Clarence knew that George Bailey had the capacity within to get himself back and regain his senses. To do this Clarence had to help George regain his sight, both internal and external.

In fact, the opportunity to renew that capacity within ourselves is only five days away when we celebrate the birth of Clarence’s teacher, coach, trainer, mentor, and leader.

When Clarence is successful in getting George back, the bell rang , and he earned his wings.

The bells ring for us each Christmas with the arrival of a very special angel—Jesus.

Let this be the Christmas that we hear the bells ring within our hearts to carry forth the work of Clarence and his very special friend.

Author’s note: This piece was written as a devotion for the Outreach Sunday School Class at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on Sunday, December 20, 1998. This post has been edited. Merry Christmas.

Matthew 4, verse 19: “Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men”.

The last time I took the day before Thanksgiving off was twenty-six years ago. I took that day off for a good reason. It allowed me to travel to West Hartford, Connecticut, and on the Saturday of that Thanksgiving weekend I married the best lady in the whole world.

Twenty-six years later, I was driving our oldest daughter to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Lauren, a freshman at Virginia Tech, was home for her fall break.

For several years, my wife’s parents have been renting an ocean front beach house during the Thanksgiving week. My family and I had the good fortune of being invited each year to spend the Thanksgiving weekend with them.
Since Lauren wanted to be back in Richmond on Saturday, we thought we would go down to the Outer Banks a day earlier. Selfishly, I liked going a day earlier because that would give me an extra day of surf fishing.

I awakened our sleepy college student before dawn, and shortly after 6:00 a.m. we were on the road. Our drive down through the peanut and cotton farms was uneventful.

We were both anxious to reach the twin span bridges that would carry us across the Currituck Sound. Once across the sound, we pulled off a not so crowded Highway 168, and made the left turn on to Highway 12. Southern Shores, Duck, and five streets passed the Sanderling sign we made the turn that took us to this year’s beach house.

Hugs and greetings were exchanged with my in-laws, and my wife’s brother and his family. Then Lauren and I started to unload the car. After this, we made a quick trip to the grocery story, ate a little late morning snack, and we charted out our plans for the afternoon. My plans were to put on the old waders, grab the gear and the bait, and head for the beach.

Surf rod, tackle box, tubular sand spikes, and a bucket, were in my hands as I waddled in my waders down the wooden stairs to the shoreline. I found a spot to park my gear, located an old piece of two by four to use as a cutting board for my bait, and I started getting everything ready.

That afternoon a good breeze was rolling in off the ocean. The waves pounded the sandy shore. I alternated back and forth between cut bait, and those magical lures.

Periodically, I would check my watch and remind myself about where I would normally be at this time of day. I fished for over two hours, and while I had no nibbles, I did have fun.

The next four days brought the same disappointment. Whether it was morning or afternoon, my luck did not change. The fish weren’t taking what I had to offer. I was beginning to doubt whether any fish were in the ocean at all. That changed a little on Friday morning.

It was low tide. I had found a place on the beach where I could walk out a few yards without a sharp drop off from the shore line. This allowed me to cast our further into the almost calm waters.

In doing this, I started to feel the slightest nibble on my line. Those nibbles aroused my curiosity and hope. Maybe I might get lucky.

My bait on the hook was even stripped away a couple of times. I figured it must be a hungry crab, but I was wrong.

Once, I responded to the tug of the line in just the right manner. As I reeled the line in closer to me, I could still feel some resistance. Then just a few yards from me I finally saw what was teasing me— a small bluefish.

Bluefish known as ferocious feeders obviously start chomping on bait at an early age. Not more than six inches, I would call this a “diaper blue”. These little fish were too small to bite the big hook, but armed with enough teeth to attach to the bait and munch all the way toward the shore.

When the fish are not tempted by the fisherman’s entrees, fishermen do a lot of pondering. During those five days, I had plenty of time to ponder about the world I could observe.

I calculated that it had been at least six years, since I had caught a real fish on this narrow ribbon of fragile land.

Despite that drought, I was hooked on watching the effortless glide of the brown pelicans. I was amazed as they flew within inches of the tops of cresting waves.

I observed the powerfully fast and efficient dive of the gannets trying like me to catch fish.

At different times, the surface of the water would be broken as a small group of porpoise worked their way south down the shoreline.

I wondered what it would be like to glide with the pellies or swim like the porpoise.

And there I was holding the rod, gazing out to the horizon when I saw a huge spray of water shoot up off the ocean’s surface. It reminded me of a cannonball hitting the water, but there was no sound. When I returned to the house for a break that day, my father-in-law asked me if I had seen the whale offshore. Now I know what caused that huge plume of spray.

Back on the shoreline, I heard the the occasional cry of the sea gulls, and the steady pounding of the breakers smacking the sand. But the sound that caught my attention most frequently was the tinkling of the crushed shells that clashed together in the retreating undertow.

And on those mornings when I hit the beach before sunrise, the mixed hues of brilliant colors in the sky could not be matched in a super box of Crayola crayons.

Despite this beauty, I was still disappointed. I had not caught any fish.

But the more I pondered my dissatisfaction, the more I realized that I should be ashamed of my self-proclaimed grumbling. Did I know why I should be ashamed of my grumbling? Yes, I figured it out. The reason was 9-11.

The losses from that terrible day went very deep. The further I thought, the more I realized that now there are children who will never have the opportunity to go fishing with their fathers.

Husbands and wives will no longer share their dreams in the rising sun of the new day. Gone for them is the glide of the pelican, the dive of the gannet, the frolics of the porpoise, the tinkling of the shells, and the spray from the whale.

And yet, hope is not gone. A fisherman always has hope.

Toward the end of December, we will celebrate the birth of the infant who became quite a fisherman. It is the birth of Jesus that brings us hope. Christmas is hope.

And as we prepare for His arrival, let it be hope that will push us to follow His lead to truly become “fishers of men” By doing this, we can deliver hope to those in need.

Prayer:
Father of us all, help us as we cast our lines to find hope in Christmas. Allow us to use this hope to meet the needs of those who are struggling. In your name we pray, Amen.

Note from author: Prior to the start of our blog, Might Be Baloney, I wrote many, many reflections about wobbling through life. Some were used as devotionals as a part of the Outreach Sunday school class at Trinity UMC in Richmond, Virginia. Between now and the end of December 2024, I hope to post a few of those pieces that are linked to Christmas. Fishing For Christmas(this piece has been edited) was written in late 2001. Thanks for reading our blog. Your comments and shares are appreciated. Be safe, love, Bill Pike

In college, our youngest daughter was an art history major. If my memory is correct, this degree also had a concentration in studio arts.

I often wonder how she uses that degree working in marketing for an East Asia computer company. In truth, I believe her marketing skills come from her percipient eyes and her ability to build relationships with customers.

Throughout high school and college, she dabbled enough in art to create some very pretty pieces.

Over the years, with our daughter, and my wife the Commander Supreme, I’ve enjoyed visits to art museums to view an assortment of exhibits. Although, as we have taken in these exhibits, the Commander and she are wary of hanging too close to me in an art museum.

I’m usually the guy who will be reminded by a polite, but humorless guard, “Sir, could you take a step back? You just encroached the boundary line protecting the art.”

While I always politely comply, my perspicacious eyes note that my daughter and the Commander have briskly walked away and turned their backs on me.

From my thirty one years of work in public education, I developed a deep appreciation for student art. That admiration included the skilled art teachers who were able to help these students develop their gift.

There is nothing like student artwork displayed through the halls of a school building. That artwork can impact the environment of the school.

I love when public buildings in our communities feature student artwork in their lobbies and hallways. Those are special opportunities for students to showcase their talent.

I know there are lots of starving artists in this world. I also know that sometimes an artist can become quite successful with lots of pennies flowing into their bank account.

Speaking of pennies, perhaps, you have been following the story about a recent art auction that featured a real banana taped to a wall held by a piece of duct tape.

This piece featuring the banana held by duct tape is titled Comedian. It was created by Italian artist, Maurizio Cattelan. Back in 2019, the piece debuted at Art Basel In Miami Beach.

At the time, this piece created such interest that the gallery withdrew it from public display. Artist Cattelan created three editions of the duct taped banana that sold between $120,000 to $150,000.

Fast forward to Wednesday, November 20, at an auction at Sotheby’s in New York, the banana and duct tape sold for $6.2 million dollars. It was purchased by Justin Sun who is the founder of the cryptocurrency, TRON.

Then nine days later on November 29, the purchaser, Justin Sun, ate the $6.2 million dollar banana. (Associated Press, NPR, New York Times)

I know nothing about Mr. Sun. To develop a platform for cryptocurrency, I assume that he must be smarter than the average bear. Yet, I’m not so sure this banana and duct tape purchase was his best thinking.

In a silly scene from the movie, Sgt. Bilko, actor Steve Martin, who portrays United States Army Master Sergeant, Ernest G. Bilko, is facing a surprise inspection with his unit. With the pending inspection just minutes away, and in desperate need of a plan to counter the review, Bilko blurts out, “I’ve got to think.”

As this purchase was developing, I wonder if Mr. Sun’s internal voice whispered to him “I’ve got to think”. If that quiet voice spoke, Mr. Sun failed to listen.

Even if you are barely aware of the current events where you live or in this old world, I’d wager that you know many people in desperate circumstances who could have benefitted from Mr. Sun’s $6.2 million.

For example, at this very moment, Christmas Mothers and their staffs of volunteers in metro Richmond are working to ensure they will be able to meet the needs of the families who have applied for assistance this Christmas.

Families from Florida through southwest Virginia are trying to figure out Christmas and the rest of their lives following the catastrophic devastation from Hurricane Helene.

The war between Ukraine and Russia has spiked the homeless population in Ukraine to almost twenty-five percent.

Additionally, the war between Israel and Palestine has created a severe homeless situation. Some agencies report this crisis at 2.2 million who have lost their housing.

And beyond those bold headlines, there are the silent headlines—stories of quiet people in the shadows of life who are struggling with their mental health. Those lonely struggles are in sharp contrast to the traditional December celebrations that take place with family and friends.

This time of year, I’m drawn to a line of scripture from the first chapter of Luke verse 29: “But she (Mary) was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.” The angel Gabriel has visited Mary to share with her the pending birth of Jesus.

From this chapter, the words “perplexed and pondered” capture my attention.

Many times in my seventy one years of living, my thinking has been less that perfect. People around me were probably perplexed and pondered—what in the world was Bill thinking?

I feel the same way about Mr. Sun’s art purchase.

With all these real human needs swirling around this old world— what was he thinking?

No matter how much time I have left in this rapidly eroding old world “I’ve got to think.”

I must ponder and find in my heart the best path to advocate for and help the people in need.

Scripture 2 Timothy, Chapter 2 verses 1-7:

You then, my child, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus; 2 and what you have heard from me through many witnesses entrust to faithful people who will be able to teach others as well. 3 Share in suffering like a good soldier of Christ Jesus. 4 No one serving in the army gets entangled in everyday affairs; the soldier’s aim is to please the enlisting officer. 5 And in the case of an athlete, no one is crowned without competing according to the rules. 6 It is the farmer who does the work who ought to have the first share of the crops. 7 Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in all things.

Thanks Judy for your kind words.

I appreciate Laura Candler-White, our church organist, and Daniel Parks, our music director for their participation in this service.

That thanks also includes our acolytes, those of you in this Sanctuary, and anyone watching on-line at home. Additionally, thanks to the Trinity staff, and our Senior Pastor, Brian Siegle, who is running the technology.

I also want to say safe travels to the Hall family. They are making their annual drive to Missouri to be with relatives during Thanksgiving.

I volunteered to be here this evening. Maybe this gives a little break to our pastors Brian, Daniel, and Judy as they head into Advent.

A couple of reminders for you.

I’m not a theologian. I’m no expert on the Bible.

Quite simply, I’m a rapidly aging, grumpy geezer.

And for the next couple of hours, maybe, just maybe I might say something that will resonate with you as we take a look at Timothy, and a few verses of scripture about teachers, soldiers, athletes, and farmers.

But, let’s start with a prayer, let us pray: Father of us all, over the next few minutes touch our hearts. In your name we pray, Amen.

From the 1973 edition of the New Oxford Annotated Bible the Revised Standard Version, here are a few bits of information about Timothy.

Timothy was the son of a Greek father and a Jewish mother who had become Christian.

Timothy’s mother and grandmother raised him as a Christian.

Paul was looking for a helper in his missionary work when he visited Timothy’s hometown, Lystra, in present day Turkey. Clearly, this Christian upbringing helped Paul in the recruitment of Timothy.

In this Second Letter to Timothy, a veteran missionary wants Timothy to understand that endurance is a key quality of a preacher.

Additionally, Timothy is encouraged to rekindle the gift of God within him. The veteran missionary reminds Timothy not to be ashamed of witnessing for the Lord.

There are some indications that Timothy was overawed by his surroundings and did not make his witness boldly.

And finally, Timothy was advised to take his share of suffering as a good soldier of Jesus Christ.

I wonder what Timothy thought about this advice.

I wonder what you, me, we, us think about this advice.

We might not see ourselves as soldiers of Jesus Christ, but we are familiar with the words endurance, rekindle, ashamed, witness, and suffering.

Yes, I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’m not a bold witness for Jesus Christ.

It would be very uncharacteristic of me to walk up to a person or a group of people, and shout out:

Hey, you bunch of heathens, as a Christian, I’m here to tell you that you must quickly rekindle your endurance for following the teachings of Jesus Christ because if you don’t, there’s a whole heap of suffering headed your way.

And yet, I’m drawn to the seven verses in second Timothy chapter two because of these words— teacher, soldier, athlete, and farmer.

Like Timothy, our national holiday of Thanksgiving has become overawed by the commercial rise of Halloween and Christmas. But if you really think about Thanksgiving, farmers are the key. No farmers, no Thanksgiving.

What might we learn from farmers about endurance and suffering as they work through the challenges of a difficult growing season?

At some point over this Thanksgiving weekend, we will probably be drawn to the athletes who play college or professional football.

From this chapter of Timothy, verse five reminds us:
“And in the case of an athlete, no one is crowned without competing according to the rules.”

As fearsome as the football warriors might look on the field, their thinking can become internally fragile. In these frail, weak moments, these athletes can place themselves in unwise situations where they fail to compete by the rules of life or the rules of the game. In those circumstances, there is no crowning.

What might we learn from athletes who fail for not following the rules?

With regard to soldiers, I’m drawn to an intense scene from the movie Saving Private Ryan.

Captain John Miller, played by Tom Hanks, and his soldiers have been given orders to find Private James Frances Ryan. Private Ryan’s three brothers have already been killed in the war.

This mission is to find Private Ryan and send him back home.

After a fierce encounter with a German unit, Captain Miller faces an emotional and out of line pushback from one of his soldiers over this mission to find Private Ryan.

In this pushback, the personalities of his men erupt all around Captain Miller. The language is vile. Weapons are drawn and pointed. Threats are made. Captain Miller’s men plead with him to intervene to stop this unsafe chaos.

Finally, Captain Miller quietly asks one of his men, “What’s the pool up to on me now?”

Captain Miller’s men have been trying to determine his profession prior to joining the Army. The pool amount is up to $300.00.

With that distracting question, the tenseness of this moment is broken. Captain Miller reveals to his men that he was a high school English teacher and baseball coach in a small town in Pennsylvania.

What might we learn from soldiers who struggle to understand the reasoning behind their orders?

For a few minutes, let’s take a brief detour to watch a scene from the movie Mr. Holland’s Opus.

In this scene, two teachers, who are friends have a conversation about a student:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ad5pKiflwew

In this scene, Glenn’s fellow teacher Bill is looking for understanding.

He can’t understand why Glenn can’t teach his star wrestler, Lou Russ, to play a musical instrument.

I’m not sure about you, but for me, in that scene the path to understanding pivots off these words—“then you’re a lousy teacher.”

I wonder if anyone ever said to Jesus—“you’re a lousy teacher.”

At this very moment, when Jesus looks down upon us, I wonder how he might evaluate our current teaching skills. He might ask:

Bill, are you able to teach others about grace?
Bill, do you understand the endurance it takes for people to survive living in difficult environments?
Bill, do you understand their suffering?
Bill, when are you going to enter this game and compete?

Timothy is given a lot to think about in Chapter Two, but the last verse states:
“Think over what I say, for the Lord will give you understanding in all things.”

Isn’t that part of what we are all searching for in life— a bit of understanding?

In David Halberstam’s book October 1964, Mr. Halberstam takes a behind the scenes look at the New Yankees and the St. Louis Cardinals and the season that leads the teams into the World Series.

In the final seventh game of the series, the Cardinals win.

At the end of the game, the reporters want to understand why the Cardinal’s manager, Johnny Keane, left his starting, but worn out pitcher, Bob Gibson, in the game to finish the ninth inning.

Johnny Keane tells the reporters: “ I had a commitment to his heart.”

In the magazine The Week, I recently read about author, Sophie Kinsella. This 54 year old mother of five has terminal cancer.

“Every morning, her husband reads the papers and delivers a cup of tea along with a hopeful story about someone who’s beating the odds on a grim diagnosis. From this routine, Kinsella states, “ I really want to be someone else’s story of hope.”

“ A commitment to his heart and some else’s story of hope,” are powerful human reflections.

However, the question remains for me—am I a good soldier?

Am I a good soldier depends upon my heart.

Is my heart grounded in the teachings of Jesus?

Can my heart offer hope to the people who are lost and struggling to find their way in life?

From my non-theological brain, I sense any chance I have at understanding the pep talk that Timothy has been given lies in these familiar words from John 15 verse 12: “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

In this very challenging and difficult world to be a good soldier, I must find the capacity to love the people I encounter on my walk through life.

This includes people who don’t look like me, act like me, or think like me.

And this requires me to love 365 days a year. I can’t opt out to love these people only during Thanksgiving and Christmas.

On the afternoon of Saturday, November 16, I was starting my second day in my annual battle with the leaves in our yard.

My wife, the Commander Supreme, came out into the backyard, and said to me, “If you are looking for something else to do, you could trim back the butterfly bush.”

I responded, “I’m not looking for something else to do.”

She laughed and said, “But, I know you are.”

Deep in his heart, Jesus has something for us to do.

He needs us to be graceful, strong soldiers, athletes, and farmers whose hearts can teach a world full of battered and weary people that hope can be found in love.

My clock is ticking. I turn 72 in June.

I’m overdue to be a good soldier.

How about you?

Benediction

As we prepare to head out of here this evening, if you have college students at home—enjoy the laundry.

If your in-laws are visiting your home—pray harder.

Whatever your plans are for tomorrow, I hope you and your family have a good, healthy, and safe Thanksgiving.

And don’t forget the pep talk for Timothy.

Somewhere in your life:

There was a patient teacher who never gave up on you.

The farmer you never met who harvested your food.

The athlete who played by the rules and was crowned.

A soldier who courageously sacrificed to preserve your freedom.

And most importantly, don’t forget Jesus.

He needs our hearts to find the beat just like Lou Russ did.

That beat is a heartbeat, a heartbeat committed to love one another beyond the walls of Trinity.

Now go in peace.

Author’s note: I had the privilege of speaking at the Thanksgiving Eve Service at Trinity United Methodist Church in Richmond, Virginia on the evening of Wednesday, November 27. I’ve included for you a link for the scene we used from the movie, Mr. Holland’s Opus. From the original movie, this scene is called Challenged. It features Bill and Glenn playing chess on Glenn’s porch. The clip is just under five minutes. If the technology fails, I hope you can find it on-line and view it. Happy Thanksgiving, be safe, love, Bill Pike

On the afternoon of Monday, November 4, I made sure that Trinity Hall was ready for the precinct volunteers.

At 4:30, they were coming to set up the hall the way it needed to be for election day.

I had six tables and twelve chairs out.

This would be the first presidential voting that had been held at our church since we became the precinct for the Rollingwood neighborhood in western Henrico County, Virginia.

On Tuesday morning, I had to have the building open by five. That gave the precinct volunteers an hour to make sure everything was ready for the voters at six to enter Trinity Hall to cast their votes.

I didn’t sleep well. I kept thinking about what would happen if I overslept.

Just before five, I had the building open.

Since this was my voting precinct, I opened up my office. I checked emails, and shuffled through some papers.

A few minutes before six, I went back down to Trinity Hall. I walked outside and joined the line with other early voters.

It wasn’t long before I was checked in. I was directed to a voting booth.

I carefully marked my ballot. Next, I walked a few steps and inserted my ballot into the machine that recorded my vote.

Then I made the two block drive to our home.

With a temperature of 56 degrees, I decided it was a good morning to go for a run. I always jot down in my running journal the current weather conditions from the Richmond airport.

On most mornings, the visibility is ten miles. Today, the visibility was 0.25 miles. Fog covered the east end of the county.

A gray overcast ceiling hovered just above the tree tops in Rollingwood.

Back on Sunday morning, November 3, I went for a run. I was sluggish. It was like my legs and brain were out of sync. I wanted to turn back.

By body didn’t want to go. I kept trying to nudge it out of this resistance. Some of that reluctance might have been because the last day that I had gone for a run was on October 20.

But on this important Tuesday morning, my body was more cooperative. My route would be to run the 5K course that starts at our church. I ran the course in a reverse sequence.

It was a damp morning. The humidity reading was 97%. A calm wind allowed for a coat of stilled moisture on every surface.

A palette of autumnal colors from the tree leaves temporarily replaced the sun on this gray day.

I wondered how America would be on Wednesday morning. I hoped that we would not be dealing with post-election turmoil.

For a long, long, long, long time America has been struggling.

Without doubt, we are facing multiple challenges within our borders, and troubling challenges outside our borders too.

Regardless of those challenges, and regardless of who becomes our president, it is foolish the amount of money that has been spent on this election.

National Public Radio was one of multiple news outlets that reported these findings from Open Secrets, a group that tracks election spending.

For the 2024, federal election, Open Secrets estimates that nearly $16 billion was spent. Four years ago, the amount was $15 billion.

I’m sorry, but $16 billion spent on an election is wrong.

How can we fail to see this?

But, there is something worse than the $16 billion.

Through the manipulation of fear, misinformation, and complete neglect for the truth, the Grand Old Party’s presidential candidate has eroded the dignity and integrity for the office of president in our country.

Why can’t we see this?

I’m a flawed and imperfect human being.

America is a flawed and imperfect democracy.

Jon Meacham is a Pulitzer Prize winning author and historian. During a lecture at the College of William and Mary in April 2024, Meacham stated: “If democracy were easy, everybody would be doing it.” (W&M Alumni Magazine Fall 2024)

At this stage of my life as a rapidly aging and excessively grumpy old geezer, I think Mr. Meacham is correct—there is nothing easy about a democracy.

And yet, I also believe at this moment, the heart of the shortcomings of our democracy are captured in this quote from Helen Keller: “The only thing worse than being blind is having sight but no vision.”

I wonder if we are capable of regaining our vision to find and live the last six words from President Lincoln’s first inaugural address—“the better angels of our nature.”

With regard to our democracy and America, I pray our divided souls find “the better angels of our nature.”

RICHMOND TIMES-DISPATCH THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 14, 2024|A9

OPINIONS

LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Tweaking accreditation won’t help students in need

I recently read in the Richmond Times-Dispatch Del. Mike Cherry’s Oct. 10 op-ed, “Why is school accountability so political?” This piece is about the new accreditation standards for our public schools in Virginia.

Accreditation standards have always been political. Truth be told, accreditation standards will most likely remain political unless we are willing to end our destructive legislative division.

When changes like this are made, I want to know if teachers, testing administrators, parents and students were asked to offer input. After all, they wrestle with accreditation every school year.
But what I really want to know is who is looking at the data that captures what life is like for an unsuccessful student in a nonaccredited school?

How different might that student’s academic performance look if this student had access to quality mental and physical health, non-substandard housing, family stability, proper nutrition, a school environment conducive to learning, and teachers who were respected and supported within the school system and the community.

Sure, every four years in Virginia a new governor and our political parties can continue to burn energy and time to change the accreditation standards to their liking. Unfortunately, tweaking accreditation standards is not going to solve the vicious generational cycles of community neglect.

We are overdue to confront and break those cycles. Failure to analyze and understand the needs of our students and their families in these difficult community environments guarantees less academic achievement.

I believe our Virginia legislators should take a field trip to the Virginia Museum of History & Culture. They should take in the exhibit about Booker T. Washington and Julius Rosenwald. Their unyielding teamwork allowed for the development of 4,978 schools across America. Virginia’s students, parents and teachers need that type of teamwork, not our current political bickering.

Bill Pike. Henrico.

Note from author: I was honored to have this letter published in the Richmond Times-Dispatch today Thursday, November 14, 2024.