Belief in Prayer

"Prayer is simply a two way conversation between you and God"  -- Billy Graham

I don't pray that much, at least not the stereotypical, kneel by the side of the bed, kneel on the pew in church and light a candle, doing penance as an act of contrition, kind of prayer.  This ship sailed when I stopped going to confession feeling like I had to make stuff up so as not to waste the priest's valuable time. 

 

For those not in the know, an act of contrition is a Catholic prayer that expresses sorrow for sins.  Penance would be the numerous other prayers the good father would tack on depending on the severity of one's fall from grace.  As a kid, you learn quickly how to balance your admissions in order to minimize the time spent on your knees.  I always wondered how long Al Capone spent down there, or if a sizeable donation to the church building fund was a get out of jail free card.

 

Now days, I have conversations with God.  I have come to appreciate God's sense of humor, usually at my expense.  God seemed to be having so much fun messing with me I actually figured God was a woman, because only a woman would have that much fun screwing around with my head.  I have found that since I have been focused on this blog it seems like I have been less the brunt of humor.  I'm not sure if this is due to the nature of the blog and quality of the posts, maybe I'm too focused on the blog to sit on the sacred "Whoopie cushion," or maybe it was all in my head.  Whatever the reason, my conversations with the almighty have been more focused on specific tasks and don't always have to begin with me looking into the heavens and exclaiming, "Again?" "Really?" Or even, "What?  What did I do this time?"  And my neck has stopped hurting from looking up.

My prayers usually don't focus on a desire for a miracle.  I fight my battles and only ask God for the strength to muddle through.  I have learned to only fight those battles I have a possibility of winning, unless there is a lesson to be learned in the losing.  Such was the battle waged last night with the Olympia City Council over feeding the homeless in their parking lots. 

There is an old adage that dad pounded into me, "You can't fight city hall."  The reason for this is pretty straightforward and easy to understand.  If you understand it, you have a better than even chance of getting something for your efforts.  City governments exist for the safety and welfare of their citizens, all of their citizens. To this end they have rules, regulations, and codes that they have to abide by.  If you don't like a code or regulation there are avenues to get it changed, adjusted, or even deleted.  Arguing with the city council is not one of these avenues.  The outcome of this particular confrontation was predictable, and I informed the outreach folks of this, prior to the meeting, along with my recommendations of how to proceed.

Needless to say, as with anything emotional, good sense and logic were also prey to emotional grievance throughout the meeting.  Brow beating the council on the plight of the homeless, of which they were already well aware, did nothing to solve the issue.  Going in with ideas of how to move forward and asking that they let the outreach continue while both parties work through finding common ground toward resolution would have been a better tact.  Everybody wants to look like they have a win.  You never want to confront the 800 pound gorilla without bringing him a banana. 

The city was still willing to discuss alternate locations.  They stated they were not against continuing the good work.  They also stated that the parking changes would go through, regardless of the homeless presentation.  Does this mean tickets, fines, and arrests if they violate the new ordinance?  Hopefully the City is smart enough to assume this will not paint them in a good light with the bleeding heart liberal majority that is Olympia.  I have offered my services as mediator, and/or advisor, to the outreach services if it will assist the in achieving a beneficial outcome for both parties.

The point of this tale is that prayer, in this circumstance, was well served to give strength to those heading into this battle, but was going to do little toward removing legal obstacles in the way of a positive outcome.  Sometimes it's better to surrender and hope you can negotiate an amicable peace, with a reasonable opponent, than to fall on your sword fighting a lost cause.  At least you might be able to continue the good fight.

I did find it interesting, as I heard one of the group comment their prayers seemed to go unanswered, how similar this event was to another historical event.  The leader of the outreach has to deal with the city manager, Pontius Pilate, who investigated the transgression.  The case goes before the mayor and his council, Herod Antipas, who hears the case and determines it must go back to Pilate for disposition.  Meanwhile, I found myself in the back of the room sitting next to the chief of police, the centurion, who waited patiently to see if someone might need to be arrested. 

As I left City Hall for my vehicle I found myself glancing upward, into the night sky, thinking, "Nice lesson."  

 

"Prayer is not an old woman's idle amusement.  Properly understood and applied, it is the most potent instrument of action....Prayer is not asking.  It is a longing of the soul.  It is daily admission of one's weakness.  It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart."

 -- Mahatma Gandhi

Sunday Thought - December 8, 2013: More on Losing Friends

Last week a friend of mine asked me what I'd been asking myself for months.  What was I going to do every morning before work when all my friends at the business in the next building vacated it and moved an hour up the highway?  The question occupied my mind as a defense mechanism against dealing with the real question, how to deal with the loss of so much family. 

Friday was the last day for everyone to show up at the facility next door.  On Monday they will report to work at the new location.  This realization, that Monday would be a marked shift in reality, was driven home Friday afternoon when Gayle and Erin hunted me down to give me a last hug.  This "expected" loss kept me tossing in bed until 2:00 this morning, when I finally turned on the light, fluffed up two pillows, and put pen to paper for today's Sunday Thought.  I could wordsmith the post for grammar, but I think it reads better the way it went down.

One year, five...ten; five passes like one, twenty like ten; a stitch in time, the blink of an eye.  Children grow up so fast and friends become memories. 

We enter each other's lives, cross each other's paths not realizing - no, that's not right...not comprehending the affect our interaction will have on each other, how our reality will change, whether we want it to or not.  For some this change will be ignored or be accepted as the normal course of life.  There is nothing normal about human interaction.  It isn't like beating a piece of metal into submission at a forge.  Ours is a ballet of emotion, or a game of chess.  In the workplace, especially when you are packed like sardines into cubes, we e create with each other a subtle closeness that can continue unrealized until it is lost.

There exists mystery in this group of 300 odd souls.  The quiet woman, keeping to herself most of the time, yet her knowledge of CPR will save the heart attack waiting to happen that is munching the Philly cheesesteak three workstations down.  The young man across the room, struggling to keep up with his workload, will pull two co-workers from a burning building, and go back for more.  There hundreds of other possibilities that surround us in this environment.

The obvious impact we have on each other, daily.  A person that whistles, hums, or sings, always with a smile or a joke to lighten the mood or brighten the day.  The cartoon on a sticky note, left on a monitor to wish someone a beautiful day and remind them they are thought of.  The simple act of a hug to say you care and love having them on your path, if even for a brief time.  For others it is the act of playing games to get ahead or garner favor from supervisors, and back-stabbing for personal gain.  But, even in this immaturity there exists tremendous impact and the possibility for others around them to grow through the act of understanding and forgiveness.

The building is empty now.  The furniture is being moved out.  Soon, cleaners will come in to make it presentable so they can turn the building back over for the next tenant.  I will look in the windows on Monday and see, nothing.  Everyone will be gone.  I have knowledge of the hole in my heart I have to fill with memories of the myriad of people I have known and cared about for twenty years.  Is this what it felt like for some of them, when I retired from here and went to Mexico to live?  I wonder.

So many people have come and gone.  Some have suffered debilitating illness, mental infirmity, death or stroke.  I can't help but think of Amy and Rick, Lodi, Kathy, and others.  There are those that married, had babies, and those that moved on to other careers.

Are we aware of how we affect each other?  How we can change someone's path, every day, every moment, with just a smile, a kind word or thoughtful gesture?  How we become different than the day before, better than we were, for the interaction with those with whom we come into daily contact?

I wonder, if everyone were to gather around each morning in a circle, holding hands for a quiet moment of reflection, would they comprehend their meaning to each other, their value to the group?  Or, is this something that we're too busy to understand until it is gone or until we are too old and are left with only cherished memories? 

I look at the stranger and see my friend, the old man and see my child.  I look into the eyes of a baby and, for a brief moment, feel as if I've touched the face of creation.  How powerful we humans are.  How meaningful and necessary we are to each other, each day and for the rest of our lives.  Our happiness is the comprehension of this value; love is the understanding of it.

Monday will be hard. 

Miracle

"Nothing is esteemed a miracle, if it ever happen in the common course of nature."

David Hume (1711-1776), philosopher

Tomas Crisp, 65 and dying of cancer, stirred in his sleep, the I.V. tubing and wires attached to the monitoring electronics made it difficult to roll off his back and onto his side.  He coughed, and the cough led to another, and then another deeper cough which developed into a full-blown coughing fit that finally woke him from yet another of this afternoon's short naps.  The drugs just weren’t working.  He was in pain and he just couldn’t get any meaningful sleep.  With all of his money, he couldn't beat what ails him.  He looked around the small hospital room as he pressed the dosing trigger for another hit of morphine.  The room was dimly lit, medicinal and stark, no flowers or cards, no evidence of family or friends.  At the age of 65, Tom would die alone, and this was fine with him as he had lived a good life; lonely, but good.  He felt a warm rush as the drug took effect; his eyelids slowly dropped him into another fitful nap.

Tom turned his head while he slept and was facing the door to the small, private, hospital room.  His eyes fluttered and the right one opened just a crack.  His vision was trying to focus out of the drug-induced slumber.  He thought he could see someone sitting in a chair next to the bed, so he squinted his eye to try and blink it clear of fog.  He lifted his head a bit as he finally focused on a woman.  She was slender under her one piece taupe colored habit and had a natural linen scarf covering her head and draping down her shoulders.  She was sitting upright with good posture, hands one atop the other and resting on her lap, with knees and feet together.  He thought back to the Catholic orphanage he had been subjected to.  The nuns would have called her "prim and proper."  Tom, on the other hand, looked a fright with dark bags under his eyes, his short gray hair needed a brush, and he had cotton mouth from the painkillers which meant his breath could all but kill.  Oh joy, he thought, a visitor.

He stifled a yawn, worried about his breath, and managed to croak out a gruff, “Who are you?”  His throat was dry and he needed a drink.  The woman seemed to interpret his need and lifted a glass of water from the stainless steel tray which was parked alongside the bed.  She leaned forward and tilted the straw so he could take a sip.  Water dribbled from his lips to the pillow, and with a clearer voice, though still gruff, he said, “Thank you.”  The woman smiled and put the glass back.  Tom closed the left eye, the one next to the pillow, and tried to focus on her fully with his right.  He repeated his earlier question, “Who are you?”

She folded her hands together on her lap and smiled again.  In a soft, almost whispering voice she explained, “Father sent me to comfort you.”

Tom snorted, “Sister, you can go back and thank the father for his concern, but I haven’t believed in God for a long time and nothing I’ve heard or seen so far is going to change my mind.  There are no ooey-ooey miracles, no miraculous cures, no rising of the dead, and no fu…., uh, freakin' afterlife.  You priests and nuns amaze me.  All of you “people of the cloth,” wandering around giving folks false hope, especially when they’re dying.”  He snorted again, turned his head away while giving a dismissive wave with his hand, wincing as the movement jostled the I.V. needle taped into the back of it.  All of his movement was loosening the grip the tape had on the needle.  The woman’s brow furrowed in concern as she felt his pain and reached out to gently press the tape back into place around the needle.

Tom felt the gentleness and warmth of her touch.  It was strangely soothing to him and he felt the pain subside as she left her hand resting over the needle, to steady it.  He glanced sideways at her, still facing away, "Thank you, sister."  She smiled again.

She took her hand from the back of his and leaned forward so he could hear her soft voice as if she were unable to speak louder.   "Your belief in God is desired, Thomas, but not required.  You have faith, regardless of your belief.  The good you have done, with all of your wealth, you have done privately and without want of recognition.  You have played the "Scrooge" at great cost to your personal life, and always pushed people away for fear of being close.  No, Tom, you deny the Lord and yet you follow His path.  Like Judas, you do his bidding, and, like Judas, you also deny the silver you've earned for doing it."

Another snort, he did not turn to look at her as he spoke.  "It was not my intent to follow any path, sister," he spat out "path" as if in anger, "I gave of my wealth because I had more than any one man could spend, that's all.  If it did some good, so much the better.  The orphans could sure use it.  Much better than giving it to Uncle Sam!"  He smiled at the thought of his ability to always screw the government out of it's due.  He noticed he hadn't coughed for a while.  Maybe he could get some sleep, finally.  "It would be better if the orphanage taught children more about survival and less about a God that abandoned them.

"Has survival served you that well, Thomas?  It has turned you bitter.  Yes, the orphans needed those donations.  You deny your feelings, but you do care.  You made sure the charities you give to spend their money wisely, like the orphanage." she said, folding her hands back on her lap.  "Being an orphan yourself, you know how much they needed every penny of what you gave."  His head snapped toward her and he felt the blood rise into his cheeks.  He didn't yell, but his anger was evident.

"Who the hell told you I was an orphan?  No one knows that!  Did that damned priest check up on me?  What, he couldn't just take the money?  Did he have to make sure it was clean?  What?"

Her smile disappeared as she averted her eyes downward to her hands, not wanting to see his anger.   She whispered, almost pleading, "He has his ways, Tom.  Please do not be angry with the Father.  He always means well."  Tom looked away again, as he rolled to face the window.

"What's the old saying sister?  The path to hell is paved with good intentions?"  Another snort.

She looked up again and spoke to the back of his head, "If there were a "path to hell" Tom, it would be paved with cobblestones of lies, hatred, and spite that are held in place with want and desire; not with good intentions.  If there is a hell, your path does not approach it."

Tom let out a deep sigh.  "Sister, I need my sleep.  I'm sure you'll understand if I ask you to leave?"  She smiled and stood, her robe falling into place around her slim figure.

"You cannot sleep yet, Tom.  You have a few more visitors waiting."  Her voice was melodious and it felt as if she were willing him to look.  He turned his head enough to watch as she walked to the door like a dancer would float, reaching for the handle.  The door began to open before she touched it, and the night nurse for the cancer wing stuck her head in.  The look on her face said she was expecting his usual gruff manner. 

"I know its dinner time, Mr. Crisp, but these folks out here were insistent on paying their respects."

He let out another exasperated sigh and said, "Oh, my god!"  The sister smiled again.  "What are you smilin' at?  It's a figure of speech, is all."  The nurse responded, obviously not having seen his other visitor, "Mr. Crisp, I can guarantee you, I am not smiling!"  Tom rolled his eyes.

"Oh, show them in, for God's sake!  And, show the sister out!"  The nurse closed the door without the nun in tow.  He could hear the nurse in the hallway saying something to the others, and he heard giggles.  "Oh, great," he said quietly but with a note of frustration, "Fricking happy visitors.  Does the joy never end?"  He looked at the sister who was still smiling as if enjoying his discomfort with the happenings around him.  He let out another sigh, "I guess you're gonna stay then?"  She just kept smiling as the door opened and 15 small children, ages from 5 through 12, filed into the small room.  The sister backed up to the wall, making room for all to stand in front of the bed.  Tom thought the children a bit rude.  Didn't they see the sister backing up to the wall?  They should show a bit of respect!

The sister spoke from her position across the room, her almost whispering voice clearly audible to him.  "I have to go, Tom.  You have been always looking for a miracle to prove God."  she spread her hands to indicate the group of children, and he looked at them as she continued, "These are not a miracle, Tom.  These are your children, want them or not, they are yours."  She spread her arms wider as if to introduce them all.  "Here before you stand doctors, philosophers, and scientists.  Children which will, with your continued support, rid this world of illness, starvation and, possibly, even war.  They are children of God, like all children, and they need you, Thomas."

Tom's head sank into his pillow as if to escape from her.  The nurse pressed the button, bringing the back of the bed up so he was almost sitting.  His tired eyes looked up at the sister in resignation as he responded in the voice of a strong man finally beaten down at the last seconds of his life, "I'm dying, damn it!"  The nurse shot him a scolding look, then smiled and scolded him in a playful voice, "Not just yet, Mr. Crisp!  Not just yet!"  The nurse leaned in closer, whispering, "And, watch your language, there are children present!" 

He noticed the nun was smiling again.  They didn't see her.  Hell, they didn't hear her!  Not once have these people shown any sign they even know she is in the room.  Tom felt like he was losing his mind.  She raised her right hand and touched her heart with her fingertips.  "The Father loves you, Mr. Crisp, as does the Son.  You will live to see the youngest of these children with children of their own.  Only then will the Father welcome you."  He felt a lump grow in his throat as a subtle glow slowly began to envelop her.  "My miracle?"  he quietly asked, looking at the children.  The children and the nurse seemed not to notice the interaction between him and the nun.  She continued, "Remission happens, not common, but also not a miracle.  You have been given time to believe, Tom, and time to learn, to learn to love these children standing before you, and guide them.  You are a good man, Thomas.  Now, be a good father."

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, shaking his head slowly back and forth for a few seconds until the words burst forth from his mouth. "Mother of Christ, forgive me!" He opened his eyes and she was gone. The children were still there, staring at him as though his mind had taken a vacation, the nurse assuming a moment of drug-induced insanity. He could imagine how he must look; eyes wide as saucers, tightly gripping two fistfuls of bed sheet, perspiration beading across his forehead. All he needed was a drool cup to complete the picture. Bring on the straight jacket! The nurse had one hand to her mouth, her eyes wide with concern. Everything was quiet.

A small girl broke from the group of children and came to the side of his bed, climbing onto the chair and sitting with her hands folded in her small lap.  "Mithter Crithp?"  He couldn't help but smile at her lisp.  "We've come to thay, thank you.  Thank you, tho much, for everything you've done!"  She reached out and gripped his big hand with her small one.  It occurred to him he was feeling no pain and had not felt pain since the woman had covered his hand in hers.  He didn't want to cough.  He felt...good.  No, he felt young!  He smiled, and the children came forward to stand around his bed.  He looked at all the young faces, and he began to cry.

Miracles happen, Mr. Crisp.  Merry Christmas!

Editor's Note

(Re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card)

Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so. This is also why, occasionally, I will present an "opinion" just to stir an emotional pot. Where it may sound like I agree with the statements made, I'm more interested in getting others to consider an alternate viewpoint. 

It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and while engaging in peaceful and constructive discussion, in an arena of mutual respect, concerning those opinions put forth. After over twenty years with military intelligence, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we learn from the experience, and what we do afterward.

Pastor Tony spent 22 years with United States Air Force Intelligence as a planner, analyst, briefer, instructor, and senior manager. He spent 17 years, following his service career, working with the premier, world renowned, Institutional Review Board helping to protect the rights of human subjects involved in pharmaceutical research. Ordained 1n 2013 as an "interfaith" minister, he founded the Congregation for Religious Tolerance in response to intolerance shown by Christians toward peaceful Islam. As the weapon for his war on intolerance he chose the pen, and wages his "battle" in the guise of the Congregation's official online blog, The Path, of which he is both author and editor. "The Path" offers a vehicle for commentary and guidance concerning one's own personal, spiritual, path toward peace and the final destination for us all. He currently resides in Pass Christian, Mississippi, where he volunteers as lead Chaplain and Chaplain Program Liaison, at the regional medical center.

A Point of Light

It was a cool evening in Olympia.  Most evenings are cool in the Northwest, but I remember this night, in particular, due to the overpowering smell of wood smoke from neighboring fireplaces.  This night had the right temperature, moisture, and pressure to hold the smoke fairly low.  I could almost hear the "poor air quality" alerts on the local news.

I initially went outside to move my car under the carport, having parked it at the side of the house.  Even with the annoyingly bright streetlight at the foot of the drive, and the lights from downtown Olympia reflecting across Capitol Lake and into the evening sky, my attention was still drawn upward to the bright carpet of sparkling stars.  I was in awe and wonder at how gorgeous the sky was.

The house is located on the bluff overlooking the lake, so the taller trees were pretty much all down in the ravine and on the hillside below us around the lake.  This allowed an almost unobstructed view of the eastern sky from north to south.  I say "almost" because of one, extremely tall, old-growth, Douglas fir tree sitting between our house and the neighbor's, right on the bluff.  It towered in the neighborhood of two-hundred to three-hundred feet, like a spear of nature.  The branches toward the top were certain "widow-makers" to anyone standing below when they broke them off

Our panoramic strip of sky usually provides evening views of passenger jets landing and taking off from SeaTac International, about an hour up the road.  Aircraft are easy to pick out in the distance if you know what to look for, even though the light doesn't seem to move, you can pick out the colored lights blinking on and off, or see the bright landing lights get even brighter as it gets closer.  Of course, the closer the aircraft gets the easier it is to see it begin to move through the sky, and they tend to follow standard flight paths.

This particular evening I saw a bright star, a bit higher than a usual flight path, and watched it for a bit to see if it was an aircraft, star, or a planet.  Nothing was blinking on it and it seemed, considering the extreme distance, it appeared to be visibly moving a lot faster than a jet would have been given the altitude.  It had to be a satellite.  Being in military intelligence I had the inside track on satellite overflights at night which allowed numerous opportunities to go outside at night when they overflew the airbases where I was stationed.  Satellites were fairly easy to spot and, again, follow their designated orbits.

I watched this one for a while as it traversed from the southern sky to point above me, almost even with my position, before it disappeared behind the tall, old growth fir.  I estimated how long it would take it to re-appear and shifted my gaze to pick it up when it emerged on the other side of the trunk.  I waited for a second... two... well, where was it?  I leaned left, then right, like that was really going to help me look around the tree.  Sometimes we do silly things.  The light finally emerged higher than the original track would have brought it, it was moving significantly slower, and it was also diminishing in brightness.  It continued to slow and diminish in brightness until it disappeared from sight only several feet from where it had reappeared from behind the tree.

If this was a satellite, it was rapidly leaving orbit and heading out into space.  The cat was rubbing up against my leg.  I looked down, as the cat sat and looked up at me as if to ask, "Whatchya lookin' at Boss?  You do know it's cold out here, right?  How about some kibble?"

I smiled and looked back up to the spot in the sky.  I watched for another moment, making sure that my eyes had not deceived me before I picked up the tabby and went back inside.  The cat sprawled in front of the fire as I poured myself a bourbon rocks.  I settled down on the couch to enjoy the fire with the cat who rolled over and stretched.

There are things we see at times that seemingly defy explanations which I have learned not to go looking for.  You will usually be told what you saw was something you know it wasn't or, as in my intelligence field, that the object can be neither confirmed nor denied, nor can it be confirmed that I actually saw something once bourbon is involved.  Their evidence changes faster than the explanations and disappears as fast as the bourbon.  You will rarely be satisfied with the answer if you ever received one.  After 22 years in with military intelligence, I knew better than to expect one, so I let it go.

I'm the master sergeant who took calls from people who dialed the wrong number, wanting to report aliens that were watching them through their bathroom mirror.  I'm the guy that told them to take shaving cream and ensure every inch of the mirror was covered, then get tin foil and make a hat from it, because, if they were watching, you could bet your bottom dollar they were also reading your mind.  I'm the guy that, while the caller was busy with the shave cream, transferred their call to the OSI, the Office of Special Investigations.  I was not the guy the callers wanted or needed.  I was the wrong number.  I was their worst nightmare, the guy who messes with people's heads, the guy who figured the OSI would probably want to share in the humor of the moment.  I was party to the policy of "plausible deniability" for way too long, so when it comes to what I see, no one can tell me what they think I saw.  Not even the voices in my head have the right to do that.

Are we alone in this universe?  Are there inter-dimensional beings traveling between realities?  Are they, perhaps, from our own future?  Mainstream science would say no, there isn't any proof.  Theoretical science would say, we don't have the science right now to form an opinion on the theoretical probability.  This covers their ass in the event of a possible breakthrough, or finding of the aforementioned, non-existent evidence which would otherwise make them look like buffoons.

For science, if it can't be proven by scientific method, then what you see is only in your mind, your imagination.  If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?  Does point nine times infinity equal one?  Does God exist?  Unusual incidents, like the one I witnessed in the night sky, can change a person's view of their place in the universe if they can open their mind and allow themselves to dream.

I dream a lot, and I still think about that point of light.

Editor's Note

(Re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card)

Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so. This is also why, occasionally, I will present an "opinion" just to stir an emotional pot. Where it may sound like I agree with the statements made, I'm more interested in getting others to consider an alternate viewpoint. 

It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and while engaging in peaceful and constructive discussion, in an arena of mutual respect, concerning those opinions put forth. After over twenty years with military intelligence, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we learn from the experience, and what we do afterward.

Pastor Tony spent 22 years with United States Air Force Intelligence as a planner, analyst, briefer, instructor, and senior manager. He spent 17 years, following his service career, working with the premier, world renowned, Institutional Review Board helping to protect the rights of human subjects involved in pharmaceutical research. Ordained 1n 2013 as an "interfaith" minister, he founded the Congregation for Religious Tolerance in response to intolerance shown by Christians toward peaceful Islam. As the weapon for his war on intolerance he chose the pen, and wages his "battle" in the guise of the Congregation's official online blog, The Path, of which he is both author and editor. "The Path" offers a vehicle for commentary and guidance concerning one's own personal, spiritual, path toward peace and the final destination for us all. He currently resides in Pass Christian, Mississippi, where he volunteers as lead Chaplain and Chaplain Program Liaison, at the regional medical center.

Dec 7, 1941: Revisiting a Pearl Harbor Memorial

"A military man can scarcely pride himself on having 'smitten a sleeping enemy'; it is more a matter of shame, simply, for the one smitten. I would rather you made your appraisal after seeing what the enemy does, since it is certain that, angered and outraged, he will soon launch a determined counterattack."  --  Admiral Isoroku Yamamto (January 9, 1941)

I always think there is nothing one can say about the tragedy of Pearl Harbor, any more than one can say anything of meaning about the Twin Towers and 9/11.  These kinds of things are ingrained in our souls and etched in our memories for life eternal.  They make us emotional, angry, and, at times, speechless.  For the younger people that don't know of such things, there are television specials that try to explain it.  Trying to explain such deep emotional trauma falls far short of reality.

There is an interesting letter which I think has great meaning, not just in remembering Pearl, but in trying to explain why these brave military died, why they made the ultimate sacrifice.  It is a sacrifice all military people pledge to make for the security of their country, their flag, and their families.  It is a sacrifice the families pledge to make with them, as they risk the loss of a spouse, or a parent, everyday.  The letter is from Chaplain Richard House, a lieutenant in the U.S. Navy on December 7, 2005 and is entitled, "Letter from a US Navy Chaplain in Bahrain on Remembering Pearl Harbor." 

Chaplain House and I joined up and took our oath around the same time in life, at the end of the Vietnam War.  I grew up as a quasi-hippy around Big Sur in central California.  My father had served in the Air Force, and was a proud American.  I was raised to understand what taking this oath meant, about love of country, family, and God.  Like the Chaplain, the words took on new meaning as my career progressed.

I think it really hit home when I was stationed in Sicily.  This was during the transition period from Desert Shield to Desert Storm, but the blowback had already started.  One day, just after lunch, I happened into the loading dock area after crossing the aircraft parking ramp.  As I entered the door to the staging area, I came to an abrupt stop.  Caskets were lined up with flags draped atop each one.  There were two guards standing at attention, one at either end of the large room, watching over them.  The caskets were lined up, side by side, from one guard to the other.  It was not a small room.  I subconsciously came to attention.  It was very quiet in the staging area.  I was choked up and could feel the tears welling in my eyes.  I did an about face and left.  Shortly after that I was transferred back to Fairchild Air Force Base in Washington to assist with the possible deployment of the 92nd Bombardment Wing B-52 force in support of Desert Storm.

Chaplain House offers us the following:    

   “Yesterday, December 7, 1941—a date which will live in infamy—the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.”   

            Thus begins the speech by President Franklin Roosevelt to the Congress the day following the attack.  I invite you today to take a moment to recall the sacrifice of our comrades early one Sunday morning 64 years ago. 

Of my generation each can recall where they were when President John F. Kennedy or the Reverend Martin Luther King were assassinated.  Younger generations of those in uniform know their location when the two planes struck the Twin Towers, another the Pentagon, and yet a fourth that landed in a field in Pennsylvania... 

Perhaps to many of you, Pearl Harbor is but a page from a history text, but those of my mother’s generation know exactly where they were on that Sunday.   Though perhaps not here in Bahrain, there are many in our country that have no doubt where they were on that fateful day, for they were there.  By these words I hope to honor those who still bear scars, both physical and emotional, along with their fallen comrades, and all who mourn their loss. 

As a relatively new chaplain with only five years on active duty I sought out the advice of those senior to ask the question, “What should you say in such a memorial?”  I could share with you the details of the attack, the battle plan, and our response.  I could list the ships lost and those spared.  We could read the names of the 1,177 wounded.  We could toll the ship’s bell for the 2,403 killed that day. From Chaplain Corps history I could recall that nineteen chaplains were on duty in the vicinity of Pearl Harbor that day.  I could extol the courage and sacrifice of Chaplains Schmitt and Kirkpatrick, the two Navy Chaplains killed at Pearl Harbor.  We might also recognize those who survived the attack and gather together in memorials around the country today. 

But today I would rather speak to that which might have brought our comrades to the place of making that supreme sacrifice. If I may, I would like to share with you the oath, or one similar, that each one of us who have worn the uniform of the United States, took at one time: 

“I . . . solemnly swear or affirm that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter, so help me God.” 

Let’s look at this oath as we recall those we honor today. 

“I . . . solemnly swear (or affirm)” There are precious few things in life that we hold as truly solemn.  While we would surely include family and loved ones as precious; it is often that things thought to be solemn are confined to places of worship: mosques, temples, synagogues, churches, or cathedrals. 

Those who died and fought on December 7^th, and all those who have served our country in uniform throughout our history, took an oath, raised their right hand and spoke these or similar words. They swore a solemn oath.  What can be more solemn that keeping one’s word!  They kept their word!  I ask you, what can be a more solemn gift than a life given for another?  They proved this beyond a shadow of a doubt! 

“support and defend”  Those who died and fought that day did just that.  They supported and defended the Constitution of the United States and the freedoms expressed therein.  The surprise attack on that Sunday morning caught America, and our comrades, off guard.  We as a nation were not prepared.  They defended their shipmates, and their country with their blood and their very lives.  They offered support and defense to those alive on that day, as well as all of us not yet born. 

“true faith and allegiance”  I looked up these three words in the dictionary, and among their definitions I found the following: steadfast, loyal, honest, just, ideal, essential, belief, trust, constant, duty, confidence, conviction, obligation, fidelity, devotion, and loyalty. 

Were our comrades perfect?  No. Were they perfect examples of these ideals?  No.  By virtue of their actions, did they strive for these ideals?  Most definitely!  It is our hope that we might be able to attribute some of these to ourselves, and especially to those of us in uniform.  If we find ourselves in struggle as we strive for these ideals, we are then privileged to have the example of those whom we recall today for inspiration as we attempt to live them. 

“so help me God”  We conclude this oath of service to our country with the powerful words, “so help me God.”  As a believer I strive to live my life according to sacred scripture, the teachings of my faith, and my trust in God.  I first took this oath as a teenager at the end of the Vietnam War.  I raised my hand again when in middle age I began service anew as a chaplain.  I now recognize that I did not fully understand these words thirty-three years ago.  While I may feel that I have a better sense of them now, no one truly knows how they will respond until they are called upon to do so.  If, and when we are called, it is only with the help of God that we will be truly able to attempt to live this oath to its fullest. 

As this oath concludes with, “so help me God”, there is little doubt as to whom we will one-day answer.  God alone will judge us.   Our prayer is, that as we are called upon to put these ideals into action, that we will respond as well as those we honor and remember on this 64^th Pearl Harbor Day.

I have one final message, if I may be so bold.  As a patriot I feel it should be repeated frequently and at some volume, since our leaders seem to be deaf.  This short message is for any President of the United States, not just the current one: 

Mr. President you cannot weaken our Constitution, or our military.  Notice that I said "cannot," and not "should not."  Try as you might, this will never happen.  The majority of this country is made up from people of patriotism, pride, conscience, and God.  They forget this, at times, usually when we're electing our leaders.  We have been trusting citizens, prone to gullibility, falling for the lies, half-truths, and politics of deceit.  We find out, all too late, that we may have erred with our vote.  The homeless, the poor, the illegal alien, and the student may get a President elected, but that has no bearing on, or guarantee of, their willingness to die fighting for that President.  We patriots take this oath of service, with powerful words like "so help me God," because this is our country, and we remember! 

We will always remember, Mr. President.  A fact you should not ever forget!

"The strongest reason for the people to retain the right to keep and bear arms is, as a last resort, to protect themselves against tyranny in government."

-- Thomas Jefferson

God bless all of our men and women in uniform, military and civil servant alike.  They do a job that not many are willing to do and, sometimes, pay the ultimate price.  God help our leaders to make the right decisions, and remember for whom they work.

Editor's Note 

(re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card) 

Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so.

It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and then engaging in peaceful, constructive, discussion and debate in an arena of mutual respect concerning the opinions put forth. After over twenty years as a military intelligence analyst, planner, and briefer, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we do afterward, and what we learn from the experience.

Frank Anthony Villari (aka, Pastor Tony)

Pastor Tony is founder of the Congregation for Religious Tolerance and author/editor of the Congregation's official blog site, "The Path."

Victims of Evil Leadership

 

I'll be the first to admit, and I have on numerous posts, that Christians visited atrocities on others throughout history.  Let us be clear on this, because it is like saying all Moslems are suicide bombers and believe in "jihad" as defined by the current wave of heretical terrorists.  This is like saying all Christians are guilty of these historical atrocities.  Christianity, as with Islam, is a religion based on peace and love.  But, let a charismatic leader of the faith stir the masses into a bloodthirsty frenzy, and we can see the consequences even today.

It is the leadership of a religion that holds full responsibility for all actions done under their banner, with their consent.  The people that follow them, believing their leaders word is the holy "word of God", are guilty of their own actions as well.  But the followers are also guilty of being morons for even buying into an edict which obviously runs counter to their religions tenets.  Although not to buy into the party line might have found you next in line for the rack during the Inquisition.  So, you were truly damned if you did, or didn't, obey.

As usual, atheists take aim at theists on their websites.  This target practice shows two negative traits for the perpetrators.  One is a lack of intelligence or understanding.  Reading the commentary on these sites is an exercise in tolerance.  The pure hate that issues from their pie holes negates any chance of finding an intelligent idea.  Two, is the total lack of tolerance for their fellow man.  They fire countless barbs and, like the poor marksmen they are, continually miss the true target as well as the point.

Yes, theist leadership has used their faith, and faithful, as an excuse for many historical atrocities against mankind.  The leadership, not the faith, is at fault here.  Any intelligent person would read the scripture on which the religion is based and be able to understand this simple fact.  Most modern theists believe in tolerance, peace, and love.  How deep that love goes is, unfortunately, very dependent on how deep the leadership dictates.

 

There is no question that the Christian faith, in particular, has been guilty of many historical crimes against humanity.  The number of these is an eye opener.  I went on line and picked out one list that seemed to cover the lot.  The URL is listed below.  I found that most of the site with long lists seemed to be anti-Christian or anti-religion, which makes as much sense as the Christian sites having the shortest lists.

 

The purpose of opening this wound is not to demean Christianity, but rather to clarify the target of our anger and disappointment.  One cannot hope to do better without clearly defining the problem, and the problem here, as always, is with leadership and proper interpretation of scripture.  The purpose here is to make sure we don't forget why we are Christians, Jews, and Moslems, and that we are the church of God, and, in the end, personally answerable to that God for our actions in God's name. 

 

The purpose is to come out the other side stronger in faith to ensure atrocities never happen again.

http://www.truthbeknown.com/victims.htm

My Next Geatest Fears

Next to dying alone, my greatest fears are losing the use of my eyesight and my hands.

I have been "legally" blind my entire life.  What is that?  What is "illegally" blind?  Blind without a license?  Kind of like being legally a Christian, I guess, or legally white. My point is that, legally or not, I have been afraid of totally losing my sight for most of my life.  I just recently passed the landmark point of mot having to worry about Glaucoma, if I don't have the sign of it by now, I probably will never get it.

My hands are another issue.  My hands have been as important as my mind for most of my life.  Between surgical precision in plotting routes for the Emergency War Order, to my art and my writing, my hands are...what I have left.  My art is not the broad brush strokes or the impressionist's blur, or that of Picasso and the cubists.  My art is the precision of the stars, of a comet, a meteor, or the arc of a planet or a moon.  Without my hands, or my sight, my art is nothing.  But, it would seem I have a hereditary muscle issue with my hands.  My mother has had numerous surgeries and it would seem, I too, have the problem.  It couldn't happen to my left hand, of course, it has to happen to the most important hand in my life.

I have fought it and will continue to fight.  The art may morph into something else, but my writing is my mind, my thoughts.  I have been following Dragon Software for quite some time.  I have been waiting for the perfection of product.  I think they are there now.  If, and when, my hand finally gives up the ghost, I think this program offers what I need at an affordable price.  I talk, it writes, what a concept!  Science finally catches up to my infirmity, and that makes me feel like a whiner, why?

Of all the fears I have, my fellow military personnel come back without arms, legs, faces, or all of the above.  So my pitiful fears amount to a hill of squat, except for that of dying alone.  A soldier will deal with almost anything; dying alone raises that bar almost beyond ability.

So, what are you afraid of on your path in life?  Spiders?  Heights? The dark?  Think about living life without a face, or without a face and blind, or without a face and blind and a quadriplegic? Makes you think about the "third base" joke, huh? Not so funny when you try to put a face on it.

My fears are my fears, and they are insignificant in the greater scheme of things.  If my hands cease to function, I will no longer be able to put in my contact lenses and I will have to wear thick glasses again.  My hands will prevent my art from being more than a canvas in my mind.  My writing will continue as long as there is an upgrade to the program turning my voice into the written word.  And I will forever be grateful to those that gave their all so I have the freedom to think so I can put those thought to paper, for free thought is something more valuable than life itself.

Fear is over rated.  The next time you see a handicapped vet, ask him why.  Better yet, give them a hug and say thank you.  Thank you for giving everything of yourself for me and mine. 

My greatest fears cannot compete.  How are yours?

"If you don't fear death, how can you fear life?"

Quietly Confused

“It is not possible to preserve one's identity by adjusting for any length of time to a frame of reference that is in itself destructive to it. It is very hard indeed for a human being to sustain such an 'inner' split - conforming outwardly to one reality while trying to maintain inwardly the value it denies.”

-- Betty Friedan (1921-2006), writer, feminist, activist

I had just finished unloading my casserole 'contribution' to the Saturday morning breakfast for the homeless, several years ago. As I placed it on a folding table, one of the volunteers taped a paper heart to my sweater as a remembrance for the daughter of the founder of this weekly feed. The daughter died, some years back, in a car crash.  She had lived among these people, the homeless, and considered herself one of them. The crowd was thin this winter morning.  It was cold. The breeze picking up off of the Puget Sound didn’t help with the chill, but at least it wasn’t raining.  Small blessing.

The crowd was slow to brave the cold walk, from around the town of Olympia, to the parking lot by the bus barn where the morning was served up.  They dribbled into the line a few at a time.  By the time breakfast finished, we knew all the food will have been served.  It always was.  But, the numbers of those needy and homeless showing for a meal had been dwindling as temperatures dropped and winter marched in.  It was clear that many "regulars" had moved on to warmer climates for the season.

Because it was slower than usual, I was taking a short break from the serving line to talk to some of the "clients" about their circumstances, hoping for some muse for my blog.  I happened to look down the sidewalk and saw a young, waspy, female walking in our direction with her head down, eyes on the sidewalk. Maybe a teenager, or a local college student, but young, all the same.  She looked up and our eyes met.  Pretty face.  I smiled and she angled toward me, off the sidewalk and into the vacant parking lot. 

She was blonde, wrapped in a pea coat.  She was decked out with a crocheted scarf and cap, petite gloves and neat, fashionable blue jeans pulled over slender legs.  Her makeup was slight, just enough to say she'd put some on, which was fine because she had a "natural" attractiveness which required little help.  It was fairly obvious, by the quality of clothing, she was not one of the usual 'clientele' in dire need of breakfast, but protocol demanded I ask if she was hungry. As she shook her head, it occurred to me, by her humble, quiet manner, she was shy and, perhaps, also somewhat sad.

Someone, hurrying passed to get in line, bumped against her and apologized without breaking stride. Hungry.  In a quiet timid voice, she responded, “No problem.”  I felt my eyebrow rise at the timbre of her voice.  I smiled at what I had missed.  Those tell-tale signs missed from a distance and brought into clarity closeup.  The timid voice was either masculine for a young lady of her slight build or, more probably, a cross-dressing young man. Taking everything into account, I reluctantly passed judgment and settled on the latter after a lucky peek at her, otherwise, delicate feminine throat.  A young adult out for a walk, while the sidewalks were thin on pedestrian traffic.  Perhaps a time when "she" felt relatively secure.  A time when one might "experiment" with acceptance.

“What matters most is not 'what' you are, but 'who' you are.”

-- DaShanne Stokes, sociologist, author, speaker

"She" only stayed a minute, looking at what was going on, at the crowd and the food, more curious than in need of assistance. She nodded to me and smiled as she quietly moved off across the parking lot, continuing on her morning sojourn.  I watched her go as she left me to wonder why she was.  

I am not homophobic.  People are who they choose to be.  Your life choices are your own.  I don't judge, because it is not my place to judge.  The bible has its uses, and I always try to remember Romans 14:4, "Who are you to judge another man’s servant? To his own master, he stands or falls. And he will stand, for God is able to make him stand."  I ask "why" she was, because I see her dilemma as a product of our times, and seemingly of great concern to many, though I can't imagine why the many give a damn.  We either create these children, or God does; no one really knows, yet.  The young seem to be searching for answers harder than we are.  If there is an answer it will probably start with acceptance.  If there is a second coming, I can only imagine Christ will take these children unto Him first, and God help anyone who denies them passage.

"I got stuck when I looked into her eyes, they said she was okay but were brimmed with the thoughts of dysphoria..."

-- Ruby Behera, Cart of Emotion

"She" was one of those rare people that enter my life for only minutes and fill me with interest, wonder, and a multitude of questions. I couldn't help but smile, as I watched her go, wondering which of us was more confused. She was pretty but her eyes betrayed her confusion or her pain, and her manner evidenced the sadness she carried, an emotional burden for one so young. There was nothing flamboyant about her.  To the contrary, she went out of her way not to be, even trying not to speak and keeping her voice at not much more than a whisper when she did.  

Where I saw her as attractive, I couldn't help but think she wondered why she just couldn't be herself around everyone. Just wanting to be pretty, yet not labeled as such; wanting to be seen, accepted, as something other than an object of curiosity.  Maybe wondering why people couldn't just accept her so she could be free to feel... well, pretty?  I wish she and I could have had a moment to talk, maybe over a cup of coffee so I could learn her mind and she could know I don't judge her. But, again, that would make her feel like a curiosity.  I would have hated making her feel that way.  I remember smiling in the knowledge of how my attitudes have matured in more and better ways than I could have ever imagined.

"You can’t move forward—you can’t have people love you, you can’t look at other people and accept them for who they are—unless you completely love yourself."

-- Samira Wiley, actress

She moved my heart, and our brief meeting caused my thoughts to travel back in time to a young Asian acquaintance in high school. I call him an 'acquaintance' because I never asked to be his friend.  Was I afraid?  Yes.  Not from any ass whipping I might get from being friends with the gay kid, though.  I got a whipping just for looking at someone wrong, as much as I tried to avoid it.  No, it was probably due to the misguided and closed-minded which high school student societal "values" demanded in order to try and be accepted.  I was never going to be accepted, I knew this, and it would take a couple of more years, and more beatings, for me to finally stand up to bullies.  I never considered myself a true friend to this kid, although he probably considered me one. In my mind, I still punish myself for not being strong enough. He was unintentionally flamboyant in his gayness because he didn’t know any other way.  He wasn't that old and, therefore, I couldn't see how his flamboyant feminism could be a learned trait.  Why in God's good name would anyone want to learn something that can cause you that much pain? His exaggerated effeminate mannerisms were something he had grown up with, and can only imagine he endured years of ostracism, cruelty, and grief, from fellow students and, probably, the public at large.

I felt, at the time, the difference between the young lady and my friend, was that he didn’t have a choice; he was, what he was, what he had always been, and I'm not even certain he understood how gay him effeminate mannerisms made him look. This young “lady” was struggling with an identity crisis, perhaps she had grown up with some dysphoria, maybe she was dealing with just discovering she wasn't who she thought she was, or who her family thought she should be. I am still just learning to understand a segment of our society which is morphing faster than an old boy, like me, can keep up.

"They're expected to forget everything they knew about being anything other than what they're supposed to be."

-- Anna-Marie McLemore, author

If I had to come up with a common factor for these two people, I have to say it was what I saw in their eyes. They both had the same sadness and confusion,  but where my "friend's" was outwardly obvious, hers was timid, quietly reserved.  Now I think they're both one and the same; my friend simply grew up as what he was, and she may have not understood what she was until later.  Then again, I may be so out in left field as to still understand nothing of which I speak, and this is fine.  Mine isn't about judgment, it's about knowledge.  I accept both of these people as being beautiful in a way which I don't, yet, understand.

I erred in the meeting with this young lady, by not introducing myself to her. I would have been interested in getting behind those eyes and finding out more about her situation. A photo would probably have been asking too much, I’m sure.  I would have liked to have taken her to coffee to see if she would discuss why she was and if she would mind if I printed it on this blog. I hoped she would pass my way again.  She didn't.

Ultimately, why she is, is not as important as who she is.  I missed my chance to find out either.  I wish for her some peace, and answers, the same peace, and answers I hope my young friend found in his adult life. I hope she finds friends and support without the taunts and ridicule, without the pain. I hope she discovers that she is, and that simply being is more important to acceptance than any knowledge of why you are. The mere fact that you are should be enough.  I hope she doesn’t become some statistic on a police blotter, another sad footnote in the back of a local paper. 

God bless her.  God bless my friend.

“I don’t identify as transgender. But I’m clearly gender not-normal. I don’t think even lesbian is the right identity for me. I really don’t. I might as well come out now. I identify as tired. I’m just tired.”

― Hannah Gadsby, comedian, writer

Editor's Note

(Re: disclaimer cum "get out of jail free" card)

Before you go getting your panties in a bunch, it is essential to understand that this is just an opinion site and, as such, can be subjected to scrutiny by anyone with a differing opinion. It doesn't make either opinion any more right or wrong than the other. An opinion, presented in this context, is a way of inciting others to think and, hopefully, to form opinions of their own, if they haven't already done so. This is also why, occasionally, I will present an "opinion" just to stir an emotional pot. Where it may sound like I agree with the statements made, I'm more interested in getting others to consider an alternate viewpoint. 

It is my fervent hope that we keep open and active minds when reading opinions and while engaging in peaceful and constructive discussion, in an arena of mutual respect, concerning those opinions put forth. After over twenty years with military intelligence, I have come to believe engaging each other in this manner and in this arena is the way we will learn tolerance and respect for differing beliefs, cultures, and viewpoints.

We all fall from grace, some more often than others; it is part of being human. God's test for us is what we learn from the experience, and what we do afterward.

Pastor Tony spent 22 years with United States Air Force Intelligence as a planner, analyst, briefer, instructor, and senior manager. He spent 17 years, following his service career, working with the premier, world renowned, Institutional Review Board helping to protect the rights of human subjects involved in pharmaceutical research. Ordained 1n 2013 as an "interfaith" minister, he founded the Congregation for Religious Tolerance in response to intolerance shown by Christians toward peaceful Islam. As the weapon for his war on intolerance he chose the pen, and wages his "battle" in the guise of the Congregation's official online blog, The Path, of which he is both author and editor. "The Path" offers a vehicle for commentary and guidance concerning one's own personal, spiritual, path toward peace and the final destination for us all. He currently resides in Pass Christian, Mississippi, where he volunteers as lead Chaplain and Chaplain Program Liaison, at the regional medical center.