Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

For the past few weeks I have been reading Oswald Chamber’s study of Genesis. Yesterday I read, “The ark stands as a reminder that nothing is until it is,” and “God can only do the impossible,” both comments concerning Genesis 4.

At first I was puzzled by his comment concerning the Ark, but comfortable with his observation about God and the impossible. The first quotation caused me to pause, and the second seemed exactly what a reader would find in a study of Genesis. But the more I thought of my reading, I was reminded of how effortless we often make Biblical stories like the one of the Ark. But as I pondered Chambers’ words, I came to understand that he is offering a deeper examination and understanding into the nuances of the Ark and the possibilities of God.  

Above I used the word “effortless” intentionally because, for me, it describes exactly how we often teach such stories as the one of the Ark, or the exploits of Sampson, or how we make the birth of Jesus so convenient. Yet do we give these stories, and others, their just due or are we somewhat dishonest in our re-telling? The way we tell  them is almost magical—the large boat is built by a few people and all the animals arrive, while neighbors ridicule the builders; Sampson is a womanizer who performs a last feat after he is blinded; and the young and very pregnant Mary rides a donkey for miles, over rough terrain before giving birth.

But these Biblical stories and many more, even in our romanticized telling, show that “nothing is until it is.”  Yes, humans can do what is possible, but God does or can do (if He chooses) the impossible.  Only He can destroy the world to save it; use a womanizer to teach a lesson; and give hope through a lowly birth.

The Ark did not exist until God willed it, and at this time of the year we celebrate the birth of a baby who changed the world. You see, “… nothing is until it is.” God gives us His grace while doing the impossible. That leaves the possible-love for and faith in Him-up to us.

By Roger Barbee

For the secular and non-Christ followers in America, Christmas most likely is a season of gifts, a season of colorful lights, a season for a trip to share time with relatives, a season for a tree decorated with trinkets and heirlooms, a season for parties, and more. It seems  this observer that “the season” has begun earlier and earlier in order to take full advantage of the commercial side of this birthday.

However, for this Christ-follower, the substance of this birthday is more. Yes, I have always given and received gifts, had a decorated tree, and such. But I am aware of the power of the commercial world during Christmas and work to “be in the world, but not of  the world.”

Jesus’ birth mystifies still. Yes, he was born of a virgin, but what of the arduous journey that his parents made?  What of the smelly shepherds informed of his birth by angels? What of the Roman military occupiers of the land who wanted the child killed? What of so much surrounding this birth of one small child? Luke writes in 2: 18-19 that Mary, after hearing from the shepherds that folks wondered at their story, “kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.” Since Luke was not present at that time, did the young virgin, who was cast like Job into an unasked-for role,  tell him how she felt at that time?  We know so much with so little, and our faith must take over for much of Jesus’ birth.  

But we are a culture that likes and expects concrete answers. So, I offer to the reader a poem by the English poet, U.A. Fanthorpe that may explain this magnificent birth:

BC:AD

This was the moment when Before

Turned into After, and the future’s

Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

This was the moment when nothing

Happened. Only dull peace

Sprawled boringly over the earth.

This was the moment when even energetic Romans

Could find nothing better to do

Than counting heads in remote provinces.

And this was the moment

When a few farm workers and three

Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight

Into the kingdom of heaven.

May peace reign: Vrede, Salām, Paz, Shalom, Peace to us all.

By Roger Barbee

Over his almost eighty years of life, James Hilton served many roles. Younger than James and a hopeful football player at A.L. Brown High School, I stood in awe of his gridiron powers. He and Jimmy and all those players were the ideal for all of us younger boys. Their school mascot was the Wonders and that name described them well because they were wonders. But because James dated and eventually married one of my older sisters, Linda, I was privileged to watch him grow into much more than the fellow who hit a Wyncoff player so hard that his hit not only caused the runner to lose the ball, but he also lost his helmet. One James Hilton hit produced three flying objects.

James always was present but never in the way. His strength was quiet because he was secure in his abilities and he had no need to be loud and obstructive. His still water ran very deep, and James did not tell us what he could do but in his quiet manner showed us how to do. In the late 1970’s when he was renovating a house that he and my sister had purchased, I was helping him. A small upstairs bathroom needed a floor covering, so James studied the room. He then measured for the tub, the sink and its two pipes, and the toilet. He then took a piece of linoleum into the hallway, turned it upside down, and marked it for cutting. After that he turned it right-side up and placed it in the bathroom where it fit snugly around all the pipes, tub, and toilet. He said to himself as he walked out of the room  “That oughta’ work.”

Waste was the enemy of James. About fifty years ago when Linda and he lived in Tarboro, my family visited them. In his shop I noticed several boxes of broom handles, but none had the broom still attached. I remember that the bright colors of each had been worn off by use, and I asked James about them. “Oh,” he said, “the plant (where he then worked) was going to throw them away, so I brought ‘em home. Somebody might need ‘em.”

In As You Like It, William Shakespeare writes,

“All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,”

James did have many parts or roles during his time on our stage. All the people gathered in West Point Baptist this past Saturday knew him in some of the same roles and in different ones. Some that he “played” like the revered football player we all shared. Some roles like Paw-Paw are cherished by six grandchildren. Some roles were that of older brother, or father, or husband. But all the gathered in his family church knew James as a kind man who never refused a request.  

In his poem To An Athlete Dying Young, A. E. Housman writes,

                         The time you won your town the race

We chaired you through the market-place;

Man and boy stood cheering by,

And home we brought you shoulder-high.

Today, the road all runners come,

Shoulder-high we bring you home,

And set you at your threshold down,

Townsman of a stiller town.

Fortunately for us, James Hilton lived a long life unlike the young man in Housman’s poem, and when we finally had to bring him home we are better for having known, loved, and shared James’ life.

By Roger Barbee 

Bob Graham

Mr. Graham’s obituary was printed yesterday which is not a surprise because, as a 97-year-old Lake Norman business leader, John Robert Graham, Sr. had planned everything. The obituary told of his long marriage with Louise; the names of their five children and their families; and of his business successes. It told of his church memberships and his civic involvements and his enjoyment in playing golf.  His service in the U.S. Navy during WW II was also mentioned.

Mr. Graham and I met about five years ago when he stopped me as my wife and I were leaving a local restaurant. Noticing my wheelchair, he asked how I had been injured, and during our first of many long conversations we discovered we lived on the same street. Just like that, a friendship formed.

Over the next years Mr. Graham would stop by our house whenever his caregiver Marilyn and he ran errands. When he became less mobile and moved into an assisted living apartment, they stopped when they checked on his home. Our conversations, always on our driveway, were lively as we argued politics and religion. He would say, “Let me ask you a question.” After my answer, he would offer his explanation of why I was mistaken. Only a strong friendship can weather such discussions, and ours grew stronger and stronger after each of his visits.

But we discussed other topics. One advantage or disadvantage of meeting someone later in life is that much shared experiences are missed by both parties, but we worked to cover that lost time. Once when I asked, “Tell me about Mrs. Graham,” he settled himself into the car seat, looked up to the tallest pine trees, and said, “I miss Louise,”  as his eyes became moist. He also shared on occasion that he regretted not being much of a reader over his lifetime, and more than once he bemoaned ever having smoked cigarettes, as he became more and more dependent on a portable oxygen tank. “That was a stupid mistake,” he often pronounced.

But, most of all, I cherish Mr. Graham for his service- during WW II and afterwards. Like so many of his generation, he explained that “I did what I had to do” when after high school graduation he joined the Navy. In one of our driveway conferences he asked me what I thought of Truman’s decision to use the atomic bomb. He then shared what he and all his buddies felt about that as they shipped across the Pacific—on their way to invade Japan. “We felt bad for the Japanese,” he confessed, “but were happy for ourselves. It was awful, but we wanted to live.”

An obituary is just printed words, and none, no matter how well crafted, can capture a life. Yet Mr. Graham’s well lived life was founded on his generation’s belief in doing what was asked.  His generation has been called “the greatest,” but those mere words cannot describe their courageous responsibility.

By Roger Barbee

The World Cup needs a John Carlos and a Tommy Smith.

Football teams for seven European nations announced on November 21, 2022 that their captains will not wear LGBTQ armbands in host country Qatar. The captains for England, Wales, Belgium, Denmark, Germany, the Netherlands, and Switzerland originally intended to wear the OneLove rainbow armband to promote diversity and inclusion. Then the FIFA stepped in to threaten penalties for any captain or other player who wore the armband. The football association said in a joint statement, “We were prepared to pay fines that would normally apply to breaches of kit regulations and had a strong commitment to wearing the armband. However, we cannot put our players in the situation where they might be booked or even forced to leave the field of play. We are very frustrated by the FIFA decision which we believe is unprecedented. As national federations, we can’t put our players in a position where they could face sporting sanctions including bookings.”  But the teams promised to show support for “inclusion” in other ways.

Opposition to any displays of LGBTQ has happened off the football pitches, too. Homosexuality is a crime in Qatar, and public displays of it are heavily fought against. Some patrons report being harassed in public spaces such as streets, and others tell of having their LGBTQ hats confiscated when they tried to enter stadiums. Football fans are being asked to respect the culture of  the host country.

For the October 16, 1968, awards ceremony honoring the three medal winners in the 200-meter sprint, two young American, Black sprinters, who had won gold and bronze medals, stood and  protested world-wide racism as they accepted their Olympic medals. Tommie Smith and John Carlos wore beads and scarves to oppose lynching and black socks with no shoes to publicize poverty. During the American national anthem they each raised a black-gloved fist and bowed their heads. The American IOC immediately expelled the two college students from the Olympic village and sent them back to America where they were threatened and vilified by the public and the press. Yet their protest is still to be found in pictures and articles, and over 50 years later their act is seen as what is was—heroic.

So, the federations of seven European nations say,  “As national federations, we can’t put our players in a position where they could face sporting sanctions including bookings.” 

Those managers, coaches, and players should read about Smith and Carlos and perhaps derive some spunk from their act of bravery. After all, how bad can a booking or removal from the pitch be when compared to what LGBTQ folks experience every day.

By Roger Barbee

A beautiful poem by Roger….

Snowbirds and Deacons

                                                A white scarf,

                                                wrapped about the neck of the world,

                                                muffles all sound

                                                but for the fall

                                                of  birds’ feet;

                                                as they move

                                                like church deacons

                                                from place to spot

                                                searching for some morsel

                                                of salvation.

By Roger Barbee

                                                            Election Day, 2022

On election day morning, 2022, I went out to ride my stationary handcycle as I do most mornings. The day was warm, even in the early sunlight, and as I rode the forty-two pine trees in our front yard showered the grass, the cars, the driveway, the roof, and me with pine needles. At each puff of the morning breeze they would fall, slicing through the morning air; each a thin, three-pronged mark on the calendar, a hallmark signifying the ever-present cycling of life. I cranked the cycle, watched for walkers coming by, and thought of the day’s importance for America.

Later that day, in the early dark of standard time, my wife and I were watching the news when we both saw it—a massive, full moon appeared over our lake cove. It was not the blood moon of the night before, but a bright and reassuring symbol of eternal change, much like the pine needles of the same morning.

Pine needles. Full moons. Morning breezes. Fall sunrises. All of that I have seen during my blessed life, and I bet you have, too.  Nothing new here for you or me; yet is there something of this day for us to grab hold of like we would a glass of cold water on a hot day?

November 08, 2022 was an important day for our country because it was the day when all citizens have the privilege of voting. Think of that! Some of those who came before us died so that we could go to a polling place and voice individual opinions, and we each got to help  decide on our government. So I, and many others, carried a bit of excitement or even anxiety yesterday.

However, I offer that everything from the falling needles to the massive moon, to more not seen in yesterday’s cycle,  offers us a lesson. In his short book, the disciple James writes about life and how to live it. He asks the question: “For what is your life? It is  even a vapor, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.” (KJV)

Our government and our leaders matter. Our lives also matter and are affected by the leaders we elect on election day. But it all is but a vapor that lives briefly. To paraphrase Dr. Clarence Jordan, don’t get all tangled up. Watch the moon rise or hear the wind travel through the pine trees or follow a falling pine needle and don’t take our comings and goings too seriously.

By Roger Barbee

We all like, use, recognize, and value symbols. Every team has a symbol, usually called a mascot, and every organization has its unique symbol that conveys an idea or philosophy in a visual representation. But can a symbol be a reality or is each one destined to be just a graphic depiction of a firm, team, philosophy, or whatever?

For example, there are many types of crosses. However, the type that interests me is the Latin cross, the one derived from the Latin word crux, which means stake/cross and was an instrument of torture for the Romans.  The Latin cross is used by Christians to symbolize the Crucifixion and their belief in Christ and a representation is mounted on every Christian church steeple, will be found throughout such churches, and is worn around the neck of many Christians. It has also evolved into an ornamental piece of jewelry worn by many folk.

The Romans most likely learned the art of crucifixion from the Carthaginians, but they perfected it. It was a gruesome death caused by asphyxiation when the weight of the condemned prevented breathing. It was used as a public means of control and only the worst criminals suffered it. The Roman politician Cicero describes it as “the most cruel and hideous of tortures.”

Yet the Christian crosses seen today are neat and tidy. Their metal shines and there is no blood, sweat, excrement, or skin left on the vertical or horizontal wood pieces. I have even heard discussions in Sunday Schools centered around what method of killing would be used today that is comparable to what Jesus suffered. Can any method of execution compare to crucifixion except perhaps a lynching as done during Jim Crow?

Small, gold crosses are often worn by various folk, and when I see one adorning the neck of a person I assume that that person is a Christian, a Christ follower. No problem with that as long as the person realizes that when he or she places that tidy cross around the neck, they are cloaking themselves with Jesus Christ and that cloaking, if being sincerely done, has demands. Or, like so often done, the small, gold cross can be a symbol, making it an empty gesture.

However, a short conversation with such a wearer will reveal if the cross worn is a symbol. When a wearer speaks for discord and supports lies and is rude and espouses vile beliefs of other persons, it is likely that the cross is just a symbol. Their words and subsequent actions show that they are not true Christ followers, just opportunists who wear the cross for show. And this person likely wears the cross on the outside of clothing in such a manner that everyone can see it—a public display.

Oswald Chambers, the Scottish theologian, wrote in 1911, “The Cross is a Reality, not a symbol.” For a Christ follower, the reality of the cross on which our Savior suffered is so honest that such a believer would not make it a prop. The truth of the cross is too painful and while it must be held close and maybe used in places of worship, we must be truthful and not allow it to become a mere symbol.  In so doing it becomes about us and not Him.

By Roger Barbee

As a youth growing up in a south-central North Carolina textile town during the 1950’s, I attended a Baptist church with my siblings and mother. In that church I sang songs like “Jesus Loves Me This I Know,” was taught Bible stories such as Noah and his ark, memorized Bible verses like the 23^rd Psalm, and was taught about the Ten Commandments. Some of the lessons I took away from those Sunday School classes and sermons have butted heads with my adult reading and learning. For instance, I was taught that Jesus worked as a carpenter in his father’s shop when in fact both were most likely skilled handymen who were competent workers in several areas of building. Another misconception that I have lived with concerns the 3^rd Commandment, the one about taking the Lord’s name in vain. For a variety of reasons, mostly my own ignorance, I have always viewed the breaking of this rule as a verbal one, such as the all-too popular exclamation, “Oh, my God…,” or when President #45 repeated three times the words GD in a North Carolina speech. A recent reading of Pastor Clarence Jordan showed how wrong I have been.

If you are unfamiliar with the writing of Pastor Jordan, I caution you. If you read a collection of his writings, such as The Inconvenient Gospel, your understandings of Christian doctrine likely will be confronted. A Christian scholar of Greek who lived The Sermon on the Mount, Dr. Jordan will challenge any staid Christian learning you may carry with you. So when I began reading the new collection of his speeches, I noticed one chapter titled The Ten Commandments and thought that I may as well skip that chapter because I knew them; not in order mind you, but I knew that they were commands, not suggestions, and I tried to obey each one. To paraphrase: Oh, ye of little understanding.

This chapter, like each one, is actually a speech given by Pastor Jordan. The Ten Commandments is one he gave at Goshen College in May 1965, in which he concentrates on the commands concerning our relationship with God, so only the first four are discussed; but in his explication of number 3, Pastor Jordan rattles my shallow understanding because he shows how actions, not just words, can take the Lord’s name in vain.

Pastor Jordan says, “A person who has never come within the Christian fold can’t take the name of Christ in vain. He’s never taken it. A Buddhist can’t take the name of Christ in vain,  no matter what one says. Only those who come within the church, who take on the name of Christ, can take his name in vain.”

If Pastor Jordan is correct, and I think he is, every Christ follower becomes bound to keep the name Christ clean. Keeping the name of our Lord above reproach means that we are not free to express our anger at that other driver by flipping her off. Taking on the mantle of Christ means that we cannot cast a vote for a person who tells lie after lie. Becoming a Christ follower means that we must actively refute any combining of our religion with our country. If we are serious about the 3^rd Commandment then we will shelter the sojourners. Being a Christ follower demands that I support justice not injustice. Wearing that name requires me to love not hate.

I took on the name of Christ when I was baptized and now realize the enormity of that decision. Words, like all I was taught in that Baptist church, are nice. But actions, as St. Paul writes, are what matter and our acts show how serious we are about being a Christ follower.

By Roger Barbee

Old Wrestlers

Soon following our move to Lake Norman  five years ago, my wife Mary Ann looked for a representative for a particular beauty product she used. Scanning a long list of saleswomen, she randomly chose one and called her. After their long conversation had finished, Mary Ann came to the library to tell me how pleasant Terri the saleswoman was and how much she looked forward to working with her. It was then that her phone rang, and Terri asked, “Did you say your husband’s name was Roger?”

In 1823 the English Romantic poet, Lord Byron, wrote his poem, Don Juan, in which he writes: “‘ Tis strange – but true; for truth is always strange; /Stranger than fiction; if it could be told,…” Over the years many other writers have expressed the same idea in various words, but no matter what version is written, all readers eventually learn the truth of Byron’s words.

There it was for me: Strange but True;  Life not Fiction.  The husband of Terri and I had wrestled against each other in high school. Mike wrestled for Mooresville High School, and I for A.L. Brown in Kannapolis. We competed in the same weight class for two years over fifty years ago and now we meet again, just not on a wrestling mat.

We four had the obligatory lunch to meet and talk and explore. Mike and I then continued sharing lunches, coffee in my shop, and he guided me around our new home, Lake Norman, which he knew well because his career was with the power company that built the Lake.  We soon discovered that we had much in common.: Both of our hometowns had been textile towns when we were wrestling against each other; our parents had worked in the mills; we lived in mill houses, and both of those houses are still family occupied. So much, besides wrestling, shared.

Each week he would call and ask, “Want a coffee?” then in a few minutes he would appear with a soda for himself and the promised coffee for me. Each weekly visit found Mike helping me with some project in the yard or my shop. He is most responsible for the deck that expanded my small shop– giving me much needed work space. A trained engineer, he made certain it was correct and safe. Exact, even. He would rake the abundant pine needles fallen from the 42 pine trees in our yard to use for mulch in his gardens.  Our weekly visit often included lunch, and when we ate at his favorite fast-food eatery, he would pull a rash of coupons from a pocket before paying and say, “A poor man spends money like he is rich, but a rich man spends it like he is poor.”  Then as we ate, some finer points of theology or politics would be discussed. I will always remember how he once looked at me during one of these “discussions” and asked, “Are you that naïve?”

When I work with a project on the deck that Mike more or less built or move in my wheelchair around the yard gleaning pine cones, I see his presence. The bluebird nesting-box with the red roof still graces the pine tree where he fastened it after I “mentioned” to him how it needed to be there. When I admired a long row of irises in a neighbor’s yard, I asked Mike one day as we returned from a road trip to knock on the unreachable (for my wheelchair) door to inquire if I could have some. The kind, elderly lady must of approved of Mike because she gave me permission to take any irises I wanted, and now next to the back garden gate is a small, varied-colored growth of purple irises that Mike and I planted; and, like our friendship, it grows and thickens and blooms.

Both our lives, like all lives, have had their dips and twists and failures and mountaintops. But for two boys from the mill hills of small, textile towns, we have been blessed and have done well. And as I share life with Mike long after our competitive days, I appreciate more and more the odd, interesting, and fulfilling paths that we all travel, whether planned or not. Mary Ann and I moved to Lake Norman not knowing that the “Stranger than fiction” of Byron would happen, and that a friendship would be forged out of a time long ago when two scrappy, mill-hill boys competed against each other. Byron also writes that “…truth is always strange.”  He’s right, of course, but not always in the way it may appear. It’s not strange that Mike and I respected each other as wrestlers. Nor is it strange that there is something deeper now.