Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

In September, 1968 I left my hometown in North Carolina and traveled to Maryland where I began teaching in a rural county on its Eastern Shore.  Like most recent college graduates, I was eager and knew I was ready to “change the world.” I had four years of learning behind me that I felt had given me all that was necessary to conquer any hurdle that presented itself. I had, as Mark Twain observed, “the confidence of a Christian holding four aces.”  When I arrived to my assigned junior high school, I was not fazed by the number of students assigned for my two 7^th grade classes of Language Arts/Social Studies, the poverty of my students, and all the problems their poverty would present. After all, I had my degree, and one of my sisters had helped me carefully choose a small, but versatile wardrobe fitting for a young educator. 

Because this was early in the integration of the county’s schools, the tracking system was used.  In such a system students were placed in classes based on academic scores. My two classes of Language Arts/Social Studies were sections 7-14 and 7-4, one the lowest academic class, and the other near the top of the academic ladder. My 7-14 section met in the morning in the main building, and after lunch 7-4 met in the National Guard Armory directly behind the school.  The racial make-up of the fourteen sections was not surprising—the lower sections were all black and the highest sections were white, and in the middle sections there was some balance of blacks and whites. However, as I mentioned, I was ready to take on any problem of education and to correct it. I do not remember myself as being arrogant, but I was confident.

Many of my sixty odd students were mired in poverty. Before too long I learned how to ignore the odor of clothes worn too often without being washed, or the breath from a mouth that knew no oral hygiene, or the sour stench of urine. I learned how to smile when I gave my Chap Stick to a student who had asked to borrow mine. If returned, I later would drop it into the trash can. I became accustomed to “loaning” lunch money. I learned to deal with any discipline problems in my room and not to send any unruly student to the school office because that short trip would likely result in a paddling of a black student by the white principal or his white assistant. I learned to make two lesson plans for my classes—one that I turned in to the principal, and the one that I used in my room. I learned the value of keeping my classroom door closed to the outside world of the school.

An 8^th grade girl that I remember as Joyce taught me a valuable lesson about the influence of parents. One day walking down the main hall, I saw a girl at the water fountain. A substitute teacher was calling for her to return quickly to class, and the girl said, “I will when I am ready, God ….” I took the girl to the office and she was suspended. Two days later I was called to the Guidance Counselor’s office of Mr. Jim Robinson. In his office sat Joyce and a woman with disheveled hair and a loose dress covering her amble frame. I noticed that her shoes were well worn like her dress, and that they did not properly fit her calloused feet. Mr. Robinson informed me that Joyce would be allowed to return to school as soon as she apologized to me. The four of us sat in the small office and Mr. Robinson gently told Joyce to apologize to me so that she could return to school, but she just sat looking down at the floor. Mr. Robinson repeated his request a few times with the same result. Finally, Joyce’s mother reached across the sofa they shared, shook her daughter, and said, “God…., Joyce, apologize to this man.”  I looked to Mr. Robinson and said, “I accept Joyce’s apology” and walked out—never to forget that lesson.

Before September was over, I became aware that, although I had knowledge and skills to offer my students and fellow educators, they had offerings that I needed to accept willingly and with grace. One student named Jerry began calling me only by my last name, but he pronounced it as “Baabe”. However, he said it with affection and respect, so I went with it. I became aware that the more I gave my students, especially the less gifted ones, the more they gave me. The words of my Granny Susie resonated in my ears: “Sugar draws more flies than vinegar,” and I learned that for many of my students, kindness was the most important thing I had to offer them. English and social studies could follow.

Four of my colleagues took me under their care and guided me in how to teach and sometimes more. Irvin and his wife Doris, both teachers a bit older than I, fed me good meals since a young single man would not cook or eat healthy. They also offered me social outlets with their friends, and they tolerated my immature actions by always being a safe harbor where I could lick the wounds that only a young man could inflict on himself.  Frank taught me how to live and enjoy each day as if it were a song or other gift involving music. He was, after all, a music teacher. His attitude concerning life was not trivial, he was old enough to be my father, but he had learned that most events in life were not to be taken too seriously.  Fred, too, was old enough to be my father, and he had a “lazy eye” that took me some time to become accustomed to. A large, imposing man, he was an assistant principal, but his office was down the main hallway away from the main office. He taught me how to politically navigate a school and how to avoid conflicts with the administration. He was wise in the way of schools and men. He shared with me all the wisdom of his that I could absorb. But Jim Robinson, the guidance counselor, taught me the biggest lesson of all.

Somewhere in my early months, and for some unknown reason, I began carrying a yard stick. I would use it as a pointer to the chalkboard, tap it on the floor to gain the attention of my students, lean on it when stressing a point or correcting a student’s behavior, or just carry it in my hand as if it were a sword and I a young officer. I don’t remember how long I carried the yard stick, but I will never forget Jim Robinson asking me to come into his office one day during my free period.

After we had settled, Jim asked me about the yard stick and why I carried it. I gave him the best reasons that I could, some of which I have mentioned. He then went on to tell me that my 7-14 students, the ones who had class with me in the main building, came from extremely poor homes. I told him that I was aware of that, but what was his point. He then explained to me how the poverty of their homes meant that their parents were usually uneducated, frustrated by their life circumstances, and sometimes heavy drinkers. He went on to explain that many of the fathers and some mothers were crude and that my students had grown up in brutal environments. Parents like these, he went on to explain, thought little of beating one of my students with a limb or stick or hand. For so many of my students, he said, life at home could be mean, and often the safest place for them was school. I asked Jim what that had to do with me, and he looked at me and said, “The yard stick, Roger. Your students see it as a weapon in your hand. It will make them fear you.” Stunned, I sat for quite a while with Jim in his office, and having taken in all his words and their importance, I thanked him and went to my classroom down the hall and put the yard stick in the room closet. Then Jim surprised me again when a few days later he came into my room and thanked me for listening and explained that our conversation was a rare in his experience.

In The Odyssey, the young Telemakhos, the son of Odysseus, has Mentor, a comrade of his father, to guide him. I, too, had my Mentors who were black and they took a young, idealistic white man in their care and worked to help him understand things about living and teaching. And as I look back over these near fifty years since that fall of 1968 and write about them, I thank them for their patience, wisdom, and willingness to share their craft with a young man. They taught me much, but most of all they taught me, as we say in teaching literature, the point-of-view–to see every “yard stick” through the eyes of a child.

Thank you, Irvin and Doris, Frank, Fred, and Jim.

By Roger Barbee

We moved to Lake Norman three years ago and are now comfortably settled in our home and neighborhood. We know people. They know us. Each day someone stops for a visit in the shop and a myriad of topics are discussed: Children, grandchildren, religion, politics, sports, reading, and so much more. Our life here on LKN is made richer by these friendships formed late in our lives and the lives of our new friends.

However, friendship is usually thought of as something from childhood or college or a time when folks were younger, such as when rearing children. Those friendships formed during the struggles of youth and learning are invaluable as we travel through the paths of later life; we depend on those people because they have, over the years, become permanent posts in our lives on which we lean. They are now part of our root system because they, years ago, helped form us. But since retirement, my wife and I have discovered new friends in our late years. These new friends are retired as we, and they are intricate parts of our lives whether individually or as a couple. Yet, I sometimes wonder what these newfound friends were like thirty or forty years ago. I wonder if, had we met at age forty, would we have been friends. But I do not wonder too much, I just cherish the friendship because those types of questions never can be answered. To wonder about such things is as useless as holding onto regrets of a past action. Although each new friend late in life has a past, as do I, the present is what I know unless I learn when the friend shares some of his  or her past.

But one new friend is different, however, because she was in a writing group with me. She, at the bidding of her two children, was writing her life’s story. So each week during writing group, she shared parts of her life. All of it: The despair when the custom-built home that she and her husband had built burned to the ground. The shock of her divorce. The early life on a southern Georgia farm. Her love of classical music. Being the wife of a medical student in Washington, DC. Life as a single mother for her son and daughter. Her sister’s schizophrenia. Her love of literature and painting. And more.

Yvonne’s rich life from a Georgia farm to New York City to D.C. to Florida and finally to Mooresville interested the writing group and me. Her’s was quite a story, but I was most impressed by her late life, when she, my wife Mary Ann, and I became friends.  Every Sunday she sang in the church choir. Each Wednesday she shared the communal meal before joining the writing group before going to choir practice. Her life revolved around family, music, painting, reading, and telling her story. All as she battled her cancers. But if one did not notice her dry mouth as she read or sang or spoke, her cancer did not show itself, yet it presented itself in many ways, and she gracefully stiffed armed it like Thurber’s Rex: Her resolve is legendary with those who know her and she is not to be defeated except on her terms, which have now arrived.

            In 1^st Kings, at the end of his life, King David says to his son Solomon, “I go the way of all the earth.” Yvonne’s journey is now where that kings was, and she has asked her daughter to move her from Levine in Concord to her home-to her library. A simple request that will offer dignified death surrounded by family, cherished books, her two loving cats, her paintings, and the last revision of her word-processed story that her children and grandchildren will read, and through which come to know and appreciate her well-lived life.

By Roger Barbee

            Our house on Lake Norman was built in 1996 and is as modern as the date states. Since it is of the newer era, there is a sixty-foot long berm between it and the house of our neighbor. There is no need to complain about such matters because that is the way things were done, just like all eras of any culture. However, ….

            The landscaper that built and planted the berm must have believed that “more is better.” In the sixty feet are three crepe myrtles, two hollies, five azaleas, two dogwoods, one unknown species of evergreen bush, and one camellia. That is what remains after we had two hollies removed and all plants professionally pruned. We did not commit “crepe murder”, so they have tall, strong limbs that are about to bloom, giving the berm an umbrellaed look, and one large gap where a holly grew gives a view to and from our neighbor. Yet, the berm plants still need thinning so that all its plants can get light and fill out into their natural selves., especially the ageing azaleas that struggle under the canopy of dogwoods, crepe myrtles, and the holly.

             When it was planted, all the trees, shrubs, and plants were small, so the berm was pleasing to look see. The black, landscape matting gave a false promise of no weeds growing in the berm, and the top layer of mulch gave it all an appearance of controlled, natural beauty. Then the plants did what they do, they grew in height and size. They spread their limbs reaching for sunlight. They sent out roots in search for water. They became competitors, and some won more than others, but the fight was so fierce that there was no winner, just sixty feet of exhausted warriors. Because of poor foresight or just not caring, the once fine-looking berm had expanded into a frightful mess. For the sake of the berm, some plants had to be removed, killed.  The berm has been a constant reminder for Mary Ann and me since we moved here nine months ago. As we plant our flower gardens, we are conscious of not planting too much. The temptations of Brawley’s Garden Center are many, but we remind ourselves that everything we plant will require space, water, and attention.  In years hence, we do not want our flower gardens to look like the berm did, but to be a joy to share and see.

            So many modern lives are like our berm—overplanted. We accumulate items in the belief that the wealth of our lives is stated in how much stuff we have. We commit to more and more charities, committees, luncheons, and such as if our worth as a person is tallied in how busy we are. We purchase houses and automobiles beyond our means to stay in the running of the race to financial ruin. The landscaping fabric of our lives, cheap credit and empty promises and beliefs, will not keep out weeds, but eventually be covered by dirt and seeds that will sprout into unwanted growth.

            Like any gift giver, God does not dictate what each of us does with His precious gift of life. Our free will allows us to spend our years on earth as we wish. But the life overfilled with things, commitments of all types, and desires of the world is like an over-planted berm that will  one day be too crowded to bloom as it should and full of unwanted growth.

By Roger Barbee

Philip spoke the above three words to answer a question by Nathanael who when told of the presence of  Jesus of Nazareth  asks, “Can there any good thing come out of Nazareth?”  This is, on the surface, a fair question since the poor village of Nazareth was known for the  Roman garrison, the despised rulers of the Jews, that was stationed there. Is Nathanael prejudice or realistic?

In Latin any foreign person was labelled barbarus, and the Greek word for any person who did not speak the cultured language was barbarous. Nathanael, a learned Jew, expressed the prejudice of his culture: Nazareth was a crude and barbaric village.

Later in the Gospel of John, we are told of Jesus and the Samaritan woman at the well. The hate between the Jews and Samaritans was palatable. But we are given this story and the parable of the Good Samaritan.  More prejudice.

 Recently, in Chicago, a well-known comedian and actor attempted to use our prejudices against President Trump supporters, blacks, and homosexuals to gain some kind of pathetic support for him and his floundering career.

A few days ago the main building of the historic (civil rights) Highlander School in Tennessee was burned. A “white power” symbol was painted in the parking lot of the destroyed building.

In the just published April 1 Washington Post Magazine, is an article about the 1975 disappearance of the Lyon sisters from a Wheaton, Md. shopping center. In the article the writer Mark Bowden describes members of the Welch family, who were involved in the horrific rape and murder of the sisters as, “the clan”; coming from “mountain-hollow ways”; as having a “suspicion of outsiders”,  “an unruly contempt for authority of any kind”, “a knee-jerk resort to violence;” and “Most shocking were its [Welch family] sexual practices. Incest was notorious in the families of the hollers of Appalachia,…”

One last example… A recent film is being touted as a “must see” for people who support abortion. All and well. However, way back in 1975-’76, the surgeon Richard Selzer wrote the essay “What I Saw at the Abortion: The doctor observed, the man saw.”  A simple internet search will bring up the essay. Read it but pay attention to its sub-title before you do.

In none of the above examples of prejudice, except the first, is the invitation to “Come and see” what is spoken against. Those three words carry power. They place the cure for prejudice on the pre-judging person. What would happen if the pre-judger sat with the woman at the well and heard her story? Can the hating burners of the Highland School not learn from its historical involvement in the civil rights movement? A talk with supporters of President Trump probably will reveal that they, too, have their humanity and its inherent struggles. Let people who see themselves burdened with an unwanted pregnancy read what the man Richard Selzer saw while watching his first abortion.

“Come and see,” Philip says as he invites a fellow seeker to examine his own misconceptions. Prejudice is real and comes in many colors and forms. But all is an evil that need not exist, if we all “Come and see.”

By Roger Barbee

The Covid-19 virus has ruined many small businesses, and local restaurants in and around our town of Mooresville, NC are suffering. My wife and I have several local eateries we like, but we especially enjoy two. When the mandate came that closed them to only take out, we discussed our role in helping them stay open, and decided to make a conscious effort to order some meals from each, realizing that, while take out is not the same as dining in their warm, relaxing atmospheres, they needed our business. If we wanted to enjoy them later, we had to support them now. So,  recently we ordered a take-out supper from one, Blu Star, and at the correct time we drove to pick up our waiting dinner.

Usually if we drove to Blu Star’s location during the dinner hour, traffic would be heavy and parking tight. Not this evening of the pandemic. Boom! Pulled up right in front, and Mary Ann hopped out to get our meal. While I waited, I counted cars in the shopping center—seven parked, but one soon left when its driver came out of the juice bar with her cup of cold, multi-colored liquid. One driver of a huge, black truck parked it deftly and getting out walked towards two  restaurants behind me. Waiting for Mary Ann, I recalled the adage that seemed appropriate for so many businesses in the current situation—any port in a storm. While only one customer, the driver was a person who would spend money, I hoped, at one of the restaurants behind me. He was part of the port so needed right now.

Mary Ann returned to the car and as soon as she sat in her seat, said, “You won’t believe what Nelson [the owner] was doing.” She buckled her seat belt and as we drove out of the forlorn shopping center, she told me how Nelson and a worker were busily packing Styrofoam containers with spaghetti meals for Charlotte homeless. When she asked him about what he was doing, he explained that his church was participating in a program to get good meals to homeless folks, and his restaurant was providing nourishing dinners-spaghetti piled high with yummy sauce, garlic bread, and salad.

Before we had left our home to pick up our dinner, we had discussed how much to tip the manager, who we have known since we moved here. Mary Ann suggested a good sum and when she paid our bill, she gave Stephanie the twenty. Yet, driving home and hearing that story, I realized that no tip was large enough for what was happening in Blu Star, one of the many businesses feeling the crunch of this epidemic. There, in the midst of such a need for income, Nelson and his staff were giving to others who had less than he and them.

Arriving home, I enjoyed my dinner, even if not eaten in the cozy confines of Blu Star. But the more I think of what Mary Ann witnessed, the more I realize that there, on the spread-out tables of Blu Star, was the Sermon on the Mount being played out in real time. Right there.

(for Gail who asked how we are)

By Roger Barbee

Several flowering plants form new blooms from the dead wood of a previous season’s cycle. Next to our screened-in porch is one such plant—a dwarf, lime hydrangea which we planted two years ago. Since I have yet to move my stationary bike out to the elements and continue to ride in the dry of the porch, I have been watching this shrub for several weeks and it has, like all plants, taught me a lesson.

Although the browned and dead flowers from last summer are not attractive, Mary Ann prefers to leave them attached to the stems even though they could be snipped off. Thus, as I have been riding each morning, I sort of wished that she had removed the unsightly, spent blooms. However, I now understand that her decision has helped me see the cycle of nature.

The lime hydrangea does what it is designed to do. It grows by feeding from the past cycles of its life. As I look each morning at the brown and dead blooms, I also can see small, green leaves emerging on the stems that hold those dead blooms. Soon those small green leaves will be in full splendor and new, deliciously lime colored blooms will emerge. The old will be gone, and the new celebrated. Soon.

Living under self-quarantine because of the COVID-19 virus, I think of the lime hydrangea and it’s gaining the new from the old. So often in our belief that we, mere humans, are in control because of our 401k’s, our superhighways with fast cars, our 10,000 square foot houses, and more, we lose our way. We lose sight of how frail we really are- think of the TB sanitariums of the 1930’s, and other examples besides this virus which is just beginning for us.

Yet if we accept the fact that we need to come together and “be our brother’s keeper”, we will continue.  Like the simple plant that makes new by using all its parts and history, we need to band, to do what is best for the tribe, not any individual. This is not the time to think individually, but the time to think together. And when we think of the tribe, we each will give up some things or many things. So be it. To bloom again. Gloriously.

By Roger Barbee

While the NCAA, NBA, MLB, and NHL have suspended all activities, the National Collegiate Wrestling Association held its tournament this past weekend in Allen, Texas. It seemed no matter that Dallas closed all recreation centers, libraries, and cultural centers; five UT Southwestern faculty were in quarantine after exposure to coronavirus; the mayor of Dallas banned gatherings of 500 or more people; Texas Governor Greg Abbott declared a “state of disaster”; and this is just to mention a few reactions to the coronavirus. “I think a lot of this is driven by fear,” the NCWA executive director, Jim Giunta, said Friday on why he didn’t cancel the event. “We’re going to do everything in our power to create an environment that’s more than safe for our athletes. But after we do everything we can do, we’re going to operate on faith rather than fear.”

The event, not sanctioned by the NCAA, hosted 84 colleges as varied as The Apprentice School and Richland College and had over 600 wrestlers. University of Texas at Arlington coach Collin Stoner said, “I think when we start to cancel these events, the actual athlete and the hard work kind of fades away from them,” and that for him the virus was “on the back burner”, and that he was really proud that the tournament was not cancelled.

The tournament director, Giunta said that precautions such as posted signs about best practices to prevent the virus were placed around the venue, and he went on to state that any wrestler with a temperature higher than 100.4 was disqualified. But perhaps the best argument for having the tournament came from Jesse Castro, the Liberty University coach. He pontificated, “From a philosophical perspective, do I think it’s [reaction to the coronavirus] overhyped? Yes, I do,… “You know the talking points. We’ve dealt with this kind of stuff before. … We’re vigilant and we use common sense, but I refuse to live in fear. I’m not gonna do that.” He went on to say that he believes, as does Jerry Falwell, Jr., that the virus was being used by Democrats to impeach the president. Castro had 19 wrestlers in the tournament.

Every college and university owes its students and athletes wise decisions concerning their welfare. The administrators and coaches who allowed their wrestlers to participate in the NCWA tournament have shown poor judgement and a high disregard for the well-being of their wrestlers. For someone like Coach Castro to say that we have dealt with “this kind of stuff before” demonstrates that he has no grasp of the danger in which he placed his wrestlers, his college, and himself.  I can only hope that none of the people involved become carriers or victims of this virus.

By Roger Barbee

Grapefruit is a 14-year-old tabby cat. He spends his days now walking and moaning as he searches the house on Rodman Street that he shared with Joy, his life-long mistress. He knows that something is wrong because she is not there to love him and to care for him.  He searches for what he misses, but for what he will not find because Joy N. Kraus– poet, mother, caretaker, lover of us all, died the morning of March 3, 2020.

When I read the email telling of Joy’s death, I sent it  to Druin, a friend of hers who lives in Oxfordshire, England. Below is his worthy response:

Oh, I am sorry to hear of it. I think the poem below was the last email of hers I had.

BUTTERFLY

    In a small death I’ll hang

    a thought unspoken, a song unsung,

    awaiting the tap that tells me

    all is ready, gives me leave

    to stage my Easter Day.

    If I may choose a way to signal you

    from other worlds, it will be

    as a yellow butterfly.         JNK 1995

Joy was many personalities: The lady never met a piece of chocolate she did not like; a lover of animals who placed a bowl of water on her sidewalk for those who thirsted and treats in her back garden every night for the foragers; she appreciated and enjoyed her children; she appreciated a well-turned phrase; the trips to Spain with her children gave her pleasure (as did the young Spanish men in their tight pants); her poetry allowed her expression; riding her Razor scooter to NCS made her free; and so much more that only we who loved her know, for Joy was that friend who carried separate relationships for each of us.  

Now, if I sent this essay to Joy for editing, she would jump on me for the repeating of the word appreciated in the above paragraph. She would continue to gently correct any grammar errors and slips in construction. Joy expected us to use our language correctly. As she did. (oops, As did she.)

So many of us had our life with Joy Kraus. She and I shared family, love of language and literature, emails with Druin, her poems, and my ramblings that she always edited. Robert Graves wrote a handbook for writers titled The Reader Over Your Shoulder in which he shares wisdom concerning the written word. Joy was my reader over my shoulder. No more will I read her sharp remarks concerning my errors, but saddest of all is that the folder on my computer marked Kraus’ Poems will not grow.

The spoken voice of Butterfly is stilled. Her songs of living, loving, laughing, and so much more are now but words on a page, yet don’t be surprised if we hear reports this spring from The Close that a yellow butterfly was seen as if admiring the ginkgo tree near North Circle or of one fluttering in dance as it enjoyed the Bishop’s Garden.

            By Roger Barbee

Tucked in the driver’s door of my van is a small CD case. Most of the CD’s in it are commercially made, but a few were made by friends. Last week I removed one from the back  of the case that had written on it “Good ones” in the precise black ink penmanship of Connor, a deceased brother-in-law who had complied many CD’s for me before he died. After his funeral, I gave the ones I had to his  granddaughter, but this one had somehow remained with me, tucked away.

The note on it is correct: The jazz, soul, rock, and blues songs are by various artists and all are good. It is a soulful and restful gathering of vocals and instrumentals, but none of the songs or the musicians are identified. Yet, I put it in the slot and listened as I drove around on errands. The ninth song on the CD grabbed me: A rendition of Bob Dylan’s song from the 60’s, I Will Be Released. Driving about town I would push the repeat button each time the song finished, listening to the voice that I could not identify but liking the way the unknown woman had arranged the song of injustice. After about a week of driving and listening, I came into the modern world and typed the song title into the search engine of my computer. Mercy! This old dog finally found Nina Simone singing the version that Connor copied for the CD.

When you have 4:21 to spare, go to: https://youtu.be/w-du8MDE8nk and treat yourself. You will hear Simone’s  great voice and the fabulous musicians give life to Dylan’s song. But as much as I like the rendition, it is the first fifteen seconds that cause me to remember Connor.

Listening carefully, you will hear the musicians beginning, but something goes wrong and Simone says to them,  “Y’all pushin’, you’re pushin’ it, you’re pushin’ it!  Just relax, relax. You’re pushing it. It’ll go up by itself! Don’t put nothin’ in it unless ya feel it! Let’s do it again, please.”

Relax she says and it will go up by itself. While Simone is speaking about the cutting of  the song, her words carry way over into living. I like to think that she knew that, and I  know that Connor did. He lived that. He never pushed because he  knew that it would go up by itself. He was not indifferent or lazy. In fact, he was quite successful. But he enjoyed living. He loved people. Being around him was relaxing and fun and it required nothing but feeling life: The good living he modeled by feeling it.

What a chance for me on removing the gold CD from the back of the case. While Connor comes to me through the music on the CD, he especially does through cut number 9 and Simone’s charge not to push it, but to relax and feel it. It will go up by itself.

By Roger Barbee

            This morning as I prepared my stationary bike for my ride in the damp, dark morning, I noticed our front spot light was still on and made a mental note to turn it off after my ride. Mounting the bike, I hoped that I would remember.

            Growing up in the 1950s of the South, all the mill houses, like ours at 312, had front porches that ran the width of the house. Chairs of various types would always be available for relaxing, and often porch swings hung by their chains from brackets in the porch ceiling, comfortably accommodated two adults or four playful children. Always painted white, the swings waited for a family member or members to “sit a spell” and rest or visit with a neighbor who happened by. After dark, they sometimes held young lovers who pushed gently back and forth whispering, snuggling, and maybe kissing—until a parent in the house turned the porch light on as a signal that it was time for the boy to leave and the girl to come into the house.

            The porch light of 312, where I grew up, was a bare bulb screwed into a white, porcelain fixture. Usually white, the 25 or maybe 40-watt bulb, would be replaced by a yellow one during the hot months because mosquitoes and other unwanted bugs would not be as attracted to it as the white ones. Because the houses had no air conditioning the front porch became an extension of sorts for the family or living room where the cooler temperature of a hot summer day could be enjoyed. The dim, porch lights were turned on at dusk and turned off at dawn. Not as majestic as a lighthouse beacon, they served the same purpose- to guide sojourners by their 25-watt bulbs.  Those bare bulbs led family and visitors through the dark and into the house.

            I did, for once, remember to turn the front spot-light off following my ride. The back one, which illuminates the kitchen area, was turned off earlier. Our house, like all in our neighborhood and most neighborhoods today, has no front porch or, at best, has an outside vestibule large enough to stand while unlocking the front door. Modern homes are mostly built far from roads making contact with passers-by impossible, and the climate controlling system in each makes the desire for outside cooler air during hot, humid Southern nights obsolete. But modern homes have improved on the dim porch lights of post WWII America. Like ours, all or most, have spot-lights that come in several models, wattage, and other choices. Ours are operated by a switch in the house, but we could have ones that are motion detector controlled, dawn to dusk controlled, cell phone controlled, or with other systems. But the porch lights of today are installed for other reasons than the types I grew up with.

            The modern porch light is designed to repel. It is a beacon, but one that shouts, “Go away, or the house alarms will signal the police to quickly come.” It does not invite the sojourner but is a Maginot line sold to make us feel safer.

            There was a time in our lives that such home defenses were not needed, but those days slipped away. We now live in a culture of home invasion, purse snatching, and more. I do not fault homeowners for protecting their homes and family, but I question why our society has fallen to such a level that some are so brazen to invade a home or snatch the purse of an elderly woman in broad daylight. What bred in some people such bitterness that led to desperation then vile action? 

            Just as with the outside lights, I am like many people. But instead of lights, I am thinking about The Sermon on the Mount, which before this week I would have assured you that I had a solid understanding of, until I began reading Clarence Jordon’s explication. In Matthew 5:22, Jesus says, “ Whereas I say to you that everyone who becomes angry with his brother shall be liable to judgment; and whoever says ‘Raca’ to his brother shall be liable to the Council.; and whoever says ‘worthless reprobate’ shall be liable to enter Hinnon’s Vale of fire.” (Hart)

            These are strong words that cause me to wonder if one reason we feel a need for stronger porch lights and such, is, as Christians (individually or collectively), we have shouted “Raca” to many of our citizens? Have we and do we look at Christian brothers/sisters and think “worthless reprobate”?  If so, then we have marginalized our fellow Christians and are in danger of being cast into Gehenna, regardless of our porch lights and alarm systems.