Roger Barbee

By Roger Barbee

Today’s morning ride was a cold one which is all-too common in many springs. The sun was just clearing the spit of Lake Norman we live by, and planes busily passed overhead on their way to Charlotte Douglas International Airport. The landing traffic here is steady, but not heavy, and I enjoy watching the massive machines seemingly float across our part of the world as they glide into the airport southwest of us. The planes come in from the east at about 1,000 feet and some bank for their landing and others directly approach it, but I enjoy watching them all, especially the larger international planes which, at first glance, appear not to be moving but hovering above in the golden hued morning light. While my view of the air traffic is a relaxed one, I’m sure the workers in the airports and control stations must be hard at work to keep up with all the coming and going. So much technology and human work is involved in accomplishing what I leisurely watch on many morning rides.

But the man-made flights are not the only ones this morning. Across the street is a flock of crows, their rich blackness almost too large for the landscape. They fly from pine top to pine top while telling each other some morning news. Lower to the ground are the robins who, after having established territory, busily build nests made of mud and pine needles which are almost perfect circles.  Behind me the resident mocking bird, named Atticus, announces its presence from the holly tree while the smaller Carolina wren challenges with its own high and melodious volume.

But my attention is held by the bird box attached to a tree directly in front of me. In the past nesting seasons it has been the home of titmice; however, this year its tenants are brown-headed nuthatches or bluebirds. I can’t decide which because there is a dispute going on over who has rights to the bird box. I watch as I ride and note that the small nuthatch seems to have the upper hand because one of the pair occupies the box-its small brown head protrudes from the entry hole and its mate calls from a near-by tree. But the usually timid bluebirds are not giving up and one of them flies from the roof of the box to a tree and back again to scold the brown-headed nuthatch in the box. It is a back and forth with much bird communication between each pair and harsher notes aimed at the opposing pair. I ride and watch. Eventually the bluebirds leave, the one nuthatch remains in the box, and the other glides over from its perch on the tree to take dominion over the box as it sits on the roof.

And while I have watched this dispute in nature, planes continued their approach for landing  at the airport over thirty miles from where I ride. Certainly the speed, the size, the noise, and more features of the planes overshadow those of the crow, the mockingbird, the nuthatch, the blue bird, and the other birds in every way.  The planes provide a service as does the lake I live on with its shoreline of 520 miles. It provides power for citizens of this state, and most civic leaders and other people extol the lakes economic benefits. In 1959 Duke Power began the damming of the Catawba River just northwest of Charlotte and the flooding began–all the way to the 760-elevation line when the lake is at full pond. All this and more for progress we are told, and some of that argument has merit, but not all.

The 42 pine trees in our front yard prohibit us from having a manicured lawn like our neighbors. More than once we have been advised that, if we removed the trees, we could have an overly sculpted, sprayed, and un-natural shade of green grass. That may be true, but we then would be trading the birds, the shade in summer’s hot western sun, the butterflies, and all the other abundant life that, along with us, call this spit of land home.

I have ridden in planes. I enjoy seeing the piece of Lake Norman we live by. But most of all, I cherish the life under, in, and by the pine trees. All 42.

By Roger Barbee

Pastor Clarence Jordan showed us how.

In November 1942 he and Martin England, a Baptist missionary to Burma, placed a $2,500 down payment on a run-down farm eight miles southwest of Americus, Georgia. They named the scarred and eroded acres Koinonia Farm and began living the Sermon on the Mount as they worked to turn their purchase into a place guided by Jesus’ message in Matthew 5-7.

As a doctoral student in Greek at Louisville Seminary, Jordan did not just read the words of Jesus, but he began to use them as his guide for living each day. It was his firm  belief in those words that guided him to begin Koinonia Farm as a place for justice and equality during the days of a world war, the Ku Klux Klan, Senator Joe McCarthy, the Korean and Vietnam Wars, civil rights struggles, and more. His world, like ours, was divided. However, he remained loyal to the best sermon ever spoken and withstood attacks by the KKK and harassment by the FBI and local churches. In fact, because he brought a black man to a Christmas Eve service at his own Baptist church, the church told him not to return.

Pastor Jordan lived the words of Matthew 5:44 that tell us to love our enemies and at Koinonia Farm he showed us that it is not only possible, but better for us, to follow the Sermon on the Mount.

Koinonia Farm still operates today, and many scrumptious food items may be ordered from its website. I recommend Clarence Jordan, Essential Writings, edited by Joyce Hollyday, (Orbis publication) as a good primer on this man who showed us how to live during difficult times.

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

Garden Enigma

Early evening and suddenly every bird at or near one of the three bird feeders in our back garden disappears. No bird song. Only the silent flutter of wings as the quiet before the storm passes, and the storm settles on a limb of a dogwood tree.

The resident Cooper’s Hawk perches, facing the house. Its roan-tinted chest plumage reflects late sunlight as the eyes study every piece of the small garden. Its flat crown reminds me, in a silly way, of the flat-top hair style some boys paraded during my youth. But this flat top half crowns two dark, piercing eyes that  search for a meal in our garden, the one where we feed its potential prey for our pleasure, not for its food.

The head moves from side to side and soon the body of death turns and faces the wider, back expanse of garden, perhaps hoping to find food in the larger area. But, when none presents itself, the grey-shoulder hungry one drops to the ground and peers into the thick, green foliage of the gardenia. One hop of grey death flushes a male cardinal that flies low to the ground before escaping to the safety of the rhododendron.

Unruffled, the Cooper’s Hawk takes dominion over our side garden and Doug’s large front yard by perching on the white fence dividing our properties. Unruffled, but obviously hungry, it sits there for some moments before gliding away to expand its search. Within moments of its departure, a fat squirrel appears on the ground below one of the dogwood trees, and birds return to the feeders.

The small, back garden returns to another cycle, one that is an enigma of sorts since we humans attract the birds and squirrels for our pleasure by feeding them, not to provide for the fearsome but beautiful Cooper’s Hawk.

            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

For the past week I have been housebound because the heavy snow storm and its wind left a pile of snow on the back ramp, which I use to enter and exit our house. Over the past eight days of freezing temperatures the pile became a large ice mass. But my friend Shawn came yesterday and cut it into pieces that now jam an unused corner of our yard. This morning the sun shines on our back garden across a bright winter-blue sky, and when the warmth of day increases just a bit, I will venture out with Nick the beagle and ramble about the garden.

It may seem odd to think of warm weather when ice blocks occupy one part of my world, but I saw a reminder of it yesterday out a back window—a pair of doves sat together on a limb of the center dogwood tree before one mounted the other. It’s the middle of January, so I  don’t know for sure about their act, but it is a fresh reminder that, yes, the days are getting longer and warmer. But I remind myself that, no matter what the doves were doing, Shawn’s labor freed me from my housebound sentence, so Nick and I will shortly roam about our back garden.

Even in morning cold, the garden is busy with bird life. A blue bird inspects the entry hole of the birdbox on the center dogwood tree before realizing that the hole is too small, and a brown headed nuthatch moves about the tree trunk looking for day’s first offering. On a high branch a Carolina chickadee basks in morning’s sunlight filtering through the pine canopy.

However, my “play date” with Nick did not materialize because Mary Ann and I decided to get out of the house and go to a favorite flea market. We enjoyed the shared outing and returned in time to take a long walk with Nick on which he met and impressed some neighbors we did not know.

The day did not go as I had planned; but it proved to be an adventure of sorts and that is what matters at its end. That is one of the many sweet spots of life—there are the possibilities for the coming day and for tomorrow and for the next day and so on. After all, Mary Ann, Nick, and I shared parts of the day and we will tomorrow. It’s the way our days go since we were adopted by this beagle. And in the sharing is the joy.

By Roger Barbee

            In May 1968 I graduated from college with a degree in English. I went home that summer to work in Cannon Mills, Plant 1, but as soon as August came, and Uncle Grant sold me that two-toned green rambler, I headed to what I viewed as the “promised land” of the North, which for me was Washington, D.C. I remember on the long drive to my apartment in Maryland seeing a “Wallace for President” sign somewhere in N.C., and thinking, “No more of that.”

            During my college years I became good friends with William MacPherson, who had grown up in Arlington, Va. I visited his home and thus, D.C., over the four years of gaining an education. I came to think of the area as the “land of milk and honey” for such a fired-up, young radical as I. The time of my graduation was the time of George Wallace and “Clean” Gene, who were candidates for President. It was also the time of Dr. King, Jr.’s assassination and the subsequent riots. It was the time of protests. It was the time of Howard Zinn and nightly newscasts of battles in Vietnam, complete with the day’s body count. It was an exciting time to be twenty-one years old and beginning a teaching career in a rural county of Maryland’s Eastern Shore.

            Or so I thought until I recently ran across a reference to a man named Clarence Jordon. Jordon was a strong believer in the Sermon on the Mount, and in the fall of 1941 when he met a gentle missionary named Martin England who believed as he, they began dreaming of establishing Koinonia Farm as a way of countering the plight of farmers.  Life on Koinonia Farm would follow Scripture, especially the Sermon on the Mount. In 1942 they purchased a run-down farm southwest of Americus, Georgia, and the work to establish a community of all people began. But, the local population objected to the Koinonians eating together because some were white and some black, and just wages were paid to black workers which went against the rules of Jim Crow. Violence was not long in coming and until his death of a heart attack in 1969, Jordon peacefully followed the tenets of the Sermon on the Mount as angry whites burned down buildings of the farm, stole from it, destroyed its equipment, shot at its members, and local merchants refused to sell seeds and fertilizer to the farm. In describing the personalities warped by hate that tried to kill the farm, Jordon said, “We have too many enemies to leave them without hope.” I am indebted to Joyce Hollyday for some of this information.

Since reading the reference to Jordon and the Koinonia Farm, I have read his Cotton Patch Version of Luke and Acts, a brief sketch of his life by Joyce Hollyday, and have begun his commentary on the Sermon on the Mount. I am captured by his faith, adherence to Scripture, and his legacy of Koinonia Farm. And I can’t help but go back to my years of college in the 1960’s and my mistaken belief that everything I desired was in a large, northern city.

A son of the South, I highly anticipated the time I could move to a world more suited to my beliefs—equality for men and women, peace, honest work, learning, in brief, everyone coming together to make the world better. I saw my dream in D.C. and went there. But, now, all these years later in 2018, I “discover” a man and a place that had everything I desired. Now, I am not fool enough to think that, going back these fifty years, everything would be peachy. Perhaps Jordon would not have appreciated me or my ways; maybe I not his. So be that. Yet, I am intrigued by my not seeing what was almost right in front of me and held all that my radical heart desired in 1968.   

By Roger Barbee

            At this time of the year, I cringe a great deal. I cringe at the Christmas cards consisting of too many family photographs. I cringe again because few of these carry any personal note or signature, just the implied message: “Look at how great and happy we are.” After that cringing, I suffer through the overflow of articles and newscasts looking back at the past year (name all who have died the past year) and the insufferable resolutions and advice for the coming new year ranging from a new diet to books that will change everything to ways of gaining a happier life. But while glancing at the New Year’s Day Charlotte Observer’s coverage of another local, random shooting in which an innocent, thirteen-year-old was murdered,  I saw a quarter-page advertisement for a jewelry store. I cringed. Not at the ad, but at the irony of its location. I also took a cell-phone photo of it and sent it to many contacts in my cell phone.

             The ad begins “resolve This Year” and then it lists 29, by my count, suggestions for all of us to do in 2020. And I think the list impressive, not necessarily because of the type of suggestions it makes, but by its language in making them. Strong verbs are used to state the imperatives we need to follow. An example such as  “Deserve confidence” places all the responsibility on the person desiring the confidence of another person . Those two words tell us, in order to have the confidence of others, we must act and do in such a way that another person will be confident about us. That is, we will be trusted because we have demonstrated trust.  

            Another suggestion that resonates is “Forgo a grudge.” I so admire the use of that somewhat archaic word “forgo.” As any poet knows, the perfect word is, well, just right.  I offer that to “forgo” is the perfect command for any of us living with a grudge.  Find “forgo” in your dictionary or cell phone. Learn it, and see for yourself why it is the perfect way to deal with a heavy emotion.

            Now, we are all busy in our world of convenience. Ask someone to support a good cause with a check and it likely will be given. Ask for an afternoon of labor for the same cause, and you likely will be given excuses of “I don’t have the time,” or “I’m  too busy.” Our time, even with all of it that we have, is guarded. Yet, here is the suggestion, “Find the time.” No explanations of what to find the time for, just find it. Oh, the needs are only limited by my excuses. But “Find the time” for a child, your house of worship, the local library, a soup kitchen, the local center for seniors, or so many other needs. Don’t wait for the time to appear, go out and find it. Once again, the ad gives a command. No wishing or moaning, but active verbs that will give results.

            “ Go to church.” Now, there it is said. Do not attend or visit or some other lesser verb. Go! Your mother may have said that to you long ago. That is strong advice but needed always and especially in our culture. You may easily substitute another word such as temple or mosque or synagogue for church. But, Go. You will feel better, and your world will be better.

            In the current climate, passive verbs relieve the speaker or writer of responsibility. As a teacher for forty years, I heard too many times a whine such as, “She (a teacher) doesn’t like me”, or “That coach likes only certain athletes”, or more and more. Parents, too, spoke in the passive voice to remove any responsibility from their child or even themselves. But this ad uses the active voice and that places all the responsibility on the one doing. Examine the suggestion, “Flount envy.” Once again, the perfect verb, but not one that I would want my students to commit regarding rules. But envy? Exactly. Grow up and be responsible for yourself.

            I wrote earlier that the placement of the ad is ironic. It is because the page it is on has an article about the murder of an innocent thirteen-year-old girl. She was killed by a stray bullet fired by an eighteen-year-old who was angry with someone he had argued with, and he did  not heed the first suggestion: “To mend a quarrel.” Instead of mending, he used a gun to rip at something trivial. Lives torn, including his.

            It is an ad unlike any I have ever read. But it is one I will read each day and follow its words. Strong words to help a weak world.

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

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.