The Unclad Soul

In my innocence I grew up believing in the goodness of people and all things. My parents and grandparents modeled this in front of me. I saw in them patience. Joy. Human warmth. Integrity. I felt their love and affection. I observed and absorbed their goodness.  I grew up extremely sheltered because of this. My world was small, provincial, full of church life.  I had great school friends. As a teen my buddies were not necessarily honor roll, but they were smart, athletic, and fun to be around. My girlfriends were cute, clever, flirtatious and, yes, honor roll.    Aren’t most girls? In college I wanted to be a broadcast journalist. I loved my speech and radio and TV production classes. But then, after an emotional church service I attended, I believed, as it was described then, that I was being “called into the ministry.” It wasn’t until I had my first rural church as a single, young, naive minister, barely out of college, that I began to understand t...

Poet Andres Fernandez has written, “Do not just slay your demons, dissect them, and find what they have been feeding on.” This is the work of therapy. Although you could attempt it on your own as well. The best therapists are insightful listeners. They help us talk about what is bothering us, what may be haunting or disturbing or frightening us that we have been unable to either admit or face. Within the protection of the therapist’s office, we are able to confidently say what we might not otherwise be able to say to anyone else. There is enormous freedom in that if we are indeed able to experience it, to open up and say what we feel. “I hate my parents but I pretend I love them.” “I’m having an affair.” “I drink too much.” “I am terrified that someone at work will see how incompetent I really am.” “I can’t stand my husband/wife.” “My kids have completely disappointed me.” “I was sexually abused as a child.” “I am afraid I will be abandoned by those who love me.” T...

I had an enjoyable conversation with my nephew, David, the other night. In the midst of talking about other things he mentioned a recent essay I posted here. He reads all of them and though he doesn’t always agree with them he makes a point to keep up with what I’m thinking about. That makes his uncle enormously grateful. He has mentioned before that he would like to see more positive pieces and less negative ones. What I wrote about The Handmaid’s Tale was especially dark for him. “Why write about such horrible stuff, Uncle Tim,” he asked. “I never see that side of you when I’m with you. Write about the good stuff,” he said. I took it to heart. I have admitted here before that I know I have a streak of cynicism that runs through me at times. I don’t want to be cynical, or negative. And yet, I don’t know how to hold in my feelings of alarm, fear, and often anger at the seemingly endless injustices in our nation. Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale, though a merci...

I am fascinated with TV series that deal with the seedier side of life. I loved The Sopranos. And Peaky Blinders. Also, Boardwalk Empire, Gypsy, House of Cards, Orange is the New Black, and Nurse Jackie. These shows and others like them portray people caught in their human frailties. They are deeply flawed people, wounded, sometimes by their own poor choices in life and sometimes by people who betrayed or used or mistreated them in some profoundly cruel way. I am currently making my way through Showtime’s series, “Ray Donovan.” Soon to begin its 6 th season, the series centers around the Donovan family, a father and three sons mired in old hurts, deception, corruption, and crime. Ray (Liev Schreiber) is the middle son, a “fixer” for L.A.’s elite crowd of Hollywood stars, producers, financiers, and old money people who inevitably cross the line into affairs gone wrong, crooked payoffs, illegal deals, and so forth. Mickey Donovan (Jon Voight) is the father, an old-schoo...

I have been out of pocket a while because I was battling Influenza B, one of the strains of the flu virus that has been plaguing the nation for months now. The flu brings with it a variety of nasty irritations. Fever, chills, headache, sore throat, a hacking cough, weakness, and just a general feeling of, Lord, please help me! The strains this year have included additional problems such as strep throat, pneumonia, and in some cases, sepsis, a sometimes deadly collection of bacteria and toxins in the bloodstream. My worse symptoms were a searing sore throat from two small ulcers caused by the flu virus and an accompanying ear and neck ache. I felt very fortunate to have Ingrid and Claudia bringing me soups and good things to eat and making sure I was still alive. My sons, Caleb and Luke, kept up with me, offering to come to my rescue if I needed them. I had great friends from Hamilton checking on me daily. And I had coworkers who called to see if I was faking or really sick...

My recent posts on the HBO series, Deadwood, generated some interesting comments. There was a discussion about the coarse language and the repeated use of the f-word. Most, however, commented how much they had enjoyed the series and hated to see it end after only three seasons. I watched it when it first came out in the spring of 2004 and just stumbled onto it again several weeks ago and re-watched the whole series. There is something authentic, truly American about those early pioneer days, and the importance of the frontier and the westward expansion in our incredible history. I am drawn to the cowboy, the rancher, the farmer. I grew up in the city and had little contact with places outside of that environment. But there was a veterinarian in my parents’ circle of friends, Fred Ryon, who practiced in the Stock Yards in Fort Worth. He was a tall, thin man with striking features. Thick hair combed neatly back, a smooth face and a square jaw. He always wore a pressed wester...

In the wild and violent HBO series, Deadwood, the Reverend H.W. Smith (Raymond McKinnon) seems oddly out of place. In the midst of Gold Rush outlaws and moral misfits, he is a tall, gentle man, with a kind heart. Deadwood is a savagely unmanageable town in the Black Hills of South Dakota. And Reverend Smith, an upright mystic, and a man of the Bible, struggles to extend the goodness of God to the ruthless and the wicked. A smallpox plague strikes the town and “Preacher” Smith works tirelessly to aid the sick and the dying ignoring the risks of contagion. He somehow escapes the plague but then is afflicted with epilepsy and eventually insanity. In his illness, he finds comfort in the piano playing at the Gem Saloon and Brothel. He is seen there hugging his weathered Bible, his eyes glassy and bleak, smiling broadly with his head raised to heaven and his body weaving to the music. The bar owner, the incorrigible Al Swearengen (Ian McShane), tells the preacher he can’t be...

Science fiction novelist Isaac Asimov once wrote, “Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.”   It’s a valid appeal. I grew up assuming a lot of things that turned out to be wrong. For years, I failed to scrub those assumptions so I could see more light. Born into a conservative Christian home where church was everything, I was taught a simplistic viewpoint of the world. People were sinners but they could be saved from their sins if they accepted Jesus Christ as their Savior. All it took was a simple prayer of faith and miraculously Jesus would come into your heart and you would be a new person. No one told me that even if you did this you would still have to work at being good. I assumed, believing what I was taught, that you just automatically started doing the right things, since Jesus was in you and he was basically running the show. Somehow, though, I kept bumping into myself. The fait...

“Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness, you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road. You must see how this could be you, how he too was someone who journeyed through the night with plans and the simple breath that kept him alive. Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside, you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. You must wake up with sorrow. You must speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows and you see the size of the cloth. Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore, only kindness that ties your shoes and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread, only kindness that raises its head from the crowd of the world to say It is I you have been looking for, and then goes with you everywhere like a shadow or a friend.” ~ Naomi Shihab Nye, Poet/Author

Cultural critic and novelist, Daniel Quinn, has written, “There’s nothing fundamentally wrong with people. Given a story to enact that puts them in accord with the world, they will live in accord with the world. But given a story to enact that puts them at odds with the world…they will live at odds with the world. Given a story to enact in which they are the lords of the world, they will act like lords of the world. And, given a story to enact in which the world is a foe to be conquered, they will conquer it like a foe, and one day, inevitably, their foe will lie bleeding to death at their feet, as the world is now.“ Some of us grew up in a time when the church, the school, the government, and society at large, gave us a story to believe that asked us to live in accord with the world. There were always pockets of cynics, bullies, bigots and screwballs who rebelled and remained trouble makers attempting to divide people and communities. But for the most part, people tried to get al...

In my sleep, I was visited by a man in a flannel shirt with autumn colors in small squares. He wore a solid brown necktie unloosed at the collar. His hair was white and bushy, sort of like Einstein’s. He smoked a pipe and had the voice of Gandalf, Ian McKellen’s great character in The Lord of the Rings. There was nothing menacing or alarming about his presence. He spoke softly, quietly. His face was rugged and carried deep lines of age and wisdom.  His eyes, blue and intense, were nevertheless warm with soft light in them. He reminded me of my maternal grandfather whom I called Pop, a big loving man with a deep Southern drawl. I told the gentleman this and he said, “You can call me Pop if you want.” I said, “Ok.” “What troubles you?” he asked, as he put fresh tobacco in his pipe and lit it. It smelled of cherries or cloves or something sweet and delicious. “I wonder if I got it all wrong,” I said. “How so; got what wrong?” “People. Life. Meaning,” I said, a...

In the Netflix series, “Jack Taylor,” ex-cop Jack Taylor is a rebellious, hard drinking, scruffy guy who plays by his own rules, which are often questionable. Although he’s no longer a police officer, fired for unruly conduct, he still stumbles into situations where people need and want his help with some crime that’s been committed. He doesn’t always solve them, and he leaves plenty of debris along the way. He has a tough, rugged presence. And he’s a mess of a person. But inside the man, there beats a true heart for humanity. He lives in Mrs. Bailey’s Bed and Breakfast. It’s a lovely place that you would not expect to see the likes of Jack Taylor. But Mrs. Bailey took Jack in when he was disgracefully dismissed from the police force. He loved being a cop/detective. He fought for the underdog and the forgotten and the cheated. And the loss of his job sent him spiraling into a drunken bewilderment. He had no income but at Mrs. Bailey’s he found safety, welcome, clean sheets, an...

I lost a friend last week. Her name was Angi Jenkins. Only 46 years old, her life ended after a lifetime of battling cystic fibrosis. I knew Angi during my years in Hamilton, Texas. She moved to Dallas not long before I did. We reconnected here and then we became Facebook friends. She was often in and out the hospital dealing with serious health issues related to the CF. I dropped in on her unexpectedly one afternoon when she was having to stay at Baylor Hospital for several days. She apologized for not looking her best, but anyone who knew Angi knew it was impossible for her not to look her best. She had a luminous smile, a glowing spirit, and a bighearted presence that simply chased away any of the dark clouds that surrounded her illness. She dealt with her situation with gifted humor, beautiful poise, amazing courage, incredible love and faith. In these past days Saint Paul’s comment in his letter to the Philippians comes to mind: “I thank God every time I think of you....

  “When I am among the trees, Especially the willows and the honey locust, Equally the beech, the oaks and the pines, They give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily. I am so distant from the hope of myself, In which I have goodness, and discernment, And never hurry through the world But walk slowly and bow often. Around me the trees stir in their leaves And call out, ‘Stay awhile.’ The light flows from their branches. And they call again, ‘It’s simple,” they say, ‘and you too have come Into this world to do this, to go easy, to be filled With light, and to shine.” ~ Mary Oliver

Lee Atwater was the infamous Republican strategist for both President Ronald Reagan and George H.W. Bush. Atwater made a career of dirty politics using highly effective but dishonorable skills to distort the positions of political opponents, smear their character, and basically humiliate and decimate them. He was not shy either about using racial and ethnic slurs and innuendos. Brash and often offensive he reveled in the political battles he created. At the height of his political career he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. A year later at age 40 he would be dead. The powerhouse bully, the supposedly brilliant political tactician, the guy who was feared by Democrats as well as Republicans, was reduced to the limits of a body and mind broken and dying. In the last months of his life he dropped all of the sneering hate and crippling abuse he had dished out to opponents. Humbled by the awareness of his own humanity and the stark reality of how fragile and momentary life can b...

"True character arises from a deeper well than religion. It is the internalization of moral principles of a society, augmented by those tenets personally chosen by the individual, strong enough to endure through trials of solitude and adversity. The principles are fitted together into what we call integrity, literally the integrated self, wherein personal decisions feel good and true. Character is in turn the enduring source of virtue. It stands by itself and excites admiration in others." —   Edward O. Wilson , Harvard Professor/Pulitzer Prize Winner Author

 “A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely.”  – Roald Dahl, Novelist

In the musical movie, “Oliver,” a crowd of orphaned boys march into the workhouse mess hall of the grimy orphanage they live in, singing: “ Is it worth the waiting for? If we live 'til eighty four All we ever get is gruel! Every day we say our prayer -- Will they change the bill of fare? Still we get the same old gruel! There's not a crust, not a crumb can we find, Can we beg, can we borrow, or cadge, But there's nothing to stop us from getting a thrill When we all close our eyes and imagine Food, glorious food! The boys march in line one by one and are each given a bowl of grey mush. They orderly seat themselves at a heavy wooden table. A grim-faced burly man dressed smartly in a colorful Napoleon outfit steps forward and prays, “May what you receive make you truly thankful!” After Oliver gulps the gruel he’s still starving. He dares to walk to the front to ask for more food. The burly man screams and Oliver is chased about the room by old skinny grey h...