John Calvin saw law as growing out of
grace, a way for us to treat each other
justly and equally. Law is the response to
unconditional love. Unfortunately, through-
out history there have been bad laws that
grow not from grace and not from a way by
which we can live justly and equally with
each other but from the bad motives of those
in power who wish to retain power and oppress
others. People of conscience have opposed
those laws as laws opposing justice and
equality under the law. But the vast majority
of laws are good and there to guarantee equal
justice. And that is the test. Does the law
ensure justice and equality for all or just
for a select few? There are those who mis-
understand law established to assure equal
treatment and refuse to respect such laws
thus showing contempt — contempt for those
protected by the law and, as another theologian,
put it, contempt for themselves.* The poor,
misguided county clerk in Kentucky, one entrusted
with executing the law for the sake of justice
and equality of all, in this case following
the Supreme Court decision regarding same
sex marriage, put her misunderstanding of
faith in the place of her oath of office. Her
inability to see how this law works for justice
and equality has resulted in her winning the
trifecta of contempt — for the very law itself,
for those protected by the law and for herself,
yes, contempt for herself, a child of God’s
grace and beneficiary of the protection of
those very laws that grow from that grace.

* Michael Jinkins, President of Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary,
in his September 8, 2015 on-line newsletter, Thinking Out Loud.

A little boy in 2004, he saw his
parents, uncles, aunts, cousins burn
brightly in the desert sun.
He watched them jump and run
and writhe but there was no fun.
They were caught in a mire of crossfire
and bombs bursting and the swirling spire
of sharp metal and glass shrapnel slicing
through his loved ones’ flesh.
Horrific images began to mesh
and he, as years went by, began to plan
vengeful retaliation right there in the desert sand.
He and a multitude of other horror-stricken
orphan boys now lean with a streak of meanness unhidden
call on Mohammed and invoke Allah’s name
to wreak vengeance and squarely place the blame
on those Chicken Hawks in Washington who in 2003
invaded Iraq, a nation they said to free
from the bondage to Saddam
when in fact, they just didn’t give a damn.
It was oil they were after
when they started the disaster
that just won’t end, just won’t end
and the blood-letting just won’t end.

He read Sandburg poems heralding
blue-collar working folk, railroads,
stockyards and those of middle-east-
ern European descent picnicking along
the shore of Lake Michigan in Chicago.
He thinks about how manufacturing jobs
are almost a thing of the past, rail-
roads are converted to cycling paths
through the heartland and the stock-
yards are a distant memory in old folks’
minds, but there are still ethnic groups
picnicking along the shores of lakes
all over the country on holidays. He
wonders where they go to work on Monday
or Tuesday morning, if they go to work —
service jobs, fast food restaurants and
the hospitality industry cleaning other
peoples’ bed linens, wiping down showers
and sanitizing commodes? What are their
hopes for their children? The same as
Sandburg’s immigrants? Hope springs
eternal as the cliché goes or maybe it’s
that dreams die hard.

The little child arrived on the scene right on time.
He left the homey womb without much fuss.
He had thick black hair like his mother’s line
and long fingers and toes — his father’s touch.

Surrounded by brother and sisters and cousins, too,
he would not want for attention at any time.
His two big sisters want to cuddle him through and through,
while big brother just looks and says little brother seems fine.

Aunts from both sides want to hold and cuddle the guy.
Uncles who haven’t seen him yet will beam one day
and with all that attention there is no way he will grow up shy,
and as long as his nourishment is near he is a-okay.

He’s pretty lucky to be born into this particular clan,
and he stands a good chance to be a well-adjusted man.

I had a friend early on, forty-five years early
on, who was a sculptor and priest. He once asked
me if I liked rocks. I didn’t know what to say.
He said his mind worked differently from most
other people. He thought it was because he was
an artist. His sculptures — mostly sand casts,
plaster of Paris and large metal pieces welded
together — were bold and beautiful. His preach-
ing, on the other hand, was circular sometimes
or went off in all directions with little or
nothing to tie the thoughts together. It was
always hard to follow. Thank the Lord Episco-
palians preach homilies instead of full-blown
sermons. What he could put together in sculptures
he lost when it came to words. His parishioners
loved him though and he loved the bells and whis-
tles of the liturgy and he danced the Eucharist.
He moved around the chancel like Bishop Fulton
Sheen making his theatrical entrance at the be-
ginning of each T.V. episode, robes flowing.
Once, when we were at a campus ministers’ con-
ference, we roomed together and he had had a
bit too much Scotch. We talked for a long
time while we were in our bunks and then he
said that I was very handsome and, in fact,
had a beautiful face. I didn’t know what to
say, so I said nothing. Shortly thereafter
we said goodnight. That evening was never
mentioned again. A couple of years later, I
received a call to pastor a church in another
town. We drifted apart. Years later, I heard
that he had died of cancer. In hind sight, I
wish that I had given him a rock, something
nice perhaps like Swedish granite because he
was Swedish as a present for my going away.

Supposedly Karl Barth said, “Keep the Bible in
one hand and the daily newspaper in the other.”

Sometimes I tire of the juggling act. Sometimes I
ask, “Where’s the grace in the Bible passage today?”

Most times I ask, “Where is the grace in the
newspaper today?”

Sometimes I toss them both and pick up a good poem with
both hands and find amazing grace that very day.

He saw her name in a denominational
newsletter and remembered how he
had helped her maneuver her way out
of one denomination into another. He
did a name search and saw she had a
YouTube of a typical day in the life
of a pastor condensed to one minute
and thirty-nine seconds. He watched
the rapid-paced sequence from nine
a.m. to eleven p.m. — a typical, peri-
patetic, fourteen-hour day (Really?)
set to the staccato sound of something
like detective movie music from the
70’s. She was here, there, everywhere
concerned, compassionate, always lis-
tening, always giving, always caring.
What a dedicated, selfless servant of
the Lord. Had she no family but God’s
family? No children, no husband? Had
she taken a vow of celibacy? But
Facebook showed the little kids and
hubby — up front, up close and per-
sonal. On YouTube she showed the world
her boundless dedication as a pastor.
On Facebook she showed the world what
was really important to her — her
family. In a nod to an old T.V. game
show about contestants pretending to
be someone famous with the real per-
son as one of the contestants,“Will
the real clergyperson please stand
up? You aren’t doing the rest of us
any favors.”

I sit on my front porch and watch the vehicles going by on their way around the corner and up the hill to the gated condominium community on the shores of Lake Michigan. As they passed by, this ditty came to mind.

One Mercedes, Two Mercedes,
Three Mercedes, Four,
Five Mercedes, Six Mercedes,
Seven Mercedes More.

One Lexus, Two Lexus,
Three Lexus, Four,
Five Lexus, Six Lexus,
Seven Lexus More.

One Audi, Two Audi,
Three Audi, Four,
Five Audi, Six Audi,
Seven Audi More.

One Beemer, Two Beemer,
Three Beemer, Four,
Five Beemer, Six Beemer,
Seven Beemer More.

One Caddie, Two Caddie,
Three Caddie, Four,
Five Caddie, Six Caddie
Seven Caddie More.

Down the road and up the hill
to Vance Packard’s house they go.

One hearse, Two hearse,
Three hearse, Four,
Five hearse, Six hearse,
Seven hearse More.

Down the hill and up the road
to the graveyard they all go.

He eyes the tall, slender, black dancer
in the skin-tight iridescent tights,

arched backward on the mantle, right leg
lifted behind her, left foot planted firmly

for balance, head flung back, nose pointed
skyward, hands turned upward in supplicat-

ion, long, black braids and locks wrapped
in colorful ribbons hanging loosely.

Her hair begins to move. Is she dancing
an oblation before God or perhaps just

a jazzy move for him who sits below watch-
ing her performance on stage? He hears a

hum. It’s only the air conditioner. A
guy can dream, can’t he?

Every hour is just a repeat, more or less,
of the previous hour. And then when all
the hours are done, they repeat the hours
for those who missed them the first time
around. In the first hour, you feel a sense
of discontent seeing things from a part-
icular perspective and so on and so on
throughout the evening. If you switched
the channel, you would feel a sense of dis-
content from a different perspective. If
you then turned on the local or national
news, you would feel a sense of discontent
coming from every direction, and so you
might wish to remove yourself from all
that discontent by watching some crime
thrillers, which are ubiquitous with the
fall season previews promising even more
and you would be confronted with pedo-
philes, serial killers, terrorists, lots
of gunfire, quite a bit of agony, torture,
maiming, death and more and more gore,
which would all be quite disconcerting
even with the joking that goes on at
police headquarters in between the shoot
‘em ups. You hear someone clearing his
throat. You look over at the Buddha who
is sitting in the green, leather recliner
with his calloused feet on the ottoman
and his hands clasped behind his head.
He asks, “How do you feel right now —
anxious, discontented? See. This is
exactly what I mean by my use of the
word suffering. And you pay good money
for this?” Jesus, lying on the couch
with a Dorothy Sayers’ mystery in his
hands, remarks, “Truer words were never
spoken.” Lao Tzu, playing a Sudoku on
the computer, simply says, “Amen.”