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“I don’t know about you,” said the older man with the crow’s feet around the eyes and the gray feathering its way through his temples, “But I am about as tired as I can be of the morals flaming out around me. It seems to me that no matter where I turn, the rights and wrongs have gotten all twisted up. I mean, when I was a chap none of this catting around would be put up with, especially not in the high places; but now it seems that nobody cares anymore about anything or anybody but themselves. “If it don’t bother me, who cares?” That’s what they say. “Darn fools.” He shifted a bit in his seat to keep this part or that from falling asleep, and then dove back into his attack. “I think I know what the problem is. I think I know why we’re in such a fix, and I think I know how to cure it. You see it’s like this. We are all alone out there. We sit around, side by side, and don’t even talk to each other. We fuss that the morals of this great country are headin’ south, and nobody’s listening. If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it a thousand times, “Those politicians and judges are taking my morals and my God and throwing Him and them in the trashcan, and I don’t know what to do about it. I try to raise my kids right, but the schools and the T.V. try to raise ‘em wrong and win most of the time. What’s a fella to do?’ That’s what I hear, and I think I know where we’re going wrong.” “You see, it’s like this. Back in my day, just before the Great War, we were all doing pretty well. Yea, we heard about the war in Europe and all, but that wasn’t us. That was them, and what were we supposed to do about it? Now some among us had kin over there, and they would cry out that their kinfolk were being killed, and we needed to do something to help. Now we weren’t about to go get ourselves killed for their kinfolk. They weren’t our kinfolks. They were their kinfolk, so let them go die for them, not us. But one day, December 7th as I recall, the Japanese flew into Pearl Harbor and bombed our boys. They killed our people. They attacked us. Now it wasn’t their kinfolk, it was our kinfolk being killed, and we had to do something about it. On account of that horrible day though, something strange and wonderful happened. Because of Pearl we came to life. There weren’t no more blacks, or whites, or men or women. There was just us, and we had to do something to protect our nation and our people. In the flash of a torpedo we turned from a nation of “I” into a nation of “we.” It wasn’t "I" have had it with Hitler and his crowd,’ it was "we" have had it,’ and after that we knew we were going to win. After the “I” became “we,” we had them. Multiply that "we" a million times and there was no stopping us.” “Now we haven’t had a Hitler to deal with for a while now, and like men have always done, we’ve fallen to our old ways. We are once again a nation of “I.” I want my rights. I want my way. I want to do whatever I darn well please thank you, and I don’t care what you, or God or anybody for that matter has to say about it. But, friend, my God and my morals are under attack just as sure as Pearl was and so are yours. And unless we come together, not as black men and women or white men and women, but simply as men and women all created in the image of God to fight the forces of evil which have the upper hand in this great nation of ours, it appears the United States of America will sink just as sure as did the Arizona.” “It’s high time that we stop letting the forces which rule the airways and the government tear at the fabric of our nation and at our God." “When they take prayer out of my school, they take it out of yours. When they say that the murder of infants is ok in my town, they say it is ok in yours. When they attack me and my beliefs, they attack you and yours and until we come together as one, to stand up to the evil forces that try to divide us, the destruction will continue. Until we can stand side by side as one, against the forces of selfish desire and immorality, such things will continue to flourish. Until we link hearts and minds and proclaim in one voice, ‘We have had enough,’ this great nation of ours will continue to decay until there is nothing left but the aftermath of evil.” For a moment, he looked a bit bewildered, then he shifted in his seat once more to relieve this part or that, and with tired eyes he stared out across the crowded Applebee’s and sighed a sigh of resignation with the shadow of fear and longing crossing his weatherworn face. That old man and I sat next to one another waiting on a table in Applebee’s way back in 1998. twenty-two years ago. I had never met him before; but he asked me what I did for a living, and when the word “preacher” came out of my mouth, his bomb-bay doors opened and out came his story. I feel sure that he is long gone now, but the truth of his words remains. I don’t know about you, but I love this country. To quote Merle Haggard, “If you’re putting down my country, man, you’re walking on the fighting side of me.” You see, I have been blessed, as many of you have, to see a great deal of the rest of the world; and trust me, there is no place I would rather live than right here in the good old U.S. of A. It is truly the greatest nation to ever grace the planet, but we are in danger. As love of God and country is being and in many cases has been replaced with love of self, the decay has indeed continued. As we near the tipping point, it is time that we as brothers and sisters in Christ and fellow Americans, stand shoulder to shoulder against the forces that would destroy this wonderful country of ours. So, wear the red, white and blue proudly. Sing the anthem with enthusiasm and pride. Pray for our wonderful country and those who lead it, and do so in public. Let the world see that you are unashamedly Christian, and that you are proud of the nation in which you live. I am amazed when I think that simply writing these words of God and country will be considered radical by some; when to me they are just good old ordinary common sense: (A rare commodity these days). 
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 My momma was a lovely Southern Belle born and bred in the backwater of the Florida panhandle. She was beautiful in a country girl sort of way. With her emerald green eyes, jet black hair and lithe form, she could turn a head or two with no effort at all. I will never forget the light that came into her eyes when she spoke of those glorious days of youth when to be pursued by the local beaus was a matter of course. She was the talk of the town, what town there was, and the belle of the ball; and she loved every minute of it. Like most of the Southern Belles I have been blessed to meet and marry over the years she was a lovely combination of gentility and don’t mess with me. Like her mother before her, she had a heart of gold, a backbone of cast iron, the temper and tenacity of an irate bobcat and a smile that could disarm any number of desperados. The definition of a Southern Belle was my momma, and the southern heritage in her veins rang true; but like the Liberty Bell before her, my momma was a little cracked. She hid it well, but once in a while a discordant note would sound and the family would know that mom was in a mood; and that at the very least, something unique and perhaps, dare I say, disturbing was about to happen. Christmas dinner was often accompanied by such a discordant note. You see my mother had a unique, and to me at least, a startling take on Christmas dinner sometimes. Whereas most of the civilized world, that would be the South, had settled on ham or turkey for the entrée with mashed potatoes, butter beans, creamed corn, candied yams and the like for the sides; it would appear that my mother had attended the Andy Warhol School for the Culinary Arts and had other opinions. I kid you not, over the years we as a family enjoyed, or in my particular case endured, a vegetarian Christmas Dinner, a Mexican Christmas dinner, a broiled fish Christmas dinner, a cocktail weenie Christmas dinner and the crème de la crème of Christmas dinners, a steamed oyster Christmas dinner with a side of raw oysters for the, quote, “regular folks.” Now I can take a lot. I can; but when I entered mom’s house that Christmas morning for the annual Rowell family Christmas expecting to be greeted by the savory smells of roast beast and figgy pudding, only to be met with the pungent odor of oysters on the half shell enjoying a nice steam, my reaction was predictable if not pleasant. You see, I am very consistent in a few things. I don’t like change, and I have no love for oysters, raw or otherwise. To me they are gooey and creepy, squishy and grey. As a foodstuff, they are a sorry substitute for turkey and dressing, trust me. At the time of this surfside Christmas dinner, I was old enough to know better than to make a scene. After all I was a seminarian and student preacher and to fuss and cuss and fume just wouldn’t do. So I did the next best thing. I found a chair off by itself, sat down and pouted like a three year old. My momma, God rest her soul, spied her melancholy middle child, pulled up a chair across from me and shamelessly laughed at me. When she finally caught her breath she said with a grin, “You haven’t learned much in that seminary of yours have you?” I said “M’am?” Then momma looked deeply into my eyes and said: “Christmas isn’t about you Tone. You of all people should know that.” Later when she brought out the fried chicken that she had prepared for my Christmas dinner, I had to fight off the rest of the family like they were a pack of wild dogs. No matter though, it was nice to know that I wasn’t alone. A few years later, just before Christmas, my momma passed away, leaving the family lost and alone and rudderless for a while; and leaving her melancholy middle child heartbroken even to this day. Jane, my sister, and I were with momma when she passed; and as I felt her body relax beneath my touch, I breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the mother with whom I had been blessed. Odd as she could be at times, I could not have asked for better. Christmas can be a difficult time for some of us. I will forever be reminded of my mother’s passing as Christmas approaches. I am reminded as well of the poignant words of my mother all those years ago reminding me that Christmas isn’t about me; Christmas is about the amazing love that our Creator holds in His heart for each of us. So whether its turkey and dressing or steamed oysters, celebrate the Christ child this coming Christmas and rejoice in the love that your Lord has for you. Bon Appétit and Merry Christmas! Pastor Tony  |
AuthorTony Rowell Archives
December 2024
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