Freedom and responsibility

We have a lot of freedom in the United States of America, but it is being threatened by citizens who shirk their responsibilities. A society depends not on laws, but on individuals who observe certain morals and values.

A good citizen does not need a law to keep him/her in check. A good citizen will live a life exceeding the low expectations of most laws.

For some time now, it has been a trend in our society to blame someone other than the person who was directly irresponsible.

Fast food restaurants are blamed for people getting fat, tobacco companies are responsible for people getting lung cancer, bartenders are held responsible for the auto accident of an intoxicated patron, and teachers are held responsible for little Johnny not learning to read.

Let's take another current event; FEMA announced that 1.4 billion dollars in hurricane aid was distributed to people who either did not have it coming or who used it for things other than what it was intended. FEMA was blamed.

The people at fault were the ones who lied to FEMA to get the funds. People from all over the country saw an opportunity and went for it.

FEMA may have some issues, but they can't win. They were being blamed for not doing something sooner. They relaxed rules so people could get help more quickly. The sharks saw the opportunity and took it. I say hunt down every last one of the scum who got the money under false pretenses and make them pay.

Our society is in trouble when people think like this. What can I get for me? How can I get over?

Whatever happened to dignity and honor? Being honest is doing what is right even if no one will ever know. People who shoplift are part of the reason goods are more expensive, and lawsuits are one of the reasons physicians pay such high malpractice insurance premiums. Someone pays for the irresponsibility of others.

Just pay attention to the news and to conversations where social problems are being discussed. See if the individuals who are being irresponsible are being blamed or if it is someone else.

The Today Show had a segment this morning about a 10-year-old boy on a school bus who was beaten up by a 14 year old bully. The parents blamed the bus driver.

I know I am preaching to the choir here, but the crises our country faces would evaporate if individuals would just handle their responsibilities.

If you want to be a star at work, just show up on time; that will make you employee of the year. People are living down to the low standards of our society. Folks want a medal for holding down a job and taking care of their kids. Being an adult and a good citizen has inherent responsibilities. If you do them, then you are doing what is expected of you. No, it isn't easy, but it is satisfying and rewarding to meet your obligations.

If you want to be free, meet your obligations and responsibilities. Don't blame your misfortunes on other people, bad luck, or anything else. Accept reality as it is and work to change it more to your liking if it isn't already.

So many problems would not be problems at all if enough individuals decided to meet their obligations and responsibilities.

"I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul."

Until the next time
John Strain

A dog named Sandy

(I am taking a short departure from my life story to tell you about a dog named Sandy.)

One of the things about my job that I like is getting to know people over years. Our patients have a chronic condition and for that reason come to the hospital at least once a year. We get to know them and their families pretty well.

One of our patients, I will call him Robert, I have known for seven years. Robert has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder. It affects Robert's mood and his thinking. He used to live independently, but due to some health problems and a general deterioration of his mental condition, he has had to live in group homes.

One thing Robert and I have in common is a love for dogs. He had a dog named Sandy and every time I saw Robert, I would ask him how she was.

The other day, I got a call from a group home where Robert was staying. Their doctor was sending him back to the hospital so that his medication could be adjusted. Marty and I went to pick him up. We don't usually transport patients, but sometimes circumstances make it turn out that way.

The distance between the group home and the hospital was about an hour and a half. On the way back I asked Robert about Sandy as I always do. Since Hurricane Katrina, he had to move out of his apartment and he had to put Sandy in a kennel.

He hadn't seen her since the hurricane. Robert was in the back of the car and nodding off a bit when I had an idea. I told Marty we should take Robert to see Sandy next week. He agreed that would be a nice thing to do.

As we drove I said, "You watch, one of the nurses will probably say we can't take him out of the hospital due to some Medicare regulation." Marty agreed. Then we said, "Why not go see her now?"

We had to drive within 5 miles of the kennel anyway. I asked Robert if he knew where the kennel was. He wasn't quite sure, but he did know the owner's cell phone number. Everything fell into place. The owner was there and he gave us directions to the kennel. He said it was perfectly all right to bring Robert by to see his dog.

We turned off of the Interstate and made a few turns on country roads. Finally, about half a mile down o little gravel road, we pulled into the Bed and Biscuit Kennel.

We walked up to the main building and knocked on the door, which set off a barking chorus too loud to hear the words coming out of the mouth of the owner - Jim, who opened the door.

Jim was a portly man dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. When the barking died down his thick Maine accent jumped out at us. That kind of an accent is rare in these parts. We shook hands and made the introductions. Jim already knew Robert. "Sandy has been doing great," he said, "come on, let's go see her." Jim turned and walked down the corridor of dog pens toward Sandy's place and we followed him.

Jim had several rectangular buildings that were framed out in such a way to have individual dog pens on either side with a walkway down the center. Each pen housed one dog and they could go out a little doggy door to an outside pen anytime they wanted. They had it made. They could go out into a nice sized outdoor pen or come inside and lap up the air conditioning anytime they wanted.

We got to Sandy's pen and she looked pretty good for a 16 year old mixed breed dog. She had long hair and was about the size of a Labrador. It took her a few moments, but she started wagging her tail and wiggling around in a display of recognition.

Robert petted her and they had a nice visit.

As we stood there, Jim talked about some of the other dogs he was boarding. A lot of them were what he termed, "storm dogs." Some of the storm dogs are abandoned and he is boarding them, while others are being boarded by their owners until they can care for them again.

Some of the dogs were going to Petsmart on Saturday and go on the block for adoption. I hope they found a home. There were some cute dogs who just needed a loving home.

So Robert got to see Sandy and we all know she is in a good place. I doubt if Robert will ever be able to live in a place where he can keep her again. It is sad that the only contact he will have with her are these brief moments.

That's just the way it is.

Until the next time
John Strain

My life Part VIII: I finally get the girl

By the time I met Barbara I was getting used to having my heart broken. I dated quite a bit in college and in seminary. Some girls liked me, but I dumped them. Some girls I liked dumped me. Sometimes we dumped each other and sometimes we were just friends.

Hooking up has a lot to do with timing and mutual relationship expectations. I was nearing the end of my studies and I was looking for someone I could marry.

At that time in my life, I was a good student. I studied and made A's in most of my classes. I was a runner and ran lots of races. My first marathon was in February of 1981 and it was across the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway. I ran 5K's, 10K's, half-marathons, and darn near anything. I had amassed quite a t-shirt collection.

I was into music and at the time I listened to jazz and R&B. Later when I started working in hospitals and worked around black folks, they were often amazed how a white boy like myself knew so much about R&B and soul music. I listened to WYLD in New Orleans a lot and one of my coworkers in the 1980's granted me the title of honorary brother.

I was also into plants. My room was filled with African violets and all kinds of plants.

I worked on the seminary grounds crew and loved the physical work. I was taking care of a doctor's house about 5 miles away from the campus. I did his house, yard, and pool. He paid me pretty well and let me use the house a lot. He was often out of town and preferred I stay there in his absence. It sure beat the dorm.

I liked dating, because it was a way to enjoy the city and female company all at the same time. I enjoyed the dates and if a relationship came out of it that was even better.

I had seen Barbara around that fall semester, but hadn't really talked to her. In January though, we found ourselves in the same class. It was Dr. Freeman's Introduction to Counseling. I remember the room and I remember sitting next to her.

My journal entry for Saturday, January 23, 1982 reads, "I got to talk to Barbara today, she is my next target."

Then my entry on Tuesday, January 26, 1982 reads, "Today was the first day of class. . . I asked Barbara out today and she said yes, so we are going to the Chart House Friday night." (I didn’t waste any time.)

The Chart House was right next to the Saint Louis Cathedral and they served a delicious red fish, before red fish was famous. After a nice meal, we took a buggy ride around the French Quarter. After that we went to the Hyatt for deep dish apple pie and coffee.

She begged me to have sex with her, but I told her I didn't do that on first dates. Just kidding.

We had a few dates and I felt like she was losing interest. I quit calling her and wrote her off. That was February. In April, I received some mail from Barbara. It was a puzzle with a message written on the back.

I am lousy at puzzles. After trying unsuccessfully to put it together, I took it to my friends Nathan and Judy. Judy always kept up with my love life and I told her about the puzzle. That was all I had to do. In about 5 minutes, she had it put together. She wanted to see what Barbara had written on the back of the puzzle as bad as I did.

It said, "John, I miss "counseling" with you." The counseling was a reference to the class we were in together. That was all the encouragement I needed. I called her up and we went out that night. We were never apart after that and in October I asked her to marry me. On February 19, 1983 we were married. That was just over 23 years ago.

Thumbing through my journal, I noticed I inquired to the Navy and the Army about being a chaplain. The Navy said you had to have 20/20 vision. The Army didn't say “no” right off, but they were not encouraging.

I sent out resumes to churches for the position of pastor, but eventually signed up for a program called, Church Planter Apprentice. It was a 2-year program where you are sent to an area with the task of starting a church.

The whole time I was preparing for the doctoral program as well. I had taken the GRE and qualified for the program with my score.

The future was unknown, scary, and exciting. I was about to finish my studies and start a new life with Barbara.

Until the next time
John Strain

My life Part VII: The awakening of a dreamer

Maybe because I cannot see things as they are in reality so well, I create them in my mind's eye. In there, things have my own little twist to make them better or worse depending on my particular bent.

Little details escape my notice. Details that might give me a reason to abandon a dream or even take one up. The problem with dreamers is they wake up sometime and if they are not particularly light sleepers, they awake with a start.

This happened to me in the fall of 1981. I was about halfway through seminary. I had been preparing for the ministry for five and a half years and still had a year and a half to go. I felt ready then and another year and a half seemed an eternity to me.

On top of that, I was looking around and seeing folks preparing for the ministry who, in my opinion, were hypocrites. I saw people playing "the game" to get ahead. There were egos and politics in seminary amongst the next generation of ministers and those things should not have been there.

The institution itself had professors and administrators that, in my estimation, did not live up to their high calling.

I was an idealist. I was getting tired of preparing to do something and wanting to do it. I even saw some of the things I complained about in others, in myself. I was having a bit of a spiritual crisis. I wasn't questioning God or wondering if He existed. I was, however, a bit disenchanted and wondering that if all of this "stuff" were true, then why bother?

So I did what I do when I am full of questions and unsettled thoughts and feelings; I write. Here is what I wrote August 11, 1981

THOUGHTS ON A SEPTEMBER EVENING
WHILE WALKING THROUGH A GRASSY FIELD
IN NEW ORLEANS

The mammoth chapel building loomed high overhead on one side of me, while on the other side, the last signs of day were disappearing and the veil of night was approaching. I was out walking. As I was passing through a grassy field, several thoughts came to my mind. The first thought was the opening lines of a poem which I have yet to write.

I like the evening when the sun is going down,
And in my head thoughts of the day are spinning 'round and 'round.

I tried to continue that thought but another one came to me, this one somewhat deeper.

When I think to when I started; the zeal that I had
And look at where I am . . . my attitude is bad.

Then I started thinking in prose. "What happened?" "What went wrong?" I asked myself the question, "Where is God?" Before my senses had a chance to respond, my theological training answered for me. "Why God is everywhere. You can see him in nature. He created this beautiful evening. He can be seen on the wings of a fluttering butterfly or in the smile of a little child. He can be heard among the joyful songs of birds and felt during a gentle breeze. His wonder can be experienced as you watch a mother cat nurse her young. God is everywhere."

I know all of this, but I don't always feel it. Again my theological training takes over. "You can't depend on your feelings - they will let you down." I know that too, but maybe I haven't taken time to feel enough. Why do I feel apathetic? Why don't I care about my classes? Why does the thought of going to church not interest me? Why am I highly cynical and critical, when I am no better myself? Why don't I give a damn? And why doesn't it bother me to use the word damn? Have I lost God or have I lost myself? I listened, but my theological training said nothing.

I really do care, but I am not caring, so do I really care?

THOUGHTS THE NEXT DAY IN CLASS
AND IN MY ROOM AT MY DESK

I suppose that some of my frustration arises from observations I have made over the past seven years. I see church leaders and future church leaders playing a game. They use little magical phrases. Each one has been tried and tested for every situation in life. Tested for every situation except for perhaps reality and truth. Some would never admit they have doubts or bad days. Because once you come to Jesus He takes away all of your problems and affixes a permanent smile to your face. He is happy with you so long as you go to church at every opportunity, tithe, and tell everybody the four spiritual laws before you find out their name. You must also keep clear of booze, tobacco, and anything else you might enjoy. And by all means do not associate with anyone who might do these things. If you do get tangled up in these things, you must tell a group of people who have never experienced what you have, that you are sorry and you want to "get right." Of course these people never have to tell you that they too need to get right because while you were down they looked down their noses and hissed instead of helped. I could go on, but I do not want to sound bitter, because I really am not.

Although they do not teach us this game, but rather the fallacies of it - the game prevails. Many come playing the game and leave playing it better. Why? it is so obvious!

It would be so much easier to play the game, but the game is not real.

Still, the game can make you popular and comfortable. The game can give you a nice job, house, car, and kids. The game will even take care of you when you can no longer play it and must sit on the bench. I think the game can take care of almost everything. But the game is for a select group. It does not include truck drivers, disco dancers, or movie stars. And it does not include me. In its place, I suppose I play another game, which is no doubt another version of the former. I must never become satisfied.

So what? What does all of this mean? For me I think it has at least these future consequences.

If being a preacher means to be a team leader of a group of people in the game, being the community holy man who wears out of style polyester suits and white shoes, who prays at football games and luncheons, one who is equipped with all the answers and speaks with the mouth of God, one who must carry a note pad and pencil to write down sermon illustrations whild standing in line to buy a loaf of bread in the grocery store, using a special clergical language, one who must use every spare moment productively, like reading a book or a magazind, and constantly trying to think of a way to get more people in your church on Sunday morning than the Methodists of the Pentecostals; than I will never be a preacher.

But if being a preacher means going to a community to meet them, loving the people whether they go to your church or the Kingdom Hall, being a servant not a ruler, community minded, people oriented, and God powered (whatever that means), then I am to be a preacher.

I am ready now, but I must play the game, because it requires seven years of study or seven years of warming a seat anyway. I know the grass is not greener on the other dide, but my stomach is full from eating in this pasture and I must move on.

So maybe in reality, I haven't lost God or even myself. I think the game does that. I am with God and with myself.

(This paper is the result of my experiences with conflict. The conflict which arose from what I have been taught and told ever since I became a Christian and from that which I have seen. They are vastly different. In essence, I have not been struggling with my faith, only my participation in it.) - John Strain New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary

In some ways, I enjoy a good crisis like the one I wrote about here. I know I will get through it and I know I will have learned something in the process.

I made an appointment with one of my professors, Dr. Rogers. Dr. Rogers was an education professor and I knew he would read my paper and give me some good advice.

I still remember our conversation vividly. He sat across from me at his desk. His hands were clasped and he spoke deliberately. After validating some of my points in the paper he said this: "You are in a desert of sorts and you are looking for water. You have come to me so that I might show you where the water is, but I cannot do that. I can tell you that there is water and that if you continue to look for the water you will find it."

What I took away from that meeting with Dr. Rogers was that everything was OK. My thoughts and feelings were part of my education and how I dealt with them would be a further part of my education and development as a person and as a Christian.

I learned that answers sometimes come over time, they are not looked up easily or handed out freely. Answers are dynamic and individual. My thoughts were signs of growth and a developing faith.

So that is how I reconciled how I thought things should be and the reality of how things were.

My angst disapated and I got back in the groove. In only a month or two I was going to meet my wife.

I was thinking about a year and a half of the same old same old, but my life was going to take an abrupt change in just a few months.

I'll talk about that later.

Until the next time
John Strain

My life Part VI: Seminary Days

New Orleans was enchanting. I was taken by its charm. It gave me a sense of romance, mystery, and adventure. Sometimes at night, I would be walking on the campus and hear a riverboat whistle. My imagination would take off into some kind of Mark Twain era dream and for a few moments I was back in time.

New Orleans exposed me to sights, sounds, and smells I had not experienced before. I was where I wanted to be and I would be there for at least three years.

I made friends quickly and fell into a routine in quick fashion. I lived in Hamilton Hall and my roommate was a married guy with three children from the Lake Charles area.

Seminary had a different atmosphere from college. People were more involved in life and they came to school to do their classes and then head back to their church field. Some of us did not have churches. I was a first year student just getting my feet wet. I didn't have any connections.

I got a job working on the seminary grounds crew. I worked about 20 hours a week for $2.90 per hour. The work was physical and hard. I swung sledgehammers to break up concrete, dug ditches to run electrical lines, and all of the usual lawn work.

I didn't drive the tractors due to my vision, but I could push a mower just fine. Eventually, I became the small engine mechanic and spent most of my time maintaining and repairing the mowers, blowers, weed eaters, and chainsaws.

Before I entered college, we went to the Social Security office to see if there were any resources for folks with visual impairments. The man said I could probably get disability benefits. I was confused, because I did not consider myself disabled.

After filling out forms and a lot of other red tape, I was granted disability benefits. I got a monthly check in the amount of $250 or so and I was put on Medicare.

This money paid for my college education and was now paying for my seminary education. Deep down, I was embarrassed to be receiving a check on the third of each month, but I don't know how I would have made it during that time in my life without it.

After I graduated from seminary and began working, I notified Social Security and my benefits stopped. I was classified "working in spite of a disability." I know for sure though that I have paid every penny back several times over in taxes.

I was more independent in New Orleans than anywhere I had ever been. The RTA or Regional Transit Authority had a network of busses, ferries, and streetcars that would take me anywhere I wanted to go. The problem was reading the sign on the front of the bus. Several lines used the same bus stop, so you couldn't just hop on any bus. I got around it by checking with the bus driver when I was getting on. "Does this bus go to Canal Street." Some were very friendly and would give me a smile and a complete answer, while others would grunt a yes or no.

I loved the busses, they were my car. I could go when I wanted, stay as long as I wanted, and come home when I felt like it. Poor vision made me humble in many ways, but the New Orleans RTA gave me back a measure of pride.

I had chosen to go to New Orleans in part to explore a different part of the country. Other people and other ways fascinated me. I knew people at the seminary who were afraid of New Orleans. They came to the seminary campus, went to classes, and then left. They wanted no part of New Orleans.

It was true, New Orleans was a big city complete with crime and other social problems, but it was also a beautiful city and interesting in so many ways. I wanted to go places, meet people, and experience what New Orleans had to offer.

The seminary curriculum actually offered just such an opportunity. We were required to take a class entitled "Field Work." Part of the class involved visiting ministry sites around the city. We got to see what was being done to help and minister to the people of New Orleans.

Another part of the class was getting involved in one of those sites. I chose the New Orleans Rescue Mission. It was a men's shelter on Magazine Street one block from Canal Street in the Central Business District (CBD).

This was your basic "last place you would ever want to stay" kind of place. The residents were your stereotypic "down and outers," alcoholics, drug addicts, and the homeless with nowhere to turn.

The mission opened their doors at 4:00 PM. Men would come by and sign up for a bed. There was an intake process, and then they went up to the living area where they could shower. A meager dinner of beans and rice or something along those lines was provided for them and then they could mingle, watch some TV, or just go to bed.

In the morning, the men are fed breakfast, but are then required to leave at 10:00 AM, unless they are in the substance abuse treatment program. This is a standard requirement at most missions. The men are encouraged to find work not lay around a mission all day.

Every night there was a worship service. The director of the mission sometimes led the service, sometimes volunteers would lead, and eventually, I would do the service as part of my time there. The first night, though, I was just there to observe.

Here is a portion of the experience from my journal:

The mission was definitely different for me. I will have to get used to that sort of people; a sort of people that God loves as much as anyone else. It breaks my heart to see people so down and out; to need a place like the mission.

The bunkroom reeked of stale vomit that had been disinfected many times over. I am so fortunate - God has blessed me so much.

At the chapel service a laymen, Willie Smith who is a New Orleans bus driver delivered the message. I talked to him for quite a while - he is a good man.
Saturday, August 25, 1979

In a couple of weeks I would have an opportunity to preach to the group. It was no easy task to thik of something to say. What do you tell someone who has nothing? How do you tell them that God loves them even though, they are on the streets? How do you give them hope? Never mind these men no doubt had some hand in their own demise, but what do you say to help?

My journal mentions the text I used for that sermon, but no other details. I used Matthew 14:14, "And Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved with compassion toward them, and he healed their sick." There is certainly a four point sermon in that text.

I. Jesus went forth
II. He saw a great multitude
III. He was moved with compassion toward them
IV. He healed their sick

An important theological concept is the church being the body of Christ. Jesus' body is no longer physically here (on earth). However, His followers (His Church) function as He did.

The work of Christ continues through His Church. When I do something in His name, it is as though Christ is doing it. Those in the Church are His hands and feet. If we do not do the work, the work does not get done.

I was representing Christ at that mission and everywhere I went because I was part of His Church. If you are a Christian you can say the same thing.

The Bible talks about this concept in I Corinthians 12.

I had only been in New Orleans for a month, but I had experienced a lot. I was happy and I felt I was where I was supposed to be and doing what I was supposed to do. I had new friends and I was experiencing new things. The future was unknown, but in an exciting, can't wait for the next thing kind of way.

What else is there? I would find out.

Until the next time
John Strain