Fine Prints: August, 2007

Word Power August 4

Fathers and Frowns--1 August 11

Fathers and Frowns--2 August 18

YOM HA-SHO'A V'HA-G'VURA August 25

The Subtlety of Discrimination August 31

Word Power

Words have power.

If you don’t believe me, ask Don Imus. He was at the top of his career one day and in the tank the next—all because of a few words.

I’m sure Imus still wishes he could rewind the tape and describe the Rutgers University women’s basketball team in slightly different terms. In fact, he might have nothing to say about them at all.

Unfortunately, words, once released, can’t be recaptured. Actors Mel Gibson, Michael Richards and Alec Baldwin would say Amen to that. And they’d be joined by Bill "I didn’t have sexual relations with that woman" Clinton and Richard "not a crook" Nixon, to cite a couple of even higher-profile examples.

Maybe that’s why Jesus said that a simple Yes and a simple No are the best way to talk (Matthew 5:37*). Going any further can get you into big trouble, quick-smart.

Maybe that’s why the Apostle Paul suggested that we’d be well advised to focus on the positive rather than the negative (Philippians 4:8).

And the biblical writer James couldn’t have been more graphic when he said: "Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole person . . . ." (James 3: 5, 6).

But words don’t have only negative potential. Think of the life-changing impact a few words have had.

When the socially rejected Jewish tax collector Matthew heard the words "Follow me," it revolutionized his life (Matthew 9:9).

Christian-killer Saul of Tarsus was transformed when he heard a voice straight out of heaven, saying, "Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?" (Acts 9:4).

Lying, cheating Zaccheus got a new lease on life when Jesus declared, "This man, too, is a son of Abraham" (Luke 19: 9).

Think about the impact on the woman caught in adultery when Jesus said, "Neither do I condemn you" (John 8: 11).

When the wayward son in Christ’s parable returned home somewhat tentatively, he was struck by the true meaning of grace when his father said, "Let’s have a feast and celebrate" (Luke 15: 23).

Mary and Martha’s sorrow turned to joy when, in front of their brother’s tomb, Christ said, "Lazarus, come forth" (John 11:43).

Even Jesus’ life was touched when, after His baptism, He heard His Father’s voice from heaven, declaring, "This is my Son, whom I love; with Him I am well pleased" (Matthew 3: 17).

Proverbs, recognizing the power of words, declares that "a word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver" (Proverbs 25:11).

Words have their limitations, certainly. And words aren’t the only component of human communication. But words definitely play a more crucial role in human life than many realize.

The childhood taunt that "sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me" has it all wrong. Words can hurt.

However, the good news is that words also can help. And words can heal. Especially, "The Word" who became flesh and dwelt among us, revealing what God the Father is truly like.

*All scripture quotations are from the NIV.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Fathers and Frowns--1 

I grew up in an ultra-conservative religious environment. My father had strong beliefs concerning what constituted modest attire. From his perspective, shorts were out. And any form of sleeveless shirt was immodest, whether worn by a male or a female. Needless to say, mixed swimming (males and females at the same time) was also verboten.

Since I attended a small Adventist high school with a rag-tag sports program, wearing my sweatpants throughout a basketball game or during a track or field event more or less solved the no-shorts problem. Nobody seemed concerned if I wanted to weigh myself down with unnecessary baggage.

My senior year, however, we had a new physical education teacher who wanted to change the school’s rag-tag image—especially for our "All Star" basketball team, which took on any challengers from outside who wanted to play us. (We didn’t compete in an interscholastic league.)

I loved basketball. I was captain of the All Stars. I was an exceptional rebounder. I also was a good scorer as long as I was close to the basket. But my prime asset was endurance. When the other team was beginning to drag, I was just getting warmed up. The bulk of my points consistently came in the second half. I never slowed down.

The new PE teacher decided it would improve our morale, our image and his job satisfaction if the all stars had uniforms. So he scrounged money from somewhere, and we got beautiful blue uniforms with matching knee-high socks. I proudly wore number 22. The uniforms indeed revolutionized our appearance.

Since my father wasn’t interested in sports, I considered myself reasonably safe wearing my new outfit. And the first three or four outings of the uniform went uneventfully. Then our school had its annual alumni homecoming. The alumni game was the high point on the school’s sports calendar.

Because our family had lived near the school for years, my father knew a lot of the former students and faculty who had come back for the event. And being a friendly person, he sat around visiting with them after the Saturday-night program.

I faced a dilemma. I needed to be out warming up for the game, but my father was still in the gym. I knew how strongly he would feel about my new basketball uniform. So I loitered in the sports-equipment room, hoping—and, yes, praying—that he would leave. When he finally did, I breathed a sigh of relief and rushed out, determined to win. Which we did. Resoundingly.

When nothing was said the next morning, I thanked my lucky stars that I’d dodged the bullet. But I wasn’t to be so fortunate. A day or two later, while we were traveling to a job site in our old pickup truck, my father said, "I noticed that the other boys were wearing matching basketball shorts as they warmed up. Do you wear them, too?"

My hands were suddenly clammy. I could feel sweat running down my back. My mouth went instantly dry. My throat tightened. I actually felt faint. But I turned to my father and . . .

Since I’m out of space, you’ll have to tune in next week to find out what happened next.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Fathers and Frowns--2 

In last week’s Fine Print I told about my father’s strong feelings about modesty—which included the wearing of basketball shorts and tank tops—even for guys. So I didn’t wear them. (You might want to check out "the story thus far" before you continue. When you get home, go to www.markhamwoodschurch.org. Click on "Fine Prints." Then click on August 2007, then Fathers and Frowns—1).

When a new physical education teacher got uniforms for my Adventist high school’s "All Star" basketball team, of which I was captain, I conformed. But I played each game in the fear of my father finding out.

While we were traveling to a job site in our old pickup truck a couple of days after the alumni homecoming game, my father, who had left just before the game, said, "I noticed that the other boys were wearing matching basketball shorts as they warmed up. Do you wear them, too?"

My hands were suddenly clammy. I could feel sweat running down my back. My mouth went instantly dry. My throat tightened. I actually felt faint. But I turned to my father and said—barely loud enough to be heard: "Yes. I do."

"You know what I think about that, don’t you?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "I know. I guess you and I see it differently." I couldn’t believe that I was saying such a thing to my father.

I know that to the average reader, what I’m describing is surreal. I mean, what’s the big deal about whether or not you wear shorts and a tank top when you play basketball? But when you know how strongly your father—whose approval you desperately seek—feels about such behavior, it’s wrenching to have to tell him that you’ve wandered from the path he has so clearly laid down. I felt as if I were suddenly in the shadow of his frown.

I don’t tell this story to put down my dad. I respected him while he lived, and I respect him now that he’s dead. But the exchange that day was a defining moment in my life.

The break I made is one a lot of us need to make, and maybe in a number of directions. To a great degree, all of us are products of our environment—our home, our school, our church, our community. We’ve all been programmed—sometimes rightly, sometimes wrongly.

All of us conform to certain things we don’t personally believe in—but we conform because it’s easier not to rock the boats of those who are important to us. The problem comes when we’re forever looking over our shoulder to make sure the important others in our life don’t see us doing what we think is quite all right to do, but they might think is wrong.

Too often we have a similar relationship with God. We’ve been told that He expects certain things that, quite frankly, don’t make sense to us. Yet we conform because we fear having to face the frown of our heavenly Father.

Scripture tells us that we should be able to give reasons for what we believe. Is it possible that God expects us to be equally forthright when we don’t believe something?

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

YOM HA-SHO’A V’HA-G’VURA

[The following was excerpted from a pastoral letter written by Rabbi Rick and Elissa Sherwin to Congregation Beth Am, Longwood, FL.]

This year, in anticipation of YOM HA-SHO’A V’HA-G’VURA (The Day to Commemorate the Holocaust and Acts of Courage), I read several articles examining the role of the Vatican during the years of the Holocaust. There is no question that the Vatican was quite aware of the Nazis’ intent to make Europe—and eventually the world—"Judenfrei" (free of Jewish presence). For years, I have been disappointed that such a powerful religious leader would not fulfill the charge of Leviticus 19:16: "You shall not idly watch the suffering of your neighbor."

Historians passionately debate the nature and extent of the Pope’s silence. They recognize that there is no objective truth in the reporting of history. Before rendering a judgment on the Pope and his role during the Holocaust, each researcher and editor consults primary historical documents, then addresses such non-objective variables as political context, pastoral priority and Pius XII’s personality as a human being.

On any aspect of life, Jewish Tradition encourages us to analyze the variables and come to a conclusion, then to question our own conclusion with an open mind. Some conclusions are not open to debate: genocide and ethnic cleansing are wrong. Period. Destruction and murder in the name of God are wrong. Period. Most conclusive judgments, however, even those evoking strong emotions, should be subject to further thought and examination.

In our personal lives as well, we must be careful to consider that there might be more than meets the eye before pronouncing judgment. We might walk away from someone with the conclusion that she or he is cold, withdrawn, aloof, without considering that she or he might just be having a bad day, might be preoccupied with other matters, or might not feel well.

We tend to make judgments of others on the basis of what we would do if we were to face a similar experience, all things remaining equal. As we all know only too well, things rarely remain equal! We should not assume that we know for sure what motivates one to speak or to remain silent, to be active or to remain passive.

Edna Ferber, an early 20th-century Pulitzer Prize winning author, offers this insight: A closed mind is a dying mind. We owe it to others—and to ourselves—to avoid making "objective" statements when judging others, and to indicate that we are open to considering other perspectives. We might preface our conclusions with such phrases as:

Based on these variables…

My understanding is…

On the basis of what I see…

I agree with the perception that…

In cases where a matter is clearly subject to interpretation and personal perception, we might consider appending a very simple phrase: "I could be wrong."

Shabbat is an effective reminder to step back from the world of certainty and to re-study, re-think and re-examine our previous conclusions and judgments. We need to open our minds to see the people and experiences in our past through a new perspective. Even if we feel sure about something, we might want to add one phrase to our judgments: "I’m willing to give it some more thought."

Shabbat Shalom.

The Subtlety of Discrimination

The other day I was reading a professional publication for clergy when I suddenly went into slow burn. And it wasn’t about anything theological.

You see, I have a pet peeve—several, actually!—about publications that provide details of letter writers’ city and state of residence—except when the letters are sent by email. So we read about "John Smith, St. Louis, Missouri," and "Bill Jones, via email."

Now I have no problem with editors having a fixation about where people reside. Nor do I have a problem with their having a fixation about how people choose to send in their letters. But fairness demands that all letter writers face the same fixation. Are we to assume that people who utilize email have no city and state of residence? Or that it’s impossible to provide such information via email?

As I was contemplating this widespread double standard, it struck me that we have here a classic example of how discrimination begins, takes root, becomes the accepted norm and rarely is questioned.

For decades, publications had included letter writer’s name and city and state of residence. But with the advent of email, some editor somewhere decided to highlight how technologically advanced his or her publication was. So a trend started. Belief in email’s superiority caught on like a contagion. Letter writers who used email received special mention (which doubled as a vehicle for self-congratulations for the publication).

The trend continues. Probably a majority of publications still give special acknowledgement to letter writers who send in their comments via email. But why? The novelty is gone. It didn’t make sense then, but it definitely doesn’t now. Email is ancient history.

Could it be that editors include the city and state of residence of snail-mail letter writers so it will be easier for roving bands of anti-Luddites to track them down, berate them, beat them and vandalize their mailboxes because they’re not getting with the program technologically? (Britain’s "Luddites," led by Ned Ludd, violently resisted the mechanization that came as a result of the Industrial Revolution.)

No, the reason the practice continues has nothing to do with Luddites or their antagonists. The explanation is simply this: At some point in the past someone decided that email was superior—as were those who used it—and therefore deserved to be treated differently.

There’s no rational basis for such an assumption—in just the same way that there’s no rational basis for assuming that men are superior to women, or whites are superior to blacks, or Americans are superior to everyone else, and the list goes on.

But somewhere along the line, an idea creeps in. Others jump onto the bandwagon, and a belief becomes widespread. More frightening, though, it becomes entrenched and unexamined. We just take it for granted.

In correcting the inequitable treatment of letter writers, I suggest that indicating how the writers delivered their message to the editors could be a lot more interesting than telling where they reside.

And if we’re going to give accolades for one form of delivery or another, I think mental telepathy should get prime mention—if you’re picking up on my train of thought.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor