Fine Prints: November, 2006

Sins of the Fathers--How Do the Children Fix Them? November 4

The Twilight Zone November 11

Pastoral Confessions--1 November 18

Pastoral Confessions--2 November 25

Sins of the Fathers--How Do the Children Fix Them?

The faces of pale-faced Australians went a shade or two paler when an Australian federal court recently ruled in favor of an Aboriginal group concerning who should hold title to Perth, one of Australia’s major cities.

According to an article posted on the Internet, "The landmark judgment marks the first time that a large metropolitan area in Australia has been ruled to belong to the indigenous people who lived there before white settlers arrived . . . .

"The decision . . . could lead to similar claims over other cities such as Sydney and Melbourne."

John Howard, Australia’s prime minister, expressed "considerable concern," noting that the federal government would consider joining an appeal against the ruling. At this point the implications of the court’s decision are still being debated by journalists, the legal profession, politicians and everyone owning property in Perth.

While the Australian court ruling has no direct impact on those of us living in the United States, such cases, wherever they are, pose a moral/philosophical challenge: How do the children fix the sins of the fathers?

How do we right undeniable wrongs that took place in the distant past? How do descendants of the "wrongers" correct problems in which they had no part—yet from which they still reap the benefit of the wrongs committed? And what rights accrue to the descendants of the "wrongees," who still live with daily disadvantage because of the actions of the "wrongers"?

Do Christians have a social/moral obligation to seek fair and equitable answers to such vexing questions? Or should we simply tell the disadvantaged that all inequities will be removed in heaven—but that here they’ll just have to tough it out?

And how far back should we go in trying to right the wrongs of the past? Is there the moral equivalent of a statute of limitations?

How should we look at forebears who precipitated such injustices? Should we ignore the mistakes they made? Openly revile them? Both venerate them and acknowledge their moral/ethical blindspots?

Is it fair to judge people of yesteryear by the standards of today?

Can all wrongs be set right by simply handing out public money? How does one set a dollar value on the loss sustained by the indigenous peoples who were robbed of land on which major cities now stand? Should today’s Australians be forced to pay for the death and degradation caused by the white race’s diseases (such as STDs) and debilitating habits (such as alcohol)? Or is land theft the only sin for which tangible atonement is required?

I don’t know the answers. And I don’t think I’m alone in my ignorance. But a little wrestling with the problem would be in order. George Santayana sagely noted that those who fail to learn the lesson of history are doomed to repeat it.

Might does not make right. Nor does being a "savage" automatically deprive one of such things as land rights, as once assumed.

While the children may have difficulty fixing the sins of the fathers, the very least they can do—for the sake of their own children—is to candidly acknowledge the sins of the fathers for what they truly were.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

The Twilight Zone 

I recognize that the story I’m about to tell has a ring of unreality about it. But let me assure you, it’s true. There’s no embellishment. No interpretation. No filling in the gaps. Just the facts. Not even the names have been changed.

Back in the early 1950s my mother taught in a little rural, one-room, eight-grade country school in central Missouri. Mount Pizgah, the school was called.

A woman named Eleanor Russell taught in a similar one-room, eight-grade school a couple of miles away. Occasionally my mother and Eleanor would arrange combined activities between their two schools. At one such activity, my father, a farmer, and Eleanor’s husband, Howard, also a farmer, were both present.

"I had a really strange dream last night," Howard told my dad as they chatted. "I dreamed that you and I and a third man I didn’t recognize were nailing corrugated-iron roofing on the north side of the roof of a pole barn we were building for Barney Reddington." (Barney was the Oliver tractor dealer, so both men knew him.) "For some reason, the dream seems important. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind all day."

My father made some semi-dismissive comment about how dreams can be weird, and that was the end of the story. Well, almost.

Several years of drought left my father, Howard and a lot of other farmers in dire straits financially. My father decided to ply the carpentry trade he had learned years before. Howard needed work, so my dad hired him. And as fate would have it, a few years later Barney Reddington hired them to build a new pole barn.

One afternoon they were nailing corrugated-iron on the north side of the roof of the new pole barn when Howard shouted, "This is it! This is it!" My dad and the other employee, Morgan Sloan, looked at Howard as if he were crazy. "This is the exact scene I saw in that dream I described to you ten years ago. And Morgan is the man I saw but didn’t recognize."

My father clearly remembered Howard’s description of his strange dream all those years before. Needless to say, all three men were stunned as they tried to divine the significance of what they’d just experienced.

So just what was the significance? Ah, there’s the rub: I don’t have a clue. I just tell the stories—I don’t interpret them! Who do you think I am, anyway?!

While I don’t know the specific significance—if indeed there is any—I do believe that somewhere, somehow, buried in the structure of the universe’s make-up are laws of physics that supersede the laws of time and space and travel and material reality as we perceive them. Thus, God was able to say to Jeremiah: "Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you" (Jeremiah 1:5). That’s the essence of prophecy.

The whys and wherefores of a Missouri farmer having a "vision"—ten years before the fact—of three men nailing sheets of metal on a roof are well and truly beyond me. But I do think it suggests that we live in a far more complex universe than many have recognized.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Pastoral Confessions--1 

Author Robert Fulghum said that all he really needed to know he learned in kindergarten. My experience has been somewhat different: Most of what I know I learned by making mistakes. And some of the mistakes have been big—like once trying to flush out sinners by making a nighttime raid!

First, let me assure you that this happened long ago and far away. But not so long ago or so far away that I don’t still shudder when I think about it. It was a “defining moment.”

It all started when one of my parishioners told me that she was sure her husband was having an affair with a female church member who lived on my street. The wife said his car was routinely parked in front of the woman’s home until the wee hours of the morning. She said she had talked to the woman about her suspicions and had been laughed to scorn over her “ridiculous” concerns.

I told the wife I would go see the other woman and talk to her. I would point out that, irrespective of what was actually going on, it definitely gave the appearance of evil. It needed to stop for everyone’s sake.

The wife had different concerns, however. By the time she came to me, she’d given up on her husband. What she wanted was convincing proof of adultery so she’d be free to remarry once they got divorced. She was being advised by a retired pastor who’d come from an era when the church demanded proof of adultery before it would condone remarriage.

My contention was that if the car continued to be parked in front of the house until the wee hours even after I had urged the parties to cease and desist, that was evidence enough. On the other hand, if they cooperated, maybe the marriage could be saved. Repeatedly I pushed for talking directly to the alleged miscreants. My church member pushed with equal vigor for me to hold off until she had her ticket to remarry. And knowing how strict the church’s demands had once been—and still were many places—I understood her concerns, even though I didn’t share them.

One night, just after midnight, the phone rang. “His car is still in front of her house,” the wife said. “And the lights have gone out. You have my permission to talk to them.”

It was a mistake to act at that hour and in that context. But I was extremely frustrated—and half asleep. I had argued repeatedly that the way to address the matter was direct conversation. I was sick of all the sneaking around. So in my bleary-eyed state, I agreed to go visit with the woman. Who cared if it was after midnight and the lights were out? I finally had permission to do it my way—sort of.

The retired pastor was standing outside my door when I exited. “I’ll go stand in the field behind the house to see if he tries to escape,” he said. His comments were clearly a red flag. From his perspective, this was a raid, not a conversation.

I’m probably making a mistake even telling this story. Maybe I should stop right now. Anyway, let me have a little time to think about it. Then check back next week to see if I’ve decided to continue.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor

Pastoral Confessions--2 

In last week’s Fine Print I began a story concerning a major mistake I made as a young pastor—in which I inadvertently became party to a midnight raid designed to prove that a church member on my street was involved in an affair.

I had argued repeatedly that the way to address the matter was to talk directly to the alleged miscreants. The cheated-on wife, however, wanted proof of adultery so the church would allow her to remarry (having been so advised by a retired pastor).

One night, just after midnight, the phone rang. "His car is still in front of her house," the wife said. "And the lights have gone out. You have my permission to talk to them." I shouldn’t have done anything right then, but I was frustrated by the waiting and wanted to get the matter settled.

The retired pastor was standing outside my door when I exited. "I’ll go stand in the field behind the house to see if he tries to escape," he said. "And you’d better take someone with you—just in case there’s violence." That opened up a new specter I hadn’t considered.

Going down the street a couple of houses to the home of my head elder, I banged on his door, enlisting his services. He joined the raiding party—as bleary-eyed as I was.

Marching to the front door of the offending member’s home, I knocked loudly. A sleepy-sounding voice asked who was there. I identified myself. Eventually the door opened. When I asked where the man was, she feigned ignorance. I pointed out that his car was in front of her house. Then she "remembered" that he’d walked home.

While I had approached the house from the front, the retired pastor had stationed himself in an abandoned chicken shed in the field behind. From there he had a full view of the house but wasn’t visible himself.

Moments after I knocked on the front door, the man accused of adultery (who wasn’t a church member) quietly sneaked out the backdoor. Not wanting to miss out on the action, but not wanting to be seen, he made a beeline for the abandoned shed.

The speed and directness of his approach convinced the retired pastor that he’d been detected and was in imminent danger of assault. When the man entered, the pastor, cowering in the corner, pleaded, "Please don’t hurt me!"

Not having expected company, the man was more frightened by the voice from the dark than the pastor had been by his rapid approach. While I admonished the woman inside, the retired pastor and the miscreant hastily negotiated a non-aggression pact and then, together, watched the house to see what would happen!

Ultimately, both participants admitted to the affair, which was short-lived. The woman soon left the community, and the man more or less patched things up with his wife. Several years later I saw the woman at a campmeeting. She told me that although she had once absolutely hated me, with the perspective of time and distance, she’d come to realize that my motive had been to help.

But the end doesn’t justify the means. A good outcome doesn’t sanctify a bad process. So next week I’ll share in detail the real benefit that emerged from this bizarre life lesson.

Jim Coffin, Senior Pastor