Spare the Rod

One need not be a Bible scholar to complete the above sentence by adding the words: “and spoil the child.” Further, my experience is that almost 100% of the people who quote this verse believe it advocates parents spanking their children. I used to believe that too. But not anymore.

My parents believed in spanking. I am sure my dad spanked me; yet I cannot recall any specific time that he did so. I do recall my mom spanking me (and at the same time three or four of my siblings). We were under strict instructions from her to have the dishes washed and the kitchen cleaned by the time she returned from using the “outhouse”. We had done neither, but were having a great water fight. She spanked us all (and a couple of us twice) when we just kept being silly.

The other spanking was dramatic. When I “misbehaved” in a front pew in church, mother picked me up. She carried me near the church wall where my shoes banged on each wainscot board as we exited. The spanking outside and my loud yelping were heard by all.

Earlier this week I asked my now 57-year old son if he remembered me spanking him. He remembered in some detail. I know I also spanked our number 2 son – and I am sure that I never spanked any of our other 3 children. In my first year of teaching, in frustration I spanked an energetic second grader. I now deeply regret that. I suspect he had attention deficit disorder. I didn’t help – and now I wonder if and how Billy Joe recalls with bitterness his second grade teacher.

I now believe that parents spank out of ignorance of better parenting patterns. And I question whether that Bible verse about sparing the rod even talks about spanking. In the 70’s and 80’s I was the Director of the internationally acclaimed Parent Effectiveness Training (P.E.T.) which gave parents alternatives to corporal punishment. P.E.T. was so broadly understood that James Dobson of Focus on the Family fame devoted an entire chapter in one of his books warning against P.E.T. and especially the P.E.T. idea that parents did not have to spank and yet could still raise responsible children.

My memory is (but I could not find a record of it) that I debated him on this topic at a public forum. I do recall conducting a word study on the Biblical use of the term rod. I noticed that Psalm 23 asserts, “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” More and more I saw “the rod” as an instrument for pointing the way; as a guide to green pastures and gently flowing streams. I saw my role as a father to be that of guide, model, teacher, and pointer. So now I try to never spare the rod inappropriately. I make very sure never to use it to hit anyone, especially a precious young child. My children share this conviction of mine and none of my eight grandchildren is spoiled.

Speaking Fees

I enjoyed (Is that the right word?) reading the latest report compiled by NEWWEEK on (among other things) the speaking fees earned by those it labeled “pundits and politicos”. Among its listings: Rudy Guiliani – more than $8million a year, Glen Beck - $3 million, Bill Clinton - $200,000 a year, Sarah Palin - $100,000 per speech. The article chose to not even guess at the appropriate figures for Rush Limbough or Sean Hannity.

All of this got me to reflecting. “Hey, I’ve given lots of speeches. How did I do?” I must admit that in all the courses I ever took at school to become a “duly certified teaching minister” of the church, the topic of appropriate speaking fees never once got a minute of attention.

I now regret that in my early years as I invited guest speakers (or spoke at one myself) at graduations, conferences, parent-teacher assemblies, I never once recall paying anyone a speaking fee.

That changed a bit in the early 60’s. I was home on leave from Hong Kong where I served as an education missionary. I was expected to and happily did travel all over the country giving talks, especially slide lecture presentations on the Lutheran Church’s work there in Hong Kong. It was expected that the hosts would provide room and board – and anything above that went to support our work. That was a joy. I used the generated gifts and fees to support school tuition for poor students in Hong Kong. Those investments paid very rich blessings for those students, the church, and the world.

Two other minor incidents around missionary speaking fees do now cause me to smile. One night a very gracious “little old woman” announced to me that she was grateful for my work and presentation and wanted to give me a personal token of appreciation. Before I had a chance to protest she slipped it to me: a nice package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum.

On another occasion the pastor of the group I was addressing asked me to make an appeal for the Mission Fund of our denomination as the congregation had fallen behind in its pledge. I did my best and protested when a woman insisted she give me her gift personally and directly. She insisted and pressed into my hand a crisp one-dollar bill!

Years later, in the late 60’s and 70’s, I worked for a district/synod of the church. It was official policy that we were allowed to receive (as extra personal income) any honorarium or speaking fees offered us. That resulted in a couple of incidents my colleagues Ron and Don and I recall to this day. Ron received as an honorarium a watermelon, which he brought home on his lap as he flew home. Don hit the jackpot the day his “fee” came in the form of 2 heads of freshly picked cabbages.

That makes it understandable why I once telephoned a church officer to report that a mistake must have been made in my honorarium. I couldn’t believe I was being paid $75 for just one morning of preaching and speaking.

Believe me, I report all of this above without anger, bitterness or resentment. The Church has treated me well. Organizations have since given me more than generous speaking fees and individual friends continue to be more giving and supporting than I deserve.

So, go ahead, Rudy, Rush, Glen, Sarah, Bill and all the rest. Enjoy the fees and what you can do with them. As for me, I’ll just smile and remember that when I once received a crisp one-dollar bill, I thoroughly enjoyed the 6-pak of beer I was able to purchase with that very special speaking fee.

Places PartV: Places to Pray

I was taught early in life that it was an important conviction of Christian teaching that one can pray anywhere, no exceptions. Early in life the places were the usual: at the dining table (always, although we used to have so many potatoes that we joked that if there were no potatoes on the table it wasn’t really a meal and therefore no table prayer was required.) I have memories of my mother teaching me to pray every night before going to sleep. The habit continues. I was once chided by a pastor after admitting that I had prayed over a four-foot putt; and I no longer do that. Even with divine guidance I missed them anyway!

Interestingly I was not taught to pray on my knees and to this day I almost never pray on my knees except at the Communion altar.

I do not really appreciate the truism that ”there are no atheists in foxholes”, but it has been my experience that great fear and anxiety do produce deep prayers. I recall more than a few of those situations: when hitchhiking and being driven by an very inebriated driver who had to take very intent aim to make it between the two sides of a narrow bridge, accompanying my wife in the plane across the Pacific while she struggled with a cerebral aneurysm, being shot at as I was fleeing Tian An Men Square in 1989.

There have been moments of extended immersion in blatant secularism that my soul ached for the non-material and the spiritual. I recall these feelings especially after a few days in Russia years ago, especially after my Leningrad guide fed me several days of official atheistic communist propaganda. It was more subtle but as palpable to spend two weeks leading workshops for secular psychologists in Germany and then finally finding my soul refreshed in prayer at the beautiful cathedral in Cologne.

Remembering the dead in thankful prayer is for me an important virtual. I love taking a candle on All Saints Day and slowly parading before God my parents and others in grateful remembrance. When I stood at the Punch Bowl War Memorial Cemetery in Hawaii I was so overcome with feelings that I was speechless. My heart remembered all those young lives. They died for my freedom as an American citizen, including my freedom to pray if I should choose to do that. I did.

Then there are moments that point to realities beyond that which can be quantified or measured by scientific definitions. I include watching our children being born and then holding each new child for the first time, or the view of the sunset across the Pacific, or a glorious bright morning sun making the freshly fallen Alpine snow glisten in all its Switzerland beauty.

There are so many times, places and situations in which my heart overflows and what flows out is prayer.

Places To Do things Part IV: Places To Have a Drink

Places to have a drink. Now that is a big and important subject. It begins at the very basic level of survival as infants feed at their mother’s breast as did I. It continues with getting pure water as we did from the well and from the windmill pumped water from the water tower. It includes the unparalleled pleasure of drinking from a special container in the 100-degree heat of a Texas cotton field.

Yet, at least in the English language, “ place to have a drink “ usually refers to a place to enjoy an alcoholic beverage or two. It is in that context that I want to reminisce a bit. For most of my childhood there were two places where my dad might have a drink: the two saloons in the two near-by towns of Walburg and Theon. Dad went there rarely and I went along even more rarely. I recall their starkness, with just a short bar and very few tables and no food being served. Two things made a deep impression on me. One was that I got to drink a strawberry soda (and it wasn’t even the time for the annual school picnic). The second was that even as kid I always sensed the respect shown my father. He was the parochial school teacher and everyone in the bar had at one time or another been his pupil; so they were conscious of serving or drinking with their “teacher”.

Since I went to a religious boarding prep school there was virtually no drinking. As we neared the age of 18 we discovered a Mexican restaurant that was not too diligent about checking age ID”s and sold Carta Blanca beer from Mexico to us on those very rare occasions someone had a birthday and the parents had sent a little money for a birthday party.

Things got more exciting and romantic once I got into college. When my Uncle Otto came into town in the loop in Chicago he invited me to his hotel “for a beer”. I will always remember that they did not ask me for an ID, and more important: Uncle Otto paid $1.00 for that beer. That was unprecedented for I had never heard of a beer costing more than 25 cents. In college I fell in love with Jane. We seldom had hard liquor for the simple reason that we had no money for it. However, on a special occasion we would find our way down to Circle Avenue in Forest Park and furtively enter Otto’s. The booths were dark and secluded. Bourbon and Seven-Up and love flowed.

In Hong Kong I learned the unequalled pleasure of a cold beer (or two) after a round of golf. My British friends drank it warm and sometimes mixed with ginger beer, but for me that cold San Miguel was ambrosia, especially at 17 cents a bottle! In Hong Kong I was also introduced to pub life at the Neptune Inn where Guinness was augmented not only with sausage and mash but also with darts!

Later in the States our annual church conventions provided a very cherished opportunity for a drink, song and fellowship. Carloads of fellows (yes, only guys) made it to a bar in downtown Ann Arbor. There we enjoyed beer but equally as much we enjoyed song, all kinds of songs from rowdy college ditties to Lutheran hymns. Everything was in beautiful harmony. In those moments theological differences and ecclesiastic policies took back seat to wonderful reverie, friendship and just plain good feelings

I also recall a time or two I really wanted a place to drink but none was available. I was working in Australia. Working very hard, in fact. I led workshops, dealt with very touchy legal issues, traveled all over, and did TV interviews. All without a drink, for my wonderful hosts from the clergy of the Uniting Australian Church did not condone the drinking of alcohol. Then came an evening when my hosts announced they would return late and I was on my own. “Perfect,” I mused. In Australia there are bars everywhere as Aussies really enjoy hoisting a few. So as soon as my hosts left I went out on foot searching for the nearest pub. Two hours later I trudged back home, having found not a single bar or establishment at which I might enjoy the first beer in a month! I survived.

Another and much sadder memory. At the Top of The World Trade Center there was a marvelous cocktail lounge named the Hors de ouverie. The MaitreDe was very professional and appreciative of tips to get the best table in the house. I loved to take visitors and especially visiting family there to sip a glass of wine and marvel at the spectacular views of New York. We all know what happened to that site and I mourn all of those consequences, the least of which is my loss of a place for a drink, and I honor the memory of all who did at one time or other stopped in there and found a wonderful place for a drink.

Now, I know of the potential evils of drink. I have seen the devastating effects of alcoholism. I know of its potential for ruining lives. Yet because of the pleasure it brings when used in moderation and especially with good friends I join the Psalmist in being grateful for a little wine, which gladdens the heart

One last place that has on occasion been a great place for a drink. That is when I have been on a very difficult assignment, have worked long hours, have finally finished my speeches or workshops, accomplished all my errands, cleared the hassles of airport security, gotten up-graded to first class and hear the flight attendant ask “Now sir, what can I get you to drink?” That’s when 35000 feet above sea level can be the best place of all to just have a little drink.

Places To DoThings Part III

Places to be Sick

My memories of sick people and the places to experience sickness begin with very early childhood. I was one of 9 children in my family. We had all the childhood diseases, sometimes several of us had the same malady at the same time. They included whooping cough, measles, chicken pox, mumps, red eye, and scarletina. Accidents were treated at home. For sore throats or coughs we had mustard plasters for the chest and fatty bacon wrapped around the neck. Since we tended to wear shoes only for church our toes and knees and feet were often scraped and we regularly stepped on glass, nails or really tough thorns. To prevent infection we soaked the appropriate body part in kerosene and then applied a famous “black salve” which allegedly had the power to draw out both any unwanted material in our body and any infections it may cause.

My first trip ever in any capacity to a hospital was when I had a ruptured appendix at about age six. It could easily have been fatal as antibiotics were still in the future. Yet I have some very pleasant memories of that illness, such as my “rich Uncle Frank” gave me a fancy little toy sail boat and a certain nurse told me she loved me and said she would wait for me to grow up and then she’d marry me. I believed her.

It slowly became clear to me that childbearing was not an illness but a natural process. It occurred at home-, usually overnight when I was sent to sleep in the home of a relative. Dr. Wedemeyer with his little black bag and a certain Ms. Schwaush were always in attendance.

Many years later I spent entirely too many anxious moments in emergency rooms of hospitals. The saddest was when I rushed to the hospital in Hong Kong to see one of our high school students (I was the principal) who had had a terrible collision between his bicycle and a truck carrying long iron bars. In those days the Hong Kong hospitals were overwhelmed. I found him lying on a stretcher on the floor of the emergency room. No one was attending him. I frantically rushed to a nurse and exclaimed my anxiety. “Oh,” she calmly replied ,”we have looked at him. There is nothing we can do. He will be dead in a few minutes.” And he was.


Too often my visits to hospital emergency rooms have been to attend to persons who had attempted suicide. One was to visit another Hong Kong student. She had swallowed poison after her father had locked her in a dark closet for 3 days as punishment for going to a tea room with another member of our church youth group She survived and is today doing very well. Several times I have been at the bedside of adults who were overwhelmed with depression and had decided to stop all sufferings.

I especially appreciated good hospital care when my wife Jane gave birth to our five children, even though on one occasion she had had to climb up three flights of stairs to get to the delivery room and another time I was told that the nurse wanted Jane to pull her knees together to delay the birth as no doctor was around. But it was also at a Hong Kong hospital where the personal physician to Madam Chiang Kai Shek happened to be in town from Taiwan, saw my wife and made a very difficult but accurate diagnosis of a cerebral aneurysm, without any use of an angiogram or other body imaging tools.

Now that I live in San Diego I still can’t believe the almost first-class resort-like atmosphere at UC San Diego Thornton Hospital, or the immediate excellent care I received at Scripps Hospital Encinitas where within hours of my arrival there I had a heart stent perfectly in place. And as I think of that excellent care I contrast the setting with that of Bethesda Hospital in Ambur, India where beds were even lined up outside the rooms. Yet it was also at that hospital where I was deeply impressed and forever moved by how caring medical personnel, loving family members and praying loved ones are among the greatest blessings one can have when it has been determined that one needs a place to go because he /she is sick.

Places to do things Part II

PLACES TO WORK

I guess everyone’s ideas about places to work are shaped by early experiences. Thus I imaged a small parochial school as the ideal place to work. After all, that is what my father did and I idolized everything about him. But there were other places that stirred my imagination. My uncle and aunt ran the general store and it seemed very attractive to me to be behind a counter, preferably next to the chewing gum and candy. The local bank was owned by my uncle and it seemed quite sophisticated and easy to be a banker, but that attraction was tempered by the threat of bank robberies. It was the 1930’s and to this day I believe that Bonnie and Clyde checked out that bank. I quickly ruled out imitating my cousin who ran the garage because I knew nothing about fixing cars. And the welding, plow sharpening and horse shoeing that was done at the blacksmith shop by still another uncle came close to frightening me.

During the summer we picked cotton, responding to my father’s urging “In the field by sun-up!” I knew I didn’t want to do that. It was too hot and my hands moved way too slowly. I suffered the embarrassment of even my sister being able to pick more pounds of cotton in a day than I. It wasn’t much better at my Aunt Elizabeth’s chicken farm where my main task was scraping and carting off chicken droppings.

It was good that another set of cousins ran a country store and butcher shop. Restocking shelves was quite easy. Milking the cows allowed a lot of time for quiet reflection. De-worming wounds in the skin of sheep helped create empathy for all four-footed living things; even though every Thursday found me assisting in the butchering of many of them.

Later I got promoted to being a waiter after being the guy who peeled bucket after bucket of potatoes and carrots at Wukash Brother Cafe just off the campus of the University of Texas. That brought me close to fame as I stayed at the same rooming house as Bobby Layne who later became a famous Detroit Lion quarterback

After graduation from college I had an incredible string of great places to work. St. Paul Lutheran School in Tracy, CA with less than 100 pupils but a great supportive bunch of parents. The opportunity to open a new school in Glendale, Calif. Then on to Hong Kong which took me to the most fascinating places in the world to work from squatter huts on hillsides to the Queen’s birthday celebration at the Governor’s mansion…always with the great kindness of supportive and competent Chinese colleagues. Then a year long USA tour giving a missionary slide lectures, but also taking time to witness and reflect on those 17 Lutheran schools for blacks in a completely segregated South. Later work just added places and opportunities for testimony, teaching, worshiping and work-shopping all over the world including places as divergent as Helsinki and Karachi. Still it hasn’t stopped. I just returned from a month of teaching opportunities in six cities in South China. And almost every Sunday morning gives me a wonderful platform for teaching; the Adult Class at Calvary Lutheran Church in Solana Beach, California.

As I today read the paper and listen to colleagues mourn their unemployment or even being stuck in a place of work offering little reward beyond take home pay I am forever grateful for all those varied and wonderful places to work which mark the important milestones in my life.

Places To Do Things (Part I)

I grew up in a small Lutheran congregation- owned teacherage (a teacherage is the home a congregation supplied for its parochial school teacher: just like it supplied a parsonage for its parson.) My home was a part of a several-acres complex which included a parish school, a parsonage, a teacherage, a cemetery, a couple of barns and two plots for vegetable gardens. It was located about a mile from the nearest town (Walburg, Texas) which advertised itself as having a “population of 87 friendly people and one old grouch”.

From my perspective this location provided everything I would ever need to live a happy and productive life, food for body and soul, good people, fun, a medical doctor who carried his little black bag as he visited those who needed him. Any food needed could be grown within walking distance of where it would be consumed, The church, its school, a country store and a saloon supplied all one needed for body and soul, sickness and health, fun and hope. All in all a great place to grow up. Yet I moved on from there to places never dreamed of even when I climbed that big tree in my back yard, stared into that vast Texas expanse of blue and pondered my future.

In the next several blogs I want to reflect on that place and the other places to which my life took me.

PLACES TO EAT As I was growing up eating was, of course, a necessity. But it was also more than that. It was family time, prayer time, teaching time, enjoyment time, family devotions time, social life time. My mouth waters at just the memory of my mother’s fried chicken prepared from roosters freshly slaughtered and fried in lard, mashed potatoes with country cream gravy, fresh corn on the cob, homemade bread, fresh peach cobbler. All of this washed down with sweet iced tea. Nero or Chinese emperors never ate better.

In the days of my youth there were other wonderful places to eat. Although I never ate in a restaurant until well into my teen years, special eating places included wedding bar-b-ques, Even during the depression there was a big feast in connection with any wedding. After the church ceremony we went to the farm home of the bride. There beer and bar-b-que and all the trimmings (especially home made noodles) awaited us, all in sequence. Beer was served by men adorned in white aprons, carrying pitchers and glasses. The bar-b-que, of course came from beef raised just for that wedding celebration and bar-b-qued in pits dug especially for the event. Occasionally the beef was supplemented by a hog or two and once in a great while even by mutton or goat meat; but goat was definitely a third choice. I don’t remember ever having chicken bar-b-que at a wedding as that was reserved for other special meals. The dining tables were long tables all arranged in a big tent made from farm tarpaulins erected especially for the wedding.

There was a definite sequence for seating and serving of guests. They were served in the following order: first the men and the wedding party, then the children and lastly the women. The reception would go on well into the night. As it got closer to midnight the chivary took place with the men banging on plowshares, oil drums, and any other metal that could be found on the farm. They were served their due portion of beer until it was time for “midnight lunch”. That was late at night and included sandwiches and cake. Somewhere in between all this the bride cut and served the wedding cake. No one went home hungry. (Maybe I was too young to notice, but I have no memory of anyone ever getting drunk at these events. Nor do I have any memory of any wine being served.)

The social life of the community centered around family events - baptisms, confirmations, birthdays, marriages, wedding anniversaries and funerals. Each had its prescribed food rituals. One thing was key: there must always be more than just enough. It was all home-made and certain residents became identified as the “best in their field". e.g. a family was famous for its bar-b-que, a woman for her angel food cake, another for her potato salad, another for bread and butter pickles, etc. Glorious!

Later years brought other and very different places at which to eat. I have moved to many wonderful places where having food was more than mere sustenance. Elegant places like Ghaddis in the Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong and Windows of the World in New York Twin Towers. Incredible ethnic food included samples from most of the eight major groups of Chinese, all over China, African chicken at the Pusada Inn in Macau, reindeer tartar in Helsinki, charusco in Porto Allegro Brazil, hearty beef borscht in Russia, marvelous hot, yellow mutton curry in Karachi and red curry vegetables in New Delhi, smorgasbords with touches that are just a little different whether in Denmark, Sweden or Norway, tapas in the street-side café’s of Barcelona, jaeger schnitzel in Bonn, and even tacos on the streets of Ensenada. What variety, sensations, subtle hints and mouth-opening flavors, each telling a bit about the place where it was being consumed, always inviting me to try just a little bit more. No wonder even heaven is described as the place where an endless feast will be available!