Jeremiah's Road

2006-03-15T05:54:00.000-08:00

HERMIT'S PEAK...

Everyone thinks I’m crazy, driving over twelve hundred miles in these two days off from work – you might say just an average weekend. Being in the marine industry and open for business seven days a week, I occasionally get two days off in succession, usually a Sunday and Monday– a somewhat rare treat. Most people never give it a second though, having two days off each and every week, usually Saturday and Sunday. It’s been a long time since I have experienced that joy. But, I take what I can get.

Last evening – Saturday, our busiest day of the week – I left work at the normal hour of six p.m. and hurried home to load up. Gloria had shrimp and crawfish iced down as a quick snack for us to enjoy together. The snack was wonderful and Gloria had also done this: my car was gassed up, oil checked, and everything that I had laid out was loaded in the car; a cooler loaded with fresh fruit of the season and a variety of canned drinks, well iced, was just behind the seat; and most importantly, a large thermos filled with steaming, hot, black coffee lay in the passenger seat along with the topographical maps of the National Forest, and Pecos Wilderness area near Las Vegas, New Mexico.

The long winter was over, even though winter is so very mild here in North Texas as to be down right boring; far better it would be, to have deep snows and freezing temperatures; or balmy, island breezes and sandy beaches. But no, there have only been slightly cold, damp, and dreary days from November to April.

Ah, but spring is finally here, the snow has begun to melt in the high mountain passes of the western mountains, and the aspens call. It is hard to go more than a few months without seeing the aspens, which do not grow below seven or eight thousand feet above sea level. I think that here, we are all of six or seven hundred feet above the sea. The sea - beautiful, mysterious, blue, and deep - draws many to its edge, and ever further. I prefer, however, some height between her and myself. I need to see the aspen leaves – lime green, tender, and new this time of the year, later turning into gold– tremble and weave their spell. It’s been too long.

At six forty p.m. exactly, with a mouth still full of shrimp and crawfish, I was on the way out of Dallas at last, headed with my backpack to the Pecos Wilderness and a big rock on Hermit’s Peak, at ten thousand two hundred and fifty feet, looking straight down three thousand feet to the eastern plans of New Mexico and east to Texas far beyond. I hoped to sit on that rock - six hundred and twenty miles distant – for a few hours.

Most people, I suppose, wouldn’t think a two-day weekend long enough for a twelve hundred mile drive and a several mile hike to the top of a mountain. But I needed to see some aspens, and perhaps some elk, and most assuredly, camp-robber jays and mountain chipmunks; and of course, some quiet solitude sitting on that rock. This will be my only two-day “weekend” during June.

I figured this: there would be a full forty-eight hours, which would leave some time to spend with Gloria when I returned home on Monday night. Those precious forty-eight hours I broke down this way: Driving at sixty-five miles per hour, the round trip would take nineteen hours on the highway, including gas stops; another five hours would be spent sleeping in the car somewhere on the road, probably at an all-night truck stop, with plenty of lights for safety, most likely in or near Amarillo. That would leave a full twenty-four hours to be in the wilderness, in the mountains, in the aspens.

There are only two times of the day one should drive across the high rolling planes of the Panhandle of Texas: early morning and late afternoon. Early morning is the best time during the full moon of early fall – which in Michigan we used to call the Harvest Moon; in Texas, it is know with historical reason, as the Comanche Moon.

Even though this trip is in June, I love to start west on Route 66 early in the morning, before dawn, during early fall: as I drive over the rolling planes and down into the draws and breaks, roll down the window and let the autumn breezes fill the car, I drink hot coffee from the thermos and imagine that the Comanche are riding again. This was their country, all along the Red River.

It was during the bright, full moon of early fall every year in the late eighteen hundreds, that the colorfully, war-painted Comanche braves of the high planes, sometimes in groups of hundreds, rode south at full speed, raining horror and terror on the ranches and settlements in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas and northern Old Mexico. They plundered the settlements, taking many prized horses, treasures, and captives back north. Houses were burned and men and boys killed. Women and girls were raped and kidnapped. All of this seems so unjustifiably horrible, but then, this was their land before the white man’s idea of manifest destiny spread westward to the Pacific Ocean.

If driving across these Comanche lands must be done in the late afternoon, then it should be done in summer. The seasonal thunderstorms are more spectacular here than anyplace I have ever driven. The open landscape is filled with deep, dark blue and bruised-purple thunderheads outlined in white, which tower, cloud upon cloud, upward forever – thousands of feet.

The setting sun provides a full spectrum of gorgeous colors as a backdrop to the climbing, billowing storm clouds. One can only guess as to the terror these beautiful, yet deadly, storms held for the pioneers in their creaky wagons rolling ever so painfully slow across the open planes with no place for shelter, other than under the torn canvas on the iron hoops of their prairie schooners.

These planes are lonesome – mostly used up. Great cattle ranches and cattle drives of the eighteen hundreds - along with time, wind, and rain – took away the great prairie grasses that once stretched from horizon to horizon; they grew as tall as a man; and of course, gone too are the great herds of those great shaggy beasts, the American bison.

This is the country of Comanche Chief Quanta Parker, Col. Charles Goodnight, the renowned cattle baron, and Pulitzer Prize winning author Larry McMurtry. When driving on U.S. Highway 287 heading west – with day breaking, the Comanche Moon descending, and the dry winds filling the open planes, I imagine - instead of the now ubiquitous mesquite and cactus – tall, golden-waving grass, herds of shaggy buffalo, and Comanche braves riding south on swift, painted war ponies.

It was almost mid-night, the dry air of the high planes getting colder, when the lights Amarillo, capital of the Texas Panhandle, came into view. I pulled into the well-lighted Loves (twenty-four hour) Travel Center, put the seat back, pulled on the fleece throw, and slept for four and a half hours.

It was quiet and peaceful in the old historic plaza of Las Vegas this morning; I arrived about church time – it’s Sunday morning – and all the old, charming churches seem to be filled. Ancient trees surround the gazebo in the center of the plaza just across the street from the old Plaza Hotel. It was on this plaza in eighteen fifty-nine that a U.S. General, leading a ragtag army of Texans, climbed to the roof of an adobe house and claimed the territory of New Mexico for the United States, liberated from Mexico. This now peaceful plaza was the scene of many wild times in the mid nineteenth century, Las Vegas being one of the most notorious towns of the western frontier.

Leaving Las Vegas, it was a sixteen-mile drive up the beautiful canyon to the National Forest, past imposing Montezuma’s Castle, home of the Armand Hammer United World College; past the many hot springs; and through the tiny Spanish villages of Gallinas and El Porvenir to the El Porvenir Camp Grounds.

I had seen the shear rock face of Hermit almost one hundred miles away as I turned off Interstate 40 and headed up the long sloping plateau to Las Vegas, at almost seven thousand feet. I could image the reverse view – the view from atop Hermit. Driving from the plaza over the mountains and through the valleys, I constantly caught inspiring views of the rock prow, thousands of feet above the quiet farms and villages of the Spanish, who have lived here for many generations. Their horses graze peacefully beneath the imposing rock face, in small pastures bordered by cedar fences.

In the middle of the pleasant, pine-shaded campground, there is a trailhead to Hermits Peak, Beaver Creek, Lone Pine Mesa, Elk Mountain, and the many trails, which climb and meander through the 250,000-acre Pecos Wilderness in the Santa Fe National Forest.

The Forest Ranger, in answer to my voiced concerns, said my car would be safer if I paid the six-dollar fee and parked in the campground, rather than at the actual trailhead; I did. The Ranger also warned me about the heavy thunder and lightening which crashes and flashes down unmercifully most every day now, especially in the afternoons; but it seldom rains; the lower areas are in drought condition, with rain falling only in the high forests above eight thousand feet. I thought of those words all afternoon, under the strain of a heavy backpack and an increasingly steep trail.

In the lower pine forest on the ridge above the campground, the air was extremely dry; it had a heavy, hot, burnt smell. It hurts to see these valleys so brown and the mountain trout streams and springs almost dry – plenty of great thunder and lightening, but little or no rain. I think of Willa Cather’s classic book about the Southwest, “Land Of Little Rain”.

The forest fires of this Southwestern drought year are still burning throughout New Mexico. I have never seen this state so dry and the thought of a possible fire in this area of the Santa Fe Forest suddenly brings the situation in sharp focus. Hiking upward, I imagine the bad scene of being trapped by fire at the edge of the three thousand foot escarpment of Hermit’s Peak; but of course I continue on up the steep, dry path with thunder booming over the canopy of the dry, brittle, lodgepole pines.

Forest Trail 223 is not all that long, only a few miles, but the upper reaches - above the relatively easy first two miles on the gradual ridge past the campground – is very steep and rocky; the sharp switchbacks seem interminable. Thankfully, at the extremely steep switchbacks, the rangers have installed wooden handrails; otherwise you reach for the rock of the next step with your hand, clawing and pulling by hand, while pushing with your feet.

The elevation at the trailhead at El Porvenir is seven thousand five hundred feet and the United States Geological Survey marker on top of Hermit is embedded in Granite at ten thousand two hundred and forty feet. That’s a total climb of almost three thousand feet in only four miles. It took me almost four hours this afternoon before finally coming out of the forest onto a rock shelf overlooking the eastern planes below.

From that open ridge, it is still some distance, perhaps half a mile, on up to the peak. But the walking is much easier now, as the trail goes through thick, dark, cool aspen groves where the elk live in the summer. In sharp contrast to the drought conditions below, there is still lush grass in these high meadows shaded by the big aspens.

Along this portion of the trail, every few hundred feet someone has constructed crosses made of aspen logs. These religious symbols are placed here, as in many high areas of New Mexico, by a mysterious, secretive and deeply religious order known as Penitents. As the trail levels out and the trees thin, the forest opens to a vast, beautiful mountain meadow filled with grass and wildflowers.

A short walk through the meadow brings me to the edge of the Hermit’s Peak escarpment, dropping sharply away, three thousand feet, to the rolling foothills below; and the splendid views of the eastern New Mexico planes; and through the distant haze, West Texas. A final cross at the edge of the precipice has words carved into the wood. One side reads, “Viya con de Dios 1992” (Go With God), and the other side, “Hermits Peak 10,250”.

This afternoon, standing on the edge of the big rock, even before dropping the forty-five pound backpack, I looked off to high, brown planes in the Northeast where the ruins and remains of US Fort Union stands at the edge of the old Santa Fe Trail. The old wagon ruts of the one hundred and fifty year old trail from St. Louis to the territorial capital are still visible.

On my desk back home in Texas, are several pieces of broken, colored glass, white pieces of pottery, and round pieces of thin, rusty tin; they laid in the grass and ruts of the Santa Fe Trail for over one hundred years. Looking far down on the high planes I can readily imagine the long lines of travelers, adventurers and frontiersmen stretched out on the trail across the rolling open country, four thousand feet below where I set up the orange Early Winters gore-tex tent. I remember that one of my childhood heroes, Kit Carson, was the commander at Fort Union.

It’s now evening in the mountains and there are dark shadows back in those tall, brooding aspens where I think I heard elk a short time ago. The tent stakes are set firmly, the candle lantern hung from the low peak, and every thing put in its place. I haven’t used this little one-person tent in several years, as I have newer ones. This was my first tent.

The Early Winters tent was purchased back in the early seventies, nearly twenty-five years ago, when we lived on Shennandoah Road in Hickory Hills, North Alabama. My friend, Carl, and I had planned a backpacking trip – the first for both of us – to the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee.

That winter, I had surgery and then Carl had a much more severe surgery. When spring came Carl was still not in shape for the trip, so I went solo – alone on my first extended trip into the wilderness.

My first night deep in the wilderness was spent in this same small, orange tent, on the Camp Fish prong of the Little River high above Gatlinburg, Tennessee where I finally came out of the forest. I will not forget that night, listening to the whisper of jets thirty thousand feet above my sleeping bag; and what I totally believed to be the padding sounds of a big black bear near my tent. I could scarcely breath. In the morning after a very long night in the dark mountains, I did see bear scat near the tent. It was large and looked very fresh!

Back in New Mexico, the orange tent being secure, I took the food bag, water bottle and camera over to the edge, and found a comfortable, secure seat on the big rock; this is what I came for; my feet are only inches from the shear face. This is where I want to be for the next few hours.

Now it’s almost nine-thirty and the last of the evening, purple light is fading from the darkening planes below. The wind is raging and the thunder is growing louder, but reading a book by one of my favorite authors, Rick Bass, I am growing sleepy, laying in the familiar comfort of the blue goose-down bag.

A short time ago, on the rock I now claim, I ate chicken from a tin can, Ritz crackers, and macadamia nut, white-chocolate-chunk cookies – which I shared with my new fearless friend, a mountain chipmunk. The purple, black, and blue storm clouds dancing across the desert added color and great drama to the evening meal, at a rock for two.

In a moment of sudden stillness, the wind abated, and we heard the grace notes of a canyon wren sung on the familiar descending scale – somewhere in the rocks just below our dining area; and too, coyotes and elk back in the dark, foreboding aspens. There is no song with more grace, than that of the tiny canyon wren, a symbol of all things wild, beautiful, and free. David Brower once said this:

“I would have no use for pearly gates and streets of gold if there were no canyon wrens there.”

As a climax to the wondrous evening, a small, dark, ominous cloud moved rapidly toward my perch on the rock, directly at eye level. The suddenness of its appearance somewhat alarmed me; it almost seemed like an apparition, a message, something spiritual…that was enough, I retired to my tiny Early Winters tent before determining the destination or the message of the cloud/apparition.

Sometime during the night, I awoke and became aware of the stillness – the raging storm had brought no rain, only thunder, wind and lightening across the open skies – after the dry storm. Climbing out of the warm bag I discovered clear, pre-dawn skies filled with numerous stars and a new moon high above the tiny points of man-made light far below in the villages tucked within the canyons.

The soft pink glow in the east, over Texas, came early this morning – five a.m. at this elevation. I hurried and folded the tent, stuffing it, the blue bag and all the gear in the North Face pack. Now, with my Sierra Cup filled with strong and black instant coffee, I’m back on my rock, watching the sun rise over hundreds of miles of Eastern New Mexico.

When the sun is a little higher, I’ll stuff the cup and stove in the pack, throw it on, hurry down the steep trail to the car and drive back to Dallas; I’ll be back at work tomorrow, thinking of aspens, elk, and the grace notes of canyon wrens.

2006-03-12T11:11:00.000-08:00

CHURCH...Like millions over the world we "went to church" this morning. We spend a lot of thought about the proper church to attend.

We know that "going to church" is different from being the church, the church which the Christ established, which includes all those who have decided to follow him. But we do indeed go to church houses of different sizes, shapes, colors, and nationalities.

A few days ago an old friend from "up North" called. He asked which church we attend in Dallas and I sent him the following: a rambling, unstructured, and somewhat "stream-of-counsiousness" story about our chosen "church house".

COUNSEQUENCES, OR WHY PRESTONCREST...
Gloria and I are so very fortunate; every Sunday we are privileged to attend a wonderful church here in Dallas and listen to great, inspiring sermons by Prentice. Let me tell you the story of how we came to be members at Prestoncrest.

When I was a senior in high school at Mars Hill Bible School in Florence, Alabama, my father was then the minister of the Highland Park Church of Christ in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. He was a Christian minister for over fifty years. Perhaps I should explain this before we get too many historical names involved: one of the most beautiful areas of America is north Alabama, our home, and is now known as the Quad-Cities.

This area was originally known as the Tri-Cities, composed of three individual cities separated by the beautiful and mighty Tennessee River: Florence, Sheffield and Tuscumbia. Florence is on the north side of the river and the other cities on the south side. The Tennessee River flows from high, southern Appalachian mountain streams in eastern Tennessee and western North Carolina; and just down stream from the Quad-Cities it is joined by Bear Creek.

The Bear Creek flows from springs in the red-clay, pine-covered hills of northwest Alabama. It is along this creek that my great, great, grandfather and his brother and sisters settled in the early eighteen hundreds. They moved into the log cabins build by the Chickasaw Indians and farmed the rich bottomlands along the creek.

Why the name Quad-Cities? Well, Henry Ford and Thomas Edison came to this area to visit in the early nineteen hundreds; they had an idea and a mighty plan. Mr. Ford and Mr. Edison tried to persuade the United States Government to sell them the Wilson Dam at Florence. A great deal of serious negotiation followed for a lengthy period of time.

Construction of Wilson Dam started in April of 1918 during World War I. The United States needed nitrates for ammunition and explosives for the war effort - the “Great War”, so President Wilson approved the building of two nitrate plants and a dam to supply the electricity.

If they, Henry and Thomas, could have purchased the Wilson Dam, then they would have had a great source of power, power for Henry to construct a great city, producing his Ford Automobiles. His planners laid out the city of Muscle Shoals (the fourth city making up the Quad-Cities), complete with streets and city administration buildings. It would have had a million citizens and would have been the automobile manufacturing center of the United State - instead of Detroit. What about Thomas Edison? Well, he would have run the power system. It would have been called Edison Power I’m sure.

The United States Government, after lengthy discussions, decided not to sell the Dam and instead, placed Wilson Dan under the oversight of the Tennessee Valley Authority to provide hydroelectric power and flood control for Tennessee and Alabama. You may not know this, but the TVA is a profit making enterprise, the only one owned by our Government, that I know of. A little bit of socialism, I suppose.

After losing their bid to purchase the dam, Mr. Ford and Mr. Edison left the area. Over time, all the streets and buildings crumbled, decayed, and dissolved into the grass and trees. As a young boy I played and explored in the woods of the TVA Reservation and remember seeing fireplugs, old street name signs and trees growing through the pavement. It was decades later before Muscle Shoals finally began to grow and became an incorporated city, one of the four Quad-Cities.

One other point might help the reader’s understanding. The four-cities area of north Alabama is generally called the Muscle Shoals Area. You see, before the dams, when the Cherokee and the Chickasaw were living here, many fresh-water mussels were found in the shoals of the river. This was a great natural treasure for them: food from the mussels – and buttons, arrow points and tools from the shells; hence the name today of Muscle Shoals.

One day when I was a high school senior, I came home from school, parked my beautiful nineteen fifty-five, turquoise and white, two-door hardtop Chevy (you can probably tell that I was really proud of my first car) in the driveway on Edison Avenue and as always entered by the back door into the kitchen. There on the counter was a little magazine, Twentieth Century Christian.

On the cover of that magazine was a picture of Bobby Morrow, a track star at Abilene Christian College in Abilene, Texas. Bobby was one of the greatest runners of the Twentieth Century, winning three gold medals at the nineteen fifty-six Olympic games in Melbourne, Australia.

I read the story of Bobby Morrow and his school, Abilene Christian College many, many times. I was impressed with this Christian athlete - he became something of a role model to me. I began to dream of one day attending Abilene Christian College.

As things turned out, a close and personal friend of my father was helping to establish a new Christian college in Michigan. Dad wanted me to go there my first collegiate year. The founder and its first President was Otis Gatewood, one of the first missionaries of Churches of Christ to enter Germany at the end of World War II. I did go there my first year after high school and was the first editor of the school newspaper. The name for the paper that I suggested - The North Star - is still on the masthead of the official school paper.

During that senior year in high school - on Sundays - I drove my “fifty-five Chevy” down to the little community of Maud, Alabama on the edge of the Natchez Trace - where the Trace crosses the border into Mississippi. This was the community where my father was born and raised. My grandfather, Martin Luther Burns, and two of his brothers, Benjamin Franklin Burns and Augustus Holloway Burns - and their wives - were the first members of this little church in nineteen hundred - the same year my father was born.

I went to Maud, Alabama on one Sunday and then to the little congregation at Tishomingo, Mississippi on the following Sunday. Thus I alternated between the two congregations that year.

My first cousin, Gerald, often went with me on Sunday; he led the singing and I preached. On Sunday afternoons we would enjoy the company of the young ladies; their mothers invited us for Sunday dinner. Gerald and I were very close and were both starters on the Mars Hill Varsity Basketball Team.

Sunday evenings, on the hour drive back home, we often listened on the car radio to broadcasts of services of the Hillsboro Church of Christ in Nashville. The speaker was Dr. Batsell Barrett Baxter, minister of the Hillsboro congregation and the Chairman of the Bible department at David Lipscomb College in Nashville.

I personally never attended David Lipscomb, but my father and brother did. My brother Charles transferred to Lipscomb from Freed-Hardeman Junior College in Henderson, Tennessee. He tells the story of his early days at Lipscomb, when he went to a talent show. A young man was singing Old Man River, and according to Charles - who had been in the Freed-Hardeman Quartet and is very musically talented - the singer had difficulty reaching the high notes. His name, as it turned out was Pat Boone, a student at Lipscomb High School. It seems that he finally did develop the ability to hit the high notes; I was a fan of his during the early sixties.

Even though I did not attend David Lipscomb College, I always felt a close connection to the school. After all, my brother met his wife there. They have now been married over fifty years. We also went there on many occasions for lectureships and special events. Nashville was always an exciting and magical place to visit.

I particularly enjoyed attending the summer lectures at David Lipscomb. We got to stay in the college dorm rooms. There were young people visiting with their parents from several states. I enjoyed renewing friendships with other teenagers (especially the young ladies) that I had known from congregations where dad had preached - as far away as Michigan and Ohio.

My father had a practice of always encouraging young people of the congregation where he happened to be preaching to attend a Christian College. In fact, he was responsible for influencing literally dozens of young people to attend Christian schools, many becoming Gospel preachers.

During my high school senior year, Dad took several teenagers from the Muscle Shoals Area to Nashville one spring Saturday for the David-Lipscomb College “High School Day”. Of course the purpose of this day was to convince seniors to attend David-Lipscomb College.

That was a very good weekend; it was exciting, as a teenager, to visit Nashville - a city of great music and great educational institutions. I don’t remember too much of the planned activities of that Saturday, but I do remember one thing very well.

Willard Collins was the Vice-President of David Lipscomb. He was a great preacher and a marvelous speaker. He was a speaker in the old oratorical tradition with a strong, deep, senatorial-like voice. I can still hear his wonderful voice today. It was that memorable.

Mr. Collins told all the visiting high school students about David Lipscomb and encouraged all of us to consider attending college there. During his presentation, he introduced us to a young man, a college senior, who was the president of the student body. In fact, Vice President Collins presented the young man as a sterling example of a Christian student! Then the young student president spoke to us.

The student president’s name was Prentice. I may have shook hands with him that day; I don’t remember. He, along with Bobby Morrow, became role models for me. I have followed the careers of both men. Bobby started out well, but like so many of the great men of the Bible, faltered along the way; Prentice did not. That high school day, in nineteen fifty-nine was almost forty-three years ago.

We began attending our current, wonderful congregation about six years ago when we moved to Dallas, but I only met the minister much later, during a wonderful lunch with he and an elder of the congregation. Oh, I knew him of course, and we have shook hands in the lobby after services many times. But we had never officially met. The congregation is large - almost two thousand members - and there is a great demand on the minister’s time and emotions.

I now remember with pleasant nostalgia those Sunday evenings, driving home along those dark roads of North Alabama and Mississippi, listening to Dr. Baxter on the car radio and dreaming of college years and adulthood.

I remember now and always will, that high school day in Nashville, Tennessee so long ago: the wonderful voice of Brother Collins and meeting that young man who today brings us such inspiring and spiritual messages every Sunday in Dallas, Texas. He is still a role model. We are very fortunate.

Oh, and another thing. That little magazine called Twentieth Century Christian - the one with Bobby Morrow on the cover - is now the Twenty-First Century Christian - and Prentice is the Managing Editor.

That sounds like a good place to end this little story, but I would like to add a couple more things.

Dr. Batsell Barrett Baxter has been an inspiration to both Prentice and myself. I did not know it at the time, but Prentice’s father was an elder at the Hillsboro congregation. Mr. and Mrs. Meador were in those services that I listened to on the radio so long ago.

I have just finished reading a paragraph about St. Paul and St. Peter in a book called “Desire Of The Everlasting Hills” by Thomas Cahill. The description in this paragraph of the great minister Paul, reminds me of Prentice in physical appearance and in temperament.

…it was at the door of Peter’s humble house in Jerusalem that a man knocked one evening about seven years after the tumultuous events of Jesus’s last days. He was a smallish, balding man in his late thirties, as intense, lean, and quick as the curly-haired Peter was tender, bearlike, and lumbering. Though both men were of an age, Peter appeared the older because his hair and beard had gone white as the results of a sudden shock; and with his hulking fisherman’s frame, his wide shoulders, and pronounced upper-body musculature, he towered over the man at the door, whose neat figure, tight muscles, and corded forearms gave him the appearance of a gymnast or even a long-distance runner.”

If folks were to see me beside Prentice, they would probably say that the comparison in the above description would apply to us, as least physically. I am large and tall, but the comparison to Saint Peter would of course end there for me, except for one thing:

Peter and his brother Andrew were involved in the boat and fishing business and then turned to ministry and Peter became a world famous preacher. My father raised my older brother and me to be preachers. We studied for the ministry and preached for many years. Then, something happened along the way and we, as some of Jesus’s disciples, became involved in the boat business – they in commercial fishing from boats, and we in boat manufacturing. Apostle Peter turned from boats to ministry. I too hope to turn from boats…back to ministry.

Soon it will be Sunday and we will again hear Prentice speak. He reminds me of Paul - he will be teaching us from Saint Paul’s great letters.

That last paragraph sounded like the true end of this story, except for the following: Since starting this story, I have taken a weekend off and visited my brother in Alabama. That little adventure somehow fits in with this story and I will explain.

Of course I always enjoy visiting with Charles and Joyce in our hometown of Florence, Alabama. On this trip Charles and I spent a couple of pleasant days, sitting at his dining table, drinking pots of coffee and talking about church matters. It was also wonderful spending some time browsing through dad’s old books - wonderful religious books - many over one hundred years old. I brought some home with me.

I also enjoy just being back in the South - seeing real trees. Oh, I know there are trees in Texas, but I mean real trees, like the eighty to one hundred foot pine trees in my brother’s front yard; and always I love to see the mighty Tennessee River again. I know now that I am going to digress a little from this story to say some additional things about our hometown of Florence, Alabama.

Florence is just a small (40,000 population) southern town. But it is home to some famous people. Just across the river in Tuscumbia is the home of Helen Keller. Our daughter Julie, when she was about five or six, once asked, “Dad, did you know Helen Keller back in the olden days?” I reminded Julie that Dad is not that old. In addition to the Muscle Shoals area being a center of recording studios and the home of Rhythm and Blues, Florence is also the home of W. C. Handy, “Father of the Blues”.

Speaking of small cities, it is exciting to be from a city that is the subject of a Pulitzer Prize willing story. Not many cities large or small can claim that fame. T. S. Stribling, a graduate of the University of North Alabama in Florence, received the Pulitzer Prize in literature in nineteen thirty-three for his book, THE STORE.

“THE STORE, (1932) the second novel of a trilogy that spans three generations, takes place in Florence, Alabama, in 1884 and was termed ‘a superb novel of manners.’”
Note: quotation from the introduction to The Store, The Franklin Library, 1977

Another reason for the weekend trip was the opportunity to again visit our father’s home church, the Maud Church of Christ in a small community originally called Burnstown. This is the congregation I preached at during high school. I love this little congregation.

Any one who has ever been to church in Maud, will tell you that no other group of people in the world sings hymns with the love, enthusiasm and vibrancy as the one hundred or so members of this congregation. You have probably heard the old expression about “raising the roof”. Well, they do that in Maud with their singing; and the pews are filled every Sunday. I love to sing and worship with these wonderful Christian friends and relatives; and I cherish the opportunity to preach there one Sunday morning each year, during the Burns Family Reunion in July.

Remembering those times - more than forty years ago - when I drove home from Maud on Sunday evenings and listened to the broadcast services of the Hillsboro Church of Christ in Nashville - it suddenly dawned that I had always know of the Hillsboro church and Batsell Barrett Baxter, but had never been there for a service. So, after morning services at Maud on this weekend trip, I headed north on the Natchez Trace Parkway for a beautiful, winter, Sunday-drive to Nashville - for the evening service at Hillsboro.

Ah, the Natchez Trace, one of the most beautiful, historical, and pleasant drives in America - a true parkway. The Parkway follows an ancient Indian path from Natchez, Mississippi to Nashville, Tennessee. Three years ago I was in a 100-mile bicycle ride on the trace out of the historic little Tennessee village of Leipers Fork. The Trace passes beautiful farmland, ancient forests, cypress trees on native streams and historical monuments.

One of my favorite spots on the Trace is the burial ground and monument of Meriwether Lewis of Lewis and Clark fame. Lewis is one of my heroes. It is difficult to even image the courage it took to make that fantastic “voyage of discovery” in the early days of the eighteen hundreds. Lewis died in a small cabin on the Trace, one strange and difficult night, on his way to Washington to account for his monumental expedition across the great American wilderness.

There is another favorite place on the Trace: the spot where the Buffalo River crosses the parkway. Many years ago, I went on an adventure of several days with eight or ten other men - mostly close friends; we paddled canoes down the Buffalo; we camped one night at a beautiful little beach where the Buffalo flows beneath the Trace. We fished, paddled, and grilled steaks by the river and enjoyed a great fellowship. Now many of those friends are gone; but I remember them with lasting love and fondness. One of the men was the best friend I have ever had. I miss him.

As the Trace nears Nashville, the beautiful and enchanting hills of Middle Tennessee present a great challenge to bikers. I must remember to ask Prentice one of these days, if he does not terribly miss the beautiful and historic Middle Tennessee hills, home of presidents and great Americans. I know he must, even though we are happy he and Barbara are in Dallas.

The Natchez Trace terminates in the beautiful, forested hills high above Nashville. It is a dramatic end of a great American highway. Just north of the Trace are the “gentlemen’s” horse farms with rolling white fences and manicured pastures; and in their midst, the Hillsboro church - a beautiful example of southern architecture; and just beyond - the campus of Lipscomb University.

Finally this story has come full circle: from Maud, Alabama to Nashville, Tennessee to Dallas, Texas - a remembrance of high school days, southern culture, churches of childhood and the question of how we came to be members at the church in Dallas where Prentice now preaches.

This is the question Prentice asked me at lunch a few weeks ago: “Why did you and Gloria decide to attend Prestoncrest when you moved to Dallas?” I suppose I could simply answer, “Consequences.”

Last Sunday morning, Prentice preached about the “consequences” of our words and deeds. His text was taken from Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth, in which he warns the Corinthian Christians about the consequences of their attitudes, actions, and speech.

During the sermon, I smiled, remembering a great, old, college professor, W. C. Hall. Brother Hall, as we called him at Freed-Hardeman College, was in his early eighties. He simply refused to retire and the administration realized it was pointless to argue with him. Even removing him from the payroll didn’t help; so, he continued teaching his course called “Spoken English.” It was one of the best college courses I have ever had.

Every spring, professor Hall would give a speech in chapel called “Consequences.” As I remember, the reason for the speech was directly related to the rising of the sap in the trees and the appearance of the birds and bees. Put another way, professor Hall warned about the consequences of holding hands and - heaven forbid - kissing. In essence, we were to understand these simple acts would lead to other things - consequences. Whenever professor Hall would say consequences, he would stretch the word out and shake his head; his cheeks would flap and the word would reverberate throughout the old auditorium –

CON-SE-QUEN-CES-S-S-S-S!

Consequences: that is the reason we attend Prestoncrest where Prentice preaches. He made an impression on me that Saturday in Nashville over forty years ago – and through the years with his Christian service. As a consequence, when we moved to Dallas, we wanted to attend church where he preaches.

You have heard and probably used that old expression: “You never know.”

That is true about the consequences of our words and deeds…you never know…

2006-03-08T11:22:00.000-08:00

TABLE COMMUNINGS...

At the table February 26, 2006...

We now have communion with The Christ and share a wonderful table fellowship with our neighbors.

We remember Jesus in this memorial meal and remember that He told us to love our neighbor as we love ourselves. Our neighbor is the rich and the poor, the high and the lowly, the marginalized.

Rock star, Bono, a speaker at the recent National Prayer Breakfast said, “The poor are where God lives…God is in the debris of wasted opportunities and lives.”

We know that our neighbors assembled in this room, are God’s people…Holy people…unique people sharing a unique communion.

In one of the greatest sermons in the English language, the Weight of Glory, C. S. Lewis said, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal…

“It is immortals whom (we know)…immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.

“Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.”

Let us pray with our dear neighbors and ask for a blessing for the bread of this communion…

2006-03-08T04:17:00.000-08:00

STORIES...Everyone has a story to tell or you could say everyone has a life to live, given them by the creator, even the poor and simple. I must listen to and respect all those stories in order to become a "little Christ" as C. S. Lewis invisioned. Thinking of our heritage, I know the orthodoxy of past times can seem absurb or at least outdated by our progressive thinking today. I still respect those who were sincere while also believing they were defective in their reasoning. They told their stories...now we tell ours. May we tell them well, with respect and without being judgemental.

After returning from the Abilene Christian University Lectures recently, I have a new hero of the faith to add to my list of favorite preachers. Dr. David Fleer of Rochester College ( I was a student there the first year.) gave a beautiful keynote sermon on Jesus and the woman He met near Sychar, and their dialogue. He changed my whole perception of this story imagined by Luke. Not only in this story but in his entire ministry, Jesus respected the stories and lives of all he encountered. He was never judgemental. Thank you Dr. Fleer.

I think of the sometimes simple ( a good word ) faith of my own father, a minister for over fifty years. He was very conservative in his understanding. I respect that and think of the words of Norman MacLean in his great novella, "NOW NEARLY ALL THOSE I LOVED AND DID NOT UNDERSTAND WHEN I WAS YOUNG ARE DEAD, BUT I STILL REACH OUT TO THEM...EVENTUALLY ALL THINGS MERGE INTO ONE, AND A RIVER RUNS THROUGH IT."

2006-03-07T04:05:00.000-08:00

JEREMIAH'S ROAD... Along US Highway 72 between Memphis, Tennessee and Florence (our beautiful and historic home), Alabama, is the small town of Burnsville, Mississippi, named after an uncle, Jeremiah (Jerry) Burns, Sr., 1778-1866.

Burnsville is located between the North Mississippi towns of Iuka and Corinth. Corinth is where Gloria and I made our first home. I preached there. Nearby is the now quite and peaceful Shiloh National Military Park, site of one of the bloodiest battles of the terrible Civil War.

US 72 passes along the mighty Tennessee River and in Northwest Alabama crosses the historic Natchez Trace Parkway, near Maud, Alabama, our Father's home in the red-clay, pine-covered hills of Colbert County.

We are proud of our heritage. My brother is now very ill and I am blessed with opportunities of new ministry. I am devoted to him and to those we loved..."They were living in faith when they died." I think of two other brothers, Peter and Andrew, who left their boats and fishing business to follow a young teacher who changed the world forever.

We inherited a tradition of ministry and along the road stopped to build boats. We have now left the boat building business, he to travel a dark and lonely path of pain and uncertainty and I, well, to travel a road equally unknown but filled with possibilities.

On this web log, I hope to share photographs, thoughts, stories and opinions (on things and ideas - hopefully not to be judgemental of individuals).

My current ministry includes addiction counseling, possibly preaching, writing, and sharing my love of the wonderful table communion began on the night of His passion. Occasionaly posts will include Table Communings - brief thoughts on the communion, sometimes shared during communion service at our church home here in Dallas.

We are no longer boat builders, but Burns-Craft houseboats, cruisers, and yachts are well know in the marine recreational world.

Our road is guided by the lighthouse of a spiritual heritage for which we are grateful.