My father used to say - - after WW2, when Tyndall Field later TAFB, and the Navy Base were coming to be realized as core, essential elements of our Panama City community - - used to say that any town whose economy depended on a local military base was setting itself up for financial disaster. That didn't seem so clear to me in those days when what was clear was that our Navy and especially Air Force installations were permanently here to stay forever, and no worries about it with Bob Sikes, Earl Hutto and our other powerhouses in Congress.  What, despite officials' assurances to the contrary in the wake of Hurricane Michael, is no longer clear, is a clear threat to our economy and future here: that whether indeed to rebuild Tyndall after all is, considering the prospective cost of it, an issue of uncertainty among those who do not represent us in Washington and who could like to see those billions spent closer to their own electorates.  The ruin brought by Hurricane Mich...

It suddenly came to me as for the umpteenth morning I looked out into the foggy damp,  Ἰδοὺ πύλαι ᾅδου, the realization that none of this is real earthly life. ὁράω. And only I or another Narnia fan could see it, see, perceive, ἴδωσιν, realize, understand, get it. In "The Last Battle" the Pevensie children are present, Peter, Edmund and Lucy (not Susan, a skeptic and worldly nonbeliever, but the other three). Not to do a spoiler because who hasn't read it isn't about to do now; but at the end of the story it turns out that the children had been killed in a train wreck and instantly, by Aslan, transported into Narnia to lead and win the battle. Who doesn't understand (Lorrie Morgan 1992), "I guess you had to be there" reading the Narnia stories with my middle school kids, some of whom are looking at thirty. So, here I am for real: ᾅδης, fog and damp, silent, no sound behind the glass of my cell as cars pass by, yes, hell for me is filled with cars I ...

Immensely stirred and complicated and brought to knees by out of control personal factors, this ongoing and experiential unendingness of both the hurrication and the wellness of my first child, loaded into the eighteen-wheeler of life anyway, watching disintegration of morality, world and nation because of incomprehensible created-in-the-image-of-Creator stupidity of human selfishness and greed; and now beloved child and beloved hometown, it all comes home and comes down on, as it has and does for millions of people on earth, a father holding his child in the ruins of war and going somewhere, anywhere else - - that nearly all my life I've watched with sympathy and compassion now collapsed into the empathy of being there too. But then why not me? What? brings me here the State of the Nation and its selfsameness to Rome and other states, all of which collapsed in their Time. Remembering deep emotional love for and boundless confidence in America during World War Two, throughout...

Clear, 59°F at the moment, going to 71° and cloudy by one o'clock Wednesday afternoon here at Rosemary/Inlet Beach in SoWalton during hurrication - - - - during hurrication, in which we are missing a significant part of life as we knew it, weekday evening events at our church, now 25 miles away.  People have different social centers, and in my family of origin all my growing up years, ours was our church, my parents were reserved and we were stay at homers except for what was going on at the church. Even vacations, I remember only one family vacation my eighteen years at home, no, two come to think of it.  One summer, I recall it as 1950 because of the discussion of which car we would go in, we drove from Panama City up to Washington, DC and stayed with our aunt EG while our father went to a session of the College of Preachers while we did the sights each day, and Skyline Drive on the way back home. My brother and sister may or may not remember that trip. The car discuss...

Our gospel for next Sunday, when we will not have Sunday School due to the bishop's visiting agenda for that very hour. Luke 13:31-35 (NRSV) 31 At that very hour some Pharisees came and said to him, “Get away from here, for Herod wants to kill you.” 32 He said to them, “Go and tell that fox for me, ‘Listen, I am casting out demons and performing cures today and tomorrow, and on the third day I finish my work. 33 Yet today, tomorrow, and the next day I must be on my way, because it is impossible for a prophet to be killed outside of Jerusalem.’  34 Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often have I desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing! 35 See, your house is left to you. And I tell you, you will not see me until the time comes when you say, ‘Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord.’” ++++++++++ This is our gospel reading for Lent 2...

Good morning, and although the temp is a reasonable March near-spring 68°F and headed for 74° by noon, out here in the third floor boondocks of South Walton we are looking out on fog and rain as traffic speeds by on US98 and 30A. Doesn't seem further to impair the senses however.  For the upcoming Sunday, our OT lesson is from Genesis 15, with its bloody, grisly tale of a new meeting between Abram (Adonai has not yet christened him Abraham) and יְהוָה (pronounce it as you will, my preference is y'VAH, and in the original without the vowel markings, who knows anyway; and, yes, He is יְהוָה evidently His Name from everlasting even though this story takes place ages in Heilsgeschichte before He officially reveals Himself and His Name to Moses) with the carcasses and the terrifying darkness, and Abram chasing away buzzards, vultures, and the mysterious smoking firepot, a torch, perhaps God himself in the darkness. And then, consecrated by the shedding of blood,  Genesis 15...

Nobody ever has to wake me, I don't use an alarm clock, and I'm never late because of having overslept. But this second Sunday of March always gets to me in double spades because on this one night a year I don't get enough sleep and am groggy all Sunday long and sleep-deprived grumpy for days. Even though neither the sun, nor the moon, nor the stars and planets in their courses, nor this fragile earth our island home know the difference and have missed nothing, last night was the night that was, when every gardenia year, an hour is stolen from me. The law supposes that it is 2:00 AM and suddenly, instantly 3:00 AM. By law it cannot be 2:01 or 2:02 or 2:30 or 2:59 on this second Sunday morning of March; and the only recourse I have is Charles Dickens, if the law supposes that, the law's a ass.  Just so this day in 2019, I'm sound asleep, needing nothing but an hour more sleep, and Linda taps me, and taps and taps, and says, "It's four o'clock."...