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So…I am just back from a neat vacation in Costa Rica. The rain
forest was cool and beautiful, and the coastal beaches were hot but inviting.
I am dozing late at night, looking at a few pictures (my WalMart
camera). The phone rings. Yes, this is Noel Burtenshaw. “Well, sir, this is
Chase Bank, and we are wanting to know when you are going to start payment on
the $19,000 plus that you owe on your account.”
I was dozing. Now, I am awake—wide awake. “Are you sure you have the
right number, the right man?”
“Yes, sir. This is your name. Yes. This is your Social Security
number. Yes. This is your mother’s maiden name. This is your date of birth? I
wish. “Well, sir, it may be you are a victim of fraud. I will put you through
to the Chase fraud department.”
I have to start from scratch. How can they help me? They are looking
at the file on their screen. But I have to start again.
“Sorry, sir. This account is in collections. We will put you onto
collections. They cannot tell collections, although they are looking
at my file. I start from scratch. This is part of the game.
I am the first name on the account. There is a co-signer. He has
been sent all bills at a box number in Atlanta, but he is not responsible. I
am. My own bank cannot help me. I have been with them for 40 years. But now
they are – Wachovia. But two personal friends in banking tell me to be calm.
You are now in a process. You and Chase are going to become very close for
some time.
They are right. I have sent my first registered letter to Chase. They
are located in San Antonio. I am told there will be many more.
So let me go over this briefly. I did not request this fraudulent
card. I did not want to do business with Chase. I did not charge any
purchases. I did not take any funds. I did not see any bill. Chase will not
give me the numbers of this account (the Roswell police are amazed at that
one.)
The “co-signer” whose name I have and now the police have (Chase
could not get this done) has been enjoying the trust and services of Chase
for more than a year.
Now they have decided to cut off his card and give me the honor of
paying the bill. He is gone, for now. And my immaculate credit is here but
languishing in the men’s room.
Where is Congress? They are fighting over judges whose campaigns
have been funded in great part by local banks.
Buy a $30 shredder. It’s not the entire answer, but take everything
sent to you in the mail and shred it and put nothing whole in the trash. This
will help in some small way.
One last thing. When the little lady who called me the first time
told me that I would owe her company, Chase Bank, $19,000, please, I asked
her a quick question. “Tell me, what is the credit limit on the fraudulent
card?”
And without being able to help herself, she blurted out her answer:
“Nine thousand dollars, sir.”
Naughty late fees!
June 16, 2005
Getting Along
The
Reverend Noel C. Burtenshaw
My great-grandmother was born
in Berlin, Germany. When she was a
young woman of twenty, she won a pastry competition. Her prize was a trip to London. Off she went, immediately met a young
Londoner, fell in love and married.
She never returned to Germany.
But, there the family muddle
began. The couple could not settle in
England. Seemingly her family was
adamant that they would not accept the marriage. His family was equally furious; and the marriage was
unacceptable to them.
The couple fled to Dublin
where she opened a German bakery, which was an immediate success. It became widely known in the city. There they began a family, and neither of
them ever returned to family on either side.
The problem, of course, was
religion. His family despised her
Roman Catholicism, and his Church of England faith was an obstacle to
acceptance by her family. The
settlement – decision they made was very difficult, but necessary.
They had to leave family
ties and familiar places behind, go to a foreign place and begin anew. They even had to make a new arrangement
for religion in their daily and weekly practices that would bring some healing
and contentment to their new, young family.
Old Europe was an unforgiving
master. Wars were started and
vigorously pursued with horrible results over what this young couple
did. If a Jew married a Christian in
“that” Europe, burial banners were displayed in homes, and promises were made
never to mention the offending parties again. As far as possible they were given a sentence of “death.”
We have come a long way,
although it is not over. Sudan is a
new, emerging nation. They have a
huge geographical area to nurture and grow.
Their future is theirs. Their
success is in their own hands. So,
instead of looking at the potential, they begin their new life with division
– religious division. And this is the
worst kind, historically.
The raw whip of awful
prejudice has been laid to their backs.
Millions have already died, hometowns have been burned to the ground,
and refugees are pleading for the basics of life. A rich new nation has been reduced to poverty as one side
claims superiority in a religious fight that can’t be won.
Level heads have pleaded
for sane policies, to no avail. What
Europe, from one end to the other, has endured for centuries, Africa now
agrees to take up energetically, with results that will be foolish at best
and disastrous at worst as they begin their march to nationhood.
Is religion the opium of the
people? It can seem to be that
way. But all good religious leaders
want peaceful coexistence for those who follow them. Gandhi once said, “Don’t tell them they
have to do something, tell them here’s what I did and let them decide.” It’s a simple principle that opens the
grandeur of human life and may even lead to eternal life.
As far as I know my
grandparents lived happily together.
Their legacy came not from what they professed religiously, but from
their art form, which the citizens of Dublin “bought” without any comment on
what they believed.
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The
Reverend Noel C. Burtenshaw
We really should have plans
for Ashley Smith.
She is the admirable young
woman who left her apartment in the middle of the night to buy some
cigarettes and accidentally allowed a killer into her home and her life. Neither she nor we will ever forget what
occurred.
The intruder had just killed
four people in cold blood and seemed to be anxious for more of the same. But this single, widowed mother did that
one thing necessary to fend him off – she kept her cool.
With the help of a calming
tone, a reading from a spiritual book, a good meal well prepared and a
gasping explanation that her little girl would be alone if the intruder
harmed her, she succeeded in keeping him at bay.
When he let her go, the next
morning, it was with the knowledge she would call the police, they would come
for him and he would face an end to his freedom. No promises to the contrary were asked or guaranteed. They both walked away from the situation.
The incident sends chills up
and down the spine. It is inexplicable
that she would walk into complete safety and he into complete incarceration
(maybe worse) without a shot being fired or an angry outburst being
expressed.
It was, above all else, her
calming demeanor that worked the trick.
We hopefully have further plans for her magic touch.
Let’s get her an office in the
U.N. God knows there are thousands of
diplomats in that famous building doing little or nothing to stamp our planet
with peace and international understanding.
Send her as an emissary to the Sudan where killers are turned loose
every day to rain death on each other.
It’s a place where helpless women and frightened children have nothing
solid to hold onto and roam in dangerous areas where hunger and torture
await.
Ashley could just tell them
her story. This is what she did when
he came to her door. This is how her
difficult survival happened. Maybe
both sides would listen. She has a
record of reconciliation to recount.
Or maybe we could send her to
the drug lords of South America where cocaine is packed and dispatched daily
to bring destruction by the ton to young children on streets around the
world. She could use her magnificent
powers of persuasion to show them the better way of healing rather than hurting.
But maybe Ashley Smith could just
go to the U.N. itself, where its humanitarian potential is being undermined
by scandals – know-nothing diplomats are being investigated in high
places. She could tell them her story
of having one little book and converting a monster to go the right path and
do the right thing.
Ashley Smith has a wonderful
story, which may never be witnessed again.
Some kind of miracle took place in that apartment that forced him into
a life in chains and opened to her an opportunity to touch little lives
everywhere. Let’s just be glad we saw
it and can pass the message along.
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The
Reverend Noel C. Burtenshaw
I was reading that the Mel
Gibson movie, The Passion of the Christ, is going to make the rounds
again. It has already appeared in all
its gore once, to great acclaim. Now
we’ll have it again somewhat censored – less bloody but a box office smash at
the same time. Or that’s the hoped-for
result.
Well, I missed the first
presentation and will probably miss the return also. The gore and the shrieks of pain leave me
cold and, frankly, bore me.
After the recent celebration
of Good Friday, maybe I have developed a new insight on the sufferings of the
Saviour. The torture was more than
anyone could endure, but when I reflected on what Jesus went through; I
focused mainly on the personal, intimate things he had to endure.
For example, how did he endure
the betrayal of his group of friends?
They were all he had. They
made a budget together, did the household chores together, probably did a
little shift work together and share stories of their childhood together.
Then one day they were
gone. All the familiarity was washed
away. They could not be seen with
him. They might be accused of
believing what he believed. Then how
could they face their neighbors or the shopkeepers down the street? Or how could they face their in-laws and
be the respectable men they were always known to be.
No – they just had to leave
him because this thing was going to happen and life was hard enough, God
knows.
They did not think too much
about how he would handle it. If he
answered all the questions, the soldiers wouldn’t be too hard. He wasn’t married. He could get through.
So as they left they felt it
would work out. But they did not
realize how alone he would feel. They
forgot that his hands would be tied and his clothes would be taken off his
body. He would have to stand there
nude, embarrassed in public view.
They had each other to help
them feel better about their betrayal.
They could get together over a beer or two down at the local watering
hole and forget the entire adventure.
For him, there was nowhere to
go. Nowhere to hide. He probably looked for one or two. Maybe Peter would show up, or John. But he did not see them and as the lashes
fell, he missed his friends more than he felt the whip or the nails or the
mockery. Before one drop of blood was
spilled depression came and was an enormous burden to haul.
I don’t suppose you can put
that kind of pain on film. And if you
could, would anyone come to see it.
Would the Academy Awards people consider it and above all, would it
make any money? Probably not.
So the road to the end was
a lonely one. So frightful that none
of us could have endured. The Gospels
make it too easy to consider, to accept.
Even ol’ Mel Gibson can watch
it for a couple of hours and think he has a masterpiece. The masterpiece is the faithful way we
follow Jesus Christ.
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The
Reverend Noel C. Burtenshaw
In March 1965 I was serving as an assistant pastor in a
new Roman Catholic parish of Holy Cross in Chamblee. Civil Rights was a topic on everybody’s
mind because of the demonstrations taking place all over the country. That particular month the demonstrations
were centered in Selma, Alabama.
Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was leading the protests
because the black citizens of Alabama were denied the opportunity to
vote. Dr. King was insistent that all
citizens should be given the right to vote.
Many citizens including clergy people went to Selma to
support Dr. King and the protest. One
Unitarian minister, the Rev. Jim Reeb, was coming from a restaurant after
having lunch sometime around March 1 when a shotgun blast rang out. The Rev. Reeb fell to the ground mortally
wounded. He subsequently died.
Dr. King immediately challenged all clergy people, black
and white, to come to Selma and replace Jim Reeb on the picket lines
demonstrating for voting rights.
I remember feeling an irrestible urge to go in response
to the challenge. I called a priest
friend and together we decided to go.
It was perhaps the most memorable adventure of the priesthood.
When we arrived in Selma, the protests were taking place
in the black area of the city. It was
a small area with a church at each end of the main street. We were told that each morning and each
afternoon, a protest march would take place from one church to the other.
A police line formed at both churches. Our instructions were to march in an
orderly fashion, praying and singing until we reached the police line. At that point we would stop and then march
back to the other police line. No
comments were permitted to the police, no abuse, and no name-calling. We were carefully tutored so that the
spirit of non-violence would be practiced carefully. The staff of Dr. King’s organization
(SCLC) very carefully monitored our activities.
We decided to stay for a week. More demonstrators joined us each day. Our set goal was to march to the Selma
City Hall where we would have the citizens of Selma register to vote. The police were equally determined this
would not take place.
At night the Catholic parish allowed us to use sleeping
bags and sleep in the parish hall.
However after a couple of days the crowd became too numerous and we
were asked to sleep in the Catholic hospital.
Interestingly, the police were alarmed that we would
have to walk some distance to the hospital, so each night squad cars were
sent to pick us up and escort us home.
I remember the police were very helpful and friendly and concerned for
our safety. It was ironic to see the
cops escorting the protesters to our destination. We laughed about it.
On the Wednesday evening, we were all invited – or those
not on the picket line – to come to the hall of the Catholic Church. President Johnson (LBJ) was making a
special statement on the Selma situation.
He did more than that. He
actually signed into law the Voting Rights Act, declaring that all citizens
had the right to vote. We were
elated.
It was a very happy evening. There was enormous rejoicing that the effort made by all was
successful. We continued to march and
stand of the picket line while Dr. King and his staff negotiated with the
politicians and the police.
On Saturday, Dr. King arrived to lead the final
march. This time the police would stand
aside and the marchers would leave the black district and go singing (“Ain’t
nobody gonna turn me round”) and praying all the way to City Hall.
I learned a lot about faith, service and prayer during
that time. I saw the courage of the
black citizens as they sacrificed for rights I took for granted. And I will always remember the generosity
of the Selma people who fed us and loaded us down with snacks and Coke as we
stood for hours on the picket line.
We left Selma on Saturday evening and many of the
friends we made remained behind to continue the march to Montgomery. I was grateful that part of the Selma (?)
protest would be done by others!!
On Sunday next, March 6, a lot of us will make another
trip to Selma. This time we will
celebrate the 40th anniversary of that first protest. To actually be given a part in a
revolution for justice is a proud honor.
One I will long remember.
“Deep in my heart, I do believe, we shall overcome some
day.”
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