This week, I want to dive into a memory lane moment that’s been tugging at my heartstrings, all centered around a term we’re all too familiar with — bullying. But, I’m not just talking about the kind we remember from the playground; I’m eyeing its more grown-up, yet equally damaging counterpart in our adult lives.

This grows from an incident I saw in the news that can only be classified as bullying, and it involves public figures, grown men. Frankly, it’s troubled me perhaps more than it should have. Let me tell you a story. There are some real parallels here.

My thoughts drift back to a childhood memory from Camp Ridgecrest for Boys — a memory that, oddly enough, has rippled through the years, influencing my understanding of kindness, courage, and the subtle forms of bullying that don’t always leave visible scars.

I was in the 6th grade, sharing a cabin with five other boys, one of whom, Ernie, had a stutter. His vulnerability became the target of another cabin mate, Herbie, who found a perverse delight in mocking him. Despite Ernie’s attempts to laugh it off, the bullying escalated until it reduced him to tears. Herbie accomplished what he set out to do. As a witness, my silence has since felt like complicity, a haunting reminder of the power of our actions — and inactions. I should have said or done something. As a 6^th grader, though, I guess I didn’t want to run the risk of being treated like Ernie had been.

The memory serves as a stark reflection on bullying, not just as a relic of our school days but as a shadow that can follow us into adulthood, morphing into forms that are harder to recognize but equally harmful. Adult bullying may not involve stolen lunch money or physical altercations, but it can manifest in workplace politics, social exclusion, or cutting remarks dressed as jokes, even to the extent of making fun of someone’s physical appearance or handicaps. These actions, though less overt, stem from the same desire to exert power over another.

As Christians, or simply as humans striving to be better, we’re compelled to ask ourselves, “What would Jesus do?” This question isn’t meant to invoke guilt but to encourage a profound introspection about our conduct and its impact on those around us. Jesus’ life was a testament to love, inclusivity, and standing up for the marginalized — a guidepost for our interactions.

Acknowledging feelings of complicity in the face of bullying is not an admission of defeat but a step toward growth. It’s a call to action, urging us to be vigilant and brave, to stand up against injustices, and to support those who are being diminished. Our silence can be as impactful as our words, and choosing to speak out can be a beacon of hope for someone in the throes of bullying.

As adults, we wield considerable influence — through our actions, our words, and our decisions about when to speak and when to listen. This influence gives us a unique responsibility to create environments (churches?) where respect and kindness overshadow the impulse to belittle or dominate. It’s about building communities where the Ernies of the world feel supported and valued, not for their ability to endure mockery but for their inherent worth as individuals.

This is an invitation — a call to reflect on our behaviors and the subtle ways we might contribute to or combat bullying in our everyday lives. It’s an encouragement to foster empathy, to be the ally that our younger selves needed, and to cultivate spaces where compassion drowns out cruelty.

In closing, let’s remember that the lessons learned on the playground have far-reaching implications. The way we navigate adult bullying, standing up for fairness and kindness, can transform our workplaces, homes, and social circles into havens of respect and understanding. By doing so, we honor the spirit of what Jesus taught, living out our faith through actions that speak louder than words.

Together, let’s pledge to be the change, to be adults who embody the virtues we wish to see in the world. Because in the end, it’s not just about preventing bullying; it’s about nurturing a society where every person is seen, heard, and valued — where the playground, the workplace, and the church are places of growth, not battlegrounds for dominance.

“We all eat untruths when our hearts are hungry.”

I got that line from The Old Try. Check out what these Mississippi expats are up to. I love their work.

Ever since I read that line, it has haunted me.

There is a leanness inherent in the human soul. We come into the world missing a crucial component of our lives. A void, if you will.

From birth forward, your life is a pilgrimage, a quest to fill that void. Or, to quote the great philosophers Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, “I can’t get no satisfaction.” The path of least resistance dictates that we find the easy answers to challenges. No one wants to stress themselves out looking for the truth, now do they?

When our hearts are hungry, then, we flail around, trying to fill the void.

If there’s any lessons I’ve learned from the last few months, it’s that people are hurting and searching. They want answers.

Sometimes, though, the answers based in truth are contrary to the beliefs they’ve held.

I think about this. I mean, if you’re wrong, wouldn’t you want to know that? Wouldn’t you want to correct yourself and abide in truth?

My conclusion is that some people willfully choose to live in ignorance, even when the truth is readily apparent to anyone with just a shred of critical thinking skills.

When our hearts are hungry, it’s because we’ve sought nourishment that is either wrong or inadequate. If someone is starving, and they only drink some water, they aren’t going to have their needs met. Water is necessary for life, of course, but by itself it isn’t sufficient.

To torture this analogy a bit more … you have to stay hydrated to live. So drink your 64 oz. a day, or whatever the current recommendation is.

And at the same time, don’t eat any solid food. Your rationale is, “I don’t want to eat solid food. I don’t believe it has any value. It’s a hard pass for me.”

Eventually you’ll die from that belief. You believed it was true. But your subjective truth doesn’t stand up to reality. And if you starved, I just bet you wouldn’t get much sympathy. Some folks with a mean streak might say, “Well, you had it coming.”

The solution would be just to put on your big boy/girl pants, admit you were wrong about solid food, and order pizza.

I could go really deep in the weeds with this, but let me try to wrap it up.

You have been bombarded with conflicting worldviews recently. You can’t escape it, unless you’re isolated from the rest of the world and have no outside input of any sort. That’s not true, of course; you’re reading this.

It’s possible that what you’ve wanted to believe hasn’t held up to scrutiny. You’ve justified, rationalized, and have still found yourself frustrated and defensive. Because what you’ve wanted to be true simply isn’t.

In other words, you’ve been eating untruths because your heart was hungry, and it’s still not satisfied. You’ve settled for water – which is a good, essential thing – but that’s as far as your taking care of yourself has gone. You just haven’t mustered up the courage to say to yourself and to others those horrible three words:

I was wrong.

Want to get right? Here’s the simple solution – but note I said simple, not easy.

Fill your heart with Jesus. Believer, take heed.

You can not, must not believe your untruths. Jesus is truth. There’s no gray. I’d admit that, with our frail and feeble human eyes, it’s dang hard to put aside the worldly stuff, simply because it’s tangible and palpable and you can watch it on TV. That’s a temporal reality, and not the ultimate truth. So we have to see things through His eyes and not through our faulty, biased, and corrupted eyes.

I went into this in some detail in my last blog about January 6. I won’t rehash it here.

My admonition to all of us is to simply be able to admit that if we have been wrong, we’ve been wrong. There’s no shame there. You are no less a person. You have lost no value. It just means that you have had trouble letting go of what you want to believe, and now it’s time to embrace the Who you need to believe.

It’s called having the mind of Christ.

There is hope for both you and me. Our hope is built on truth, and to the extent that we reject truth, we are just that much closer to being hopeless.

I’ve been struck on social media by what is coming from believers. They are talking like lost pagan sinners, and God seems to have no place in their thinking. I’m not so high and mighty as to say I’ve never been there, but I am striving to be honest with all, beginning with myself.

If it’s true, then, that we eat untruths when our hearts are hungry, then we need to nourish our hearts with the Bread of Life. That’s good groceries right there.

And second, because we’ve taken that step, we will be able to identify, call out, and banish untruths. We will be at peace regardless of dumpster fires. In Christ, not only will we be fine … we will prevail.

Be blessed.

NOTE: I first posted this blog, The Gate of the Year, back in June. I’m not one to recycle my posts, but, I dunno. It came to mind this morning during my quiet time. So many folks as of this writing are on edge, strung out, worried senseless. This was comforting back in June, and even more so today. Read it and share it. 

“The Gate of the Year” is the popular name of a poem by Minnie Louise Haskins. She titled it “God Knows.” I’ll share its best-known stanza in a moment.

A quick history lesson.

According to Wikipedia, the poem was written in 1908 and privately published in 1912. King George VI quoted it in his 1939 Christmas broadcast to the British empire. It was thought that his wife, Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Consort, shared it with him. Now it’s believed that Princess Elizabeth, aged 13, gave the poem to her father.

The Gate of the Year gave comfort to the Queen Mother all her days, and was a real inspiration to Brits in the Second World War. She had its words engraved on stone plaques and mounted on the gates of the King George VI Memorial Chapel at Windsor Castle.

These are some powerful words:

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”
And he replied:
“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”
So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.
And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

I wish I’d written this.

So why this current fascination on my part? Let me parse it.

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”

Here are two fundamental wishes. These are especially meaningful when you have some hard questions and answers aren’t forthcoming (hello, 2020!)

The desire for light is self-evident. You want to be able to see where you’re going.

“Tread safely into the unknown.” If light is available, then the unknown isn’t quite as scary. In these dark days, if you knew what lay ahead, wouldn’t you be comforted by knowing? (Or not; if what lay ahead is disastrous, you might not want to know.)

There have been times in my life – and, in all likelihood, yours too – when you took a leap of faith and hit the ground with a sickening thud. Your faith was misplaced. You let the clamor of the world drown out that still, small voice. Or, worse, you “followed your heart.” Ancient script teaches that the heart is deceitful above all things. Following your heart sounds noble, but it’s not a good idea.

And he replied:
“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

Yes yes yes.

You’ve probably said things like:

I thought God wanted me to marry him.

I thought I was supposed to take that job.

Moving to a new house felt right, somehow.

Here’s the lesson here:

• It’s not a matter of removing the darkness. It’s a matter of accepting the darkness and prevailing in it.
• God’s hand is big, protective, and firm. He doesn’t let go of you. People might. He won’t.
• If it’s safety you crave, then the most perfectly safe place in the universe is in the hand of God, and it doesn’t matter how dark it is.

So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.

Here’s a subtle nuance. The picture is of someone (you? me?) moving first and then finding the hand of God. It’s knowing that He’s already there, whether you have reached Him or not. The poet draws the picture of taking God’s hand and trodding gladly into the night. No fear, no apprehension. Just the simple joy of knowing God’s got you.

It doesn’t matter the circumstances of what brought on the darkness. They might not change.  The mandate is to be glad in those circumstances. Crazy, I know. But it all is centered in God holding your hand.

And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

Sweet.

Get this picture.

• God leads, and the journey begins in darkness.
• He leads toward the hills. Hills conceal, but there is the promise of something else beyond what can be seen.
• The day breaks in the East. There is the certainty of sunrise, and, blessedly, visual confirmation that it is indeed dawn. A new day with new possibilities and new hope.

The Gate of the Year

So heart be still:
What need our little life
Our human life to know,
If God hath comprehension?
In all the dizzy strife
Of things both high and low,
God hideth His intention.

God knows. His will
Is best. The stretch of years
Which wind ahead, so dim
To our imperfect vision,
Are clear to God. Our fears
Are premature; In Him,
All time hath full provision.

Then rest: until
God moves to lift the veil
From our impatient eyes,
When, as the sweeter features
Of Life’s stern face we hail,
Fair beyond all surmise
God’s thought around His creatures
Our mind shall fill.^[3]

The coronavirus, aka COVID-19, is well upon us. I’m hesitant to add my voice to all the racket, but I need to unburden myself concerning the coronavirus reality. I don’t know if I have anything new to add, but here ya go. The picture I shared is an actual unstaged photo I took Thursday at  the Walmart in Flowood, Mississippi. It’s as eloquent as a still-life.

We are capable of greatness.

1. The coronavirus reality is that some politicians and their minions are using it to score points against their enemies. I find that sleazy and low. This is not a great time for people to make accusations about what should have been done. We can’t go back for a do-over on this one. We can make wise, measured, decisions going forward, but being snarky isn’t a solution. It divides us even more. That needs to quit. We need some grownups to handle this one.
2. I’m in a high risk category, they tell me. The coronavirus reality is that I need to be prudent, as do other people my age. I’m not diabetic, I don’t have heart disease, or any of those other nasty ailments. I’ll do what I need to to avoid getting sick. If I get sick, I’ll try to get well. And I will get well, either here or in eternity. I prefer the first option, but I’m at peace with the second.
3. This may be a fool’s wish, but historically Americans have shown themselves to be a resilient group. I know I have readers in other countries, and I’m not devaluing them. I’m just speaking to what I know. We have pulled together during the most challenging days before, and have done it in record time. What a divided country we live in! Wouldn’t it be something that part of the coronavirus reality might be that we genuinely cooperate and come together to fight a common enemy. I saw flashes of that immediately after 9/11. We are capable of greatness. What happens in the next few weeks will be teach a lot about who we are.
4. There are plenty of people out there smarter than you working on this. Experts can be wrong, but I’d rather listen to a flawed expert than an assured idiot. The coronavirus reality is that, as laypeople, we don’t have all the answers because we don’t have access to all the intelligence.
5. There is a huge spiritual component in the coronavirus reality. I’ll state the obvious: God’s got this. He is not wringing His omnipotent hands. He will most assuredly use this in a manner that suits Him. Folks are panicked, worldwide. Balk if you must, but for the believer, there is no reason to be anxious. Concerned and vigilant, of course. But mindless fret? Nope. God controls every germ, virus, molecule, and atom. God has sovereign control over all of creation.
6. This is a great opportunity to display peace, hope, and simple sanity. The coronavirus reality is that those virtues are going to be in short supply in days to come. Don’t go there. Be more than that.
7. Pray, and pray without ceasing. Mike Pence was flayed in the media for praying with a group over the coronavirus reality. I’m glad he prayed. I’m glad when we all pray. Praying that you can be a source of hope and comfort to others wouldn’t be a bad place to start. Remember, too, that health care professionals are good at what they do. All healing ultimately comes from God, the Great Physician, but He uses human agents for healing to take place.
8. Don’t be afraid to laugh. I am not, not, not making light of the seriousness of this disease. But there is humor in the darkest circumstances. I’ve seen plenty of really clever memes in the last several days. If I ignore the ones in poor taste, there’s a lot that are darn funny. If you’re offended, just move on. (And before someone stuffs my inbox with comments like “Would you think it’s funny if one of your loved ones died?”, I’d think, dude, you aren’t very bright to even ask that, trying to get a “gotcha” agains me – of course it wouldn’t be funny). But there are plenty of things about toilet paper that crack me up. Humor, and especially satire, is in the eyes of the beholder. So let’s go easy on each other – we all cope in different ways. Laughing at absurdity, whether I see it in someone else or myself, works for me.

I’d rather listen to a flawed expert than an assured idiot.

I’ll wrap this by sharing a quote from one of my heroes, C. S. Lewis. These are C. S. Lewis’s words—written 72 years ago—and it rings  with some relevance for us. Just replace “atomic bomb” with “coronavirus.” It’s all part of the coronavirus reality.

In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. “How are we to live in an atomic age?” I am tempted to reply: “Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.”

In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors—anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty.

This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.

— “On Living in an Atomic Age” (1948) in Present Concerns: Journalistic Essays