Larry Elder’s Documentary, ‘Uncle Tom,’ Shows America an Unvarnished Truth

By Taylor MacHenry

Recently, I watched Larry Elder’s documentary, Uncle Tom. You should watch it too.

It is on iTunes Apple TVYouTubeAmazon Prime plus other streaming and download services.

If you are an American, you should watch it. If you are an immigrant, legal or not, you should watch it. And especially, if you are an African American, you absolutely should watch it!

Uncle Tom is the raw, unvarnished, unapologetic TRUTH.

Elder and every person whose voices we hear in this nearly two hours of facts and testimony unashamedly speak the TRUTH. Yes, TRUTH with all capital letters.

As parents, what do you suppose will happen to our children if we raise them under a constant berating of: You’re too stupid. You will never accomplish anything because the cards are stacked against you. You might as well give up because the oppressors will keep you in your place. And the negativity goes on and on.

What kind of person will that child grow up to be? A great success? Doubtful.

Very likely that child will grow into a person not expecting anything of himself, not trying because it is of no use. He might turn to drugs and alcohol to sooth his bereavement of a useless life. Made useless because his parents did not believe in him from the beginning and oppressed him with hopelessness. That child will also likely grow up outraged, bent on vengeance against his envisioned oppressors. That child may take to the streets with his outrage and become violent against everyone who confronts him.

What kind of person will the child grow up to be if his parents praise him? If his father stands tall in his household, beside his mother. And together they teach the child good ethics of working hard and accomplishing goals. They set an example of high values. They teach their son and daughter that accomplishment does not come for free, but requires dedication, effort, persistence, never quitting, and most importantly, those parents reinforce to the child that he or she is not stupid but has a beautiful mind, filled with potential that is capable of wondrous vision and greatness.

What kind of person will that child grow up to be? A beaten dog? A violent, outraged person? A criminal?

Not very likely. More likely, this child surrounded with love and encouragement from his or her parents, despite the ugliness that confronts most, if not all, people of color, will grow into a person who does find success. Success grown from parents who set the example of high standards, high moral values, desire for achievement and education, and belief in God and in him or her self.

In his documentary, Uncle Tom, Larry Elder shows us an array of testimony, good examples of success and well-founded facts and examples that should leave every American furious. Filled with contempt.

Slavery and Jim Crow laws were horrible, and those ugly pages of American history must be remembered. Must be taught to our children so we can raise them better.

But is that America today?

Yes, we have horrible crime and danger in the minority communities of America, not just African American but in Latino, Chinese, Korean Arab, Indian, Native American, and in white impoverished communities too. And what is the common denominator of their despair? Oppression. Much of it made real by the conditions that not just surround them but bury them.

Oppression by whom?

By those who seek to keep these mostly minority people in the ghettos, keep those people ignorant, unread. Keep them not filled with hope but hopelessly angry with their despair. 

Hitler learned that if he repeated a lie often enough that the people will believe it as truth. They will join his line of thinking–his narrative.

Here is the lie that we realize while watching Uncle Tom: The oppressive lie is that if you are born from African ancestry, you have no hope. The white man has everything, all the power, and he is keeping you in this place that you hate. And you hate him for it. You have no opportunity because of systemic racism, where people like you are deprived of reaching levels of decision-making power. Positions where you can make change and a difference.

Filled with this outrage, you believe that your only course of action to make change possible is to take to the streets and burn the cities to the ground. Meanwhile, you need to depend on a benevolent, overseeing government who will give you money, take care of your abortions, and perpetuate families with single mothers and lost fathers who live somewhere else.

Uncle Tom shows us how the same people that used Jim Crow laws and slavery to keep Black America deprived of opportunity, deprived of education, deprived of hope, those same people continue to do it today, but with filters and politics and rhetoric that convinces the people that they need the government to take care of their needs, because they have no opportunity to do anything for themselves.

And how is that so much different in this way of life from how your African ancestors lived in slavery?

You will have no Constitutional Freedom if you believe you do not have Constitutional Freedom!

You will simply be angry. Very angry!

I challenge every American and especially Americans with African heritage, and I likewise challenge every Latino and other minority to watch Uncle Tom. From beginning to end.

I promise that you will want to shut off the show. Because these people will contradict nearly everything you believe to be true. And it is NOT.

Watch Uncle Tom to the bitter end. Then sit and stew. Think about it. Think a lot about it. And ask yourself this: Is there anything that Elder or anyone else in this documentary say that is not the bitter, unvarnished, cold truth?

Two things that I realized after watching Uncle Tom are these:

1. Every student in every school in America, every person in America must watch Uncle Tom. Take it to heart, and realize that all of us must do better by each other. All of us!

2. Every student in every school in America, as well as every person in America, should read the biography of Booker T. Washington. Mister Washington shows us how a man born as a slave can rise to greatness. In his life we deplore his suffering as a fellow human being, as a child of God who told all of us to love each other as He loves us. But in his life we also cheer his heroism, his determination against daunting challenges to rise to greatness. Not simply as a former slave, a man of African heritage, but as an American. A great American.

We must do better. We must set up the ladders for our minority American brothers and sisters to climb to the heights, along with everyone else. And we as a society and a government must stop oppressing minorities by convincing them that they are hopelessly mired in oppression, have no hope except to fall in line with slaves behind a government that will provide for all their needs, and encourages their poverty and dispair.

One other thing that I realized after watching Uncle Tom: The Reverend Doctor Martin Luther King, if he lived today, given his values and his great faith, would likely get branded an Uncle Tom. Because he too believed that Black America needed equal rights, equal access and all the Constitutional Guarantees that every citizen of the USA is given. Opportunity to obtain a good education. Opportunity to pursue his or her dreams and realize them by his or her own hard work. Opportunity to achieve success in life.

I know that my left-bank friends will greatly criticize me for the stand that I take. It flies in the face of much of what they believe is true. How can I know anything about this subject, I am not Black?

No, I am not Black. I can never know what that life feels like. I can only try to help and not stand in the way.

But I do know this: Facts are Facts. Truth is Truth. Like them or not, Truth and Facts are Truth and Facts.

It is the liars and cheats and corrupt villains in our world who will try to convince you otherwise.

Don’t believe me. But watch Uncle Tom. It will make you angry, but it will also give you hope.

God bless Larry Elder for making this documentary, Uncle Tom. It is a beacon of light, and the darkness of oppression and hate cannot hide from the Truth that it shows us.

 ©Copyright 2021 Charles W. Henderson 

Recommended Reading:


Column: What frightens the American left: Larry Elder’s new documentary ‘Uncle Tom’

Controlling the Narrative: The systematic death of free speech in America

By Taylor MacHenry

While India may today celebrate its so-called “democracy,” according to its own definition of modern India’s “democratic” government, it sags heavily with socialist tyranny. Such as controlling the press, ensuring that the narrative supports the government’s agenda, and that controlled narrative is the only perspective of India’s government that the people see and hear.

Not a lot different than the controls on media enforced by communist states such as the former Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, or as the Russian Federation continues currently with authorized media vehicles like Russia Today. India’s controlled political narrative is as communist China and North Korea likewise do today.

(See referenced article, Columbia Journalism Review, February 5, 2021, The Media Today, India Cracks Down on Journalism, Again, by Jon Allsop)

After all, the first victim of tyranny is free speech. This includes a free press and the people’s freedom to peacefully assemble and express dissent against their governments.

Today, in America, we see an increased and often casually overt effort by the ruling powers of government to likewise control, if not popularize the narrative by stifling voices of dissent. This repression of dissent finds blind and willing collusion among the so-called American free press that today appears to voluntarily help control the narrative, spinning a version of truth that supports the ruling political power’s agenda.

To voice words of criticism of policy or political ideals of the ruling power, to disagree with any perspective, or to express dissent against the system today, that person who fails to see the world as the narrative says we should see it finds himself or herself branded despicable, deplorable, labeled with insults such as bully, Nazi, bigot, racist, domestic terrorist and worse. All for simply uttering dissent against those in power who now control the public agenda and narrative.

For example, the Biden Administration ordered an investigation of Major Andrew Calvert, an Army chaplain with the 3rd Security Force Assistance Brigade at Fort Hood, Texas, after he made a dissenting comment critical of a change in Defense Department policy on the Army Times’ Facebook page. The chaplain suggested that someone who is transgender is mentally unfit for military service, responding to an Army Times article about President Joe Biden’s executive order to drop the ban against allowing transgender people to openly serve in the military.

Major Calvert wrote, “How is rejecting reality not evidence that a person is mentally unfit, and thus making that person unqualified to serve? There is little difference in this than over those who believe and argue for a ‘flat earth,’ despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary. The motivation is different, but the argument is the same. This person is a Med-Board for Mental Wellness waiting to happen. What a waste of military resources and funding!”

Bear in mind that Chaplain Calvert did not direct his word at any person, but at a policy change directed by President Biden.

Major Jefferson Grimes, Public Affairs Officer for the 3rd Security Force Assistance Brigade issued the following statement after Chaplain Calvert’s post on the Army Times Facebook page stirred attention from on high: “Major Calvert’s social media post on the Army Times Facebook page is currently under investigation. We support the Commander in Chief, Secretary of Defense and all DoD policies and directives.”

Grimes added, “We are soldiers 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, and that means always treating others with dignity and respect. This includes online communication. We direct our soldiers to Think, Type, Post when engaging in conversations on social media platforms and to follow DoD policies and regulations. When our online conduct does not follow these rules and regulations, we investigate and hold individuals accountable if they are found to be in violation.”

What is damning about the official government statement made by Major Grimes is that everything that a soldier says on social media must follow the government’s rules and regulations, and “when our online conduct does not follow these rules and regulations, we investigate and hold individuals accountable if they are found to be in violation.”

While all people in military service fall under rules of good order and discipline, those rules do not void a person in military service from retaining his or her rights and freedoms guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America. Military people must follow Lawful Orders, however, prohibiting Free Speech and Expression of Dissent when speaking as a private person, not speaking for an agency of the government, violates the First Amendment. No different than the government prohibiting that person from his or her free exercises of religious freedom, such as personal expressions of religious faith and exercises of prayer and worship.

This is not to confuse free speech and expressions of dissent with vulgarness, rudeness, insubordination or insults, nor of acts of violence or mutiny. Just as the Constitution provides for Free Speech, it likewise requires that freedom to gather and dissent to be peaceful and orderly. The right to free speech is not a right to riot or stand on the public square and shout profanity and obscenity.

Consider that all branches of the United States military services have privately operated foundations and affiliated organizations not part of the government or military command that publish journals and magazines aimed at audiences that include both leadership and rank and file service members. Active duty, reserve and retired officers and enlisted men and women, along with many civilians who have military interests, regularly author essays, articles and even commentary that is critical of military policy as well as critical of strategy and tactics and leadership. The Marines have Marine Corps Gazette and Leatherneck magazines, published by the Marine Corps Association and Historical Foundation. They encourage dissent and criticism of policy, strategy and tactics. Because quite often from criticism comes improvement.

In fact, Marines are noted for their freely expressed honest words that criticize or bring ideas to debate and greater critical examination.

In the past, numerous articles that were not only critical of policy but controversial in position were published and read by the highest among leaders as well as the broad base of Marines. Topics such as women serving in combat or in combat arms occupations addressed all sides of criticism as well as advocacy. A sharp contrast with today’s investigation of a Fort Hood chaplain who criticized a popular progressive left agenda carried out by executive order. He dared to express a dissenting opinion of a policy that could well disrupt the good order and discipline among the front-line combat organizations and affect the outcome of missions.

Another example of the government controlling the narrative and violating constitutional free speech appeared in the Denver Post on January 8, 2021, when University of Colorado at Boulder Chancellor Phil DiStefano chastised constitutional scholar, Professor John Eastman, for “spreading conspiracy theories about election fraud,” but, at that time, held short of firing the former Chapman University law professor.

Eastman teaches at the University of Colorado, Boulder campus as a visiting scholar from Colorado’s Bruce D. Benson Center for the Study of Western Civilization.

Professor John Eastman is not merely a constitutional scholar but a constitutional nerd who has spent his adult life as a scholar studying the Constitution and its legal and social impacts on the history of the United States. He is an outspoken conservative among a sea of avowed progressive liberals at the University of Colorado, Boulder. And he has a history of expressing his conservative perspective publicly and addressing it to large audiences that include appearing on national media.

(See referenced article: The Denver Post, January 8, 2021, CU Boulder won’t fire conservative scholar who spread “repugnant” conspiracy theories at D.C. rally)

However, following months of emotionally charged complaints, campus protests and boycotts of Professor Eastman among the largely progressive-left student body and faculty, then exacerbated by a controversial constitutional essay published in Newsweek magazine in August and further inflamed by Eastman’s pro-Trump words and appearance at the Trump rally on the National Mall in Washington, DC on January 6, the University of Colorado leadership finally banned Professor Eastman after cancelling all of his classes on January 13, 2021.

University leaders cited that no one on campus had enrolled in any of Eastman’s classes, therefore, they cancelled them. However, a week later, Chancellor DiStefano announced that the University of Colorado, Boulder had banned John Eastman from performing any outreach (public speaking) or speaking anywhere at the University for the duration of his association with the institution. Only recently, prior to his virtual firing, Professor Chapman officially resigned his tenured faculty position as a law professor at Chapman University, which would allow him to officially join the University of Colorado faculty.

On January 21 Andrew Sorensen, a University of Colorado, Boulder spokesman, issued this statement: “The University of Colorado Boulder relieved John Eastman of duties related to outreach and speaking as a representative of the Benson Center for the Study of Western Civilization. University officials determined Eastman’s continued pursuit of these duties would likely be disruptive and damage the interests of the campus and the Benson Center.”

(See referenced article: Forbes, January 23, 2021, University of Colorado Takes Action Against John Eastman)

While technically retaining Eastman on faculty at the Benson Center, the university leadership has formally silenced Professor Eastman. His narrative sharply disagrees with the university’s own narrative and agenda. So much for free speech and freedom of diverse thought at the University of Colorado, Boulder.

Since the university, as a state-owned public institution, is a branch of the State of Colorado government, it represents a government action that silences a voice that often criticizes politically left ideals, because his dissent and critical commentary disagrees with the progressive left agenda. The government shut up Professor John Eastman to control the left-dominant university narrative, citing his words as damaging and “disruptive.”

It does not matter if the majority of students at the University of Colorado disagree with Eastman’s politics or ideals of Constitutional Law, the professor still has the right, protected by the First Amendment, to freely express his opinion in the public forum, such as he expressed in Newsweek magazine or at a Republican rally in Colorado or the one on January 6 at the National Mall in Washington, DC.

Eastman’s very presence on the Boulder campus immediately raised progressive left hackles. He is a person who voices strong conservative views, citing the United States Constitution as the superior law of the nation, and as Justice Antonin Scalia had held, Eastman agrees that “It says what it says, and does not say what it does not say.” However, the University of Colorado, Boulder is not a welcoming place for anyone who does not subscribe to the progressive left world view. Thus, in a sea of gasoline, he represented a thimble full of nitroglycerine and a match.

Igniting the first firestorm of campus controversy, Professor Eastman wrote an essay published on August 12, 2020 in Newsweek magazine. The constitutional scholar questioned whether vice presidential candidate Kamala Harris was eligible to serve as Vice President because her parents were not born in the United States. In the essay, Eastman based his argument on the fact that while Harris was born in the United States, her parents resided in the United States on visas. Eastman questioned whether Harris’ parents were lawful permanent residents at the time of her birth, or were they merely temporary visitors?

(See referenced opinion article: Newsweek, August 12, 2020, Opinion: Some Questions for Kamala Harris About Eligibility, by John C. Eastman, Professor of Law, Chapman University and Senior Fellow, Claremont Institute)

The constitutional argument addressed at Harris stems from the 14th Amendment to the Constitution that states, “…all persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens.”

The question raised by Eastman and other constitutional scholars and lawyers alike, asks if this 14th Amendment clause includes visitors who are not residents of the United States and others who live in the United States illegally? The United States Supreme Court has not addressed this question, nor has it issued any clarifying opinions. Thus, the debate continues.

After a wave of highly vocal outcries against the opinion essay written by Eastman, on August 14, Newsweek editors, trying to divest themselves from the article published two days prior, apologized for publishing Eastman’s opinion, and said:

“This op-ed is being used by some as a tool to perpetuate racism and xenophobia. We apologize. The essay, by John Eastman, was intended to explore a minority legal argument about the definition of who is a “natural-born citizen” in the United States. But to many readers, the essay inevitably conveyed the ugly message that Senator Kamala Harris, a woman of color and the child of immigrants, was somehow not truly American.”

Newsweek editors did not say that Professor Eastman had expressed any racist or xenophobic views but had addressed the question of citizenship of a child born in the United States of parents who are not citizens but reside in the United States as visitors or as illegal immigrants. However, the inflammatory words, Racist and Xenophobe had now surfaced. Thus, Professor Eastman automatically received the racist and xenophobe brand too.

This despite the fact that Professor Eastman’s opposing editorial opinion had addressed the question of citizenship based on matters of legal argument. A debate that continues today and will likely finally find argument before the United States Supreme Court for resolution. However, to suggest that perhaps vice-presidential candidate Kamala Harris, a woman of color and daughter of immigrant parents, might not qualify as Vice President, to the progressive left represented racist bigotry and xenophobia. How dare he even raise the question?

On August 24, 2020, an article published in The Denver Post described the upheaval stirred on the Boulder campus resulting from the published article that brought outcries against Professor Eastman. They accused him of floating a conspiracy theory akin to the so-called, “Birther” accusations leveled against President Barak Obama by then presidential candidate Donald Trump and many other strong-right leaning conservatives.

Chancellor DiStefano wrote in a faculty memorandum distributed by email that Monday (August 17) following the Newsweek publication of Eastman’s essay, “Even if he did not intend it, Professor Eastman’s op-ed has marginalized members of our CU Boulder community and sown doubts in our commitment to anti-racism, diversity, equality and inclusion.”

In fact, Newsweek even said that Eastman did not express racist or xenophobic views, but that his op-ed essay was being used as a tool by some to perpetuate racism and xenophobia.

Interestingly, the Newsweek opinion essay credits did not cite Professor Eastman’s association with the University of Colorado, Boulder nor with Colorado’s Benson Center for the Study of Western Civilization, but cited his credentials as “Professor of Law, Chapman University and Senior Fellow, Claremont Institute.”

One must wonder how the publication of Eastman’s essay in Newsweek sullied the reputation of the University of Colorado when it nor the Benson Center do not have mention in the article or in Eastman’s credentials or professional citations. Thus, one must conclude that the University of Colorado used the admonition to try and gag Eastman from publicly expressing his opinions which do not support the university’s political tilt. A preemptive step to silence his dissent.

Citing Professor Eastman’s right to free speech, Chancellor DiStefano wrote: “Without minimizing those harms, and recognizing that we must repair that trust, I must speak to those who have asked whether I will rescind Professor Eastman’s appointment or silence him. I will not, for doing so would falsely feed a narrative that our university suppresses speech it does not like and would undermine the principles of freedom of expression and academic freedom that make it possible for us to fulfill our mission.”

However, the actions against Professor Eastman stand in stark contradiction to Chancellor DiStefano’s statement. Judging from the matters of fact and historical record, it appears that the University of Colorado, Boulder does suppress speech that it does not like, thus undermining (utterly quashing) the principles of freedom of expression and academic freedom. The Chancellor’s words clearly do not align with the university’s actions against Professor Eastman, which stand testament to the University of Colorado’s suppression of free speech and academic freedom.

As to Professor Eastman’s response after reading Chancellor DiStefano’s email, in which the Chancellor had said that Eastman’s argument for Ms. Harris’ potential ineligibility did not align with the Constitution, Eastman said that it seemed to him that perhaps Chancellor DiStefano has never read the original debates about the Constitution’s citizenship clause.

Professor Eastman commented to The Denver Post, when interviewed about the controversy, spurring the CU Buffalo even harder, “That seems to me to be an admission that he (DiStefano) has not read the original materials himself, nor the significant amount of scholarship that has come to the same conclusion (that) I have. Pity. He might have learned that there is a serious constitutional dispute here, one that remains unresolved by the Supreme Court.”

Then on Wednesday, January 6, 2021, the day that thousands of conservative protesters gathered on The National Mall in Washington, DC, the same day that some of the people in the protest moved on the United States Capitol, broke across barriers and violently laid siege to the Capitol Building and Halls of Congress, Professor Eastman spoke at a rally in support of President Donald Trump on the National Mall. In Eastman’s remarks, he alleged that there was widespread voter fraud in the November 3, 2020 election and in the January 5, 2021 runoff election in Georgia. Millions of people who voted for President Trump share this viewpoint.

Following the protests and riot in Washington, DC, Chancellor DiStefano again criticized Professor Eastman for his public statements but stopped short of firing Eastman for his remarks: Expressions that the majority of students and faculty at the University of Colorado, Boulder regarded as advocating conspiracy theories. They demanded that the Chancellor fire Eastman for his inflammatory public statements.

Even though not firing Eastman at that time but later virtually firing him by silencing his voice on or off campus, Chancellor DiStefano spoke harshly against the conservative Constitutional scholar and said, “His (Eastman’s) continued advocacy of conspiracy theories is repugnant, and he will bear the shame of his role in undermining confidence in the rule of law.”

These two instances serve as examples of the government Controlling the Narrative to support the ideals of the ruling agenda. If anyone raises a voice or publishes words against them, they punish and ridicule those voices of dissent.

In India, police shot and killed a protester who spoke in dissent of the government while on the same day the government celebrated its “democracy.” The Indian media published the official statement that the protester, twenty-five-year-old farmer, Navreet Singh, had died during the protest because of a so-called, “tractor accident.”

Tyrants and dictators control the narrative and quash dissent, either with a bullet shot from a policeman’s gun or by gagging the outspoken voice while he or she suffers through powerful ridicule and shame hurled by the minions of that tyrant who sit in positions of power and control the public narrative with it, serving the national agenda.

For tyrants, the press is the handmaiden of government. Free speech represents the narrative supporting the agenda that they control.

 ©Copyright 2021 Charles W. Henderson 

Hypocrite Corporations Who Decry Racism and Discrimination but Exploit the Poor and Use Slave Labor in China

by Taylor MacHenry

Today, I read an article about how Nike, Coca Cola, Mercedes-Benz, Volkswagen, Apple, Adidas, The North Face, Abercrombie, GAP, Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger, Land Rover, General Motors and several other worldwide corporations with strong China manufacturing ties make a big public show of how they deplore all forms of racism and discrimination, pitching millions into the PR effort, but behind corporate doors are not shy about exploiting forced labor of slaves in China, most notably the enslaved Uighur Muslims of northwest China, a heavily oppressed racial minority of Turkic people.

(For a more extensive list of these companies, go to the Business and Human Rights Resource Center website at:

For many of us, this news is not at all surprising. It is the stock and trade of the “limousine liberal” progressive left elitists. They have lots of money, and want to put on a good face to the flotsam and jetsam of common working people who spend their hard-earned dollars in support these villians’ markets and profits. So, they make a public and highly hypocritical showing of their tender hearts for the plight of oppressed people, and throw money and promises at the causes. But in truth, their hearts are very dark indeed.

Black lives really do matter, in my opinion. So do cop lives and all other walks of society. As do Latino lives matter as well, and the plight of these and other struggling people who seek to feed their families and at least have what America’s Constitution and Declaration of Independence states, and promises. “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness” (happiness meaning that you have your basic human needs met of hearth, home, food and family security). God created all of His children (humanity) equally in His eyes and in His love.

Yet, these progressive left elitists speak with “forked tongues,” much like the prominent Southern Cheyenne chieftain, Black Kettle, said of the American government, after seeing the “great white father” break the Pine Lodge Treaty–broken as a matter of expedience for the way west, the rail roads and other profit motives of the puppet-string pullers.

While talking publicly out of the left side of their mouths, saying how everyone needs to open all the doors for all people, especially those who suffer discrimination (true indeed), yet from the other side of their mouths they probably whisper among their boards of directors, “we need the slave labor of China to ensure that our profits increase while we fleece American consumers and other world markets by charging the people with few competitive options more money for increasingly inferior goods and delivering less and less.”

They have taken out all the screws that they can eliminate and trimmed off all the engineered support parts of their products, resulting in poorer quality but another penny or two in profit. However, their biggest profit gains come from not paying for labor, skilled labor. Skills cost dollars, and workers with greater manufacturing skills bring home more dollars per hour. So the companies close their American factories and go offshore where poor, desperate people, including children, will work for pennies instead of dollars. Skills matter less too, because if the product lasts past its flimsy warranty, that they make purposefully difficult for consumers to use when needed, then that is all that matters. In fact, it is good. The consumer has to buy a new one.

So, these companies not only use slave labor in China, maximizing profits like ancient Egyptians, but they also lobby Congress to keep the slave labor operating and fulfilling their American market needs. Yes!

These are the friends and supporters of the Joe Biden Administration–heavily supporting China. Congress even passed a bill in the House of Representatives that would prohibit the purchase of any goods to sell on the American market if those goods were manufactured by Chinese slaves, like the Turkic Muslims of Northwest China, the Uighur people. Downtrodden souls enduring endless “re-education,” working as slaves in forced labor camps turning out goods for American brands. However, the guilty parties–at last count, 83 major corporations with dirty hands using slave labor to spin out the parts for assembly plants elsewhere, or making shoes, shirts, trousers and other similar goods–put up big bucks in political candidate campaigns to kill the bill. A bill that had passed the United States House of Representatives with only 6 nay votes.

Bottom line–Money is Power.

And while we talk of Slave Labor, let us not forget America’s own version of Slave Labor: The poor people from Latin America who risk their lives to slip into los Estados Unidos (the United States) just to make a living and feed their starving families. Because they do not have legal status in the USA, they must work under the covers of secrecy and subterfuge. False documents and phony identifications that enable them to work and get paid something, usually cash with no benefits. And what do they get paid? Not nearly what the employer might report.

For example, I went to a temporary labor agency in Colorado Springs not that many years ago seeking two laborers to perform cleanup and barn repairs for me. The two men came to my home, neither of them speaking English, so I thankfully spoke enough Spanish to get the job done. During our work, for which I thought I was paying each man $14 dollars an hour, I discovered that each man actually received a little less than $6 dollars an hour, and they were glad to get it.

Yes, the temporary labor service does collect a fee for connecting me with the laborers. It should be no more than a couple of dollars, though. So, I asked the men if they received a pay stub that showed their deductions, such as FICA, Social Security and Medicare. But the truth was ugly.

Both men got paid cash at day’s end when they checked out of work for the day at the service. They got a little less than $6 dollars an hour, for which I paid $14 dollars an hour, and they got no explanation of deductions.

Neither man had a social security number, nor even knew what or where to get one. One man’s wife had an American drivers license, and she drove them out here to work at my place in the country and then drove them home again at days end. A 45 minute drive each direction in an old car that did not get good gas mileage. So, fuel costs were another deduction from their daily earnings.

Learning the truth they innocently told to me, I telephoned the temporary labor service, to whom I had given a check in advance, as they required, to cover the wages–eight hours a day for five days for two men at $14 dollars an hour.

The woman with whom I spoke, a boss there, started out her lies by telling me that the men were legal, documented workers, and that they got paid net wages after federal and state deductions were collected plus the company’s 10-percent commission for finding employment for the men and maintaining the wage and work documents required by federal and state law. To which I responded that I spoke to both men with my admittedly limited Spanish language abilities, but communicated well enough to fully understand that the men were not American citizens, had no documentation and that her company was ripping the men off with false deductions that were greater than the men’s net earnings. How could either man collect any Social Security or Medicare benefits when they became eligible if they had no clue of a Social Security number or even get a tax refund?

The woman hung up the phone without saying another word. And the company never cashed my check. They destroyed the paper trail that led to these two men and to my doorstep. Fine with me!

Next morning, the two men came for work and told me that they were fired, but that they had made a commitment to me to do the work and were keeping their promises. Standing by their word!

I said fine. But I insist on giving you each $10 dollars an hour cash for every hour that you work.

They worked through the week and most of the next week too. I paid them cash each day. Exactly as they wanted me to do. Just like ranchers out here did when I was a boy, and Braceros regularly and legally crossed the border to work, get paid cash, and went home to Mexico at season’s end. What happened to that system that worked well in the American Southwest until the mid-1960s? Politics and corruption.

When the men showed up for work the first day, and it was pretty cold weather, heavy frost covering this part of Colorado, only one of them had a coat. An old Army field jacket with no liner.

“Where’s your coat?” I asked the man in shirt sleeves. He shook his head, no and said, “No tiene.”

The other fellow smiled and showed me his Army jacket with no liner. Little better than him wearing a canvas shirt over his shirt. But he was a lot better off than the other guy.

So, without a word, I went in the house and pulled out two good, warm barn coats, each with wool flannel lining over a layer of insulation, to keep the men warm. After handing each man a coat to put on, I got in my truck while the men now happily worked, saying nothing again, and drove to the Big R ranch store where I bought good winter work coats for each man. Each a gift, not tied to their work.

As I exchanged their new coats for my loaners, that were well worn, I told the two fellows that it was part of the benefits package at my ranch. Everybody that works for me gets a coat. No charity. Just the right thing to do.

Besides, I could not bear the idea of either man working in cold weather without a coat! And what kind of cruel and heartless person would allow anyone to work in the cold with no coat?

Next day, after I had gotten the men coats of their very own. New coats, not worn out or thrown away items. The one man’s wife brought homemade breakfast burritos for my wife and me as well as the men. We ate breakfast together as men with mutual respect, and went to work afterward. Then one day, as a gift, she also brought us a sack full of homemade tamales, which I love. It’s a regular winter thing in a Latin household, making tamales. A family time. It warmed my heart and my stomach too.

When we finished our work, a little more than a week later, after working together and my Spanish language skills improving daily, I asked the men what they would do next?

They said that they had saved a good deal of money during the year and were heading back to central Mexico. The man with his wife would drive there, and give the other man a ride home to his wife and four children. The money would give them a start in a construction business of their own down there.

They hugged me goodbye and I never saw them again, nor have heard from either man.

But the bottom line here is a clear example of doing what is only right in the face of what is blatantly wrong, and remains wrong today: Exploitation of the poor and desperate by the wealthy. It is common in America and openly done in China as outright slavery!

Slavery is the reason for human trafficking. It is big business. Bigger business and even more profitable than the drug business. That is why the underworld of China and the Mexican cartels exploit human trafficking as a major source of their profits.

And these so-called respectable international corporations like Nike, Apple and Coca-Cola and all the 80 or so other hypocrites, are not one bit better than the underworld crime organizations in China and Latin America, and in the United States.

Right is right and wrong is wrong. Slavery and exploitation of the poor and desperate people struggling to simply survive and hold their families together is perhaps the most wrong of all wrongs done in the world today.

It stands against the ideals of the United States Constitution and Declaration of Independence, the very foundation of America.

And it stands against God! An affront to God! It goes against everything that Jesus Christ stated in the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:1-12) that begins His Sermon on the Mount.

Mark my words, regardless of whether any of these corporate leaders believe in God, the Lord God Almighty will hold these people who exploit and enslave God’s children accountable. Just as God will hold us all accountable on Judgment Day.

Plus, there is this thing that some people call, “Karma.” I call it, God gets even. And He does. Just stand by.

 ©Copyright 2020 Charles W. Henderson 

A Beautiful Soul

by Taylor MacHenry

We called him Adam. Sometimes, in humor, I called him, “Up-N-Adam,” a nickname that sprung from my sincere love for the youngster who grew into a truly good man with a pure heart and a beautiful soul.

William Adam Wilson, Colorado elk hunting 2009

William Adam Wilson was my brother John’s stepson; John’s wife Gina’s first born son. She had previously married William O. Wilson for 11 years, a good and gentle man who dearly loved his wife and son, devoted himself to them, but had his life cut short, enduring a slow death from the heartbreaking, destructive effects that Type One Diabetes has on the human body. When Bill Wilson died, he was blind and had no legs, yet he still tried to be the father that a father ought to be for Adam, shooting hoops in the backyard with the little boy, the father blind and in a wheelchair. Adam had to use a long stick to tap the side of the metal hoop so his father could focus on the sound and know where to shoot the basketball. A father’s determined love for his son, overcoming all obstacles.

Bill Wilson was also my brother John’s best friend. And it broke John’s heart when his buddy died, January 10, 1992, Bill’s 37th birthday. For John, it was as if his own brother had passed away.

John’s relationship with Gina and her little boy, Adam, grew over the months after Bill’s death. This extended through the year until the two of them realized that they truly loved each other. That they belonged together. That God meant them to be together. So, on September 25, 1992 John and Gina got married.

Bill would have wanted it. His best friend, John, taking up the course of life with his beloved and devoted wife, Gina. John would take great care of Gina and Adam, and Bill would remain branded in the centers of their hearts, and they would honor him with their love.

As Adam began to grow up, he also learned more and more about the goodness of his father, and that like him, his father had a beautiful soul. So, out of love and respect for his father, Adam began calling himself, William, and asked others to call him William. An act of great love from a wonderful son honoring his father.

William Adam Wilson elk hunting in southwestern Colorado, October 2009, with his dad, John Henderson, younger brother, Martin Henderson, and “Uncle Bill,” Charles William Henderson.

But like his father, growing through early adolescence, John and Gina and young William Adam Wilson learned that he had developed Type One Diabetes. An affliction apparently passed down through genetics.

Thus, it was the heartbreaking, destructive effects of Type One Diabetes that on February 17, 2020 put William Adam Wilson into a coma. And on March 20, 2020, at age 36, lying in a Colorado Springs care facility, he died. Alone.

Unvisited for those 32 days of unconsciousness, appearing to the healthcare workers and the funeral care staff that no one held even a whet of concern about this young man. Apparently rejected no different than an abandoned dog picked up off the cold streets, left to die alone in the city pound.


William Adam Wilson would not have died alone, had his mother known that he had suffered the catastrophic medical event on February 17, where excessive insulin in his body caused him to crash and fall into coma.

Trugina Henderson would have been at the hospital emergency room from moment one, and she would have never left her son’s side. Gina would have been at the nursing care facility throughout every day and night of the 32 days that her son lay in a coma, as he did, slowly dying, with no one checking on him, except for the nursing staff and doctors. His devoted mother would have accompanied William Adam to the funeral home too. And his dad, my brother, John Henderson, would have remained stedfast at her side and at William’s side. Stalwartly there. Every bitter and sad day that remained of John’s and Gina’s dearly loved son’s life.

Together, John and Gina with their other son, Martin and daughter, Katelynn, with my family and me, and all the many others who greatly loved him would have taken William Adam Wilson to his birthplace in Oklahoma. We would have buried him next to his father, had William’s family known anything of what happened to this very dearly loved son.

Almost eight years ago, William Adam Wilson got married to a deeply troubled young woman (her name is not important for this writing). We suspect that she had suffered abuse as a child. She displayed all the behavior of it–withdrawn, afraid and sullen. Not trusting anyone. Thus, she had a host of mental issues and deeply seated emotional troubles.

William, likewise, carried more than his share of disabilities too. Not just Type One Diabetes, but other serious and debilitating issues. They included several emotional and learning disabilities, we can call them. And they were punctuated by William Adam having the affliction of Asperger Syndrome.

Asperger’s not only impacted and greatly limited William’s social interaction abilities, but limited his comprehension and understanding. Complex matters did not compute. His world was simple. Yes or no, black or white. Shades of gray made wrapping his mind around something multifaceted quite difficult. Yet one thing that Asperger Syndrome could not stifle was his love. His abundant love. Nor could it flaw his beautiful soul.

When John’s and my mother, in her 90s, lived with him and Gina, and William and Martin and Katelynn, she could do little for herself. William loved her as his grandmother too. He would check on her throughout any day, and often would lovingly ask her if he could get anything for her. She would sometimes say that she would really enjoy drinking a chocolate frosty (ice cream shake) from Wendy’s restaurant.

William would smile and tell her, “Grandmother, you wait right there. I will go and get you one.”

And he would get in his car and drive several miles to the nearest Wendy’s drive-in restaurant and bring home to her a chocolate frosty. All that trouble just to give this old woman who would regularly sit with him and talk about Jesus something nice.

For William Adam Wilson, his love was boundless. All or nothing.

A year or so into his marriage, William’s young wife worried about her husband sharing his love. She grew jealous of everyone and everything because William loved his family–his mother and dad, younger sister Katelynn and younger brother Martin. So, as this jealously became too heavy for her to bear, she gave William an ultimatum. He could love her or he could love his family. He could not love both.

William made the decision that he loved his wife. It was his responsibility, especially since he had pledged to God to be her husband and do all those things for her that God expected of him. So, William Adam Wilson divorced himself from his family, who he dearly loved. He sacrificed a huge part of his life so that his wife could know that he loved her most.

I do not mention his wife’s name for many reasons, but she took him away from John and Gina, Katelynn and Martin. She forbade him any contact with anyone of his family or his friends. Not them nor his uncles and aunts, nor his cousins. Not anyone but those she approved. Which was no one outside her immediate family.

Not only did he have to sacrifice his ties with his family but his ties to other things he loved. He had to throw out his collection of Oklahoma University football jerseys and hats. He had to get rid of his Broncos stuff and Cowboys stuff too. William Adam loved football but his wife could not compete with that love either. He had to make the choice, and William chose her.

He chose her and sacrificed everything else in his world that he loved, like football, hunting and fishing, and the people who loved him. Like his mother and dad and sister and brother. And his very large family. People who would go miles and miles for him because of their unconditional love for the young man.

During the ensuing six plus years, John and Gina tried every legal means of regaining contact, just to simply see their son with his great heart filled with love. They asked police do wellness checks. Our church’s pastor, Dave Shumpert, of Cowboy Church of Peyton, made many attempts over the years to visit with William and his wife, and her mother too, who lived with them. Pastor Dave had counseled William and his wife before their marriage and performed their marriage ceremony. Yet William’s wife forbade him any degree of contact with anyone outside her own family, which consisted of herself, her mother and brother.

They lived on William’s Social Security Disability income, which wasn’t much, but it paid the rent on a small, very modest apartment in Colorado Springs, and bought enough food to keep them going.

So, February 17, just after Valentine’s Day, with the heart-shaped boxes of chocolate candy that goes with it, and William Adam having a special taste for chocolate, he fell into a coma. For some reason, too much insulin surged through his system and sent down sugar levels, crashing through the bottom of his blood sugar scale. William’s parents had saved him several times before, when his insulin took him down. Gina knew what to do because she had done the same for her late husband, Bill Wilson, William’s father. Yet William’s wife apparently knew little to nothing about the immediate action that she needed to take to save his life. So, when William Adam Wilson crashed, he stayed down.

First responders took him to the hospital emergency room. After every effort to bring William back failed, the healthcare givers reluctantly transferred him to a hospice facility when doctors knew that nothing within their realm of science could bring him back. Thirty-two days later, on March 20, 2020, William Adam Wilson died. And his beautiful soul went to heaven.

William Adam Wilson had his disabilities, but he had a great and solid love for his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He prayed every day and devoted himself to living for Jesus. As with his love, William was all-in for Jesus.

On Labor Day weekend, John and Gina, her younger sister, Sandy and her husband had gone camping and fishing. That same weekend Adam’s Aunt Pam, Gina’s other sister, Pamala Howard, who lives in Ohio, sat at her computer and as she had done throughout the past six years, like John and Gina and most of Adam’s family had also regularly done, she made random searches for anything that might give them a glimpse of how William was doing. Maybe a Facebook notice or something might offer a sliver of light into this dearly loved son’s world. Any little something that might help to sooth the ache in Pam’s heart, and in Gina’s heart and John’s, Martin’s and Katelynn’s and all of their family’s hearts, because we all greatly loved and missed the young man.

Only this time, something was different. Something had weighed on Pam’s heart, and told her that she needed to look harder. Expand her search, define it more. Pam decided to try a search for Adam using his full name and place of birth. It should narrow things down. So, she typed William Adam Wilson born in Lawton, Oklahoma.

There, at the top of the search page stood an obituary posted online March 20, 2020, from a funeral home in Colorado Springs. Tears flowed from her eyes as her heart broke, reading the very briefest of death notices. There was no doubt. Adam had died.

Then another wave of heartbreak and dread closed on Pam. She had to call her sister and tell her that her dearly loved son had lost his life. Not just recently died but had passed away six months ago.

Pam could not make the call that night nor the next, she had to get the shock of it under control before she told her sister. As she wrestled with how exactly she should best handle the dreadful task, she decided to wait. Wait until John and Gina had returned home from their camping fun with her sister Sandy and her husband, fishing several lakes and streams along Colorado’s Continental Divide. Pam wanted them to at least have another night and day of enjoyment before she shattered their world with the news of Adam.

Thus on the night of September 8, well after time for dinner and allowing plenty of time for them to return home to Falcon, Colorado, Pam called Gina and John. She cut right to it and told them the news that she had found.

John hurried to his computer, took a deep and dreadful breath and typed into the search block, William Adam Wilson, born in Lawton, Oklahoma. And up popped his dearly loved son’s obituary.

It contained no picture, was only three sentences long but contained the correct birth date, place of birth, father’s and mother’s (probably taken from his birth certificate) and his wife’s name, along with the name of her brother as survivors. Unbeknownst to his family and everyone who greatly loved him, William Adam Wilson had died.

John called me, 10:30 p.m. on that Tuesday night, devastated. And thus our grieving for the boy that we dearly loved, William Adam Wilson, now dead at age 36, began.

Adam’s disabilities benefits and Colorado taxpayers covered the meager costs of his death processing at the funeral home. One could hardly call what they did anything more than processing. Pretty much the same treatment that a homeless person with no family receives. Cremation and no memorial services. No burial, no headstone, just a can of ashes inside a cardboard box.

The funeral director had to telephone and leave messages for William’s wife multiple times to persuade her to come pick up her husband’s ashes. She finally did, and gave the good man at the funeral home a hand-scrawled page of a few lines of facts, probably taken from her husband’s birth certificate, for an obituary. Then she took the container filled with William’s ashes and disappeared.

Her mother had died in 2019, and without William’s disability check providing her income, she moved out of their humble apartment. The building manager said she had gone to Arizona to be with family, but she left no city name nor forwarding address.

So, William Adam Wilson’s mom and dad, sister and brother, uncles and aunts, including me, are left with nothing but our memories of this pure and gentle young man that we so dearly loved. Adoring memories of a wonderful person who had a heart filled with love and a beautiful soul.

As matters now stand, no body or ashes of our beloved William to bury, we will instead take an effigy of him–photographs and keepsakes and notes of love in a box–and lay those to rest next to William O. “Bill” Wilson. We will hold our memorial service there, and the grave marker will read William Adam Wilson, on the same tombstone marking his father’s grave. Side by side. It will suffice, because our love for William Adam Wilson is greater than the divide of death that separates us, for the time being.

On Thursday, September 10, Pastor David Shumpert and his wife, Beverly, drove the more than 220 miles roundtrip to Colorado Springs from Johnstown, Colorado, to meet with us at John’s home. A most intimate funeral service, if you will. All of us, including my son, Bobby, who lives in Lawton, Oklahoma and was here visiting, sat with Pastor Dave and Beverly and let our hearts flood out streams of tears and sweet memories of our beloved boy, William Adam Wilson.

Pastor Dave prayed with us, and read Scripture to us. He told us that he knew with absolute certainty that William Adam Wilson now lived in the presence of our Lord in heaven. Pastor Dave had known William very well, and without mistake, knew the young man’s heart. I too am certain that my beloved nephew is with Jesus.

And that is the good news of the day. William is likewise with his father Bill Wilson, and neither of them suffer from the destructive torture of Type One Diabetes. Bill has legs and can see beyond the stars, his son at his side, standing tall and fully fit. Both perfect in all respects. They live now in splendorous spiritual bodies, no longer in corrupted human flesh but the matter that exists with God for eternity. Glorious stuff.

As we sat there with Pastor Dave, praying and weeping, we realized the truth of God’s love for William as we told each other that William’s afflictions no longer existed. No more Asperger Syndrome, no more Type One Diabetes. While his father had lost his legs and eyesight to the slow death of diabetes, William did not have to live to face that torture, that heartbreak, that ordeal. Our Lord, Jesus Christ, had smiled on our beloved son and brought him home to be with Him for eternity.

And, as Pastor Dave reminded us, God had transformed William into a flawless, perfect, glorious body that radiates marvelous and wondrous like the stars. Our beloved Adam stands amidst the Angels, before the Lord.

This morning, as I read my Bible, as I try to do each day, my lesson took me to the epistles of Paul, writing to the Corinthians. Paul told the Corinthians about how we who believe in Jesus will be resurrected from this life and transformed to glory. Human flesh is of this world, corrupt and with sin. God moves our souls to glorified bodies, utterly perfect and radiant, just as His presence is perfect and radiant.

So, now we can celebrate, have great joy for our very dearly loved William Adam Wilson. He now lives on High, in the presence of Christ Jesus, and he suffers no more pain or limitations, nor earthly needs nor sorrow.

We rejoice in the Lord and praise His Holy Name, as God’s Word assures us in the epistle written long ago by His Apostle Paul, a testament of the Truth and Promise told in Paul’s epistle to the Corinthians:

1 Corinthians 15:35-58

The Nature of the Resurrection Body

35 But someone will ask, “How are the dead raised? What kind of body will they have when they come?” 36 You fool! What you sow does not come to life unless it dies. 37 And as for what you sow — you are not sowing the body that will be, but only a seed, perhaps of wheat or another grain. 38 But God gives it a body as he wants, and to each of the seeds its own body. 39 Not all flesh is the same flesh; there is one flesh for humans, another for animals, another for birds, and another for fish. 40 There are heavenly bodies and earthly bodies, but the splendor of the heavenly bodies is different from that of the earthly ones. 41 There is a splendor of the sun, another of the moon, and another of the stars; in fact, one star differs from another star in splendor. 42 So it is with the resurrection of the dead: Sown in corruption, raised in incorruption; 43 sown in dishonor, raised in glory; sown in weakness, raised in power; 44 sown a natural body, raised a spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body. 45 So it is written, The first man Adam became a living being; the last Adam became a life-giving spirit. 46 However, the spiritual is not first, but the natural, then the spiritual.

47 The first man was from the earth, a man of dust; the second man is from heaven. 48 Like the man of dust, so are those who are of the dust; like the man of heaven, so are those who are of heaven. 49 And just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we will also bear the image of the man of heaven.

Victorious Resurrection

50 What I am saying, brothers and sisters, is this: Flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor can corruption inherit incorruption. 51 Listen, I am telling you a mystery: We will not all fall asleep, but we will all be changed, 52 in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we will be changed. 53 For this corruptible body must be clothed with incorruptibility, and this mortal body must be clothed with immortality.

54 When this corruptible body is clothed with incorruptibility, and this mortal body is clothed with immortality, then the saying that is written will take place: Death has been swallowed up in victory. 55 Where, death, is your victory? Where, death, is your sting? 

56 The sting of death is sin, and the power of sin is the law. 57 But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!

58 Therefore, my dear brothers and sisters, be steadfast, immovable, always excelling in the Lord’s work, because you know that your labor in the Lord is not in vain.

 ©Copyright 2020 Charles W. Henderson 

Baby Blue—A Time of Lost Innocence

By Taylor MacHenry (aka Charles Henderson)

A song came in my head this morning while I set water at a slow trickle on my red apple tree. Baby Blue, a melody by Badfinger, a worldwide hit in 1971.

Hearing the guitar riff play in my mind, so catchy, I began to recall those days when I served in the Far East, a young United States Marine who had risen to sergeant and was surrounded by the best men I have ever known, or perhaps will ever know. Men who were boys then, but did the work of men, and had pure hearts and high ideals.

Corporal Doug Bricco could play the guitar and sing too. He could pull off that Badfinger riff from Baby Blue and sound just like the recording. Doug, big and muscular, was a studious type, gold rim glasses and a black moustache, regulation, of course. But he was a lot smarter than most of us. A young man with a beautiful mind, and talents to match. He would go far, if he lived past the present days.

Then Corporal Carl Hebert, a coonass from New Orleans. What a piece of work! Filled with jokes and sweetness. I don’t think Carl ever stopped smiling, even when he followed Lieutenant Colonel Ray Porter and his battalion of Marines onto Koh Tang Island and engaged Pol Pot’s Khmer Rouge forces that had kidnapped the American cargo ship, Mayaguez.

There was a certain goodness that hides deep in my heart from the Viet Nam War era. Not the war itself but from that time: The closeness to each other that we felt, we who were mere boys then and put on the uniforms of men and became men.

We were innocent in those days, like America, like everyone in the Land of the Free. Driven by idealism based on goodness and ethics and decency, driven by a love for God and for our country.

Our fathers had, like us, become men in battle. World War II and Korea. I recall as a child in Artesia, New Mexico the hometown boys in uniform, olive green and shined boots, helmets on their heads and M-1 rifles on their shoulders, marching down Main Street, our National Guardsmen home from Korea. Boys who became men, enduring horrors that words cannot describe, yet still holding onto the promises and the innocence of America then, 1953.

Ten years later, things would change. Innocence and decency, purity and honor fell under attack, led by ruthless cowards who saw an opportunity to make money and perhaps train the forces in some real-time combat. They didn’t take Ho Chi Minh and Vo Nguyen Giap seriously.

The French were sissies, after all. Got beat at Dien Bien Phu by a bunch of rice farmers with worn-out guns. They branded the French ineffective fighters for how they rolled over to the Germans in World War II and Charles de Gaulle ran for cover, leaving his nation unguarded. They didn’t stop to consider that General de Gaulle had remained in the weeds, hidden with the French Resistance and led them in a continued fight against the German forces that occupied France. And those rice farmers in Viet Nam fought for a cause alongside well-trained soldiers who had not stopped waging battles since they fought the Japanese in World War II.

America stepped in where the French had failed, ten years earlier at Dien Bien Phu, believing the ideals of Superman—no one can beat us. We were innocent and pure in mind and heart. Our nation’s political leaders weren’t, but we were. And we believed. Because innocent America had raised us. We had goodness in us, running through and through. We came to help a beleaguered people of South Viet Nam, honestly. We did. Honestly. And we died there, physically and emotionally.

The crooks pulling the strings and making money hand over fist did not believe in anything except their richness. They could not care less for America’s children sent to die in a war we did not understand. To this day we still do not understand.

Thus, the hard-working poor and middle class of America once again took up arms, while the mighty few who filled their pockets did not but filled their pockets.

We came home from that war changed. Changed just like America. The goodness became cynicism, mistrust of authority and openly angry objection. We can blame our change as angry men on PTSD, the trauma of war. An easy cop out, but there’s much more to it than simply PTSD. Those of us who saw additional war and more horror after Viet Nam have the memories and struggles and flashbacks of our service stacked atop itself. Most veterans from my time and today’s wars cope, but too many among us simply and finally give up, put a gun to their heads and pull the trigger. We look forward to rest at last from the darkness that overwhelmed us. That took our innocence.

We who remain to fight on miss that innocence and goodness, and the love. We loved America then, and we loved God much more. We loved our families and loved the ideals taught to us at Hermosa Elementary School in Artesia, New Mexico in 1954. And in 1966 when we graduated high school and marched to war in Viet Nam.

We miss the time in this nation when even in New York City the high school boys had shooting clubs and took guns to school. At my high school, we kept them loaded on racks in the back windows of our pickup trucks, parked out front, on the street, unlocked. Not to use to commit violence or terrify anyone, but because guns were a part of who we were as Americans, innocent and pure hearted in our ideals. Guns in America were for sport and pleasure.

They were part of something even much larger: Our liberty. Our decency. The goodness that America was in those difficult years. And during those years, our innocence died.

No, we were not perfect. Far from it! Racial inequality loomed large and shameful, and directly opposed our true American idealism that said God created all of mankind equal and required equal justice and opportunity.

Today, as a nation, we have become bitter and angry. Racism seems to have grown worse, not better with what should be enlightened understanding. We have become selfish like the bastards who led America to war so long ago. Guns mean violence today, and hate stands at every corner. Blame and hatred and loudmouthed condemnation from every side. Ugliness thrives where beauty once lived. Innocence and decency slain by the devil himself, it seems.

Baby Blue begins with, “Guess I got what I deserve… Left you waiting there too long, my love… All that time, without a word… Didn’t know you’d think that I’d forget… or I’d regret… The special love I have for you… My baby blue….”

I can still hear Doug Bricco singing it. His guitar in perfect sync and tune. Boys in the barracks, waiting for battle, to do the work of harsh men. And my heart aches, because I too miss the innocence of that day. I miss the sweetness. The purity of our idealism. And most of all, I miss the love.

 ©Copyright 2018 Charles W. Henderson 

The Elephant’s Child… for Julianne

Elephant Art 1by Charles Henderson

I am posting this short story from Rudyard Kipling’s, Just So Stories, for my great granddaughter, Julianne. Daughter of my beloved granddaughter, Janice Elizabeth Henderson, who is one child who is much like the Elephant’s Child, full of what Kipling called in his story, “‘satiable curtisosity.” Once, Janice told me, “Grandpa, I’m just one of those people who has to pee on the electric fence.”

I had told Janice that her father had always learned the hard way, not taking advice but trying things out for himself. I had said that some people will listen when you warn them to not pee on an electric fence. But there are those who must find out for themselves if the electricity is working. After all, the electric fence is just there, all quiet and unassuming, seemingly dead. But go ahead and pee on that bare wire running through insulators.

My Best Beloved Janice is just such an Elephant’s Child, full of adventure and courageous to try anything, despite the warnings and the spankings.

Currently, while serving on active duty in the United States Army, Janice’s beautiful little four year old daughter, Julianne, is living with Janice’s father, my son Toby Warren Henderson, the very same person who must pee on the electric fence. Toby’s brother, Bobby, on the other hand, listens well to advice. But that’s another story. However, today I am talking about my great granddaughter Julianne and “‘satiable curtiosity,” peeing on electric fences.

Rudyard Kipling is one of my very favorite authors, and I do have several that I love, but Kipling is among the best of them. And perhaps my most favorite of Kipling’s tales is that about the insatiably curious child of the mother elephant who one day asks the question: What do crocodiles have for dinner?

Do not tread, O Best Beloved, too near the water’s edge of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees. Advice is a good thing to consider, because experience is often the harsher teacher. Best be prepared for addressing experience by learning a bit first. Then venture off to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, wise with good advice.

As with all the Just So Stories, each has its moral, and often a good explanation of life and nature, such as just how the elephant got its trunk.

I hope that Janice, or perhaps my son, Toby or his wife, Autumn will read this wonderful Kipling tale to Julianne. And when they do, be sure to add the voices of each character. Just as my own loving mother did when she read this tale to me.


From the Just So Stories by Rudyard Kipling

Elephant Opening GraphicN the High and Far-Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no trunk. He had only a blackish, bulgy nose, as big as a boot, that he could wriggle about from side to side; but he couldn’t pick up things with it. But there was one Elephant–a new Elephant–an Elephant’s Child–who was full of ‘satiable curtiosity, and that means he asked ever so many questions. And he lived in Africa, and he filled all Africa with his ‘satiable curtiosities. He asked his tall aunt, the Ostrich, why her tail-feathers grew just so, and his tall aunt the Ostrich spanked him with her hard, hard claw. He asked his tall uncle, the Giraffe, what made his skin spotty, and his tall uncle, the Giraffe, spanked him with his hard, hard hoof. And still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity! He asked his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, why her eyes were red, and his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, spanked him with her broad, broad hoof; and he asked his hairy uncle, the Baboon, why melons tasted just so, and his hairy uncle, the Baboon, spanked him with his hairy, hairy paw. And still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity! He asked questions about everything that he saw, or heard, or felt, or smelt, or touched, and all his uncles and his aunts spanked him. And still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity!

One fine morning in the middle of the Precession of the Equinoxes this ‘satiable Elephant’s Child asked a new fine question that he had never asked before. He asked, ‘What does the Crocodile have for dinner?’ Then everybody said, ‘Hush!’ in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time.

By and by, when that was finished, he came upon Kolokolo Bird sitting in the middle of a wait-a-bit thorn-bush, and he said, ‘My father has spanked me, and my mother has spanked me; all my aunts and uncles have spanked me for my ‘satiable curtiosity; and still I want to know what the Crocodile has for dinner!’

Then Kolokolo Bird said, with a mournful cry, ‘Go to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, and find out.’

That very next morning, when there was nothing left of the Equinoxes, because the Precession had preceded according to precedent, this ‘satiable Elephant’s Child took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little short red kind), and a hundred pounds of sugar-cane (the long purple kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly kind), and said to all his dear families, ‘Goodbye. I am going to the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to find out what the Crocodile has for dinner.’ And they all spanked him once more for luck, though he asked them most politely to stop.

Then he went away, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up.

He went from Graham’s Town to Kimberley, and from Kimberley to Khama’s Country, and from Khama’s Country he went east by north, eating melons all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, precisely as Kolokolo Bird had said.

Now you must know and understand, O Best Beloved, that till that very week, and day, and hour, and minute, this ‘satiable Elephant’s Child had never seen a Crocodile, and did not know what one was like. It was all his ‘satiable curtiosity.

The first thing that he found was a Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake curled round a rock.

”Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child most politely, ‘but have you seen such a thing as a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?’

‘Have I seen a Crocodile?’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, in a voice of dretful scorn. ‘What will you ask me next?’

”Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘but could you kindly tell me what he has for dinner?’

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake uncoiled himself very quickly from the rock, and spanked the Elephant’s Child with his scalesome, flailsome tail.

‘That is odd,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘because my father and my mother, and my uncle and my aunt, not to mention my other aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my other uncle, the Baboon, have all spanked me for my ‘satiable curtiosity–and I suppose this is the same thing.’

So he said good-bye very politely to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, and helped to coil him up on the rock again, and went on, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up, till he trod on what he thought was a log of wood at the very edge of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees.

But it was really the Crocodile, O Best Beloved, and the Crocodile winked one eye–like this!

”Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child most politely, ‘but do you happen to have seen a Crocodile in these promiscuous parts?’

Then the Crocodile winked the other eye, and lifted half his tail out of the mud; and the Elephant’s Child stepped back most politely, because he did not wish to be spanked again.

‘Come hither, Little One,’ said the Crocodile. ‘Why do you ask such things?’

”Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child most politely, ‘but my father has spanked me, my mother has spanked me, not to mention my tall aunt, the Ostrich, and my tall uncle, the Giraffe, who can kick ever so hard, as well as my broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and my hairy uncle, the Baboon, and including the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, with the scalesome, flailsome tail, just up the bank, who spanks harder than any of them; and so, if it’s quite all the same to you, I don’t want to be spanked any more.’

‘Come hither, Little One,’ said the Crocodile, ‘for I am the Crocodile,’ and he wept crocodile-tears to show it was quite true.

Then the Elephant’s Child grew all breathless, and panted, and kneeled down on the bank and said, ‘You are the very person I have been looking for all these long days. Will you please tell me what you have for dinner?’

‘Come hither, Little One,’ said the Crocodile, ‘and I’ll whisper.’

Then the Elephant’s Child put his head down close to the Crocodile’s musky, tusky mouth, and the Crocodile caught him by his little nose, which up to that very week, day, hour, and minute, had been no bigger than a boot, though much more useful.

‘I think,’ said the Crocodile–and he said it between his teeth, like this–‘I think to-day I will begin with Elephant’s Child!’

At this, O Best Beloved, the Elephant’s Child was much annoyed, and he said, speaking through his nose, like this, ‘Led go! You are hurtig be!’

Elephant Art 1

THIS is the Elephant’s Child having his nose pulled by the Crocodile. He is much surprised and astonished and hurt, and he is talking through his nose and saying, ‘Led go! You are hurtig be!’ He is pulling very hard, and so is the Crocodile: but the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake is hurrying through the water to help the Elephant’s Child. All that black stuff is the banks of the great grey-green greasy Limpopo River (but I am not allowed to paint these pictures), and the bottly-tree with the twisty roots and the eight leaves is one of the fever-trees that grow there.
Underneath the truly picture are shadows of African animals walking into an African ark. There are two lions, two ostriches, two oxen, two camels, two sheep, and two other things that look like rats, but I think they are rock-rabbits. They don’t mean anything. I put them in because I thought they looked pretty. They would look very fine if I were allowed to paint them.

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake scuffled down from the bank and said, ‘My young friend, if you do not now, immediately and instantly, pull as hard as ever you can, it is my opinion that your acquaintance in the large-pattern leather ulster’ (and by this he meant the Crocodile) ‘will jerk you into yonder limpid stream before you can say Jack Robinson.’

This is the way Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk.

Then the Elephant’s Child sat back on his little haunches, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose began to stretch. And the Crocodile floundered into the water, making it all creamy with great sweeps of his tail, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled.

And the Elephant’s Child’s nose kept on stretching; and the Elephant’s Child spread all his little four legs and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose kept on stretching; and the Crocodile threshed his tail like an oar, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at each pull the Elephant’s Child’s nose grew longer and longer–and it hurt him hijjus!

Then the Elephant’s Child felt his legs slipping, and he said through his nose, which was now nearly five feet long, ‘This is too butch for be!’

Then the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake came down from the bank, and knotted himself in a double-clove-hitch round the Elephant’s Child’s hind legs, and said, ‘Rash and inexperienced traveller, we will now seriously devote ourselves to a little high tension, because if we do not, it is my impression that yonder self-propelling man-of-war with the armour-plated upper deck’ (and by this, O Best Beloved, he meant the Crocodile), ‘will permanently vitiate your future career.’

That is the way all Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snakes always talk.
So he pulled, and the Elephant’s Child pulled, and the Crocodile pulled; but the Elephant’s Child and the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake pulled hardest; and at last the Crocodile let go of the Elephant’s Child’s nose with a plop that you could hear all up and down the Limpopo.

Then the Elephant’s Child sat down most hard and sudden; but first he was careful to say ‘Thank you’ to the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake; and next he was kind to his poor pulled nose, and wrapped it all up in cool banana leaves, and hung it in the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo to cool.

‘What are you doing that for?’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake.

”Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘but my nose is badly out of shape, and I am waiting for it to shrink.’

‘Then you will have to wait a long time,’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘Some people do not know what is good for them.’

The Elephant’s Child sat there for three days waiting for his nose to shrink. But it never grew any shorter, and, besides, it made him squint. For, O Best Beloved, you will see and understand that the Crocodile had pulled it out into a really truly trunk same as all Elephants have to-day.

At the end of the third day a fly came and stung him on the shoulder, and before he knew what he was doing he lifted up his trunk and hit that fly dead with the end of it.

”Vantage number one!’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘You couldn’t have done that with a mere-smear nose. Try and eat a little now.’

Before he thought what he was doing the Elephant’s Child put out his trunk and plucked a large bundle of grass, dusted it clean against his fore-legs, and stuffed it into his own mouth.

”Vantage number two!’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘You couldn’t have done that with a mere-smear nose. Don’t you think the sun is very hot here?’

‘It is,’ said the Elephant’s Child, and before he thought what he was doing he schlooped up a schloop of mud from the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo, and slapped it on his head, where it made a cool schloopy-sloshy mud-cap all trickly behind his ears.

”Vantage number three!’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake. ‘You couldn’t have done that with a mere-smear nose. Now how do you feel about being spanked again?’

”Scuse me,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘but I should not like it at all.’

‘How would you like to spank somebody?’ said the Bi- Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake.

‘I should like it very much indeed,’ said the Elephant’s Child.

‘Well,’ said the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake, ‘you will find that new nose of yours very useful to spank people with.’

‘Thank you,’ said the Elephant’s Child, ‘I’ll remember that; and now I think I’ll go home to all my dear families and try.’

So the Elephant’s Child went home across Africa frisking and whisking his trunk. When he wanted fruit to eat he pulled fruit down from a tree, instead of waiting for it to fall as he used to do. When he wanted grass he plucked grass up from the ground, instead of going on his knees as he used to do. When the flies bit him he broke off the branch of a tree and used it as fly-whisk; and he made himself a new, cool, slushy-squshy mud-cap whenever the sun was hot. When he felt lonely walking through Africa he sang to himself down his trunk, and the noise was louder than several brass bands.

Elephant Art 2

THIS is just a picture of the Elephant’s Child going to pull bananas off a banana-tree after he had got his fine new long trunk. I don’t think it is a very nice picture; but I couldn’t make it any better, because elephants and bananas are hard to draw. The streaky things behind the Elephant’s Child mean squoggy marshy country somewhere in Africa. The Elephant’s Child made most of his mud-cakes out of the mud that he found there. I think it would look better if you painted the banana-tree green and the Elephant’s Child red.

He went especially out of his way to find a broad Hippopotamus (she was no relation of his), and he spanked her very hard, to make sure that the Bi-Coloured-Python-Rock-Snake had spoken the truth about his new trunk. The rest of the time he picked up the melon rinds that he had dropped on his way to the Limpopo–for he was a Tidy Pachyderm.

One dark evening he came back to all his dear families, and he coiled up his trunk and said, ‘How do you do?’ They were very glad to see him, and immediately said, ‘Come here and be spanked for your ‘satiable curtiosity.’

‘Pooh,’ said the Elephant’s Child. ‘I don’t think you peoples know anything about spanking; but I do, and I’ll show you.’ Then he uncurled his trunk and knocked two of his dear brothers head over heels.

‘O Bananas!’ said they, ‘where did you learn that trick, and what have you done to your nose?’

‘I got a new one from the Crocodile on the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River,’ said the Elephant’s Child. ‘I asked him what he had for dinner, and he gave me this to keep.’

‘It looks very ugly,’ said his hairy uncle, the Baboon.

‘It does,’ said the Elephant’s Child. ‘But it’s very useful,’ and he picked up his hairy uncle, the Baboon, by one hairy leg, and hove him into a hornet’s nest.

Then that bad Elephant’s Child spanked all his dear families for a long time, till they were very warm and greatly astonished. He pulled out his tall Ostrich aunt’s tail-feathers; and he caught his tall uncle, the Giraffe, by the hind-leg, and dragged him through a thorn-bush; and he shouted at his broad aunt, the Hippopotamus, and blew bubbles into her ear when she was sleeping in the water after meals; but he never let any one touch Kolokolo Bird.

At last things grew so exciting that his dear families went off one by one in a hurry to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever-trees, to borrow new noses from the Crocodile. When they came back nobody spanked anybody any more; and ever since that day, O Best Beloved, all the Elephants you will ever see, besides all those that you won’t, have trunks precisely like the trunk of the ‘satiable Elephant’s Child.

I Keep six honest serving-men:
(They taught me all I knew)
Their names are What and Where and When
And How and Why and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.
I let them rest from nine till five.
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men:
But different folk have different views:
I know a person small–
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!
She sends ’em abroad on her own affairs,
From the second she opens her eyes–
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!

 ©Copyright 2017 Charles W. Henderson 

Wiretaps: Don’t Drink the Government’s Kool-Aid

by Charles Henderson

Here’s a screenshot of the front page of The New York Times, Friday, January 20, 2017 edition. Look at the headline to the left of the photograph of Trump arriving in Washington, DC for the inauguration. It reads: “Wiretapped Data Used In Inquiry Of Trump Aides.”

The article says in its lead paragraph that investigators while conducting surveillance operations intercepted telephone conversations and data (email) of the Trump presidential campaign, his staff and his associates talking with the Russians. This is how they got the goods on General Michael T. Flynn.  If the Obama White House did not authorize this surveillance and wiretapping, then who did? And why? What was their “Reasonable Cause” to justify a wiretap?

While we listen to the spin from every sector and side, one warning comes to mind: Don’t drink the government’s Kool-Aid.

Here’s the facts, Jack. Since the passage of the Patriot Act, after 9-11, most wiretaps are initiated and conducted without the benefit of a warrant. Investigators just go snooping, tap a line and then when they smell a skunk, they go for a warrant using evidence for reasonable cause to which they were led by their illegally gained information. Quite often they use the umbrella of the Patriot Act, all in the name of seeking out enemies of the American people. Yes the 4th and 5th amendments are pretty much out the window, along with the 1st Amendment and the 14th Amendment.

Today, the Department of Homeland Security, National Security Agency/Central Security Service, Defense Intelligence Agency and even the Central Intelligence Agency (albeit illegal as it may be for the CIA to operate within US borders) spend thousands of man hours daily monitoring wiretaps, most of them dubiously conducted under the Patriot Act, and often conducted by private security contractors. Private contractors are handy when you want to deny an activity and cover up crimes, especially when the stuff you’ve done is illegal. Are you watching the HBO TV series, HOMELAND? Yes, very scary.

I know  a lot about the subject because in 2006 I was a victim of illegal wiretaps and ruthless throat cutting by a US government security contractor. And it cost me nearly everything I had, and very nearly cost me my writing career.

In 2006, I was under contract with a major New York publisher to write a nonfiction book about the war in Iraq. I had assembled a good deal of research, and had a multitude of sources, many of whom provided me information under my promise to never reveal who they are. Overall, the book was fairly benign, it just examined the war from specific operational standpoints. However, during the research, I came to know about the wanton murder of two Iraqi civilians by an American contractor. One of their supervisors simply shot the two individuals for sport. He just wanted to kill some people. He had told the three security agents with him that he was heading home the next day, and had not killed anyone on this tour. So he sport shot a man in a sedan in Baghdad, and later killed a man in a delivery van near the airport.

As I began to peel back layers in this disgusting story, I found that a reporter from The New York Times and a reporter from The Washington Post were also investigating the story. So, I contacted them and we shared information, getting to the truth of the story. At the time, American contractors in a war zone did not fall under any United States legal jurisdiction, but only faced prosecution by a host nation government, if one existed. In Iraq, the government was not interested in such prosecution, nor capable of even investigating these murders. Death lived on the streets of Baghdad then, daily. Thus the contractors operated with no legal oversight. They could sling guns and kill people, and faced no consequences. For justice sake, that needed to change, and this might help.

As I worked on my book, one day I was surprised to learn that a federal court in Herndon, Virginia had issued a subpoena to me and ordered me to surrender to the court all my computers and similar devices, all of my notes and notebooks, all recordings and notes, provide the court a complete list of all of my sources, and that I was to be deposed to answer all that I knew about the matter of the killing of the two civilians in Baghdad. I was to surrender all of this and be deposed by the attorneys for the private security contractor for whom the man who had committed the murders worked.

It was not the government investigating the murders, but the federal court helping the private security contractor put a sock in my investigation, stop me from writing my book, and silence me about the killings. The private security contractor, along with State Department had covered up the murders, and they needed everything I knew or would say buried. So they came after me.

I countered the attack with my attorneys, citing my First Amendment Rights as a journalist, and Colorado Shield Laws protecting journalists, and I refused to comply with the federal court order. This cost me a hunk of money, everything I had received in book advance, and then once it went to trial it would cost a whole lot more money that I did not have, nor had hope of having. Of courses, the private security contractor’s lawyers were going to render me dead by a thousand cuts. Drain me dry so that I couldn’t fight back. They had lots more money than I had, and they knew it.

During this time that I came under assault by the contractor, I was carrying on almost daily conversations and exchanging email with the Times and Post reporters, and with United States Senator James H. Webb.

Senator Webb was carrying out his own inquiry in relation with investigating the very dubious and questionable activities of American contractors in Iraq, and the fact that at the time they fell under no legal jurisdiction except the Iraqi government (and similarly in Afghanistan), which was in no position to pursue any murder cases. The Iraqi government was in shambles, and people were getting shot on the streets of Baghdad daily. Therefore, an American contractor in Iraq could commit cold-blooded murder and never face prosecution.

In this case, the State Department paid off the Iraqi people that needed to be paid for silence, the government contractor fired the supervisor that committed the murders, and fired the three employees who witnessed the murders. Coverup complete.

Except, one of the fired employees was angry about what he had witnessed, the cold-blooded murder, and for getting fired for seeing it happen and reporting the events up the chain of command, as he should. He wanted justice and he was talking. The man was a Marine who left active service to work for the contractor, and he knew me. So, he called me and told me every dirty detail, including their use of alcohol, illegal drugs and steroids, and how that made them all a little crazy.

After the contractor had come after me, many of my sources suddenly became distant, reluctant to answer my calls or email. I suspected that the security contractor was reaching out to everyone that might know me. My sources came to know by the grapevine that I was in the contractor’s crosshairs. So, to head off the rumor mill, I called everyone involved in my book and told them that for the time being, I would not be talking to them. Not until this nightmare had run its course.

Then the one eyewitness who was sounding off about the killings ended up dead. Hit by a car and no witnesses. Small town sheriff investigation open and shut in a day. This man had gone back on active duty with the Marine Corps, had gone home on leave with his wife, and ended up splattered afoot and alone on dark highway in the Wisconsin back country. That pretty much put an end to anyone ever saying another word. The other two eyewitnesses suddenly suffered from memory loss. If the contractor hadn’t arranged the deadly accident, it looked awfully convenient for them.

At the time that I was subpoenaed and ordered to give up my research and sources and be deposed, my colleagues at the Post and the Times went dark. Too much heat and not enough corroborating evidence for them to publish their stories. And now no witnesses. They didn’t want to be caught up in a costly lawsuit and have nothing to show for it. Also, my publisher disappeared off the horizon as soon as the word, “lawyers,” was mentioned. Good luck pal. You’re on your own. And I don’t fault anyone here. It was a lost cause now.

As we were preparing for trial, and were in the last days of discovery, where the opposing side had to reveal their evidence to me, my lawyer showed me a number of interesting documents. Private emails about the Baghdad killings exchanged back and forth between me and Senator Webb, discussing details of the events of the murders, and other information about the contractors, such as their use of narcotics, meth amphetamines, steroids and alcohol while on the job. A lot of very disturbing facts that gave us greater understanding of how reckless some of these gunslingers operated.

Now, let me be clear, I have a number of friends who worked for security contractors in Iraq, and they did outstanding work. Very much above board. We are talking about a minority of individuals, some reckless dirtbags and a company that operated at a level below the bottom of a sludge pond.

The opposing council had a whole raft of documents, and a number of items of information obtained only from telephone conversations between Senator Webb and me that were strictly private. The only way they could have obtained these documents and this information was through illegal surveillance and illegal wiretaps of my computer data streams and telephone lines.

It was hardly a day after my attorney had confronted the contractor’s lawyers with this evidence that strongly revealed that they had illegally wiretapped me, that they dropped the entire case. They signed a document that said they would leave me alone, and I was free to do anything I wanted with all the information that I had.

By then, however, the contractor knew that my sources were silent, and that I would not be writing the book, because they had succeeded in torpedoing the entire project. So they went away, their mission accomplished.

On the plus side, I never revealed my sources, and I never was deposed, nor did I ever turn over a shred of paper or a note to anyone. But I didn’t write the book either. My gracious publisher, thanks to a very caring editor, gave me a new contract for another book, and took the prior advance that I owed them for the failed book project out of the new book, which I delivered.

Meanwhile, Senator Jim Webb was furious about the obvious illegal wiretaps, and wanted serious blood. Then karma, providence and probably God stepped up. As Webb went after the government contractors in Iraq, one day a crew from Blackwater was leading a convoy out of the US Embassy in Baghdad. For some unexplainable reason, one of the Blackwater crew opened fire on a crowd of people. Hearing his shots fired the crew accompanying him lit up the whole neighborhood with gunfire. The sidewalks teamed with civilians that day, and when the smoke cleared 31 of them lay dead.

It wasn’t long after that happened that Congress passed a law that brought all American contractors operating in any combat area with US forces under the legal jurisdiction of the United States Government. We didn’t need to publish the story after all, because some reckless contractors had cut all their own throats. But to this day, the murderer of the two Iraqi civilians still walks free, and the Marine eyewitness who demanded justice is still dead.

But the moral of this story is simple: The Government can say that they didn’t tap anyone’s data streams or telephones, and no one may have ever gotten a warrant. But that doesn’t make their denials true. Especially if they hire a contractor to do the dirty work.

Wiretaps by the government, too often illegal, or under the cloudy guise of the umbrella authorizations of the Patriot Act, are a fact of life today in America. Our 4th and 5th, as well as our 1st, 2nd and 14th amendment rights have been badly eroded all in the name of public safety. And even presidential candidates are not immune to the invasive nature of our government, all in the name of national security.

Ask yourself this: If there were not wiretaps, no government agents listening in, then how did they know about the Trump campaign’s conversations with the Russians? How do they know many specific details, and how do they know the right questions to ask?

This is not to defend Donald Trump, but to say don’t drink anyone’s Kool-Aid. Hillary Clinton’s campaign was just as likely surveilled as was the Trump campaign, Bernie Sanders’ campaign and others.

 ©Copyright 2017 Charles W. Henderson 

America’s next bestselling novel, or not

by Charles Henderson

I can’t count the times I’ve heard fellow writers puzzle and pull out their hair at what to do to make their books sell. Sell well enough to pay me for all my work researching and writing the bloody beast over the past year, or two, or three? For that matter, just how does a book become a bestseller? Why not mine?

If ITerminal Impact had a good answer to those questions, I’d have a shelf of bestsellers and more coming out the chute. But the truth is, no one knows. Not even the biggest publishers in the world. And they truly want bestsellers. That’s what they live for. Every editor in New York
City spends his or her hourlong train ride to work from Westchester or Long Island
pondering that illusive dream of every author and editor.

Is it luck? Is it just landing in the right spot at the right time with the right story for the
fickle and unpredictable book buying public? Or is it a lot of effort to publicize a well written book, and to market it smartly?
Probably all of the above.

I can do nothing about luck. I don’t think luck exists anyway. I pray to God to bless me, and trust His will. I also can do nothing about what the book reviewers at all the major media want to feature, nor what the TODAY SHOW or JIMMY KIMMEL want to feature. What I can do is what I can do. And what can I do?

I can put my best efforts forth, and my limited budget, into marketing and publicizing my work. And I can coordinate everything I do with my publisher, who is supposed to be marketing and selling my new book. If I want to make money on the work, and the publisher wants to reclaim his input costs and make a profit, we’ll work together and work hard. But just how hard will a publisher work with my book, as opposed to the thousands of other titles he may have out there?

I have been published by the same major house, now evolved to Penguin Random House, since 1986, and gone through two editors there. In all the years I have written professionally, and done well too, well enough to live on my earnings, I keep coming to the same conclusion: Readers somehow find books they like and buy them, despite the worst efforts of publishers to sell them.

I say that tongue in cheek, because I know, intellectually, that my publisher really wants to sell millions of my books. However, emotionally, I can’t help but feel that their sales department lives inside a box that only contains the limited few bookstores that today exist, and no one at the publishing house and bookstores can see past shelf space. New Media has them all bumfuzzeled.

I pride myself at keeping up to date on the latest technology, and I reach out to my fans and reading audience, many fiercely loyal. However, as fast as public communications today is evolving, I have to admit that I am bumfuzzeled too.

What makes a novel or nonfiction book a bestseller? I think the media has a big part of making a book sell, but ultimately the people who read and chunk up the jing for books (print or digital) have to have a compelling reason to buy the books and make them bestsellers.

How do we build an audience? How do we get our titles to be the talk of the town? Mass marketing. Posting a notice on Twitter gets seen by our typically 200 friends, unless we are a household name. Likewise, friend count on Facebook determines the numbers of people who see your post. Unless you spend some bucks and advertise.

As an experiment, I spent $100 bucks on a Facebook post “boosting” my new novel, TERMINAL IMPACT, coming out in hardcover, audiobook and digital on November 1. In about 10 days, I have more than 4000 people who have clicked on the post and looked at it. The post takes them to the Penguin Random House webpage featuring TERMINAL IMPACT. But will that sell any books? And shouldn’t my publisher be spending the C-note instead of me?

Bang for the buck is my idea. And yes, if we want our books to sell, we have to put forth the effort to publicize them. But spend the money smartly. For each dollar, we need results. The idea is to have a million people become aware of the title, and want to look inside. Then it’s up to our wonderful writing and compelling stories to set the hook and reel that fish home. It’s a numbers game. Just like catching lots of fish, you’ve got to put out the chum, unless you land in a big school of mullet.

Now, I got a decent advance on my books, and I think that the fat advance is also a key ingredient that encourages the publisher and their understaffed sales and publicity departments to put the new title on their front burners. The more pork they have hanging in the fire, the harder they work to pull their exposed porks from the flames and sell your books.

Remember, no publisher is doing you any favor by publishing your book. They’re in it for the money. They won’t publish a page unless they think they can turn a profit with it. That brings it back to the writer’s doorstep. The book has to be super hot, compelling and a story the hungry book hogs will inhale.

Don’t buy into any publisher saying, “I’ll do you the favor of publishing this very questionable manuscript, but you have to take nothing for it, and no promises.” If you sell your book for flattery, then the few copies the publisher sells to your small circle of friends, and the marginal profit they make that is added to the thousands of other marginal books whose marginal profits makes the publisher’s nut, is all you get. Don’t work for flattery.

If the book is good enough to interest a publisher to want to print it and sell it, then I suspect another publisher out there might pay a few coins more for the privilege. A good agent knows this. Shop it around, and see what comes.

And beware, many agents today are like that lawyer we all see on TV. You know, “The Strong Arm.” He’ll get you money for your injuries, fast. “I got a hundred thousand dollars!” the paid shill says, trying to look like a customer. These lawyers work on volume business and fast settlements. A seemingly growing number of agents (like the tide of flotsam and jetsam that clogs the ebook market today) are working that same numbers game. Grab a title that might sell, show it to an editor who wants to finish a list, get a contract with a few bucks advance, and make the author feel like the newly crowned prom queen (or king).

Even though I have been with my publisher more than 30 years now, my agent of more than 30 years, shops my stuff around to the other major publishing houses. When he walks in the door, editors know they have to fight and make an honest offer to get the contract. They know they’re not doing me a favor, and they know I know it. Like the wise guys say, “It’s just business. Nothing personal.”

But when a publisher pays a lot of money up front, they are motivated to work hard at selling the book. They open every avenue that will return their investment, plus a profit. That’s how it works.

Like female hitman Irene Walker said of the Prizzi family in Richard Condon’s bestselling mafia satire (published by my publisher and edited by my first editor, and made into a great motion picture by Steven Spielberg, directed by the late, great John Huston), PRIZZI’S HONOR, “They’d eat their children before they’d part with money. And they LOVE their children!”

Keep saying to yourself what Irene told her hitman lover Charley Partanna as the publisher smiles like a used car salesman offering a “great deal,” wanting you to think it’s more than you really deserve, especially if you’re a virgin. They’d eat their children before they’d part with money. And they LOVE their children!

You want your book publicized and sold, don’t do the deal until you and your agent know it’s the deal that will commit the publisher into working hard to get back his nut and a little juice on top.

 ©Copyright 2016 Charles W. Henderson 

No Gentle Going into that Good Night

Jim and Bill Elk Hunt Nov 1999

My little brother, James Lindsay Henderson, big guy on the right in the blue shirt. During a Colorado elk hunt near Telluride. Jim now going gentle into his good night, stricken by ALS.

By Charles Henderson

“Do not go gentle into that good night,” wrote Dylan Marlais Thomas in 1951 as his father, David John Thomas, lay dying. Verses of Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night have rung in my head the past two days as my dear little brother, Jim, lies raging at the dying of his light. Stricken by ALS for the past year and a half, his light has slowly but surely faded. A cruel sickness. His life now ends, and my tears flow as my heart breaks and breaks, and I rage at the final fading of his good light.

The elder Thomas, a teacher of English literature at a local grammar school in Swansea, Wales, the town of Dylan’s birth, finally died the following year, 1952. Dylan Thomas died a year after that, November 9, 1953, after traveling to New York City in mid-October to perform engagements of poetry readings.

Thomas wrote two poems that year, 1951, described by his biographer, Paul Ferris, as “unusually blunt.” Both teamed of sorrowful life and bitter death, as death itself seemed to haunt Dylan as his father lay slowly dying, not going gentle into that good night.

“Lament,” the first poem, was a retrospect of Thomas’ own troubled, ribald life, seeing death as his destiny. Then there was “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,” a nineteen-line villanelle (vallanesque) urging his dear father to keep fighting the good fight, and do not go gentle but rage, rage at the dying of the light.

Death seemed to haunt Dylan Thomas from the onset, however, he retained hope to rage against it always. One of his first works, “And Death Shall Have No Dominion,” he wrote in a personal notebook in April 1933, the title taken from the Bible, book of Romans, chapter 6, verse 9, “Knowing that Christ raised from the dead dieth no more; death hath no more dominion over him.” Dylan had befriended local grocer Bert Trick, who suggested that they write about immortality. While Trick saw his poem, “For Death Is Not The End,” published the next year in a newspaper, Thomas’s poem did not see daylight until he included it in his second book of poems, “Twenty-Five Poems,” published in September 1936, two years after “18 Poems.”

Like many great writers, mood swings and self-loathing, and a wealth of pure bullshit painted the outward character that people saw in Dylan Thomas. He enjoyed a stout ale or two, and more. Often he drank before his poetry readings, and made a show of it. Like a tweed jacket, he wore it well.

Many doubt that Thomas was nearly as drunk as he put on while shocking his audiences. Great writers can get away with murder, if the audience buys that the demon spirits have engulfed him. They pity with awe, and Dylan Thomas lapped it up, hating himself all the while, living hard and dying young.

While I lived in New York City in the 1980s, I lapped up some of the same liquor, with other aspiring writer friends. I was internationally published with a bestseller, and Vincent Sardi seated me at a front table. Fraudulent license, because I was no great writer then, but it got me good seats, and Broadway show tickets. Tommy Makem gave me the run of his Irish Pavilion on Lexington and east 57th Street, and gave me dispensation to smoke my Cuban cigars in his establishment, while on the menu, clearly printed at the bottom of each page, “No Cigar Smoking,” cautioned all clients.

One of my favorite stations for dark stout ale sat at a back booth in a saloon called The White Horse Tavern, on Hudson Street in Greenwich Village. I noticed one day, while sucking froth off my Guinness pint, a brass plaque above my head that simply read, Dylan Thomas. I pointed it out to my old dear pal, John Britt, the Mustard King from my book Silent Warrior, a man who forgot more poetry than I ever knew, and wrote great poems that few have read.

“Yeah, Dylan Thomas died here,” John said. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” I said, wanting to know more.

“Actually, he collapsed here,” the Mustard King said, smoking his cigar and sipping dark stout ale. “They took him to Belleview, I think, and he died there.”

In truth, Thomas died at St. Vincent’s Hospital, where he lay in a coma for five days from alcoholic encephalopathy—brain damage caused by excessive alcohol consumption.

Scottish poet, Ruthven Todd, had introduced Dylan Thomas to the White Horse, and that “hard-yella-liquor,” as F. Scott Fitzgerald called the nectars distilled in the West Highlands and Far North of Scotland.

Thomas and Todd had gone on a bender, and Dylan returned to his digs at the Hotel Chelsea, telling friends, “I’ve had 18 straight whiskies. I think that’s a record!” Witnesses said Thomas had perhaps half that number.

Dylan returned to the White Horse with his lover, Liz Reitell, an attractive assistant of American poet, John Brinnin, who had brought Thomas to America for the poetry readings and headed the Poetry Center in New York, where Thomas was slated to appear in the performance, Under Milk Wood. Dylan and Liz had a racy three-week romance. The poet had many such affairs since his marriage to Irish dancer, Caitlin McNamara, in 1936, and regardless of the flings, Caitlin stuck it out.

Meanwhile, at the White Horse, continuing his binge, Thomas rode high on some drugs a doctor had injected in him, three times that day at the hotel, supposedly to help his “feeling sick.” Among the injections, thirty-two and a half milligrams of morphine sulfate.

Sex, drugs, rock and roll had not come into the American hip consciousness quite yet. Jack Kerouac still roamed free, creating the hip beatnik dream. Yet, truth be known, it was Dylan Thomas who did it first. Sex, drugs, rock and roll killed him in the White Horse Tavern that ninth November day of 1953, when Do Not Go Gentle Into That Dark Night was all the rage.

So there I sat then, in 1987, New York City, with John the Mustard King, and a stranger next to us, that turned out to be Robert Downey Jr. He was not such an Iron Man in those days, but did like the Dylan Thomas way of life.

We sat and smoked the Cuban Monte Cristo torpedoes and drank dark brown ale, and a few hard yella liquors deep into the night, or a few nights and more. The ghost of Dylan Thomas there by us, at his high backed wooden booth, putting down the shots and suds, and raging at the fading of the light.

And here I sit today, raging at the fading of the light. My little brother Jim, going into that good night.

I dedicated my new novel, TERMINAL IMPACT, to Jim, and it thrilled him. He got to read it, and I hope he liked it. He never said, before he drifted off into this final rest, my heart breaking and me raging, raging and raging against the dying of Jim’s light. (Update: Jim passed away on February 20th, 2016, two days after I originally posted this commentary. We buried him next to his son, Jody, three days later. And I continue to weep for my dear little brother, who suffered so greatly and we loved him so very, very much.)

Dylan Thomas’s poems ring strong in my mind, both the dark and the bright: Life everlasting in, “And Death Shall Have No Dominion.” Life lived to the brim in, “Lament.” But at the end of the day, it seems that “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” keeps coming round and round. Its raging verses raging and raging as the light fades.

And Death Shall Have No Dominion

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead man naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan’t crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion.


When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey’s common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings’ wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles’ pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of bitches),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers’ life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman’s soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw–
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!

Do not go gentle into that good night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

I love you, Jim. I look forward to seeing you again.

 ©Copyright 2016 Charles W. Henderson 

Giving to God

Cowboy Sunset Cross

by Charles Henderson

A young man asked Jesus, “Teacher, what good must I do to have eternal life?”

Jesus answered the man (Matthew 19:16-22), “Why do you ask Me about what is good? There is only One who is good. If you want to enter into life, keep the commandments.”

And as so many young people will retort, the young man asked Jesus, “Which ones?”

Jesus answered him:

“Do not murder; do not commit adultery; do not steal; do not bear false witness; honor your father and your mother; and love your neighbor as yourself.”

Again as so many will argue, the young man told Jesus, “I have kept all these. What do I still lack?”

Then Jesus responded, “If you want to be perfect, go sell your belongings and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

Clearly, this overwhelmed the young man, as it would so many of us, and Jesus knows it too. The Scripture concludes that when the young man heard that command, he went away grieving, because he had many possessions.

We all can identify with that young man. We have much and do not easily give what we love away. Yes, we do love our material world, and those things that we possess. We are human, and God knows this about us. Very, very few of us give up all we own and follow Christ. We want to have our stuff, and Jesus too.

Jesus then turned to His disciples and told them (Matthew 19:23-26), “I assure you: It will be hard for a rich person to enter the kingdom of heaven! Again, I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God.”

His disciples were astonished and asked our Lord, “Then who can be saved?”

Jesus looked at them and said, “With men this is impossible, but with God all things are possible.”

We know that eternal life with Christ comes only one way, through Christ Jesus, Himself. (Ephesians 2:8-9) “For you are saved by grace through faith, and this is not from yourselves; it is God’s gift–not from works, so that no one can boast.”

All of us have broken many of God’s commandments. How many of us are willing to sell all that we own and give to the poor? And how many of us are willing to even come and completely follow Christ?

Following Christ means letting go of this worldly life and living in God’s will, wholly serving Jesus as our Lord, doing all that He calls us to do, and turning away from all that we want to do for ourselves.

Yes, that last part is the hardest part. Turning away from all that we want to do for ourselves, and doing all for Christ. As human beings are we even capable of it?

So, what is the least we can do? As Christians, what ought we do?

Paul says that we are slaves of Christ by our free will, our own choices, when we are saved. As slaves of Christ, the Lord owns us body and soul, and all that we have. Yet, none of us, not even the best and most righteous of us, come close to what Jesus told the young man.

God knows this, and has known it all along. Jesus knew it when He told the young man to sell all his possessions and give to the poor, and come follow Him. He was asking the humanly impossible.

However, to serve Christ we must at least give it our best efforts. And I think that this is what matters to God. We give to Him our honest best efforts, put Him first in our lives, and beg His forgiveness when we fail. And we do fail daily. Believe me.

So, you may ask, what does this best effort entail?

One thing clearly, the Holy Spirit will show you. Each day you will have choices, selfish ones and giving ones. Choices that serve God’s will and choices that serve your own desires. Believe me, you will know it when you encounter the choices. The Holy Spirit will tug at your heart, or gut. You will feel that little pull on your strings somehow, somewhere, and rather than ignoring that twist at the pit of your stomach, stop and listen to what the Lord says to you.

While the Bible does not command us to give, we know that God wants us to give. Does that make sense?

Paul repeatedly tells us that God has made each of us with talents that support and serve His will and the Body of Christ, His Church. He calls some of us as preachers and teachers, some as prayer warriors, mentors, some as musicians, some as financial managers and fund raisers; each of us different, and most of us with multiple talents. But God calls all of us to serve Him in one way or another, in all the ways that we can.

Perhaps the most troublesome subject among church-going people is the practice of Tithing and regular financial offerings. It is vital to every church that the congregation give to the church financially, so that God’s work can reach all who need Him. Today, many, many people need greatly.

Nowhere in the Bible does God command us to Tithe. He does not require us to give a dime. Yet we must give something back to God, some of what He gives to us, in order for His church to do its work and flourish.

Think about it for a moment. Consider yourself and the gifts that others give to you. Except for some greedy children at Christmas, do you command your family to give you gifts, such as on your birthday or Christmas? Yet, for most of us, our families give abundantly to us. Why do you suppose that is?

We give gifts because we love the people to whom we give them.

Same goes for giving to God. We give to Him because we love Him.

God wants us to have a joyful, giving heart. Giving not only to Him, but giving to all who need. Jesus told the young man to sell all his possessions and give to the poor. God loves them, and that is how He gives to the poor. Through us, who love God.

gods_handsWe are God’s hands. Therefore, we do His work, and we give to His church so that God’s work can reach those who need Him.

Therefore, Tithes long ago became a standard among Christian churches.

Tithe in Hebrew means a tenth.

The practice of giving a tenth comes in many respects from the example that Jacob sets for us in Genesis 28:22, when he named the place, Bethel, or God’s House. Scripture says, “This stone I have set up as a marker will be God’s house, and I will give to You a tenth of all that You give to me.”

This Scripture comes after Jacob, who God later names Israel, departed from his home and had received from his father, Isaac, the family inheritance, and had received Isaac’s blessing ahead of his brother Esau. Esau, in turn, went to his uncle, Ishmael, and married his daughter, Mahalath. Another story.

As the inheritor of Isaac and the covenant of Abraham, Jacob listened to his father and mother, and departed for Paddan-aram, where he would find his wives, Leah and Rachel.

And thus we have the following Scripture that tells of Jacob’s dream, God’s blessings to come, and Jacob’s vow to God:

Genesis 28:10-22 (HCSB)
10 Jacob left Beer-sheba and went toward Haran.
11 He reached a certain place and spent the night there because the sun had set. He took one of the stones from the place, put it there at his head, and lay down in that place.
12 And he dreamed: A stairway was set on the ground with its top reaching heaven, and God’s angels were going up and down on it.
13 Yahweh was standing there beside him, saying, “I am Yahweh, the God of your father Abraham and the God of Isaac. I will give you and your offspring the land that you are now sleeping on.
14 Your offspring will be like the dust of the earth, and you will spread out toward the west, the east, the north, and the south. All the peoples on earth will be blessed through you and your offspring.
15 Look, I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go. I will bring you back to this land, for I will not leave you until I have done what I have promised you.”
16 When Jacob awoke from his sleep, he said, “Surely the LORD is in this place, and I did not know it.”
17 He was afraid and said, “What an awesome place this is! This is none other than the house of God. This is the gate of heaven.”
18 Early in the morning Jacob took the stone that was near his head and set it up as a marker. He poured oil on top of it
19 and named the place Bethel, though previously the city was named Luz.
20 Then Jacob made a vow: “If God will be with me and watch over me on this journey, if He provides me with food to eat and clothing to wear,
21 and if I return safely to my father’s house, then the LORD will be my God.
22 This stone that I have set up as a marker will be God’s house, and I will give to You a tenth of all that You give me.”

Some people interpret what Jacob vowed as him striking a bargain with God, and in return for that bargain he would give a Tithe or a tenth back to God of all that God had given to him. One hand washes the other. A contract with two sides.

I interpret it differently than Jacob striking a bargain with God. We do not bargain with God!

I believe that Jacob loved God, and spoke his vow as reassurance, knowing without a doubt that God will take care of him in his journey and will bring him home safely. For Jacob, this dream was the proof that God was with him, and he knew it.

Therefore, in praise of God and with a joyful and giving heart, Jacob pledged to God a tenth of all that God gave him.

Jacob realized that all that exists and all that he had inherited came from God, and that he was blessed by God. Jacob’s dream told him this! Jacob’s vow was simply him verbalizing all that he realized, largely shown him in the dream: That God was with him and would take him to this far-away land safely, protecting him, and would return him home safely. And that God’s plan for him was a great nation. His offspring would be like the dust of the earth, and would spread in all directions, and the land where he rested would be his, for his nation, Israel. God promised this to Jacob, without any bargaining.

Jacob pledged to God a tenth of all that God gave him. Jacob made this promise and gave his Tithes because he loved the Lord. Jacob praised God for His blessings. For His promises.

As I said, there are those who will argue that it was simply Jacob’s side of a bargain he struck with God. If God delivered His side of the deal, Jacob would give a tenth of all he received from then on.

I am sorry, but I choose to believe in the goodness of Jacob; that Jacob did not bargain with God but loved the Lord, and celebrated God’s love for him by giving back to God his Tithes.

Today, many Christians follow this example and give a tenth to God of all that God gives to them. That tenth, or Tithe, is the very least they give, their bottom line. It is not a limit to giving but a floor. We do not just give our ten percent, but at least give that much.

We give with a free and joyful heart. Giving because of our love of God. Tithing is one of many ways we praise God, and show Him our thanks for all He gives to us.

Another aspect of this giving is where we draw the line to base that tenth.

We know in Genesis 4 that Abel was a shepherd and Cain worked the ground. Cain presented some of the produce of the land as an offering to God, but Abel presented as an offering to God some of the firstborn of his flock and their fat portions.

I do not know the quality of Cain’s offering of some of his produce, Genesis 4 does not describe it, but God did not find Cain’s offering favorable. However, God did find that Abel giving his firstborn pleased Him. God found favor in Abel’s offering.

Of course, God favoring Abel’s offering sparked the murder of Abel by Cain. Jealousy of brother against brother, the sin that led to murder.

From Abel we learn that God favors the firstborn, or the first fruits. We see that repeated in all offerings throughout history. God favors the first fruits. Its meaning is symbolic of the most valuable and most significant to us. Our gifts to God should have strong meaning with us. It should be a sacrifice to give them, thus they are important and put God first of all things in our lives.

Remember this? God loved us so much that He gave His only begotten Son, Jesus Christ, to die on the cross for our sins, for our salvation. Jesus is our Heavenly Father’s firstborn Lamb, God’s first fruit.

Thus, in our offerings to God, giving to our church, we should consider our first fruits as offering. In modern times, many of us regard that first fruit as the gross amount of money that we earn.

What does God give us? All that we have or ever will have. From everything that we receive from God, we should consider taking His portion off the top, not the bottom.

“I can’t afford to give to the church, I am behind in my debts,” some may say.

Others may object, “If I give a tenth to the church, then I am short that much in my family budget. God needs to give me more, so I can afford to give offerings to God.”

On the opposite end of that argument we have churches that basically tax their congregations ten percent of earnings and more. Many do it. They require members to submit annual earnings statements and pledges of their Tithes. They demand ten percent. Some church leaders will say that Tithing is Scriptural Law, which simply is not true. And many in the churches honestly believe it too.

Such practices have many Christians turning away from churches, and condemning even the mention of Tithes. It causes members to begrudgingly give anything.

God wants our hearts, not our money!

God does not need our money! He created all that exists. All of it belongs to Him in the first place.

We should only give to God because of our love for Him, and our desire to serve Him in all that we can do.

For the Christian family, giving a Tithe, is often a good practice. When I was a child, I was taught to call it my “Love Offering.” And I joyfully gave! I love God!

Tithing is a good way for a family to budget its funds too. It is a sound practice for a family that projects its spending, and follows God’s will for us to be good stewards of all that He gives to us.

A tenth, in my opinion, is the least a person can give, or ought to give. And we should always give more at every opportunity. When God calls us to give, we give!

Not just giving from our money, but giving our time, our talents, our energies. Putting God first in all that we do.

We should not fear giving to God, but strive to do it. Lay not treasures on earth but in heaven. After all, the things of this earth will pass away, and burn in the furnace, but the spirit–our spirits–will live for eternity, with our Lord, Jesus!

At the end of this lesson, Jesus told His disciples:

Matthew 19:28-30 (HCSB)
28 Jesus said to them, “I assure you: In the Messianic Age, when the Son of Man sits on His glorious throne, you who have followed Me will also sit on 12 thrones, judging the 12 tribes of Israel.
29 And everyone who has left houses, brothers or sisters, father or mother, children, or fields because of My name will receive 100 times more and will inherit eternal life.
30 But many who are first will be last, and the last first.”

 ©Copyright 2015 Charles W. Henderson