David Pryor, a natural-born politician who spent thirty-four years in public offices, including governor, the state legislature and both houses of Congress, died April 20, 2024 at his home in Little Rock at the age of 89.

The Encyclopedia of Arkansas History and Culture called him “arguably the most popular Arkansas politician of the modern era,” although the description might have covered a much longer stretch of history. He ran for public offices 13 times between 1960 and 1996 and lost only once—a 1972 race for the U.S. Senate against Sen. John L. McClellan. 

After McClellan’s death before the end of the term in 1978, Pryor defeated two other rising political stars for the Senate seat—Congressmen Jim Guy Tucker and Ray H. Thornton Jr., both of whom would be elected to other major state offices. Pryor would hold the seat until January 1997, when he retired, owing to heart problems and his dismay over the rising partisanship, wrath and extremism in Congress and national politics.

In 2002, years after he retired from the Senate, Pryor’s son Mark, a former state representative and attorney general, won his seat by defeating Senator Tim Hutchinson and served two terms.

His nearly 35-year career in the state and national capitols were marked by passionate and sometimes lonely efforts for better and affordable medical care for the elderly and poor, peace, public safety in the nuclear age, the direct election of American presidents, reform of the state’s ancient constitution and, perhaps most markedly, for collaboration among political foes and parties.

Former President Bill Clinton, who got his inspiration for politics and public service as a 20-year-old Georgetown University student in 1966 from the “Young Turk” state lawmaker from a couple of rural counties east of him in south Arkansas, said he and his wife, Hillary, were deeply saddened by the death of their friend and collaborator, who was always “honest, compassionate and full of common sense.”

In every office he held, Clinton said, Pryor “fought for progressive politics that helped us put the divided past behind us and move into a brighter future together. He was always one of America’s greatest advocates for the elderly, waging long battles to lower the cost of prescription drugs, and to improve nursing home and home care to help more people live in dignity.”

“David made politics personal—from his famed retail campaigning to his ability to calmly and confidently explain tough votes to his constituents,” Clinton said. Clinton was Arkansas’s attorney general in Pryor’s last two years as governor. He was elected governor in the same election that voters promoted Pryor to the US Senate.

“I first met him and Barbara in 1966 when David was running for Congress and over the next 58 years he would be my mentor, confidant, supporter and, above all, friend. Having him and Dale Bumpers in the Senate when I was president was an extraordinary gift. I never felt far from home, and I always trusted the unvarnished advice he gave, especially when the going got tough. I’ll always be grateful that he served as the inaugural dean of the Clinton School of Public Service, where his very presence embodied the nobility and joy of public service.”

David Pryor lived a mythical life of politics and public service, said his longtime aide in Congress, Carmie Henry—starting with his election as president of the third grade. He defined retail politics in Arkansas as a campaigner and in public office, cementing personal bonds with everybody in both parties and in every executive office, including the security workers all over the Capitol. He became easily the most beloved member of the Senate and also with Arkansas voters.

“If any one person’s career marked the changing of an era in American politics, it was David Pryor’s,” Henry said. “There are no David Pryors in Washington anymore.”

Pryor was a liberal Democrat long before it became a term of opprobrium. He was stirred to enter politics, first as a crusading weekly newspaper editor at Camden and then as a candidate for the legislature, by the rise of racial hatred and discord after the U.S. Supreme Court decision in 1954 outlawing segregation in the nation’s public schools. A senior and student leader at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville, Pryor traveled to the Capitol in February 1957 to testify at a dramatic public hearing on a bill creating a state sovereignty commission that would stop racial integration and find and punish people and groups that supported integration—or “race mixing,” as it was commonly called. He thought the bill was a flagrant violation of the federal and state constitutions. He was blocked from testifying, he would learn, at the instigation of university officials, notably the president, who feared a backlash against the school. The passage of a raft of bills to maintain white supremacy and Gov. Orval E. Faubus’s signing them into law in early 1957 and then Faubus’s dispatch of National Guardsmen to prevent nine Black youngsters from entering Little Rock Central High School that fall turned Pryor and his new wife, the former Barbara Jean Lunsford, into crusaders and reaffirmed his notion from early childhood that politics was the best way to spend his life.

David Hampton Pryor was born Aug. 29, 1934, in Camden, the third of four children of William Edgar Pryor and Susan Newton Pryor. His father ran a car dealership, was Ouachita County sheriff for four years and was always politically connected and influential. Governor Ben T. Laney (1945–1949) was a neighbor and family friend, although Laney’s leadership of the Southern white-supremacy  movement and his disloyalty to the Democratic Party in 1948 disturbed young Pryor, whose hero was Gov. Sid McMath from next-door Magnolia and Hot Springs, who had thwarted Laney’s Dixiecrat party and carried Arkansas for President Harry S. Truman that year. Pryor’s mother, who was known as Susie, had been a champion of women’s suffrage, and was the first woman to run for public office in Arkansas, losing a race for circuit and county clerk in 1926. She later won a school board race.

His autobiography, A Pryor Commitment, published in 2008 by Butler Center Books, gave a self-effacing and often humorous account of growing up, pursuing popularity and providential encounters with famous political figures that would shape his destiny. He was an unusually gregarious child who sought friendship with everybody and was attracted to politics almost from the time that he could read, perhaps owing to his father’s engagement in politics and with politicians. (The elder Pryor raised the money in 1942 that kept Congressman John L. McClellan from leaving the US Senate race, which he won in a Democratic runoff primary with Attorney General Jack Holt. McClellan was later shocked and embittered that his patron’s son would run against him. He had expected Pryor to succeed him when he retired.) 

Pryor wrote that he ran for president of Mary Bragg Wheeler’s third-grade class at Camden and that the teacher sent him and the other two candidates into the hall while the class voted.

“Sweating under the tension,” Pryor remembered, “I promised God that if He would let me win this election, I would never again run for political office. Our teacher called us back into the room. I had won! Before I sat down, I was already planning my race for fourth-grade president.”

His boyhood hero was the Razorback and Olympic star Clyde Scott from Smackover, 16 miles down the road from him, to the extent that 50 years later he stuttered trying to talk to the sainted old man, by then a retired insurance executive for Jackson T. “Jack” Stephens. Pryor was a football star for the Camden High School Panthers—a triple-threat tailback who made the all-district team. His memoir, however, confessed that he actually hated football and every minute of practice and the games, but social pressure forced him to stay with it. “Any Camden boy in the 1950s who entertained the slightest interest in peer acceptance—and who could circle the practice field in a heavy uniform without crumpling to earth—went out for football,” he said. Pryor dreaded “the 200-pound linemen” who smashed him to the ground nearly every play. 

Pryor wrote that after seeing the 1950 movie Born Yesterday, starring William Holden and Judy Holliday and set in political Washington, he ran home and sent a letter to Congressman Oren Harris of El Dorado, a family friend, asking if he could be a congressional page that summer. Harris agreed. Pryor drove to Washington, finally found the Capitol and reached the House doorkeeper’s office, where he was rebuked for being late and sent to the Senate, where there was an emergency—an all-night filibuster after all the Senate pages had gone home. When he reached the Senate floor, Sen. Joseph McCarthy of Wisconsin (the anticommunist conspiracist who was later censured by the Senate) snapped his fingers at Pryor, scribbled a note, fished out a ten-dollar bill and handed him a ring of keys. 

Pryor’s account: “Here, son,” he said. “Get a taxi and go to this address, and on the floor of the closet in the bedroom you’ll find my bedroom slippers. Bring them to me.” It was David Pryor’s first act of public service. 

After Pryor enrolled as a freshman at Baylor University at Waco his father died suddenly and he canceled his enrollment and went instead to Henderson State Teachers College at Arkadelphia, 45 miles up Highway 7. When he arrived on campus late he was greeted by a sign in front of Womack Hall, the men’s dormitory, saying “David Pryor for Freshman Class President.” He was elected. After a year, he transferred to the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville. He took a horse with him and put the colt in a stable at a farm south of town. He wrote that it had been a stupid thing to do because he rarely found time to ride the animal. He figured that he had done it because the last time he had seen his father alive was when the old man was astride a horse in the 1952 Ouachita County Fair parade.

As the spring semester was ending in 1954, Pryor got a note to call Gov. Francis Cherry, who had defeated his hero Sid McMath two years earlier. Cherry wanted him to be his driver while he was campaigning for re-election in the Democratic primaries against Faubus and two other men that summer. In his autobiography and two oral histories late in life Pryor gave poignant accounts of Cherry’s grace and caring and the agonizing dilemmas the governor had faced in the historic confrontation with Faubus in the runoff primary; Cherry had decided to question Faubus’s patriotism by making an issue of his attendance at a socialist self-help school at Mena, Commonwealth College, and subsequently lying about it. It was to be an evening television speech at the KARK studio, which Pryor called “the speech of Cherry’s political life.” Pryor said he waited in the car for Cherry to leave the mansion for the studio and the governor veered into the shrubs next to the car and vomited. After his stumbling and wooden speech, Cherry returned to the car solemnly and said, “How’d I do, kid?” Pryor said he congratulated Cherry but began to realize that the speech had been a terrible mistake.

It occurred while the country, including Arkansas, rebelled against “McCarthyism,” which had been exposed as a fraud the previous month in the Army-McCarthy hearings before a Senate committee, including Arkansas’s John McClellan. It ended with Army attorney Joseph Welch’s famous putdown of Joe McCarthy, whose bedroom slippers Pryor had fetched four years earlier, for relentlessly attacking a young lawyer at the hearing: “Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness. Let us not assassinate this lad further, senator. You have done enough! Have you no sense of decency, sir, at long last? Have you left no sense of decency?” Pryor concluded that the very decent Cherry had been a poor politician who did not sense the great shift in public attitudes and was unable to rally voters against a smart but unprincipled politician. An even bigger mistake had been the unfortunate campaign line “we’re going to get the deadheads off the welfare rolls.” Faubus made him look cruel. 

After Cherry’s humiliation, a bitter Pryor decided that politics was miserable business and changed his major from political science to business administration. He took courses in accounting, banking and statistics but found them tedious and boring. Then he became violently ill with a strange malady that required multiple surgeries—he withered to 130 pounds and partially lost his eyesight—that cost him a year of school. 

He returned to the university in 1955 as a government major again. From his arrival, he was active in student government, including serving as a senator. Led by Pryor, Ray Thornton and others who would later seek state executive, legislative and judicial offices, the students took a special interest in the conflagration over integration that was growing at Little Rock, which was under federal court orders to desegregate its schools in the fall. A number of punitive bills to head off the desegregation consumed the lawmakers in the January–March session—notably the creation of a state sovereignty commission, which was based on the long-repudiated theory of John C. Calhoun that states could interpose their sovereignty between the federal government and the people. Pryor and one of his many college roommates, Kenneth C. Danforth of El Dorado, the editor of the campus newspaper, The Traveler, and later a journalist for the Arkansas Gazette, Time magazine and The National Geographic, drove to Little Rock to carry the students’ message to the lawmakers and the state that the legislation trampled upon the human rights of American citizens, who would be criminalized for even expressing the view that Blacks and those who might sympathize with them were entitled to equality and free expression and assembly. Pryor was embittered by the experience that day but, according to his memoir, the stayover at the Marion Hotel and association with the legislators and lobbyists, sharpened his understanding that politics and government—in Ouachita County, Little Rock, or Washington, D.C.—did not follow the examples in civics textbooks.

He left Fayetteville with his degree but could not find a job. The Gazette would not hire him, even when he volunteered to work free for a few months to prove his worth. Later, as a lawmaker and law student, he would be the Gazette’s Fayetteville correspondent. He married Barbara Jean Lunsford of Fayetteville, a classmate, and in late 1957 started a weekly newspaper, the Ouachita Citizen, with a printing press acquired from a local businessman. His wife and mother wrote weekly columns and reported, and Pryor sold advertisements and wrote editorials, often criticizing local government officials but mainly Gov. Faubus and legislative houses that went along with everything Faubus sought to do. The city’s daily newspaper, like most others around Arkansas after the school crisis, rarely took issue with the governor and the legislature. Faubus took pleasure in taunting Pryor and his little paper. At a big rally at Camden in his 1958 race against the meatpacker Chris Finkbeiner, whom Pryor supported, Faubus held up copies of Life and Time magazines and Pryor’s little paper, all of which had made Faubus look bad. 

“Life is for people who can’t read,” Faubus said. “Time is for people who can’t see, and the Ouachita Citizen is for people who can’t think.” The crowd roared and Pryor crawled in his car and went home.

But in 1960 Pryor told the county’s representative, a family friend, that if he did not begin to oppose Faubus on legislation he was going to run against him. The representative demurred and Pryor ran against him. He was 26 years old. Pryor’s memoir said he got elected mainly owing to the relentless campaigning of Barbara, carrying their infant son, David, with her as she went door to door across the county asking people to please vote for her husband. The family briefly moved to Little Rock. They sold the newspaper in 1962. He was elected twice more, in 1962 and 1964, while attending law school at Fayetteville when the legislature was not in session. He finished law school in 1964.

Except for his votes, Pryor’s legislative record was unremarkable, which was not unusual for new legislators. A Civil War buff, Pryor read about battles in South Arkansas and at his first session in February 1961 he introduced and passed a bill creating Poison Springs Battlefield State Park about eight miles from his home. It was the site of one of the Confederates’ few big victories in Arkansas, a victory most notable for the slaughter of a Kansas infantry regiment that included former slaves. The Confederates took no prisoners and used wagons to crush the skulls of the captured Black men. 

Pryor became one of a handful of liberals who jousted with Faubus and the legislative “Old Guard” on a wide variety of reforms. Called “the Young Turks” in the media, Pryor, Virgil Butler, Sterling R. Cockrill Jr., Jim Brandon, Hardy W. Croxton, Ray S. Smith Jr. and Hayes C. McClerkin introduced legislation outlawing the poll tax, reforming election laws, overhauling county purchasing and spending (Pryor had been on a grand jury investigating government fraud in Ouachita County), convening a constitutional convention, and overhauling highway administration. They got nowhere with the legislation. In 1961, Pryor introduced a bill to require competitive bidding on county purchases of more than $300, but he could get only few votes for it each year. Faubus had another legislator, Harry Colay of Magnolia, put his name on a similar bill in 1965, it passed, and Faubus signed it.

Pryor opened a law practice in 1964 at Camden with his friend Harry Barnes. He liked to mention a case where he represented a man in a dispute over who owned a coon dog. It was finally resolved by bringing the disputed mutt into the courtroom, which wandered around until it spotted Pryor’s client and put a paw on his knee. The judge immediately awarded him custody. For a different reason, the Arkansas Gazette cartoonist George Fisher later always put a happy coon dog at Pryor’s side. But Pryor never got to practice a lot of law.

Faubus’s enmity toward Pryor took a bizarre turn in the summer of 1965. Late in life, Faubus and Pryor would cement a friendship, and he told Pryor that one of the joys of his life had been setting in motion the events that year which sealed Pryor’s long career. In law school at Fayetteville, Pryor had become a close friend of Faubus’s son, Farrell, a shy, portly and tormented young man who would take his own life in 1977 at the age of 36. Farrell had felt shunned and ridiculed by the other students and some of the faculty. The two students studied, played golf, drank beer and got their law degrees together.

In July 1965, President Lyndon Johnson appointed Congressman Oren Harris to a federal judgeship, creating a congressional vacancy that Faubus was supposed to fill for the last 16 months of Harris’s term by calling a special election. It was Pryor’s dream, but there was no time to put together a campaign organization throughout the large Fourth District. State Auditor Jimmie “Red” Jones, who was known to every voter in the state, would be the automatic winner. Pryor mentioned his dilemma to his friend Farrell. He would learn later that Farrell told his dad that Pryor had helped him get his law degree, was the only person at the university who befriended him and about the only true friend he ever had.

Faubus dawdled about calling the special election for weeks and finally announced that the district did not really need a voting representative for the next year and a half, so he called the special election for the same day as the general election in November 1966. Voters would simultaneously fill the seat for the last two months of the year but also the following two years—two elections for the same seat on the same day. It gave Pryor more than a year to build a campaign organization. Red Jones then chose not to run because he would have to give up his safe lifetime job at the Capitol for a risky congressional election. Pryor won the special election and the general election handily. He defeated Richard S. Arnold of Texarkana, a future federal district and appellate judge, and three other prominent politicians from around the district, John Harris Jones of Pine Bluff, Charles L. “Chuck” Honey of Prescott and Dean Murphy of Hope. 

Pryor’s three terms in the seniority-driven House of Representatives were hardly notable, except for a controversy that he engineered—a crusade over the mistreatment of the elderly and disabled in nursing homes—and his personal dilemma over the Vietnam War, which he eventually came to oppose. 

His mother told him that after visiting friends in nursing homes over the years she had concluded that the warehousing of people in the profit-driven industry had to be a national scandal rather than a local one. Now that her son was a congressman, he ought to do something about it. Having little else to do as a freshman, Pryor started volunteering on weekends as an orderly in nursing homes in the District of Columbia and suburban Maryland and Virginia, and recording the lack of staffing and lapses in medical care that he saw. His mother was right. Nursing homes often were just profitable warehouses for those waiting for the grave. Government inspectors often gave owners notice of their inspections, which rarely found lapses and, when they did, nothing was done about them. The industry had lobbyists who kept Pryor’s congressional colleagues and other government monitors at bay. 

Pryor made a speech on the House floor revealing his secret work. He said he had encountered only two nursing homes where he would put his mother, but he couldn’t have afforded either one on his $42,500 salary. He was attacked by Maryland’s state mental-health director and people in the industry. Pryor called for the House to create a select committee on nursing homes and homes for the aged. A majority of the House voted for his resolution, but it was non-binding and Congress did nothing. The House, led by the 80-year-old Mississippian who headed the Rules Committee, would not provide space or staffing for the committee. Pryor decided to do the work himself, after finding a vacant lot beside a gasoline station near the Capitol. The station’s owner found two house trailers that became the site for Pryor’s investigations and hearings. Pryor tried and failed to set up a permanent Committee on Aging, as the Senate had done in 1959. President Richard M. Nixon joined Pryor’s cause in 1971, deploring conditions in nursing homes and proposing to end payments to substandard homes.

In 1974, two years after Pryor left, the House joined the cause and established the Select Committee on Aging. For the next 50 years, Congress, federal and state administrators and the industry would wage a continuous battle over standards of care for the aged and the degree of regulation that government should provide.

When Pryor went to Washington, the Vietnam War had engaged the United States for ten years. (President Eisenhower sent the first US troops in 1955 and Presidents John F. Kennedy and Lyndon Johnson had raised the commitment.) After the Gulf of Tonkin incident, Congress gave Johnson new authority to dramatically expand America’s commitment, still without a declaration of war. By 1968, congressional and public opposition to the war had grown. Vice President Hubert Humphrey asked Pryor to make a short speech to the riotous Democratic National Convention in Chicago—Humphrey was the presidential nominee—in support of the Vietnam plank, an oblique statement that neither endorsed nor opposed the war effort. Pryor went to the convention as an Arkansas delegate and had already alienated other Southern congressmen, especially Mississippians, by voting as a member of the Credentials Committee to seat Mississippi’s Freedom Democrats—Blacks and liberals—instead of the white delegation picked by the party in Mississippi. In his two-minute speech, he urged an end to the war but called for unity and wisdom. Arkansas Sen. J. William Fulbright had already decided America’s war policies were improvident and conducted hearings that began to turn public sentiment against the war.

President Johnson, who had had misgivings about the war from the first, had then made himself the champion of the war against communism after the Gulf of Tonkin incident. He became more and more sorrowful and morose as tens of thousands of Americans a year died, but he could not become the first president to lose a war. In 1967, Johnson asked Pryor to fly to Texas with him for rallies to pump up flagging support in his home state. Pryor would write that Johnson seemed glum and introspective the whole trip. Pryor understood why. As they were flying back to Washington at night in Air Force One, Pryor looked out the window and figured that the lights below were his hometown of Camden. 

“Mr. President,” he said, “it looks like we might be flying directly over Camden, Arkansas. That’s my hometown. If you look straight down at the ground, you might see Jim’s Café on Washington Street.”

The president leaned across him and looked out the window. He slumped back in his seat and shook his head.

“God a’mighty!” he sighed. “I wish I was at Jim’s Café right now.” He was silent the rest of the trip.

For Pryor, the climax to the moral struggle over the war was more personal, as he would recall in A Pryor Commitment and oral histories. On an airline trip from Washington to Arkansas he fell into conversation with a young serviceman from his district who was headed to Vietnam. Many months later, he got on a plane for the same flight back home and recognized the young man, in uniform. He asked the soldier about his tour of duty. The soldier pulled back a blanket across his lap, which showed that he had lost a leg in combat.

 “Congressman Pryor,” the young man said, “I would not have minded losing my leg, if only someone had told me why we were there in the first place.”

Pryor sent constituents a newsletter announcing that he would thereafter oppose any further funding of the war and calling for troops to be brought home. It was not an altogether popular step. At a fishfry at the Carlisle High School stadium soon afterward, a man ran out of the crowd, jumped on Pryor’s back and began hitting him and calling him a traitor. Mayor Bobby Glover, later a state representative and then a senator, pulled the man off Pryor. Two decades later Pryor would write a letter to his son Scott, explaining his dilemma over the war and the consequences. He likened it to the contemporary dilemma over the American invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan. 

In 1972, McClellan, by then chairman of the powerful Appropriations Committee, which had funded the development of the navigation dams on the Arkansas River in Arkansas and Oklahoma, announced he was running for a sixth term. His hearings on labor racketeering had made enemies of organized labor. Unions representing wood, paper, oil, chemical and electrical workers in South Arkansas had supplied much of Pryor’s political strength. He announced that he was running for the seat, too, along with Ted Boswell, a liberal trial lawyer, and Foster Johnson, a book salesman who for the third straight Senate election went around towns wearing clanging metal campaign signs over his shoulders. 

Pryor survived a rough campaign in which he was accused of being a friend of draft dodgers and a supporter of gun control. (As a freshman legislator, he had sponsored a bill making it illegal to carry a loaded weapon in a vehicle inside city limits—a reaction to a neighboring boy accidentally killing himself with a loaded shotgun on a Safeway parking lot.) But Pryor was a close second in the preferential primary and entered the runoff as a heavy favorite, certain to get all the votes that had been cast for the more liberal Boswell. W. R. “Witt” Stephens, the gas baron and investment banker, summoned a meeting of the state’s banking and business leaders with McClellan in the board room of the Union National Bank at Little Rock where everyone ponied up tens of thousands of dollars for McClellan or pledged to collect it.

The two-week runoff ended with the famous televised debate. McClellan, wearing a white suit, taunted Pryor for his support by unions, particularly “labor bosses” from outside the state. Pryor responded that the money reported on his campaign finance forms came from the cookie jars and overall pockets of hardworking men. McClellan responded that Pryor had gotten $79,000 from “bosses” from outside the state. 

“David, David,” he taunted, shaking a finger, “this is no cookie-jar nickels and dimes!”

Pryor’s campaign gifts paled alongside the money from businessmen and bankers in McClellan’s campaign, but McClellan’s commanding performance showed him as anything but a doddering 76-year-old man. But his victory in the election the next week depended more on the massive get-out-the-vote effort by political leaders commanded by Witt Stephens. Pryor got only 20,000 more votes than in the first primary, McClellan 22,000 more. On election night, Pryor faced the TV cameras early, conceded and said the voters had elected the right man, a typical Pryor reflection on his opponents.

Witt Stephens was watching television that night and was struck by the Pryor’s magnanimity. Two years later, when Gov. Dale Bumpers announced he was not running for a third term as governor but instead for the Senate—against Fulbright—Stephens picked up the phone and called Pryor, suggesting that he run for governor. Pryor said he was about to call Stephens and urge him to run (they had served in the House of Representatives together as freshmen in 1961). Stephens said no, he was serious, and promised his full organizational support if Pryor announced. He did, and so did former governor Faubus and Lt. Gov. Bob Riley. Faubus, making his second comeback attempt since retiring in 1966, was shocked to discover that nearly his entire political machine marshaled by Stephens had been diverted to Pryor. Pryor won without a runoff. For the rest of his life, Faubus remained bitter about his old friend and supporter’s betrayal while also warming to the young man whom his son Farrell had asked him to help. 

Providence seemed always to shine on Pryor at election time—but with actual governance, not so much. Bumpers had raised income and motor-fuel taxes and closed tax loopholes. Furious economic growth filled the state treasury so that Bumpers could enhance public schools and higher education, build many state parks, improve highways, expand medical care and build hospitals and college classrooms. Bumpers called a special legislative session to spend the big surplus that had accumulated in the treasury. The moment that Pryor moved into the Governor’s Mansion the nation was hit with a long recession complicated by inflation, and the treasury was depleted. Pryor had to slash budgets and freeze hiring even for filling job vacancies. In his four years, Bumpers had carried out all the reforms prescribed by the liberal group Democrats for Arkansas during the late 1960s—nearly everything but a new state constitution, which became Pryor’s biggest goal. It was never fulfilled.

Pryor proposed a dramatic refashioning of state spending—a 25 percent reduction in state income tax rates and empowerment of local governments to implement the income tax themselves to address all the problems of cities, counties and schools. The Arkansas Plan, as it was called, consumed a legislative session. Pryor traveled the state promoting the plan, explaining to a group at Jonesboro that he was cutting state taxes and allowing people locally to use it in whatever way pleased them—jokingly suggesting that if they didn’t want to levy taxes to build roads and streets they could spend the money on “a new coon dog.” Gazette cartoonist George Fisher labeled it the “Coon Dog Plan” and thereafter always put a grinning mutt at Pryor’s side. The Arkansas Plan failed.

Another passion was litter. Pryor hated the trash along the state’s streets and roads. He started a “Pick Up Arkansas” campaign and proposed a bill levying a small tax on soft drinks, pet foods, newspapers and plastic wrappers to discourage littering; the money would be used for highway and street cleanup. Local governments were encouraged to dispose of solid waste like abandoned cars and refrigerators. The bill passed, but a letter from the state Revenue Department to businesses on how to collect the tax warned that they might go to prison for failing to remit the litter tax. Legislators who had voted for the bill heard from merchants and demanded that Pryor call them back into session to repeal the bill before it took effect on July 1. He did but always regretted it when he saw sandwich wrappers and soft-drink containers strewn along streets and on the roadsides.

Constitutional revision, an obsession with an aging legislator who had been the leader of the Young Turks, was Pryor’s biggest failure. Voters had defeated a liberalized constitution drafted by a popularly elected convention in 1970. Pryor decided to try again after taking office in 1975. The solution had to be to avoid the pitched battles over a few issues such as the state’s antiunion law (the Right to Work Amendment), usury, judicial elections and county-government reform. He offered a bill calling for the appointment, by the legislature and the governor, of 35 delegates who would write a new constitution but leave those and a few other features of the 1874 constitution untouched and then submit the document to the voters in September. On the day the delegates convened, the state Supreme Court voted four to three to abolish the convention because the delegates were prohibited from changing some parts of the constitution. It had to be all or nothing. In 1977, Pryor tried again with a bill that called for the election of 100 delegates in 1978 and a vote on the document in 1980. But voters defeated that new constitution decisively. 

McClellan died in November 1977 and Pryor appointed Kaneaster Hodges of Newport, a lawyer and minister, to finish his term, which ended Jan. 1, 1979. Pryor soon announced that he would run for the seat. So did US Rep. Jim Guy Tucker of Little Rock and Rep. Ray H. Thornton Jr. of Sheridan. It would be a race between three friends and philosophical triplets. A. C. Grigson, a Texarkana accountant, joined the race claiming to be McClellan’s philosophical successor. Pryor barely led in the first primary and Tucker edged Thornton for the second spot. The runoff would also be amiable until its final days when Tucker accused Pryor’s campaign manager of trying to persuade a friend on the state Public Service Commission to approve a rate increase for Witt Stephens’s western Arkansas gas company in exchange for the Stephens family’s support in the runoff. Pryor won by a safe margin. Tucker later shrugged off his defeat. No one, he said, was going to believe that David Pryor did anything even slightly deceitful, and wouldn’t blame him if he had.

The Senate years were Pryor’s most pleasurable. His Arkansas colleague, Dale Bumpers, was a close friend and an ally on most but not all issues. After their retirements, they became a popular team for television and political events, taunting and telling tall tales about each other.

During the eight-year administration of President Ronald Reagan, both senators opposed much of the Reagan program, including the tax cuts for the wealthy in 1981 and later the big binge of military spending. Bumpers, a deficit hawk, publicly opposed the tax cuts, and Pryor finally joined him by voting “present” on the roll call, the same as a no vote. The month after the tax cuts passed the nation fell into a deep 14-month recession with double-digit unemployment, the deepest since the 1930s, although the charming Reagan was never blamed for the longest and deepest recession in modern times or the staggering budget deficits and debt that he ran up for eight years or for the repeated tax increases that the Reagan administration described as “revenue enhancements” instead of taxes.

But Pryor also became a leading critic of Pentagon spending, calling attention to such excesses as the orders for thousands of ball-peen hammers and toilet seats at hugely inflated prices. He also veered from Bumpers and the state’s four congressmen in his opposition to the development of binary chemical weapons. He opposed developing and storing the chemical weapons at the Pine Bluff Arsenal. Vice President George H. W. Bush, a friend who went to Congress the same time as Pryor, went to the Senate to cast the tie-breaking vote for the arsenal.

Even before Reagan’s election, the Pentagon already suspected that Pryor was not a votary, especially after he called attention to the perils of the Titan II missile system after a series of dangerous failures around the country and two catastrophes in Arkansas. When the Defense Department developed the Titan II system—54 underground intercontinental missiles with nuclear warheads—US Rep. Wilbur D. Mills agreed to vote for President Kennedy’s tax cuts if he agreed to put a ring of 18 of the new missiles in Arkansas. A fire in a silo with a nuclear warhead near Searcy in 1965 killed 53 workers who were retrofitting the missile’s fuel system. In January 1978, a fuel transporter at a missile silo at Damascus overheated and sent thousands of gallons of deadly nitrogen tetroxide vapor over the countryside. In 1979, after more such leaks in the Arkansas and Kansas missile networks, Pryor and Sen. Bob Dole of Kansas were regretting having Titan sites in their states and talked about whether they should be anywhere near American citizens. 

After rumors of incidents at the silos, Pryor in the summer of 1980 did his own secret investigation and found nine major incidents in the previous 14 months that could have endangered Arkansas lives around the silos. Clearly, the Air Force had been lying about the safety at the Titan sites in Arkansas, Kansas and New Mexico. Pryor gave the detailed results of investigation of the eight incidents to two Arkansas Gazette reporters, who described the incidents and Pryor’s conclusions. Surrounding residents were never informed about any of them, despite an Air Force vow that residents would always be informed.

Pryor and Dole went to Congress to push an amendment to the Defense Department appropriation that called for an early-warning system around all the silos. The amendment passed. Three days later, on Sept. 18, 1980, the missile in a silo at Damascus exploded, blowing the nuclear warhead and two technicians into the air. One of the men died almost instantly and the other’s health was permanently impaired. Two years later, the Pentagon decided to abandon the Titans for more advanced, and perhaps safer, missile systems. But Pryor’s negativity about defense weaponry and spending took a political toll, at least nationally.

The payoff came in 1984, when the White House and the party leadership persuaded Congressman Ed Bethune of Searcy—the Pryors and Bethunes were social friends—to run against Pryor with the promise of financial backing. More than 20 Reagan administration officials and Republican senators came to Arkansas for fund-raising events for Bethune. Rev. Jerry Falwell, the right-wing leader, came to Arkansas to call for Pryor’s defeat. Pryor eschewed the same strategy, feeling that Democrats from out of the state would hurt rather than help him. Bethune’s ads said Pryor had voted against the popular former movie star, Ronnie Reagan, on 77 percent of the issues in the Senate. The Saturday before the election Reagan, who was approaching a landslide win of his own, made a speech at the packed Excelsior Hotel ballroom. 

“Don’t send me back to Washington alone,” Reagan said with the smiling Bethune beside him. Reagan carried Arkansas with 60 percent of the vote. Pryor got 57 percent.

In 1994, Pryor ran for re-election and no Democrat or Republican opposed him—a rarity in any state. Betty White, a homeless woman, ran as a write-in and got 832 votes. (Pryor’s son Mark also had no opposition, except for a Green Party candidate, in his second race for the same seat in 2008.)

Pryor spent much of his second term fighting for a taxpayer’s bill of rights, to curb abuses by the Internal Revenue Service. Reagan signed Pryor’s bill into law in 1988.

Pryor’s last crusade was against the pharmaceutical industry. In 1990, he introduced the Pharmaceutical Access and Prudent Purchasing Act, which sought to end the spiral of drug prices; it would have allowed Medicare and Medicaid to negotiate with drug makers on prices that would be charged to Medicare and Medicaid patients. The industry fought back. 

Pryor had a massive heart attack on April 15, 1991. The illness hobbled him for the rest of his career. Majority Leader George Mitchell and Senator Lloyd Bentsen of Texas took up the cause of drug pricing but they never were able to pass a bill. President Joe Biden finally took up Pryor’s cause in 2023.

Another passionate reform effort was to end the electoral college so that the winner of the popular vote would always be the next president. The most important job in the whole democracy was president, but it also was the only political job in the country, from members of the county quorum court to the top, that might go to the loser. In 1992, sensing that the third-party candidacy of Ross Perot could tilt the election of George H. W. Bush over Bill Clinton regardless of the size of Clinton’s election victory, Pryor again introduced a Senate resolution for a constitutional amendment to end the electoral college and assure that election winners always took office. The Senate never sent the amendment to the states for ratification. Only one election loser had ever failed to become president—Rutherford B. Hayes in 1878 —but two subsequent losers, George W. Bush in 2000 and Donald J. Trump in 2016, became president. Trump lost the actual balloting to Hillary Clinton by nearly 3 million votes.

Like Bumpers, Pryor found the relationships in Congress profoundly different after radio provocateur Rush Limbaugh and Republican House leader Newt Gingrich turned American politics into a war of saintly Republicans vs. evil Democrats. Friendly Republicans departed and were replaced by politicians who called Democrats socialists and radicals who were out to destroy the country. Pryor did not run again in 1996; Bumpers made the same choice in 1998. The Capitol, they said, was no longer an enjoyable place to be.

Pryor’s retirement did not end his engagement with politics and government. In 2000, he was director of the Institute of Politics at Harvard University’s John F. Kennedy School of Government. He taught courses at the University of Arkansas and gave his unexpended campaign funds to form the David and Barbara Pryor Center for Oral and Visual History at the university. He was the inaugural dean of the Clinton School of Public Service at Little Rock, serving for two years. After the murder of Bill Gwatney in 2008, he was chairman of the Arkansas Democratic Party for a spell. In 2009, Gov. Mike Beebe appointed him to a 10-year term on the University of Arkansas Board of Trustees, where he did not enhance his popularity by protesting the lavish spending on athletics and stadium additions. A massive stroke in 2016 curtailed his activities for good.

Survivors include his widow, Barbara; his sons and their wives, David Jr. (Judith), Mark (Joi) and Scott (Diane); his grandchildren, Hampton, Adams, Porter and Devin; and his great-grandson, Raven. 

The post In Memoriam appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Come to Arkansas and find seemingly contradictory values represented: hospitality and rugged individualism, grit and obedience, candor and a hefty dose of minding your own business. We are a beautiful collection of perspectives, wouldn’t you agree?

Arkansans are also stubbornly proud, especially in their mistrust of government. Rural Southerners have an especially unique skepticism of government intervention, which is as ingrained in us as the right to bear arms and looking out for your neighbors.  

But despite our diverse opinions and our indignation with nosy government, we have a problem standing up to overreach with one specific issue. Why? Well, it’s simply impolite to talk about certain things.

Chief among the “impolite” topics is the issue of reproductive freedom. In other words: abortion. Or women’s healthcare. Or murdering babies. Or the right to choose… depending on who you’re asking. 

Earlier this week, I read that the Arkansas Abortion Amendment was certified by the Attorney General. According to Arkansans for Limited Government, the group behind the Amendment’s effort to restore some abortion access in the state, politicians make for bad doctors. Regardless of how one feels about abortion, the group argues, we don’t need politicians regulating reproductive decisions. We don’t need government in the exam room, so to speak, regulating things as personal as pregnancy.

I cannot help but agree.

Regulating people’s healthcare, especially a woman’s organs, is not only a divergence from our cherished values of personal freedom and individual liberty but a stark example of burdensome—even deadly—government overreach. 

The notion of limited government has been etched into our consciousness and our traditions, but the regulation of reproductive healthcare challenges this ethos. It forces us to question whether a government that we already view with suspicion should extend its reach into the most private corners of our lives. 

Personal independence is not just a value, but a way of life in Arkansas, and interference should be seen as an affront to the principles that make us who we are—people in control of our own lives. Personal liberty means we alone decide our destiny. And we alone know what is best for ourselves and our families. 

The regulation of abortion is a logical paradox, even outside of a morality paradigm, because of its relevance to government overreach. And I’d like you to bear with me for a minute. I know it’s a polarizing issue; I’m not trying to change anyone’s mind about how they morally feel about abortion. What I’m aiming to do is reinvigorate a healthy skepticism of government.

I would never presume to know what is best for another person’s health or for the choices their family must make.

Now extend this to the Arkansas state government, which has proven that it  cannot be trusted on matters of the collective or individual good. When the government regulates our healthcare and steps into our doctors’ offices, the government undermines our trust, implying that the entity of the state knows better than we do when it comes to decisions about our own lives. This is antithetical to what it means to be an Arkansan—a self-reliant, responsible individual.

And speaking of responsibility: government overreach, well-intentioned as it may be, often brings about its own unintended consequences. In Arkansas, regulations disproportionately affect our rural communities. It is our duty to ensure that any policy reflects a commitment to fairness and justice for our rural communities rather than perpetuating already awful health disparities between urban dwellers and rural folk.

I’m not here to change minds on how people feel about abortion. Your judgment of the issue is yours, and yours alone. You are entitled to your opinion, and oftentimes, those opinions are rooted in compelling and valid experiences. 

No, this is not about changing minds. But it’s about keeping the government out of our homes and hospital rooms, out of conversations with our families and our doctors.

It’s not my business, or the government’s, to know the myriad of factors going into a person’s decision regarding the trajectory of their life. I don’t know if a person was raped. I don’t know if a person suffered a miscarriage. I don’t know if a family got a terrible diagnosis. 

The point is, I don’t know what’s best for you. 

The government doesn’t know either and it sure as hell doesn’t have any business telling people what’s good or right. That’s between them, their doctor, and the Good Lord above. 

Let’s get back to our Arkansas roots and keep government where it should be: out of our doctor’s office and back in the business of governing policy, not people’s lives. 

The post Mind your Biscuits: The Case Against Government Overreach in Arkansas appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

So, why am I deconstructing? Despite the claims of wanting to be liked, rebelling against God’s authority, and letting my feelings deceive me, the answer is simple. I am deconstructing to arrive at a place of authentic faith. I am a Christian, I prayed the prayer and I still firmly believe in all of the key doctrines and confessions. It is arrogant to say otherwise. I’m deconstructing to save my faith from all of the garbage it has accumulated for the last twenty-five years. 

In my Introduction to Philosophy college course, I learned about a German theologian by the name of Friedrich Schleiermacher. Schleiermacher was confronted by higher criticism coming out of German theological schools and new ideas that put prior understandings of Christian truth in doubt. After thinking through these critiques, his new approach sought to make Christian faith more personal and up to the interpretation of the reader. To Schleiermacher, this approach encouraged a more authentic faith, even though he conceded it wasn’t a perfect one. Schleiermacher was not alone in his desire to keep the core of Christian faith while dispensing with what was not true.

Fundamentalist Evangelicalism put a lot of trappings on my faith that cannot be justified or proven. Most of the trappings revolve around assumptions based on dogmatic doctrines like: inerrancy, the idea that the original manuscripts of the Bible are curated by God and do not contain errors; textual infallibility, which is the claim that the writing of the text is completely authoritative; and scriptural sufficiency, the idea that the Bible is all you need and contains the answers to all life’s questions. Religion that is authentic, adaptable, and correctable cannot exist in concert with these doctrines. That’s why if the Bible says it, I don’t necessarily believe it, and it doesn’t settle the question. I want a faith that is intellectually honest and spiritually humble. Evangelicalism does not provide this because it embraces fundamentalism and dogma.

There’s much to unlearn from Evangelicalism. I’ve spent years trying to detach my mind from what fundamentalism preaches: dogma, reactionary theology, and prejudices. Often when interacting with others on social media I will catch myself saying something in a tone that is too certain. I realize that I’m not trying to get to the truth; I’m trying to be right. Doubt is an unpleasant but necessary bedfellow for one who takes on this faith overhaul. I’ve found myself angry at being lied to, depressed at the pain I’ve caused, and confused about how to move forward. There is always fear and shame lurking in the back of my mind whispering, “What if you’re wrong? God will be angry with you…” I don’t believe this is true, but the impulse is always submerged in my religiously abused subconscious.

Deconstruction is not triumphalism. We’re not throwing parties and hosting orgies. We don’t boast about how we’ve slain the dragon of fundamentalism in its lair – because you never do that, or at least I haven’t managed to do it. As someone who’s been homebound for most of the pandemic, I struggle with how I’m living out this new understanding of faith. I feel like an actor at times, maybe because I am one. I live with a deep frustration at how many years I wasted in Evangelicalism, lying to myself and not taking a stand against its abuses sooner. My Evangelical pastors and professors lied to me about other people to make themselves look holier and better. Do you realize what this does to trust? And they did it all in the name of Jesus. So much of my deconstruction journey has been angry, and that, too, has been strange and difficult coming from a place that told me, “do not let the sun go down on your anger.” 

My M.Div. was obtained from Liberty Divinity School (yes, that Liberty) at the end of 2013. While there are aspects about the education I appreciate, like the exposure to translations of Patristic texts and learning about the Southern Baptist Resurgence, there’s a lot to dislike. I’ve since learned about liberal theology, liberation theology, neo-orthodox theology, Greek Orthodox theology, and other forms of Christian faith. I’ve learned how Judaism is misunderstood and slandered in our Christian circles, and it has been humbling and wrecking to discover how our own sacred text paints our Jewish neighbors in ahistorical, biased lights. Christianity has a history of embellishing facts to make itself look better than other religions and divert attention away from its own shortcomings. 

Christianity is the source of white supremacy and white European privilege. Christianity was the justification for the enslavement of an entire race of people and the genocide of another. Christianity has been the primary driver of terror and abuse toward those who are LGBTQ+. None of this is sexy; none of it is comfortable; none of this makes me feel good. When coupled with challenging my definition of spirituality and what is “good and honorable,” I’ve discovered that deconstruction has brought me hurt and unease. Spiritual devotions no longer have the same meaning; adjusting to corporate liturgy, social justice, and freedom of conscience/thought turns over all the tables. Evangelicalism wasn’t like this – it was certain, sure, organized, and easily backed up with “chapter and verse.” But it was a lie. The hurt and unease are worth it for truth.

At the first Episcopalian bible study I attended someone spoke about an interpretation of a passage that caused all of my bad instincts to rise. I sat in indignation, waiting for the priest to intervene and correct them like every Evangelical bible study I’d attended. 

But the priest didn’t, and neither did anyone else in the room. Instead, I was floored by how they began to discuss the merits and implications of what had been said, how that particular interpretation helped the listeners better understand their faith, even if they disagreed with it. When I left, I challenged myself to be more willing to listen than to teach. As a result, I’ve grown so much from being exposed to the ideas of others, whether I agree with them or not. Fundamentalism often tries to resurface during these moments of exposure to the new, but I always find it more rewarding to tell it to shut up and let myself learn. 

There are things I miss about Evangelicalism. I can’t look at the Bible the same way  anymore; it’s become just another book, even if it has an honored place. Music allows me to emotionally connect with God, but so much of the music I used to listen to has either a terrible message or is ruined by the messengers who abused others to make it, yet I still miss the music. I miss the focused drive of Evangelicalism that is all too often lacking in mainline denominational settings. 

But here’s what I don’t miss: I don’t miss false certainty and false confidence, and I wouldn’t trade them for what I have now: an authentic, human faith journey. 

Before each Holy Eucharist, our priest says, “Wherever you are in your journey of faith, you are welcome at this table.” There are days I don’t know where I am – but not all who wander are lost. We’re all on this sojourner journey together, even if our paths often diverge.

Deconstruction isn’t “sexy,” but it beats all of the fool’s gold currently being sold in Evangelicalism. It leads, when done thoroughly and humbly, to a faith that is real. I might be right, but I might be wrong – and I’m okay with that. There are far worse things in this world than being wrong. If I’m going to err, I’d rather err on the side of love and grace for all my fellow humans than on the side of judgment and disdain. 

I believe the Gospel saves us from ourselves and leads us into a better life. The seeds of the gospel are flourishing in most religions and in every culture. Loving God by loving others as you love yourself has the power to change the entire world if we embrace the fullness of what that truly means. Resurrection – the belief that life comes despite death – is foundational to understanding how God works through everyone to make all things new.

I don’t need to assent to creeds or commit to an exclusive religion or faith tradition. There are those who don’t consider themselves to be religious and yet they’re more like God in practice than many fundamentalist Evangelicals. These folks have embraced the ethos of loving others as they love themselves; they show this by seeking to free people from the systemic oppression that drapes our world. I am one with persons of color, LGBTQ+ people, and those who find themselves destitute and impoverished. I am with those in prison for crimes they did not commit, for those suffering physical or mental illness, and for the elderly left forgotten in deplorable conditions. I find common cause with the differently abled, the single mothers and childless career women, and all those shattered by the evil in our world. We are not free until we are all free. 

These causes called by the Gospel sound exciting and romantic, especially for the cis het Christian white guys with savior complexes who believe leading others to deconstruction is now their life’s work. However, there have been many painful moments for me. I was going into ministry. That is lost to me now. For the last six years I’ve tried to re-establish my motivation, but it isn’t there. I didn’t realize how much my “calling” to teach was bound up in my Evangelical faith. It was the steam engine of my life, the guiding star, and it’s gone. At nearly forty, its absence causes me to wonder what will ultimately become of my life. I no longer know. And, strangely, I’m at peace with that, even if it’s painful. 

Christians believe God sees the heart. I hope that when or if God sees mine it will prove to be whole and at peace with who I am and how I’ve helped and loved others. I hope that I’ve tried to make the world a better place for everyone – the goal, I believe, of the kingdom of God.

The post Deconstructing Certainty appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

What an awkward phrase that is: “the youth group at my parents’ church.” 

For the longest time, even after I no longer attended their North Texas non-denominational evangelical congregation (another epic phrase), I thought of it as my church. Even after I was aware of the trauma, aware of the terrible theologies and philosophies, aware of abuses that had happened within its walls, I still instinctively claimed it. It was the winter of 2021 before I finally broke the habit and remembered to use “my parents’ church.” 

Because it wasn’t my church. It was never really mine. In high school, after my older brothers had left for college and I was functionally an only child, the majority of my fights with my parents was whether or not I had to attend youth group. I loved the other students in the group and I have fond memories of them (Strangely, many of them have undergone similar journeys to the one I’m about to describe. Curious how that happens, isn’t it?). 

But the theologies and youth leadership that tends to go hand-in-hand with North Texas evangelical churches – sickly sweet, smiling as they throw their verbal barbs, uncaring if they speared my closeted friends – was not for me, in my curiosity and open-heartedness. 

And yet. Here I was, still calling it “my church.” 

My particular brand of religious trauma is arguably tamer than most. I’m a straight white dude, so exactly the demographic North Texas non-denominational evangelical churches tend to appreciate most. But trauma doesn’t have an Olympics; traumatic experiences are unique to the individual. If you freeze when you think of church, if the thought of what you learned in church makes you tear up or get nauseous or have any kind of visceral reaction, congrats, here’s your trauma. 

(The jokes are a coping mechanism. I’m working on it.)

Accepting that I’d been traumatized was only the first step. Like many in my shoes, I flirted with atheism, desperate to find a system that didn’t rely on anything beyond what I could rationally understand. It worked for a while, and I don’t discount that my years denying any kind of higher power other than the mysteries of science were essential in my journey. 

But in my most vulnerable moments, the thought of a universe with nothing else never quite sat right with me. I saw Hubble pictures and felt the mysterium tremendum, the terrible mystery of creation that has no answer. I read so many different books looking for answers – Kierkegaard, Rachel Held Evans, hell, the Bible, unfettered by toxic theologies – and felt something realer, something truer, than what I could explain. I looked out over the northern Pacific Ocean, and felt small in a way that words and logic could not describe.  

God was there for me, in some capacity, and so I couldn’t help but continue to call that North Texas congregation “my church” because that was my first experience of the certainty of God’s existence. Despite having found another church, that North Texas place still had a grip on me.  

What does it mean to move on from fundamentalism? For me, it was acceptance of uncertainty. My parents’ church taught faith as an unwavering devotion to a man-made document that answered any questions you might have about life. My foray into atheism was similarly rooted in a belief that science and logic could answer just about any question. 

I was seeking certainty again. 

But life isn’t like that, is it? A book written by men thousands of years ago doesn’t have all the answers for our complex life together in 2023. We have to constantly hash out the new worlds we live in, preferably over a meal. 

I returned to a semblance of faith in God because those books I read and the experiences I had taught me, at last, to be comfortable with uncertainty. To seek it out and live in that mystery. There’s other ways to do that, sure, but it feels like I chose this. At last, this is my faith. Not my parents’. Not those grinning, too-put-together youth pastors. This is mine. 

At last, this is my faith. Not my parents’. Not those grinning, too-put-together youth pastors. This is mine. 

Faith after fundamentalism makes the mystery make sense to me, as much as it can. It helps me accept and live within uncertainty, the knowledge that some questions will never be answered, and to revel in that. It doesn’t solve the mystery, but then, I don’t think it has to anymore. 

So now I go to church, sometimes. 

There’s a great little Episcopalian church off of Cantrell in West Little Rock. The people are so kind, and so accepting, and so willing to listen to questions. The priest is one of the smartest, most empathetic women I’ve ever met. They have a potluck every Sunday. It’s my church. 

There’s a nice Presbyterian church a block over from my house. The reverend is a man whose booming voice and delightful stories stand next to an absolute care for his flock, a burning desire to serve them in whatever way he can. It’s my church. 

There’s a Methodist church back in Athens, Georgia, that I miss dearly. It’s a scrappy group of people who stand in front of refugees and immigrants. It’s professors and students and veterans who go out after services and feed the unhoused, as Jesus commanded. It’s my church. 

All of these places have made me feel comfortable and happy inside their walls. All these places have invited me to their table with my uncertainty, genuine smiles on their faces, and told me: “Stay, with your questions. We don’t have a lot of answers, but we love you.” 

I think of faith now as, among other things, a community of uncertain people who continue on anyway. Who shrug, alongside me, and say, “We’re doing our best. God helps with that. Want some lunch?” 

The post A Faith of My Own appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Head down Razorback Road on a late spring weekend in Fayetteville and you’ll see Canopy city — red and white fabric roofs, boxes of beer, a throw rug or two and maybe an old La-Z-Boy recliner. Under the canopies we find unlikely bedfellows, canopy fellows if you will. The pre-family reunion known as the hog pen. 

Canopy city is where we grab a donut from someone you know well even if you don’t know their name. Or a slice of Domino’s Pizza, a random chicken wing. Under the canopies we take shelter from the rain, from the scorching June sun or the unseasonably cold April wind — whatever the weather sees fit to be that day cause it’s always fickle like that. 

We’re here because we’re queued up to get into the hog pen, the Razorback baseball section that’s essentially a big lawn out behind left field. Sometimes folks line their chairs and pop up canopies days, maybe weeks, in advance of a series. We chat and crack jokes and get rowdy. Swap stories, talk sports. Shoot the shit like good Arkansans do. 

About 90 minutes before first pitch, the pen gates open like the parting of the Red Sea. Only in this moment the tribe of pen family, brothers from another mother, transform into enemies as soon as the gates open. When the Red Sea parts, it’s every man, woman, and child for themselves. All friendship and kinship is suspended for a few minutes of total chaos: Grown men of a well-seasoned age haul ass down the lawn, beer bellies bouncing while wagons of Yeti coolers and Fireball whiskey trail behind. Women sprint like division 1 athletes, steamrolling over anyone or thing in their pathway. Children zoom past the old folk straight to the fence and slide face first into their family’s preferred spot, sacrificing their tiny bodies for a shot at premier baseball viewing. It’s a few glorious, unforgettable minutes of sports fandom. It’s utter insanity. 

Just as quickly as the first 50 people pour into the pen, we’re set up and back to being one another’s chosen family. The Fireball comes right out, the unofficial libation of the hog pen. It’s the most widely used and respected of liquors out here. No, not for its taste, but because it travels well, warms you up when it’s cold, gives gumption, and consoles broken baseball hearts. 

Assigned seating isn’t a thing, as you’ve already gathered. It’s first come, first served but we do have an acknowledgement of everyone’s preferences. There are the berm folks, the ones who set up on the little ledge of a hill ten or so yards back from the fence. Team Berm likes the unobstructed view of the game no matter how dense the front of the pen gets. Our crew sets up at the fence, known as the rail. The rail is coveted; truly the only right and holy view if you care about seeing balls and strikes. It’s the best place to sit if you’re gonna ask me, but nobody did ask me and that’s fine.

The allure of the hog pen is different for each person; it offers an experience that those who sit in chair backs or fancy boxes wouldn’t understand. Bring your kids and shoo them off to play catch. Grill out and have picnics. Make friends with frat bros and county sheriffs and people who drive 7 hours one way in their campers to watch some baseball. Heckle the hell out of the visiting team. Drink your own beer. Pass out homemade cookies. Act a fool. The pen is where life moves a little slower and a little easier. 

We met a guy named Sherman under contentious terms during one of the rail seating conquest moments. On this particular day, we didn’t make the rail and sat behind Sherman on the second row. Feathers got ruffled over chair placement and some biting words were exchanged.

But eventually things settled and Sherman became a beloved baseball brother. He and his wife live out in the boonies, somewhere past Lamar, about a hundred or so miles from Fayetteville. He’s retired and has a tattoo of a body-building Razorback on his right calf. Often he has twin granddaughters in tow who sit in swinging camp chairs made for 8 year-old bodies.

Sherman is of a certain generation and demographic you see a lot of in the pen — country boys in their sunset years watching ball, harkening back to a time when they too could run and throw and hit like those young men out there, in the prime of their youth, playing America’s game. 

There’s Jimmy, pen patriarch, who is always on the rail no matter what. It’s a respect-your-elders type of thing with Jimmy; we all just know he deserves to be in the front. He’s kind and generous, always ready in his straw hat to toss tootsie pops to kids. Jimmy is the easy-going, Tommy-Bahama-wearing, “no bad days” grandpa of the pen who makes everyone feel at home. 

Ten yards behind Jimmy and Co. are the berm regulars —Lancey. Forest. Cam. Brenden, et al. Cam’s been sick but is fighting hard. He shows up to Canopy city with his buttons that say “Cam Kicks Cancer!” and homemade I♡Hogs keychains and bracelets he sells to help pay down medical bills.

The first time I saw Cam was three years ago at a super regional at Baum Stadium. The team was soaring that year and greedy ticket holders were scalping hog pen spots for hundreds of dollars. The hog pen, you should know, is the great equalizer. The Shakespearan theater pit of baseball, where anyone can and should be able to afford a ticket to watch a game. Cam had an empty, torn up Eureka Pizza box he had scribbled “QUIT OVERCHARGING FOR HOG PEN TICKETS” on that he proudly held up all weekend from the berm. 

West of Cam and down at the rail sits Amanda, our official yell leader. Nearby are the trio of nurses, Belinda, Ashley and Z. Kendall with the unmistakable cyclops-looking sunglasses is also at hand. And so is Lance, who always makes his way down the rail during every 7th inning stretch, just so he can shout “allrightyousonsofbitches!” while snapping group selfies with front-rowers every few feet. It’s a beloved tradition and an honor to be in a Lance selfie that is posted the subsequent day on his Facebook page for all the world to see. There’s also Greg, gentle-giant Army vet, and his badass but easygoing wife Jill. Greg’s part of the yellow-hat crew, the ones who sport canary Arkansas ball caps with red As, easily identifiable in a sea of red and white headware faithfuls.

I’d be remiss, of course, if I didn’t mention Rick. The Rick of Razorback fandom royalty. If you know the hogs, you know Rick, who is the ultimate hog lover and a favorite fan often seen on televised Razorback games. Rick dons a visor with fake furry red hair attached, which he calls the Razorback wig, and he’s on a quest to attend 100 Razorback games this year. I think maybe he already did it. He doesn’t just love baseball, he loves supporting every kind of hog team and often bounces from one game to the next if different sports overlap in a season. He wears fake tusks in his mouth, Razorback sneakers and socks that have his wife’s face on them. He rides a beefy motorcycle. Knows everyone’s name. He brings perspective, a good time for all, and a doormat he throws on the hog pen ground to keep his shoes clean when it rains. 

Our home base is in left-center, over by the university’s camera guy who films the outfield action. It’s excellent home run territory and prime real estate to snag a ball or three during batting practice. One season, my partner Ben took a go-ahead home run to the jaw standing in the pen out in left-center. It left a bruise but it was a game-winning hit, so worth it.

We sit by Marc and Cali of Siloam Springs, both of whom work for a Christian card company. Marc runs ultramarathons for fun, and Cali (wo)mans his aid stations. Sometimes their blended family of grown kids cycle through the games with them. Marc wears a tired red bucket hat adorned with Razorback enamel pins and buttons. He’s a Midwestern guy who’s made his home with the hogs. Marc and Cali are happy, down to earth people we love. If things are going well, they both start to dance. Dancing Marc is a special treat; the world wishes it could be so lucky to see him break out his ole’ midwestern white dude moves, overflowing with joy as his body glides along to the stadium sounds of Rhianna or Red Dirt country. 

This season didn’t end how we wanted it to. The hogs were absolutely slaughtered by TCU during our home-hosted regional. The weather was crappy and games were delayed. We didn’t make it to supers or to Omaha.

But it’s okay. We won our conference and we spent hours with our hog family enduring some exceptionally frigid and windy games in one of America’s best collegiate ballparks.

Baum Walker Stadium really is special, and the hog pen is a big part of that. It’s flanked by people who exemplify decades of statewide Razorback fandom — folks who have longed for a national championship and have woo’d pig sooie for longer than I’ve been on this earth. They know the stories and the voices and the ghosts of this game. 

I remember a time before the hog pen existed when baseball wasn’t such a thing in the Natural State. I never thought there’d be enough room for Arkansas to love baseball the way I do, that it would never be able to quit its first love of football. That we’d never find a devotion beyond it.

But by some mysterious, even magical force, baseball has blossomed here. I’ve seen it catch like a fever, spreading its allure with elementary aged kids and pave the way for the explosion of travel ball clubs and city rec leagues. I can see the reverence for what Dave Van Horn has built here these last twenty years or so in Fayetteville through commitment, passion, and perseverance.

We celebrate our pro hogs. We pack out Baum Stadium. We clear a lawn in left field so people can cram in with their coolers and families and friends. A championship looms large, yes it is so close that we can taste it. But that’s not why we’re here. We’re here for the hogs and our chosen family. It’s the trash talk, the delivery pizza, the peanut shells and dusty tracks along the rail that draw us in and keep us coming back. We tolerate the downpours and the spider bites, the tipsy frat guys and the left-sided sunburns because of the joy we feel when we’re together in this place. 

We are the hog pen, and we’re here because we’re home. 

The post Finding home in the hog pen appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

The greatest dynasty in collegiate athletic history? The Arkansas Razorbacks.

Over 150 years ago, President Andrew Johnson began the tradition of hosting athletic champions when he invited baseball’s Washington Nationals and Brooklyn Atlantics to join him in a White House ceremony.

In the age of television, we’ve made a big production out of the White House hosting Super Bowl winners, NBA champions, and the college equivalents. And they might bring in the women’s gymnastics team if they win Olympic gold. 

But track and field? No, not them. Not the men and women wearing singlets, running around an oval, jumping or throwing heavy objects.

A few years ago Stadium Talk told the story of America’s greatest college sports dynasties. Oklahoma, Texas, Alabama and Notre Dame football teams all received mentions, as did the UCLA Bruins men’s basketball teams. Penn State’s men’s wrestling and women’s volleyball teams. And the Connecticut and Tennessee women’s basketball powerhouses under Gene Auriemma and Pat Summit, respectively. 

How about that dynamite Minnesota women’s ice hockey dynasty that won 6 national championships? Bet you didn’t know the Trinity College Bantams men’s squash program won 17 national titles. To quote the author, Jennifer Studer Daley, “no other team on this list comes close to touching the number of titles that belong to the Iowa Hawkeyes wrestling program.” They won twenty three.

Ms. Daley is correct; no other team on her list comes close. That’s because Ms. Daley’s list does not include the greatest dynasty in American collegiate athletic history: the Arkansas Razorback Track and Field teams, which have won a collective 49 national titles in track and field and cross country, 42 under legendary coach John McDonnell.  

To be fair to Ms. Daley, the iconic Sports Illustrated magazine printed a similar story, and also forgot to mention the Razorbacks.

National spotlights on track and field usually focus on Oregon, where legendary NIKE founder Phil Knight spent his running days. Oregon has won 32 national titles, which is no slouch.

It’s also no Arkansas.

The ancient Greek and Roman empires were the backdrop for the first organized athletic competitions, which evolved into track and field as we know it today. The decathlon is thought of as the supreme test of speed, skill, and endurance to test the best all-around athletes. And we celebrate the marathon today with road races around the world that give everyday all-comers a chance for glory. 

The White House is not going to invite the national champion Arkansas men’s and women’s track teams for a visit. But that does not mean that Arkansans should pat our tracksters and coaches on the head and send them on their way. They deserve better.

In Arkansas, Football is king. Basketball is second. Baseball is third. No need to argue any of that. Would football or basketball recruiting be harmed if we started making a big deal over Track and Field? If the university became known as a track school? No, Track and Field prominence would diminish nothing in football or basketball. If anything, it would make the U of A look more cosmopolitan, adding to the perception that NWA is a sophisticated cultural corridor, complete with spectacular art museums, world class bicycling trails, and a modern medical school with a new way of thinking.  

Hot Springs has impressed me with its presentation of offerings, which celebrate the city’s history as home to some of Major League Baseball teams’ spring training during the 1930s to early 1950s. In February, the city dedicated only the third known statue of Babe Ruth (the other two are in Baltimore and Japan). There’s a baseball trail with plaques depicting the exploits of famous major leaguers. Babe Ruth is said to have hit two of the longest home runs he ever hit during spring training in Hot Springs. The city hosts an annual event bringing in retired major league players to speak on baseball then and now. All of this over spring training from long ago.

I’m not in the PR business, but I think I know a lost opportunity when I see one. When you are the greatest in history at something, step up and tell your story. No one else is going to do your crowing for you. And in the case of Track and Field, it is not even a close call. 

The post America’s Track and Field Dynasty  appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Ever since the reversal of Roe v. Wade, I have just felt a sinking in my soul. This has perplexed me because I am pro-life: I do believe that life begins at conception, and I have also volunteered at a crisis pregnancy ministry in their care center. I think that God has given me the burden of so many women who are terrified, indignant, or just angry at the ruling. I know also that this is a pivotal time for the church in the way Christians proceed from this place, and I fear and see that in many ways the response has not been Christ-like and may turn people away from Jesus.

The purpose of this writing is not to argue my position on Roe but to lay out a path for Christians in the light of Roe. The right to an abortion will now be decided by individual states. But the support and care of women in these situations is firmly in the hands of the church…or at least it needs to be.

In church recently, I was blessed to hear the testimonial from a young woman who at age 19 found herself with an unexpected pregnancy. Raised in a church and youth group, she knew that the last place that she could turn was her church as there would be no grace for her there. By the grace of God, she kept the baby with her life forever altered for the better. She cast a vision for how the church in the future could care for mothers in similar situations: Mentorship, grace, and community. Unfortunately, many churches offer none of these and instead focus on the shame. It is not difficult to figure out how Jesus would have responded to an unwed mother in crisis.

I have some first-hand experience with mentorship, grace and community. For 3 years, I volunteered at a crisis pregnancy center in Fayetteville, which is an amazing place, which seeks to support women who make the choice to have their baby. During the pregnancy, women would come to our clinic to watch videos about the birthing process. After pregnancy for 8 months, they would continue to come to learn more about child rearing. As a care counselor, I listened, prayed with our clients, formed relationships with them, and just loved them. Clients earned “mommy bucks” for coming, towards which they could use to purchase diapers and other child-related items that were donated to the cute store on site. Each and every week, we were all witnesses to the transformation of these women through the love of Christ.

There was one client who I was blessed to befriend. She was not married and definitely did not expect her pregnancy. She made the hard decision to keep the baby, separated from a huge group of unhealthy people, and began the process of making her life condusive and healthy to raising a child. After she graduated from our program, we continued to stay in touch. I would receive regular texts from her with questions about her then 1 year old. Sometimes she asked my advice about financial matters. Sometimes she had questions about God. Without question, God used this child to grow this woman up: To clean up her life, help her make better choices, buy a house, and begin down a road of faith. Her parents deceased, she regularly tells me that I am the one person she can count on in this life. It is an honor. She really doesn’t have anyone else pouring into her life except me. I feel like this is what I am called to do as a Christian: Not to lecture and not to shame but to support, love, and encourage.

My church is a financial sponsor of this pregnancy center, and some people choose to volunteer there. But their program often reaches capacity, and the timing on the classes doesn’t always fit people’s schedules. In this post-Roe world, I can imagine that these types of clinics are going to be busier than every. So instead of moping in my post-Roe funk, I have taken some positive steps within my own church to have a conversation about reaching out to women in crisis the way Jesus would. What if my church was where women with unplanned pregnancies came first? What if we could pair women with a mentor for support and to walk along-side them? Could we help women in crisis to find community that would truly transform their lives? Are we qualified or trained? Heavens no. Have we raised our own kids and have a heart for others? Absolutely. And are we willing to shower women with the same grace that we have received in our own lives? The possibilities are limitless.

To me, this is the correct definition of pro-life: Valuing the life of a fetus as we walk along-side and love the new mother and child. Are there other systemic issues that need to be addressed. Absolutely. The list is long from paid maternity leave, affordable child-care, and quality and available childcare. None of these should be political issues, and I call upon Congress as well as the General Assembly to tackle each and every one if them in single-issue bills without other amendments attached. I would venture to say that any politician that opposes abortion but is not willing to make the systemic changes is a hypocrite and does not deserve to have a voice on this issue.

I know that there are many other thorny issues related to abortion such as the life of the mother, rape, and incest. Legislators who have made policy without accurate medical information or considered the social/emotional/financial concerns of new mothers have not made good laws: They have simply imposed their views on others without taking care of women and children the way Christ would have. Furthermore, the dogmatic approach that does not address these issues is generating anger and resentment towards the church and Christians.

In closing, my heart is a little less heavy now that I know what I can do to help. I know that I am called to serve and to love. It is a good place to be. The storm is undoubtedly going to continue to rage around this issue. I am going to do what God has shown me to do, and I would be honored if you would create a movement where you live to support women and children in Arkansas. Arkansans, we are likely to have a bunch more babies in the coming year! Who will be Jesus in the flesh and walk alongside these neighbors. The answer is not someone else’s mirror: It is in your own.

The post Possibilites appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Part of it is certainly personal. As I have written elsewhere, Syd and I decided to end a pregnancy after it was found that our baby had anencephaly. He had and would have no brain. We were offered options and chose the option to induce labor. It was heart-wrenching and right for us. If we were in that situation today, we would have no options other than to wait until the baby was born, and if born able to breathe, wait for him to die. Those who don’t know us and exhibit little to no compassion for us would have made the decision for us. 

I think, too, of a teenage girl I once met as a social worker. She was not able to speak and had limited movement due to significant developmental impairments. It eventually became clear physically that she was the victim of significant sexual abuse. I remember thinking to myself that if I did nothing else in my professional life, being a part of the effort that helped protect her from further abuse would justify my career. She thankfully was not pregnant, but a girl in her situation today in Arkansas who was pregnant because of sexual abuse and assault would have to go through pregnancy and have a baby. Where is the justice and mercy for such a girl in that?

But it’s more than personal experience that fuels my distress, although that would be enough. I think it’s also connected to how I think about the world. The assumptions I make, conscious or not, and the beliefs I have about people that are challenged. 

Here’s one assumption: I was born in 1962, and in my lifetime there has been uneven but persistent progress in equality and justice in areas of race, gender, sexual orientation, and gender identity. Historically, the pace and quality of progress has been breathtaking. It has not been simple or easy, and we are far from a place to rest and be satisfied, but it has been significant, life-affirming, and life-saving. It has also contributed to a backlash as hard-earned rights and benefits are now being taken away. This abortion decision is the most recent and perhaps audacious example but it fits in spirit with recent efforts to take away medical care from trans youth. Purposely causing harm and human suffering in service to another value or principle which undermines the full humanity of those harmed. Separating immigrant children from their parents is another recent example. 

To be honest, I expected and expect resistance to progress in areas of social justice. However, the amount of dismay I am experiencing lets me know that deep inside I didn’t expect that we would so consciously and aggressively go backwards. I don’t want to live in a place of cynicism and expect nothing but the worst from others, but the assumption of progress that my lifetime had led me to expect is changing, must change. How much remains to be seen as I search for a reformed narrative. 

I realize, at least to some degree, that a factor in my distress is my privilege. I have not lived in the world as a victim of trauma or violence. And I am a middle-age, white, straight, Christian man and not part of a historically marginalized or mistreated group in this country. I have benefitted from the benefit of the doubt from others more often than not. This has certainly impacted how I make sense of the world. My life experience has suggested that it was reasonable to expect better from people and the government than this. For so many others, that is not the lesson in their life experiences. 

I have tried to live giving others the benefit of the doubt regarding their intentions—trying to assume good intention until proven otherwise. This has been a helpful stance most of the time. In my experience, most people most of the time are trying to figure out the “right” thing to do, to do “good.” How we define “right” and “good” is very subjective, of course, and often self-serving, and no one I know is above self-interest bias in this area. 

In a world where elected and appointed leaders appear increasingly more blatantly interested in power and control, willing to rationalize immoral behavior and devise rationales to safe-guard self-righteousness on a grand scale despite the human costs, how much of this “assumption of good intentions” approach can I maintain? It need not be an all-or-nothing, either/or approach. The Good Book says to be as wise as serpents and innocent as doves. I’m feeling the need for some re-calibrating, but like most people with their assumptions and beliefs, I would rather not. 

Even if I believe in someone’s good intentions, what happens when their judgment is not good? What does it mean to lose faith in the good intentions of leaders, institutions, and courts—all fallible human endeavors? And what does it mean to grant that someone or some group may honestly want and seek “the good” but that “good” is a human disaster for others? And little to no compassion is expressed or demonstrated for those harmed?  Extreme but contemporary example: the Taliban’s treatment of women and those who disagree in Afghanistan. What does it mean and matter if they are sincere in their beliefs that they are doing the right thing when what is done causes so much harm? 

Growing up, I was taught that the United States was the best country in the world with more freedoms than any other. We were founded on ideals of liberty and equality and defended ourselves throughout history as freedom isn’t free. The country and religious tradition in which I was born and grew up were not in need of major reforms. Perhaps some tinkering around the edges. The big concern was that others did not agree with us and needed to be converted to our way of thinking and living. Individually we were flawed but that was because we didn’t live up to the requirements of our faith and country.  

My adult experience has been a continual adjustment to those worldviews. American history is much more complex and morally complicated as is my religious faith tradition. Both my country and my faith tradition have caused great harm to others with acts of self-serving rationalizations and self-righteousness. Both have also served the greater good and the greater community. There are strengths on which to build and areas of needed repentance. What it means to be a good American and a good person of faith continues to evolve. 

Which brings me back to the present, to today. For most of my life there has been an increased grappling with how we as a people—American people and people of faith—have fallen short and what is needed to make things better if not make things right. But today feels different. It feels like those who have resisted past reforms are saying, “Enough! We know better and we will use all the levers at our disposal to ensure that our version of morality—which serves the historic status quo and hierarchy of whose votes count most, which is mostly us—prevails. We will make the rules that all must follow even if we are in the minority. We will exploit the natural unfairness in our political system and change the rules, if needed, for our benefit. We will tell ourselves that we are saving our culture and country, and because the stakes are so high, we will be justified in whatever means are necessary to achieve those ends.”

Is this a proper and fair reading of the situation? Would those with whom I disagree feel justified in using the same or similar language to criticize my stances? And if so, what does or should that mean?

Seven years ago, the Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is legal and “my side” rejoiced. It was amazing and inspiring. With this decision, what else might be possible for the cause of justice? Nevertheless, for others this was a moral disaster and a harbinger that the country was on a downward spiral.  

Today the script is flipped. For those agreeing with the Supreme Court’s decision on abortion, there is reason to rejoice. It is amazing and inspiring. With this decision, what else might be possible for the cause of justice? Nevertheless, for others (on my side), this is a moral disaster and a harbinger that the country is on a downward spiral. 

The similarities in responses suggest we share a common humanity and not that the decisions were morally equivalent. Humans from different perspectives seek purpose to give their lives meaning and direction. Opposing sides want to “take back our country” but what this language means for each side is very different. 

So, in a search for a new narrative and amidst all the grief and questioning, here is what I believe today, open to be revised tomorrow:

• The present situation is heartbreaking, distressing, and enraging. These emotions come from feelings of loss, disorientation, and fear of losing more. All are real and appropriate to the situation.
• Some assumptions, beliefs, and perspectives will need to change. But not all. Time is needed to sort through in a thoughtful way. 
• The story is not over, even when it feels that way. The story can change and will change. I and we can be part of that change. 
• Change often, usually, takes a long time. “Tipping point” changes are the culmination of a long process. 
• This sucks.
• People can be enormously creative and persistent when they have meaning and purpose. The vision of a more compassionate and just world provides more than adequate meaning and purpose.
• We are called to be faithful, not victorious. We have reaped the harvest of the faithfulness of those who have come before, and we can plant seeds for generations to come. 
• No one gets to choose how and what I think, what I value, and how I find meaning and purpose. And this is true for you, too.
• Those of us who feel dismayed are not alone. In many ways, we are the majority. We are not without assets and support. 
• “Grace bats last.” Thank you, Anne Lamott.  

The post In Search of a Narrative appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I know almost nothing about my biological mother’s life when I was conceived, born, or since. It seems clear that she did not want and/or was not ready to be a parent, but beyond that I have no idea what she went through while she carried me. I have absolutely no idea what was going through her mind the last moment she ever saw me – presumably minutes or hours after I was born. Was she loved and supported? Was she shunned and shamed?

When I was conceived, was she a carefree teenager that made a casual or(along with the man) reckless decision? Was she lied to by a deceitful and/or cowardly boyfriend that just wanted sex? Was…she the victim of rape? 

Was her decision to allow me life and give me up to others an obvious decision that she never debated or was it a source of agony in her life? Is it still? Did she feel doubt about her decision once she saw me… or later? Was it made out of love or fear or pragmatism…or some incomprehensible human combination? 

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions. I probably never will. 

I think about all this….and in total honesty I’m selfishly just so glad that I’m here. I’m so, so, so indescribably thankful that my son is here. Given that, it is so easy and so tempting to extend that to all situations that seem just like mine – to argue that we should always give a new life a chance regardless of the situation – no conditions, no nuance. That logic and the powerful emotions that come with it pull at me right this very second as I type these words. 

Some of you may seize on my story – and particularly the shining light of my incredible son that lights up your news feed now and again – and say, “That’s it. Why would we ever stop THAT from happening?” It’s an understandable question on the surface. If I knew, or even though it remotely likely that every story or even most would be like mine – or anything even close to it – that might be it for me. Yet all I do know for sure is that we CANNOT know – much less manage – the countless situations that lead to the consideration of abortion or the lives – of mother and child – that follow. 

I wish more than anything that we lived in a world where this discussion started and ended with the humanity, honesty and love. Sadly, that’s not the world we are living in, and not the tactics that lead to political gain for too many people that make our laws or sell us stories on TV. This profound issue has become slogans and memes in our public discussion – and it will continue to be treated as such by most in power. Yet, it is still the way in which we can each choose to engage each other, and how we can support the women in our lives that have faced – and will face in the future – this decision. Make no mistake, whatever laws are enacted or repealed, abortion will occur in this country – the question is whether it will be accessible to all who need it or just those who have the power, resources and/or luck to quietly acquire it….

My own opinion…the world I hope and work for is this: 

I want a world where abortion is rarely necessary or sought. I’ve made a few of my progressive friends angry when I’ve said that publicly (most of them agree with me though). And I make my many of my conservative friends angry or at least disappointed when I say that I believe we must trust women to make this decision for themselves – free from any scorn or stigma – alongside any loved and trusted humans that they choose to involve. I don’t believe in or want casual abortion but I do believe that our best path in this world is to surround women with the best knowledge, resources and truly accessible options and then trust them to make the best decisions they can given their personal situation. A legislature in Little Rock, Washington or anywhere else should not make that call for them.

If we want to come together in a way that we rarely seem to do today as a country, there are immediate ways to do it that will prevent more abortions than any law could ever hope to stop – without violating any woman’s dignity or control over her body and future. 

Let’s ensure all our children know about the realities of sex, and that when they engage in it they have the knowledge and the resources to do so safely -protected from disease or premature parenthood. If you believe it is important for your children to attempt to wait until marriage, more power to you – but I believe the most loving parents hope for and nurture what they believe to be the best ideals in their children while preparing them to navigate less ideal situations in life when the ideal isn’t met. 

Let’s make adoption a loving, easy, safe and respected path for those that chose it (birth parents and adoptive parents). 

And when the worst of life’s events happen – a rape, incest, a life-threatening condition in a pregnancy, or the all too often shunned, afraid, pregnant child or teenager, or the abused and isolated girlfriend or wife – let’s make sure that those involved have easy access – no matter their zip code or income level – to compassionate, competent people that can provide her options and the support she ultimately chooses. 

That’s where I wish we were, what I hope we can work towards.

_{Jared Henderson is a husband and father who once ran for governor of Arkansas. He went to Harvard, worked for NASA, and came home to invest his life and raise his family. He is from Springdale, and now lives in Little Rock.}

The post Where I Wish We Were appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

If you read my first article entitled, “Little Did We Know,” you are aware of how I view the fundamentalist takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention between 1979 and 1990. If you have not, I suggest you do so before continuing with the following. It will help with context. 

The purpose of this piece is to introduce to you the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship (CBF). 

Finally admitting that the SBC takeover was complete, and with any thought of progressive Baptists maintaining or reclaiming a place in the denomination having been scuttled, a group of bruised and battered, and now former Southern Baptists, met in Atlanta in 1990 to forge a new identity. And while a new “brand” of Baptists was given birth, raising the child proved not to be so easy.

In advance of CBF’s annual General Assembly in Orlando, Florida in June of 2000, the late Robert Parham wrote an op-ed special to the Orlando Sentinel, a ten-year retrospective. In Robert’s typical, succinct, get-after-it style, he said, “Leading Cooperative Baptist Fellowship members is like herding cats, while leading Southern Baptist Convention folk is akin to driving cattle.” 

And there, my friends, you have the difference.

In truth, under the leadership of Texan Cecil Sherman, the first few years of CBF’s existence were spent largely reacting against what was considered the worst traits of the SBC. . . which, I suppose, given my own retrospective, was natural, if not necessary for these leaders in order to forge a new identity. For example:

In keeping with historic Baptist principles, the fledgling CBF refused to refer to this new entity as a denomination. Hence, the word “Fellowship.” Later, the term “denominetwork” would be introduced, but it never really gained traction. Though Southern Baptists have historically claimed the title of  “convention,” there has never been a felt need to shy away from being referred to as the largest Protestant denomination in the world. In fact, it is a matter of great pride to many. After attending a dozen or so annual convention meetings, if I had a nickel for every time I heard a speaker refer to the great Southern Baptist Convention, I could have retired much earlier than I did! The young CBF would have none of that.

CBF would vow to own no property. The SBC owns six seminaries, now led by those who either were involved in the fundamentalist takeover or were influenced or trained by those who did. Though it has since substantially diminished in size – as have many of the old denominational entities – the SBC still maintains a large publishing concern, sends thousands of missionaries across the globe, and holds sway over individual state conventions. . . what my late friend Robert referred to as the “minor-league teams.” CBF does indeed commission “field personnel,” and has state and regional organizations, but does not control what they do, nor tell them what to say. That has not been entirely true of the SBC.

In 2000, for example, the SBC adopted the revised version of what is called The Baptist Faith and Message, its doctrinal treatise. Prior to that time, any doctrinal document, such as this, was simply a guide to generally-accepted belief. With the advent of a new millennium, and the SBC now firmly in the hands of fundamentalists, that all changed. To remain a SBC missionary, whether national or international, this document had to be signed as an act of loyalty, something that had never, ever been required before. I personally know some who, sadly and with great difficulty, gave up their work rather than give in to such coercion.

CBF would not own agencies but would partner with like-minded institutions and ministries. One of the unforeseen and truly positive results of the SBC-CBF division, at least from my viewpoint, is CBF’s approach to theological education. Rather than own seminaries, which in the SBC operate under controlled and tight theological mandates, CBF has chosen to partner with a number of institutions that have been formed in the last thirty years, many of them affiliated with established universities and educational institutions. There are too many to mention in this piece, but I will give you a few examples: McAfee School of Theology, affiliated with Mercer University in Georgia; Truett Theological, associated with Baylor University; Baptist Seminary of Kentucky on the campus of Georgetown University; Campbell University Divinity School in North Carolina. Notable institutions such as Duke, SMU, and TCU have “Baptist Houses” where they train Baptist students for ministry. CBF of Arkansas’ partner institution is Central Seminary in Kansas City. But, CBF does not own them nor dictate how they operate. That, in my mind, is a major, and important, distinction.

Another distinctive of CBF life is its elevation of women in positions of leadership. I mentioned CBFAR’s affiliation with Central Seminary in Kansas City. Central’s former president is Molly Marshall, who was fired from the faculty at Southern Seminary in Louisville, my alma mater, for –  you guessed it – being a woman. And a smart, strong one at that! Molly once served on the staff of my former congregation in Little Rock, Pulaski Heights Baptist. Central is now led by Pam Durso, who for a number of years was president of Baptist Women in Ministry (BWIM). Prior to my coming as Interim Executive Coordinator of CBF of Arkansas, for more than two and-a-half years I was the interim pastor of First Baptist in Memphis. I am proud to say this vital congregation has now called Kathryn “Kat” Kimmell as Senior Pastor. 

Chuck Poole was once asked why his church in Jackson, Mississippi ordained women as deacons and ministers . His answer was simple: “We ordain women because we baptize girls” (Galatians 3:27-29).

Walter B. Shurden is a Baptist historian, the retired head of the Christianity Department at Mercer University, alma mater to my two children. “Buddy,” as he is known to his friends, published a book on Baptists’ Four Fragile Freedoms. They are:

Bible Freedom

The Bible is foundational for individuals and congregations. Every Christian has the freedom and right to interpret and apply Scripture under the leadership of the Holy Spirit. The wisdom and counsel of the larger congregation should nurture individual believers as they seek to interpret and apply Scripture.

Soul Freedom

We are each accountable to God individually without the imposition of creed or the control of clergy or government (and I would add, denomination). This personal experience with God is indispensable to the Christian life and necessary for a vital church. This is sometimes described as the “priesthood of all believers.”

Church Freedom

Baptist churches are free, under the Lordship of Christ, to determine their membership, leadership, doctrine and practice. This is sometimes known as “autonomy of the local church.” Individual churches should work together to achieve goals that one church by itself could not reach, (hence the presence of organizations like CBF of Arkansas).

Religious Freedom

Everyone should be able to worship (or not) as they feel led without unnecessary interference by the government. Just as religious freedom involves the freedom to practice religion, it also includes the freedom not to practice religion. If you can’t say “no,” your “yes” is meaningless. The separation of church and state affords an important constitutional protection of religious freedom for all.

Having noted the differences between the SBC and CBF, the question then is begged: why do so many Baptist churches remain affiliated with both? That is indeed a good question, and this is the only answer I can provide: old ways and habits, not to mention affiliations, die hard. Many of my former congregants simply found it too difficult to walk away from what they had known all their lives, even though what they had known no longer existed. With the desire to serve Christ locally and internationally, the SBC provides comfortable and familiar channels by which one can be a part of the “Baptist way of life and faith.” Even if you aren’t Baptist, you may have heard of Lottie Moon and/or Annie Armstrong, two women for whom international and “home mission” offerings historically have been named. Interesting, isn’t it, that these major offerings are named for women who could not preach in many a Baptist pulpit?! They could “speak,” but not preach, an important distinction to many SBC’ers. The Cooperative Program, a central fund endowed by individual churches to support agencies and finance the work of missionaries (see my previous article), is deeply embedded in the SBC, not to mention broader Baptist, psyche. It is hard to throw away old wineskins in favor of new (Mark 2:22). 

I refer back to Robert Parham’s earlier remark about herding cats. If you get the idea that I think CBF is perfect, please. . . no. We’ve made our fair share of mistakes, which may just be the subject of a future article. After all, confession is good for the soul. It has taken us years to put the old wineskins behind us in favor of the new. But I can think of no better way to be Baptist in today’s climate. Perhaps, some time down the road, a new and superior way of thinking and doing will come along. I leave that to the next generations to consider. As it is right now, for all the reasons I have enumerated – and more – I choose to affiliate with the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship, and invite you to join me in the journey.

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