WHAT IS THE STORY BEHIND THE PULITZER PRIZE-WINNING PHOTO OF THE YOUNG WOMAN CRYING OUT IN HORROR OVER THE DYING BODY OF ONE OF THE STUDENTS? (From Kent.Edu)
A photograph of Mary Vecchio, a 14-year-old runaway, screaming over the body of Jeffery Miller appeared on the front pages of newspapers and magazines throughout the country, and the photographer, John Filo, was to win a Pulitzer Prize for the picture. The photo has taken on a life and importance of its own. This analysis looks at the photo, the photographer, and the impact of the photo.
The Mary Vecchio picture shows her on one knee screaming over Jeffrey Miller’s body. Mary told one of us that she was calling for help because she felt she could do nothing (Personal Interview, 4/4/94). Miller is lying on the tarmac of the Prentice Hall parking lot. One student is standing near the Miller body closer than Vecchio. Four students are seen in the immediate background.
John Filo, a Kent State photography major in 1970, continues to work as a professional newspaper photographer and editor. He was near the Prentice Hall parking lot when the Guard fired. He saw bullets hitting the ground, but he did not take cover because he thought the bullets were blanks. Of course, blanks cannot hit the ground.
The May 4 shootings at Kent State need to be remembered for several reasons. First, the shootings have come to symbolize a great American tragedy which occurred at the height of the Vietnam War era, a period in which the nation found itself deeply divided both politically and culturally. The poignant picture of Mary Vecchio kneeling in agony over Jeffrey Miller’s body, for example, will remain forever
as a reminder of the day when the Vietnam War came home to America. If the Kent State shootings will continue to be such a powerful symbol, then it is certainly important that Americans have a realistic view of the facts associated with this event. Second, May 4 at Kent State and the Vietnam War era remain controversial even today, and the need for healing continues to exist. Healing will not occur if events are either forgotten or distorted, and hence it is important to continue to search for the truth behind the events of May 4 at Kent State. Third, and most importantly, May 4 at Kent State should be remembered in order that we can learn from the mistakes of the past. The Guardsmen in their signed statement at the end of the civil trials recognized that better ways have to be found to deal with these types of confrontations. This has probably already occurred in numerous situations where law enforcement officials have issued a caution to their troops to be careful because “we don’t want another Kent State.” Insofar as this has happened, lessons have been learned, and the deaths of four young Kent State students have not been in vain.
First they burn "The Handmaid's Tale" — then you live "The Handmaid's Tale." -JPB
A rabbi, minister, & politician boast of sacrifices at a BBQ line, revealing a politician’s shocking “insurrection” story.
A rabbi, a minister, and a politician were standing in a very long line for Texas BBQ. With nothing else to do, they began discussing the greatest sacrifice each had made in life.
The rabbi spoke first. “I have given away everything I own to the poor, as a sign of true devotion.”
The other two nodded solemnly.
Next, the minister said, “I have served without pay, as a witness to the resurrection.”
Again, the other two nodded, smiling approvingly.
Finally, the politician sneered. “I’m shocked you both have done so little. I personally witnessed The Insurrection. And when the Capitol went up in flames, I sacrificed my entire life savings!”
The rabbi and the minister leaned in, stunned.
“Yes,” the politician added proudly, “I threw it straight into the fire… with a personal check.”
What do you get when you cross a game show host with a politician? Easy! “The Deal of Misfortune.”
JPB
The Sacrifice of Stability for the Spin of Greed
"Without our traditions our lives would be as shaky as a ... fiddler on the roof!" - Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof
Harry S. Truman declared no interest in pursuing the visionary path of his quick fix, budget bustingFair Deal predecessor, Franklin D. Roosevelt. His path was that of a dry goods store owner proud of honesty to customers while committed to run his business as a Missouri tightwad, balancing the checkbook weekly.
“I want to keep my feet on the ground. I don’t want any experiments; the American people have been through a lot of experiments and they want a rest from experiments.”
Attributed to Harry Truman. Cited from Please Understand Me II by David Keirsey (p. 82)
Guardians of the U.S. Galaxy
In the Keirsey Temperament Inventory, the SJs, shown below at the top of the four personality types, make up the Guardian temperament. The SJs types are characterized by their focus on concrete reality and their cooperative nature, emphasizing duty, responsibility, and social structure.
SJs “The Pillars: Ensuring things run smoothly.” Analysis of David Keirsey’s “Please Understand Me”Temperaments
The SJs, as creatures of habit, reverence the past. They relish the familiarity of daily routine, like the feel of a well-worn cashmere sweater and Hush Puppy shoes. The comfort of the known, traveled daily path reassures the SJ that life is working out and that they have a place in life: to maintain it.
The SJ already knows her coffee in the pink, stainless to-go mug will take two packets of Stevia in the Raw, a dash of cinnamon, and a splash of lactose-free Irish Mint creamer. Her fulfillment rests in the assurance that her children and family have all they need for the day and that she played her part in it. Among the “passion fruits” of politicians stand the “simply vanilla” SJs who keep our schools teaching, our post offices delivering, and our healthcare systems healing.
When I met C.W. Brister, Professor of Christian Ministry at SWBTS seminary, he seemed a slow-speaking, milquetoast type of individual.
“I’m just vanilla… but everyone knows that vanilla is the world’s favorite flavor,” he said, introducing himself to the class.
When I tried to sit off to the side of Dr. Brister in the chairs at the front, he asked me to move where he could maintain eye contact. As the weeks passed, he unfolded the secrets of equipping a pastor for daily ministry. There was no hype and no exaggeration; rather, he gave us the theological cure to take to the spiritually sick in our future churches.
Then, one day as I approached the chapel, I overheard a voice on the speakers that sounded like one sending fire down from the mount. It was a fiery voice beckoning the seminarians to pursue the radical trail of their calling. As I opened the door and peeked in, to my surprise, the firebrand glowing in the pulpit was “Mr. Vanilla!”
And it is the SJ who will take seriously the tracing and the updating of the family tree, keeping track of births and deaths, weddings and baptisms, knowing that all such family observances become more important with each passing years. – David Keirsey, Please Understand Me II (p.92)
The Deal of Misfortune
Fictional Story Inspired by Actual Events
Guardian of The Mundane
Sam was a man of ritual, a guardian of the mundane. Every morning for fifteen years, he armored himself for his Federal job in the same uniform: a white, long-sleeved Oxford shirt—extra starch, collars pinned sharp—and a tie of crimson and cobalt blue. His closet was a gallery of precision: ten shirts, ten ties, four pairs of black shoes (gloss shine), and four black belts (no signs of wear), and one black Casio Illuminator watch, with a multi-timer function, and one Waterman cobalt blue marble fountain pen. He dined at 6:00 PM sharp, the flickering glow of the World News and the rustle of the Journal the only companions to his clockwork life.
12:45
Sam’s gift was his devotion to sameness. He understood a truth the politicians ignored: that the soul of the nation rested on the quiet expectation that tomorrow would look exactly like today. He was the guardian of the familiar—the treaties, the food chains, the steady heartbeat of a Midwest factory floor. At 12:45 PM. daily his mother texted him, and on weekends she called him as that was the only time he would pickup. At times she wished he would call her to say, “How are you?” and “I just called to say I love you.” But she knew her son, not as the one they first called “nonverbal” and later labeled “savant,” but simply as “Samuel.” She didn’t know what Sam did for his job but knew it was important, considering multiple the government bronze and gold service coins awarded him and cased in proud display in the living room entryway of his condo.
The Needle
As a national security analyst, Sam hunted the “needle.” He was the only man with the glacial patience to spend fifty hours a week staring into the haystack, waiting for the single glimmer of steel that could unravel the fabric of American security.
The U.S. rewarded his vigilance with a promotion to Senior Analyst. For thirty days, Sam inhabited the role like a well-worn glove. The weight of the international scope didn’t daunt him; it fueled him. Everything was in its right place. Until the silence was shattered.
A Ph.D. in Five Bullet Points
When the DOGE inspectors marched into his office, they didn’t see a guardian; they saw a line item. They interrupted him as he was descending into the digital depths of a morphing global hotspot—a flickering shadow moving through a porous foreign airport. They demanded a summary. They wanted the complexity of a Ph.D.-level security web reduced to five bullet points by the following evening.
A man of order, Sam complied. He bled his analysis into five bullet points, though he could not help but attach twenty-five pages of exhaustive endnotes to ensure the truth remained intact. He clicked “send,” expecting to return to the hunt. Instead, he received a digital guillotine.
Waste, Fraud, and Abuse … and other lies
“In an attempt to eliminate waste, fraud, and abuse, your position is terminated immediately.”
The words blurred. Why? When? How? The man who lived by the detail was suddenly cast into a void where no details existed. There were no instructions on how to leave, no process for the end of a life’s work.
Sam packed his cardboard box with the same artifacts he had carried in as a hopeful graduate fifteen years prior. His chest tightened; sweat slicked his brow as the world tilted. In a final, trembling act of surrender, Sam reached up and undid the crimson and cobalt tie. He folded it with agonizing care atop his belongings. For the first time in fifteen years, he unbuttoned his collar and let the cold air of the hallway hit his throat. He walked out of his second home with tears carving paths through the starch-dust on his face.
Falling Skies
Six months later, the sky fell.
A radical cell, armed with stolen Hellfire missiles, turned one of the world’s busiest civilian hubs into a graveyard. The politicians stood before cameras, beating their chests in hollow grief, blinded by the very “efficiency” they had championed. They never saw the shadow. They had fired the only man who was watching it.
To this day, the administration remains blissfully ignorant of the ghost in the cubicle. They never knew that the wall between the American people and the fire was a man in a starched white shirt who valued sameness—and that they were the ones who broke it.
I’m just vanilla … But everyone knows that vanilla is the world’s favorite flavor. – C.W. Brister, Professor of Christian Ministry, SWBTS
From Southern Baptist to United Methodist: A personal spiritual journey reflecting on faith, community, and Christmas comfort.
What’s the difference between a Baptist and a Methodist? Easy one! Baptists rush into church every time the doors unlock. And Methodists lock them in.
Comment: "What they have in common is they serve the same casseroles..." - Danny H.
Church quiz: Were these photos from the Southern Baptist or the United Methodist era? And I’d like to report a robbery! Someone robbed my hair!
Auld Lang Syne
Should old acquaintance be forgot And never brought to mind? Should old acquaintance be forgot In the days of auld lang syne?
As the sun sets on 2025, let us reflect on where we have been and where we are going. As you guessed, my photos above were from my Southern Baptist years, right before I entered the United Methodist Church, and then the International Council of Community Churches. Though time has grayed and thinned my hair, I remember the days spent in each of these Arizona churches as though they were yesterday.
At one church I pastored, farm wives (like the Magi of the Bible story) brought their gifts and decorated the altar for Christmas. The photo below, taken last Sunday at First United Methodist of Warsaw, MO, reminded me of the wonder on the faces of those women as they worshiped, having offered their artistic gifts to the Newborn King. Many dear saints with whom I served have now crossed over into that eternal family reunion. For those of you who are alone or grieving this Christmas, may God comfort you and surround you in His presence and peace.
Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. - Hebrews 12
For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace. – Isaiah 9:6
The Rustway Nativity
The scene unfolds as chaos. The White House itself is a scene of disheveled destruction. Beyond the destruction barriers, people sleep in their cars and tents for want of housing and work. A rusted White House sign hangs in stale air, an emblem that “The Beltway” has crumbled into “The Rustway.” Then, into the despair, appears the Nativity in a shelter made of rusted corrugated steel panels. There, the baby Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are surrounded by a most unlikely host welcoming the birth of the Messiah.
By the manger, an ICE officer lowers his weapon and pauses his mission. At the manger, he is surprised that no one hurls insults or spits profanity at him. The baby’s eyes meet the young soldier, who had enlisted in ICE to pay his crushing student loans. The infant then smiles at the one who would have arrested the Holy Family, considering they lacked papers. The infant’s smile was one of infinite, pure love. This was the first time in months the ICE soldier felt loved.
Next to the ICE soldier kneels a farmer who is fighting for the very existence of a 1,000-acre farm that his family has owned for four generations. Drowning in the sea of negative spreadsheets, he feels a peace from the one who fed the multitude and who taught of farmers and how they teach us of God.
Behind the farmer stands a migrant worker. Undocumented, he chooses to stand in the background, unnoticed and uncounted. Then he realizes that he was the only one standing directly in line with Mary and Joseph. Joseph raises his head, gives a nod to the migrant that conveys, “I know your anguish and fear of wondering if your family is safe tonight. Know that God is with you and yours tonight.”
On the right stands a construction worker who works 12 hours a day and has aged 10 years over the last five. He has no savings, no retirement plan, and no health insurance. As he looks up from the baby Jesus, he sees Mary smiling at him with a look of recognition that conveys, “Joseph was a carpenter. He will teach my son to work with his hands. God will use you to construct the Kingdom of God in hearts.” In an instant, the man thought of his wife and young son, who live three states away and whom he had not seen in as many months as he traveled with the job. He made a vow to the Child that he would drive home to his family as a surprise Christmas gift and to attend Christmas Eve service.
Then, kneeling at the front, is a man who has knelt for no one. He is the politician, who prides himself on settling scores and building his kingdom of wealth. The politician didn’t kneel to worship the Christ Child, but rather to give the Child the optics to see his importance. He looks at Mary and Joseph, but their eyes remain fixed on the infant. He moves his head to capture the attention of the babe who smiled at the anonymous soldier and dirty migrant but will not smile at him. “I’ll have my aides draft a complaint to the Vatican. Who does this baby think he is?”
Then, before the politician can execute his vengeful scheme, the ethereal skies tear open as the angelic host descends. The vision of the King of Kings appears: the Lord of all governments, without equal. All construction stops. People of every nation join hands to worship the One who was born a child, that He might lift us together as His people. Wonderful Counselor, Almighty God, the Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace!
In an instant, the Holy Family vanished into the mist of dancing snowflakes and a crash of rusted metal. Gone were the heavenly guests, and in their stead, the ICE soldier grabbed the arm of a young Latino woman who, with the other, was still holding a cooing, nursing infant to her breast. As he readied the zip cuffs, he saw tiny red trumpet flowers tattooed on the back of her hand bent for submission, proof enough to him that she must be a gang member.
But then the ICE soldier looked into the face of the babe, now looking at him and smiling with the same love shown to him by the Christ child in the manger. The soldier dropped to his knees, as his tears froze on his helmet and zip cuffs. He cried, “Lord, I have nothing but memories of pain. Take my life as a gift for the Child.” Not knowing how to pray, he asked, “Holy Mother, will you pray for me?” The mother and child scurried off with tears of astonished belief as the ICE soldier left his helmet and cuffs still frozen on the sidewalk, never to walk that path again.
He traded the zip cuffs and pepper spray for a white lab coat and more medical school debt to serve as a missionary in Bogotá. From that icy sidewalk forward, he never took another person captive again. The young man didn’t know that a century later, the Pope would beatify him as “El Santo Rojo de Bogotá,” The Red Saint of Bogota, for his flaming red hair and his discovering the cure for La Muerte Roja measles plague that sprang from the filthy conditions of the immigration camps and killed millions in the Americas.
While researching exotic plants for a cure in the Colombian rainforest, tiny crimson trumpet flowers captured his eye on a mountain footpath. His mind flashed to the red trumpet tattoos on the back of the mother’s hand he once gripped in fury. He saw an image and heard a voice in his mind. It was the young mother with her babe who said, “Take my gift, which is for you!” as she held out the crimson trumpet flowers tattooed on her hand. Back in his lab, those flowers provided a cure from The Red Death that saved a multitude in the Americas.
In Peaceful Certainty!
JPB
Red Angel’s Trumpet (Brugmansia sanguinea) – A highly fragrant native to the Andes mountains of Colombia, Ecuador, and Peru. – Image From PlantSnap.comAltar at First United Methodist, Warsaw, MO
A just war is an act of last resort. Prior to engaging in violence, a nation must make every effort to attain its intended goals by other means. This might include diplomacy, economic or legal actions, and so forth. This is a crucial tenet of just war theory: war results from the failure of all other options. It is not one option among many. As an extension of this idea, the government should seek to end the conflict as quickly as is reasonably possible.
As a boy, my brother, Gary, Mom and Dad gathered around the kitchen table to listen to a cassette audio tape from our cousin Neal, a soldier in Vietnam. What happened to the ten-speed bicycle riding cousin who was now a voice telling about walking through rice paddies in Vietnam? How did he get there? When will he come home? As a boy, I didn’t understand the toll paid by our soldiers so far away, which would scar a generation. Hopefully, lessons learned behind those distant recorded words will spare us from the conflicts that will haunt the next generation of young soldiers.
U.S. Vietnam Soldiers Sent Audio Cassette Letters Home
“A Little Conflict Never Killed Nobody”
Politicians love the word conflict. Unlike war, it requires no approval of Congress with all the military-industrial benefits of a real war. Unfortunately, conflicts that begin as self-righteous crusades result in self-inflicted casualties. The Vietnam “conflict” exacted an enormous cost: estimates of Vietnamese soldiers and civilians killed range from 970,000 to 3 million. Some 275,000–310,000 Cambodians, 20,000–62,000 Laotians, and 58,220 US service members died.
Conflict: Easy to get in. Hard to get out.
In my MBA program one professor taught us how to evaluate a course of action:
Do I want to do this?
Can I do this?
Easy to get in. Hard to get out.
How many of us have volunteered for a job for a “few months,” only to find we are still on the committee years later? That’s “Easy in. Hard out.” Nations of unjust wars must guard against being trapped in the battered-spouse repeated cycle of generational militarized violence. War, and the whitewashed conflicts—aka war-lite—are more addictive and costly to the U.S. than any drug ever created by cartels.
The U.S. military justified blowing up small boats in the Caribbean and killing survivors clinging to burning flotsam by stating the boats were transporting cocaine to the U.S. The reality is these boats were likely not headed toward the U.S., rather another country, with proof of cargo and crime lacking. How is administering a death sentence for a possible crime a “just war”? If this practice is not a “just war,” what is it?
What's the difference between a cocaine dealer and a Wall Street banker? Easy one! One makes cocaine for a dollar. The other takes cocaine with a dollar.
That’s “Easy in. Hard out.” Nations of unjust wars must guard against being trapped in the battered-spouse repeated cycle of generational militarized violence. War, and the whitewashed conflicts—aka war-lite—are more addictive and costly to the U.S. than any drug ever created by cartels.
JPB
Men of the 9th U.S. Marine Expeditionary force scramble out of a landing barge on to the peach at Da Nang in South Viet Nam, March 8, 1965. They were ordered to the area to bolster defenses around air base at Da Nang against possible Viet Cong attacks. (AP Photo)
Hubris shouts, “We answer to no one. We worship the battlefield god of our own destiny.” Reality raises a desperate hand for a tossed life preserver from allies whom we have forsaken as we launched a misguided course toward the dark shoals of our own destruction.
JPB
A Last Resort
58,276 Names of U.S. Casualties on Vietnam Memorial
“Only if all peaceful methods fail” is the first requirement of “Just War.” This guards against the “It’s just a war” groupthink that that politicians use to drop us in the next foxhole of unending conflict. Hubris says, “We won’t have any casualties. We’ll get in and get out to show those commies who’s the boss!” Reality ships home the trauma of our own unexpected casualties of those who laid down their lives for reasons unknown to the soldier and citizen alike. Hubris shouts, “We answer to no one. We worship the battlefield god of our own destiny.” Reality raises a desperate hand for a tossed life preserver from allies whom we have forsaken as we launched a misguided course toward the dark shoals of our own destruction.
Turn from evil and do good; seek peace and pursue it. - Psalm 34:14
Peace is Our Mission,
JPB
Postscript
The king who demands absolute loyalty without question knows his troops won’t trade lives for lies.
As 2025 draws to a close, we remember those 24 who died this year in ICE custody and the unnamed immigrants disappeared into dark places into which the light of the Christ Child shines hope.
“A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more” - Matthew 2:18.
"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it" - Gospel of John 1:5.
Coded Message of Freedom
Aretha Franklin’s 1972 Amazing Grace recording at the New Temple Missionary Baptist Church became her biggest selling album. “Mary, Don’t you Weep” predates the Civil War as a “freedom song” that was sung by enslaved African Americans and contained coded messages of hope and emancipation. This Mary referenced the storyof Mary and Martha of Bethany in the Gospel of John 11, when the sisters wept for their brother Lazarus, who has died, and said to Jesus that if he had been there, Lazarus would not have died. Jesus then miraculously raised Lazarus from the dead, demonstrating his divine authority over death.
“Mary, Don’t You Weep” is a song that was initially sung by the enslaved—sung with coded messages of hope and resistance by our enslaved ancestors:
oh, Mary, don’t you weep, don’t you mourn…Pharaoh’s army got drown-ded…
However, when Ms. Franklin gets hold of it, she tells her own testimony while framing the grief and anguish of the sisters, Mary and Martha, over the death of their brother Lazarus (John 11:1-44):
One day while Jesus was away, that dear, that dear, that dear ole brother died, yeah yeah But now Mary, went running to Jesus She said Master, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my, my SWEET Lord Whoa, Lord if you hadda, if you hadda been here, my brother would not have died Oh yes she did Jesus said, come on and show me, show me where you buried him. Show me where you laid him down
I think a case can be made that Ms. Franklin, through her call and response, is also calling forth the experiences of unseen Black women who’ve also experienced loss. Black women who’ve had children sold away…husbands, sons, and daughters lynched…loved ones killed by the police…and, like Mary and Martha, wondered when, oh when, was Jesus going to show up for them. Through her runs and moans, Ms. Franklin gave voice to the particular pain experienced by Black mothers, wives, sisters, and daughters—wailing for the theft of life of their children, husbands, aunts, uncles, lovers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. And this is a communal feature of womanism. As coined by Alice Walker, a womanist is one who:
Loves music. Loves Dance. Loves the moon. Loves the Spirit. Loves love and food and roundness. Loves struggle. Loves the Folk. Loves herself. Regardless.
God sent us the Martin Luther King, Jr.’s not only to deliver people of color from the chains of bigotry but to ready us for the day we meet our own oppressors.
From Christ’s birth, a message for all: no one is ‘garbage.’ A divine counter to hateful rhetoric against immigrants.
Then the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people.For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign to you: You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.”
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God and saying:
“Glory to God in the highest, And on earth peace, goodwill toward men!” – Gospel of Luke Chapter 2
Jesus came to establish a Kingdom by which no person would be called garbage, as Christ took the filth and hate of this world upon himself that we might be called children of God.
JPB
To All People,
JPB
Postscript
This post responds to US President Donald Trump’s statement who said he does not want Somali immigrants in the US, telling reporters they should “go back to where they came from” and “their country is no good for a reason”.
“I don’t want them in our country, I’ll be honest with you,” he said during a cabinet meeting on Tuesday. Trump said the US would “go the wrong way if we keep taking in garbage into our country”.
