Perhaps you remember the Veg-O-Matic commercial from the mid-1960s, where marketing guru and inventor Ron Popeil promoted a kitchen appliance by saying, “It slices, it dices and so much more!”
Veg-O-Matic ads inspired a “Saturday Night Live” spoof about a fish blender called the Super Bass-O-Matic, first performed by Dan Aykroyd in 1976.
Nearly 50 years later, let me introduce you to the Belief-O-Matic. Like the Veg-O-Matic, once you use it, you’ll wonder how you ever did without it.
Not long ago I treated my daughter Brittney to lunch at Falafel & Shawarma Planet, a Mediterranean restaurant on Florin Road.
From behind the counter, the owner took our order and went back to prepare our food. The dining room was empty. We dawdled a moment to ogle the baklava display case.
The front door opened and a man walked up behind us.
“Don’t move,” the stranger told Brittney. “And don’t panic,” he whispered.
How could I not panic? I thought. We were alone with a “whispering mugger.”
I cautiously turned my head so I could describe him for police: light complexion African American male, 5-foot-6, average build, wearing athletic sweatpants and a jogging jacket.
Then I asked myself if I assumed him to be robber just because he was Black?
During my years as a chaplain for Sutter Medical Center, I usually flew solo for patient visits.
While I was occasionally interrupted by a well-meaning staff member offering an unsolicited prayer, or even an overambitious clergy pressing his or her theology, I was happy to yield my sacred patient space to Toby.
Like me, Toby preferred to work off leash. That’s because he was a therapy dog, a Queensland heeler, a pun not lost on our healing team. He liked people of all flavors, having never met a human he wouldn’t lick.
Part of my duties was to conduct a support group at Sutter Senior Care, a daycare support facility for elderly people.
In 2009, I was senior chaplain responsible for Sunday worship services at the Air Force Field Hospital in Balad, Iraq.
One Sunday, a few hours before our 10 a.m. service, I watched my sleepwalking chaplain assistant, Sgt. Peoples, fuss with chapel arrangements as if preparing for a pope.
He adorned the altar with properly colored cloths. He arranged the folding chairs, loaded with Bibles. Pouring the communion cups was his last job.
If you can imagine how frustrated a preacher would have to be to swear a blue streak, then you might understand the old expression, “It’s enough to make a preacher cuss.”
I grew up in a Baptist church, so it’s safe to say I never heard a preacher cuss. But that changed when I began my Air Force chaplain’s career at Mather Air Force Base.
The Rancho Cordova base is now a civilian airport, but I spent three years there as a first lieutenant under the mentoring of five active-duty chaplains.
