Black and White Westerns…

I’m in a room, waiting for my truck to get serviced.  They told me I need new front brakes and a new battery.  Funny how you go in for one thing and they find two more things that need to be fixed.  The TV is showing an old western movie, “3:10 to Yuma.”  Not the Russell Crowe version; the Glen Ford, black and white, original.   

I grew up on black and white Westerns.  We watched “Bonanza” and “The Rifleman” on a small, thirteen-inch black and white TV.  Roy Rogers always was the good guy and this actor, Ronald Regan, introduced the story of the week on “Death Valley Days.”  

We loved the gunfights.  We knew they weren’t real because guns were part of our lives.  My brother, Steve, always counted the shots of the shooters.  We knew a Colt revolver only had six shots.  The good guys and the bad guys would shoot indiscriminately, ten or twelve shots without reloading.  Hollywood was never concerned with accuracy. 

We’d also seen enough animals shot to know bullets leave holes and holes leak blood.  Not in black and white Westerns.  A man would get shot, grab his stomach, then fall.  Sometimes he would fall off his horse, or off a roof; then the camera focused on his body.  Bullets in those days must have killed without entering the body. 

In most Westerns, you knew the good guys and the bad guys.  John Wayne was always the good guy.  Good guys always wore white hats.  The bad guys were unshaven, wore black hats, and smelled bad.  We couldn’t smell through the TV, but you could tell.  Occasionally, there was a plot twist: the bad guy would turn good and stand with the other good guys.  He would shoot his former partners and then the Sheriff would give him a horse and a head-start.  We all knew the Sheriff wouldn’t chase him.  As the credits rolled, we hoped he would find a good woman, settle down, raise some cows, have some kids, and never turn to crime again.  I’m not sure it really works that way in real life. 

I do remember as a child thinking, “There sure are a lot of bad things happening on the Ponderosa.”  I lived on a ranch, just like Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe.  We never had rustlers trying to steal our cattle, or bandits who tried to break into the bank.  When we rode out to work cows, we never found a traveling snake-oil salesman or a tramp passing through.  Some of the older hands would actually carry a rifle or a pistol, but the guns were used only to kill rattlesnakes.  We never had a shootout with a gang.  Of course, our ranch was not out west; we were down south.   

About the time we got a color set, Westerns changed to color too.  Marshall Dillon was still the good guy, but we were never sure if Clint Eastwood was the good guy or the bad guy.  The shows changed: the bad guys seemed to win more often.  The good guys weren’t always good; sometimes they turned out to be the bigger crooks.  The girls seemed to like the bad guys more than the guys with white hats.  The producers and directors told us they were producing “art.”   This is real life, they said.  But pop-culture moved on.  Cop shows replaced the Westerns.  The Westerns rode off into the sunset. 

Art, they say, imitates life.  Maybe the black and white Westerns represented the way most of us saw life.  We wanted to believe people were easily divided into good guys and bad guys.  We hoped the bad guys always had to pay for their crimes and the good guys always got the girl.  Decisions are easier when everything is in black and white. 

Jesus followers know there are no “good guys” and “bad guys.”  In every one of us, there is the capacity to be very bad.  That capacity to be bad becomes reality more than any of us want to admit.  Paul wrote a great insight: “There are none that are righteous; no, not one.”  Life really is a matter of black and white, and all of us are the bad guys.   

This is the “why” of Christmas.  Jesus, fully God, fully man, came to live on this earth and die for our sins.  He opened the door for us to become one of the “good guys,” something we cannot accomplish on our own.  Unlike the sheriff, he doesn’t give us a horse and a head start.  He invites us to follow him, to learn from him, to live a Kingdom life.   

Amidst all the color of Christmas, there is still a black and white truth:  My hope is not in what I can do; it is in what Jesus has done for me.  What he has done for you?  What he has done for us all?

Son of Kong…

When I was a young man, I took my girlfriend at the time to the Silver Spurs Rodeo in Kissimmee, Florida.  Before Kissimmee became the home of Mickey Mouse’s empire, it was a cowtown.  The Silver Spurs is the most prestigious rodeo in Florida.  My father, my grandfather, and my Uncle Pete have all been the overall champion of the rodeo.

When I went to the rodeo that day, my father had been dead for thirty years.  A whole new generation of cowboys were roping calves, riding broncos and bulls, and wrestling steers.  For me, however, being in the arena brought out a wistful longing: I wish I could have seen my father rodeo. 

My father picked up the nick-name “King Kong” in high school.  It was about the time when the first “King Kong” movie came out in 1933.  Bigger than most of his football team mates, it was a natural nickname.  When he started rodeoing, most of his friends simply called him “Kong.” 

My uncle Pete was probably the best in the family as an all-around cowboy, but from the stories I’ve heard over the years, Daddy was at his best in steer wrestling and bull-riding.  Steer wrestling involves jumping from your galloping horse, grabbing a steer by the horns, and wrestling him to the ground.  Daddy set the record time in Florida of throwing a steer in 1.8 seconds.  The current world record is 2.4 seconds.  Daddy was in a class by himself.

Bull-riding means getting on the back of a bull in a tight chute, getting a firm grip and a far-away look, hollering to open the gate, and then staying on the back of the bull for eight seconds.  Judges score you on the difficulty of the ride.   If you think it sounds hard, you should try it (and no, bull-riding machines in country bars are no match for the real thing).  Maybe it was Daddy’s size, but he had a knack for staying on and scoring high.

My father died when I was eighteen months old, so I have no memories of him, just stories and pictures.  In the stands at the Silver Spurs Rodeo, I admit I felt again the old emptiness, wishing just I had seen him just once throwing a steer or riding a bull. 

Bull-riding is usually the last event in a rodeo, because it is the most exciting and most dangerous of rodeo events.  That day, three or four riders had come out of the chute and been thrown off in the first three seconds.  It looked like no cowboy would make his ride.

Keep in mind I am sitting with my girlfriend in the covered stands with about ten thousand people.  An old Florida cracker cowboy was seated next me, his wife on the other side of him.  I greeted him when I sat down, but he wasn’t much for conversation. 

After the fifth rider had been thrown off, this old Florida cracker cowboy turned to his wife and said, “Darlin’, a lot of these boys are pretty good, but nobody was ever as good as ol’ Kong Smith.”

My stomach did a flip.  I grabbed the man’s arm.  He pulled back as he turned to see who had a hold of him.  For a moment, I thought he was reaching for his gun (there was no concealed-carry law in those days).  We made eye contact and I blurted out, “Kong Smith was my daddy.”

The man went white as a sheet, almost like he had seen a ghost.  He gave me the once over, and then drawled, “From the looks of you son, you must be.  I’ll bet you’re the youngest.  I forgot your name.  You were just a yearling when your Daddy died.”

I wish I remembered the man’s name.  He told me about Daddy, about rodeoing with him, working cows with him, and having some high times together (he obviously didn’t want to go into details with his wife listening in). 

For that moment, the emptiness was filled.  I received another small piece of my father, another few stories to add to my soul.  That Florida cracker cowboy gave me a gift that day: he made me proud to be the son of the man I don’t remember.

The Apostle Paul talks about Jesus redeeming us so God the Father can adopt as sons.  To be adopted as the son or daughter of God means more than going to heaven; it means we can be proud of our Father in heaven, who gives us grace, who guides our lives, and who helps us live in confidence.  It is not our reputation that matters; we hold the reputation of our Father in Heaven. 

Are you proud that you are a child of your Father in Heaven?  Are you living in the confidence of being his son, his daughter?

I remember walking out of the arena after the rodeo was over that day.  I held myself a little taller.  There was a touch more confidence in my stride.  That day I remembered I was the son of Kong.  His reputation rested on me.

Every day, walk a little taller.  Every day, put more confidence in your stride.  If you follow Jesus, your Heavenly Father’s reputation rests on you.