Category Archives: Life and Family

My Boy, so far ….

May 25, 1988 is one of my favorite days.  That’s the day my son was born.

He had a traumatic birth.  Hours of labor.  They wheeled in the neonatal resuscitation unit. Teams of doctors and nurses assembled.  They assumed the umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck.  With each contraction, his heart rate plummeted.  It was touch-and-go.

Then suddenly, there he was.  No cord.  He had placed his hand against his head and it restricted his descent into the birth canal.  His head was a bit cone-shaped and it had a noticeable handprint on the side, but he was alive and breathing.  Moments later, he was whisked off to be cleaned up.  Under the heat lamp, as they wiped him down and took his APGAR numbers, the nurse turned to me and said reassuringly, “He’s perfect.”

That’s how my boy entered the world.  A bit of upheaval, but perfect.

Early on in his development we realized that he was exceptionally bright.  I think our first clue was when he was riding in his car seat and suddenly recited the entire book “Hop on Pop” — front to back, verbatim, by memory.

I think he was three.

But there were also clues that something was amiss.  We went to doctors; several of them.  James was misdiagnosed a multiplicity of ways.  It was during his testing at Vanderbilt that I first heard the term “hyperlexic.”  He could read way beyond his ability to comprehend.  He was affected by noise, the feel of fabric against his skin, and any — I mean ANY — worrisome news.  He slept rolled up in his blankets, wedged between his mattress and the wall.  His syntax was odd.  I became his interpreter.

And he trusted everyone.  He couldn’t imagine that anyone would be mean. So, school was a rude awakening.  He was bullied mercilessly.

We finally found a therapist who understood what was going on.  She said he was autistic.  “Asperger’s Syndrome,” to be exact.  I read up.  It was like someone had been peeking through our windows and describing my son.  I was relieved to know what we were dealing with.  But, the trouble at school continued unabated.

I remember a teacher who told us that James was “learning disabled.”  He ended up on a “special eduction” track that would have led to a Special Ed degree.  Maybe he could attend a technical school to learn a trade.  Maybe not.

Here’s the rub: In fourth grade, my boy received the highest math TCAP score in the history of the school.  By eighth grade, he was failing remedial math.  Something (if you don’t mind the pun) didn’t add up.

For lack of knowing what else to do, the school assigned him to a “behavioral modification” classroom.  He was there for months.  One night, he said to me, “I must be the worst kid in school.”  Why?  “Because all the worst trouble makers are sent to the behavior mod class.  Then they straighten up and go back to class.  I never get to go back.  I must be that bad.”


He wasn’t being educated.  He was being warehoused.  Teachers had him on a pass/fail system so that he advanced grades, but was falling further behind.  But, once he moved to the local high school for ninth grade, the environment became hostile.  The bullying increased.  He was fearful daily.  He was my hero.  Every day he marched bravely toward a world that made no sense to him.  Like an alien anthropologist, he studied and adopted the behaviors and customs of a foreign culture so he could fit in, or go undetected.  We argued with the school board, the teachers, the principals.  Minor accommodations were made, but nothing really helpful.  Since he didn’t really fit with the more pervasively disabled children, he was assigned to the RISE room.

Think: punitive, windowless, brick closet.

One day, I had had enough.  The on-site cop had pushed my son against a locker, threatened him, and paraded him through the hallways, crying.  He was mortified.  When I arrived, I sought out the principal and confronted the offender.  The cop told me that he saw James in the RISE room everyday and assumed he was a bad kid.  I explained that he had just man-handled a special needs child.  I knew what had to be done.

I requested a meeting with the school board president, his teachers, the principal and lawyers from Tennessee Voices For Children.  I read the state statutes to them regarding “hostile environment” and listed the several ways that they had abused my son’s civil rights.  They quickly cobbled together “the IEP of life” and offered me everything I had been requesting for years.  I wanted that on his record, just in case.

After they all finished signing it, I stood up and said, “You’ll never see him again.”  As we walked out the door, the principal stopped me and asked brusquely, “Mr. McClarty, do you think you son can get an adequate education at home?”

I didn’t hesitate, replying, “If he only gets an ‘adequate’ education at home, that’s more than he’s getting here.”

And that was the beginning of our homeschool journey.

We went back to eighth grade.  We started over in many ways.  We bought computer programs, joined an umbrella school (thank you, Aaron Academy), and we plowed through it.  It wasn’t always easy, but James graduated with a solid “B” average.  Not bad for a “learning disabled” boy.

But wait … it gets better.

One symptom of Asperger’s Syndrome is something called “pervasive childishness.”  In other words, it took James a bit longer to mature than kids who don’t share his diagnosis.

But, eventually we decided he was ready for college.  I was scared about leaving him in a classroom environment, again.  Would he fit in?  Would he embarrass himself?  Would he be bullied?  I sat in the hallway of our local college and waited until the first class was over.  And he did wonderfully.  He thrived.  Eventually, he was answering math questions for other students.  He wrote papers, he did labs, and he got “A’s.”  Lots and lots of A’s.

And he got his two-year, associate degree.

But, wait … it gets better.

James decided that he wanted to be a computer programmer, specializing in game development.  He needed a four-year degree.  So, he continued his studies.  He’s been taking online courses via Baker College in Michigan.  He didn’t tell his professors that he was autistic.  He wanted to compete with the best students on a level playing field.  He didn’t want special treatment.  He wanted to show his stuff.

And he did.  This week my son received his degree.  Summa Cum Laude.

Not bad.  Not just for an autistic kid.  But, for any kid.

All that to say that I couldn’t be more proud.

My boy, my “perfect” boy, is a man.

And I think I can answer that principal now.  Yes.  Yes, indeed.  My boy can receive a more-than-adequate education from home.

But, the real credit belongs solely to him.  He worked hard and applied himself.

I cannot wait to see what he does with the rest of his life.

So long, Dude.

Growing up, I was always a dog guy.  Our family had several dogs, but never cats.  I remember being bit on the ear by a cat when we lived in Dallas.  I was maybe 8.  So, I never liked cats.  Mean critters.  Bitey.  Noisy.  Unfriendly.  And they use their claws in ways that dogs simply don’t.  I prefer dogs.

Or, at least I did.  In my early 30’s, I got married.  And with the woman came cats.  It was like a package deal.  And, in my desire to please the woman, I learned to live with felines.  Over time, while I never officially became a “cat person,” I did discover that some cats made good pets.  But, some cats — not many , but some — can be good companions and beloved members of the family.


Some 20 years ago, when the kids were in daycare for a couple hours a day, a neighbor was giving away kittens and was down to the runt of the litter.  No one was interested in him.  He was unhealthy, tiny (with huge ears that made him look like a bat), and had no tail.  The kids brought him home and I was, once again, talked into allowing another creature to join the household.  For the next 20 years, that little tailless fellow became a fixture in the McClarty home.

Originally, James named the new kitten Hobbes (after Calvin and Hobbes).  But, we rarely called him by his name.  Early on, he became “Dude.”  As in, “Dude, get down.”  Or, “What, dude?”  The name fit him.  As he grew in size and strength, he strutted around, chest out, scrapping with the other cats, and basically ruling the roost.  You know … dude behavior.

Other cats, dogs, birds, rabbits, a goat, and a chinchilla came and went in the interim.  But, there was always Dude.  In fact, in my darkest days, when the house was empty and I was at my worst, Dude followed me, room by room, checking on me and making sure I knew that he was available if I needed someone to pet.  We became old men together.  I used to tell people that Dude was basically “me in a cat suit.”

DudeThe last few months have been tough for old Dude.  He’s been losing weight.  This morning he was skin and bones.  He weighed less than five pounds and really came closer to three.  He’s been crying a lot, expressing his pain.  Being a manx, his hips have always bothered him.  He stopped eating.  He was withering away.  A few nights ago, after the kids were in bed and the house was still, I sat with him for a while.  I looked him in the eye and waited for some sign that he was ready to go.

Well, this morning I picked him up and put him on the sink counter — his favorite place to drink.  He could no longer jump or climb.  He had taken to sleeping on the floor since he could no longer make it up onto the bed.  He shivered at night because there was no more meat on his bones.  In the mornings I’d find him doing his best to cuddle into any old clothes I’d left lying around.  So anyway, I put him on the counter and showed him the water.  His eyes have been getting cloudy, so he wouldn’t drink unless I swished the water and proved to him that there actually was something there.  He put one paw in the water.  Then he withdrew.  He just stared at me.  He was done.  I cupped his sunken head in my palm and said, “I know.”

Today we said good-bye to Dude.  It was a peaceful, graceful process.  We wrapped him in a towel and took him to the vet.  He was always fidgety when he was held.  But not now.  He settled into Megan’s arms and rested quietly.  The vet said it was standard procedure to give the animal a mild sedative so that they don’t struggle when the needle is introduced into a vein in their hind leg.  She gave Dude the sedative.  I held his head and stared into his eyes.  His organs began shutting down, one by one.  I watched him drift away. When the vet returned to stop his heart, he was already dying.  She commented, “That was such a light sedative.  He was ready to go.  It was time.”

The vet claimed that animals tell you when it’s time.  You can see it in their eyes, she said.  I believe her.  I saw it in Dude’s eyes the other night. He was tired of the pain, the struggle, the cold.  He had run his course.  20 years is a good run for a cat.  But, he was out of steam.

As soon as she began to push the plunger, Dude succumbed.  It was instantaneous.  No struggle.  No fight.  Just quiet.  Just sleep.  Just life ending.

Sleeping DudeSo long, Dude.  Thanks for being a part of the family.  Thanks for making my kids laugh when you ran in circles chasing the laser pointer.  Thanks for keeping me company when I felt the most abandoned.  Thanks for … well, for being a dude.  You can’t do any better than that.

A Few Words About A Mighty Good Dog

Wallace was 18.  In dogs years that’s … well, really old.  And today he breathed his last.

He and his sister were dropped on us when they were very little pups.  The original idea was that we’d keep them long enough to find them a good home.  Turns out, my home was the good home they needed.Wallace

For the last 24 years there’s been at least one dog in my backyard.  Some were good, some were trouble.  But, Wallace was the best of them.  He had a sort of noble bearing about him.  Definitely the alpha dog.  And any other dogs knew it.  He was a loyal companion, a careful protector, and a friend to my children.  All in all, a mighty fine dog.

His decline started last year when his sister died.  By this morning he was stone deaf, his eyes were fading, he was riddled with cancer, he had a large, bulbous tumor under his tail and another growing on his neck.  Despite being Autumn, his poor circulation hampered his ability to begin growing his winter coat.  And he was miserable.  So today, Megan and I mustered the courage necessary to do the right thing.  We took him to PAWS and had him put to sleep.

And we cried.

Wallace last photo

This is the photo I took of Wallace, standing in the back of my CR-V today as we readied him for his final trip to the vet.  He looks gaunt, weak, bedraggled, not anything like the vibrant, energetic dog he once was.  But his eyes were steady as he looked out one last time on his yard.  Then he laid down.  And he didn’t get up again.

My quarter-century of dog ownership has come to an end. I think my dog days are finished. These days, I’m simplifying and cutting back.  But the yard sure looks empty.  In fact, for the first time in 24 years, this afternoon I opened the gate and left it open. It was like a memorial to the dogs who had come and gone.

I know everything that is born eventually dies.  And I know that 18 years is a good, long life for canines.  But, I’m sure going to miss him.

Goodbye, my old friend.  I’m paying you the highest compliment a dog can earn —

“You’re a good boy.”



Peter Panorama

I’ll Never Grow Up

It must be age … or time … or mileage.  But these days I find myself entertaining memories of days gone by and looking back over the events of my youth.

It was 1966. I was in sixth grade at Walnut Bend Elementary School in Houston, TX. Mention was made that the Houston Music Theater in Sharpstown was going to hold open auditions for “lost boys” for their upcoming production of Peter Pan.  That night I told my parents that I wanted to audition.  I remember my mom saying that I’d have to sing.  No problem, I replied.  To which my dad inquired, rather incredulously, “Do you sing?”

But my folks were always encouraging and mom dutifully drove me to the audition.  It was a tad daunting, but when my turn came, I took center stage and sang “My Favorite Things.” Now, the truth is that the only real reason I got cast was that I vaguely resembled another boy who sang beautifully and the casting director was desperate to find “twins” to fit the script.  So, next thing I knew, I was a kid actor.

You can click through the thumbnail photos to see them in full resolution.  The live stage photos were taken during dress rehearsal.  Then there’s a two-page program given to everyone who attended.  And then scans of the for-purchase program.  The pages have yellowed with age. But, I really enjoyed flipping through it, not only because of the photos and memories, but it’s entertaining to see the advertisements, graphics, and fashions from 1966.

Oh — you’ll notice that some of the autographs and notes refer to me as Wally Cox.  John Myhers was friends with Wally and he began referring to me by that nickname because of my glasses. Pretty soon, that was my name among the cast and crew.

So, click away.  As for me, I gotta’ crow.  And I absolutely refuse to grow up.

Art Imitating Life

As many of you know, I was raised by a man who frequently wore makeup.  My dad was Ronald McDonald.  Yes, it’s true.  Actually, my dad was an executive with the Kroger Corp. who moonlighted as Ronald on the weekends. I have fond memories of parades, store openings, personal appearances, and driving dad around in costume as he waved to surprised passers-by and delighted children.  Being around Ronald was always adventurous.  In fact, it was at the Cherry Festival in Traverse, Michigan that Ronald and I shook hands with then-president Gerald Ford on the same day that Colonel Sanders greeted dad with a terse, “Hello, clown.”

That was during the heyday of Ronald McDonald.  He was a fast-food marketing icon.  An ad-man’s dream.  And at once point in time he was the third most recognizable character by children in the Happy Meal demographic — right behind Santa Claus and Mickey Mouse.

But today, not so much.  And that’s the gist of the article I just came across called “Ronald McDonald uncool in hipper market.”  You can read it here:

The funny part is that I “predicted” this back in 2005.  In fact, the metadata on the following image says it was created July 9, 2005. 

It was just a joke.  I was transferring some old slides to digital images when I came across a very odd shot of dad, off the beaten path, walking somewhere in Detroit that you would not normally see Ronald.  I don’t know if he was waiting in the wings to join a parade or if he was heading toward an appearance when the photo was snapped.  Ronald was virtually never alone.  He was always thronged by fans and kids — and handlers and advertising execs.  But there he was, by himself, walking through an industrial neighborhood.  It was such an odd picture that I couldn’t help but add a caption.

So here’s the original “predictive” image and caption from 2005.

RIP Ronald McDonald  1963 – 2011

But he’ll always live on in our hearts.   🙂

A “Really Nice Guy” — Thinking About Dad on Father’s Day

It’s Father’s Day, 2010.  I’m thinking about my dad.  We buried him in January of 1997 and I had the great joy of eulogizing him.  It was a joy because some people deserve to have ‘good words’ said about them.  And dad was one of those guys.  Of course, I’m a bit biased.  I’m his son.

But, back on Sunday, September 8, 1974, the Detroit Free Press said the same thing.

The above picture is a scan of one of my keepsakes.  It’s a newspaper article that told everyone in Detroit what we already knew.  Remember, this is back in the day when people still read newspapers and weren’t distracted by things like the Internet, email, or Tweets.  The article is entitled, “Ronald McDonald: The Secret Business Of Being a Hero.”  Under the photo is the caption, “Ed McClarty, alias Ronald McDonald: Behind the greasepaint lurks a Really Nice Guy who actually likes the kids who worship him.”

Now, I must add that this article had the potential to cause a real stir among the McDonald’s higher-up’s.  There were rules about being Ronald McDonald.  One of those rules was absolute anonymity.  No one was allowed to know who Ronald really was.  Yet, here was this article, along with a photo of dad in full make-up without his wig.  It broke all the rules.  But, it was such a positive article that both the advertising agency and the corporation embraced it.  And dad became a local hero.

I’ll include the text of the whole article in a minute, but people often ask, “So how does a person go about getting that job?”  In dad’s case, it was the result of being “a Really Nice Guy.”

When we were living in Livonia, where I spent my high school and college years, my dad worked for the Kroger Company.  He felt that Kroger’s offered more stability than his previous job at American Airlines.  He once told me, “If the economy goes sour, people might stop flying.  But, they have to eat.”  So, with five kids and wife to support, dad gauged the future and went with food over flight.

My dad’s favorite hobby was magic.  He always had a couple of trick coins or a mysteriously-changing two-dollar bill in his pocket.  And he loved the reaction he could get from strangers when he would work a magical effect into his common, everyday interactions with them.  They’d smile and laugh, or stare in disbelief.  And he’d walk off knowing that he had just brightened their day.

Growing up, he taught all of his kids to perform magic tricks.  It was his way of getting us in front of people and helping us get over the natural fear of public speaking.  When I was young, dad and I did shows together for father/son banquets, Boy Scout outings, or wherever they needed some entertainment.  I even had a ventriloquist dummy and did my best to talk without my lips moving.  Dad actively founded and supported various magic clubs, both for adults and kids.  He passed on his love for entertaining to everyone who wanted to learn a card trick or wave a magic wand.  In fact, when he finally “retired,” he opened a magic shop on the square in Shelbyville, TN.

For most of his adult life, dad was a member and officer of the IBM — the International Brotherhood of Magicians.  And, if you’re a card-carrying member of the IBM, you can visit the Magic Castle in Hollywood, CA.

It’s a private club, not the sort of place you can just show up and expect to get in.  (By the way, for most of my years in Southern California I was a card-carrying member of the Magic Castle.)  Sometime in 1972, my mom and dad were in Los Angeles for a Kroger convention.  And, of course, dad wanted to visit the Castle.

When my folks arrived at the front door and the valet drove off with their rental car, they waited in line as they overheard the receptionist turning away a couple who had no reservations.  They were all dressed up (the Castle has a dress code), they were hoping to have dinner and see the shows.  But, because they didn’t know anyone who was a member they could not get in.  So dad, being “a Really Nice Guy,” stepped up and said, “Oh, they’re my guests.”

The rules say that visitors and guests must also have dinner reservations, so dad added the dressed-up strangers to his table.  They turned to the bookcase, said “Open sesame,” and they were in.  Later in the evening, when their dinner reservation time arrived, my parents joined the couple they had helped at the front door.  And, as they ate, they discovered that the man was in advertising.  In fact, he worked for Grey Advertising.  And their client was McDonald’s.  Over dinner, dad told stories, did tricks, told the couple about the Magic Castle’s history and was just … well, he was just himself.  And somewhere in the conversation he mentioned that he and mom lived outside Detroit.  That bit of information caused the ad-man to share that he would be in Detroit soon.  The purpose of his trip was to replace the fellow who had been playing Ronald McDonald in the area.  Apparently, he’d been using his status as Ronald to pick up women.  Not exactly the image the corporation preferred.

The ad-man looked across the table and sized dad up.  He said that the new Ronald had to be dad’s height, have dad’s eye color, and be a magician.  And, of course, the new Ronald had to be “a Really Nice Guy.”  So, numbers were exchanged and when dad got home to Livonia he told us about the providential meeting.  And we laughed.

But, sure enough, true to his word, the ad-man arrived at our door, make-up artists and costume in tow, and the next thing we knew our dad was wearing make-up and a wig.  More laughter.  A gaggle of advertising types shuffled dad into a car and drove him to Children’s Hospital for his audition.  That evening, he had the gig.  And for the next 24 years we lived with Ronald McDonald.

So, how do you get the job?  Well, it helps if you’re “a Really Nice Guy.”

Okay, so here’s the text of the Detroit Free Press article from September 8, 1974.  The photo and the interview occurred while Ronald McDonald was appearing at the Michigan State Fair, sharing a stage with acts as diverse as The Captain and Tennille, Seals and Crofts, and The Cowsills (remember them?)


Ronald McDonald: The Secret Business Of Being a Hero
By Gregory Skwira
Free Press Business Writer
He can’t leap tall buildings in a single bound and he doesn’t drive anything as flashy as the Batmobile.  But Ed McClarty, the tall, trim 42-year-old personnel manager for Kroger Co’s Detroit operations, has a secret identity that makes Superman and Batman look like minor leaguers.Such are the amenities of being a Ronald McDonald.McClarty is one of about 120 chosen mortals who don the red nose, baggy yellow pants and oversize red oxfords on weekends to visit kids at McDonald’s Corp’s 3,000 outlets, as well as at parades, civic functions and hospitals.  All are hired by local ad agencies, with the exception of THE top banana – actor King Moody, who plays Ronald on the company’s television commercials.

McClarty’s territory includes the entire state of Michigan, which has about 140 McDonald’s outlets, and part of southern Ontario.

The Ronald McDonald concept is a product of the early 1960’s.  A small ad agency in Washington, D.C. created the character for its local franchise accounts, and the national organization liked the idea so much that it began using the clown as its primary national symbol about seven years ago.

McClarty, who has been a magician for 10 years and is a past president of the Detroit Chapter of the International Brotherhood of Magicians, took on the mantle of greatness about two years ago.  A chance meeting with an executive from Grey Advertising’s Detroit office, which handles the McDonald’s account for the state of Michigan, led to a successful tryout.  (The opening occurred when Grey reportedly fired the state’s reigning Ronald for not being clandestine enough about his secret identity.)

In the past two years, McClarty has made over 100 appearances as Ronald, a feat that has taken up most of his weekends.  Although he had no prior clowning experience, he said the transition was easy since he was already a performer.  Also, McDonald’s offers a national training program for its new recruits.  There are regulations governing the makeup, the costume and the conduct, although the details are as closely guarded as the company’s recipe for its secret Big Mac sauce.

McClarty’s act is very low-key; not once are the kids urged to go out and buy sacks-full of burgers.  In addition to the magic tricks, the music and the banter, there is a skit aimed at teaching kids not to litter (McClarty collects junk from the audience, places it in his magic box, and turns it into “recycled” McDonald’s hamburger wrapper, cups, and napkins.  Don’t ask me how he does it.)

There’s no need for a strong sales pitch, of course.  The company, which has sold over 14 billion hamburgers to date, has wide visibility due to a television and radio ad blitzkrieg, and most of the kids in the audience have spent a goodly portion of their childhood under the golden arches snarfing down hamburgers, fries and shakes.

Their loyalty produced total 1973 revenues for the company of $1,507 billion, and both sales and earnings for the first six months of this year rose in excess of 30 percent.

According to Lou Bitonti, a Grey Executive, on the McDonald’s account, the Ronald McDonald appearances are supposed to supplement the company’s advertising rather than be a part of it.  Ronald’s primary role is a goodwill ambassador, and there is a conscious effort not to turn him into a salesman.  “If we commercialize Ronald, we’ve lost it,” Bitonti says.

And McClarty fits the image perfectly.  You can call him a Really Nice Buy without feeling corny.  He is an accomplished performer: his magic tricks are clever and crisply executed.  Beyond that, however, he has a special way with kids — he charms them and is delighted by their reaction.

The people at Grey talk a lot about the magic created by the television King Moody clown romping around the mythical McDonaldland Hollywood set.  But if there is indeed magic in the character, it is people like McClarty who infuse it.

Although he spends much of his time at various McDonald’s outlets around the state (the franchisees pay, but Grey won’t say how much), he also spends many hours visiting hospitals.  That’s the high point of the job, he says, seeing sick or disabled kids perk up during those hospital visits.

Although he took vacation time to appear regularly at the Michigan State Fair, McClarty’s clowning is generally confined to weekends.  His Kroger job comes first, he says, and the people at Grey, who make all his bookings, must work around it.  His pay for being Ronald is a well-kept secret, too.

Are there any problems connected with playing the nation’s most famous clown?  Only one, he says: “When I drive down the street waving to people and then realize that I don’t have my costume on.  That produces some strange looks.”


Okay, one more funny story.  When dad was in his Ronald persona he could not drive a car.  He had to be free to wave and interact with kids in other vehicles who might recognize him.  So I often drove him to his appearances.  Other times, we drove to the airport and he would fly in by helicopter.  Sometimes they’d bring him in as part of a parade or on a fire truck, sirens full-blare.  It was always an event. At one of his earliest appearances he was approached by a young boy who wanted his autograph.  Being a businessman who signs paperwork all day, he happily obliged and started writing:  E … D … M … c … C … L … And that’s when I nudged him with my elbow, saying, “He wants your autograph RONALD.”  Dad caught himself, stifling his snickers, and grabbed a close-by piece of paper as I ditched the original.  He started again: R … O … N… A …L … That night he sat at the kitchen table and practiced writing it over and over until it came naturally.  Ronald McDonald.  Ronald McDonald.  Ronald McDonald.

He was a good guy, my dad.  And he raised five great kids.  And he stayed true to my mom until his last breath.  He was indeed “a Really Nice Guy.”Now, of course, my brother and sisters and I will also tell you that he was a firm father;  a strict dad who made sure we knew who was in charge.  But, in the end, that served us well.  Being a dad myself, I now recognize the value of having an authority figure in the home.  And my kids agree. Maybe someday I’ll share the story I told at his funeral.  I cannot tell it without crying, so maybe writing it down is the best way to keep his legacy alive for his grandkids. But, for now, I just want to wish him a happy Father’s Day. I’m grateful every day that he was my dad.

What I Don’t Want For 2010


My own way.

I spent a great deal of my life pursuing — and pretty effectively attaining — my wants and desires. Unfortunately, inasmuch as I’m a depraved person (a fact that I can prove with ample evidence), my wants and desires were equally depraved. And eventually the constant diet of fulfilled sinful desire became wearying and soul-stultifying.

As I look back, I’ve learned two important lessons. One: every bad, painful, horrid thing that ever happened to me, I didn’t see coming. And two: every truly good thing that has occurred in my life happened despite me. So, what is instantly clear is that I am not in control. And on those occasions where it appeared that I had some influence over the outcome of things, I always messed them up. So, why would I want control? Why would I want things to work my way?

Early on in my Christian conversion I was taught a wonderful guiding principle: God is too holy not to that which brings Him the greatest glory and He loves us too much not to do that which is for our greatest good. In other words, He’s going to do things His way whether we like it or not. That’s what sovereign providence is all about.

So, from 2010 onward, I want no more of my own way.

My own fame.

In my early 20’s I decided to move to Los Angeles. That decision was driven by the need to be famous. It was no longer sufficient to have people in the Detroit area know me, I wanted a national stage. And rock music was the vehicle that would take me there. I had performed for two seasons and toured Great Britain with the Houston All-City Symphony. I had played intimate jazz and “big band” swing. I had played in garage bands, club bands, marching bands, pit bands, and shows bands. But, rock’n’roll was like the express elevator to worldwide recognition. It was hard work. It was emotionally draining. But, it paid big dividends. And that was just fine with me.

But, as Christianity took hold in my heart and mind, thoughts of my own personal advancement and fame became increasingly upsetting and revolting. “How,” I began to wonder, “can Christ truly be ‘all and in all’ if I am constantly making sure there’s adequate room for me?”

I cannot save anyone. My death will not result in anyone else’s redemption. I am quite utterly imperfect. I cannot heal sickness, solve crises, prevent catastrophes, or bring the dead to life. All in all, I am hardly a person to be admired or imitated because, when it comes to the really important matters, I can only point to the One who actually matters. So then, why should I be famous? He should have all the fame because He has all the power. And I need Him far more than He needs me.

So, from 2010 onward, I want no more of my own fame.

My own art.

At one point in my life, I reveled in the notion that I was the quintessential “tortured artist.” My thoughts, emotions, and feelings were significant enough that they needed to be shared with the world. I wrote songs, I wrote poems, I wrote stories, I wrote … well, I wrote about me. I basked in my unmitigated emotional depth and imaginary courage. As I was wont to say, “Hurt me; I’ll make it art.” If hubris had a cousin, I was it.

I have several folders and notebooks full of poems and scribblings. I took them out the other night and realized that it had been fully nine years since I’d written anything poetic. Self-expression seems vain … in every meaning of the word.

Now whatever gifts God may have given me with which to communicate thoughts and ideas, I prefer to convey those thoughts and ideas that exalt Him for His great kindness to me, and those which “minister grace to the hearer.” (Eph. 4:29)

So, from 2010 onward, I want no more of my own art.

My own cleverness.

Sometimes, cleverness is its own reward. People gravitate to clever people who can devise inventions, turn a pithy phrase, or appear to be a few steps ahead of the madding crowd. Cleverness is also akin to sarcasm — the ability to slice and dice others with a bit of witty repartee. For many years, my sharp tongue was the chief weapon in my arsenal of tools used to keep everyone at arm’s distance.

As I have aged, I have been cursed with the ability to remember all the verbally-bloodied victims I’ve left in my wake. And, successful in my attempt to keep people at a safe distance, I found myself alone. Cleverness is also its own worst enemy.

Christianity, by contrast, insists on putting the wellbeing of others ahead of our own. Christianity encourages us to keep a civil tongue and use kind words. Christianity is not about being clever, it’s about being a servant, about giving yourself away and investing in the fruitful outcome of others. That’s not done by wit. It’s done by humility. And no matter how clever I think my thoughts or words are, they are of absolutely no significance if they do not aid the Christian progress of the person who hears them.

So, from 2010 onward, I want no more of my own cleverness.

My own sinful passions.

As a human, I crave. I have deep, entrenched desires. There was a time when I thought my passion for the things of this world was noble. I was never more alive than when I was lunging headlong into my latest craving. I was “deep,” after all. I felt things more vividly and violently than most folk … or, at least that’s how I saw myself. It made me unique and worth all the attention I was getting.

Consider Psalm 37:4 for a moment. It says, “Delight yourself in the Lord; and He will give you the desires of your heart.” That’s a dangerous statement unless the Lord changes the desires of your heart. And that’s what has happened to me. The more I have learned to delight myself in the Lord, the more He has become my primary desire. And, sure enough, the more of Himself He reveals to me, the more I am delighted. Now my passion is for Him; His glory, His word, His worship, and His people.

One of the most amazing things about genuine conversion is that God does not suppress our emotions — He redirects them. What was once self-love becomes brotherly love. What was once fleshly desire becomes Heavenly desire. What was once selfish passion becomes the desire to spread His word, to call sinners to repentance, and to help them see the One who is gracious, kind, patient, and altogether lovely.

So, from 2010 onward, I want no more of my own sinful passions.

What I deserve.

Through an act of amazing charity, I was recently given a set of drums. There was a time when I was defined by my ability to play drums and if I didn’t practice for at least three hours each day, I wasn’t alive. Playing drums was as natural as breathing. Although I used to own several drum kits, I haven’t owned any drums for fifteen years or more. When the kids were young and I was struggling financially, I had fallen behind on the house payments. I sold my last Pearl kit for exactly the amount it took to keep us in our house. Since then, I had been drum-less.

I told you that story to tell you this one. After I was given a beautiful set of Pearl drums — my favorite, by the way — I told a musician friend of mine about the remarkable circumstances that led to the gift. He said, “That’s great! You deserve them.” Those words hung in the air for a moment. Then I replied, “No, I don’t deserve them. And the last thing I want is what I deserve.”

You see, one essential element of a really advanced ego (trust me here, I’m an expert in this area) is the assumption that you deserve all the good things that come your way. And if something bad happens, it’s an aberration. That’s the sort of thinking that leads to questions like “Why do bad things happen to good people?”

The Bible declares that there are no good people. There are only sinners; enemies of God; haters of everything that is holy; wicked, depraved people. The proper question then is, “Why do good things happen to bad people?” And that’s the essence of grace.

What I deserve, it turns out, is hell forever. What I deserve is God’s eternal wrath. What I deserve is to be separated from Him permanently and perpetually. Fire, brimstone, torment — that’s what I deserve.

But, what I’m promised is Heaven. Through no goodness on my part, as the result of no good works I’ve performed, but merely as a matter of God’s mercy, I will not receive what I deserve. I have received grace. I am receiving grace. I will receive grace.

So, from 2010 onward, the very, very last thing I ever want is what I deserve.

In summary.

Now here’s the great irony of God’s genius. As much as I do not want my own way, my way is inexorably becoming conformed to His way. In other words, I do not feel in any way cheated or short-changed. I am fulfilled and happy. Just as I grew tired of “my way,” He changed my way to suit His way and I most joyfully now pursue the way I find most pleasing — His way.

As much as I am no longer interested in my own fame, I get great joy from seeing Him exalted. And though I could never have predicted it, GCA and Salvation By Grace have become widely known through the Internet. I receive wonderful letters and email from people who share their lives and testimonies with us. We hear from all corners of the globe and people tell us how their lives and faith have been enriched by listening and reading at our site. Honestly, it’s overwhelming and deeply gratifying. But this new-found recognition is not fame. It’s not a matter of ego. It’s God’s providential wisdom at work. He allowed me to bask in my own aggrandizement until I could smell ego a mile away. Once that smell was repugnant, He put me into His service. Then He let people know who we were and what we were about.

His ways are wonderful.

As much as I do not want my own art, God does not destroy the individuality of His people. He gifts His own with the abilities that are best suited to their place in His kingdom. I was given the gift to communicate. Being Irish, I’ve always thought of it as “the gift of gab.” When folk tell me that the Bible finally makes sense to them, or that I have helped them understand complex biblical concepts in a way that makes it simple and approachable, that’s just God turning my “art” to His glory. It’s no longer about self-expression. It’s about Heavenly-expression. Same ability, new purpose.

Cleverness, I suppose, falls into that same rubric. But, where I used to show off my own verbal and intellectual dexterity, my concern now is to show off God’s astounding wisdom and the limitless value of His word. It’s not about being clever; it’s about being clear, being precise, being a tool in the hands of a Master Craftsman.

As much as I do not want my own sinful passions, God has redirected my passion. He has not squelched it. Much as He used the temperament of Moses or the boldness of Peter, God has taken what was once debauched and turned it toward His holy purposes. Christianity has enlivened and enriched my passion, giving it a righteous purpose and restraining it from its unseemly past.

His grace is beyond comprehension.

And, as much as I do not want what I deserve, as Christ has been formed in my heart I want Him to receive everything that He deserves. He deserves a church that will recognize their status as His elect and beloved bride … and act like it. He deserves to have His word revered, respected, and rightly handled. He deserves to be glorified through the eternal ages because of His finished, complete, fully-effective atoning work and the full salvation of His chosen people. He deserves to sit at the Father’s right hand and be lifted up above all names and all creation. He deserves to be worshiped and adored. He deserves the very best that His Father can prepare and give Him. And, I want Him to have it all.

Let me close this bit of new year’s observation by driving home one more vital point:

This is nothing like me.

Left to myself, I would always want my way, my fame, my art, my cleverness, and every sinful passion my evil heart could inspire. And I would be fully convinced that I deserved every moment of pleasure and egocentric gratification. That’s exactly what I’m like.

This small treatise is evidence of how effectively and sovereignly God has overcome and overwhelmed a wretch like me. I get no glory from it; nor have I earned any. He gets all the glory because He has done all the work, invested all the effort, and is fully responsible for any and all good results.

I am astounded at His grace.

I am secured by His mercy.

I am cradled in His love.

I am thankful.

I am humbled.

And I want Him more than I want myself.

Happy New Year.

New Article in the Smyrna A.M. newspaper

Sunday morning I mentioned that the local newspaper was about to publish another article I’d written. Local papers often accept submissions from local writers, but the Smyrna AM paper is unique in that they actively solicited faith-based articles from local pastors and church leaders. They’ve published three previous pieces I wrote and yesterday this article was included.


Who Is Jesus?
Jim McClarty

Jesus is not your homeboy. He’s not your co-pilot. And He’s not your boyfriend. Despite the marketing techniques that are in vogue today, which attempt to make Jesus more approachable by making Him more “cool,” the trend toward redefining our Savior may soon make Him indistinguishable from any other pop star or celebrity. And sadly, like most celebrities, He is too often viewed as an optional accessory to be used or ignored according to the whim of the consumer. And, as we all know, audiences are fickle.

What’s worse, notions of Jesus as God – one to be worshiped and obeyed – are markedly absent from most modern sermons and the “dumbing down” of Christ is reaching a sort of critical mass in the contemporary church. Soon, the Jesus of the Bible will disappear altogether.

Here’s a fact: You are not like God and God is not like you. He is different. He is “completely other.” As the prophet Isaiah records, “For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways, declares the LORD. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways And My thoughts than your thoughts. (Isa. 55:8-9)

In the attempt to fill pews and keep their coffers fat, the modern church has attempted to humanize Jesus in sub-biblical ways. They assume that His love is tantamount to human love, or that His jealousy and zeal are the same as ours. As a result, we have a generation of Christians who define their Christianity by their own feelings and thoughts, rather than by aligning their thinking with the dictates of Scripture. And that’s not just theologically clumsy. It’s lethal.

Jesus once asked His apostles, “Whom do men say that I, the son of man, am?” When they responded that some thought He was John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, or some other prophet, Jesus asked them pointedly, “But who do you say that I am?” (Mat. 16:13-15)

That’s an excellent question – one that we all have to come to grips with at some point in life. Who do we say that Jesus is? Is He merely a man with some good social ideas? Is He another in a succession of Hebrew prophets? Or, is He the figment of someone’s fertile imagination foisted on all humankind as some sort of grand, cosmic joke?

Biblically, there’s only one right answer. Faced with that penetrating question, Peter replied, “You are the Christ, the son of the living God.” In response, Jesus made sure that only God received the credit for that realization, saying, “Blessed are you, Simon Barjona, because flesh and blood did not reveal this to you, but My Father who is in Heaven.” (Mat. 16:16-17)

That means that the only correct answer to the question, “Who is Jesus?” is the answer God reveals – “He is my Son. He is Christ. He is Lord.”

Of course, all of that begs the question, “Who do YOU say He is?”

Be careful. Your answer matters.

Happy ChrismaHanaQwanzaDon!!

It’s been interesting to watch the Christmas/Holiday debate this year. Historically, it’s hard to conclude that Jesus was actually born on December 25. Even a cursory look at the Biblical facts should make any honest bible student ask questions.

For instance, it’s cold in Israel in December, so you’re not likely to find shepherds watching their flocks in the fields by night. And seems rather cruel of the inn-keeper (with Joseph’s apparent agreement) to consign an obviously pregnant girl to the manger/grotto/stable in midwinter. And according to Luke’s account of the birth of John the Baptist, Jesus’ birth six months later would have occurred somewhere in the fall, around September. So it’s a safe assumption that December 25 is a traditional, rather than historic, observance of the birth of Christ.

At the same time, there are numerous parallels between modern Christmas traditions and ancient pagan practices. As a consequence, early America was careful not to observe the holiday. The History Channel sums it up like this:

“The pilgrims, English separatists that came to America in 1620, were even more orthodox in their Puritan beliefs than Cromwell. As a result, Christmas was not a holiday in early America. From 1659 to 1681, the celebration of Christmas was actually outlawed in Boston. Anyone exhibiting the Christmas spirit was fined five shillings. By contrast, in the Jamestown settlement, Captain John Smith reported that Christmas was enjoyed by all and passed without incident. After the American Revolution, English customs fell out of favor, including Christmas. In fact, Congress was in session on December 25, 1789, the first Christmas under America’s new constitution. Christmas wasn’t declared a federal holiday until June 26, 1870.”

That quote comes from here . So, if you figure that Columbus landed on these shores in 1492 (or thereabouts) and that the pilgrims arrived in 1620, followed by the Declaration of Independence culminating in 1776, and Christmas was declared a federal holiday in 1870, Christmas was not observed on a national level for the first 400 years of our tenure on this continent. But importantly, the reason that Congress did eventually recognize Christmas was specifically because of its connection with the birth of Christ. They had no problem with its connection to Christianity.

These days, Christmas is entrenched in our society. While a portion of America celebrates it as a Christian holiday, it has also become a vital part of our retail economy. The Friday after Thanksgiving is known as “Black Friday” among retailers because it is usually the point in the caledar year where they move into positive profits, out of the red and into the black. So, it would be quite impossible to remove Christmas from America’s calendar because of its economic impact.

On the other hand, even though Christmas cannot be altogether eliminated, the anti-Christian secularization of America marches forward and those who object to being reminded of Jesus’ birth have rallied successfully to make retailers and those dependant on the whim of the consumer nervous about using Christian-sounding phrases. So, in order to be politically correct, and avoid offending any potential shoppers, many businesses and retailers have abandoned the “Merry Christmas” greeting in favor of the more generic “Happy Holidays.” Several schools across the country have even replaced their traditional Christmas concerts with “Winter Solstice” programs. And, in so doing, they’ve come full circle back to the pagan roots that surround December 25. Meanwhile, the Christian pro-Christmas groups are quite vocal in their opposition to these replacement greetings, making sure to say “Merry CHRIST-mas” at every ocassion.

So, we live in interesting times. Early America avoided Christmas because of its pagan connections. Later America celebrated it as a Christian holiday. Present America objects to its connection with Christianity, but do not want to lose the economic benefits. And Christians are left arguing in favor of an observance our forefathers rejected, trying to “put Christ back into Christmas” when He was likely never in it in the first place.

Whew. The only thing we’ve learned from history is that we’ve learned nothing from history.

So, where do I stand in the midst of all the cross-traffic? It’s undeniable that Christmas/December 25 has a load of pagan baggage attached to it. And I do shudder at the intermingling of pagan and quasi-Christian symbols during this time of year. For instance, my neighbor has a well-lit manger scene in his yard (replete with the magi who never actually attended Christ’s birth but arrived when Jesus was around two years old) with Santa Claus overseeing the whole affair. I’m a bit surprised he doesn’t have reindeer watching over the Christ child along with the cows and sheep. Oh, and there was never a drummer boy at the manger, either.

BUT, all that being said, I equally dislike the systematic elimination of all references to Christ in our schools and society. The idea that Christianity is somehow harmful to our public discourse is very disturbing. So, I find myself, for better or worse, siding with the pro-Christmas crowd in order to combat the continuing encroachment of secular powers against the rights of Christians to worship according to their customs.

It’s a terrible shame that Christianity has lost its position in the marketplace of ideas. As Purpose-Driven, seeker-sensitive, be-careful-not-teach-anything, TBN-style “christianity” dominates the “evangelical” landscape, the Bible is viewed with increasing suspicion and opposition. And Christians are no longer equipped to posit a defense for the faith. Rather than be fully equipped with sound doctrine, modern “christianity” is left Biblically ignorant and easily confounded by the arguments posed against it.

It seems to me that the more the modern church continues to act like the world in order to appeal to the world, the more it loses its effectiveness to genuinely influence the world. This current Christmas debate is yet another red flag that indicates the secular world’s increasing opposition to all things Christian. And as the modern church loses its focus on the historic doctrines that separated it from the world, it will equally lose ground in the battle for the hearts and minds of men.

While we know that faith in Christ is a gift from God and that not all men will embrace Christianity, there was certainly a time in our nation’s history when Christianity was respected and the government recognized that having Christians in the midst resulted in a better, more law-abiding, civil society. The primary reason that secular society so easily opposes Christianity in our day is that they fail to see any real benefit to having Christianity in their midst.

And that’s not their fault. It’s ours. Posted by Picasa