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Rural Bible Readings: Psalm 50:1-3
I regularly teach the course “Engaging the Bible in Rural Ministry.” Throughout the course I work to instill the understanding that the Bible is a rural text. Rural communities find themselves in the text through the patterns of life, the imagery, story, and prophecy. When rural communities connect their story with the biblical story they can thrive and live into new futures.
My hope is to occasionally provide something like biblical interpretation for rural communities. Today I want to explore the first three verses of Psalm 50. I provide the Common English Bible (CEB) and New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) from Biblegateway.com:
50 From the rising of the sun to where it sets,
God, the Lord God, speaks,
calling out to the earth.
2 From Zion, perfect in beauty,
God shines brightly.
3 Our God is coming;
he won’t keep quiet.
A devouring fire is before him;
a storm rages all around him.(CEB)
1 The mighty one, God the Lord,
speaks and summons the earth
from the rising of the sun to its setting.
2 Out of Zion, the perfection of beauty,
God shines forth.3 Our God comes and does not keep silence,
before him is a devouring fire,
and a mighty tempest all around him.(NRSV)
This text opens a Psalm in which Israel’s actions and practices are called into question. It is call to faithfulness and conviction within their religious activities. This is something for rural communities to consider, but I really only want to talk about the first three verses.
The first three verses speak to the action of God toward the people of God. God calls out to the earth, God shines brightly, God is coming and won’t keep quiet. These messages are one’s of hope and strength for many rural communities. Rural communities continue to experience a sense of loss and abandonment, due to the draw of educational, cultural, and economic opportunities in urban areas. Patrick Carr and Maria Kefalas document this well, engaging the rural brain drain phenomena, and how some small towns are attempting to stop it. Media and society continue to paint rural communities as “less than” or stereotypes that are to be visited or observed, but not embraced. Side note: yes, I know not all metropolitan media outlets do this, but the overwhelming majority still portrays the rural as somewhere that is not the center of society. Also, much of the media that does portray rural as a positive place still wants to “improve it” with urban ideas.
This scripture, however, offers a different image. An image of a God who is calling out to the earth, to the people, the rural people. It is a God that shines on the earth, on the rural communities. This is a God that is coming to the rural places. This image of God, even with a consuming fire, a perfect Zion, and omnipotent power is coming to the small rural towns. Not to destroy. God is not going to destroy God’s people. God is there to remind God’s people of their hope.
Truthfully, up until this year, I thought this Psalms were overrated. I thought they were fine poetry for funerals and weddings. I never really saw them as the rich and robust scriptures they are. Then, I started to spend time with them. I started to read them from a place of longing and hope, and this scripture, in the lectionary for Transfiguration Sunday, found me. It spoke to me and to the rural spaces I love with power and hope. A hope that reminds us that God is always coming. God is always calling out. God is always shining on us.
Even if the metropolitan world does not see rural communities as valuable beyond resource extraction and labor, God sees them. Even if the messages the schools, television, and movies send to rural areas is one of abandonment, God still calls. God still comes. God is still here.
With this knowledge, rural churches, rural communities, and rural towns can know they are not abandoned. They can know their story is not over. They can know that there is a future where God is there. It is also a reminder that if God is here, then we should be too. The rural brain drain combined with an otherworldly escapist piety of certain churches can create a double abandonment. Therefore, instead of attempting to “get to God” we should be looking at how God is already here with us and responding to that presence.
We should listen to where God is calling us. Perhaps to the schools? The hospitals? The wilderness?
We should look for where the light is shinning. On the empty mills? The open farmland? The shelters and nonprofits?
We should look toward the direction that God is coming from. From the places of love? The spaces of creativity? The homes of new life?
Where does this scripture speak to your rural community?
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Can these Porch Lights Still Glow?
There’s a saying from that annals of rural southern mythology that goes something like “If the porch light’s on, come on in.” I think this statement is designed to promote the idea or heritage of rural hospitality. The idea that country folk will welcome anyone in need need into their homes.
I can, with some certainty, let you know that this is not a reality. Should a stranger wander into someone’s rural home (either now or in the past) they are not likely to be welcomed with food and drink. Instead it will likely be shock and weapons that greet them. And, while this feels stereotypical, it also seems like a normal human response to someone walking into a home unannounced and uninvited. Should it be someone the resident knows–family or friend–this might be different. Still, I don’t think this is the most interesting meaning we can pull from the porchlight glowing in the night.
Instead, perhaps the porchlight is a reminder that the day is not done. Not everyone is home yet. When my dad worked late or when I was out late as a teenager, the porch light was left on. Even Motel 6 had a slogan “We’ll leave the light on.” The motel change used this slogan to let you are welcome to stay (for money), even if you get in late. Rural people intentionally do not close the day until everyone is home. Yes, this is true elsewhere, but rural lights must be intentionally left on, as opposed to street and building lights of urban areas. The intentionality of waiting and the expectation of someone getting home from a long day’s work highlights the values of loyalty and community. People will not lock up the house, turn out the lights, and go to bed, because not everyone is home yet.
I think this symbolism of rural families leaving their lights can expand to the the idea that rural communities are not done. They will not be snuffed out by a society that is far more metro-centric and labels rural communities as backwards and of little value. Tex Sample (in line with Bourdieu) names country music as a dominated aesthetic as opposed to a dominant aesthetic. He also names hip hop, rap, and blues as other forms of dominated aesthetics. This idea of dominated aesthetic can also tie to the way lights are used in rural areas. In this instance, leaving the porch light on is a reminder that people still live here, and that their days, work, and lives are not done. People are still here, life is still being lived here.
Throughout the pandemic and the election cycle the New York Times, NPR, and other national syndicates have continually painted rural areas either empty or backwards (I won’t link them, because I don’t want clicks on those articles). Moreover, there are several emerging narratives of people moving back to rural areas to start over or begin new lives. While I support this–I moved back to a rural area after my coursework–the media often depicts these narratives urban/cosmopolitan folk moving to rural areas and bring them culture and sophistication, as if there is not culture or heritage already present. The lights are reminders that people, heritage, and culture are already present. Life and art are happening all the time apart from and sometimes in opposition to the metrocentric idea.
This acknowledgement that these bones can still live, and that they never died, is a responsibility of those in rural ministry. Rural faith communities hold the power to acknowledge that rural life is still viable and Spirit filled. They can be the one’s who turn the lights on, and leave them on. My hope is that they know how.
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Book Review: Dying of Whiteness
I recently finished listening to the podcast The Anthropocene Reviewed. I highly recommend it. In one episode, John Green refers to book reviews as memoirs of their writers’ experience with the book at that particular time. Books, movies, and other experiences connect with us in our context. I much prefer this understanding of book reviews as compared to more academic examples, of which I’ve written exactly one. With this idea of memoir in mind, I hope to provide insight into how a book matters to me, and also how it might impact rural ministry, as that is my field of interest. I begin this review with Dying of Whiteness: How the Politics of Racial Resentment is Killing America’s Heartland by Jonathan M. Metzl.
As of this post, my blog is still very young, this being my fourth post. If you go back two posts, you will read about my experiences with the healthcare system in rural areas and how I spent the night with a loved one in a straight back chair listening to the local news 24 hour channel on high volume (Side Note: the term “straight back chair” takes me to the opening line of Dolly Parton’s “My Tennessee Mountain Home,” which feels on brand for a rural theology blog). This is the context in which I engaged Metzl’s text.
Oh, and also a pandemic.
The book came to me through an academic social media advertisement, I believe. I ordered the book thinking I might use it in a future course. I did not fully know what to expect. I hoped it would be a exploration of the health care industry, rural communities, and racism. However, what I pulled from the text was a larger exploration of policy, practice, and politics and how capitalism and white supremacy breed a violence that preys not only on racial/ethnic minorities, but on the poor and working class white folk as well.
The first section of of the text focuses on Missouri’s gun control laws (or lack there of) and the dramatic increase of white male gun suicides in recent years. Metzl does explore some issues related to mental health and wellbeing, but does not stray away from the reality that there would be less gun suicides if guns were not as readily accessible. The book explores a range of topics from advertisements related to gun ownership and masculinity to the idea that guns will protect people from *insert racist/xenophobic stereotype* threats. Metzl also records the responses of the family members of persons who have completed gun suicides, and how most of them still completely support gun ownership.
The next section takes the reader to Tennessee and the Affordable Care Act. Metzl includes selected interview transcripts between chapters to reiterate the point that these are real people answering these question. One interviewee essentially says he would rather die from preventable disease than see “illegals” and “welfare queens” get healthcare they don’t deserve. This hit me, as I deal with the navigating the rural health system which is lacking funding, resources, and health care professionals dues to feelings like this. I have healthcare because of the Affordable Care Act. Do I not deserve it? Or am I deserving of it because of my citizenship or because I can at least pay a premium? It also hit me as a Christian who takes Jesus’ commands to care for the sick, welcome the stranger/foreigner, and help the poor seriously. I am sure this interviewee considers himself a Christian.
The final section moves on to Kansas and the defunding and de facto re-segregating of public education. Here, Metzl takes time to briefly explore the history of educational segregation, funding, and race. He then moves on to explain how tax cuts to the wealthy and school funding determinants harm both communities of color and lower working class white communities. And while, at first, I was unsure about this section in its relation to health, Metzl brings in the reality that quantity and quality of education are measurable determinants of a persons health and life expectancy. In each section Metzl provides the number of black, white, Hispanic/Latin American years (and I believe, on occasion, Indigenous and Asian American years) lost due to these beliefs, policies, and actions.
The book, just like these numbers, are somewhat helpful. It provides a collection of information and stories that begins to demonstrate the connections between white supremacy and human health. I hoped for some ideas for beginning to move past this, but this was not his main goal. In the end, he suggests moving toward something like a “common good.” While I think this is appropriate and can point to those who write about the common good, it does not feel helpful at present for rural communities. The following section provides my thoughts on something more like a communal good.
Thoughts for Rural Ministry
I am left wondering how best to go about engaging with this text. Metzl gives a hint at the end of the text in his “Afterward for the Paperback Edition.” He, rightly so, I think, calls out those of us who complain that people “voting against their interests,” as if we actually know their interests. Instead, I want to point toward Paulo Freire’s notion of “conversion to the people,” or learning who they are, where they are from, and what they actually think and believe.
First, explore scripture together. Even before you begin these conversations, the congregation should be exploring scripture and discerning its place in their community. Then explore texts related to weapons, caring for the sick, and education. Explore scriptures about hate, race/cultural differences, about welcoming strangers, and more. This is usually best done in small groups such as Sunday school classes, where discussion more readily flows. Sermons on these topics are helpful, but only if they are built on the realities of the community and how they operate. You will also often get people trying to wash it away by saying the pastor is preaching politics and not the gospel (even though the gospel is political).
In tandem with this, connect with people through conversation. Ask questions about why guns are important to them? How do we care for the sick? What is the best way to educate people fairly? Are we suspicious of black people, brown people, poor people, etc.? And why? Having these conversations can build the trust and framework to have the harder conversations about racism, gun culture, health care, etc. Learn who they are.
Finally, people respond when a situation matters to them. This is the communal good piece. Explore the intersections of the rural community and the issues at hand. Do this through community partnerships with schools, health educators, other churches, and local organizations. One thing to remember, is that many rural people are suspicious of the government and corporations, because often, when these entities do things, it is often detrimental to rural spaces. Promises from the government and corporations that are not what they seem often creep up in conversations. Healthcare is delayed, deferred, or requires travel to urban areas. Jobs are lost due to corporate automation and outsource, and other countries and immigrants are blamed, instead of corporate greed.
Moreover, rural folks often view social safety nets with suspicion, and have stories of people who needed help (disability, unemployment, medical care) could not get it or afford it, while other folks who did not deserve or manipulated the system abuse the system. These stories have some truth to them, but stem more from pain and fear and can be redirected toward advocacy and action to change things if people are encouraged.
Overall, my advice in rural ministry is to educate and act in community. Learn the community, culture, and history, and then move toward the Kingdom of God together. Once the framework and trust are in place, then harder conversations and actions can take place.
It has been my experience in schools, healthcare, and issues of race, that when people connect their hearts, their faith, and their communities to an issue, they are more apt to work to change the issue. “Why does it matter to us?” “Why does it matter to God?” and “What can we do about?” can begin to make change.
As we sit with these issues, real humans suffer. In the midst of a pandemic, people refuse to wear masks and follow guidelines because of their rights. Hospitals, already overburdened, are at their breaking point due to COVID-19 cases and un-insured emergent care due to the economic fallout. Crippling medical debt piles up. Schools struggle to educate on a shoestring budget. White supremacy continues to be the United States’ religion and people continue to die because of and in allegiance to it. Time is continuing onward and more years fade from the lives of people, black people, brown people, poor people, and rural people.
Lord, hear our prayer.
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This is my song, this is my story…
I’m in the process of relocating to a new office on a different floor of the church where I serve as the scholar in residence. At first, I was hesitant to agree to move. I wanted to be closer to the rest of the staff, and, let’s be honest, the microwave. But, I’ve warmed up to the new office that has four windows (my former office has one), is three times the size of my current office (so I can buy more books), and is right next to the sanctuary where various musicians (including my wife) frequently play beautiful music that finds its way upstairs and into my office.
While searching the other rooms on this floor—just to see what was here—I discovered a shelf with old hymnals. These are one of the older iterations of my denomination’s official song and liturgy text. I took a copy of this hymnal and placed it on a shelf with my other worship and music resources. Flipping through it brought back memories of the church that raised me. The very same day, I asked a colleague her thoughts on how one might allow rural communities to dig into their history and heritage and use that to create new futures. She shared several thoughts, and then said, or actually, typed: hymnals.
With the word hymnal, several stories came rushing back to me. I can tell you my parents’ and grandparents’ favorite hymns. I can tell you what hymns were important to me at different times in my life. I know the page numbers to several hymns that matter, or at least mattered to me at some point in my faith formation. I remember laughing about certain provocative hymn titles and whimsically bouncing to the pieces which marches or show tunes.
Numerous texts explore the value of hymn and song. Yolanda Smith writes of the triple heritage found in the spirituals and the value these hold in Christian education for the African American Church. In Radical Grace, S.T. Kimbrough explores the power of Charles Wesley’s hymns as calls to action and love. There are other texts on hymns and theology, hymns and spirituality, and hymns as history. Each hymn and song has layers of experiences we attach to them.
Then, on my various social media accounts, I asked people to share their favorite hymns and why. The comments brought a variety of responses. Hymns for strength in trying times including: “On Eagle’s Wings,” “Hymn of Promise,” and “Amazing Grace,” were among the top comments. Some comments attach “Be Thou My Vision,” and “I was There to Hear Your Borning Cry,” to various practices of Christian life, such as weddings, baptisms, and funerals. Other post name songs they sang weekly in the church they attend or attended at some point in their life. “Old Hundredth/The Doxology,” “The Lord Bless You and Keep You,” and “Holy, Holy, Holy” are named here. Songs of joy appeared quite a bit as well, “Joyful Joyful,” and “Come Thou Fount” were mentioned regularly.
By the way, my mother’s favorite hymn is “In the Garden,” a song often labeled as a tacky romance hymn. Yet, I don’t think she sees it that way. I think its her favorite, because it was her mother’s favorite. I think it was her mother’s favorite because it was a song that reminded her, not of a cheesy love song, but of Christ walking alongside her in the midst of pain and struggle. So as much grief as that song gets, it helped an elderly woman feel safe in the midst of aging and dying, and that’s what matters.
My favorite hymn has become “Come, O Thou Traveler Unknown.” Lyrics lifting up the holy mystery, the call of to wrestle with love, and the history of Charles Wesley and John Wesley’s relationship all speak to me. But, really, it’s my favorite for another reason. I attended a small gathering of United Methodist Scholars in Christian Education as doctoral student. The leadership tasked me with planning a worship service. Being in school, and having learned quite a bit about Charles Wesley that semester, I selected two Charles Wesley hymns to bookend the service. This hymn closed the worship service. After we were done, a senior scholar came up to me, and asked, “Is that in our hymnal? I’ve never heard it! That’s beautiful. Thank you.” The feeling of elation and validation that I experienced in this encounter is now attached to this hymn. An obscure Methodist hymn we sang in a Presbyterian retreat center in rural Colorado.
I could go on about hymns. I could share how people with severe dementia and people who are non responsive in their last moments of life sometimes sing along with their beloved hymns. About how “He Touched Me” makes me giggle because of a game we played in high school while bored in church. But, instead, I want to explore the value these hymns have in faith formation and imagination.
Many argue that the while obviously the most important text in any Christian church is the Bible, the second most important text is the hymnal. The hymnal is a collection of songs selected usually by a denominational body or publishing body to best convey the beliefs of a particular tradition. Often they include, alongside hymns, the creeds, prayers, Psalters, and orders of worship for various rituals and sacraments of the church. We could leave the bound collection of sheet music on onion leaf paper at that, and understand it’s value for the life of the church. However, beyond the intended theological education the hymns are used for, our stories and experiences are tied up in these texts. We attach our heritage, culture, and experiences of God to these songs, the music, the lyrics, and the memories interweave to tell faith stories beyond the original intent of the writers and curators.
For rural churches, the use hymns for faith formation can be seen most readily in Sunday school classes that sing before they have their lesson. Youth groups also often sing as well (not always hymns, but the idea is still there). Even without intentional planning, the music and the experiences they attach to it influences peoples faith and they sing their beliefs. However, intentional engagement with hymns as locations of heritage, emotion, and theology might lead to introspective spiritual work. More importantly, I see the possibility for these interactions to utilize what Julia Kristeva might call a Christian genius. That is, a pushing past self to creatively engage the suffering of the world and move it toward a future of hope and joy.
I don’t yet know what this pedagogical model could look like. I’ve tried something like this in past times, but not really hashed it out fully. But I have a hunch that it involves singing, story sharing, and an encouragement to allow for their love of these songs and the stories they represent to lead them into a collaborative work grounded heritage and led by hope.
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Learning to “Sit Watch”
This pile of used surgical masks is my reminder that in the past month, I’ve clocked more hours in hospitals than in my office. A family health issue—one that I won’t go into too much detail here because of privacy and the reality that it is still ongoing—has me coming and going from a 5 floor rural hospital sometimes four times a week. One one occasion, due to the hospital being at capacity, I spent the night with this family member in a small exam room in the emergency department. In an uncomfortable waiting room chair and with a perpetually dying phone I sat watch. A local cable news channel loudly looped their late evening hourly set of news and lifestyle stories was my reminder of the passing of time in the semi-sterile room. The stories included a suggestion to postpone your wedding until at least the fall and a shelter dog hiking group that socializes dogs before adoptions.
With trace amounts of caffeine and sugar, I helped a human I love that was in immense pain make it through the night in a bed not meant for sleep. I offered sips of water (and occasionally lukewarm decaf coffee), adjusted pillows and blankets for something like comfort, and sought nursing staff for assistance with pain medication and general human needs. I was there, most of all, however, to sit with them. I was a recognizable face in this terrifying and lonely situation.
I don’t really know where I learned the practice of sitting with the sick, but I want to attribute it, at least in part, to the rural churches that formed and still form me. The rural church has taught me something about how Christians engage sickness and death. Sitting watch (a term I’ve heard but cannot tell you where, except for in the Nativity story) both the practical notions of physical and medicals needs along side a spiritual-emotional need of another human being present in the pain. I cannot imagine the pain my family member was experiencing, the fear that this pain might never end, or the anxiety of the treatments and recoveries to come.
The rural church deals with sickness in a humanizing way. When they see a member of the community in need, they reach out to comfort, heal, and advocate, with the resources they have. I remember church members bringing meals to families dealing with cancer treatments. When my dad had a procedure all the way in Charlotte (a little over an hour drive from my childhood home, but a million miles away for by pre-elementary mind), church members took me and my siblings for the day while my mom drove him to the procedure, playing outside and doing crafts with us, they sat watch. As a member of a church I served near High Point, North Carolina, underwent serious back surgery, the senior pastor was with the spouse during the surgery. I took their teenage children for the day. We spent the day doing very little, but being together. I sat watch with them in a barbecue restaurant and the Dollar Tree across the parking lot.
Beyond sitting watch, the examples of care are innumerable. A Sunday school class passes dozens of cards around the class each Sunday for the members to sign and offer words of comfort. A women’s groups who provide gift cards for restaurants and grocery stores as a small act of care. A men’s group drives friends to appointments, help with home repair, and offer listening ears for whatever might need to be heard.
It is not a universal truth that rural churches nurture caregivers for the sick. It might not even be a truth. Perhaps I read too much into my memories. I’m sure some members of the same churches that I cite as my educators received very different experiences. I want this to be true. As the rural church (along with all of American Christendom) is undergoing continually tremendous shifts in numbers, participation, and finances, I still hope for the church to be the place that forms people who care, comfort, advocate, and pray for those experiencing sickness, injury, and pain. I don’t have easy answers.
Sickness will continue. Not only will it continue, the pandemic let us know in no uncertain terms that it will get worwe. The average population of the country is aging (in many places rural communities are aging faster. The rural healthcare system is crumbling under capitalistic and metrocentric practices. Many rural folk travel hours for “in-network” providers (particularly specialists) while juggling issues of childcare, jobs without paid time off, and transportation issues. Even if we miraculously produce even a mediocre solution for healthcare, eldercare, and palliative care, a need will exist for sitting watch, for listening, for a warm meal. I don’t even have answers yet. I have a pile of books, a collection of stories, and imaginative spirit which says that the church or something like it can and will be part of the care for the sick and dying.
Just today, a church member brought me a container of soup, just in case I needed a pick-me-up in the exhaustion of caring for my family meber. The church is still teaching and my hope is that it always will.
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Honest Hope: A Lens for Viewing the Future
One thing I see rural (and not so rural) church folk struggle with in this pandemic is the fear that when church life emerges post-pandemic, they won’t recognize their church anymore. Many sources will tell you that rural churches are anchor institutions in communities that regularly experience seasonal, industrial, and cultural shifts. The church building and community is a reminder that some pieces of their heritage and story still exist in this constantly changing world.
Yet, as the pandemic set in, many regular gatherings went online, were postponed, or were cancelled. Easter egg hunts, homecomings, and Christmas pageants along with their all important meals were cancelled. Sunday school classes that had been meeting since World War II either met virtulaly or used their literature for personal devotion. While Internet option fills some of the gaps, it is often not a guarantee as rural broadband often does not exist or does not have the capacity for multiple live streams and Zoom meetings.
Along with the programmatic differences, the community will not look the same either. Many of the churches have experienced several deaths due both to Covid-19 and the realities of life in general. Several commentators also project a significant drop in church attendance and membership as the pandemic has given people excuses to drift away from communities.
Moreover, the pandemic and the 2020 political cycle revealed huge political and ideological divides in rural communities. (Yes, rural communities are not all of one mind). The response to the pandemic has strained relationships in families and communities.
More importantly, the pandemic continues to shine a spotlight on systemic race, class, and geographic disparities in terms of working conditions, education, and healthcare. On top of this, rampant unemployment due to layoffs and furloughs will likely last longer in rural communities as industries (including the service industry) streamline or close up altogether in many areas. Many rural communities were already experiencing significant cultural shifts, and the pandemic increased their severity in terms of cancelling of long running festivals and fairs, closing of historic businesses, and increased rates of depression, addiction, and deaths of despair.
As we begin to emerge out of the pandemic, life will not be the same. That is a guarantee. The church cannot and will not be the same. I, and many others, views this as a positive. Yet, I know many whose stories, families, and identities are tied to the church. On the surface level, this means the building and campus of the church (and this gets us in building use fights), but it deeply tied the spirit of the church and it’s heritage as a place of hope, stability, and resurrection.
As I prepare any rural ministry materials that deal with the pandemic and the seasons that follow, I acknowledge that in midst of the storm of the 2020-2021 pandemic and political cycle, the church is still a rock for so many. It is with this lens that plan to engage the coming seasons of the church. While the church cannot be the same, we can work to relaunch the pieces of the heritages, cultures, practices which offer both a firm rootedness in the richness of place and means of furthering the mission of Christ in the world.
One example of this that come to mind include the repurposing of spaces once geared toward ministries that ended in the pandemic. This might mean a transition of children’s Sunday school classes into spaces for tutoring, midweek children’s programs, and spaces for child advocacy groups to meet. However, many churches are hesitant to let go of the regular children’s Sunday school program, because of the rich history it has. Intentional times for grief, confession, imagining, and planning need to take place. We cannot simply say, “Oh, that space or that thing isn’t being used anymore, let’s allow strangers to come in and use it or take it away.”
Furthermore, our faith formation as a whole must focus on resurrection and hope for the coming year. The hope, however, cannot be disconnected from the grief, lament, and death both literal and figurative that will likely plague us for years to come. It has to be an honest hope. A hope that is pointed toward Christ and that launches from the rich combination of culture, heritage, ecology which are our rural contexts.
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Jonathan LeMaster-Smith 