Eavesdropping In The Areopagus

HMMM... I WONDER WHERE THIS GOES...?

2012-01-27T18:41:00.001-06:00

Baldy is one of the highest points between the Rockies and

the Alps. Death Crevice is on the opposite side of this image.

(We once climbed down the steep front face of Baldy; we

have never climbed up from that side.)

A few nights ago I put in a DVD and settled in to watch “127Hours,” a true-life saga that – like everyone who sees it – I already knew theending of: Canyoneer Aron Ralston, trapped by the untimely slippage of aboulder while exploring a red rock crevice in Utah, is driven to free himselfby amputating his own right arm.

As the movie progressed, I became more and more tense until,just as Ralston came to the full realization of his predicament, I had to turnit off. I stopped watching not so much because I dreaded the anatomical gorethat was to come, but because an existential, organic tingle started to radiatethrough my body – a kind of physical memory – reminding me of the cliffs andcrevices of my youth, and of the various boulders that hung lodged in them, whoknows how precariously. And it’s notthat I remembered how frightened I was in those situations – but that I, infact, was having the time of my life. Like Ralston.

I was never the taut, conditioned, or skillful rock-climberdepicted in the film, but I am ever grateful for the fact that, from the time Iwas twelve years old, when my family moved to the Black Hills, I have had rocksto climb. My cinematic cold feet were caused by the sixty-five-year-old melooking back on the literally carefree exploits of the twelve- and seventeen-and twenty-year-old me and… well, sort of watching a movie of myself descendinginto a crevice.

Which is not to say that those days are behind me.“Carefree” has perhaps been replaced by “careful,” (and “decrepit?”), but thereare still rocks in my life – and even crevices. Like Death Crevice.

Baldy Mountain, a grand granite dome in the middle of theBlack Hills, is laced with crevices. When you’re nineteen or twenty, as Jeffand I were then, you’ve got to try them all. You just plunge in and see wherethey lead – at least Jeff does, and so here I come, too. The final, upper reach of Baldy's summit -- after an initial approach up more gradual flanks -- thrusts almost straight up out of a grassy, alpine-like valley floor. We looked up the sheerbut slightly rounded wall and spotted a ledge about forty feet up that wasinterrupted by a vertical crevice continuing up toward the top of the dome. Toget to the crevice we had to get to the ledge; to get to the ledge we took ashort running leap from the valley floor and used momentum and a few scattered, knobby holds, and the soles of our tennis shoes (wehadn’t yet discovered the wonder of Vibram), to scramble up the forty feet ofgranite. At least Jeff did – so here I come, too. The ledge was so narrowthat the shallow crevice we leaned into felt like safe harbor. It was just deepenough, and angled enough, that it was a pretty easy knee-and-toe ascent to itsupper reaches, where it opened onto an intersection with another crevice –actually a gap where one slab of mountain leaned against another – criss-crossingat a right angle. To continue upward (always upward!), it was necessary to leapor step across this gap and throw ourselves into the waiting maw of another crevicewhich continued up – now steeper and deeper – on the other side. A crevice we knewnot the ending of.

Now, dear reader, you can join me in my imaginativeremembering of this venture. Go to thenearest wall and stand about four or five feet away from it. Keeping your feettogether, lean toward the wall with your outstretched arms. When you makecontact, step across the intervening space with one foot, then bring the otherover. Then do the exercise again, this time, when you are leaning across thespace with your hands against the wall, look down at the carpet and imaginethat instead it is blue sky. You will likely come to two conclusions: One, thisstep is no big deal; two, if you don’t successfully make this easy step youcould – you just could – plummet to your death. Thus was born, in our breathless, adrenaline-fueled excitement, the name“Death Crevice.” The first time we leaned across, no doubt in mid-step, one ofus probably said, “You know, a guy could die here.” I’m surprised that oursophomoric wit didn’t come up with “Theoretical Death Crevice.”

Jeff, emerging from Death Crevice, 1992

The crevice we entered on the other side of the gap isprobably the most fun and just-challenging-enough climb of the dozens that Jeffand I have taken together over the years: the perfect dimensions forshouldering in some places, spanning from one’s back to the tips of ones toes in others. Although once one was jammed in the crevice a fall wouldn’t mean death, you would get prettybanged up as you slid down, stopping just short of that blue-sky opening at the bottom. (DeathCrevice has been known to dislocate joints.) It’s always fun, and that initialstep-across-nothing is always a thrill.

To our delight, Death Crevice opened onto one more ledge,one more (easier) crevice, and the top of Baldy! Since that initial ascent, wehave led many friends up Death Crevice. We've climbed it with our wives and kids. I look forward to doing it againsoon. Well, let me clarify: Jeff takes them up Death Crevice, I volunteer tolead others up another one of our discoveries, a route we have named “LifeAffirming Crevice.” No 127 Hours in there.

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(What made me shudder at watching the movie wasnot recalling my climbs with Jeff – it was recalling the few times when, like the film’shero, I tried it alone.)

THE TIDE'S PENDULUM TRUTH

2012-01-02T15:34:00.005-06:00

…I have been made free
by the tide’s pendulum truth
that the heart that is low now
will be at the full tomorrow.

~R.S. Thomas

All of man’s problems come from his inability to sit quietlyin a room alone.

~Blaise Pascal

In the movie Topsy-Turvy– a depiction of the Victorian-era partnership of Gilbert and Sullivan – there is a scene in which Gilbert has just hada recently-invented telephone installed in his home. His elderly father objectsto it as an intrusion, complaining, “Why should I have a gadget that allows astranger to set off a bell in my home whenever he feels like it!” I can’t thinkof a better summary introduction to the world of noise that ensued. With theinvention of the radio at approximately the same time, our grandparents’,parents’, and now our generation have not only been present at the creation,but have observed the steady marginalization of quiet and solitude over thelast hundred years. Quietness has, almost literally, been pushed to the edgesof our existence.

Although the increasing number of noisy gadgets in our lives (including mine) should perhaps give us pause, my intention here is not to rail against them, but to offer a modest proposal for how to live with them in such a way that we experiencea life of balance, benefiting from both the technology that we have come torequire and the solitude that we, actually, need.

The proposal I have in mind is the Sabbath, or, moreexactly, the idea of the Sabbath. While I am a proponent of the biblicalSabbath pattern of six days of work and one of rest, I am speaking here more ofthe micro- and macro-Sabbaths that flow from this principle. (The Sabbath principle is one of those thingsabout which it can be said, “It’s not true because it’s in the Bible; it’s inthe Bible because it’s true.”) Sabbath means a number of things, but at itsheart it primarily means “rhythm” and “rest.” It is “all work and no play makesJack a dull boy.” It is why workaholism should be confessed and treated, notbragged about. It is why, when the boss bragged, “I don’t need a vacation,” oneof his employees whispered, “He doesn’t think he needs a vacation but everyoneelse thinks he needs a vacation!” It is why Jesus said to the exhausteddisciples, “Come away by yourselves to a quiet place.”

And it is why we need quiet after the noise of TV andcellphones, and darkness after the screenlight of iPads and Androids. It isrhythm, Sabbath rhythm. And it is rest – not, in this case, idle snoozing(although studies have shown that the afternoon nap is more productive, even ina business sense, than the afternoon coffee break), but the break from routine.Putting away the pale-lit device and talking across the table to a friend.Walking around the block. Sitting in church without texting.

If the irritating jingly bell represented the new intrusionof technology for W.S. Gilbert’s father, I suppose the icon for our currentdistractions is the familiar scene of two people talking, at least one of thembobbing his head nervously up and down, constantly checking the tiny screenthat can’t be turned off – ever.

The always-on screen is a good modern representation ofwhat the Bible calls the sin of failing to enter into one’s Sabbath rest. Thenon-sabbatical, always-on life – whether that of work or technology – is, likeall sin, “not just bad – it’s bad for you.”*

The noise of devices and the glare of screens affects ourbrains, our relationships, and our attention. (Brain development needsdown-time.) Everybody gets nervous if they see a cell phone driver headingtoward them, but the same everybody thinks that they are the exception who canhandle it themselves. It is not just the seventeen-year-old pickup truck driver – whokilled a grandmother, mother, and daughter because he was texting – who neededa sabbatical break from the screen; his victims needed him to take one, too. Somuch for the libertarian freedom of the cell phone.

The original sin was the sin of self-centeredness. (“I don’tneed God, I can be God!”) It is still what all sin is. Our devices become likeEden’s talking snake, enticing us, “You can do it – and that, too, and that,too…, whatever you want…, these iThings are extensions of you! Why would youturn them off?” And, to switch literaryreferences, a picture of the Queen dancing in her iron shoes comes to mind. Dancingto death.

I am a user of these devices. Whenever I switch them off andsit quietly in a room or stare out a window or walk iPhone free, the firstthought I have is how good it feels. The second is how rarely I do this.

I was going to say that the margins to which quiet has beenpushed are out in the woods – in the mountains – and that you can seek solitudein a backpacker's tent or a remote cabin. But that’s not really true, is it? Ifyou approach all but the remotest cabin in the darkness you will see the softblue glow of an iPad emanating from the picturesque windows. The real Sabbath –and the real Sabbath rhythm – is produced by an on-off switch (wherever youare), and by the solitude or conversation that follows.

When we read the most profound of the Bible’s many creationaccounts – the one in the first chapter of Genesis – we see that the Crown ofCreation is not humankind. It is not even God. It is the Sabbath.

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This NewYork Times essay by Pico Iyer (the source of the Blaise Pascal quote, above) is a very insightful and even inspiringtreatment of this topic.

*"Sin" is kind of a loaded word for some; think "brokenness," or anything that works agains the fullness of life.

RAGS AND TATTERS: SOME ROUGH LINES AT CHRISTMAS

2011-12-22T11:55:00.004-06:00

Many preachers are confronted with a kind of awe at the great texts of Christmas and Easter, saying to ourselves, "What more can I say about so profound a story?" For a number of years my response to this has been to attempt a Christmas sermon in verse. I offer this one as my blog Christmas card.

Now Advent winds are bringing in the cold of winter,

and scattered stars glow with a chill and distant light.

The road to Bethlehem is getting ever darker –

and darker still before we come to Christmas Night.

Imagine, then, young Mary and her steadfast Joseph;

with little donkey clopping out a lonesome song,

she nods to dream, the child stirs, and she remembers

the message of an angel, now it seems so long

ago – to her, and to the people of the promise.

Her people have been waiting for these thousand years,

and she – for these nine months in which all time is folded–

has held all love: The answer to all hopes and fears.

Joseph’s hope, for now, is just to find that small inn,

a welcome place he’s heard of on the edge of town.

She’s tired and she’s cold – and soon they’ll be a family!

He’ll tell them, “Please, a bed so Mary can lie down….”

We, too, would add our voices after Joseph’s pleading,

“This is God’s mother – surely you can find a bed!”

But, no, God’s family comes this night in rags and tatters;

they’re lucky, after all, to get this straw instead.

And down through all the ages are so many searching,

like this poor young couple, as they seek to find

shelter, food, and friendship – and a new beginning:

A light ahead, the sad and weary road behind.

And even in our day of marvels, comfort, plenty;

chance can find a man, like that one you saw

homeless in the darkness as the winter gathers.

He, too, would welcome happily a bed of straw.

In Africa a mother’s life is much like Mary’s:

Gathering wood and water to get through each day.

Her Joseph on the road seeking work or barter,

as satellites spin on their high and starry way.

Our brothers in Colombia still live with danger –

like Israel’s people living in the grip of Rome.

This world, though history’s pages tell of many changes,

is still the world where Jesus’ family made their home.

The people in the darkness long to see that great light

promised long ago. So where is God to be

found? How will he save the people from their sorrow?

Will He work a wonder? Or is it that he

himself will be the miracle: God born among us,

not in golden wealth, but in that family –

Remember? – We were following them? They found a stable --

Look, there in that manger, could it… could it be…

A baby! Look! Here come a band of curious shepherds;

this is what the angel told them they would see.

This is why the heavens opened wide with glory

The savior of the nations is… a poor baby!

Rejoicing all around from these rowdy shepherds!

They tell their news to Mary, her eyes glow with tears.

In her heart she ponders all these words, and wonders

what life will bring their precious child down the years.

And, pondering, remembers her own angel’s message –

So filled with joy, and yet there was a shadow, too.

A son of mine? To be thesavior of the people?

Too much! But let it be: he’ll do what God must do.

And Joseph of the true heart will adopt this baby;

for love of Mary he will dearly love their child.

“Emmanuel” “God With Us” – Names the angel gave him –

but papa now must guard him in a world so wild.

Now see! Those cold and distant stars begin to gather

into a band of light and they bow to one:

One star among them shines a beam of love’s own brightness

upon the little scene: The birth of God’s own son!

And you, who like the shepherds, now have heard the goodnews,

like them you’ve heard what Heaven’s angels had to say,

now join your voice to theirs: shepherds, stars, and angels,

And sing that Jesus Christ the Lord is born today!

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References to Africa and Colombia are a recognition of our congregation's companion churches in those places.

PLAYING SCRABBLE IN THE MULTIVERSE: YOUR MOVE

2011-11-27T17:01:00.001-06:00

My friend Warren and I have a running Scrabble game going –on our iPhones. He’s in Texas, I’m in Minnesota. On a lazy Saturday we mightfinish a game in less than an hour; more often a game stretches out for aday-and-a-half or so, with intermittent play wound into our routines. The chat feature allows us to stitch ourmoves together with conversation and wise cracks – keeping in touch (which isactually the richest part of the whole deal).

Although it’s fun to discover that it’s “my turn” whileidling fifteen minutes in the dentist’s waiting room, the most enjoyableexperience of the game is the afore-mentioned Saturday morning with a cup ofcoffee, or around 5:00 – happy hour – with a glass of wine, not playing on thefly but replying back and forth with moves – and chat – in real (ifoccasionally interrupted) time.

This happy hour experience has made me realize that – beyondthe fun of playing a game and the novelty of doing it electronically – what weare actually engaging in is the rapidly developing philosopho-science ofvirtual reality. Even though our Scrabble exchange is a rather minor andlow-key expression of VR, I have a sense that something, well, virtually real is happening, and it is one smallpart of a significant alteration in human interaction and relationship that isnot only technological but ontological. And it may not be an alteration at all,but more like a movement along a continuum.

What is virtually real is not just the click and clack ofthe game tiles, but the fellowship – yes, the emotional feeling – of theexperience. If the standard of reality in this case is sitting in front of thefire, my friend across the table with a game board between us, a glass of winein front of each of us, and the hum of chit-chat and the occasional bon mot passing back and forth, thisvirtual game offers about, say, 70% of that. So of course I’m not equatingiPhone Scrabble with being in the presence of my friend, but, hey!, 70%!

I’m quite serious about this. I’m a quintessential “peopleperson;” in the beginning stages of my entry into the world of computing (andiThings) I would have laughed if anyone had suggested that any of theseapplications would have the slightest resemblance to essential humaninteraction. But I’m experiencing it. And – (the continuum) – what will this be like in 2061 when my friend’s imagewill come from the internet in my eyeball, we’ll chuckle in real time at oneanother’s wise cracks, and raise a glass to toast the beginning of a game,smiling eye-implant to eye-implant.

The more profound continuum – and the inspiration for thislittle essay – is provided by the cosmological theory of the multiverse.Proponents of this theory postulate that there could be an infinite number ofuniverses, and, if that is the case, advanced civilizations have long agodeveloped the art of constructing simulated universes, which means, accordingto one application of the theory, that it is most likely that we are living inone of these fake universes – a virtual world created on some kind ofnon-digital super-computer.¹ This puts a new twist on wondering how “real”the entire experience of playing virtual Scrabble is.

Physicists – even those who propose it –acknowledge that it’s difficult to tell if the idea of the multiverse is physics or philosophy(since it is scientifically un-testable).² My virtual Scrabble gamewith my friend certainly lacks the physical, but, philosophically, it works. Inthe context of all that our friendship has to offer, it’s not good enough. Butit’s pretty good.

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1. For a mind-boggling, but accessible, discussion of the implications of the multiverse, see, "Cosmic Jackpot," by physicist Paul Davies.

2. There's a good introduction to the multiverse and string theory on the recent PBS "Nova" series, "The Fabric of the Cosmos," with physicist Brian Greene.

BUT WILL THE PERSONNEL COMMITTEE WRITE "READ MORE" ON MY REVIEW?

2011-11-03T11:40:00.005-05:00

"After every sermon the preacher should fall on his knees and ask God to forgive him for what he's just done." ~Martin Luther

Although I believe in legitimate accountability (churchcouncil, etc.), I long ago quit looking nervously over my shoulder and came to theconclusion that if I feel OK about what I’m doing, I am not so concerned aboutwhat Mrs. McGillicuddy thinks. Anotherway to put that is to say that I am my own best (or worst) critic (with, Irepeat, the added seasoning of accountability).

As such – although I actually do feel pretty good about thework I do in this calling – I have a litany of shortcomings that would probablybe longer than any list that my worst enemy could come up with.

Another time, perhaps, I’ll go after myself about missedhospital calls, repetitive stewardship sermons, or failed attempts to ignite apassion for the faith in a fourteen-year-old confirmation student. Today myconfession is that, over the course of thirty-five years of ministry, I havenot done enough reading.

I want you, friend, to understand that I am, in fact, areader. But my reading is exhibit A of the proof of the old adage: “That whichis urgent but not important drives out that which is important but not urgent.”And of course I use “urgent” somewhat loosely. For good or ill, reading andstudy take a second place to staff meetings, council meetings, writingnewsletter articles, pastoral counseling, teaching confirmation, hospitalcalling, emergency visits, etc. All of which I readily accept as part of thejob description of my call, some of which are urgent, all of which areimportant, but none of which are moreimportant than regular reading and study.

I cast this as a “confession” because it’s my own fault. I’mnot blaming my parish or its people. (Not even Mrs. McGillicuddy.) Years ago,through the example of an enlightened mentor, I was freed from any sense of guiltabout letting people know that I was “wasting time” reading a book. The object of my confession is a combinationof a haphazard discipline of my time and the actual busy-ness of the calling.

Four categories of reading come to mind as being essentialto what I do:

The general reading required of anyone who seeksto be a literate and informed citizen: newspapers, various magazines, bookreviews, etc. (Who was it that said, “The preacher should prepare a sermon withthe Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other?”)

The artful and literary writing of fiction, non-fiction,and poetry – both the recognized “classics” and the new stuff. One of myhomiletical heroes, the Scottish preacher James S. Stewart, of the 1940s-60s, lacedhis engaging sermons with references to Shakespeare and to other poets andwriters of both ancient and modern times. (This raises another issue: The reading of the person in the pew. I knowthat I hark back, perhaps in vain, to a time when to be educated meant that onewould be acquainted with the Bible and with Shakespeare.)

Regular engagement with theological writing(again, both ancient and modern) and professional journals in the fields oftheology and practical ministry.

The Bible. I agree with a colleague of mine whoonce said, “I can’t preach on this text until I discover how it changes me.” This means – no matter how manytimes I’ve read it before – reading and re-reading this book that is the basisof much of our civilization and our understanding of the world. From a standpointof faith, I belong to a community that considers it to be “the word of God,”not as some kind of magical tome, but as a record of God’s covenantal andreconciled relationship with us. The skeptic in me struggles with a theology ofthe Holy Spirit, but I ultimately accept that it is the Spirit and the word(s)that bring the message of this book alive, again and again.

Our ivory tower seminary professors suggest twenty hours aweek be devoted to reading and study for the weekly sermon. But my “ivorytower” chide isn’t fair – I agree with the professors. It is a goal that is inkeeping with what I am called to do as a “minister of word and sacrament.” OK, some weeks it may dip to fifteen… or ten,but I’m going to keep trying. Regular reading is what allows the preacher, wheninvited to preach, to use that old saw, “I’ve been preparing for this all mylife.”

I began by saying that reading is essential to what I do. Ofcourse it is also essential to who I am. What reading do you require for the fullness oflife?

SMALL COUNTRY, LARGE POETRY

2011-10-08T11:27:00.000-05:00

I will be among those ordering a book of the poetry of the recently-announced winner of theNobel Prize for Literature, Swedish poet Thomas Transtromer. In the meantime,the announcement brings to mind another small-country (and, in his case, back country) writer, R.S. Thomas, theWelsh priest and poet who died in 2000, and who was nominated four times forthe Nobel Prize.

Nobel or not, I agree with those who say that Thomas’ placein history will match that of John Donne or George Herbert. That is to say, hewill be ranked among the greatest of religious poets. (Although for Thomas,“religious” has as much to do with doubt as with faith.)

Here are three by R.S. Thomas

The Empty Church

They laid this stone trap

for him, enticing him with candles,

as though he would come like some huge moth

out of the darkness to beat there.

Ah, he had burned himself

before in the human flame

and escaped, leaving the reason

torn. He will not come any more

to our lure. Why, then, do I kneel still

striking my prayers on a stone

heart? Is it in hope one

of them will ignite yet and throw

on its illumined walls the shadow

of someone greater than I can understand?

Near and Far

No one so busy

as you are. Where is that

seventh day when you rest

from your labour? I arise

from sleep to find that

you have been all night growing.

And by day you are abroad

endlessly exploring a circumference

by which you are not confined.

You have no words yet vibrate

in me with the resonance of an Amen.

You are strung with light

as with nerves across which

thought is drawn to deliver

intellectual music. Sometimes

you are an impulse upon my walls,

at others a modifying

of unseen organisms, slowly

and delicately as a mutation;

but always as far off

as you are near, terrifying

me as much by your proximity

as by your being light-years away.

A Marriage

We met
under a shower
of bird-notes.
Fifty years passed,
love's moment
in a world in
servitude to time.
She was young;
I kissed with my eyes
closed and opened
them on her wrinkles.
`Come,' said death,
choosing her as his
partner for
the last dance, and she,
who in life
had done everything
with a bird's grace,
opened her bill now
for the shedding
of one sigh no
heavier than a feather.

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More about R.S. Thomas here and here.

HIGH LONESOME

2011-09-30T22:03:00.005-05:00

This town is solonely it’ll make you old before your time;

Let me take you in myarms, hold your body close to mine…

~IanTyson

Every year at this season it comes over me: the hermitthing. The urge to take a stack of books and notebooks and my laptop and headoff to the cabin for a week alone—to study for a season’s worth of sermons orwork on a piece of curriculum or write that baptism book for parents.

I have, in fact done this every year or two, and the drillis always the same: After a nine hour drive across the plains and badlands, theBlack Hills rise and then disappear in the twilight. The road winds steadily up and into the Hills until, at over a mile high, I arrive at the cabin justafter dark. If I’m lucky there’s a fresh snowfall to light my way to the porch steps.I unlock the door, drop my suitcase on the floor, get a fire going in the twentydegree cabin, then finish unloading the car (under stars that shimmer “like salt on black velvet”). I unpack my suitcase, set out my laptop, andcontinue to build up the fire. Thirty degrees. I busy myself cutting some breadand cheese, and uncork a bottle of wine. Forty degrees. It is quiet. There isno TV or radio or internet or CD player. The cabin is surrounded by the darkness and milesof the Black Hills National Forest, and the walls are made of logs twelve inches in diameter. Quiet. At about sixty degrees I sit in front of the firewith the bread and cheese and wine. I take a sip and it hits me: “This is kindof lonesome.” I’ve enjoyed my hermitagefor about forty-five minutes, and I have six days and nights ahead of me.

There are three troublesome things about my isolatedscenario: One is that I am an extrovert. Not the wacky Krusty the Klownextrovert of my youth – I’m sliding closer to the midline every year – but I’mstill defined by that Myers-Briggs truism that an extrovert is “energized bybeing with people.” The second problemis that I’m madly in love with my wife, and I just left her behind for a week –in fact made deliberate plans for what I kept claiming was going to be a “greatweek – really productive!” And now I’m here at sixty degrees (with a forty-fivedegree bedroom waiting for me) while she’s at home watching Glee. And here’sthe thing – she’s happily watching Glee. Oh, she loves and misses me, but sheis – as an introvert – conveniently energized by being alone! (I need to keep insisting that she “misses” me, because whenI come home she persists in telling me how nice her week was. She especiallydelights in reporting, “When I got out of bed, all I had to do was pull up thespread, and it was made!”)

The third problem is that the Sage Creek Grill, one of thebest restaurants in the Black Hills, is (what I quickly come to think of as “only”)ten miles away, in Custer. It’s too late to go tonight, I suppose, butsomething to look forward to tomorrow – after I get a few pages of reading andwriting done, of course. (One year I bought fifty dollars worth of groceries totake out to the cabin for my solitary meals. But the lure of the Sage was suchthat at the end of the week I dropped the groceries off at my sister’s in RapidCity on my way back east.)

But the morning dawns cerulean blue and snappingly cold.The cabin is now cozy warm, and those twelve inch logs will keep it that waywith the occasional tending of the fire. (The same logs whose thickness made mybedroom so quiet that in the middle of the night I got up, rummaged around, andturned on a fan – for the noise.) I bundle up to sit on my favorite porch chairwith a cup of coffee, devotions, and visible breath. Quick cup of coffee andquick devotions because it is cold.

Back inside, I open the laptop on myspecially-built-out-of-lumber-scraps custom laptop desk. I lean back in thechair, do that backwards entwinedfinger-stretching-knuckle-cracking thing, stare at the screen, then notice mywatch, recalling that the Sage Creek opens for lunch at 11:00. Time for ashower, then twenty minutes to town, lunch with any of my area friends or relatives I can coax into joining me (if I'm lucky, this will be a laughter-filled "hour" that stretches into the afternoon), twenty minutesback, and, to work….

(Let me pause here to report that I actually haveaccomplished much sermon-planning, curriculum-writing, and, yes, finished thatbaptism book using this routine. The reader will be excused for wondering how.)

I started these fanciful forays into creative lonelinesswhen Caryl was teaching, and we were usually unable to coordinate her schedulewith my Study Leave calendar. (Yes – Study Leave! My Mom once said, “I don’tcare what you call it, it’s still vacation.” My Mom!!!) But now Caryl isretired, and she’ll go with me this year. I love it, but it’s actually a trade-off: On the plus side, no lonelynights with cheese and crackers; but then, whenever she sees me leaning backand eying my watch she gets to say, “How’s that sermon coming?”

The extrovert in me will be pleased with the company; theintrovert in her will be fed by the quietness of the cabin. We'll go to the Sage Creek once or twice.

And it will onlytake a little bit longer to make the bed.

CAN WE TALK?

2011-09-19T21:49:00.000-05:00

I’ve always thought of myselfas clinically happy. Despite the glibness of that phrase, I mean it quiteliterally: Whatever the chemical wash is that douses the brain in depression orcheer, I got the happy stuff. When knocked down, I get up. When disappointed,I’m OK after five minutes. But recently I had a one-two punch that knocked meback for more than a few minutes – enough to give me a sense, however limited, ofwhat people who suffer actual depression might experience.

I want to pause here and explainthat I’m just fine; those who love me (thank you) need not wonder what veiledsorrow I’m hiding. In fact, the purpose of this post is not about mytemporarily depressive burden, but about the fairly simple way it was lifted.

Although I’m more than willingto describe the various items that were weighing me down, I won’t do it here,not because I’m trying to hide them, but because they would cause anyone withreal problems to respond, “Oh, boo hoo!”

Part of it was quantitative.To borrow a description that I once heard my friend Jeff use: “I don’t have afull plate – I have a Lazy Susan spinning in front of me!” It was a number ofthings coming together in what was a busy season to begin with – kind of likethat “StressScale” that you’ve probably seen: TheChristmas season, 12 stress points; a new baby, 39 stress points; moving to anew home, 20 points, etc.

The only thing that I’llmention specifically is the tax audit, because that’s what seemed to affect me outof all proportion. It was like throwing a large ham onto the spinning Lazy Susan– a sort of crash. (It was a routine and not a “targeted” audit.) But all ofthis is just set-up to what inspired this little essay: the "take-away."

My take-away from thisepisode (or episodes), which are now mainly behind me, is the therapeutic valueof having someone to talk to. I’ve known of this concept all my life; I’vepreached about it; I’ve taught it; I’ve written about it in this blog, and it’snot that I’ve never applied it to myself before, but, at least professionally,I’m more often playing the role of the listener. But every once in a while Irediscover the healing benefits of talking to someone about what’s on my mind.

In the case of the spinning plateof cares, I benefited from talking to different people about different things –sometimes I did so purposefully; in one instance I connected somewhataccidentally with someone with whom I had a helpful conversation. The mostsurprising revelation was how much better I felt after I talked to the tax auditor. The content of our conversationwas not all that positive (the audit, in fact, did not go well for me), but itseemed as though the combined psychological and physiological elements oftalking with another person had a biochemical effect on my brain and my body. Endorphins?Ions? It’s like taking a shower after a grueling racquetball game – even indefeat. The shower washes away the defeat along with the grime, and,post-shower, all the world seems new. I felt a bit like the young man who oncetold me, after a counseling session, “I think ya done me some good!”

An obvious element of thedynamics of this is that – especially with something like an audit – the mindcan work mischief, so the value of talking is not only psychological, but alsofactual: One’s imaginings may be worse than the real story – so better get thestraight scoop.

A woman once approached me tounburden herself of something that had been bothering her for six weeks -- something she had said to me the last time we talked. I didn’t want to seemunconcerned, but I had to tell her honestly that I had forgotten it about tenseconds after she’d left my office. So I’m glad she carried that load for onlysix weeks and not six years. Talk it out.

Perhaps a word about thenature of my audit conversation is in order: I found the auditor’s office in anondescript building on the outskirts of a nearby city. I’m glad that I haddecided ahead of time not to try to be funny or smart, because when I walkedin, sitting behind a gray steel desk was Agent No-Nonsense. She reminded me ofMrs. Narsgaard, the Sunday School superintendent who took over our sixth gradeclass when we literally ran our teacher out of the room. We straightened rightup. And so did I, on the other side of the audit desk. I don’t mean thismockingly. I came to love Mrs. Narsgaard (she was actually my Mom’s bestfriend), and I liked the straightforwardness of the agent. I can only imaginethe number of times that woebegone clients, sitting in the same chair I was in,succumbed to fear, trembling, and tears. Although she was, in one way, as steely as her desk, something in her manner convinced me that she would treat them fairly and gently.

I shed no tears, but she waskind, firm, and (unfortunately) thorough. I felt as though I’d been heard, anda load was lifted. Later, in a follow-up conversation, she actually saidsomething very much like, “Now, I hope this has been a lesson for you.” But bythen it sounded like a word from Mom.

TWO SONNETS

2011-07-28T16:48:00.000-05:00

Whenever I get one of those ice-breaker questions askingwhat occupation I would choose if I weren’t a preacher, my answers vacillateamong “football player,” “auto parts man,” and “poet.”

I haven’t played football since a flag-football game withfriends in Comopark about thirty years ago. And I’m not that much of a fan. Maybe it’s just that I’veseen one too many Fred MacMurray campus movies about the B-stringer saving theday as the seconds count down.

Auto parts? Don’t ask.

I do try my hand every once in a while at what I call poetry.I like sonnets. I like to read them (“a work of art you can carry in yourpocket”) and I enjoy the combination of artistry and wordsmanship of writingthem. Somehow, in my messy life, I’m attracted to that feature of the sonnet inwhich everything is in its place and there’s a place for everything. Like anauto parts store.

Here are two sonnets. In the first, I gave myself theassignment of teaching fifth graders the “rules” for how to write a sonnet in thesonnet. I was only partially successful. The second is a reflection of meetinga friend at a small diner.

How To Write A Sonnet Like Shakespeare

Infourteen lines you tell what’s on your mind.

Thefirst two state the case you want to prove.

Yoursubject can be almost any kind

(ThoughShakespeare almost always wrote of love!).

Asonnet’s like a puzzle or a game:

Youalways use this rhythm and this rhyme.

So,to the ear, each line will sound the same:

Tensyllables all marching on in time.

Butpoetry is more than rhyming rules,

Andrhythm’s like the beating of a heart:

Yourfeelings and your words must be the tools

Thatturn the sonnet’s canvas into art.

Now,prove that you can do it, from the top.

(Andwith two lines – a couplet – make it stop.)

Breakfast at the World Café

This table, with my friend, is the whole world

squeezed, for a time, into this small café.

The universe itself, in fact, is swirled

in creamy coffee spirals; and a day

takes shape – created out of words and light.

And laughter – our own “music of the spheres,”

our morning song that sings away the night –

ascends beyond the gravity of years.

So waitress, please, let’s have another cup,

and let the clinking spoon out-tick the clock.

And maybe, if we keep from looking up,

we’ll stop the time – a cosmic mental block!

No… it ticks on; our world comes to an end,

and you and I must go to work, my friend.

"WHAT THE F---?!"

2011-07-26T22:59:00.007-05:00

Let your 'Yes' be 'Yes' and your 'No' be 'No'; anything more than this comes from the evil one. ~ Jesus, in Matthew 5:37

I heard my Dad swear (curse) just once. It was the classichitting-his-thumb-with-a-hammer, “Dammit!” I was about ten years old. The factthat the oath came readily to him, and that he was a WWII vet, causes me, uponreflection, to realize that this was probably not the only incidence ofswearing in his life. But it’s the only time I heard him. And I don’t meanthat, instead, I heard him come close and veer off with a “Dam… er, darn it.”He just didn’t swear. That one isolated memory only solidifies this bedrocktruth of my childhood.

Although I exhibited my share of youthful commandment-basedpiety, I am convinced that the main reason that I am not a swearing guy is theinfluence of my Dad. A second important influence, at the impressionable age ofabout 15, was my confirmation pastor, Howard Bomhoff (another vet, wounded inItaly), who taught us, “Swearing just shows what a poor vocabulary you have.” Ithink he said it once, and it stuck. I later entered professions (first acollege English major, then teaching, then a call to ministry) in which wordsare of prime importance. Like my Dad with the hammer, I’d better use the saltyones sparingly, and for good effect, if at all.

I like to shock my confirmation students by telling themthat although there are good reasons to avoid using “shit” and “fuck” (see“vocabulary,” above), the worst possible swear word, according to the Bible, isthe one we hear used most frequently: “Oh, my God!” – based on the fact that God enjoys having hisname mocked about as much as you or I do. One day, when I was in college, afriend took me aside and said, “You know, Dick, you’re saying ‘Oh, my God’ alot lately.” This seems like a surreal memory in the recalling of it, but Iknow it happened (although I can’t remember who my pious friend was). I have,essentially, never used the phrase since.

My glib use of it above notwithstanding, I have alwaysbeen offended by the “F” word (this is not my piety kicking in; I’m actuallyoffended by the word, and will use “F” for most of the remainder of thisessay). At the risk of sounding a bit righteous, I’m offended on behalf of ourmothers, our sisters, and our daughters. My understanding is that “F” is a wordof sexual violence. The reason that “rape” is not a swear word is that we have“F.” It is not a clever reference to intercourse, but a verbal expression offorced sex.

In an ironic round-about, recent generations are using the F-wordmore frequently because it is depicted more frequently in popular culture whichis supposedly reflecting the reality of kids these days. I think kids are using it more – it’s so easy to fallinto that F-in’ rhythm (especially if it fills a vocabulary-deprived void) – butthey don’t know what it means. They don’t intend to be insulting their mommas.

In the service of art and truth, the F-word does indeed havea place on the stage or on the page. But the irony is often missed by those whohear it as a primer for the hippest language. Television’s “The Pacific” was a gripping,harrowing series with F-peppered dialogue that apparently added to the veracityof its combat milieu. I don’t doubt the artistic truthfulness implied, but myPacific-stationed uncle never used the word, and my Army Air Corps Dad couldonly muster one weak “dammit” in all the years I knew the guy.

HBO’s “Deadwood,” I have to say, is Shakespeare with the “F”word. Caryl and I love the series. (Even though, as our daughters would say, "Mom would have to spell that word," Caryl is the one who commented on the Shakespearean feel of the dialogue.) The artful intent of the gritty speech works in a dramatically authentic way, but we are glad to leave the wordbehind in the muddy streets. It hasn’t rubbed off. (Caryl has not used the F-bombagainst me even once; she hasn't even spelled it at me!)

My college English prof taught us that the Bard himselfhas Hamlet speak to Ophelia of “cunt-ry matters” (nudge, nudge; wink, wink) – word-basedsexual taunting that didn’t work out well for dear Ophelia. I am not suggestingthat the poet’s palette ought to be devoid of such ideas -- or words that offend.

But words can, indeed, wound or heal, tear down or build up. From the first bookswe read to our children to the vocabulary they hear us utter in all kinds ofcircumstances, we are introducing them to the power and magic of words. And itjust may be an act of life-changing kindness if weapproach a young friend and say, “You know, you’ve been saying ‘fuck’ a lotlately.”

MY TAXES: STEWARDSHIP OR SELFISHNESS?

2011-07-15T14:55:00.000-05:00

They asked Jesus,"Teacher, ...is it lawful for us to pay taxes to the emperor, ornot?" But he perceived their craftiness and said to them, "Showme a denarius. Whose head and whose title does it bear?" They said,"The emperor’s." He said to them, "Then give to the emperorthe things that are the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s."~Luke 20

One of the most cryptic mysteriesin the scriptures is the question of what, exactly, Jesus meant by his answerto the tax question (see above). It is certainly open to a variety of interpretations,but I am persuaded by this one: “Jesus flips the coin back into the crowd,shrugs, and says, ‘If you use Caesar’s roads, then pay Caesar’s taxes.’” Aninterpretation, yes (as is all reading of scripture), but one that seems tofollow logically from Jesus’ observation about whose face is on the coin.

Taxes, for a Christian in arepresentative democracy, are tied to the idea of stewardship in two ways: 1)They are an expression of the Christian-ethics idea of devoting one’s lifebeyond oneself – to the greater good, and 2) they are the social equivalent oftossing a coin into the poor-box at the back of the church. (If your responseis, “I already do that in church,” I say, OK, but let me see the verificationof your 10% tithe. If you are one of the average 1.8% givers, I won’t buy it;you’re barely keeping your own church lights on.)

And if we worship at the altar ofAdam Smith (the “father of capitalism”), we are reminded (by Smith) that “it is not very unreasonable that the rich shouldcontribute to the public expense, not only in proportion to their revenue, butsomething more than in that proportion.” None of this (Christian stewardship orAdam Smith), makes any sense if the driving principle is simply selfishness. Botha capitalist economy and a representative government will decay at the rootswith the drought of selfishness.

The conservative commentatorGeorge Will makes this observation: “The government we have did not come aboutovernight, or by accident, or by conspiracy. Middle-class Americans who are thearticulate complainers about it are the principle benefiters from it. They haveno intention of dismantling it, so they had better pipe down and pay up.”

Former South Carolina senator Ernest Hollings saysmuch the same thing in this oft-quoted reflection:

A veteran returning from Koreawent to college on the GI Bill; bought his house with an FHA loan; saw his kidsborn in a VA hospital; started a business with an SBA loan; got electricityfrom the TVA and, later, water from an EPA project. His parents retired to afarm on Social Security, got electricity from the REA and soil testing fromUSDA. When the father became ill, the family was saved from financial ruin byMedicare, and his father’s life was saved with a drug developed through theNIH. His kids participated in the school lunch program, learned physics fromteachers trained in an NSF program, and went through college with guaranteedstudent loans. He drove to work on the Interstate and moored his boat in achannel dredged by the Army Corps of Engineers. When the floods hit, he tookAmtrak to Washington, D.C., to apply for disaster relief, and,while there, spent some time visiting the Smithsonian museums. Then one day, he wrote hiscongressman an angry letter asking the government to get off his back andcomplaining about paying taxes for all those programs created for ungratefulpeople.

If I want to start dismantling the programs described in the paragraph above can I do so without regard to my own self-interest? And if I am wealthy enough that I don't need these programs, then Saint Adam Smith reminds me that It is up to me to provide them for others. (Jesus goes farther, of course: My entire wealth is to be given to the poor. Another post for another time.)

I acknowledge that well-meaningChristians can arrive at a variety of positions on many issues, including taxpolicy. It seems, however, that we should be able to agree on this as astarting point: that it is a matter of stewardship and notselfishness.

______________________________________________

I will be honored and surprised if anyone notices that this is a revision of an earlier post, offered here as a part of our nation's current political discussion.

SCREEN TIME AND FACE TIME: AN INTERIM REPORT

2011-07-11T14:23:00.002-05:00

I just wanted to stand up close,

shoulder to shoulder, heart to heart
with this, myfriend. ~Gerhard Frost

Caryl and I recently spent a week with my sisters and theirhusbands at the remote mountain cabin weshare – our annual work week and “partnership meeting.” Although it is morecommon for us to use the cabin separately, we get along well and enjoy thesetimes together. At one point during our week my sister Barb made an observationto the effect that “everyone seems to be on some kind of screen.” And she wasright: one of us was doing a crossword on an iPhone, another was on the decktrying to get a cell signal, another was reading a book on Kindle, two othersplaying Scrabble on an iPad. All of this in spite of the fact that, by mutualagreement and technological limitation, we don’t have internet or wi-fi (or TVor radio) at the cabin.

My first response (a bit defensive) was to point out that wewere doing the same things we’ve always done when relaxing at the cabin:working crosswords, reading books, playing board games. But upon furtherreflection, I had to wonder if there wasn’t in fact a kind of qualitativedifference. Is it possible that one is more “absorbed” and isolated from otherswhen reading a book on Kindle than when – sitting in the exact same easy chair –reading a bound book? Or is it that the electronic device erects a more off-puttingshield than does a tattered-corner paperback book of New York Times CrosswordPuzzles? I don’t know; thus my suggestion of an “interim report.”

Electronic screen time may be one of those areas in which wethink of ourselves as the exception. Even the most hard-bitten cell phonelibertarian who doesn’t want anyone to pry the phone out of his steering wheel-clutchinghands tenses up just a bit when he notices another driver approaching with acell phone to her ear. I think the reason for this is that we all know that whenwe’re on the cell phone we’re sort of “out of it” – we’re in that phone-zone.But we excuse ourselves, thinking we can handle it, even though we keep a waryeye on anyone else using the phone in the car. Likewise, when Caryl clicks toyet another round of solitaire Scrabble on her iPad, I may mutter internally, “What,another game of Scrabble?!” while Iturn back to the neat new Crostics app on my iPhone.

There are historical reports of post-Gutenberg parentscomplaining that their children were spending too much time with thesenew-fangled “books,” and fearing the effect it would have on their brains. (Thedevelopment of book-reading has, in fact, had an evolutionary effect on brainwiring.) Similarly, I take pride in how adroit my three-and-a-half-year-oldgrandson is with “Angry Birds” (not just his game performance, but the smartsto figure out how the whole thing works)[1], then I wonder just how long it is “good for him” to play the game in one stretch. Some sociologists and brain scientists are publishing opinions that decry theeffect of computer games, others that herald the technology as brain-enhancing.Interim.

A few weeks ago I joined some friends at a pub where anotherfriend was performing on the small stage. We were never more than a handful ofpatrons, and at one point there were just two of us in the room when, in a coincidence of timing, my friendwas texting his kids – checking in with them for some good parental purpose – andI was glancing at a text that had just vibrated to my attention. Something mademe observe this scene from the viewpoint of our friend, the singer: looking out atthe bare room, in mid song, he sees two of his friends, both with heads crankedstrangely down toward their knees – certainly not looking at him. Having apersonal policy against the use of cell-phones in these kinds of situations, wewere both making exceptions for ourselves.

And we’ve all witnessed the disturbing scene of an otherwisecaring parent bent intently over her device as her two- and three-year-oldsscramble over her shoulders, vainly seeking mom’s attention.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer cautions us against that habit oflistening “with half an ear,” where we’re actually preparing what we want tosay.[2] Listening with a switched-on device in our hand cuts that down to about aquarter of an ear – and pretty much wipes out eye contact.

So I guess I’m musing over two issues here. One is theso-far ill-defined effect that this new technology has on our brains and oursociety, the other is the old-fashioned question of etiquette. Can we anylonger have face-time conversations with our loved ones without our eyesdrifting toward the enticing glow emanating from our cupped hand?

Who knows how this will all work out. In the interim, let’skeep talking, eye to eye and heart to heart.

[1] It occurs to me that the game “Angry Birds” -- launching cartoon birds at goofy monkeys -- just may be an effective andharmless (?) way for a three-year-old to work out all of that “shooting” thathe seems to want to do.

[2] Bonhoeffer makes this observation in "Life Together," his engaging small treatise on Christian community.

WATERING THE VI & JORGIE TREE

2011-06-25T13:49:00.005-05:00

Dick & Caryl (Nasby) Jorgensen, Barb (Jorgensen) and Phil Lewison, Betty
(Jorgensen) and Jeff Rohr, having just watered the "Vi & Jorgie Tree"

Our parents, Violet and Leon (Jorgie) Jorgensen, left totheir children the legacy of a family cabin. Oh, they left us no property orbuilding; what they bequeathed to us was the kind of family they built: Kidswho grew up knowing we were loved unconditionally (and completely equally,regardless of the fact that we try to tell little Bobby that he was thefavorite); kids who had chores to do (although Dicky would often disappear atdishwashing time); kids who grew into the kind of adults who continue to sharethat same love, who communicate openly, who forgive easily.

It may sound like I’m trying to boast about the kind ofpeople we are, but I really am intending to say a word about the kind of familyVi and Jorgie made. I’m tempted to fall back on one of those old sentimentalrecipes: “Pour in a heap o’ love, stir in a generous dollop of hard work (butjust a soupçon of money), season with a sprinkling of careful discipline, andmarinate in the word o’ God….” As the product of this recipe, I have nothing tobrag about; I’m just grateful.

Although our parents had a copy of Dr. Spock on theirbookshelf (and I have nothing against child-rearing books), I do not, onreflection, have the impression that they were experimenting on us kids withthe latest child development theories. They seemed to know in their bones – orfrom the traditions of the no-nonsense second and third-generation Scandinavianimmigrant families in which they’d grown up – that this is how you raise kids.The chief ingredient – love – was no theory; it was a given – inherited, nodoubt, from their parents.

I didn’t mean for this to turn into an essay on parentingskills. (That’s a-brewing.) I started to say that the kids of Vi and Jorgie nowlove and accept each other and that this, more than our mingled meager finances, is what has allowed us to happily share a family place in the Black Hills for over twenty-five years. (Our brother, Bob, of Jorgensen Log Homes, whobuilt the cabin, was invited into the partnership, but said, “Why should I buyin; I can sneak out there any time I want.”)

Every once in a while, when hearing of our shared endeavor,someone will say that they’re not sure if they could pull this off in theirfamily. We tell them that there are strategies we’ve developed to make it work: A partnershipagreement, regular meetings, and an acknowledgement that we don’t makeassumptions. (Like “I’m sure my sisters will love the framed picture of brotherDick over the mantle.”) We take a consensus vote almost every time we want tobuy a new case of toilet paper. At our meetings we talk, we laugh, we’ve evencried. But the main strategy is that we are the children of Vi and Jorgie…

… and that we are the children of our spouses’ parents: Albertand Ardea Lewison, Olive and Bob Nasby, Wardean and Elmer Jeffries Rohr. (We are the legacy, that is, of parents withsome pretty funny names.) As with the sentimental recipe, above, I am alsotempted to say that there may have been, in fact, something about their generation: emerging from a depression and a world war to build a country – and a family.

We’re planting memorial trees to our parents in the valleyin which our cabin sits. These thoughts were inspired by the picture, above, ofthe six of us gathered around the Vi and Jorgie tree.

One of my mantras in ministry is that there are no perfectfamilies – and all of ours are far from it. But these four families, at least,seemed to have this in common: The love described by Paul in First Corinthians,a love that “bears all things,believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” We now-graying kidsof Vi and Jorgie and Olive and Bob and Albert and Ardea and Wardean and BigJeff are the beneficiaries of this love. We hope to pass it – and a cabin – on toour kids.

______________________________________________

More reflections on building the cabin.

We, the children of Vi & Jorgie, etc. are also no dummies. We augment those "meager finances" by renting the cabin and 74 acres out to close personal friends. Happy to talk to you about it.

THE EVERYMAN REVIEW

2011-06-22T15:51:00.000-05:00

When I was in 10^th grade I was cast as Rip VanWinkle in the school play. At the time I sported a flat-top haircut – the samepost-war style my father wore. (I had some of that gel glop that I used toflatten it down when the center started to grow faster than the edges; this wasno doubt a very flattering look.) But even I knew that a flat-topped Rip VanWinkle would look stupid; I decided to let my hair grow so that byopening night I was able to comb it over into a style I later learned wascalled – no kidding – the “collegiate.” This exercise in thespianverisimilitude was the beginning of the end of the flat-top for men all overthe country. Soon everyone was wearing the collegiate – and it all started withan experience that could be summarized as “Dick Jorgensen is Rip Van Winkle!”

A few years later, I was spinning a drug-store rack and cameupon a book called “The Lord of the Rings.” I was intrigued because we’d justread “The Lord of the Flies” in English class, so I thought I’d give this newbook a try. I loved it. The next week the cover of Time blared, “Lord of theRings Sweeps Nation!” Who knew that a reporter was looking over my shoulder atthe Rexall?

Time marched on. I discovered a small restaurant called "McDonalds" and gave it my business; I abandoned my eight-track tape player. Years later, I thought my feet looked stupid (there’s thatword again) in Earth Shoes. So good-by Earth Shoes – for me, and for all of thefashion world.

I began to think that I was a trend-setter, or, perhaps, thefabled “Everyman.” And it’s happening again. After giving the Facebook the oldcollege try for a year or so, I find my enthusiasm for the medium waning (oh,certainly not for your posts, dear Friend). So my usage is slipping intoinfrequency. Sure enough, as soon as I realized this was happening I saw thisheadline in Salon.com: “IsFacebook’s Growth Slowing?” Sorry, Facebook. And look out, Twitter; I’mabout to give you a try. What will Everyman’s verdict be?

(Of course there’s always the exception that proves therule. Back in those flat-top days I was attracted for a time to a newsensation, “The Beatles,” but quickly rejected them and turned back to mybeloved Kingston Trio. The Fab Four somehow managed to survive.)

"BILLS WIDE IN VAIN:" ON HEARING MY NEIGHBOR'S LEAF BLOWER

2011-06-07T08:31:00.001-05:00

R.S. Thomas was a Welsh preacher-poet who wrote about hisrural parishioners in a time when the tractor was just beginning to replace thehorse team. R.S. never met a machine he didn’t hate, and his disdain foranything mechanical or electrical fueled his poetry to the extent that itbecame a sub-category of a whole lifetime’s work. In the sonnet “Cynddylan on aTractor” (which came to me as my neighbor fired up her leaf blower) the old curmudgeon is gruffly humorous on the subject:

Ah, you should see Cynddylan on a tractor.
Gone the old look that yoked him to the soil,
He's a new man now, part of the machine,
His nerves of metal and his blood oil.
The clutch curses, but the gears obey
His least bidding, and lo, he's away
Out of the farmyard, scattering hens.
Riding to work now as a great man should,
He is the knight at arms breaking the fields'
Mirror of silence, emptying the wood
Of foxes and squirrels and bright jays.
The sun comes over the tall trees
Kindling all the hedges, but not for him
Who runs his engine on a different fuel.
And all the birds are singing, bills wide in vain,
As Cynddylan passes proudly up the lane.

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More about R.S. Thomas here and here.

GIRLS AND BOYS

2011-04-25T12:08:00.002-05:00

Little play soldiers, if only you knew

what kind of battles are waiting for you.

~Martin Cooper

When our oldest daughter was little, we – like manyenlightened parents in the 70s – were determined to give her a Barbie-freeupbringing. It was part of a developing movement based on raising childrenwithout gender roles or stereotypes.¹ We were pretty successful until the day, when she was four orfive, she came home from her baby-sitter’s with a cardboard box full ofBarbies. We gave in and gave up. She played happily with Barbie for the nextfew years and then passed the Box-o-Barbies on to her little sister. The box now sits in our attic, where it will no doubt oneday be “discovered” by her daughter, little Violet, born just five days ago.

Violet has a three year old brother, Sam. His parents (andgrandparents) are raising him without toy weapons, and he has a completelynon-violent toy box. The other day he was working on a cardboard puzzle – somekind of bright, happy Big Bird scene. He picked up one of the large puzzlepieces, gripped it in his little fingers, and announced, “Hey, this could be agun!” Yesterday, his weapon of choice was a (closed) soap-bubble bottle. Hebrandished it like a ray gun and “blasted” us with imaginary bubbles.

Personality development and gender roles are subjects ofmuch study, and my opinions are not professional, but based on observation and the experience of a being a kid, a parent, and a grandparent. Allowing for important exceptions, the emergence of gender-relatedinterests and traits in boys and girls (like a three-year-old boy’sdetermination to turn almost anything into a gun) seems almost genetic, and nodoubt some of it is. But certainly a great deal of it has to do with those thingsthat we (parents and society) introduce our children to – both consciously andsub-consciously: the colors we dress them in, the way we talk to them, the bookswe read to them, the toys we buy, the images they see. My guess is that many ofthe most important teaching events are so subtle that we don’t notice them andwe don’t realize we are doing them.

And, of course, genetic or cultural, there’s nothing predictiveor automatic about it. My loving parents gave me a Roy Rogers (or Gene Autry orHopalong Cassidy) gun belt every Christmas from about age five through age ten.Few days went by during those years that I didn’t have a six-gun in a holsterslung at my hip. Like my grandson, I discovered an interest in making the badguys “go dead.” (I laughed at my girl cousin because she didn't know how to make a proper gunshot sound.) Today, although I don’t have the courage to be a pacifist, I amnot interested in guns.

(Similarly, although I am not a hunter, I have fondmemories of pheasant hunting with my dad, and I think that the male camaraderieof the hunt was an elemental part of my development – especially since my dad’shunting buddies were the same guys I saw in church with their kids – myfriends. Another subject for another time.)

Yet, to use an over-used metaphor, there is an elephant inthe room. It is this: the developmental interest in guns among boys (whateverits cause) combined with research that demonstrates that our brains aren’tcapable of critical thinking and decision-making until age twenty-five meansthat our society raises (quite deliberately, I think) young men who are onlytoo happy to join up to make the bad guys “go dead.” Until they reachtwenty-five, that is. Then they wise up and want to stay home and raise theirown boys and girls. (It is no coincidence that twenty-five is about the age that heretofore immortal young men realize, "Hey, I could go dead, too!") This is why recruiting or allowing volunteers under the age of twenty-five forwar-fighting is immoral and criminal. Military operations should be limited to menand women over twenty-five. Then let us see how many Iraqsand Afghanistansthere will be.

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1. I do not mock this movement. Although there was some trendiness about it, it was (and is) part of the ongoing liberation of men and women from harmful, limiting stereotypes. That said, I recall an essay I read back then, written by one of these enlightened parents. She recalled a conversation at the playground between two moms raising gender-neutral kids. Each had a boy and a girl. "And yet," said one, "there is a difference isn't there."

WHAT'S THE GOOD WORD, PREACHER?

2011-03-30T08:33:00.002-05:00

"...One of the shaman's jobs was ensuring that solareclipses would be temporary. Nice work if you can get it." ~Robert Wright, The Evolution of God

It has occurred to me—with a combination of humility,seriousness, and not a little amusement—that I am the village shaman. (PerhapsI should say a village shaman.) Thecalling of the preacher traces its lineage back into the mists of pre-history,to the emergence of the tribal wise man, the shaman, the witch doctor (fromwhich profession the line evolves and finally divides, leading, on the onebranch, to the humble parish pastor and on the other, the medical doctor – who,for some reason, ended up making more money.)

Although in most religious communities the clergy person ischarged with the task of passing on the sometimes narrow, dogmatic beliefs of aparticular creed, I mean, for the sake of this discussion, to set that aside. Iam speaking of the more general sense in which those who are called to leadvarious “flocks” are looked to as “wise” men or women – the ones who areexpected to say something worth listening to regarding how to find meaning inlife and a purpose for the living of one’s days, including: “How do I go on now that my Mildred’s gone?”“Do I have to take that chemo?” and “What’s it all about, Alfie?”

For thousands of years the primary means of receiving thisdispensed wisdom has been in a weekly address of between fifteen minutes and anhour or more in length. (We can take today’s standard sermon length and addfive minutes for every fifty years going back in time.) My seminary professorswould no doubt remind me (and I agree) that a sermon is not about thepreacher’s personal philosophy or homey tips for living. (As one of them likedto say, “Remember, preach the good news, not your good views.”) But I’mspeaking here of a kind of “folk” understanding of the preacher’s task.

Although one has to be either a megalomaniac or mightyhumble to stand up before hundreds of people every week and presume to talk,uninterrupted, for fifteen or twenty minutes about the meaning of life(1), I thinkthere is something to the premise I am putting forward here, both as adescription and an expectation of the preacher’s assignment: The average parishpastor plays the role of something like a tribal shaman.(2) When I’m in the pewand not in the pulpit I do expect to get a word to instruct my life in one wayor another.

My intention here is neither to ridicule nor to puff up theimportance of my profession, but to observe, both from the inside and the outside,that all societies have had and continue to have their shamans. I write at atime when the persuasive power of the church and its preachers is (at least forthe time being) waning. I know there are – and always have been – other “wise”ones to whom the community looks. I was going to list some candidates here, butlet me ask, instead, who is your shaman? Is it important for someone to playthat role in our lives, whether religious or secular? To paraphrase the ApostlePaul, “Where is the wise man? Where is the scholar? Where is the philosopher ofthis age?”

Where, dear reader, do you get the good word?

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Notes:

For many, the word "shaman" is synonymous with "charlatan." For this discussion, however, I mean it in its more objective anthropological sense as "tribal wise person."

1. "In some cultures shamans have struck anthropologists aspsychotic, people who may indeed be hearing voices that no one else is hearing….The Chukchee used to describe someone who felt driven to the shamanisticcalling as 'doomed to inspiration.'” –Robert Wright, The Evolution of God

Martin Luther said that “after every sermon the preachershould fall on his knees and ask God to forgive him for what he’s just done”

2. This is one of the reasons that clergy who arecharlatans, or who exploit for their own gain or sickness are so devastating:they’re messing with people’s understanding of life itself. Another post for another time.

IN LENT, AS FACEBOOK FADES FROM MEMORY... SORT OF

2011-03-22T16:20:00.004-05:00

For two or three years, when our children were in junior andsenior high, our family gave up TV for Lent.* Although it wasn’t their idea,our daughters went along with Dad’s scheme without too much persuasion. We putthe television set in a closet, so there was no evidence of the bug-eyedmonster in the house. My memory of that experience is that, after adjusting tothe change for about a day, we really didn’t miss it. I can’t say that itresulted in idyllic sessions of Monopoly games or family readings in front ofthe fire, but we really didn’t miss it. I recommend it. Five weeks is a goodamount of time to adjust to the change and then get on with a TV-less life. (Apredictable question is, “Why did you turn it on again?” A good question.)

Now (at the time of this writing) I’m about half-way into doing without Facebook for Lent,and the result is much the same, with some variations. It was not the socialconnections I wanted to give up (certainly not you, dear friend!), but the process and screen-time of Facebook;and to evaluate how I use it. I don’t think I am any more a compulsive Facebookuser than the next guy, which is to say that there is a bit of compulsion to it, and that’s what I’m temporarilyweaning myself from, and quite happily.

I haven’t given up e-mail, and I have come to appreciatethat digital niche more and more as a way of staying in touch with closefriends and family. (I say “niche” because among the various e-communicationmedia available to us: telephone, cell phone, texting, e-mail, Facebook,Twitter, etc., I actually find e-mail to be uniquely “intimate.”) But I havecome to enjoy some of those old-friend-Facebook-reconnections – the kind of communicationthat only happens on Facebook (these folks and I will most likely not exchangee-mails during my dry spell) – and these connections are one of the reasonsthat I will reactivate my account at the end of Lent.

When I do think of Facebook, it is to analyze what I’mmissing, if anything, and to get a sense of if (or how badly) I want to go backto it. And I find that the thought of re-activating causes me more cold sweatsthan did the prospect of shutting down. It’s not just that I once again openmyself up to the reports of what my friend’s cousin’s roommate fed her cat, orhaving to decide if I’m going to accept a friend request from my friend’s cousins’roommate. And it’s not just re-opening that struggle with the near-compulsionof the lure of the Facebook screen…

It’s limiting myself once again to the narrow slice ofmyself that I present on Facebook. Oh, it’s not a phony presentation, or somebodyI’m not, but it’s a narrow part of myself: The goof-off. With a few honorableexceptions, I’m basically just horsing around on Facebook. In her new book, Alone Together, author Sherry Turkle proposes that on Facebookwe’re all “performing” for each other. Although it may be a fine line ofdifference, I would say, rather, that (speaking for myself), I’m justgoofing-off, both in the old-fashioned sense of wasting time, and in the othersense of being a wise guy.

I have no doubt exaggerated in that last paragraph. (And thereader will note that I’m only speaking for myself.) But I still seek a noblercause for Facebook; and whether or not it is a trivial or an important part of my life is still an open question for me. FB is in its infancy – it’s still the crank-telephone onthe wall into which we shout for the operator. It’s about twenty per-cent puresilliness, seventy per-cent idle chatter, and maybe ten per-cent meaningfuldiscourse. That’s what it is now; who knows what it will become. But I’ll bethere. Right after Easter. I’ll try to be noble.

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*Lent is a six-week penitential season in the Christian calendar leading up to Easter. The rationale for giving up anything for Lent is a subject for another post for another time.

THOSE WACKY BLOOPERS -- AND A CAUTIONARY TALE

2011-03-19T10:32:00.000-05:00

About once a year someone sends me one of those collectionsof “church bulletin bloopers,” and they actually make me laugh. Some of the perennialfavorites:

The sermon this morning: "Jesus Walks on theWater."
The sermon tonight: "Searching for Jesus."

The Rector will preach his farewell message after which thechoir will sing "Break Forth into Joy."

Weight Watchers will meet at 7 PM at the First PresbyterianChurch. Please use large double door at the side entrance.

These are funny because they are most likely real bloopers –not made up. (At least I’m convinced.)

The blooper phenomenon brings to mind a sort ofsub-category: the danger of the find-and-replace feature in word processors.Here’s one that most certainly had to have happened, because it could happen tome tomorrow:

The preacher discovered that his word processor allowed himto save the bulletin of his last funeral service and use it as a template forthe next. One week it was a funeral for “Mary Jones,” a couple of weeks later aservice for “Agnes Schultz.” He simply replaced every instance of one name withthe other. Those attending the service that week were amused when, in thecreed, they confessed belief in a Lord who was “born of the virgin Agnes.”

THOUGHTS OCCASIONED BY RE-STOCKING MY LIBRARY

2011-03-13T19:47:00.003-05:00

To begin with, my title is just a bit pretentious. It’s not asthough I have a collection like Thomas Jefferson’s, which he donated tore-stock the Library of Congress after the conflagration of the War of 1812. Ihad some ceiling damage in my study, and needed to completely empty the roomfor the plasterers, then, to re-assemble the room -- desk, computer equipment,and a small wall of books. The “library” of my title.

But the process did elicit some thoughts:

1. Although I agree with people wiser and more prescientthan I that books will be with us for a long time to come, Icouldn’t help the feeling that I was engaging in an almost-quaint activity,like returning a bunch of scrolls to the scrollery. Some writings I wouldn’tthink of having except in book form, but for general reading, ten of the lasttwelve books I’ve purchased have been on Kindle (actually, the Kindle app on myiPhone). When I wonder how long thetransition will be, really, from the book to whatever is next, I’m haunted byBenjamin Franklin’s reflection upon first seeing manned balloons over Paris: “Thisis such a wonder; it will be a mere thousand years before mankind will betraveling by air as a common practice.” The Wright Brothersflew 120 years later, and fifty years after that jet passenger liners wereflying from Boston to Paris.

2. I was convicted (if that’s the right word) by the numberof books I have purchased and not read, and those that had book-marks one-quarteror one-half or two-thirds of the way through, where I left off reading them. Inalmost every case, I had thoroughly enjoyed the books that I had partiallyread, and in almost every case I still want to read those unread. Iknow that Adult Attention Deficit Disorder is the fad diagnosis of the day, butI wonder….

3. There were so many books that I had read – and with greatpleasure. Our re-stocking project was slowed by my pausing to comment, “Oh,this was a good one…” as Caryl waited patiently to hand me the next one.

4. Three of the books, lifted coincidentally from thestorage box one after the other, brought to mind a category of “great endings”(which was actually the impetus for this blog post). And, in the spirit ofendings, I will end with them:

The ending of A RiverRuns Through It, by Norman Maclean:

Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runsthrough it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocksfrom the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Underthe rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. I am haunted by waters.

The ending of TheDonner Party, a book-length poem by George Keithley:

After this life we will listen
to the long river running through the soil
saying it is Spring—

the sun has begun to burn
the brown needles nesting on the ground
around our graves.

The jays perch in the pines and cry
and wherever we may sleep
among the dead we will rise

together under the trees
like men who are set free
from the folly of a dream

into the fragrant morning
to hear the heavy stream
of our blood begin to sing,

our souls awake and warm once more
and weaving like a fire
when the light begins to dance
in the land of our desire.

The ending of The Lordof the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien. (Yes, fellow LOTR nerds, I know it’s notthe actual ending. But it really is.)

“Well, here at last, dear friends on the shores of the Seacomes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I will not say:do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”

Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, andwent aboard; and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly theship slipped away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass ofGaladriel that Frodo bore glimmered and was lost. And the ship went out intothe High Sea and passed on into the West, untilat last on a night of rain Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heardthe sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him thatas in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all tosilver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them afar green country under a swift sunrise.

A LIBRARY, A BOX OF BOOKS, AND A KINDLE

2011-03-05T12:20:00.003-06:00

Carnegie Library, Huron, SD 1909 ~ 1965

I am grateful that my parents, my teachers, and thephonics-heavy “Alice and Jerry” series in first grade taught me how to read.Beyond these seminal reflections, I hold in memory two distinct episodes ofwhat were, without exaggeration, life-changing experiences of the introduction ofbooks into my life – books as physical objects of learning and enjoyment. I wasapparently a good reader from the start. But it was these experiences thatturned me into a book reader:

It was probably the summers after third, fourth, and fifthgrades that I would ride my bike the eight blocks from our house to the HuronPublic Library. At least part of the time I must have been participating in anorganized summer reading program for kids. (Here’s to summer reading programsfor kids!) I think I had a chart to fill out. The memory is as much physicaland tactile as it is mental: The cool marble floors of the 1909 CarnegieLibrary building, the hot summer day left behind outdoors, the meaningful hushproduced by the neck-craning grandeur of the high ceilings and book-linedwalls, the kid-height bookcase island in one of the alcoves. And, of course,the solid feel of the book as I pulled it from that case – just browsing, Idiscovered it myself – and the light riffle of the pages as it falls open to“How the Leopard Got His Spots” in Kipling’s “Just-So Stories,” and the scrapeof the chair as I take the book to the nearest table. I can’t wait until I gethome – I’ve got to read this here: “How the Camel Got His Hump,” “The Elephant’sChild,”…. The memory is of the book – and the place of the book. The temple ofthe book.

Then, comic books (now I am exaggerating), until:

In my junior year in high school I was looking for somethingin a back corner of our basement, and I came upon a box of books. Hard-coverbooks with slip-covers intact. Not musty and smelly, but clean and almost likenew. Like all smart young moderns, my parents had belonged to theBook-Of-The-Month club in the early years of their marriage, and this was atrove they had packed away in our move from Huron to Rapid City (or maybeearlier). It was the thrill of discovering “Just-So Stories” all over again –and the weighty feel of these tomes: “Clarence Darrow For The Defense,” “Dearand Glorious Physician” (a novel about the Apostle Luke – with some authentic,uh, earthy parts in it if you get my meaning), a novel called “Yankee Pasha.” Iread book after book out of this box. And, like the bookcase in the Huron Library, I stillhave a picture in my mind’s eye of exactly where I found that box, and I’vebeen a book reader ever since. (I didn’t return to comic books, although I’dkill for a good copy of “Donald Duck and the Pony Express Rider,” c. 1958.)

The rapid development and acceptance of the e-book (ten ofthe last twelve books I’ve purchased have been on Kindle) cause me to wonder(not rant – just wonder) what experiences children will have in the future thatmay be equivalent to the cool alcoves of the Carnegie Library orfinding that box of books in my basement.

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Addenda:

It is obvious from the modest building pictured in the photo, above, that I am remembering it from my kid's-eye view. But it does kind of look like a temple, doesn't it? It was torn down in 1965 and replaced by a blond brick building of one level. You know what that looks like. It doesn't look like a temple.

I have another Carnegie Library memory. In the sumer after my junior year in college, I had a job selling dictionaries door-to-door (forgive me) in Washington, Indiana. There, too, I came upon the cool confines of an historic Carnegie Library on a hot day. I visited again and again, my dictionary bag slung on the back of the chair. It was during those visits that I discovered the treasures of The New Yorker, Harpers, and The Atlantic magazines -- which have become part of my life. The lure of the library was such that it, shall we say, interfered with my sales performance. I ended the summer owing the dictionary company twelve dollars.

This now-classic video depicts similar wonderment at the transition between the use of the scroll and the printed book. (Just in case you haven't seen it.)

I have reflected on my gratitude to those who introduced books and reading to me in this post: "Thank You, Miss Zamow," -- and more experiences with discovering books in "The Lord of The Plastic Revolving Book Rack."

I am proud, happy, pleased, and excited that one of our daughters is a librarian. She and her lively colleagues have moved far beyond Carnegie 1909, and have answers to book questions that I haven't even thought of asking.

THE FIRST ART?

2011-03-01T17:49:00.004-06:00

The work of the world iscommon as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry….

~ from To Be Of Use, by Marge Piercy

Over the years I have read avariety of essays claiming that, for example, dance or music or painting orpoetry should be considered the first “art.” Although I have my own candidate,I have no argument with these proposals, and I find moving and persuasive theideas put forward for any of them to be considered the genesis of the aestheticspirit of humanity. (The following whimsical vignettes are my summaries of some of these anthropological theories.)

Oola is thrilled at Og’sexpression of first love, and she spins with delight at the memory of theirkiss. This spinning releases more joy, not to mention that Og rather likeswatching her primal spontaneous movement– it stirs something in him, too, and he looks forward to seeing it again. Dance.

Oola rocks their littleOolina in her arms, her cooing takes on a lilt that rises and falls with therhythm of rocking. Then she replaces the cooing with words from a mother’sheart. The next night she sings it again.(1) Music.

Og and the other returninghunters draw crude sketches of the map of their hunt and their quarry on thecave wall, and – as it develops – some of them have a better feel for this kindof thing than others, and go on to draw and paint on the wall for lesspractical reasons. Something other than a map is “expressed.” Painting.

At Og’s funeral, Grok says,“Og dead.” But Shak steps forward quietly into the firelight and says,

Og is in his grave

After life’s fitful fever he sleeps well.(2)

Everyone hears andponders these words as they turn toward Shak with tear-brimmed eyes. He has spoken the same truth thatGrok spoke, and something more. Yes, this death is like sleeping. And those two words, "fitful fever" (that is, the cave-man equivalent), they slide together well. They blunt the pain. The gathered clan hears both the meaning of thewords and the sound of the words. Poetry.

And my candidate, if I had to add one to this proto-artistic list, would be pottery, theceramic arts. With the dawn of humanity and communal life there was certainlyan almost immediate discovery that not only can fired mud be formed into a drinkingcup, but that the accidental thumb print can be repeated around the middle fora place to grip – and it looks kind of nice. The twig used to cut away theexcess mud also scratches the form of a twig (or a bird) into the cup. Lookingup, those bright spots in the night sky must be designs applied to the inside of theoverturned bowl that is the heavenly firmament. Og will apply designs insidehis bowl, too. And there is this:

… the cup implies the mouth and the hand, and ...when wetalk about a pitcher we refer to its lip, throat, belly, and foot.(3)

And no doubt Og notices thepleasing parallel between the form of the drinking cup he’s working on and theenticing shape of his Oola. Maybe he’ll just tweak the design a little bit –try to bring out a little more of that anatomy…

I guess, as I’ve impliedabove, you can make a case for any of these. But it’s stirring to think that oneof them was “the first art." (Although I don't mean to imply that I've exhausted the possibilities here.)

And then there’s anothertheory. Lewis Thomas, in his essay, “On Speaking of Speaking,” imagines aprimitive scene similar to the ones I’m depicting here. The adults are aroundthe fire communicating through grunts and sign language. Meanwhile,

Somewhere, nearby,there is a critical mass of noisy young children gabbling and shouting ateach other, their voices rising in the exultation of discovery, talking,talking, and forever thereafter never stopping.(4)

Thus, Thomas’ thesis that language is a product of thedevelopment of the brains of children and the communication between them; so much more facile and open than stolid, already-formed adults.

So, with apologies to Lewis Thomas: Perhaps, as poppa Ogstoops before the fire to craft a utilitarian drinking mug, “somewhere nearbythere is a critical mass of noisy young children,” young Ogbert making a cup likedad, and holding it up to the other kidsto show the big smiley face he’s carved into it; little Oolina delighting in the twirl of her buckskin skirt as she spins; and a gaggle of girls discovering that theirshrill screams harmonize and meld until they become the Oolettes.

____________________________________________________

(1) Some claim the origin ofsong

   was a war cry
   some say it was a rhyme
   telling the farmers when to plant and reap
   don’t they know the first song was a lullaby
   pulled from a mother’s sleep... (from Song, by Alicia Ostriker)

(2) Adapted from Shakespeare's lament for Duncan in Macbeth, the poet A.E. Housman says that these lines are an example not of "high poetry" but of the essence of poetry.

(3) From The Poem in the Rock, Joel Froehle, Masters Thesis, U. Mass. Dartmouth. It is through my son-in-law, Joel's, eyes that I have an unfolding appreciation not only for the beauty of the potter's art, but its primal and literal earthiness.

(4) From Late Night Thoughts on Listening to Mahler's Ninth Symphony, by Lewis Thomas

Image above: Untitled ceramic sculpture by Joel Froehle

GOOD ON YA, IAN TYSON

2011-02-22T16:39:00.004-06:00

I have two portraits hanging on the wall of my study. One ismy confirmation pastor, the other is Ian Tyson.

Ian and Sylvia were there at the creation (a certain kind ofcreation) with Dylan, Baez, and the others in Greenwich Village. Ian confesses that Dylan’s song-writing stirred somethingin him: “I can do that!” and the result was “Four Strong Winds,” the first of hundredsof ballads that authentically wed the plains of the west to the European-basedfolk traditions of the east. (Ian, a Canadian cowboy of Welsh descent is aproduct of that same poetic marriage.)

After his break-up with Sylvia and the waning of the urbanfolk movement that they, ironically, had helped to create, Ian was in a varietyof kinds of wilderness for a while, and re-emerged from those same Albertaroots as the chronicler of the land of the west and the men and women who,quite actually, live their lives there as he does. As such, he occupies amusical niche that is almost unique. Geographically, it’s bounded by Alberta to the north and Texasto the south, British Columbia to the west and Dakota to the east. (Of course it’s not that limited.)Psychologically, it’s the real thing happening to real people, being sung by a poet-rancherwho doesn’t deny the reality of his years. I am most distinctly not a cowboy,but Ian Tyson has caught me in the web of both of those regions: thegeographical and the psychological. Andthe spiritual: Tyson’s combination of lyrics, tunesmanship, and a voice like Canadianwhiskey come together with his life story to create real art – music thatspeaks to you and for you and takes you somewhere – somewhere that is west ofhere.

One of the things that I admire mightily about Tyson is thathe is not travelling the retro circuit. I doubt he’ll ever appear on one ofthose bring-back-the-sixties galas that PBS must think appeals to us boomers. Rather,he’s writing new songs in his ranch cottage and singing them in places like Elko,Nevada; Lewistown, Montana; Sheridan, Wyoming; and Edmonton, Alberta; playingwith a couple of young sidemen at Holiday Inn ballrooms and high schoolauditoriums. That whiskey voice has become grainier with a recent virus. And heplugs along.

I travelled with friends to hear Ian in Sheridan a few years ago -- in a Holiday Innballroom. Ian’s concerts are always a melding of the old folkies and the newercowboys, but this was a cowboy crowd. I was one of the few without a hat, andprobably the only guy in the place wearing penny-loafers and argyle socks. Wesat in the front. Shortly into the first set, a young kid sitting behind us,maybe twenty years old, called out, drunkenly, “Play Magpie.” Ian went on withhis introduction and played another song. Between numbers, the kid reeled,weaving, from his chair, and shouted louder, “Hey, Ian! Play Magpie.” The smallband continued with their set. The young cowboy began to mutter more loudly,even during the performance, that he wanted to hear “Magpie.” My sister-in-lawturned around and said, politely, “Could you please be quiet.” He stood and lungedtoward her with a kind of “Oh, yeah?,” at which point I jumped to my feet,chivalrously to my sister-in-law's defense, faced him chest-to-chest and said,“Hey, pal…” There was just the slightest second of tension, broken when thewoman at his side said, “Come, on, honey, let’s get out of here,” and he was infact, escorted out by a couple of burly guys.

Tyson went on with his between-song patter as though nothinghad happened, but as soon as the door closed on the kid’s exit, Ian announced,“Now we’d like to do a little song called “Magpie.” The song was greeted withlaughter and cheers.

Later, Ian signed a poster for me, adding the line, “Thanksto the front row.” But here’s why I relate this story: I want it to beremembered about me that I got into a fight with a cowboy at an Ian Tysonconcert!

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If you’ve never heard Ian Tyson, this YouTubevideo from a few years ago is as good an introduction as any.

Here’s IanTyson’s Web site. I see he’s going to be in Edmonton with the Edmonton Symphony nextSeptember. Caryl and I are thinking about it…

WERE YOU A BULLY?

2011-02-13T16:06:00.000-06:00

I recall reading a while back about a study that found thatbullies enjoy being bullies. This conclusion ran counter to the perception ofthe bully as a miserable kid whose anti-social behavior is a cry for help. Ihave a feeling that the label probably encapsulates both types. And thenthere’s another kind: I was a bully.

In childhood I was always a “good kid.” Good grades, goodfriends, happy home, happy demeanor, good reports at parent-teacherconferences. I mean this quite honestly, and by “good” I also mean “normal.” Iwas a typical kid – the occasional playground scrap or rasslin’ match beingpart of that definition. The little anecdote I will relate here did not changethat. I continued to be a good kid, and now I’m a good guy.

But there was one time in sixth grade when two friends and I(two other good kids) literally ambushed a classmate, ganged up on him, andattacked him with large snow blocks crashed over his head. He ran home crying; weran the other way.

That was it. Although I was not otherwise perfect (see“typical,” above), that was about the extent of my career as a bully. I am notbeing disingenuous, hoping that the reader will say, “That was it? That’snothing!” Rather, I offer this as a kind of laboratory example, a part of atheory of how an episode here and an episode there may add up to more bullyingthan is accounted for by the serial anti-social types. And I add thiscommentary:

1) We picked on “Raymond” (not his name) because he was“different.” He had a quiet personality and a slight physical deformity thatgot our attention. The kind of thing that would elicit sympathy in most caringadults became a cause for derision in the sixth grade. We developed a nicknamefor him because of it. (As I write this I almost weep.)

2) I have a distinct memory that our teacher didn’t likeRaymond. This certainly does not excuse our behavior, but now, upon reflection,it seems that her unhidden disdain for him gave us kids a bit of permission.God bless those teachers who recognize the children who are having a hard timeand don’t contribute to it.

3) Raymond’s mother called the principal, and we were calledinto his office (the one time in my life). I can visualize the hall bench uponwhich I sat waiting for my turn. I can’t remember if the principal called mymom, but I had a good talking-to with him, and I’m forever grateful for it.

4) Again, no saint here, but I have an antipathy for seeingpeople mistreated, and a sensitivity for the underdog. This incident and myvisit with the principal may have contributed to that.

5) There is much discussion these days about how tobully-proof our classrooms and get through to the perpetrators. I support allof this, and have been part of some programs, and I am concerned about thefactors that lead to the development of anti-social kids and adults. But Ioften reflect on my own limited experience and I find it somewhat chilling howeasily we good kids turned on Raymond because he was “different,” and I wonderhow much of the problem of bullying has to do not with “professional bullies”but with isolated incidents of otherwise well-behaved children picking on“target” kids – one day a taunt from Susie, the next day a jab from Billy, etc.

6) I think a simple well-placed word from our teacher on thegeneral subject of bullying and people’s feelings might have had some effect,but I’m not sure.

7) And by the way, I didn't enjoy it.

Were you ever a bully?

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Today my child came home from school in tears.
A classmate taunted her about her clothes,
and the other kids joined in, enough of them
to make her feel as if the fault was hers,
as if she can't fit in no matter what.
A decent child, lovely, bright, considerate.
It breaks my heart. It makes me want someone
to pay. It makes me think—O Christ, it makes
me think of things I haven't thought about
in years. How we nicknamed Barbara Hoffman
"Barn," walked behind her through the halls and mooed
like cows. We kept this up for years, and not
for any reason I could tell you now
or even then except that it was fun.
Or seemed like fun. The nights that Barbara
must have cried herself to sleep, the days
she must have dreaded getting up for school.
Or Suzanne Heider. We called her "Spider."
And we were certain Gareth Schultz was queer
and let him know it. Now there's nothing I
can do but stand outside my daughter's door
listening to her cry herself to sleep.

~Sins of the Father

W.D. Ehrhart

THREE CHRISTIAN POETS

2011-02-07T12:19:00.000-06:00

In our Church Forum last Sunday I presented “ThreeChristian Poets.” Here’s one from each of them.

JohnDonne (1572-1631) This poem is both aprayer and playful word-play on the poet’s name:

HymnTo God The Father

I.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun,
Which was my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run,
And do run still, though still I do deplore?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

II.
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have won
Others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun
A year or two, but wallowed in a score?
When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done,
For I have more.

III.
I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun
My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ;
But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son
Shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore ;
And having done that, Thou hast done ;
I fear no more.

Madeleine L’Engle (1918-2007)

Hold meagainst the dark: I am afraid.

Circle me with your arms. I am made
So tiny and my atoms so unstable
That at any moment I may explode. I am unable
To contain myself in unity. My outlines shiver
With the shock of living. I endeavor
To hold the I as one only for the cloud
Of which I am a fragment, yet to which I'm vowed
To be responsible. Its light against my face
Reveals the witness of the stars, each in its place
Singing, each compassed by the rest,
The many joined to one, the mightiest to the least.
It is so great a thing to be an infinitesimal part
of this immeasurable orchestra the music bursts the heart,
And from this tiny plosion all the fragments join:
Joy orders the disunity until the song is one.

~Instruments (2)

R. S. Thomas (1913-2000)

The Bright Field

I have seenthe sun break through
to illuminate a small field
for a while, and gone my way
and forgotten it. But that was the pearl
of great price, the one field that had
treasure in it. I realize now
that I must give all that I have
to possess it. Life is not hurrying

on to areceeding future, nor hankering after
an imagined past. It is the turning
aside like Moses to the miracle
of the lit bush, to a brightness
that seemed as transitory as your youth
once, but is the eternity that awaits you.

LADY GODIVA'S GIFT: COVENTRY CATHEDRAL

2011-02-01T19:03:00.002-06:00

To be “cathedraled out” is a cliché of tourism. I have notyet reached that point (but then I am not that well-traveled). My continuedinterest in touring churches is connected to my conviction that the greatestwork of art in the history of the western world is the Christian Church – the architecture, the poetry, thepainting, the music, and the rest – a grand work of art.

Penelope At Rest, St. Oswald's Church

Many church buildings are living museums, “living” in thesense that they house the religious artistry and music of the ages whilecontinuing to be centers of active congregations. When we visited the 12^thcentury St. Oswald’s Church in Ashbourne, England (which displayed the oldestchurch key in Britain, no kidding), we were moved both by the heartbreakinglylovely seventeenth century marble tomb effigy of five-year-old PenelopeBoothby, and by the lively children’s art display that was going on in the narthex.

November 14, 1940

But an even more arresting juxtaposition of the churchancient and modern is Coventry Cathedral. Established a thousand years ago byLeofric and his wife, Lady Godiva, the cathedral was bombed to rubble by theGermans in 1940, with just a shell of walls and the spire remaining. (It issaid that the equally ancient Oxford, justforty-five miles away, was spared by Hitler because he intended it to be hisseat of government when he conquered England.) Walking in the emptyspace of the old church – which has now become an open-air amphitheater for theproduction of plays and concerts – is an emotional and reflective experience.In the shattered altar space is a shrine to peace, with the words “FatherForgive” inscribed behind two charred beams that fell in the shape of a cross.(Churchill may have ordered the bombing of the magnificent Frauenkirche in Dresden in retaliation for Coventry. Today, the two congregations aresister churches in a ministry of reconciliation.)

The old (left) and the new

And the “modern?” Ashort passage across from the blasted walls is the entrance to the new CoventryCathedral, which was begun immediately after the war and dedicated in 1962. Itis magnificent. The 1950s and 60s are usually not recognized as the paragon ofarchitectural design, and, indeed, the “magnificence” of the new Coventry hasnot so much to do with an upward-oriented heavenly grandeur as with an invitingand welcoming sense of breadth. (I am reminded of an analysis I heard somewhere:“Church design prior to 1945 emphasized ‘God’s holy place;’ since 1945 it hasemphasized ‘God’s holy people.’”) Caryl and I were thoroughly absorbed in exploring its interior spaces, including the striking "Gethsemane Chapel." New Coventry is not trying to recreatesomething out of the middle ages. It is what it is: a center of a vitalcommunity and a place that will seem “modern” for a long time to come. (And there is nothing of the museum about it.)

Gethsemane Chapel

Someday I want to return to evensong at York Minster or anorgan recital at Westminster Abbey. But what I really want to do is pay mygrateful respects to Lady Godiva at her statue in the Town Square, and then worship at hernew Coventry Cathedral.

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(Click on the link above and take the Virtual Tour of the cathedral.)

Lady Godiva, Town Centre, Coventry

NOT TEACHING TO THE TEST BUT TESTING TO TEACH

2011-01-26T08:35:00.002-06:00

Recently, I was part of a conversation in which a respected high-leveleducator gave the opinion that standardized tests, had “made better teachers ofour teachers.” She was being somewhat ironic, because her context was that shewas speaking against No Child Left Behind and its mandated tests. But oursetting was such that we were not able to ask her to expound on her opinion, soa number of us were left wondering what she meant. One of my friends grumbled, “If she meansteaching to the test, I know some teachers who would disagree strongly withher.” I, too, am among those who lament the way the current testing emphasis encourages alockstep, one-size-fits-all approach. (I recently heard a researcher say thatschools are teaching civics and government less and less “because they’re notcovered in the standardized tests.”) But I wonder if the educator meantsomething different, more subtle, about testing.

Let me offer a radical proposal: that, properly undertaken,teaching to the test is not a bad idea and actually results in learning.

By teaching to the test, I do not mean a cynical narrowingof focus whereby students are spoon-fed or inappropriately coached withanswers, but rather that the subject matter, the teaching methods, and thetesting are part of an integrated whole, with the goal of producing learningthat lasts.

A test – even a final test – is, at base, a teaching tool.Rather than using the test simply as a bloodless measurement (or as a threat),good teachers, who understand themselves to be allies with their students inthe learning quest, incorporate a test as a part of a logical progression thatincludes thoughtful class presentations, discussion, research, and homework.

One of the most practical and effective ways to use a testas a teaching tool, especially in the upper grades and high school and beyond, isto prepare test questions that serve as a comprehensive review of the materialcovered, then distribute a study guide developed from those questions (not theanswers) and let the students know that this is the exact material from whichthey will be tested. This is not teaching to the test in the narrow waydescribed above, but a systematic method of basing test preparation on thetexts, notes, and research which have been an organic part of the class from thefirst day. A study guide of 25 questions, 20 of which will be on the test, hasa way of concentrating the mind in the review of knowledge.

Another common-sense way to combine teaching and testing forthe sake of learning is retesting. If learning the material is the goal,retesting is one of the most effective resources available to a teacher toassist students in reaching that goal. In life it’s called “learning from one’smistakes.” (Of course if the goal is simply to measure rather than teach,retesting is a waste of time.) A math teacher once told me, with somefrustration, that he believes in retesting as a teaching tool, but he doesn’tuse it anymore because it takes too much time. This is an understandablefrustration, but it also begs the question: If it will help students learn (notjust improve their scores), shouldn’t our classes and curricula be designed tomake such time available?

These ideas are part of what is sometimes known as teachingfor mastery. “Mastery” is what education has always been about. As a matter ofvocation, a good teacher wants her students to learn (that is, master) thematerial. So she will devise teaching (and testing) strategies to make thishappen. The goal is the education of students, not just “covering the material.”

Some people instinctively distrust these concepts because ofa vague sense that learning should be a sort of Darwinian competition and thatany approach that assists a student in achieving real success is somehow notright. Those who do well (usually without much help) continue to rise to thetop, those who do poorly continue to sink to the bottom, and the class moveson.

But educators devoted to teaching have always used a masteryapproach to make sure that the goal of the lesson is clear and attainable, thatthe test accurately reflects what is taught, and that a student has someopportunity to enhance learning by reflecting on errors. Responsible teachingand testing is a way for teacher and student to participate in a sort ofcovenant based on the notion that what is being taught is actually worthlearning and not just covering.

Once, in a casual conversation with a medical school dean, Isaid, “I suppose you use that first year to weed out as many students as youcan.” He replied, “We have so much invested in those students we do everythingwe can to hang on to them.” I stood corrected, and learned an admirablephilosophy for any school or teacher, at any level.

_______________________________________

Here's a link to a New York Times article on this topic.

This post is adapted from an essay first published as an opinion piece in the Minneapolis Star Tribune

THE WONDER OF IT ALL

2011-01-23T09:16:00.001-06:00

You know the phenomenon of having a tune stuck in your head,going round and round? I have a version of that, except it’s an idea and not atune, and it’s been an occasional mental tic in my brain for years. Here’s theidea: “What are those things that we live with that if they didn’t exist,science fiction writers would certainly invent them?”

I think the reason this is a mental game for me is thatthere’s some subtlety to it. Of course my question, above, could be answeredwith “anything, or everything:” If we didn’t have… paper towels, or … runningwater, or… the iPad, science fiction would come up with it. But it’s moresubtle than that. It has to do with those things that would give the reader akind of “gee whiz” response – a sense that these things, if we didn’t know themso casually, would be considered fantastic, or wonderful.

The “mental tic” part is that I wonder to what degree thisconcept makes sense to anyone else – or would we each come up with such anidiosyncratic list that it would be meaningless to anyone else.

Anyway, here’s my partial list: If These Things Didn’tExist, Would Science Fiction Writers Invent Them?:

Snow. Ephemeral white stuff falling from the sky and pilingup all around us

Sleep. The most powerful of beings are so vulnerable forlong periods of time.

Music. Especially classical music. What the heck good is it?How frivolous! Who would ever think of such a thing?

The kiss. I can imagine a reader saying, “You know how wegreet each other with a knee in the back? Well, in this book I’m reading,people actually use their lips to…”

Trees. Especially tall trees. It’s like we’re living amongbotanical dinosaurs and we don’t even notice it.

Friendship. It’s easy to imagine a world in which sentientbeings merely co-existed, and all meaning in life was found in the material,the sensual, and the personal. What a fantasy it would be to imagine two ofthese beings relating to one another and opening life to a new dimension. (Wait a minute... Isn't this the theme of Woody Allen's "Sleeper"?)

So, am I completely bonkers? (At least perhaps I’veexorcised my tic.) If I’m not, what would be on your list? (And don’t say, “Thethermos bottle, because it keeps the hot things hot and the cold things cold,but how does it know?!”)

NOW, WHAT TO DO WITH DAVE?

2011-01-19T21:42:00.002-06:00

Our house is modest but interesting. Three stories, halfstucco and half cedar shakes. I suppose the architectural style – much as I tryto see some trace of arts-and-crafts or mission in it – is basically 1929four-square: the “prairie box” as opposed to Prairie Style. What gives it a little interest is that,attached to one of those boxy sides – on the first and second floors – aresunrooms, filled with windows and light. The upper one is my study.* I used tofeel guilty because I’m kind of a messy-desk person, and I’ve felt that I don’tdeserve such a nice room. Now I feel guilty because it sits empty much of thetime.

"Dave"

It’s not that I’m “studying” (or reading or writing) less,it’s that I’ve experienced a psychological and spatial shift toward the agora (or -- what would the Greek wordfor the home gathering place be?). Thiscame about for two coincidental reasons: When I started this blog hobby acouple of years ago, Caryl noted, just a little peevishly, that I was holed upin my study “all the time.” With the merest hint of defensiveness (what couldbe more important than my blog!), I brought my laptop down into the kitchen. Atabout the same time, our daughter and son-in-law were staying with us whilethey were house-hunting, and the kitchen computer became a convenient tool intheir quest. And then I got used to having it there. We bought a laptop table at Ikea (“Dave” – Ikea names all its furniture, and that, no kidding, is thename), and I found that my precious thoughts could actually percolate through thebuzz and hum of the kitchen. And, I – no surprise – like Caryl’s company. (Inour previous house, in Anchorage,we had a large room with our desks facing each other. I liked that, too. )

In a similar vein, a friend says he prefers to write his sermons in the busymilieu of the coffee shop. More and more that also works for me.

The kitchen was okay for me and Dave, but just a bit closeto the stove, and I was afraid I was beginning to scuff the floor sliding thewooden kitchen chair back and forth. For months I'd had a kind of feng shui hunch that a certain nook inthe living room, tucked into a corner at the base of the stairs, would beperfect. Kind of the best of both worlds: A bit of occasional isolation (we’rein the living room less frequently than the kitchen), yet still situated in themiddle of things, family-wise. After considering a $1,400 desk, we settled forone somewhat less expensive at a popular near-by discount store (but no onewill ever know).

So here I sit and tap away… “Yes, dear?” …Now… Where was I…?”

I was about to say that, interestingly (and sadly?), in theinternet age I have less need to cover my desk with reference books thanbefore, so it is easy to slide the laptop into the drawer façade and – voila! –as guests arrive: an instantly-neat side table in a living room corner. (Of course I still readbooks, but in the easy chair in the living room. Once again the lonely studysighs with abandonment.)

Why am I going on about this? (Heaven forbid that I wouldever start off on a topic with no idea where I’m headed. Heaven forbid!) Forthree reasons:

I wonder, does the art of feng shui – whichdeals with the relationship between people and objects, and the movement amongthem -- dictate the placement of a desk in such a way as to optimize one’ssense of well being in relation to the work done at the desk and one’s inter-action with people inthe room?

Where, dear reader, do you prefer to do your “work?” And why? (I like theinterview show on C-Span where the author being interviewed takes you into hisstudy and shows you around.)

What are we going to do with a beautiful unusedsunroom lined with windows on three walls, books on the fourth, and filled withlight?

____________________________________________________

*The poet John Ciardi, in his Saturday Review column, once fretted that his use of the word "study" for his work room might sound a bit pretentious. I wondered, too; but I've gotten used to it. Years ago, an old pastor friend reminded me to refer to my room in the church as my "study" and not my "office," as a reminder of what really is supposed to go on there.

THE LOCAL

2011-01-13T23:34:00.002-06:00

You bring forth wineto gladden the human heart… (Psalm 104)

A recent Salon.com piece offers a slide show of “LiteraryWatering Holes.” I was surprised to discover that Caryl and I have actuallybeen to three of the thirteen pubs, bars, and cafes featured: The Eagle andChild in Oxford, The Spaniard in Hampstead, andThe Grand in Oslo.We went to the Eagle and Child (“The Bird and Baby”) for the same reason alltourists do – to have a pint at (or near) the table where Tolkien andLewis nurtured their friendship and their literary projects. The other two places simply presented themselves as inviting stops near where we werestaying. In all three instances, the pubs retained the flavor, ambience, (andpatronage) of a “local,” that is, they had an organic connection to theirsettings and had not been Disneyfied.

The Salon article got me to thinking: Caryl and I have acouple of "locals" (one is literally local – in our town – the other is aplace we stop at when we head into the city), and they are, indeed, “wateringholes.” In both cases we enter the front door of the establishment to find, tothe left, a nicely appointed dining room, and, to the right, what is usuallyreferred to in America as a“bar,” or in the U.K.,a “pub.” (I agree that we don’t really have a neighborhood pub phenomenon in this country like that in Britain,but these places are a close approximation.) In both cases, we usually turn tothe right, into the pub. We do so not to bend our elbows at the bar (we usually sit in one of the casual booths and order thesame thing that we would if we were in the dining room), but because there is a different feeling – a kind of amber-lit community of conversation accompanied by the occasional clinking of glass. It has partly to do with thearchitecture and the lighting, and much to do with the fact that this is aplace of sociability and relaxation -- perhaps the difference between sittingwith friends at the dining table at home, or standing around the kitchen(with those same friends) in an atmosphere of comfortable laughter andsparkling eyes.

It’s the atmosphere I’m emphasizing. (Caryl and I do not, infact, make a practice of turning to our neighbor and saying, “How about thoseVikings?”) It’s the quiet buzz of conviviality in the room.

And “buzz” perhaps begs the question. To what degree doesthe inviting nature of the place have to do with the fact that it’s a bar – aplace of beer, wine, and spirits? As a pastor I have always taught that thereare two “Christian” approaches to alcohol. One is abstinence, the other isresponsible, non-inebriated use. I have also been much involved pastorally inthe lives of people afflicted with the disease of alcoholism. (And drunkennessin the local pubs is a huge issue in Britain.) So I find myself just abit conflicted in writing an ode to a pub; I have never been attracted to the windowless saloons thatare found in every town in America (well, except once, ironically, for the great Irish music they werefeaturing), but there’s something about a pub. What is it? Was thecreativity of Tolkien and Lewis nurtured more by their pints of ale than itwould have been if they’d met in a coffee shop? And, for that matter, what ofthe wine of Passover that becomes the fellowship quaff of Communion? A mentorof mine, a highly regarded professor of theology, once said (of the sacrament),“When I think of the generosity of our Lord, I am offended at the thimbleful ofwine I receive at Communion.”

Were those first century Eucharistic feasts more like agathering at “the local” than a pious kneeling at the rail?

And where, dear reader, is your local?

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My friend, Anne, in response to this blog, writes, "In Norwich,England, the city in which I grew up, there were 365 pubs, (one for each day of the year) and 52 Churches, one for each week of the year."

TWENTY HOURS A WEEK?

2010-12-31T14:21:00.000-06:00

A friend in another part of the country recently told methat he and his wife had been unexpectedly pleased by their pastor’s Christmassermon. It was unexpected because they had been concerned of late that his preachingwas consistently a mixture of thin soup and “avuncular rambles.” They foundthemselves pleased, that is, even though they were pretty sure the sermon hadbeen downloaded from the internet. “But he delivered it well.”

My friends’ consideration as to whether they should go andtalk to the pastor about the issue of his preaching is, perhaps, food foranother blog post. For my purposes, their report brings to mind a growing,uneasy intuition I have that more and more sermons are being downloaded by moreand more preachers.

This is discouraging and disturbing at many levels. Thefirst, of course, is dishonesty. Unless the preacher is informing his listenersof the source of his sermon (yes, some may be), he is not only plagiarizing,but erecting a kind of wall of deception between himself and those with whom hehas an ongoing pastoral relationship. The deception goes beyond the legalitiesof plagiarism; a sermon, unlike a speech or lecture, is a unique concoction ofthe word spoken into and out of the context of the community that is the church.The lives and experiences of parishioners and the community (including thewider community of the world)* is every bit as much a part of the process thatresults in a sermon as is whatever goes on in the preacher’s study. Thedownloaded sermon renders this inter-relationship irrelevant.

A few years ago I discovered a collection of sermons by thegreat twentieth century Scottish preacher, James S. Stewart. I was so charged upby reading these sermons that I decided to deliver one or two of them to mycongregation (with full disclosure). In my opinion, the endeavor fell flat.Stewart did not write these sermons for these people or for this time. They hadsome inspirational appeal, but they didn’t work as sermons preached by thispreacher. (This also raises the obvious question of delivery: Should a preachersimply be “reading” a sermon to his congregation?)**

Another possibledeception practiced by the internet sermon downloader is the theft of time.Now, I’ll be the first to acknowledge that there’s plenty to do in parishministry, and time not spent reading, studying, writing, and preparing for asermon can readily be sopped up by other areas of ministry. (Perhaps thepreacher is spending all that time, like Doonesbury’s Rev. Scot Sloan, as “thefighting young priest who can talk to the youth.”) But even if a pastor wasspending 60 hours a week in youth ministry, hospital visitation, committeework, administration, education, and counseling, that would only beg the question:“What about preaching?” and how is thepreacher’s time being used if not in study and sermon-writing?

While some of my colleagues may disagree with me, I confessthat I give “preaching” top priority in any list of ministerial duties, for thereason that it is at the center of most preachers’ “letter of call” (jobdescription), and because the weekly worship is the only time in the life ofthe parish when the whole congregation is (at least potentially) gatheredtogether.

Preaching calls for time and care. My homiletics professorsurged twenty hours a week in sermon preparation. Rather than dismissing that as“impossible,” I rather see it as a goal and experience a sense of frustration whenI realize how often I fall short (precisely because of the other things on thelist) of that reasonable standard. Sermon preparation in the life of a parishpastor is exhibit A in support of the maxim: “That which is urgent but notimportant crowds out that which is important but not urgent.”

In my first parish, I once strolled past the open-dooroffice of my senior colleague, Charlie Mays (of blessed memory). Charlie – recognizedwidely throughout the church as a great preacher – was sitting at his deskhunched over a book. I walked past a few hours later, and he was in almost theexact same position – still reading. It struck me as a revelation: “He’s notafraid to let people see him wasting time reading a book!” It’s one of the manyways Charlie served as a model for me.

I’ve written elsewhere about how the freedom of the study grantedby the Anglican system of “the living” or the “freehold” has given the worldthe great poetry of the Revs. John Donne and R.S. Thomas. (Or perhaps I shouldsay that their congregations have given these gifts to the world by grantingtheir preachers the time.) But as Bill Bryson, in his new book, At Home, and Jane Austen remind us, thisAnglican system has historically also been rife with preachers reading outsermons from published collections while spending their time at the gardenparty up at the manor. How they would have loved the internet!

If you have any involvement with the church, dear reader,how much time, really, do you expect your pastor to spend in sermonpreparation?

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*I agree with theologian Karl Barth, who said, “The preachershould prepare the sermon with the Bible in one hand and the daily newspaper inthe other.”

**A true story: A committee of the congregationapproached their bishop with concern about their pastor’s preaching. “I thinkhe’s just reading them to us, out of books, and he doesn’t even read thatwell,” said the committee chair. The bishop agreed to check it out. One Sundaymorning he slipped unnoticed into a back pew. As the sermon progressed, herecognized it as one of his own – it had been published in a collection. At theconclusion of the service, the committee chair approached the bishop. “Do yousee what we mean, Bishop? And this one was really bad!”

TALKING HEADS

2010-12-28T12:07:00.002-06:00

It is as though we are singing to each other all day long.

~ The poet Robert Pinsky, describing the musicality of everyday speech.

The topic of our annual synodical pastors conference(yawwwn… c’mon, stay with me) a few years ago was The New Technology forPreaching. (It had a snappier title, but that was the gist.) The keynotepresentation was on how to bring verve to our preaching – and reach out to atech-savvy generation – by the use of media such as PowerPoint and video clips.

To demonstrate, our presenter showed a clip from the movie,“Contact.” The scene is Jodi Foster, as an earnest young scientist, delivering aheartfelt address to a government panel. It did have a certain spiritual appeal(if that’s what a friend sitting next to me meant when he sighed, “God, she’sbeautiful!”), but midway through the demonstration it occurred to me: We’rebeing encouraged to use video by being shown a video of someone giving a reallygood speech! I came away from the presentation confirmed in my preference for astraightforward capable speaker over more creative styles of communication.

I’m attracted to the use of PowerPoint in teaching – a kindof updated blackboard – but my experience witnessing its use in preaching hasbeen either seeing it as a background distraction, or hearing the preacherreading to me, badly, what I can read for myself on the screen. (I’m nottalking about you, my good friends, who use it with creativity and dexterity tosupplement your well-thought-out presentation.) Anyway, give me a talking head– with something to say.

I certainly like a good drama, but I am drawn more and moreto television programs which feature something like straight human speech. Myfavorites are C-Span’s “In-Depth,” and “After Words,” one- or two-hour interviewswith an author or historian which probe the writer’s interests, ideas, latest works,and approach to writing. As conducted by Brian Lamb or one of his capablecolleagues, these have the feel of a fireside chat. (Here’s a recent “In Depth”with SalmanRushdie.)

Boring? Talking heads can also be compellingly dramatic, asin HBO’s remarkable “In Treatment,” in which the passionately laconic Gabriel Byrne, as a therapist, brings me to the edge of my seat even though it’s only –in this case – two talking heads.

The junior psychologist in me posits that an essential partof our humanness (and our humanity and our humane-ness) is the need for theinteraction of communication – for conversation. I respond to you, literallyget to know you, by taking your words into my brain receptors, roll themaround, and “get back to you.” (Thus also discovering more of who I am andwhat makes us both human.) Perhaps this is the appeal of a good speech, or athoughtful interview. An idea-driven speech, lecture (or, yes, sermon), although it is a monologue, isactually a kind of dialogue – at least with the mind of the listener. And aninterview or a dialogue has a sense of fulfillment to it similar to theresolution that drives a musical line to completion.

I read of a study that was conducted on why theoverheard cell-phone conversation is so irritating. The researcher referred toa scenario in an airport waiting lounge, where passengers are sitting in thoseback-to-back lines of chairs, and the emotional difference between overhearinga conversation between two people sitting behind you, or overhearing aone-sided cell phone conversation. The study concluded that the cause of theirritation is the one-sidedness – you don’t get to hear (or be a part of) theother side, thus, you don’t experience the sense of completion. You’re lefthanging. (You only think you’re irritated because the jerk is talking so loud!) In the experience of hearing a good lecture, you are the other side.

One of the reasons that radio keeps plugging along, a seemingtechno-dinosaur in an age of ever-new modes of communication, is that someoneis talking to you. Thebad ones -- the ranters and canned dj presentations -- are almost as irritating as that one-sided cell conversation.But the good ones are connecting. I like Pandora, and I have set up manyclassical “stations,” but I much prefer to hear my music introduced to me bythe wonderful live announcers of Minnesota Public Radio. They are speaking to meman-to-man (so to speak). Somewhere across the ether is a talking head withsomething to say.

___________________________________________________________

Here's the Jody Foster Contact clip that we were shown.

And for some real fun, how about a good academic lecture series!

IN A DARK TIME: YOU HOLD THE CANDLE AND I'LL HOLD YOUR HAND

2010-12-24T07:49:00.000-06:00

For a number of years, my friend Warren Hanson and I have collaborated on an annual Christmas song. I write the lyrics and he composes the music. (My part of this year's song is half finished.) This is the song written in 2001, just a few months after 9/11. I offer it as a blog Christmas card. Alas, it is without Warren's beautiful melody.

(The first two verses are a dialog between Joseph and Mary; the third verse between a shepherd boy and his father; the fourth -- as in many carols -- is a kind of prayer. )

Mary,the night is dark, you’re getting weary;

Ithought we’d find Bethlehemlong before now.

Iknow a little inn – the keeper’s a friend of mine –

he’llfind a bed for you somewhere, somehow.

Mary,of course I will stay with you always,

thoughyour “angel’s message” I don’t understand.

Now,while we’re looking for light in the darkness,

I’llhold the candle and you hold my hand.

Joseph,the message is our little baby,

andyou are the angel that guides us tonight,

overthis rocky road, under this starry sky –

lookat that one that is shining so bright!

Joseph,what keeps you so true to your promise,

whenthis isn’t anything like you had planned?

Couldit be love? Do you feel love around us?

Youhold the candle and I’ll hold your hand.

Father,I’m frightened; the whole sky was glowing!

Thenighttime was brighter than sunshine at noon.

The sound of a thousand wings –something was happening!

Nowit’s so dark – just that star and the moon.

Father,you fell to your knees in that brightness.

Yes,till the angel’s song told me to stand!

Nowlet us go find that Bethlehemstable;

I’llhold the candle and you hold my hand.

Dearbaby Jesus, we follow the shepherds –

followa star to the place where you sleep.

Maryand Joseph rest; you sleep in gentleness –

a littlelight shining in shadows so deep.

Jesus,you’ve been the light from the beginning –

And,on that day when night covered the land,

Youare the word that we heard in the darkness:

“I’llhold the candle and you hold my hand.”

__________________________________________

Last year's Christmas song post is here.

Warren has made a CD, "Christmas Always," of his arrangements of a number of our songs, as well as some of his own. You can order it from Warren's site, here.

A FRIEND REQUEST FROM GRANDPA

2010-12-23T11:21:00.003-06:00

I have, of late, had a recurring vision. It is of an old manin a remote cottage, at his desk with a ham radio, sending messages into thenight to his fellow radio operators. Except, I think, it is not a ham radio,but a computer, and he’s writing on Facebook.

The meaning of this vision for me is that, in spite of theimportant controversies plaguing Facebook,* it really is a superb (andstill-developing) means by which people can communicate with one another. Thismay strike the reader as an understatement, but the epiphanic part of my visionis that, beyond posted photos of youthful drunkenness and minute-by-minutereports of children’s cuteness and what one had for lunch, Facebook – andwhatever it evolves into – will certainly become a meaningful connection withthe world - and, more to the point, with friends old and new - for the elderly andisolated.

Although people in both generations have wondered if “theparents” should get involved with Facebook (thus somehow invading the turf ofthe young and diminishing the cool factor), it is fast becoming as commonplaceas the telephone. The use of the telephone, too, is part of my new Facebookrevelation. Until recently, I supposed that the phone would be preferable toall other distant-communication technologies because, after all, you can speakdirectly to another human being. I’ve come to believe, however, that Facebook(and e-mail, too) offer more depth of communication – on an ongoing basis – thanthe telephone. Of course there are exceptions – a forty-five minute phone conversationbetween two people in love is undoubtedly more intimate than a series ofe-mails, and it will always be good to hear the voice of an old friend. But aphone call, even with a good friend, will always come to that “er... uh... well, den….”moment (not to mention the delay and over-talking that happens withlong-distance and cell calls – what’s that all about?); a similar juncture inan e-mail or Facebook message is an opportunity for more thought, or to go onto the next point. In that regard, an e-mail or Facebook message is more likean old-fashioned letter (and I mean old-fashioned – from the days when theletter was it), than it is like a telephone call. (Although it does seem odd tocrow about a progression that goes from the spoken back to the written word.**)

I want to emphasize that I am speaking of e-mail or Facebookmessages that go beyond the trivial; what I have in mind arelittle essays of communication, again, like letters. (When I get an e-mail froma friend, I’m disappointed if it’s brief. Am I running against the tide?) Thisis not to say that there is not an appropriate place for the quickly-dashedFacebook report, even from the old guy in thelittle cottage. (I just posted, “Hey, we get to fill our krumkake tubes with whipped cream on Christmas Eve!”) I guess my point is that the combination of off-hand quips and weightier conversation that the Facebook/e-mail medium makes possible offers a sense of connectedness that, while no match for sitting across a pub table with someone, has something of the immediate feel of real communication. It has the sense of keeping you connected.

OK, I’ll say it, maybe I’m thinking of either Caryl or myselfalone -- widowed. It seems that Facebook and e-mail would go a long way towardenhancing the quality of life of the elderly – especially the isolated elderly.So I'm not talking about an amazed, “Hey, Granny’s on Facebook!” but, rather, “Geez,Granny’s on Facebook all the time – she uses it more than I do!"

Studies show that the home-bound elderly receive, onaverage, one visit per month – from anybody. Facebook and e-mail can reach intothat void with real depth of communication, and, all right, maybe even a reportevery-once-in-a-while – between old friends – of what one had for lunch, or aposted picture of a cute grandkid.

____________________________________________________

*Issues of privacy and “tricky” advertising are veryimportant and need to be addressed with more urgency than they have been sofar; thus, my endorsement of Facebook is not without hesitation.

**Tim Wu, in his new book, “The Master Switch,” reports thatwhen the telephone was invented, the telegraph magnates laughed and said,“Well, maybe it can be used to tell someone that they have a telegram waiting.” Later, they tried to kill the new technology.

What happens when all those aging computer users startto forget all those passwords and user names, stranding all that information ontheir hard-drives or in the ether? Another issue for another time.

I also opined on Facebook in this earlier blog post.

TWO POEMS FOR CHRISTMAS

2010-12-18T10:28:00.000-06:00

Christmas reflections that press against the normal cheer of the season, from two poets who left us in the last decade.

First, from the bleak, sere, but ultimately faith-haunted R. S. Thomas:

THE COMING

And God held in his hand
A small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As through water, he saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows: a bright
Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.

On a bare
Hill a bare tree saddened
The Sky. Many people
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said.

And, from the wonderful Madeleine L'Engle:

THE TREE

The children say the tree must reach the ceiling,
And so it does, angel on topmost branch,
Candy canes and golden globes and silver chains,
Trumpets that toot, and birds with feathered tails.
Each year we say, each year we fully mean:
"This is the loveliest tree of all." This tree
Bedecked with love and tinsel reaches heaven.
A pagan throwback may have brought it here
Into our room, and yet these decked-out boughs
Can represent those other trees, the one
Through which we fell in pride, when Eve forgot
That freedom is man's freedom to obey
And to adore, not to replace the light
With disobedient darkness and self-will.
On Twelfth Night when we strip the tree
And see its branches bare and winter cold
Outside the comfortable room, the tree
Is then the tree on which all darkness hanged,
Completing the betrayal that began
With that first stolen fruit. And then, O God,
This is the tree that Simon bore uphill,
This is the tree that held all love and life.
Forgive us, Lord, forgive us for that tree.
But now, still decked, adorned, in joy arrayed
For these great days of Christmas thanks and song,
This is the tree that lights our faltering way,
For when man's first and proud rebellious act
Had reached its nadir on that hill of skulls
These shining, glimmering boughs remind us that
The knowledge that we stole was freely given
And we were sent the Spirit's radiant strength
That we might know all things. We grasp for truth
And lose it till it comes to us by love.
The glory of Lebanon shines on this Christmas tree,
The tree of life that opens wide the gates.
The children say the tree must reach the ceiling,
And so it does: for me the tree has grown so high
It pierces through the vast and star-filled sky.

"The Coming," by R.S. Thomas, from "Collected Poems 1945-1990" Phoenix Press. (More on R.S. Thomas here , here , and here.)

"The Tree," by Madeleine L'Engle, from "A Widening Light: Poems of the Incarnation"
Luci Shaw, editor

WHAT'S ON?

2010-11-15T22:22:00.001-06:00

A recent study of the effects of television suggests thattwo hours a day ought to be the limit for children – beyond that it may bedetrimental in terms of both physiology and learning/development (even if thechild gets a good amount of outdoor time).* This strikes me as being a commonsense conclusion. That is, in a game of trivia, most players would likely guessthat something around two hours is about right for kids and TV.

Another recent reportalso makes sense, although it is perhaps not quite as intuitive. That is thefinding that happy people watch less TV than unhappy people. I had a real-lifeexperience of this fact a few months ago. Caryl was away for a week, duringwhich time I drifted into watching more television than usual, and I could feel the torpor invading my body and mind. After a while I thought,“This ain’t no fun.” Even with engaging content -- a movie I’d been meaning towatch, or a two hour in-depth interview with a Civil War scholar on C-Span -- the physical and mental process of simply sitting and watching was draining, includingemotionally draining. I said to myself, “I’ve got to get outside!” (The verything the research encourages.)

In fact, this study reveals a number of things that arelinked to happiness in a way that TV viewing isn’t: socializing, readingnewspapers, going to church! But like a similar study showing that those whoengage in deepconversations are happier than those on a steady diet of small talk, theresearch is inconclusive on the chicken-or-egg question, “Do happy people watchless TV, or does watching TV make one less happy?”

The junior neuroscientist in me posits that perhaps in theact of television viewing the brain is disengaged – being fed the impulsesexternally; and that in activities like reading, exercise, and conversation thebrain is engaged, at work, responding and initiating – buzzing with activity.

Steven Johnson (a writer I admire), in his provocatively titled,“Everything Bad is Good for You,” seems to contradict my little theory. He compares the 1950s “Dragnet” with “The Sopranos” in makingthe case that more inventive and complicated story lines are providing acreative challenge for the viewer, and that television, like the internet, isbecoming more interactive. If true, his thesis would seem to support the ideathat a reasonable amount of television may be a legitimate component of a healthy-life mix -- an idea I have no argument with (and the TV-Happiness studyallows that happy people do watch someTV) -- but that still leaves the question of the difference between the brain-work in reading (or conversation) and the the brain-work in viewing.

So this may simply call for the application of the GoldenMean. The comparison to alcohol, for example, seems apt: A moderate amount maybe stimulating and enlivening, an excessive amount drugs and deadens.

One often hears, these days, that television is “the new Hollywood,” and I findsome evidence for that. This thesis, too, seems to argue in favor ofmoderation: Perhaps the role that television plays in a complete and vital lifeshould be more like going to the theater and less like, well… watchingtelevision.

A full-disclosure admission may cause the reader to question my credentials for declaiming about TV: Although I am a frequentviewer of programs like Sunday night’s Masterpiece Theater and C-Span’s weekend“Book TV,” and I have lately discovered some compelling shows on HBO (the newHollwood?), it recently dawned on me that for the last thirty-five years I haveessentially seen no prime-time TV. Dear reader, what have I missed? (This isnot an exercise in TV snobbery; I admit to watching far too much late-nightjunk over the years.)

A number of years ago, when our daughters were in junior andsenior high school, our family experimented with eliminating television forthe six weeks of Lent. I admit this was not their idea, but they went alongwith it. (My argument was that giving up TV was a more authentic Lenten sacrifice thangiving up chewing gum.) We put the set in the closet and lived for the sixweeks with no evidence of the bug-eyed monster. I’d like to say that ourexperiment resulted in family Scrabble games in front of the fire and GreatConversations about the books we were reading. That didn’t exactly happen; butwhat did happen was that after about twenty minutes – and for the whole sixweeks – we didn’t really miss it. We did this, in Lent, for two or three years.It worked so well that I wondered then and I wonder now, “Why don’t we justgive it up?”

But we didn’t, and it’s back on.

Two hours for kids, thestudy says. How much for me?

*The Center for Disease Control (CDC) and the American Academy of Pediatricians recommendessentially no television for infants and children under two. Here is a summaryparagraph from a CDCreport: “Excessive exposure of infants to television and videos isassociated with impaired cognitive, language, and emotional development and withirregular sleep schedules. Despite the accumulating evidence of the deleteriousconsequences of excessive television viewing in young children, parents havecited educational value, child enjoyment, and the need to get things done asreasons for having their child watch television or videos. Because excessiveviewing time in early childhood is associated with excessive viewing time andhigher body mass index in middle childhood, limiting viewing time in childrenunder 2 years might have a role in preventing childhood obesity. Also, reducingviewing time in early childhood might help decrease the large amount of mediause among school-aged children, which now averages 4.5 hours of televisioncontent and approximately 7.5 hours of total media use daily, and the attendanthealth risks."

RICHARD SHINDELL: AN APPRECIATION

2010-11-02T17:06:00.002-05:00

In 1958, when I was eleven, I heard “Tom Dooley” on theradio, asked my mom for a dollar, walked downtown to the music store in Huron, SouthDakota, and bought the 45 single. I then proceeded to grow up with what hasbeen called the “folk boom,” and have been a fan (and even a folk singer!) eversince. Like what passes for country music today, folk was the pop music of thesixties, but it has given rise to the honorable vocation of the singer-songwriter,most of whom cannot be demeaned with the label “pop.” They’re just laboringout there on the circuit, not getting very “pop”ular, but creatively observingand chronicling the lives of real folks in their music.

Among the very, very best of these is Richard Shindell –almost in a class of his own, really. Shindell, as someone has written, “getsout of the way” of the stories that his songs tell. And “story” is something ofan understatement. His songs are little novels, with movement, character, andplot. The songs remind me, in their inventiveness, of the novels of AnnieProulx: the people and the stories are so off-beat that they could only be madeup, yet they are so real that when you are finished you wonder if you couldvisit these places and talk to these people. You know them.

In Nora, thestory-teller has had an affair with the woman of the title; she is moving awaywith her husband who has “accepted a parish in Greenland.”(There’s the unexpected Annie Proulx twist; it’s so odd that maybe it’s true –could the song be autobiographical? When you listen to it you think, “This musthave actually happened.” But it’s fiction.) In his farewell to his lover, hesings:

Your husband has accepted a parish in Greenland;

   I met him drowning his vows at the bar,
   And there we raised
   The first and the next
   And a third glass to you,
   Hunched on our bar-stools,
   Calling our truce
   By your name...

The wry and darkly comic AreYou Happy Now describes the manic loneliness of a man whose wife has walkedout on him – on Halloween:

   I smashed your pumpkin on the floor,
   The candle flickered at my feet,
   The children peered into the room,
   A cowboy shivered on the porch,
   As Cinderella checked her watch.
   A hobo waited in the street,
   An angel whispered, trick-or-treat,

   But what was I supposed to do
   But to sit there in the dark?
   I was amazed to think that you
   Could take the candy with you too!

In the tender ReunionHill, a Civil War wife who hasn’t heard from her husband since the day shewatched from the top of the hill as he “walked across the valley anddisappeared into the trees,” provides comfort to a bedraggled platoon ofretreating soldiers crossing her field:

I cleaned the brow of many a soldier
Dowsing for my husbands face

Ten years later, she still visits the top of Reunion Hill,no sign or word from her husband, but a vision of some small hope:

   A single hawk in God’s great sky
   Looking down with God’s own eyes
   He soars above Reunion Hill
   I pray he spiral higher still
   As if from such an altitude
   He might just keep my love in view.

The Courier in the song of that name is a sort of everyman observer of everywar. He delivers to the front line the orders from the prince and the "marshals" at the rear, and then prepares to take the last messages of soon-to-be-dying men back to their families, and to the world. It's a reminder that war is always old men sending the young to die:

The Captain breaks the seal
And quickly reads the note.

   On your feet boys,
   Make your peace boys,
   Pass those letters down
   To this courier,

   Guardian of the word...

In Transit, a nun changes the tire of her choir's van at the side of the road, while crazed Friday afternoon commuters whiz mindlessly past -- so mindlessly that, blinded by the setting sun, they all miss their exit (as the freeway comes to an end) and plunge into the water below:

   In they all went, like sheep to the slaughter,
   Bankers and carpenters, doctors and lawyers;
   in they all went, families in minivans,
   Ashcroft republicans, weekend militiamen...

as Sister Maria tightens the last bolt and her choir proceeds to their concert at the state penitentiary. A modern parable of heaven and hell.

My current favorite, from Shindell’s recently released Not Far Now, is Balloon Man, a touching, arresting painting in words. I say“arresting” because the song makes me stop and, well, look. I look down, fromthe balcony. What turns it into a love song is the refrain (attached at the endhere); the observer is simply sending his lover a picture post card. Here itis. (You may, like me, find yourself thinking about whom you would cast to playthe balloon man.)

   I'm standing outside on the balcony,
   balloon man is passing below
   making his way to the park by the church;
   he goes where the little ones go.

   Balloon man's a little bit ragged;
   his glasses are slightly askew,
   one lens is cracked and his shoes never match;
   he might have a screw loose or two.

   His rig is a marvel of equipoise
   Leonardo might've designed:
   Bamboo for the wide horizontal,
   pine for the vertical rise.

   He's wearing a flag-bearer’s harness,
   he's holding the whole thing aloft,
   balloons all arrayed, he's a one man parade,
   if he ran he'd surely take off!

   It's cold up here on the balcony,
   and it's time that I went back inside.
   Balloon man waits for the light at the corner,
   I'll watch til he goes out of sight --

   but there's a wind that whips round the corner
   and he's having a hell of a time –
   he staggers, and it looks like he might just go over,
   but balloon man he puts up a fight.

   And you're so far away,
   on the other side of the world.
   I just thought you should know
   that balloon man lives in it too.

Tom Dooley was the Kingston Trio's rendition of a true story. Shindell's little novels are all made up in his fertile brain. But, boy, are they real. (By the way, I’ve cast Kevin Spacey as the balloon man.)

Here’s a video of Shindell singing Reunion Hill

Here’s Richard Shindell’s web site, whichincludes his bio and tour schedule.

If you want one CD to introduce you to RichardShindell, I recommend Courier.

A POLITICS BORN OF FAITH? OR A FAITH BORN OF POLITICS?

2010-10-14T14:47:00.002-05:00

In the last few days I have had conversations along thefollowing lines:

A multiple e-mail exchange with a man who disagreed stronglywith a point I had made in a sermon, contending that I had inappropriatelycrossed a line from religion to politics.*
A phone call from a young woman who thanked me for addressing“these difficult issues.” (She was referring, in part, to the same sermon.)
A question from a parishioner wondering if our church wasgoing to tell people how to vote (in favor of an amendment to ban gaymarriages) like the Catholic Church was doing in a DVD from the bishop whichhad been mailed out to all Catholics.
A conversation with a man who was grateful to hear that ourchurch wasn’t going to “kick anybody out” for being homosexual. (He is astraight man.)

These conversations bring to mind three conundrums (conundri?)I have pondered over the years, and increasingly these days:

1. CAN YOU AND SHOULD YOU AVOID POLITICS IN PREACHING?

The only way to avoid upsetting somebody in the pew is tostick to sweet Jesus stories and general religious pabulum. The problem withthat is that you cannot, then, be a biblical preacher. Although I have neverset out to preach a “political” sermon, honest biblical preaching willintersect with the world of politics – that is, the real world. (Thealternative, perhaps, is to be the preacher who is “so heavenly minded as to beof no earthly use.”) So although I am not as courageous as an old friend whosometimes claims, tongue-in cheek, that he is disappointed that no one haswalked out in the middle of a sermon lately, I do try to “preach the text” andlet the political chips fall where they may. (The “text” being that assigned in theCommon Lectionary – an objective approach to surveying the scriptures over athree year period – and not a passage selected by me.) Ironically, I also agreewith Martin Luther, who said, “After every sermon, the preacher should fall onhis knees and ask God to forgive him for what he’s just done.”

2. HOW DO WE BECOME WHO AND WHAT WE ARE?

Many (not all) disagreements with a preacher’s message haveto do with one’s place (preacher and hearer alike) on a liberal-conservative spectrum.Often (not always) one who is conservative theologically will also beconservative in politics (and vice-versa). But how, really, does one becomeliberal or conservative? To say, “It’s the way you were brought up” is toosimple. My parents were moderate Republicans, my grandfather was a Republicanstate legislator, I am a liberal Democrat in my politics and, I suppose,open-minded and “progressive” in theology. I had a loving relationship with myparents and never consciously rebelled against them for the sake of rebelling. Myconfirmation pastor – a significant and positive influence in my life – was orthodoxLutheran in his theology (although he did teach us, in 1959, that “there is noconflict between Genesis and evolution,” which is about as much as he said onthe subject). I don’t recall a sermon that addressed any political issues ofthe day. He was no firebrand.

Was I liberalized by Vietnam? By the general milieu of acollege campus? (But my most influential political science professor had servedin the Republican Eisenhower administration.) By a religion class that introduced me to the wide possibilities inherent in biblical criticism and theology? (If so, what made me open to such ideas?) It isnot my intention to go on about “me,” but I do so with the assumption that Imay be a somewhat representative example of this kind of complicated development and thesekinds of spiritual-psychological-physiological questions.

I am intrigued by the current hypothesis that there may be agenetic component to all this. I emphasize “component,” because as I read thetheory the idea is that, if involved at all, genetics is only a part of the mix. In any event, myunderstanding of myself as a liberal seems to me to be even more deep-seated(or inborn?) than my self-understanding as a Christian. Is it genetic?

3. …THE CHICKEN OR THE EGG?

Which leads to the third conundrum. I have sometimes maintainedthat I am a liberal because I am aChristian. I know only too well that there are millions of people who wouldaver that they are conservative becausethey are Christian. But which is it? Does my Christianity lead me into acertain understanding of politics? Or have my politics influenced me to be acertain kind of Christian?

And you?

*The specific point my friend took issue with was thisstatement in my sermon: “There are over 450 passages in the Bible that have todo with economic justice and care for the poor. Some-times people ask me, 'Pastor,how does the Bible apply to my daily life?' Well, here’s one way. One way that all those passages about hunger and justice can apply to your life: When youenter the voting booth, whether you are Republican, Democratic, or Independent,you can ask yourself, 'Is this vote I’m about to cast going to benefit thepoor?'”

MARRIAGE? WHAT DO I KNOW?

2010-10-02T15:14:00.006-05:00

Many accepted truths about marriage can be challenged with at least anecdotal (if not statistical)contradictions; there are sixty-year marriages that had their genesis with the preacher sighing in hopeless futility as the couple recessed down the aisle, and there are failed marriages in which the unhappy husband and wife each came from happy parental marriages. Nevertheless I have come to believe that much of what we knowabout healthy relationships – including marriage – is time-tested, founded in real experience, and isworth passing on, which I will do below as a sort of outline (of course withsome commentary). Caveat: I’m not going to add after each proposition(as I could), “It’s true – except when it isn’t.”

Although some of what follows is stated as “statistics,”this whole piece should be read as my opinion. And I’ll be the first to admitthat this is a hodge-podge.

(In almost every example below I intend the meaning "him or her," even if I don't always state it that way.)

STATS

No one is just a statistic, but lasting marriages seemstatistically tied to:

Age at time of marriage (over 25 is better)
Length of time you’ve known each other
Educational level
Health of parents’ marriages
Stats on living together before marriage are mixed, but notnecessarily positive.
Untreated, the disease of alcoholism will destroy amarriage.
Marriages that begin as a way of escaping a difficult orabusive family situation (usually at a relatively young age) do not have a goodtrack record.
Marital difficulties (conflict, communication, finance,in-laws, sex,) are most challenging in the first seven years. These are also theyears when members of a couple are getting to know each other, which seems to have anatural tie-in to how long they've known each other before marriage.

MARRIAGE 101

Most of us don’t take a class in how to be a husband, how tobe a wife. But we have all taken just such a class: thefamily in which we grew up. Learn from it. Talk with your betrothed (or yourspouse) about the families of your childhood – what do you want to carry intoyour own marriage and family? What do you want to leave behind? I always ask anengaged couple, as a part of our pre-marital conversation, “Do you like themarriage your parents have? Would you like a marriage like theirs?" About 60% ofthe time at least one says, “Yes,” (usually with some qualifications); about40% of the time one will say, “No,” or “No way!” Often, the partner who isdissatisfied with his parents’ marriage will say, “But I like her parents’marriage – I’d like to have a marriage like they have.”

A number of years ago my sisters and brother and our spousessurprised our parents with an anniversary dinner. At the end of the meal, my newly-married sister-in-law asked my parents (whose marriage she admired) to talk about marriage– how it had been over the years, what advice they had. This led to a delightful(and instructive) conversation about marriage among all of the couples aroundthe table.

MARRIAGE 102

Problems experienced before marriage will not automaticallyimprove after marriage, and certainly not because of marriage. They will only get worse, unless they aredealt with by means of open communication, listening, a creative, respectful,non-anxious approach to conflict, and other ideas listed here. If so dealtwith, they can be the cause for reminiscent laughter fifty years later. (Of course many nettlesome issues do improve over the years when they are part of a healthy, growing relationship; my emphasis here is to warn against the assumption that serious problems will go away automatically because "now we're married.")

Similarly, one should not expect to “change” one’s partnerafter marriage. Marriage is a mutual acceptance pact, and as such reflects thegospel itself. The vow of marriage is “I love you just the way you are,” not, “Nowthat I’ve got you I’m going to change you into the person I want you to be.”

Ironically, one should be open to changing oneself – not intoa different person, but to compromise on or eliminate those attributes or behaviorswhich irritate the other – as an act of love. As I once read, “Ok, you’remarried. Now, take five minutes and 'find yourself.' Got it? OK, now devote therest of your life to her.” Marriage is certainly about “us,” and (for you) it’sabout “her” (or “him”). It’s most certainly not about “you.” Research shows that both members in a good marriage talk more about what "we" do than about "I" or "you."

COMMUNICATION & CONFLICT

One of the things you will be learning about each other in those first seven years is that you have different approaches to conflict – and how to resolve that conflict. All healthy relationships have conflict. The important thing is how that conflict is approached and resolved. You might want to talk it out right now; she may throw herself on the bed sobbing. She may appear at your chair-side saying, “We have to talk,” you may want to read the paper. She may be calm and cool, you may be climbing up the wall. It certainly does need to be talked out -- but after a little respite, if necessary, and when both are ready (and calm). Sweeping an issue under the rug until it emerges again later is not an option. You need to talk it out. And kiss and make up.

Speak the truth in love. It is possible to speak truthfullybut unlovingly. (“That’s the ugliest dress I’ve ever seen.”) If it doesn’t meetthe Apostle Paul’s three criteria, it should probably be left unsaid: 1) Is ittruthful? 2) Is it loving? 3) Will it build up (rather than tear down) ourrelationship?

Another bit of practical advice from Paul: “Do not let thesun go down on your anger.” (Note he doesn’t say, “don’t be angry.”) If thedisagreement is unresolved at the end of the day, let the marriage bed be theplace of non-anxious reconciliation. A lot of married folks recommend applyingthis literally, some figuratively, but either way, it is a caution againstaccepting a pattern of going for days (or even very many hours) withoutspeaking to each other. An old guy dispensing advice at his fiftieth wedding anniversaryonce said, “In all these years we never once went to bed angry. (Pause…) We wentto bed pretty late sometimes!”

In a loving argument you don’t back your partner into acorner – you lay off a bit and leave him an out. You are not trying to "finish him off" (or you may finish off the marriage). You don’t push the knownbuttons. You speak in “I” statements and not “you” statements: “I am angrybecause…” not, “You are a no-good…” (“You” statements always cause or escalate fights.I mean always.)

According to a leadingmarriage researcher, eye-rolling is a bad sign. It is a sign of disrespect.We all do it a little – but if it is a regular part of your arguments, thisresearcher is going to predict your marriage won’t last. He says he can tell bywatching a video of a couple arguing for fifteen seconds whether or not themarriage is going to last. He looks for things like eye-rolling. He looks,basically, at how (or if) a husband and wife are caring for each other even inan argument.

This same researcher – no kidding – says that there isstatistical evidence that one sign (not cause) of a healthy marriage is whenthe husband says, “Yes, dear.” The more I say that, the healthier my marriagebecomes. Because it’s almost always an expression of the truth.

After many years of marriage, Caryl said to me, “When weargue, you make me feel stupid.” This is ironic, because Caryl is one of thesmartest people I know. But I figured out what she meant. Sometimes in disagreementI escape to my “high horse,” and lecture from on high – all cool and rational.I think I’ve finally learned my lesson. (Dear?) I hope I'm an example of how even in marriageone can learn, grow, and change. (I've tried to think of something I'd like to change about Caryl, but all I can come up with is the way she whisks my coffee cup into the dishwasher before I'm done with it.)

SEX

Sex is another one of those things that you will get to knowabout each other – in the first seven years and for the rest of your lives. Here’s some things Ibelieve:

One partner may express more interest in genital sex. One may express more interest in romantic touching and holding. Bothare right. We can learn from each other.
“Always be open to trying something new, and never forceanybody to do something they don’t want to do.”
“I like it when…” is a great thing to say to each other atall times. “I like it when you cook the chicken that way…” “I like it when youwear your hair that way…” And it’s equally good in sex: “I like it when youtouch me there.”
Having children does affect our sex lives – adjustments must be made.
Headaches happen.
Men, you will read articles that say that our evolutionarybackground pre-disposes us to “roaming.” This theory may even be true. But it is referring to our LIZARD BRAIN. The faithfulness of marriage is what iscalled “civilized.”
Statistics say that one out of four women are sexuallyabused before the age of eighteen. If it applies in your marriage, this iscause for some tender talk and understanding – perhaps with the help of acounselor. It probably ought not be kept as a secret from one's spouse. (Again, I know there are exceptions….) It may havean effect for years on the sexual fulfillment of both partners.
You can have great sex in the first years of your marriage,and forty years later you can say, “It’s even better now!”
Good sex combined with loving communication is anessential part of a healthy marriage.

MONEY

Shared finances in a joint account are expressive of the unity of marriage. I have heard the arguments in favor of separate accounts, and I am not closed-minded about it, but going into marriage with separate accounts sets up -- right from the outset (at least on paper) -- a division between two who are becoming one.

Money problems can be a cause of blaming and tension. Let husband and wife be united against the problem; do not let the problem become a wedge that comes between you. (This same advice can be given for in-law problems, child-rearing, sex, etc.)

Although both husband and wife need to be fully aware of the general financial picture, "The one who is best at it should keep the books." (I actually read this in a newspaper ad for a bank many years ago. And I agree.)

THE MULTIPLE HONEYMOON PLAN

If you get to a point in your marriage when it seems -- whether through exhaustion, familiarity, or irritation -- that "the honeymoon is over," plan another one -- and another, and another -- as many as you need through the years. Sometimes a quiet dinner, sometimes a trip to Hawaii. Practice the "Multiple Honeymoon Plan."

A GOOD MARRIAGE IS GOOD FOR EVERYBODY

There are no perfect marriages, and some marriages, alas,need to end for the good of everyone. But good marriages are constitutive of a goodsociety, they are the best possible nursery in which to raise children to bepresented as healthy-minded adults to the next generation, and they are like agarden – the garden of love (weeds and all) – in which two people can fullyflower. God bless your marriage.

I hope this post invites your response: Agreements, disagreements, and... "What have I forgotten?"

Thanks to Lowell and Carol Erdahl for "The Multiple Honeymoon Plan" in their book, "Be Good To Each Other." (Caryl and I have put it into practice.)

Here's a good article on some of the issues discussed in this blog post.

HEAD OVER HEELS INTO AN ARRANGED MARRIAGE

2010-09-07T15:36:00.015-05:00

It is not your love that sustains the marriage, but from now on, the marriage that sustains your love. ~ Dietrich Bonhoeffer, in a wedding sermon written from prison for his niece.

Caryl and I didn't get any pre-marital counseling. I recall a twenty-minute session in the pastor's office. Then he ran off with his secretary six weeks after our wedding. So he probably wasn't in the mood for counseling. We survived that (and an ill-starred honeymoon -- another essay for another time) and have been married for forty years. I’ve been apastor for almost that long. In that time, I’ve officiated at over 300weddings, each of which included some pre-marital counseling. I believe inmarriage and I believe in pre-marital counseling, not because it will guaranteesuccess, but because it’s a good time to talk about the realities of life andrelationships, and just may trigger some ideas that can be put into practicewith salutary results. (Real successful pre-marital counseling is that whichprompts a dysfunctional couple to call off the wedding. ) I have many ideas -- even tested ones -- about healthy marriages (in fact, I'm going to blog about them in my next post), but, ironically, and upon reflection lately, I’m not sure how confident I am in answering the question, “What makes for a successful marriage?”

I certainly think there are somemarkers of a good marriage, but I’m not sure to what degree those “markers”are a blending of what each member brings to the partnership because of whothey are coming into the marriage, and to what degree they may result from effective counseling,learning, growth, …and time. Undoubtedly it is all of these.

One of the things that gives me pause -- and hints (unsuccessfully) that I should stop right here -- is that there are, no doubt, as many exceptions to the description of marriage I will explore here as there are models that illustrate it.

Sometimes I think all I can say about marriage is: Makesure you marry a beautiful young woman named Caryl Nasby, make sure that she isthe daughter of feisty Olive and stolid Bob Nasby, and make sure she grows upwith the farm in her soul and the city in her eyes. And make sure you grew upas the child of Violet and Leon – so doggedly devoted to each other that theyhelped to define for you what “for better or for worse” means.

And then make sure the two of you go to the same college.

I sometimes reflect on our marriage as being very close toan “arranged marriage.” And if not arranged, certainly fitting a formula: Yougo to college, you meet someone, you date for a few years while at thatcollege, and then you get married almost immediately upon graduation. A marriagearranged, if not by the parents, then by good old Augustana College. The coldeye of analysis might certainly see a problem here. Two people committingthemselves to each other for life just as they are being launched into the wideworld to, well, meet other people.

But the same caution could be made about traditionalarranged marriages, which survive to a much greater statistical rate than dowestern “romantic” marriages. (And it is not just that they last, but thathusband and wife, often, actually fall in love with each other over the years.)

One of the reasons that arranged marriages work (when theydo) -- whether arranged by mom and dad or by dear old alma mater -- is thatthey provide the couple with a foundational gift: shared history. In thetraditional form, the families have known one another, perhaps for generations;in the less formal “arrangement” of college (or a similar intense community),you grow to know the same people, the same experiences, and one another, in thesame setting for up to four years: History.

Attendance at a place like a regional college probably offers the potential of another contribution to that shared history: a commonbackground. My parents were one generation off of a farm settled by their Scandinaviangrandparents; Caryl grew up on the farm of her Scandinavian great-grandparents.They hadn’t known each other, but could have discussed crops and livestock attheir first meeting – which they probably did.

One of the reasons that marriages which result from meeting an old classmate at a high school or college reunion work as they do is that thetwo people pick up where they left off, with shared history. (This is best, ofcourse, if both are single. I once read an article about do’s and don’ts at ahigh school reunion. The author recommended strongly against rekindling the old flame if one is already married!)

Although I know even less about online dating than I doabout the things I’ve been opining about heretofore, it seems that the goodsites offer the promise – through the miracle of software – of assisting the comingtogether of two people with at least a virtual shared history and common background: the soil in which a relationship may grow.

Marriage is based not on loveableness, but on love. Loveableness comes and goes. Love accepts the beloved as much in spite of as because of; otherwise it sinks the first time the beloved does not look so beloveable. Statistically, it takes seven years to learn the difference.

Caryl and I certainly entered into marriage for romantic reasons, but the point of my rambling here is that our marriage has as many attributes of an arranged marriage as it does of a storybook romance. We were in love when we got married. We’ve grown to love each other through the years.

Footnote: I am only too ready to acknowledge thatmarriages of the kind I describe here may fail at the exact same rate as those of thegeneral population. (I’m not sure.) So I refer the reader to the line at theend of my first paragraph: (…Upon reflection, I’m not sure how confident I amin answering the question, “What makes for a successful marriage?”) I am liable to the critique: "What you have said makes sense -- for you."

THE SPORTING LIFE

2010-09-05T19:48:00.005-05:00

To our own surprise, Caryl and I have recently discoveredthat we enjoy watching the Minnesota Twins on television. I say “surprise”because neither of us has been known as a sports fan. Here’s a case in point:

We were running some errands in the Twin Cities and decidedto stop in and see an ailing friend. His wife greeted us with a warm welcome,and we entered to find our friend rallying a bit and sitting in an easy chair, wrapped in a blanket, and surrounded by his brother (also a friend), his twoaffable sons and one daughter-in-law. Under the coffee table lay a large,friendly-looking dog, stretched out the full length of the table.

Although, as it turned out, we had happened in during thegold medal Winter Olympics hockey final, they all greeted us withsmiles, and welcomed us to join them in front of the television. We foundplaces on the couch, the lazy dog at our feet.

Hockey final, indeed! We had come in during the lastminutes of the Canada-U.S. game, with

Canada

leading 2-1. Although ourfriends’ welcome was genuine (they are good friends), their eyes quicklyreturned to the action on the screen. Caryl and I started to watch and even Ibecame engrossed in the game’s drama, as we all leaned forward in our seats. With (as I recall) twenty-four secondsremaining in regulation time, the

U.S.

scored the tying goal. At thatmoment a groan of Canadian disappointment filled the arena, but the Canadianteam pulled out all the stops as they attempted to regain the lead. Fifteenseconds, ten… five seconds… four… three…. At which point Caryl said, “So, whatkind of dog is it?”

MORSE AND LEWIS: AN APPRECIATION

2010-08-28T12:11:00.003-05:00

What do you remember learning in high school? I learned,from Miss Zamow, in A.P. English, that the landscape functions as one of thecharacters in Thomas Hardy’s “Return of the Native.”

I thought of this as I reflected on how Oxford, with its “dreaming spires,” twistedlanes, and ancient pubs serves as one of the characters in the PBS Mysteryseries, “Inspector Lewis,” the new season of which begins Sunday, August 29.And an engaging and engrossing character it is. In the same way that thegeography and architecture of Oxford form thebackdrop to every scene, the idea of Oxfordis in the minds and, alas, the sometimes spilt blood of the characters. (Thisis a detective series, after all.)

“Inspector Lewis” is a sequel to the long-running PBSMystery series, “Inspector Morse,” which came to an end upon the death of itslead actor, John Thaw, in 2002. A good deal of the entertainment in “Morse” was the relationship between the Oxford-educated chief inspector and hislong-suffering, stalwart, blue collar sergeant, Lewis; a connection that had obvious advantages when it came to producing a crime-fighting team.

The fun (if predictable) development in “Lewis” is that thecasting of character is reversed, and the now-elevated Chief Inspector Lewis –still very much blue collar – is served by the young Cambridge-educated SergeantHathaway. Hathaway, whose elite view of things is as maddening to Lewis as hisformer boss’s was, is a loyal sergeant and a wealth of knowledge – knowledge thatoften appears at first to be useless but turns out to be exactly what is neededto break the case. (And he’s a theologian!) In a telling bit of business fromlast season’s final show, Hathaway recognizes a painting – by artist, date, andstyle – from Oxford’s Ashmolean Museum;Lewis knows it from a set of coasters he has in his apartment.

I agree with the New YorkTimes critic that the writing is “sharp.” In a recent episode, Lewisstruggles with questions about Hathaway’s sexuality in a way that isunderstated, true to the plot, and true to Lewis’ character. I found thedialogue and character development around this issue to be at least as engagingas the mystery of the crime, which was engaging, indeed. This is, after all, aseries in the grand tradition of British whodunits.

Caryl and I have spent time in Oxford, which adds to our enjoymentof these programs, but I’ve never been to Egdon Heath, and it still comes tolife for me when I read Thomas Hardy. Oxfordcomes to life in these dramas. It is one of the characters, along with Morse, Lewis, Hathaway, and, of course, the highly-educated villain.

That's it. This is just an "appreciation," and, I guess, a recommendation. PBS or Netflix.

The “Morse” and “Lewis” series are based on the crimenovels of Colin Dexter, who appears in a cameo in almost every episode.

PRESENTING THE RIGHT HONORABLE... (HONEY... WAKE UP... YOU'RE DREAMING AGAIN...)

2010-08-24T09:11:00.000-05:00

Theboot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.

~Naomi Shihab Nye

I am a South Dakota boy. In my college days I harbored a brief butreal ambition to become governor of South Dakota. My reasoning was, “It’s a small state; whatcould be so hard?” (I was the losing gubernatorial candidate at Boys’ State in1965 -- a pretty good predictor of my chances.) It gradually dawned on me that Iwas really out for the fame -- the responsibility of actually governing thestate not being my chief motivation -- and I let the ambition slide. (Iunderstand the reasoning of theologian E. Stanley Jones, who, when informedthat he had been nominated for bishop, replied, “I’d love to be elected but Idon’t want the job.”)

If I had been asked as a young man if I would be willing to acceptfame at the cost of not being able to go anywhereon my own, or where I would not be known, I would have said, “Bring it on,”without hesitation. Now, I’m not so sure. The few times I’ve run into the trulyfamous, I’ve been hampered by the same truth that hampers them: The realizationthat there is nothing -- nothing -- I can say that they haven’t heard a hundredtimes before; so I say nothing. (Except to Ian Tyson, to whom I said, “Thanks,Ian.” He raised his coffee cup to me. Class!)

Years ago, on a family road trip, we stopped at LittleBighorn Battlefield National Monument. As we trudged up toward Last Stand Hill,there was Dick Cavett looming over us, seated on a large horse. He was filminga PBS special on new findings at the Battlefield. I raised my camera, clicked, and said, “Doyou mind, Mr. Cavett?” To which he replied (sneeringly, I swear), “I guessthere’s nothing I can do about it now.” My disgust was divided equally betweenCavett, for the supercilious remark, and myself, for the toadying way I approachedhim. (Still, I like his New York Times blog. All is forgiven, Dick.)

As the years have passed by, I have only once or twiceconsidered wistfully the life in the governor’s mansion that was not to bemine, and I have concluded that being a pastor in a mid-size city provides fameenough for me: When I go to the grocery store I always run into someone I know-- but I don’t know everyone. And, atthe risk of sounding corny, I’m famous to my grandson -- I can’t imagine agreater accolade.

LAND OF THE FREE FOR ALL

2010-08-21T12:04:00.005-05:00

Do you remember how, on the Statue of Liberty, it says,

"Give me your tired, your poor,

your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...?"

The trouble is, people did!

~ "Beyond The Fringe"

I am a fourth-generation American; my great-grandfather camefrom

Denmark

in 1889. The older I get, the more it seems as though I should put it this way:“I am only a fourth-generationAmerican.” The 121 years of Jorgensen residency in this nation (my lifetimecomprising almost exactly one-half of that time) seems like an inch on ayardstick as compared to the generations stretching back for hundreds or eventhousands of years in the old country. (I’m going to do one of those NationalGeographic DNA swabs and find out just how far back.)

My point is not that I’m pining for the land of my ancestors -- just the opposite. I have felt and known myself to be completely American sincethe moment of my first rational consideration of the matter. Although I grew upwith a sense of curiosity and, eventually, appreciation for my Danish and Norwegianheritage, I have never thought of myself as a Scandinavian-American, butsimply as an American. (Although, I arrived in my current parish twenty-one years ago just in time to get a mention in the congregation’s history book. The mention?I am the congregation’s “first Danish pastor.”)

Like immigrant families today, my ancestors migratedimmediately to established communities of their nationality and old-country language.The first generation (especially if they were over forty) never learnedEnglish; the next generation always did. For those who, like my father, wereborn here,

Denmark

may havebeen in their blood, but

America

was in their bones -- from the first. (My father, whose father was born in

Denmark

,never spoke or learned Danish.) So, to the charge, “Whydon’t they speak English,” the answer is two-fold: 1) Your ancestorsdidn’t, either; and, 2) Give them a generation -- they will.

(I know that yourancestors spoke English if they came from

England

, but at least my Norwegianand Danish ancestors were legal. Those so-called Pilgrims who arrived in 1620 -- about 600 yearsafter my Norwegian fore-cousin Bjarni Herjolfson, by the way -- definitely were not. Their very first act, by their own account -- when their clotheswere still wet from their desperate landing -- was to steal a granary of Native corn. You’ve got to watch those borders!)

During our wonderful years in Alaska,I was amused to observe that an old Alaskapioneer was apparently someone who’d been there ten minutes longer than thenext guy. Those politicians who play the immigrant/race-baiting game seem toforget just how recently they’ve arrived -- and that those who keep arriving arejust as American as they are.

Of course this is an old story, emblematic of but not unique to the U.S. of A. It is because we wander and end up in new places that become our true home that DNA tests are eventually necessary to trace the wandering. Father Abraham traveled from -- of all places -- Iraq. Johann Christian Bach, sonof the most German of German composers, became a Londoner -- a more famous composer inhis day than his father -- and is buried in London. Our Korean-born daughter teaches the children of all kinds of Pilgrims in Plymouth, Massachussets; and my dad -- who’s father was born onan impoverished Danish farm -- was playing saxophone in a swing band on a Midwestern collegecampus when he was twenty. Now that’s

America

TO BECOME AN INTERESTING -- AND INTERESTED -- PERSON

2010-08-15T23:44:00.001-05:00

Everything our parents told us was good for us is bad: the sun, milk, red meat,... college. ~Woody Allen

Much is written these days questioning the value of acollege education. Some of the musing is financial: articles reporting thatparents and students are increasingly wondering about the payback of a high-(or even mid-)ticket four year private institution in a turned down economy.* Others, represented most insightfully by Matthew Crawford in his provocative,“Shop Class As Soul Craft,” propose the hypothesis that not only is college notfor everyone, but we do some very gifted young people a disservice by insistingthat their gifts can only be realized in a four-year college program (asopposed to technical school or the work place).

I believe both issues are well worth pondering, and I accepta variety of answers to the questions being pondered. But I want to hold aplace for the worthiness of college – not as being necessarily superior tovocational education in all cases, but in the sense that it offers riches thatcannot be calculated at the bottom line, and it is a useful adjunct to thelessons learned in tech school and even the school of hard knocks.

When I say “college” I mean, most pointedly, liberal arts. Inthe same way that we are rediscovering phys. ed. as a valuable part of achild’s elementary school experience (how eliminating it, and recess, areshort-sighted responses with long-term consequences), so we are realizing(according to many social commentators), that an over-specialized approach tocollege as mere “job training” results in citizens who are more and moreinsulated from the larger questions of what it means to be a member of societyand, well, “civilized.”

In their book HigherEducation?, with the provocative sub-title, “How Colleges Are Wasting Our MoneyAnd Failing Our Kids And What We Can Do About It,” Andrew Hacker and ClaudiaDreifus propose,

What do we think shouldhappen at college? We want young peopleto use their minds as they never have before, thinking hard about realities andissues that strain their mental powers. They should be urged to be imaginativeand inquiring, to take risks without having to worry about their transcripts oralienating their teachers. To quote a friend, colleges should be making theirundergraduates more interesting people. Higher education is anongoing conversation, created for students poised at adulthood, which can andwill continue throughout their lives.**

In a kind of vicious cycle, as more and more students enroll for preparation in what theyunderstand to be the sought-after professions of the moment, more and morecolleges are cutting down on liberal arts in general and the English departmentin particular because these departmentsaren’t making a profit for the schools and in fact are costing money.***

In my vocation, pre-seminary students are often advised tomajor in anything other than religion, the idea being that this will have theeffect of producing a member of the clergy who is actually able to communicatewith those in the real world. In the same vein, perhaps the engineer orbusiness major who knows something of how poetry works, or the novels ofDickens, will discover that a light bulb of understanding will flicker on yearsdown the road in a situation they never would have imagined or “prepared” for.

And to continue with my own profession as an example: Many candidates for ministry discern their calling after years in anotheroccupation. Similarly – surveys show – over half of those who enter college with theintention of becoming engineers do not end up pursuing that field – even intheir college years. Better to be prepared for life, which just might include acourse in Shakespeare offered at the technical college.

*A related issue, for another post, perhaps, is the radical idea that a top-notch education may be attained at any number of modestly-priced institutions.

**Hacker explains some of their findings and proposals in this interesting interview on NPR.

***Here is an award-winning and thought-provoking essay by William M. Chace in "The American Scholar:" The Decline of the English Department.