Speaking of Martyrs

For those of us who follow the Daily Office lectionary the days after Christmas can be very confusing. Where are the readings? See page 922 of the Book of Common Prayer for the three Holy Days that occur in this interval.

They are a great relief. After all the sugary sweetness we worked ourselves up into thinking of babies, babies, babies (hope, renewal, yes they are cute, hope, yes we love babies) we can stop stretching the hope muscles for a bit and return to the world as we know it. The first thing that happens after the birth, liturgically, is Stephen gets himself stoned. John, whom we commemorate today, we are told by James Kiefer is "a martyr in will but not in deed." And of course tomorrow there are more babies: dead babies.

We received the good news of a great joy. Now get marching. It begins.

Martyrs

What a heroic woman was Benazir Bhutto. What a loss to the forces of moderation and sanity in this world. For those of us for whom the assassination of JKF remains the early primal trauma memory, such attacks are always painful to hear about.

I taught a short memoir called "American History" by Judith Cofer in this last semester. It is a narrative of a young girl's private trauma on that fateful November day in 1963 when America lost its innocence. Of course, every generation must lose its own innocence anew, a fact that I realized when I read my students' responses to this piece. Without an exception, they all wrote about how this story reminded them of the day that will live forever in their minds: 9/11. They all described where they were and what happened. Some schools kept it in secret, sending them home at the end of the day to let their parents explain. Others gathered in assemblies. Perhaps they'd already had these discussions with their parents, and realized the connection before they read the piece, since the point of the piece is that while Cofer will always remember that the day on which she faced racism and classism head on is the day of the assassination, it is the former which is significant.

more crumbles

I picked up an old copy of Imprimis, the newsletter that my father had received, which now comes to me, from the conservative Hillsdale College. The article, written by a reputable environmental scientist, questions whether global warming is really this crisis brought on by our sins or just a natural ebb and flow of planetary change: http://www.hillsdale.edu/news/imprimis/archive/issue.asp?year=2007&month=08 . It brought into focus many of the concerns that have troubled me. Let's face it. First of, I am troubled by fanaticism. And when I see people freezing their butts off trying to prove that it's getting warmer against all evidence to the contrary (see "Silly Priest tricks" below) I can only name it that. I can only see that those who have been raised in intellectualism and liberalism, when they find faith, cannot act it out by simply battling the sin in their own hearts, but must continue to see some evil empire bringing about destruction. They cannot call it Satan or end times, because that is what the right-wingers do, but they feel it all the same: the doom. What both teams forget is that the doom has always been looming, just as it does now. See Matthew 24, please. We hate change and we want to stop it. We are pathetic. Now that I no longer have to hold the positions of the church I will say it: the emperor has no clothes! I never saw the point in this whole "carbon exchange" idea and this article explains to me that my lack of understanding was not my fault but that it, in fact, makes no sense. Aah. I feel much better now. My dad was right about a lot of stuff, including the idea that the Nobel prize committee folks are by no means a neutral body and that their awards are simply the liberal awards, not some kind of world wide acclamation. Another idol falls. Clunk.

Jail

I had a lengthy dream last night about being in jail. It must have been minimum security, because everyone was wandering around these halls and rooms all the time. The bullies were allowed to do their thing and there were no guards or anyone in charge. Everyone was there. Young girls I knew as well as tough guys with their pants hanging down. There was a library. I went over to look at a big coffee table book on how to withstand torture (the cover was a photo of a guy sitting cooly with a gun pointed at his head) but when I got there it had disappeared. The treasurer from the church walked by. Was he in there too? Then a new load of inmates was coming in, and someone commented because they really should have bought more books in Spanish. None of these people spoke English.

I only mention this dream because when I woke up and came to my computer, the message of the day I get from http://shalomplace.com/seed was the following:

A prison cell, in which one waits, hopes - and is completely
dependent on the fact that the door of freedom has to be opened
from the outside, is not a bad picture of Advent"
- Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Disgruntled update

It looks like I will only be furloughed for the winter session, which is all right with me. I will really really really finish the first Nano novel in that time.

More silly priest tricks

While some of us were skiing, and none of us were too warm...

Disgruntled

So I thought to myself, now that I'm quitting St. J's, and depending on my teaching jobs, those will probably dry up. Sure enough, I had ignored a couple emails from the online diploma mill where I teach, and then the other day I get this friendly, nearly incoherent email:

Adjuncts,

This email is to clarify that I have received any documents from you concerning your Diploma Mill Inc. 2006 PPAR. Despite my attempts to remind you and contact you, we are now forced to inactivate you in our system. This will prevent you from being offered any courses through Diploma Mill Inc.

If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to contact me.

I hate those "dear Adjuncts" letters. (PPAR is some acronym for a form we have to fill out telling them what a great job we have been doing. I made the mistake of prioritizing responding to my students.) I would think this was a conspiracy to get rid of those who were going on their second year... if there was any associated pay increase. Which there isn't! There are no incentives for work well done. Only threats and now this. I think I've been fired! Readers, have you ever heard of a job that treats anyone this poorly? (And yes, there is a key word missing in that first sentence above--only the names have been changed, though someday soon, I may out them.)

On the Road

I am getting tons of my father's mail still. The newsletter from the Society of the Silurians, the organization to which my father had belonged and carried its card as his photo i.d., and which I never had any idea what it even was until this newsletter arrived (the oldest American association of veteran journalists--funny how it was so important to my father to retain that affiliation--is it for journalists who were also veterans, or just oldtimer journalists?), tells me that the NYPublic Library is displaying the actual original scroll of On The Road. http://www.nypl.org/press/2007/Beatific_exhibition.cfm They explain that Kerouac's manuscript was in his agent's vault all these years and was auctioned in 2001, bought by the owner of the Colts (who we had just watched lose a game to the Patriots!) and now, on the 50th anniversary of the publication of On The Road it is revealed for the world to see. The article by Patrick Fenton noted how in the 80s Kerouac's books weren't selling well. I suppose that coincides with the height of political correctness/identity politics in academia and other realms of literary awareness, which cringed at his misogyny, occasional eruptions of anti-Semitism and objectivizing views of racial minorities. I cringed a bit at them when I re-read the book about 10 years ago (in the 90s, listening to it on tape) and wondered how all those elements were unnoticed, unnoticeable to me, the female teen who adored this man, turning him into my mystical, mythical big brother, my patron saint accompanying me on my drunken rampages across campus my freshman year, when I was writing my freshman studies thesis on his journey "from Catholicism to Buddhism and back." While identity politics still reigns in academia and the few available American lit openings are for specialists in African-American or ethnic studies, the public ethos has shifted, and Kerouac's impassioned quest for freedom sings to our hearts once again. (Perhaps as the road shuts down and we start to recognize we must stop driving or die.) Now we are able to bracket and historicize his attitudes. The exhibition's section on jazz commented on his fault of primitivizing the African American musical ability, while still acknowledging his deep appreciation and love for their music. The one does not cancel out the other. We have learned to hold the contradictions. They can be quite shocking (he says at one point that Pound may be right about the Jews). The venom that comes out of him at times indicates a true paranoia (probably brought on by drug use, though also clearly inherited from his mother who hated his friends, particularly the Jew, Ginsberg) and at other times he sees how as exiled French-Canadians, his family is like the Jews and others outside American culture, trying to assimilate. But above all, there it was, the scroll, some of it to be seen in a 20-foot-long glass case that ended at a wall with the Robert Frank photo of a highway blown up, the scroll merging into the stripe on the highway. Excellent presentation. But the lights are dim and there are no chairs, so one cannot really try to read, just glance at some representative sections, see the typing and the cross outs (added later; the notes say). I will have to buy the exhibition book (ordering it at some later time, since it would be too heavy to carry on our NYC meanderings). Got the t-shirt, though.

It's almost over

On Monday after the previous post, I did apologize to the Rector for overstepping my bounds. He shrugged, didn't act like it was any big deal. In fact, I heard that the need for simplicity had made its way into his sermon (I was afraid to go to church). Despite the fact that we were now back to our friendly relationship, I told him I could not continue in this indefinite state of continuing to work for 12 hours a week, because there just is no way to limit myself (the demands don't let up) and I'm tearing my hair out. The fact that the committee is only just issuing a classified ad is not encouraging. As long as I am there, the situation will continue. So I'm done. All Souls' Day--last day... so scary.

But today I am at my teaching job, having not worked at St. Jonah's this morning (went in yesterday) and wow, does my life feel better. I think this will be okay.

So long as the husband doesn't have a meltdown from the pressure he is facing.... Staying up all those nights to watch the Sox was not really good for our energy levels. I guess you can say we are recovering.

I will take my parting cue from Schilling's courteous wave of the hat. What a gentleman. Or perhaps I should dance the Papelbon jig!

Outta here

I managed to wait until the Rector had been back from his Sabbatical for a week before entering his office and telling him I needed to move on. I think I worked here four years. It is finished. In order to allow them time to replace me, I am continuing at 12 hours a week for a while, but I can no longer manage juggling 30 hours a week at St. Jonah's with my online and live adjunct teaching.

The soundtrack for my life now consists of a battle between R.E.Ms "Losing my Religion" and A3's "[Not] Too Sick to Pray." I'm not sure I see the point in going to church anymore. I can receive teaching from books; I can pray alone. I am no longer sure of the validity of the Sacrament in my church, and how can I go to the other church, which has so abused its young, even if their leader does proclaim the truth? So fellowship? But all that seems to be at St. Jonah's and other churches is frantic busyness.

The Rector and I have little time to talk, now that I am on reduced hours, and as this morning was when he would be meeting with the newly convened human resource committee, I wanted to make some suggestions to him, so I kind of grabbed him as he was on his way out to go make good on the service he had sold at the services auction, more chain sawing. I should just accept the fact spoken loudly through the omission of any request on the part of anyone for an exit interview or from any input on me, the fact that no one wants my opinion. The way the vestry minutes read "we want our next Parish Administrator to not be a parishioner and to want to make this job a career goal" makes it sound as if there is no issue of burn out, of the job's forever no-win situation, and that it is all simply because I was not right for the job. Of course, most parishioners who have gotten the news have expressed their regret and their worry of what will happen without me. But the Vestry is, I see now, very complicit in the systemic dysfunction

So I mentioned to The Rector about how the previously tabled question of human support for parish hall rentals had come up again, and should be considered at the meeting. That was okay, that was within bounds. And then I more or less confronted him by saying "It seems like the Vestry got the idea that I was leaving for a better job. People have been congratulating me, but that is really not the case. I may not have any job at all next semester." I did not say how painful it was to be congratulated under false pretenses, with the perpetual uncertainty of being an adjunct hanging over my head. I did not directly say "did you tell them this?" but he did directly say that he told them there was an issue of burnout. I said I was glad, because you wanted whoever took over to be able to do this job and not leave. (How, I wonder, will anyone who is not a believer want to make the sacrifice of submission--do a job that would be better paid in the business world? How would a believer from some other denomination be able to put up with the nonsense? There are really not many people that I can imagine, but perhaps that is merely a sign of my burnout.) I then went on to mention how I had been looking at this book called "Simple Church" which criticized the program model and seemed to suggest that one needed a simple overview focus. And though the book didn't really seem to say anything earth-shattering, I thought its critique was useful: the danger of a program church is focusing on each specific program and losing sight of the simple whole. So I kept saying that what really needs to get fixed was systemic. I don't think I had entirely lost him there, but then I went on to tell him about the woman I met at a yoga class, who actually continues to support us financially, but never comes to church because it is so busy and chaotic. But I think the crushing blow was when I said, "I hear from lots of people who have no part of the whole Creativity thing. They don't know what's going on with it and they don't care."

"Are you done, now?" he asked.

"Yes," I said, and he swept out of my office. It is hard to recall that he was wearing his chain sawing clothes (jeans and a flannel church). There was such a feeling of the wind as he swept away, I can only remember it as a cassock swooping out.

It is true, back when they were writing the grant proposal, I helped them polish it up. By the time it came to me, it was far too gone in the process (a day or two before deadline) for me to challenge the idea itself, so I never said what I thought "this is the opposite of what St. Jonah's needs." It is just another chance to be busy and to shift the focus away from the Lord. Yes, I'm sure for the spiritually and creatively advanced people this effort be a work of spiritual adoration. For most of the parish it's more busyness. For me, it's more work. I knew, when I heard it, I'd commit to seeing them through it to the Rector's return and that would be it. Despite the fact that my only crime was speaking my truth, I of course, feel terrible. It has been my job to support and help the Rector, to maybe help him with small tweaks of the problems, not to ever say "you are on the wrong path." Perhaps the words from this Sunday's passage had influenced me, despite the fact that I hardly notice anymore what I am putting into the bulletin. "In the presence of God and of Christ Jesus, who is to judge the living and the dead, and in view of his appearing and his kingdom, I solemnly urge you: proclaim the message; be persistent whether the time is favorable or unfavorable; convince, rebuke, and encourage, with the utmost patience in teaching. For the time is coming when people will not put up with sound doctrine, but having itching ears, they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own desires, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander away to myths. As for you, always be sober, endure suffering, do the work of an evangelist, carry out your ministry fully." (2 Tim 4) I will have to stand in this pain. I have no priest to turn to now.

The other day I had an inspiration and wrote down the thoughts I would like to write to the parish, in the newsletter, so that I can take control of the announcement of my departure. Now I am not sure I even want to bother, to give it a holy spin. Let it be the inkblot onto which they can project either their defenses or their awareness of the truth.

Here's what I wrote with pen.

I hope to be able to make time to pray, and to rediscover my own creative talents. While the Rector's time of re-entry may seem an unfortunate time for me to launch, it can also be a good time for a fresh start and for reconfiguring the structures which support St. Jonah's. I bid you to continue to tap into the creative energies which have been kindled and apply them to the question of our human structure and use of resources, so that the major burden of holding up the sky does not fall solely on clergy and staff. While it is likely that in a college community, we may have more prophets than helpers and administrators (see 1 Corinthians 13:28), I have to believe that St. Paul's vision of the loving body of Christ can be fulfilled in us. That even here, we have members who have received all the gifts necessary to create a vibrant life together that exalts Christ. I pray that it be so.

Should I bother?

Days of fog

Last night I dreamed that I (a teenager) met a cousin I didn't know I had: a boy about my age, dark haired. Then there was a handsome, slightly older blonde boy who I was speaking to. He asked if we were Jewish and I said yes. To my surprise, he was too. He had written a book that talked about his experiences on a kibbutz. I really liked this guy and got myself into a knot wondering how to tell him I was Jewish but... How could I make him understand I would never try to convert him? I would show him my book, which told my story. I looked and looked on the shelf and then, to my sorrow, realized I had never written it. I cried now, remembering the only book I have written was my dissertation. I remembered that we are in the days of awe: Yom Kippur was just three days away when I could recite the Kol Nidre and renounce my baptism. Entering that prayer would be like entering a cleansing fog, a deep darkness that would erase all the person I had been... I cried, realizing I needed more than three days to decide.

To Thine Own God Self Be True

The Duffer and I used to debate about whether the advice Polonius gives to his son Laertes' in Shakespeare's Hamlet is to be taken at face value or whether S. was a bit tongue in cheeck. My father thought they were simply well articulated bits of wisdom: there was no subtext. End of argument. I believed, from the context of the play and the character of Polonius, that S. viewed the wisdom as many of us view such good advice: that and a token will get you on to the subway. Of course, I could see why this would be disheartening for a father who felt he had so much wisdom to pass on, but here's a post on "Shakespeare 101" that argues my point in case you are interested: http://shakespeareantheatre.suite101.com/article.cfm/polonius_speech_in_hamlet .

It is in this disputed speech that the lines "This above all: to thine own self be true, /And it must follow as the night the day/ Thou canst not then be false to any man" are spoken. And it is from this dubious wisdom that Rabbi Lerner of the Network of Spiritual Progressives derives his variation: "to thine own God self be true" (the phrase appears in an email sent out today, featuring a prayer of forgiveness for the 9/11 terrorist attacks).

There is some wisdom in this new turning of the phrase, thought it is awkward and unattractive. I am not averse to the idea that Christ is within me. (Col. 1:27). But reliance on doctored cliches reveals a sloppiness in thinking that concerns me, and makes me skeptical.

I don't know how I want to pray on this day. When I lay in shavasana at the end of this morning's yoga class and image came to my mind. The Palisades in Fort Lee, N.J.: the rocky stone cliffs just to the north of the George Washington Bridge. I am sitting there with a teenage girl I was friends with in high school. She has a black dog and a car: she is self-sufficient and cool. We walk up there and the bridge sparkles. Maybe that is the day I walk back and forth across the bridge, just for fun, for the airiness of it. This memory dates back to either 1974 or 5. The city for me then was like a geode, sparkling with art and music. I didn't yet know about the filth, the urine and how tired one gets when one is always inside it, and not on this promontory, looking out at its dazzling potential. The World Trade Towers would have been a recent addition to the skyline. We didn't particularly like them: the ornate stylings of the Chrysler and the Empire State Buildings were much more attractive. But all of those were distant spires from this northern end where we sat on rocks and thought about our limitless futures. As I came out of corpse pose, I remembered what day it was, and sent my mind downtown, to look at the rubble as it appeared the day I brought the Duffer to see it.

Adjunct Adventures I

It is still technically summer, though the temps are at this moment (7 a.m.) in the 40s. I'm in my fleece robe with a scarf draped around my head. The birches outside the window are speckled with yellow leaves, though this is due more to the lack of rain than to the actual position of the earth and the sun. It is beautiful and at this moment, feels right for school to have begun, though yesterday afternoon, when it was time to teach my first class, it seemed like a better time to lie in the sun and take a dip in the pond! The dazed students apparently agreed. It is an adjustment to get used to teenagers again after having worked in programs geared towards older students. I had forgotten their default attitude of skepticism and boredom. There are a few exceptions, young women who seem to enjoy reading and hope to get something out of the class, but for the most part it is clear that this is just a hoop they have to jump through. (Only 4 read Harry Potter this summer!) That does not mean I don't think I can win them over, and get them to have fun. I am surprised that two of them (in their responses to my freewrite questions about their hopes and fears regarding this class) mentioned that they had had their writing torn apart by "Grear." Hortense Grear, I recall, from the last faculty conference, is one of the fixtures of the department, its grande dame. I guess her methods precede the Elbowian theories I was raised on--get them to enjoy expressing themselves, then worry about tweaking the grammar… so I can see why I have some work to do in winning them over. It is interesting, when you ask them to freewrite, to see that some fill a page and others give up after a few lines, exhausted. Why is it that the three girls who fill in the seats right in front of me are the ones that want to chat amongst themselves? Perhaps because they really do want to engage with me.

Diversity in Pixieville

Yes, the students are coming back. The U-Hauls, piled high with mattresses, parade their way into town. In their wake come the derelicts: those few extra winos now sitting on the sidewalks, debating matters of great importance to themselves. But these are to be expected, like the draining out of chlorophyll and the revelation of the leaves' underlying yellows and reds.

But this fall, there is a new element, brought in by our own church, which, in the process of reconstructing its buildings, requires the use of laborers. They are imported from working class towns and they drive huge diesel-fueled pick up trucks with bumper stickers that say, "P.E.T.A.--People Eating Tasty Animals," "Gut deer?" and "Welcome to America: Now Speak English." Fortunately, these trucks aren't here on Sundays or our Prius-driving parishioners would be mightily offended, despite our committment to tolerance and diversity. Who knows, they might even threaten to learn how to jackhammer!

More Reading

I guess it's not coincidence that one comes across books that relate in some way to one's current situation. I mean I was browsing through the bookstore, reading the dust jackets, and I saw The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty. I've never read anything by Welty, except for that one short story that made them name the mail program Eudora after her ("Why I Live at the P.O."). This short novel apparently revolved around the protagonist's father just dying. So it had to be read. Very different from my life, not just in its Southerness, but in the fact that the father had married a new, young wife, and much of the book revolved around the two women's interaction. I am really surprised this hasn't been turned into a play or a movie. The struggle between them is dramatic and compelling, although the widow is almost over the top stupid. But not quite beyond believability. I certainly couldn't understand Laurel's decision to burn what remained of her mother's letter. It was like she wanted to keep them from further desecration, but she could have taken them! Okay, this is the view of someone whose house now contains NUMEROUS boxes of papers and letters her parents have written. Not to mention boxes of my own words. I realized today that I have surely got enough material in my reams of diaries to mine for literature for the rest of my life. But I get tired just thinking about opening those boxes.

Reading

I finished Harry Potter, but I promise, this comment contains no spoilers:

As much as he may deny it, Tolkien's Lord of the Rings was heavily influenced by the world situation, the Axis gaining control of more and more of Europe, the darkness spreading. It's easy for us from the perspective of victory to forget what that was like, but I saw a contemporary newsreel once, that showed in black the areas that were under Hitler or Mussolini's control and the picture looked very bleak indeed. It was, I guess, that sense of military dominance, rather than Nazi ideology, that compelled Tolkien's pen. Though we know he did disapprove of their racial theories, when he refused to tell them that he had no Jewish blood in him in order to let them publish the Hobbit in German. It is interesting that, half a century later, it is the racial purification/genocidal ideology of the Nazis that Rowling makes much more explicit in her works, which of course borrow so heavily from the Master (JRRT). I suppose it is an indication of the sad fact that this kind of thinking about racial purification did not die out with the Nazis but continues to rear its head, though it seems to me that religious divides are generally more contentious than ethnic ones, these days. Some might say that racism is simply an easy enemy to illustrate, for the same reason that it is always simpler to use Hitler as an example of evil which cannot be tolerated, than Stalin, who some consider responsible for as many as 10 million deaths.

No, this isn't a happy post. How happy can I be when there's no more Harry Potter to read?

Still dead?

It's been over two weeks, and I've told lots of people about my father's death, but each time, I have to pause a microsecond and ask myself "what am I saying? Aren't you pushing it? This hasn't happened yet (it was always something that was going to happen, in the future). What will he say when he comes back to his senses and hears you've been telling everyone he's dead?" And I have to force myself to picture it: him lying on the bed, in the room, the air conditioner on --he would never have let the room be that cold if he was alive--he had been too cold for weeks. The doctor explained it all. He was very professional. And what do you think is in the brass urn on the buffett, with a neatly folded American flag in front of it? It's a good thing I get to keep that for a while (another week). It helps. Maybe if I'd seen my Dad more often all along, it would seem more believable. As my husband has said, so much of the time the Duffer has existed as an idea--"got to give him a call, see how he's doing"--interspersed with quick visits. But still, he was there. Ruling the world from his assisted living apartment in NJ.

I remember when I spoke to him on New Years' day, he told me he was feeling optimistic. I assume he meant about the future of the world, as well as his health and perhaps his finances (which were always good, as far as I was concerned. He had enough for anything he wanted...). Then, a month or two later, he started talking about what became a growing obsession with the terrorists getting hold of nuclear materials. I didn't ask him, but I wondered, "I thought you were optimistic..." I wonder now, if his unconscious wasn't responding to growth of cancer cells, sending out messages of besiegement, that he interpreted politically. It is all the democrats fault for not taking terrorism seriously, really meant, something is coming and we are ignoring it.

The Duffer's Dead

I went to yoga, finished up with some abs, stopped in at the supermarket to bring some milk to work for my coffee. Had in my bag the copy of US News that had come for him. Yesterday he had taken an interest in looking at the National Review, so I felt hopeful that he might get back to being able to do some reading. I also had a letter announcing his doctor at Sloan-Kettering was leaving, so there'd be no need to wish he could still see him. About this time he had gone down to physical therapy, was practicing using his walker, when he gurgled, went limp, and was rushed back up to his bed. The doctor, who was already in the building, came to see him, but it was too late. Probably even if we hadn't had a DNR, it would have been too late, it happened so fast.

The other day when he was wishing to go home, where he could have his electric blanket, I asked him what he could do there that he couldn't do in the nursing home. Rest, he said. But then he admitted that the problem wasn't the noise, but that he was afraid. He would lie there and not be able to sleep because he was afraid that if he went to sleep he wouldn't wake up. "I don't think that's going to happen," I told him, in honesty. He seemed like he was improving, and the cancer wasn't likely to strike again very soon. Well, he did not die in his sleep, he was apparently up and quite active, having earlier used his tray table as a walker to wander out into the hall at 6 a.m. May his rest be peaceful.

The Duffer's Dreams

He's been having strange dreams, though the trick is figuring out that they are dreams. He began by commenting how much luckier the people who work in the nursing home are than the residents, because they can move around. Some of them, even on prosthetic legs. We have not seen that. He went on that yesterday, just outside, they had a race, and you couldn't even see their feet touch the ground. When we first stopped in he asked if we knew there was a Dr. Weitzman, who was higher than the doctor he had first seen. But he didn't wake me up. He came to see me but didn't bother to wake me up. He was the head of the corporation... oh, wait, I'm getting confused. Later, he brought him up again. I felt really good, good all over. And he was just there, visiting me in the night, and I kept looking for him, but he hasn't come back. "The only Weitzman I can think of, Dad, was one of the founders of Israeli." A father... an angel... But, even when the duffer could barely remember his name, he could state that he was an atheist. It's like what gay people say: they come out of a coma, don't know their name, but know that they're gay. Today, he mentioned how when he grew up, everyone just shrugged off religion as nonsense, and he saw no reason to ever think differently. There's a book I'd like to read, he said, that is against religion. The Hitchens one? No, not that, another. I know there's another, I can't remember what it's called. "Just want to make sure you're not making any mistakes?" I ask. (Now I see it is the God Delusion by Richard Dawkins.) I ain't getting it for him. Maybe I'll print out that dialogue between Hitchens and Douglas Wilson that was in Christianity Today.

Conversations with the geezer atheist

Conversations with geezer atheist grow stranger and possibly more interesting since the cancer has gone to his brain and everything is a mystery, a riddle. What is the word that has a U in it, and possibly a C? Had to do with the lungs. Finally I realize, "tuberculosis": Yes, people died in the movies from this in the fifties. But it wasn't from the disease; it was from the shadow. He must have been thinking of that disease, because of the way he hacks violently while eating. Today I tell him I spoke to his sister and he asks if she is all right with him these days. You've been on good terms with her for years now, I remind him. He shakes his head, dubious. How is her relationship with her father? He's your father too. He's been dead for years. He nods. Does that mean you no longer have a relationship? Well, you no longer speak to him, or see him. And you stop praying to his God? Not necessarily. But your father didn't believe in God. We don't know why he wanted them to play Ave Maria at his funeral. He did? For the music, or for spite, or for some reason we cannot fathom. The thing that bothered me about my father…(long pause, loses track, comes back) he was ashamed of being a Jew. I comment on how this fits in with his admiration for Nietzsche who scorned Judaism and Christianity because it was so Jewish. They were the religion of slaves, in his view. I still don't know what you think about God. I believe in God. You know that. There are long silences as we sit at the table where people have been brought to await their dinner trays. Finally, he says, So if they clean part of it, then only the rest are slaves. And that is the part that God takes care of? That's an interesting idea, but I'm not sure what you mean.

Mystical Paths

I just finished the fifth in Susan Howatch's Church of England series. I love these books! I have never read anything that showed real people grappling with real theological issues as they live out their real lives (and okay, there's a touch of supernatural thrown in, and this last one turns into a bit of a whodunit as well--it's got it all!). I thought this was the last one, but to my delight I discovered there is one more to wrap up the series. The addict's reprieve. Now I must decide whether to get it out of the library TODAY-- NOW-- or to try to wait a month and save it for my vacation in the beginning of June. Of course, on vacation it's easier to read books that are less delectable, and needed for desperate escape from horrible life.

So my question, dear readers, is what next? Is there anything out there comparable to this series?

Salamanders

The salamanders must have made their crossing by now. In fact, they could have gone back and forth a few times, there have been so many rainy nights over forty degrees of late. I sit in my comfy living room thinking: I should get a flashlight and my raincoat and go out and SEE them. I should, I really should. Then it occured to me. I am not an amphibian. I don't want to be amphibious. I will stay in. Despite the fact that right now as I am typing this, my Rhapsody player started playing Ben Folds' version of "Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head"!

Even the handbasket's broken

the handbasket that we're going to hell in, is nowadays no hand woven feat of human creativity but a disintegrating maelstrom. What has thrust me into such a bad mood, first thing in the morning, when I only am just coming from a lovely yoga class? Perhaps it is the fact that something very Important is going on at neighboring Pixieville College (not to be confused with the University of Pixieville). I'm not even that upset that there's nowhere to park, and people were zipping through the four-way stop sign like they were going to win a very big prize for getting ahead by one car. But when two middle-aged white guys, engaged in their very Important conversation, see a lady in a hot pink raincoat, you would think they might condense themselves to their allotted half of the sidewalk. Or at least say "excuse me" when--because she does not move onto the soggy grass--one must brush past her. This is the second time this week that I have not been able to walk on the sidewalk to this church without being pushed off it! This is a small town! I left New York cause I couldn't take this kind of rudeness!!! I could have been working at a well-paying job (at least) if I stayed there. Next time I am just going to stop and yell, "Excuse me for walking on the sidewalk and interrupting your very important conversation. Next time I'll just lie down here so you can tromple all over me!"

Spring Peepers!

We heard them last night--loud! Stay on the salamander alert!

Addiction to busyness

Never is it more apparent than during Holy Week just how addicted to busyness the parishioners of St. Jonah's and other residents of greater Pixieville are. I mean seriously, how can a member of the Vestry no less, think this is a good time to explore new ways to lock cabinets for storage of valuables? How can the fund-raising committee imagine that this is when you ask the Parish Administrator to begin a mass mailing? You'd almost think this parish was filled with a bunch of pagans who didn't realize that the most important week of observances is underway and that this means that the office is completely busy making its fabulous bulletins for all of them! They should all be sentenced to having their eyes pinned open and watching The Passion over and over until they get a clue!

The Two Processions

Palm Sunday at St. Jonah's was energized by the buzz of Borg and Crossan's new take on Jesus' triumphal entry. Those of us who appreciate structuralist criticism find it nice: Jesus rode on a donkey as a counterpoint to Pilate's militaristic procession. Yes, a more graphic illustration of the principle that Jesus clearly stated: God's kingdom is not of this world. Then how do Borg and Crossan use this to disprove the concept of substitutionary atonement and take some digs at Gibson's Passion (are we still talking about that? And not about his latest proclamation of insensitivity in Apocalypto?) ? Quite a feat, I might add. And one in need, I think, of some post-structuralist trashing of binaries (lest we want to hop on the other foot and wonder about those who substitute justice for worship). That is, they see Jesus' driving out of the money changers as reflecting on Jeremiah's criticism of "worshiping God as a substitute for enacting God's justice." Excuse me? Worshiping God a substitute--for anything? Isn't it the chief end of our existence? Perhaps I am just being a pesky English teacher, picking on poor Borg & Crossan for an unfortunate choice of words. They didn't mean actually worshiping the living God, they meant engaging in empty rituals (which is what Jeremiah was criticizing). But I'm afraid this is a telling and egregious error, revealing the murky priorities expressed in this article and by those who are so eager to embrace its view. We don't want to carry our palm leaves down the side street in town to show that we love and adore the Holy One of Israel. No, we need to prove we are standing against Empire. That way we'll prove we're worthy.

Let us begin and begin again

The Parish Administrator was actually able to spend a minute in the church today. She wanted to pray for a suicide whom we have just heard of (though none of us knew him).

I thought, as we embark on Holy Week, that if we do not walk with Christ, in his sufferings, we become trapped and can walk only in our own sufferings.