Literacy and its discontents

I turned the radio on yesterday and caught a snippet of someone speaking on Democracy Now. I'm not a fan of this program since it generally seems utterly paranoid, but this caught my attention and I was able to find out from their site today that the speaker was Buckminster Fuller. He said, "When humanity is primarily illiterate, it needs leaders to understand and get the information and deal with it. When we are at the point where the majority of humans themselves are literate, able to get the information, we’re in an entirely new relationship to universe. We’re at the point where the integrity of the individual counts and not what the political leadership or the religious leadership says to do. It’s a matter now of humanity getting to the point where it’s now qualifying to make some of its own decisions in relation to its own information. That’s why we’ve come to a new moment of integrity." This awareness of the importance of literacy clicks with the issues I've been struggling regarding Episcopalians' approach to Scripture and authority, as well as the current presidential campaigns. What do we really want in a leader? I have probably noted before that St. Jonah's is conflicted to the marrow about this. We desperately want it both ways. We really want a leader who supports and affirms what we already think and feel, and maybe pushes us just a teensy bit further in that direction (and pushes those who aren't there a whole lot further in that direction). Which is why I think more and more that the very idea of a congregation choosing its own pastor is ill-founded and we should return to the idea of the hierarchy appointing people (I hear even the Methodists do this). But why, I ask myself, am I so ready to believe a hierarchy, a magisterium, is going to be more capable than we are? Aren't I just longing for pre-literacy days when us folks just had to listen to authority with humility and obedience? Isn't it natural that those two virtues would fade away now that we are all empowered to read and learn? And yet, and yet, this is no longer really the era of literacy that Fuller heralded. It is the post-literate era. No, that doesn't mean that fewer people can process letters and words in a textual form, and it doesn't just mean that fewer people choose to do so, particularly outside of the internet. It means that we now realize that each and every one of us derives a different meaning from those letters and words, and even one person derives a different meaning at different times. Yes, big revelation: that's the message of Derrida et al. and has been subsumed into the general postmodernist view, and all I'm really doing here is calling it the postliterate reality, because I think that is a more accurate term (and calling anything an accurate term in this context is, I suppose, an exercise in futility). Yet, it sheds a ray of light that reveals things are not really so different after all from the pre-literate era. Maybe now, more than ever, we need a magisterium.

The beach, life, death, etc.

The local news has been all about Ted Kennedy since his seizures and diagnosis of a brain tumor. I take great interest in hearing the medical details and seeing how well he is doing, happy he gets to go home and be with his dogs, his boats. I realize that even though I don't always agree with his positions, he is such a familiar figure and face here in Massachusetts. He's a fixture. It is getting on a year since my father's diagnosis of his cancer having metastasized to his brain, so I feel that connection too. Also strange, because when I think back to my earliest childhood memory of this Senator's brother being assassinated, I understand that this first intimation of the mortality of fathers has marked me in a deep way, so that I feel connected to Ted, the lesser brother, the one who screwed up bad at Chappy. On Memorial Day weekend, Mr. Crackles suggested we go to the Cape for the day and just check it out, so we wake up early, see the Teddy news and hear about the Fugawi boat race that he will not be racing in. First we go to Harwich, because that is where Mr. Crackles's family always went. It is nice: the parking is free till June, we walk on the beach, then head into town and find a restaurant and have a nice lunch. Then we decide to drive on to Hyannis, where there's more of a town, walk around have coffee and a snack at the twelve tribes coffee shop. Traffic is starting to get a bit more crowded, and the beautiful day is getting on. When we drive to another beach, where they are charging to park, the girls say "why don't you come back in 15 minutes when it won't cost you 15 dollars?" so we drive on and find a place where we seem to be able to park on the road and there's just a little spot of beach we bring our chairs to and sit down. Mr. Crackles is looking at the boat that has pulled up to the pier and saying it looks like Teddy's boat. How can you tell, I ask. Sailboats kind of look alike to me. It's got two wooden masts, like his, he says. And then we notice, there are about a dozen people gathered on the beach besides the pier and sure enough, that's him and his family, walking off the boat down the pier. And the two dogs! (One runs back towards the boat then follows along.) Apparently, he did go for a sail, though he was sitting out the race. He seemed jovial, walking in that strange way of his along the dock. Mr. Crackles is amazed. I actually feel like this is normal in some way. Like I said, I've felt this connection and this awareness of Ted as a familiar and local figure so it seems just kind of right that we should end up there, seeing him disembark.

Today he had brain surgery.

Princess & Goblin

I have just finishing listening to a recording of George MacDonald's The Princess and the Goblin, a book which was apparently very influential on folks like Chesterton and C.S. Lewis. I was struck by a comment the great grandmother makes in chapter 22 (the text is available on Gutenberg).

'You are right. Curdie is much farther on than Lootie, and you will see what will come of it. But in the meantime you must be content, I say, to be misunderstood for a while. We are all very anxious to be understood, and it is very hard not to be. But there is one thing much more necessary.' 'What is that, grandmother?' 'To understand other people.'

My, this sounds a lot like the prayer attributed to St. Francis. Macdonald's book was written in 1872, so no, he couldn't have simply known the prayer, because it isn't really by St. Francis and doesn't appear until the second world war. It is actually possible that this is one of the sources for that mysterious prayer of unknown authorship!

bird update

The nest over the back door now emits a peeping sound. The mother bird still flies off when the door opens. The father bird gathers food. Cool!

spring notes

Sycamores are the last to admit to spring
trunken nakedness makes them hesitate
still just dressing
while maples send off spinning emissaries

Reading Addict

I would rather be reading. I just finished the last of Susan Howatch's Christian novels and when I read them even though I can see their literary flaws I am in totally addictive mode. Unlike the sugar coated Mitford books, these depict some pretty dark struggles that people go through. And unlike literary fiction their problems get solved. They have deliverances and come to terms with the demons from their past. Unlike real life?

Those clergy designated as wise come out with lengthy explanations, such as the following:

"But let me merely say that St. Paul didn't think resurrection involved the flesh. It all depends how you define 'body' and in this case the word 'body' is probably a codeword for the whole person, a pattern produced by a certain mind, spirit and body all working together. This pattern--a pattern of information you could call it--would be capable of being lifted from its original context and replayed in another environment. Like written music which gets to be played in the concert hall" (Heartbreaker 424).

It's an interesting way to come to a workable understanding of resurrection, though I'm not sure its quite orthodox.

Then there's also the insight from Gavin, the former prostitute's, point of view:

"I'm seeing us all as victims who got mown down in one of God's messier creative splurges and mangled by the splurge's dark vile bits, the bits which haven't yet come right. But I know now that God's not just out there lolling idly in front of his canvas. He's in a muck sweat, painting away to save the picture, and although my family was blasted apart by the thwack of the creative process, the creator himself can't rest until he's brought us into the right pattern" (447) .

This image does reflect the character, who is just coming to terms with the idea that there is a caring God, but I do feel somewhat uncomfortable with the idea of God's creativity being out of control… though the world does seem to testify to that…

Splanations requested

I'm sure most of you have seen them, the mossy phoebe's nests that are built in the eaves of houses. I have googled and googled and cannot find an explanation for why they always build them right over the door. At my house, for instance, there is an extended expanse of eave with all the same features as the spot above the door, with the advantage of there not being a door there. And yet, they always seem to choose the spot through which humans and cats come and go. Why?

Derby Day

Why do I always try to watch the Kentucky Derby, donning a silly hat and drinking something that resembles a mint julep? I don't have much to do with horses the rest of the year. I'm carrying on a tradition that for me dates back to the 80s. Back in my NYC days, a guy I was enamored of made a big to do about the Derby, having people over for real juleps and walking them over to the nearby OTB to place bets. It was fun, and perhaps its just my way of holding on to some good times from my twenties that I watch the race. My husband and I turn on the tv and place pretend bets: he went for the favorite (boring!, says I) and I went for the filly (break that glass ceiling baby!). We're good! If I'd bet her to win place or show I would have won something, and so would he. But then there came the equine ambulance and they said that Eight Belles broke both her ankles and was euthanized in less time than it took to run the race. Unlike other sporting events involving injured humans, they had the decency not to show the fallen animal, but it was hard to watch the exultation of the winners, knowing that this beautiful creature was dead. Dead because she was overbred to the point of such fragility she couldn't manage to do the thing they had bred her to do, and yet they asked her to anyway. I felt dirty for watching. "If I had won real money," I said, "I'd give it all to the Humane Society." Sad.

"Understanding the Terrorist"

Sums it up.

Problems with intelligent theologians as church leaders

Well, first the Pope made a muck of things with a misunderstood comment that got the Muslim community upset. Now the Archbishop of Canterbury has the other team's knickers in a knot. The first I'd heard of it was while driving and listening to right wing talk show host Jay Severin saying that the AB had recommended applying sharia in Britain. And that is the dumbed down version that has been making the rounds despite the fact that about the first twenty paragraphs of the AB's speech explains that sharia and the legal system of the country could not be placed in equivalency and should not be placed in opposition. (And Severin claims he is speaking to the "best and brightest" convincing them of such by frequent use of the word "aforementioned" which their other neanderthal friends can't pronounce.)

I find it interesting that, to make his point, the AB frequently uses the analogy of the Orthodox Jewish community within the larger British community. It's ironic, because the only English Jews I know finally had enough of polite English anti-semitism and in the 80s chose to move to Israel where they simply had to dodge rocket fire every so often. I also wonder whether the Orthodox Jewish community ever was the cause of any unrest within the nation. I don't recall ever hearing of their trying to stone any adulteresses in the last couple thousand years, but I guess they've had more time to get used to living in nations where their laws are not the laws of the land. Though I think in many ways the Jews simply didn't fight for their "rights" such as, (as in his example) not to handle a Bible in the course of their sales job. They were a minority and didn't expect concessions. Things have changed. As a minority becomes a significant portion of society, obviously, the balance starts to shift, and if the society as we have known it is to be salvaged, there has to be some way to take the religious views into account.

The questions the AB poses also apply to how a Christian viewpoint is to be incorporated into a secular society such as that of the U.S.. For example does the Christian view of marriage define what marriage is for everyone? Many Americans seem to think so. But the justification for this, based in the historical idea that marriage only existed thanks to the religious tradition, does not seem sufficient when there are people with other beliefes who want to participate in other kinds of marriages. So why don't the conservatives like what the AB is saying, when he is trying to figure out how there can be a place for religious ideas in our mutual society. This example of marriage demonstrates that the demarcation between church and state has never been as absolute as some would imagine and wish it to be.

Please read the full text of the Archbishop's lecture and judge for yourself:
http://www.archbishopofcanterbury.org/1575

2 years and 3000 words short

But I have done it! The first draft of the novel I began for NANO (was it two, or even three?) years ago is finished.

In many ways it is more of a plot outline, needing embellishment.

But it is something!

On the impossibility of running a church

A nice older lady from the church asked me the other day, "I hope you felt appreciated as the parish administrator. You did such a good job." I thanked her and said I did. Many people did compliment me on the quality of the church's publications. Of course there were those who nagged and nudged, feeling the web site was never quite trendy enough, but I wouldn't say over all that it was lack of appreciation that caused me to leave. Rather, it was lack of authority.

Authority is a closely related sibling: because if people appreciated the fact that I alone had an overview of the church's operations on both the physical and spiritual levels, they would have LISTENED TO ME! And yes, they would have paid me more than a quarter of the Rector's salary (remuneration being yet another sibling --one kept in a closet--of appreciation). But this disparity in wages is indicative of the systemic view which ultimately will cause the organization to collapse.

It is currently imploding, as the Rector hired someone completely incompetent to replace me. It's gotten so bad, they have called in a consultant. I hope, if she is not getting paid a flat fee, but by the hour, that someone suggests she talk to me. It'll save her A LOT of time. But what can the hired help know?

My husband suggests that the Rector, and perhaps the community, actually prefer having someone incompetent in that position, because that justifies their sense of superiority and the way their values are shown through the budget. First, you get clergy who have been to prep school and elite colleges. Then you send them to seminary where they learn all kinds of interesting critical theories about religion and NOTHING about organizational management, thereby reinforcing the idea that such things are mere details and not worthy of the spiritual giants that all the ordained must be. Then you wonder why the structure is in chaos, the Rector is tearing out his hair and falling asleep in meetings. The solution is to respect (not just appreciate) those with the gifts of administration. Give them power and authority equivalent to that of the clergy (or merely a step below, not a grand canyon below). But classism seems to be so built in to the structure of the Episcopal Church that it is the comfy log they keep in their own eye that feels so much nicer when they worry about injustice somewhere across the seas.

Save some animals today

Clicking apparently donates money for animal rescue.

Today's ski report

Run, hide, go back to your cubbies... The fact that I am writing this ski report, from the lodge, is indication enough that conditions are abysmal! Not just wet, but wet and icy! One minute, your sinking into mush, the next you are skidding across the surface. One run was enough for me. Naturally, the husband is still out there, though even he admitted that Sunset should be closed and was death defying.

I'm dry now and putting some time into the novel. Someday it will get done. There's just so much exposition that awkardly needs to be inserted when your two main characters leap ahead in time five years.

Why does "utilize" exist?

Is there ever a situation in which the word "utilize" would express a nuance of meaning that could not be conveyed by "use?" If you know of such a case, please let me know. And if not, can you explain why the word "utilize" came to exist, if not merely for the purpose of giving people more useless syllables to say?

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.

Sound track for my death bed

How did people ever manage to die without being able to arrange the proper tunes for their exit strategy? Listening on my way in to work this morning to the piece commonly known as (but no more, by me) Albinoni's Adagio, I was caught up in its beauty and realized that this is what I want to hear as I leave this world, to soothe and to serenade and to sweep away my soul in a swirl. Our trusty morning explainer informed his listeners that this was not really a baroque piece at all, but had been finished by a twentieth century composer based on a few fragments of a piece by Albinoni. Rushing in to read more about this, I learned that Remo Giazotto was researching Albinoni, most of whose archival material had been destroyed in the bombing of Dresden, when he discovered a manuscript with the bass line and six bars of melody (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Remo_Giazotto). Apparently this was in 1945, though on Wikipedia's Albinoni page it says it was done in 1958, the year of my birth. But in any case, it is interesting that this work, along with Messiaen's Quartet for the End of the Age, also written out of the devastation of WWII, speaks to me so deeply. I guess I am truly a baby boomer, a child who emerged from the fragments of that broken world. Only to crawl through the rubble of this one.

Prayer

God of the nanosecond

Oh God, you are as present in a nanosecond
as in the great rolling waves of eternity,
as present in cramped closet as in the cathedral.
Help me, during this busy season,
to find you in those nanoseconds
and in those infinitesimal spaces.
Amen.

Saturday post on Saturday the novel

Finally finished Ian McEwan's Saturday which Pru wanted me to read. I didn't want to read it most of the way through since it only seemed to increase my anxiety; he did such a good job of describing that lingering fear that has colored our lives since our awakening to uncertainty on 9/11. This wasn't the kind of reading I wanted to do in my few spare minutes for light reading. Give me Pym, give me Howatch, I yearned, but plowed through . Spoiler warning ahead. I didn't know what to expect, having not read any of his books before and when I started a review that said something about how one knows what to expect when reading some other authors and McEwan, I stopped, because I was enjoying not knowing. (Although I did know, from the character's comments on magic realism--that if anything can happen, nothing matters--that this author would probably not have characters start flying out the window, at least, not unless they fell to gruesome death). I feared the worst, deciding, midway through, that his beloved wife would probably be murdered right before his eyes. But the actual ending turned out, after all, to be cathartic and satisfying. But. The idea that listening to someone recite "Dover Beach" would have a powerful effect on a criminal is absurd. McEwan has clearly not taught English. He was not stood in front of a classroom, reciting it, practically acting it out so that the students (adult working class women returning to college!) can hear it, can visualize it and been met with their blank stares, their disinterest, their "just don't get it" comments. All right, this is America. Maybe it's different in England. Maybe it's more like hearing the pledge of allegiance (and for that matter, Baxter probably would have heard it in school even if he'd quit at 16). Maybe there's something about the disease of Huntington's chorea that is supposed to make one especially sensitive to language (explaining Woody Guthrie's talent?)

But still, it is of course the perfect poem to act as a unifying thread in the novel. It functions much the way the recitation of the Wreck of the Deutschland did in Muriel Spark's, The Girls of Slender Means. That classic explored the nature of good and evil in an England traumatized by World War II, and, I would suggest, reaches the same conclusions about the necessity of a gesture towards the good, despite or perhaps because of the predominance of evil. This one probes similar points in the post 9/11 world. Interesting isn't it, that these two great poems of written by Victorian Englishmen should so shed light on these 20 and 21^st century situations. I did, of course, think from the beginning, when Henry spends so much time staring out his window, of "Dover Beach" (can any literate person see someone standing at a window in literature without making that association?). I remembered how my Victorian studies professor had spoken of the motif of staring out windows as an omnipresent theme in Victorian literature, though I can't think exactly what he said about it. Liminality, perhaps: being neither fully in or out… Questions of consciousness were paramount for Victorians. Who is the perceiver? How does perception change the ultimate reality of the object perceived? And so of course windows, those instruments through which we perceive the world, signify these questions, the questions that haunt our neurosurgeon protagonist. Brains look out through eyes, characters through windows. The sea of faith, in Arnold's poem, recedes, but now we know that such a dramatic recession prefigures a tsunami—the return of faith with a vengeance~

Finally, a ribbon magnet I like

this one says "support the industry that produces ribbon magnets"!!

It gets worse

It's not just St. Jonah's that uses the phrase (see previous post). In fact, the offensive phrase "the real instruments of unity" originates from the Episcopalians for Global Reconciliation. I'm not sure exactly what they think they are reconciling, when they are using such alienating language (and sneakily, since most of the gung-ho let's fix the world folks probably don't even know what its referring to).

"The 'real' instruments of unity

Members of St. Jonah's have greeted the Millenium Development Goals with unprecedented glee. It's quite a shock, really, to see everyone so delighted. At last, they keep saying, the convention has given us "the real instruments of unity." Even their bulletin announcements regarding this endeavour contains this phrase. No one apparently stops to consider that sniffing at the instruments of unity, also known as the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Primates Meeting, the Lambeth Conference and the Anglican Consultative Council, is just in the teensiest bad taste. I wish I could say that what they mean is that we all now agree that Jesus was speaking truth when he said, "the poor you will always have with you," but alas, I don't think that's what the MDG-obsessed are thinking. Instead, I suspect they are feeling that they have been given carte blanche in feeding their frenzy of doing-ness, of earning righteousness, and oh happy day, in thumbing noses at historical traditional and what it offers in terms of connection to the larger body of Christ in the world. To think, some of us at some point in our lives, felt this excited about getting to know Jesus.

Using your cell phone for centering prayer

Well that sounds like a joke doesn't it? Isn't the cell phone the symbol of all that so completely distracts us from our life of prayer? Well, I figured out a way to use it so that it helps me! I'm not one of those people, like my husband, who wears wrist watches with all kinds of doodads. As far as watches go, I'm strictly analog. But that means I never have any kind of alarm handy, and so that means that one sneaks looks at the time, when one has set oneself 15 or 20 minutes for centering. Then I realized that my cell phone has an alarm that is easy to use. So now, I can just sit patiently and not worry that I will "overpray." (Not likely!) Of course, this wouldn't work so well if you get frequent calls (I'm not sure if you can turn off the rings and still have the alarm) but since I don't, it's good!

strange days

Father Burt is rummaging around through the cabinets in the kitchen. He says he's looking for something to put holy water in. I almost joke "doing an exorcism?" then stop myself. Why is he looking for something to put holy water in, if not for a purpose along those lines? We find an old pepper jar, and put the pepper in the salt shaker. (If we used the salt shaker, it would be more of an aspergeres!). He wipes it out, gets some holy water from the font, gives it to the woman who is waiting then leaves. He sits down by my desk. "Whew." She is from Venezuela, and her ex-husband has joined a Santeria cult. She said that she and her daughter are "seeing things" around their house. "Things? Like tokens or dead animals?" "No," he says, "like Spirits." "Oooh, cool." Of course, the Holy Water was rather an afterthought: she had originally signed up to speak to a priest for financial help, and seeing as we had no grocery gift cards, asked for this instead. Pray for her!

Still Dualistic

Perhaps the two sides in America (liberal/conservative) can better be framed in terms of whether one finds it more compelling to draw one's identity from a sense of battling power, or from a sense of being a part of a positive force.

Those who see themselves as battling power tend to automatically respond to claims of victimization, and to see governments as necessarily evil, and all oppositional groups as necessarily justified. This view can be supported from the Christian perspective by reference to Jesus' identification with the poor, and his victimization on the cross, and it is a corrective to earlier views which used Christ's missionary mandate as an excuse for imperialistic conquest. However, it tends to idealize the position of victim to the point of neglecting the concept of Christ's ultimate triumph.

Those who see themselves as aligned with a positive force for good tend to belittle claims of victimization, and see the government as deserving unwavering support, thus leaning towards blind patriotism.

What is the solution? How can we draw our understanding of who we are from a balanced perspective of Christians who follow an Almighty God who was willing to become weak? Can we recognize that not all claims of victimhood are equally legitimate? That some, are in fact, simply grabs for power? Can we live in paradox?

When it changed

I snagged the Rector's copy of Theology Today when it came in, and glanced through it before passing it on. I came across this interesting and timely statement by William Cavanaugh:

“This is not an exceptional nation and we do not live in exceptional times, at least as the world describes it. Everything did not change on 9/11; for Christians, everything changed on 12/25. When the Word of God became incarnate in human history, when he was tortured to death by the powers of this world, and when he rose to give us new life—it was then that everything changed. Christ is the exception that becomes the rule of history. We are made capable of loving our enemies, of treating the other as a member of our own body, the body of Christ.”

Cavanaugh, William. “Making Enemies.” Theology Today. Vol. 63, no. 3, October 2006. 307-323.

It caught my attention because I had read something else recently (in Christian Century?) that spoke of the concept of American exceptionalism and I thought that this might be an interesting concept to work with in the American Literature course, which I'll be teaching later in the fall. I think Cavanaugh makes an excellent point that helps us put into perspective the feeling that Americans between the ages of 20-60 felt about the terrorist attacks. Unlike older Americans who remembered Pearl Harbor, we had never experienced an assault on our own land before. (I discount younger people because, as far as I can tell from the kids I know, they were not particularly affected by the images of the towers falling, not being able to distinguish between them and the familiar images of destruction they see in their favorite games and movies). When I read this statement at first I thought it was a shame that Cavanaugh had to use the artificial construct of 12/25 to build the symmetry to make his point. After all, we smart Christians know that Christ wasn't born on that specific day. We could pinpoint an actual date for the Resurrection, why didn't he use that? But then I got to thinking, well, whether or not it was 12/25 (and it certainly wouldn't have been called that then) it was a specific day. And that number symbolizes that. And contemplating how numeric symbol functions, and letting its meaning sink in, in the same way that the numbers 9/11 have sunk in, helps make his statement even stronger and makes me find a source of hope.

Sister Helen

I admire Sister Helen Prejean, author of Dead Man Walking, and an advocate for life in all its pathetic manifestations. She did err, however, in signing a political statement, which she has been forced to retract. I think we see here another example of the dangers when we seek political solutions for spiritual problems.

the Gospel according to clipart

Since I am going on vacation, I'm working on the next two weeks' bulletins, so this thought applies to the readings for Sunday, September 3.

The only part of the lection reading that had room for clipart was the Ephesians passage about the armor of God. You'd think there'd be tons of images there: at least these are tangible objects! But I couldn't find anything except little boys dressed up as roman soldiers. I knew I had to be careful with this: anything too militaristic would raise people's hackles here at St. Jonah's. But as I was searching, and re-reading the passage, it made me aware of how Paul is transforming the traditional images of warfare. Essentially, he's looking at the real soldier of his day and saying, yes, you need a helmet, but not one made out of --whatever metal they made them out of them--you need one of salvation. He's seeing equivalents, metaphors and the point is that soldiers of the Lord are not violent warriors. They are peaceful warriors, as yoga and tai chi would have it. It's a term that's been taken over a bit by the New Age folks, but if you engage in a martial arts practice, or yoga which has its warrior pose, you can get a sense for what this means....

Lectionary Thoughts

I haven't been reading along in the Judges passages of the Daily Office lectionary lately: just getting through the Epistle and Gospel, and mostly as always, dwelling on the psalm. But today, since I just had a couple minutes, I only looked at the Judges passage. Coming to it without context, out of the blue, it struck me as very strange. I'm reading along, and somebody's recovered some money and his mother is happy, and she wants to celebrate and express her gratitude towards the Lord and everything seems fine and dandy but hey, wait a minute. She wants him to do what?! Thank the Lord by making an idol? How did this happen? Well, verse six explains it: "In those days there was no king in Israel; all the people did what was right in their own eyes." Not a happy verse for those of us born and trained in democratic ideology but a sound enough explanation, for those times, as well as for ours. What strikes me about the passage is how normal everything, except for the bit about the idols, sounds. They remembered most of what they are supposed to do, there are supposed to be ephods and teraphim and Levites should be priests, there's this longing to worship, but they have missed or mislaid this huge important part of what the monotheistic religion proclaimed. Aren't we just like that? Full of our process theology and our oh so sophisticated ways of reading Scripture, and grasping on to as much of the rituals as we care to remember, but are not we often missing the reality--the connection with God, and instead creating idols of our own creation?

Little do they know

A glimpse of what goes on behind the scenes here at St. Jonah's.

There are a few clergy persons associated with the church of St. Jonah's. Just for fun we'll call the main two Burt and Ernie. 'Scuse me, that's Father Burt and Father Ernie. Father Ernie, the Rector, leaves on vacation after constructing elaborate calendars showing his time off and the other clergy and staffs' vacation times, etc. Only then at the last minute he realizes he's not really going to come back on the day the calendar says he is, and he asks Father Burt to take the services on Sunday the 27th. (This part is a plausible reconstruction of events, based on the fact that Fr. Burt seemed to know that Fr. Ernie wasn't going to be around before the 29th in an earlier conversation.) Then the trusty Parish Administrator (me, Doc Bubbles), trying to get a jump start on the next week's bulletins since she is going on a long awaited vacation, discovers--horrors--that the second lesson for the 27th, according to our still-in-use lectionary, contains the dreaded passage: "Wives, be subject to your husbands, as you are to the Lord." The only choices given are in the psalms, and of course any priest in his right mind would at least want to pray the psalm that begins "Protect me, O God"! She then checks to see if our female clergy might be preaching that day, which might have a palliative effect on the situation, but no, she's out of town. Her chart shows Fr. Ernie's name in red, which means he told her he wasn't going to be back, so she runs to Fr. Burt to see what he wants to do, and he says "Why ask me, I'm not even going to be here that day?"

Too bad Doc Bubbles is going on vacation, 'cause she might well have come up with a lively sermon--maybe she would focus on the really difficult first sentence of the passage: "Be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ." But not even she can jump in so will there be some bewildered people milling about the church on Sunday morning a week from today?

Doc Bubbles makes calls, sorts things out and it seems that things will proceed in accordance with the rubrics after all. Now, stayed tuned to find out whether Fr. Burt decides to make the leap over to the Revised Common Lectionary, which happily omits this nasty bit.

Preposterousness

I swear, I was only googling to find the exact words of a quote I remembered, attributed to George Orwell: "there are some ideas so preposterous only an intellectual will believe them." Don't ask why this came back to mind and why I wanted to verify it. But google only discovered a couple references to the quote. One brought me to Shrinkwrapped's blog which offers some interesting material (by the way, he has been UNable to verify the authenticity of the quote) including the following: Pity the Poor Anti-Semite. Worth reading.

Different viewpoint on Lebanon

I was browsing our local Newman Center's website and found a link to what appears to be a national Catholic online newspaper. This article presents the point of view that Lebanese Catholics and other Christians do not hate the Israelis and they do fear Hezbollah, a point of view that I have not heard around St. Jonah's!

Not your mama's VBS

Churches around the country have gatherings for kiddies in the summer called Vacation Bible Schools. Not St. Jonah's. We have Going Medieval Arts Camp. Children get to craft gargoyles, cut their fingers on pieces of stained glass, and enjoy other features of life in the Middle Ages without being bothered with pesky notions raised by Biblical stories. My stepdaughters even enjoy it, and the 16-year-old has decided she doesn't believe in God. (My approach to managing teenagers is borrowed from the wisdom of appreciating the weather in New England. If you don't like it, wait five minutes. So I say nothing.) She was, to all appearances, a fine and friendly counselor during Going Medieval, even to the obnoxious five-year-old who everyday he insisted he could do something better than the teenagers. But when it was all over she was going to reward herself by making a purchase at the neighborhood comic store. She wanted a button that asked, "I'm sorry. Was it my job to fill your life with joy today?"

Why doesn't audio daily office work for me?

I like podcasts and books on tape. I like reading the Daily Office. I would have thought, when coming across an Episcopal church that offers a daily podcast of the Office that it would be something I could use but I can't. There are maybe two reasons. One, this guy's voice and style. I don't mind the new agey music in the background, that works a bit to counteract the cheesy Christian radio sound that he gives to it, but there's something about his slick delivery that reminds me of the lite Christian radio station back in New Jersey that I listened to in a bygone time. (It's out of Maryland, but there's no hint of the South in his voice.) I tried to get past that. After all, we are supposed to be "saying" the office, not just reading it, my tendency, when I read it alone, and wander off in trains of thoughts on various passages, or dwell overlong on some verses from psalms, shouldn't be what defines it for me as prayer. I can't control the speed when gathered with others to say an Office. And yet, and yet... when I read the words myself, I am praying them. When someone else reads it, I am listening to him pray. It's just different.

Items we gotta have

The Episcopal Media catalog arrived on my desk featuring a page of Community Builder and gift items. Of course the usual caps and t-shirts. The Episco-bear is kinda cute, and hey, what dog wouldn't be proud to bear the shield on his collar (and what about kitty collars, people?!). But Episcopal flip flops? Surely there is a saboteur in their midst, who came up with this one! Not that the idea of leaving a little trail of shields behind one in the sand (from the shape cut into the bottom of the sandal) isn't a dynamic evanglical tool (at least until the tide comes in) but isn't the whole concept of flip-flop, as in changing one's mind on critical issues, not exactly something with which we want to be closely associated? Just thinking...

Zapped!

So lightning struck the church. What I mean by that is, um, lightning struck the church, or near enough to us to knock out the power sometime after I left yesterday. Today we still have no phones. We put in a battery back up for the phone system, but since the outage happened right after everyone left, the battery didn't last long enough. At least that's the theory. The phone folks haven't come yet. But naturally, I am enjoying the peace. And yes, naturally I am experiencing a sense of God's presence in this. Not that I think God is up there hurtling thunderbolts on us, but hey, it is kind of funny that right after someone defiles the space with propaganda calling Israelis "predators" that the church is struck by lightning. Kind of does make Doc Bubbles think of Genesis: "12 Now Yahweh said to Abram, "Get out of your country, and from your relatives, and from your father's house, to the land that I will show you.2 I will make of you a great nation. I will bless you and make your name great. You will be a blessing.3 I will bless those who bless you, and I will curse him who curses you. All of the families of the earth will be blessed in you."

tempted!

Just after yesterday's post someone parked a car right in front of the church with a big blue swirlygig "ribbon magnet": this one supposed to make me aware of Down's Syndrome! They are trying my saintly patience!

What is my price?

It was almost a bar of chocolate, no, not just any bar, but a bar of Equal Exchange, Organic Dark Chocolate with Almonds, bestowed upon me by a true believer--in the destruction of Israel. Ah, but how deeply and with what passion she believes she is on the side of the light. She had asked to insert a notice in the bulletin, announcing the distribution of a letter from the Anglican Bishop in Jerusalem. She had heard that last Sunday a plea was made for contributions to go to Episcopal Relief and Development's Middle East Crisis emergency fund, which seems relatively neutral in its mission to provide humanitarian aid (though, apparently, not to any Israeli Jews) http://www.er-d.org/newsroom_76926_ENG_HTM.htm . In her mind this meant that we were supporting the Bishop Riah, and it gave her a perfect opportunity to distribute one of his anti-Israeli screeds.

And, so, in preparation for this I was searching the web for some kind of article that would provide another perspective, something that would point out that it is in fact Hebollah that is using the children and innocent civilians of Lebanon as cannon fodder. That you can't broker a cease-fire with a terrorist group. Here's one that expresses it well: http://www.frontpagemag.com/Articles/ReadArticle.asp?ID=23628. Or how about an article that exposes Riah as supporting the Muslim suicide bombers? http://www.comeandsee.com/modules.php?name=News&file=article&sid=415 . Nah, that probably would seem reasonable around here. If only recovering terrorist Walid Shoebat had some good articles www.shoebat.com, but he only seems to be available for speeches. Besides, these are a bit obvious. Perhaps the article by a good liberal like Rabbi Lerner, that I found on Tikkun's website: http://www.tikkun.org/rabbi_lerner/asktherabbi might be snuck in to the pile without causing a witch hunt...

I was exploring these options when she came in to drop off her batch of propaganda and started regaling the virtues of her new favorite chocolate bar: "here, have this one!" she gave it to me and I accepted. She is a kind person, just very deluded, having brainwashed herself with nonstop reading of one sided views of a situation half a world away. I always wondered what makes people take up a particular cause. I look around and see thousands of them. Every car's bumper sticker here asks you to save another ethnic group or animal species. And please, if I see yet another disease taking over the sideways squiggle that's supposed to represent a tied ribbon to get me to be aware of autism or diabetes or schizophrenia, I may have to tear it from the car! But people find one to latch onto. The Tibetans. The Palestinians. The Sudanese. How do they decide?

I think we need a new 12 step program for parishioners of St. Jonah's. World-savers Anonymous. Its first step: "Just for today, I will let God save the world instead of me. Just for today, I will be Christ to one person whom I encounter." Imagine that, church!

Anyway, munching on the yummy candy bar, I thought about giving up my stealth counter campaign. Let me just read Bishop Riah's statement. And there in the first sentence, I read the Israelis described as "predators"! We don't even need the article about his earlier statements. It is clear enough where he stands. And there are people in this church who do not think this is partisan and inflammatory, but belongs on a table promoting Christ's peace!!!! I am going to go nuts here. And no, I won't be bought off by the candy bar. Friends, let me know which article I should print out.

P.S. Do all brit folk refer to paper cutters as guillotines? She does!

Cool Bumper Sticker of the Day

Republicans for Voldemort!

One good thing

Dimly seen through the dissipating clouds of hot air now clearing over Columbus was one good decision, one which will matter to us in our pews. On November 22, we will be able to celebrate the life and witness of Clive Staples Lewis.

A094: Church Year Calendar Inclusions. Proposes
these commemorations for inclusion in the
Church Year Calendar and authorizes trial use
for the triennium 2004-2006: Janani Luwum,
Archbishop of Uganda and Martyr, 1977 -
William Temple, Archbishop of Canterbury,
1944 - Clive Staples Lewis, Apologist and
Spiritual Writer, 1963.

Of course, it doesn't take too much speculation to imagine that Lewis is sitting in his favorite heavenly pub, shaking his head in disbelief... or chuckling...

the body

There's a body in the church right now. Yeah, a dead one. You wouldn't think that's unusual enough to remark on, especially if you are among those people that think of church as the place you go to name your baby, get married, and get a good send-off into the next world. But nowadays most of what we see are cremations. I suppose I should think of those little boxes of ashes as bodies too, but it's awfully hard to relate them to a formerly living person. I've had the ashes of former friends sitting on my desk. (I also have the ashes of a beloved cat on my dresser at home, come to think of it.) I've carried people's ashes in a shopping bag to the sacristy. No big deal. But when the hearse arrives, and the men in suits (the funeral director now wears grey!--perhaps that's his gesture to summer) navigate the awkward ramp and all the next of kin stand around, wondering what to do or think, you know. The men must exert themselves to carry this large wooden box. You know there is a body in there. You know someone has passed from this life and it is real. I find it much more moving and solemn tha cremation. And that (in addition to not wanting to add to global warming with more smoke) is why I want to come to rest in earth.

My bit on the Convention

Thanks be to God: it's done.

Some are rejoicing and some are grieving. Danforth's advice for us Episcopos not to follow the example of Congress was too little, too late, I'm afraid. I stand ambivalent, realizing, for the most part, that my church's relationship with the Anglican churches round the world will not really matter to my life of worship here in Pixieville. I may praise or I may stand dumb, as always.

I wonder though, why, when it seems that planet earth has become so small, and our ability to interconnect so much deeper than ever before, that we become further apart in these theological matters, rather than closer.

But as I went running, with my Zen on shuffle, I listened as k.d. lang sang Leonard Cohen's "Hallelulah." And I knew: all shall be well.

Lectionary inspired rant

The lesson of the creation and the garden and the fall is not about the tangible world but about how truth got in. It is telling us the thing that is most unbelievable, that truth started with one tiny seed. One person and one God. The basic one on one relational nature of monotheism. First with God and Adam, then on to God and the nation of Israel, a relationship which by its uniqueness has caused anger and jealousy ever since, even though the point was that others are invited in. Paul/Saul recognized this when he said in Romans 11 “But if some of the branches were broken off, and you, being a wild olive, were grafted in among them, and became partaker with them of the root and of the richness of the olive tree; don't boast over the branches. But if you boast, it is not you who support the root, but the root supports you.” The mistake of gloating was made by many Christians, and by Mohammed, who passed it on to all Muslims. All these thoughts emerged from reading today’s Psalm, which is highly critical of the Hebrew peoples. But it’s like how a person from one ethnicity is allowed to make ethnic jokes about their own group, or use certain terms that, in the mouth of someone not of that group, would be considered a deadly insult. It’s fine for a Jewish prophet to denounce the Jewish people. But when Mohammed comes along, and reads that, and internalizes it and sends it back out into the world as “the Jews screwed up, now we’re the ones with an in to God” then we got a problem. (Now that I am teaching an online World Lit class, I am reading parts of the Koran for the first time and basically feeling insulted by it, both as a person of Jewish heritage, Christian faith, and as a woman. Hmm, not too many other ways you can insult me.)

Here's today's lesson, which reinforces that sense which, for reasons unknown, even the psalm evoked in me, of the very uniqueness of God and of God's relationship with each one of us.

1 Timothy 2: 1- 6 (NRSV)
1 First of all, then, I urge that supplications, prayers, intercessions, and thanksgivings be made for everyone, 2 for kings and all who are in high positions, so that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and dignity. 3 This is right and is acceptable in the sight of God our Savior, 4 who desires everyone to be saved and to come to the knowledge of the truth. 5 For there is one God; there is also one mediator between God and humankind, Christ Jesus, himself human, 6 who gave himself a ransom for all -this was attested at the right time.

It's also a good passage for those of us who don't want to see our church prayer time taken over by prayers that have political agenda. I do feel pain that there are people being tortured and will gladly pray for them, and for the torturers. But let's delete the emphasis on how much better we know how to run the world than do the people running it. As if we would not all become monsters given the power.

Underbellies

Recently, the Dean of the Cathedral stopped into the Church office. He caught up briefly on my life, when I reminded him that he was Curate at the church were I first became an Episcopalian back in the 1980s. "And now you're the church secretary!" Then seeing my expression, commiserated: "You really do see the underbelly of the church, in this job." It is true, for some reason, I am witness to, and often the recipient of, some of the Episcopalian's worst behaviors. But why, I wondered, was this compared to an underbelly? When my kitty lies on his back, stretching out all four paws in relaxation, I exclaim with delight: "such a cute belly--I wants to touch it!" (Not allowed.) When my friend's dog squiggles his back into the dirt, wriggling with pleasure, again, I laugh and enjoy the sight. Underbellies, in our "emotional support animals" are beautiful. Ah, if only I could find such beauty in the parishioner who called a meeting with me and all available clergy, presenting us with a manifesto claiming that removing a few names from the parish phone directory was "unethical" "unconscionable" and "damaging to our community." Excuse me for touching the database without calling an all-Parish meeting! Turned out the problem could be solved by me giving her the addresses of 10 people. Wow. Does that deserve the name of underbelly? Gracious readers, you tell me.

May Day

The periodic cheers rising from a cluster of people gathered on the Common finally draws Doc Bubbles out of her chilly office. She is fortunate to arrive just as poet Martin Espada begins reading his poem "Alabanza." He is a powerful reader, his voice riding the rhythmic swells, emerging from his own rolling deeps, the crowd joining in on the refrain "Alabanza" (bless them, the workers killed in the World Trade Center) and drums beat time as well. Even the hard-hearted Doc Bubbles feels moved, as she strolls through the crowd, with its signs, in various languages, proclaiming that a person cannot be illegal, a point with which it would, admittedly, be hard to disagree. Surely this chanting, this mustering of emotions, is the true descendent of Ginsberg's Howl. Surely this is poetry that can make something happen... if any poetry can, if anything can happen....

A familiar face in the crowd speaks to her, smiling, saying what a great turn out. Ever optimistic, working on every cause, serving on the select board, this individual is truly admirable. Doc Bubbles had been, after all, thinking it was a rather paltry crowd, a pitiful turnout for a town like Pixieville. She can remember when she was young, in the days of the protests against Nixon, against the Vietnam War, how it seemed like the bodies out there on the fields were hugely significant, changing the very structure of reality, sending reverberations of love and peace that shook even the White House. Apparently, those protests did have some actual, not just cosmic, effect, so why does Doc Bubbles tend to relegate those perceptions to the realm of childhood, of stoner fantasy? Why can she do nothing but shake her head at those who place their bodies in town squares now, and think, you innocents, aren't you cute, but, can you really believe any of this matters?

Plagiarism scandal du jour

We learn to speak by mimicking the sounds we hear: when we get the response we like, we make that sound again. We learn to write the same way. Good, precocious writers easily glom on to the trendy expressions and attitudes, mimicking them and putting them together in variations that appeal to the public. When a writer takes those standard, trendy modes of expression and pushes them just a teeny bit forward, we are astonished and pleased. We call that genius. Writers who push them more than a teeny step forward, are generally called Gertrude Stein. And no one reads her.

So did Kaavya Viswanathan borrow from Megan F. McCafferty? Yes. Did she intend to or know she did it? Very likely, not. Frankly, once again, my disdain falls largely upon the greed driven publishers, who latch hungrily onto a hot commodity like a Harvard-going young woman of color hailing from foreign shores (so much more appealing than a Jersey girl with an Irish name…) and rush to press, with zero quality control.

Doc Bubbles is trying to restrain her snarky laughter. Really.

Cool Bumper Sticker of the Day

Immortality or bust.

the forest for the trees

Spring has come full force to Pixieville. Every day, new trees are blossoming. Even in the unkempt churchyard of St. Jonah's (motto: "yes, Lord, angry enough to die" (Jonah 4:9)) the magnolia tree is in magnificent pink array. Those of us who toil here are uplifted as we walk to and fro, and see it from the window. In honor of next Sunday's being Earth Day, excuse me, Creation Sunday, the group of those dedicated to the environment here at St. Jonah's have set up a big triptych display--right in front of the window.

Do I even have to add any commentary?

Update on Heretic v. Heretic

As I'm sure you know by now, Dan Brown was exonerated of the charges that he unfairly reworked a single source, The Holy Blood and the Holy Grail, to create the Da Vinci Code. I should join in with all the free speech crowd who thinks this is a key victory: after all, what Dan Brown did, they argue, is what scholars do, transform and rework the ideas of others. Do I only want to see him fall because he totally relied on the work of one book and didn't do his own research, and instead, promulgated these half-baked theories to a gullible public? Not really... Do I want the world to learn the lesson I try to teach my students about BOTH citing sources, and checking on their reliability? Well, yes. And, I guess, it seems a little different from a free speech issue, when person 2 gets rich off the ideas that person 1 published first, but wasn't such a marketing whiz. But that, as we say, is capitalism.

Christ Among the Partisans

Garry Wills writes: "THERE is no such thing as a "Christian politics." If it is a politics, it cannot be Christian. "---this piece articulates just what I have been brooding over lately. Read it!