I note it's a Saturday, like any other, except, today, there's an edge.
Wife's out of town at a convention. I need to find an urn for Max.
I head downtown to gain my bearings.
First stop, the library, once an elementary school, still echoing the sounds of a century of use. An old friend who I haven't seen for 34 years, Persig, lays on a dusty shelf, while his proteges, the courtyard hoboes, type away on laptops.
To the East, the Running Buffalo Trading Company levitates over Main Street - feathers, flutes and drums for sale. A clay pot offered by the proprietress as Max's eternal home isn't right for the one who burrowed under any close blanket.
Farther east, urns notwithstanding, Riverby Books beckons. A cry through the open door asks "hey, where've you've been? You've got no credit, bring us more books!"
Who could resist? (And so I complied, a week later, earning $24 in credit, immediately gambled away on the Fitzgerald Odyssey, complimenting the Classic Comics Illustrated Iliad, issues 1-8, minus 6, I've been slowly devouring for months.)
The demure cashier laughs charmingly when she writes on the receipt, "The Heavenly City of the 18th Century Philosophers," saying goodbye in her own way to a obscure tome she instinctively knows by the look of the buyer has found a place at last on shelves holding dozens of other oddities.
Flagging, I'm at, coincidentally only, The Blarney Stone, where promises of Guinness easily tempt tiring passers-by. Swapping horror-builder stories with the bartender: him 4, us 4, on the same job; his, months not weeks, us, 6 weeks going on 4 months with no end in sight; a Waitsian crustacean reads attempted assassination stories from the paper aloud; an unemployed new father swears he'll tend bar but never bus tables - this might as well be Mulligans, Temple Bar, Dublin, and I, a real writer, harvesting essay fodder.
Truding West, a bit soggy in mind now, and avoiding, at first, as too obvious, Dog Krazy. Now, it's my last best hope.
Even at the specialists, the urn I'm seeking isn't easily found, so I avail myself of expert assistance, finding with her help: a silver treat jar embossed by a paw print (Max's signature greeting on birthday cards he mailed to family); a stiff standing bag painted with scenes of Min-Pins cavorting at the seashore (on his final, only, visit to the beach, Max stood stoically, gazing far into the distance, steadfastly sinking in the wet sand); and a story, offered for free, of how she was mis-diagnosed with cancer, nearly took chemo which would have killed her instantly, but just in the nick of time discovered it was only a skin disease so she lost 300 pounds and sold her convertible.
With the end-table shrine erected, the lawn mowed, and few clothes washed, I was unusually restless.
Finding myself at Borders, drinking dark coffee, listening to a French chanteuse singing "I'll be Seeing You," scribbling furiously away at notes which I might or might not be able to decipher in the morning, Persig's Zen Classical/Romantic dichotomy occurs in that while most of us find comfort on the Christmas village Main Street, there's another cross-street, where complimentarily, the jazzbeat of a cool Borders evening allows time for the contemplation of small town sentimentalities, propelling their essence onto wilder rides of rhythmic mathematical expression.
The Buddha is in both.
I miss Max.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Positively Job-like, Part 4
I note this Sunday morning, the Adult Sunday School of St. Margaret's Episcopal, Lake Ridge, Virginia, covered Chapter 2(A), Pages 37-42, of Brennan Manning's, The Importance of Being Foolish: Transparency.
Manning uses St. Francis as an exemplar of a transparent Christ-like personality, and then asks us about our capacities for contagious joy, enthusiasm, gratitude and forgiveness. Manning maintains preoccupations with security, pleasure and power (what I shorten to SP&P acronymically) block our way.
In the interests of transparency, I immediately confessed to preoccupations with SP; not so much '&P.'
Focusing on &P, I marked the 5% theory on the easel contrasted against the MTM ideal.
All my theories initially assume I'm average (though maybe a little stranger than an absolute mean, I'll grant) in that if I think about something, or not, or do something, or not, than most other folks have probably thought or done the same, or not.
Over the past thirty years then, as a bureaucrat, and in military service, I reckon there's been only two in which I toiled under an exceptional leader - the one you'd follow to hell and back. If that's, indeed, average, it means that for most of us, we've had that privilege 5% of the time over our careers.
The ideal against which that falls short, MTM, refers to the WJM newsroom where Mary, Murray and Ted, working for Lou, seemed happy as much as 60% of the time.
A quick class poll produced a range of workplace happiness responses, i.e., 0%, to reasonably content, most of the time.
Manning posits that if your attention is continuously focused on SP&P the results are 'worry, frustration, suspicion, anger, jealousy, fear and resentment, keeping us from transparency, dimming the light, and obscuring the glory of God in the face of Christ,' and I'd add, keeping us in a bloody miserable state indeed.
A question as to whether class members had ever personally encountered anyone transparent in a Christ-like way yielded few positive replies, but led, otherwise, to rephrasing the question more basically, then, as to how would you define Christ-like?
Those responses:
do unto others;
patient, upset, passionate but in a non-relativistic way;
love one another;
forgiving, accepting;
love, Corinthians-style;
submission as expressed in the Lord's Prayer;
everything that is good (submitted by our resident wonderfully precocious 10-year old in a non-intentional but wonderfully Greek sort-of-philosphical way).
I brought up once again that old personal bugagoo, materialism, while wearing the $7 shirt I bought at Wal-mart yesterday, which while admittedly providing a sense of security and pleasure, only seems to instill a too-fleetng high which is satisfying only until the next fix.
As is almost always the case, the Gospel reading today about the fruits of the Spirit, in concordance with yet another sermon challenging the congregation to give more of themselves, mysteriously completed the class - but we're not finished yet.
During coffee hour, we heard two Five Talents representatives provide an update on their international micro-loan program, particularly, in the Dominican Republic and Peru. As printed in the prospectus, one DR participant plans to buy 18 pairs of pants and 24 pair of underwear for re-sale with her loan.
I have more than 18 pairs of pants hanging in the closet and own as many pair of boxer shorts. The poverty spoken of today is unimaginable. At St. Margaret's, we don't just want to donate money, we want to feel a connection.
Unlike our lovely ladies, some of us, especially me, are aging (I was thinking during the presentation, if I went on a 5 Talents mission trip, would I be able to still take my twelve daily med's?) - but as discussed in the class, and in Kate's sermon, if we make an effort, we think, and I hope most of all, Jesus loves us for trying.
Manning uses St. Francis as an exemplar of a transparent Christ-like personality, and then asks us about our capacities for contagious joy, enthusiasm, gratitude and forgiveness. Manning maintains preoccupations with security, pleasure and power (what I shorten to SP&P acronymically) block our way.
In the interests of transparency, I immediately confessed to preoccupations with SP; not so much '&P.'
Focusing on &P, I marked the 5% theory on the easel contrasted against the MTM ideal.
All my theories initially assume I'm average (though maybe a little stranger than an absolute mean, I'll grant) in that if I think about something, or not, or do something, or not, than most other folks have probably thought or done the same, or not.
Over the past thirty years then, as a bureaucrat, and in military service, I reckon there's been only two in which I toiled under an exceptional leader - the one you'd follow to hell and back. If that's, indeed, average, it means that for most of us, we've had that privilege 5% of the time over our careers.
The ideal against which that falls short, MTM, refers to the WJM newsroom where Mary, Murray and Ted, working for Lou, seemed happy as much as 60% of the time.
A quick class poll produced a range of workplace happiness responses, i.e., 0%, to reasonably content, most of the time.
Manning posits that if your attention is continuously focused on SP&P the results are 'worry, frustration, suspicion, anger, jealousy, fear and resentment, keeping us from transparency, dimming the light, and obscuring the glory of God in the face of Christ,' and I'd add, keeping us in a bloody miserable state indeed.
A question as to whether class members had ever personally encountered anyone transparent in a Christ-like way yielded few positive replies, but led, otherwise, to rephrasing the question more basically, then, as to how would you define Christ-like?
Those responses:
do unto others;
patient, upset, passionate but in a non-relativistic way;
love one another;
forgiving, accepting;
love, Corinthians-style;
submission as expressed in the Lord's Prayer;
everything that is good (submitted by our resident wonderfully precocious 10-year old in a non-intentional but wonderfully Greek sort-of-philosphical way).
I brought up once again that old personal bugagoo, materialism, while wearing the $7 shirt I bought at Wal-mart yesterday, which while admittedly providing a sense of security and pleasure, only seems to instill a too-fleetng high which is satisfying only until the next fix.
As is almost always the case, the Gospel reading today about the fruits of the Spirit, in concordance with yet another sermon challenging the congregation to give more of themselves, mysteriously completed the class - but we're not finished yet.
During coffee hour, we heard two Five Talents representatives provide an update on their international micro-loan program, particularly, in the Dominican Republic and Peru. As printed in the prospectus, one DR participant plans to buy 18 pairs of pants and 24 pair of underwear for re-sale with her loan.
I have more than 18 pairs of pants hanging in the closet and own as many pair of boxer shorts. The poverty spoken of today is unimaginable. At St. Margaret's, we don't just want to donate money, we want to feel a connection.
Unlike our lovely ladies, some of us, especially me, are aging (I was thinking during the presentation, if I went on a 5 Talents mission trip, would I be able to still take my twelve daily med's?) - but as discussed in the class, and in Kate's sermon, if we make an effort, we think, and I hope most of all, Jesus loves us for trying.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Out of Control
I note this week while some folks mistake a laid-back attitude for comatose, there are times of genuine rage.
One was yesterday.
But before we get to that, years ago, new at managing, I, the younger, and as of yet, only erstwhile comatose, erupted when an employee tried to reverse a decision by appealing to another supervisor. Intense, then, recalling it now, fifteen years later, who cares?
The second comatose-ignitus flashed against a Hollywood backdrop of mistaken identity - can you imagine, a person who bought the Mrs. a Fisher-Price digital camera last Christmas, a paparazzo?
The conflagaration was lit, when suddently, at 3 p.m., chairs and sofas were removed from the lobby and ordinary paying guests of the Bevery Hilton were abruptly ordered to go to their rooms to make way for an Oscars-week function.
Caught up in the frenzy, rebelling against the phony authority, and aching to glimpse real live movie stars (Jack Lemon driving up in his Rolls, Billy Wilder in the passenger seat, stands out) - the fireworks flew after what I'm told is a typically arrogant off-duty LA rent-a-cop took exception to my clicking away from a vantage position behind a potted plant.
Yesterday's incident lies closer to home.
You must first understand how tight commuter train cliques become. Some are harmlessly benign - lots of laughs, camaderie, Friday evening happy hours - all in good fun.
Other cliques emerge terriorial and mean.
Driven by inane conversations too loud for 5:15 a.m., we sought peace in another car, only to encounter something more disturbing.
Living 65 miles south of the City, up at 3:10, in the parking lot at 4, on the platform at 4:30, first on the train at 4:50, a person earns rights to a seat of their choice.
By God, I've earned it, don't you agree?
Yet when a self-privileged clique pack boarded en masse, and one harpie in particular, face scrunched like a dried apple, took a seat opposite, spewing, glowering and mumbling, my usual peaceful mood, fortified so far by only one hurried cup of coffee, cracked and fissured under the strain of four straight days of harrassment. I'll grant you, a whispered aside to the wife, louder than I thought, was uncalled for, yet volcanic ash rages uncontrollably once the lava starts to flow.
Friend Jill senses an instinctive avoidance in me to situations which can't be tightly tucked at all four corners. Air travel, for example, where there's an intimidating security point, a wait for a flight which might be delayed so you miss a connection while your luggage doesn't, turbulence, the whole airlines megillah, is excruciating, until I'm channel surfing for HBO in a hotel room lying on a downy posture-pedic bed.
I note in the past week, however, two more serious occurences, brought to my attention, and not situationally-borne like those above, but long-simmering, where people accomodate themselves to a quiet daily rage which can erupt, but is, for the most part, suppressed.
There's the daughter of a friend, half African-American, half-Latina, who in High School, displayed a scientific brillance, and was surrounded by multi-cultural friends of a similar nature. As a college freshman, on her own, she was lost. While the campus sponsors associations for both her heritages, there is nothing for the blend of identities, nothing to support someone so special, and now we know, so fragile.
In the office, a dear friend, half-African American, half Phillipino, came over to show pictures of her trip to the South Pacific. On Guam, she met a fella of similar dual background. She'd finally discovered the like companion she'd never known and relished the experience.
Teaching Adult Sunday School last week, engrossed in the usual expression of obscure theology, a lady yelled out suddenly, "are you Jewish?"
Jill responded, "he used to be."
I guess it shows.
Growing up in New York, aged 3 months to 12 years, I thought everyone was Jewish. Moving to pre-Disney Florida, I didn't think anyone was but me. Hearing someone say "Jew him down," for the first time, turned my stomach. Already possessing an insular personality, my own company became increasingly sufficient; the world of comics, sports magazines, and books, a comforting retreat.
Moving to the exurbs of a Southern city containing a small Jewish presence, but one lacking eccumenical influence, I gravitated towards another available faith, one effectively active in local service ministry, After Baptism, ironically, I chaired philantrophic boards driven by mission statements exclusively Christian (which I tried to alter but to no effect). Nevertheless, there was no other way to build homeless shelters here.
The Virginia Episcopal parish I joined a decade ago is now split in two by the consecration of a gay bishop in New Hampshire. Fully emeshed in the inclusive remnant, it is the only place outside of immediate family, I've ever felt at home - yet this surviving half-a-parish isn't an exclusive clique, and until the split, the unified church never appeared as such (or else I was blind to it).
Our members defy any evolutionary instinct to shun intruders; each character, original or newcomer, has his or her own place, even those like myself, born of another faith entirely, and let's face it, a bit strange.
St. Margaret's Episcopal is the club to join that would have someone like me as a member.
This piece is an act of contrition. I confess and apologize for calling that woman on the train an old witch loud enough so she could hear. My personal apology was rebuffed so I present it at the foot of the Cross to Him who forgives everything offered by a contrite heart.
Will there be another regrettable out-of-control beserker?
I hope not. The hangover is brutal.
One was yesterday.
But before we get to that, years ago, new at managing, I, the younger, and as of yet, only erstwhile comatose, erupted when an employee tried to reverse a decision by appealing to another supervisor. Intense, then, recalling it now, fifteen years later, who cares?
The second comatose-ignitus flashed against a Hollywood backdrop of mistaken identity - can you imagine, a person who bought the Mrs. a Fisher-Price digital camera last Christmas, a paparazzo?
The conflagaration was lit, when suddently, at 3 p.m., chairs and sofas were removed from the lobby and ordinary paying guests of the Bevery Hilton were abruptly ordered to go to their rooms to make way for an Oscars-week function.
Caught up in the frenzy, rebelling against the phony authority, and aching to glimpse real live movie stars (Jack Lemon driving up in his Rolls, Billy Wilder in the passenger seat, stands out) - the fireworks flew after what I'm told is a typically arrogant off-duty LA rent-a-cop took exception to my clicking away from a vantage position behind a potted plant.
Yesterday's incident lies closer to home.
You must first understand how tight commuter train cliques become. Some are harmlessly benign - lots of laughs, camaderie, Friday evening happy hours - all in good fun.
Other cliques emerge terriorial and mean.
Driven by inane conversations too loud for 5:15 a.m., we sought peace in another car, only to encounter something more disturbing.
Living 65 miles south of the City, up at 3:10, in the parking lot at 4, on the platform at 4:30, first on the train at 4:50, a person earns rights to a seat of their choice.
By God, I've earned it, don't you agree?
Yet when a self-privileged clique pack boarded en masse, and one harpie in particular, face scrunched like a dried apple, took a seat opposite, spewing, glowering and mumbling, my usual peaceful mood, fortified so far by only one hurried cup of coffee, cracked and fissured under the strain of four straight days of harrassment. I'll grant you, a whispered aside to the wife, louder than I thought, was uncalled for, yet volcanic ash rages uncontrollably once the lava starts to flow.
Friend Jill senses an instinctive avoidance in me to situations which can't be tightly tucked at all four corners. Air travel, for example, where there's an intimidating security point, a wait for a flight which might be delayed so you miss a connection while your luggage doesn't, turbulence, the whole airlines megillah, is excruciating, until I'm channel surfing for HBO in a hotel room lying on a downy posture-pedic bed.
I note in the past week, however, two more serious occurences, brought to my attention, and not situationally-borne like those above, but long-simmering, where people accomodate themselves to a quiet daily rage which can erupt, but is, for the most part, suppressed.
There's the daughter of a friend, half African-American, half-Latina, who in High School, displayed a scientific brillance, and was surrounded by multi-cultural friends of a similar nature. As a college freshman, on her own, she was lost. While the campus sponsors associations for both her heritages, there is nothing for the blend of identities, nothing to support someone so special, and now we know, so fragile.
In the office, a dear friend, half-African American, half Phillipino, came over to show pictures of her trip to the South Pacific. On Guam, she met a fella of similar dual background. She'd finally discovered the like companion she'd never known and relished the experience.
Teaching Adult Sunday School last week, engrossed in the usual expression of obscure theology, a lady yelled out suddenly, "are you Jewish?"
Jill responded, "he used to be."
I guess it shows.
Growing up in New York, aged 3 months to 12 years, I thought everyone was Jewish. Moving to pre-Disney Florida, I didn't think anyone was but me. Hearing someone say "Jew him down," for the first time, turned my stomach. Already possessing an insular personality, my own company became increasingly sufficient; the world of comics, sports magazines, and books, a comforting retreat.
Moving to the exurbs of a Southern city containing a small Jewish presence, but one lacking eccumenical influence, I gravitated towards another available faith, one effectively active in local service ministry, After Baptism, ironically, I chaired philantrophic boards driven by mission statements exclusively Christian (which I tried to alter but to no effect). Nevertheless, there was no other way to build homeless shelters here.
The Virginia Episcopal parish I joined a decade ago is now split in two by the consecration of a gay bishop in New Hampshire. Fully emeshed in the inclusive remnant, it is the only place outside of immediate family, I've ever felt at home - yet this surviving half-a-parish isn't an exclusive clique, and until the split, the unified church never appeared as such (or else I was blind to it).
Our members defy any evolutionary instinct to shun intruders; each character, original or newcomer, has his or her own place, even those like myself, born of another faith entirely, and let's face it, a bit strange.
St. Margaret's Episcopal is the club to join that would have someone like me as a member.
This piece is an act of contrition. I confess and apologize for calling that woman on the train an old witch loud enough so she could hear. My personal apology was rebuffed so I present it at the foot of the Cross to Him who forgives everything offered by a contrite heart.
Will there be another regrettable out-of-control beserker?
I hope not. The hangover is brutal.
Sunday, August 17, 2008
Positively Job-like, Part 3
I note this Sunday, in St. Margaret's Episcopal Church, Lake Ridge, Virginia, we covered Chapter 1, pages 28-36, The Blessing, of Brennan Manning's The Importance of Being Foolish.
By way of introduction, I marked, "You don't bring me flowers anymore - or Do you?" on the easel, explaining when I stand on the train platform after work holding flowers, at least one wag, maybe several, inevitablity say, "in trouble?"
Manning opens by declaring Matthew 5:3: Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven "was never intended to moralize or threaten. On the contrary, the beatitude is a glad tiding, the great good news that the messianic era has erupted into history, the proclamation that the long-awaited day of salvation has finally arrived."
Manning further identifies two categories of blessed:
Per, Matthew 18 - Unless you become like children, you will never enter the Kingdom, referring to the absence of Youth Sundays in olden times, indeed, the young were just as scorned and marginalized as the poor. In fancy language, "the mercy of the Lord flowed to them wholly and entirely from unmerited grace and divine preference," or, as I can imagine Rich Mullins singing, just because God likes kids and wants to give them a present (in the same way I bring home flowers for no other reason once in a while than I love my wife).
The second, per Mark 2:17 - It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners. Again, Manning writes about sinners, who though they haven't done anything to merit salvation, open themselves to gifts offered them.
My question for the class in this light was what are they thinking when they approach the table for the gift of the Eucharist.
Under a heading called Communion-Think, I listed three possibilities: (a) I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy; (b) I'm Miss Goody Two-Shoes, so gimme my due; (c) I'm Mr. Roboto - isn't this where I'm supposed to be after they pass the collection plate?
Responses:
I need it for next week (not for solace, but strength);
it's symbolic of the greatest gift, His Son;
the KISS principle - keeps it simple, focused;
reflects a strong relationship with God;
remembrance;
it's a reality check - a moment's assurance that God loves me; and in lawyerly fashion, this is a form of assurance which requires no recompense;
holiness;
an outward invisible sign of inward grace.
As further reinforcement, Manning refers to Matthew 20:12-15, where the guys who show up for work at 4 p.m. get the same pay as those who'd been working 9 to 5.
Reactions were mixed, some angry, mostly mine, which was indiginant to the injustice, as opposed to most, who said they could rise above and counsel co-workers the same (though it was mentioned, in my defence, there's a difference, especially within the Beltway, between a for-profit business than a Government workplace which incorporates an inherent sense of entitlement).
Manning states, and there is no disagreement here, that "This is the very heart of the gospel and the fundamental theme of the beatitudes - the non value of the beneficiaries."
My take on all this is that when Jesus says in Matthew 5:48, Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect, it's a perfection which can only be achieved by acknowledging our imperfections, since we do not possess an ability to acheive perfection, other than through the grace of the One who calls us to this imperfect perfection.
When I was asked what I thought when I approached the table, I originally answered, "I'm Mr. Roboto." But then it hit me during Communion. It's not just performing the rite, it's taking part in the Eucharist with these people in this parish - with my beloved bride by my side, with my sister Jill, with my Godson - with all this congregation in this church. When Manning concludes, "the Christian's basic orientation is one of joy and gratitude," I know what he means.
By way of introduction, I marked, "You don't bring me flowers anymore - or Do you?" on the easel, explaining when I stand on the train platform after work holding flowers, at least one wag, maybe several, inevitablity say, "in trouble?"
Manning opens by declaring Matthew 5:3: Blessed are the poor in spirit for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven "was never intended to moralize or threaten. On the contrary, the beatitude is a glad tiding, the great good news that the messianic era has erupted into history, the proclamation that the long-awaited day of salvation has finally arrived."
Manning further identifies two categories of blessed:
Per, Matthew 18 - Unless you become like children, you will never enter the Kingdom, referring to the absence of Youth Sundays in olden times, indeed, the young were just as scorned and marginalized as the poor. In fancy language, "the mercy of the Lord flowed to them wholly and entirely from unmerited grace and divine preference," or, as I can imagine Rich Mullins singing, just because God likes kids and wants to give them a present (in the same way I bring home flowers for no other reason once in a while than I love my wife).
The second, per Mark 2:17 - It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners. Again, Manning writes about sinners, who though they haven't done anything to merit salvation, open themselves to gifts offered them.
My question for the class in this light was what are they thinking when they approach the table for the gift of the Eucharist.
Under a heading called Communion-Think, I listed three possibilities: (a) I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy; (b) I'm Miss Goody Two-Shoes, so gimme my due; (c) I'm Mr. Roboto - isn't this where I'm supposed to be after they pass the collection plate?
Responses:
I need it for next week (not for solace, but strength);
it's symbolic of the greatest gift, His Son;
the KISS principle - keeps it simple, focused;
reflects a strong relationship with God;
remembrance;
it's a reality check - a moment's assurance that God loves me; and in lawyerly fashion, this is a form of assurance which requires no recompense;
holiness;
an outward invisible sign of inward grace.
As further reinforcement, Manning refers to Matthew 20:12-15, where the guys who show up for work at 4 p.m. get the same pay as those who'd been working 9 to 5.
Reactions were mixed, some angry, mostly mine, which was indiginant to the injustice, as opposed to most, who said they could rise above and counsel co-workers the same (though it was mentioned, in my defence, there's a difference, especially within the Beltway, between a for-profit business than a Government workplace which incorporates an inherent sense of entitlement).
Manning states, and there is no disagreement here, that "This is the very heart of the gospel and the fundamental theme of the beatitudes - the non value of the beneficiaries."
My take on all this is that when Jesus says in Matthew 5:48, Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly Father is perfect, it's a perfection which can only be achieved by acknowledging our imperfections, since we do not possess an ability to acheive perfection, other than through the grace of the One who calls us to this imperfect perfection.
When I was asked what I thought when I approached the table, I originally answered, "I'm Mr. Roboto." But then it hit me during Communion. It's not just performing the rite, it's taking part in the Eucharist with these people in this parish - with my beloved bride by my side, with my sister Jill, with my Godson - with all this congregation in this church. When Manning concludes, "the Christian's basic orientation is one of joy and gratitude," I know what he means.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Borders vs, Big Monkey
I'm reminded this week of a summer evening years ago, typical of N. Virginia, where the sky darkens suddenly in the advent of a storm.
Leaving work, I was too early for the Hospice camp mixer so I pulled into Borders in Fairfax on Route 50. After browsing for a while, I sat in the cafe by a picture window watching the tempest past. This was my introduction to Elie Wiesel's memoirs, something you read which never entirely leaves you again.
What brought our tight band of volunteers together that night was the renewal of friendship, and instructions to newcomers, about a camp which teaches children how to cope with death just as Wiesel spent his lifetime after the Camps reconciling his survival and commemorating those who didn't.
Sixty years later, we who are second generation to those who perished, remember lost family members we never knew; one way is immersion in the immense literature of war and suffering, which I only do now during the starkest days of winter when there is little light lest I wallow in despair.
Another way is to cling to the comfort of a safe American past. On Saturday mornings while the house is still, I reach for stories of superheroes before reading excerpts from the biographical or historical tomes to heavy to carry on the train.
The shop where I buy comics, Big Monkey, in Massaponax, will likely close at the end of September, another victim of the failing economy. It's not the purchasing habits of old men like myself which keep a small business afloat - it's kids whose parents must choose between giving their child $20 and filling half a tank of gas.
Our local rag conducts a poll every year on stores people most want to locate here. Even though Barnes & Nobles and Trader Joe's top the list, whatever studies those corporations consult don't as of yet indicate promising local demographic support, though, later this year a Wegmans will open and perhaps, if successful, they'll be the wedge which opens the door to other desirable chains.
I've never believed the presence of a Borders or Barnes & Nobles in a small town drives independent bookstores like Big Monkey out. I, for one, patronize both, heavily, to the long-suffering chagrin of the wife, if you must know. I'm convinced,
reading materials, of all kinds, unlike clothes or hardware are sufficiently unique, taste-wise, to stand alone despite competition, when the economy is healthy.
If Big Monkey closes, the loss is personal, since there will be one less thing to talk about at church on Sunday with other Peter Pans - no Infinity Crisis', no end of the world, no imaginative tales of the universe and cosmic wars of Creation to mull over which mirror God's own endeavors.
No more chats about stories over coffee with friends I love dearly, and who, to a great degree, carry my hopes for a good long life forward with them.
Leaving work, I was too early for the Hospice camp mixer so I pulled into Borders in Fairfax on Route 50. After browsing for a while, I sat in the cafe by a picture window watching the tempest past. This was my introduction to Elie Wiesel's memoirs, something you read which never entirely leaves you again.
What brought our tight band of volunteers together that night was the renewal of friendship, and instructions to newcomers, about a camp which teaches children how to cope with death just as Wiesel spent his lifetime after the Camps reconciling his survival and commemorating those who didn't.
Sixty years later, we who are second generation to those who perished, remember lost family members we never knew; one way is immersion in the immense literature of war and suffering, which I only do now during the starkest days of winter when there is little light lest I wallow in despair.
Another way is to cling to the comfort of a safe American past. On Saturday mornings while the house is still, I reach for stories of superheroes before reading excerpts from the biographical or historical tomes to heavy to carry on the train.
The shop where I buy comics, Big Monkey, in Massaponax, will likely close at the end of September, another victim of the failing economy. It's not the purchasing habits of old men like myself which keep a small business afloat - it's kids whose parents must choose between giving their child $20 and filling half a tank of gas.
Our local rag conducts a poll every year on stores people most want to locate here. Even though Barnes & Nobles and Trader Joe's top the list, whatever studies those corporations consult don't as of yet indicate promising local demographic support, though, later this year a Wegmans will open and perhaps, if successful, they'll be the wedge which opens the door to other desirable chains.
I've never believed the presence of a Borders or Barnes & Nobles in a small town drives independent bookstores like Big Monkey out. I, for one, patronize both, heavily, to the long-suffering chagrin of the wife, if you must know. I'm convinced,
reading materials, of all kinds, unlike clothes or hardware are sufficiently unique, taste-wise, to stand alone despite competition, when the economy is healthy.
If Big Monkey closes, the loss is personal, since there will be one less thing to talk about at church on Sunday with other Peter Pans - no Infinity Crisis', no end of the world, no imaginative tales of the universe and cosmic wars of Creation to mull over which mirror God's own endeavors.
No more chats about stories over coffee with friends I love dearly, and who, to a great degree, carry my hopes for a good long life forward with them.
The Rev. R.G. Bury, RIP
I note this week, I was blessedly sentenced to physical therapy instead of surgery for the incurable inexorable degeneration of discs in the neck. As I waited upon the receptionist, a horde of ancients riding walkers streamed in behind, previewing the company I'll keep for the next several months if not the rest of my life.
It's not unfamiliar ground since I'm already enjoying the delightful company of the late Rev. R.G. Bury, scholar of Trinity College Cambridge, and prolific translator of ancient Greek texts (of which I can attest, as Cyril Connolly did, to the ease of grasping the materials in the translations published by the Loeb Classical Library, in particular, this week, the three volumes of Sextus Empiricus, released in 1939.
In fact, I've been taking notes so copiously and furiously on the commuter train, the rider next and I, entered into a scintillating conversation on the lost art of taking hand-written notes, something apparently, no one under 50 does anymore.
Mr. Empiricus, if he is known today at all, is a Phyronnist and Skeptic - a term which has taken on a harsher common meaning than in days of old. By Skeptic, Sextus meant a person who suspends judgment, neither affirming nor denying statements, for to do otherwise, is to pre-define truth itself, something that is subjective to every individual.
To be a Skeptic is to gain peace of mind, but going further, it is a form of mental therapy (no kidding, the ancient Greeks call it therapy) by grasping that since all arguments are equipellent (I love that word, it's so Buckley), you remain elevated in a state of perpetual inquiry.
You might ask, how then, could one claim to be a Skeptic and a Christian? My reply is that it is a personal non-dominating choice made by faith alone, and as Peter Maurin elegantly phrased it, remaining open to the further clarification of thought.
Parallel to the good Reverend, I'm reading I.F. Stone's Trial of Socrates every evening on the half-built screened-in porch minus screens. In his retirement, this muckraking journalist learned Greek so he might read source materials to better understand how individuals gained the right to speak their minds and how they paid the penalties for it.
Stone traces, something I'm wont to do, the genesis of the idea; his trail winds beyond the 17th century English Revolutions (Puritan and Glorious), farther down the ages past the Reformation, through the Middle Ages where the discovery of Aristotle by Aquinas rocked the thinking of Western Europe, landing finally in that famous courtroom in Athens.
The Spotsyltuckian similarly places great significance on the Reformation where the structure of the village parish was dismantled in lieu of State control, releasing the energies of national commerce, which in the American era continues to resonate as Lincoln promoted internal improvements and progress, while Jefferson was content to live in an agrarian country governed by landed gentry.
In a fabulous piece, John Brewer, in reviewing 'The Big Change, A Mad, Bad and Dangerous People, England, 1783-1846, emphasizes the loss of the first British Empire, especially America, and the Repeal of the Corn Laws, which by eliminating tarriffs and introducing international competition, prompted the growth of organized and enfranchised workers.
As during the Reformation, Brewer highlights: the continuing urbanization of a rapidly growing population; flucuating boom and bust economic cycles replacing a less violent and relativly natural rural stability; and the emergence of a prosperity gospel and Puritan work ethic which intermingled church, commerce and Godly blessings.
In mid-nineteenth century England, where Brewer's history ends, there stood a broad Anglican Church invested in civil rights, such as ending the slave trade and the promotion of political/economic reform, as against a High Tory backlash of those who claim the standard of defending country and traditional family values.
Sound familiar? We find the lines drawn today on our cultural battlefields where to be a conservative, is to be one who champions a free market which destroys the very traditional values he/she steadfastly defends, just as much as the excesses of the French Revolution horried the English.
As I strolled past a news-stand box on the way from the station to work and glimpsed the 'TEEN PACKS PROWL METRO' headline, immediately after reading yet another idiotic "it would appear that liberals are very anti-American, pro-one world government," letter in our local rag, I despaired over where an aging almost-retiree with a failing body and as-of-yet active mind might find solace in such a world.
Almost without hope, I stumbled upon, while surfing Sextus Empiricus, a heading called "Living is easy with your eyes closed: this month, the local Te Henga nursing group tackles the issue of scepticism versus cynicism and ponders which quality is more prevalent in the nursing profession."
You've just got the read the entire piece - it's wonderfully laugh-out loud hilarious, albeit in a nerd sort of way (which if you read this blog...), but a few highlights (mis-spellings and all), from New Zealand, via the world-wide web, that capture the flavor, such as, "The Te Henga Section of the Marxist Nurse's Union is currently hosting a series of educational and uplifting evenings. Last week we heard Helen Wishnesky - "Red Helen" - on "Scepticism as an inoculant against foolishness, bureaucratic excess and the folly of obedience. We don't have a very good tape recorder so this record is from notes. Unfortunately, Red Helen didn't have any, and mine got wine (also red) on them. So this is from memory, also dodgy - for reasons best left unsaid."
Also, "We asked Red Helen along because she's a bit of an intellectual. She says she's not academic. "Academics do it by themselves, intellectuals do it to each other," is how she explained the difference. No, it didn't make such sense to us either."
Lastly, "What really got him going was Jane Pain calling him a cynic. When Pat protested he was a sceptic, Jane said something dismissive like scepticism being cynicism in drag. So we invited Helen to give us a bit of an update on scepticism and so on. Red Helen let it rip. She gave us a succinct precis of scepticism from the Greek Pyrronhonian sceptics through to the Roman Septus Empiricus and to Immanuel Kant. She wove the utilitarian ethical philosopy of Jeremy Bentham and existenstial thought into a fascinating discourse tapestry, which was only occasionally interupted by the gentle snores of her audience."
That's it! Where can I find a place in America with nurses like these? You listen to a discussion and take a nap at the same time. Must we emigrate to New Zealand?
I can't top Red Helen, but inspired by her, and all that's happened this week, and by another piece in the New York Review on poor souls forced to flee, I'll stop, with this, lest you snore:
When the Bolshies seized old Russia,
and exiled philosophy by ships;
bound for Prague, Berlin and Paris,
silencing the couturier hip.
Lenin gave birth to Stalin,
oh, how the Soviets did sink;
like this broken body which sailed away,
leaving too much time to think.
It's not unfamiliar ground since I'm already enjoying the delightful company of the late Rev. R.G. Bury, scholar of Trinity College Cambridge, and prolific translator of ancient Greek texts (of which I can attest, as Cyril Connolly did, to the ease of grasping the materials in the translations published by the Loeb Classical Library, in particular, this week, the three volumes of Sextus Empiricus, released in 1939.
In fact, I've been taking notes so copiously and furiously on the commuter train, the rider next and I, entered into a scintillating conversation on the lost art of taking hand-written notes, something apparently, no one under 50 does anymore.
Mr. Empiricus, if he is known today at all, is a Phyronnist and Skeptic - a term which has taken on a harsher common meaning than in days of old. By Skeptic, Sextus meant a person who suspends judgment, neither affirming nor denying statements, for to do otherwise, is to pre-define truth itself, something that is subjective to every individual.
To be a Skeptic is to gain peace of mind, but going further, it is a form of mental therapy (no kidding, the ancient Greeks call it therapy) by grasping that since all arguments are equipellent (I love that word, it's so Buckley), you remain elevated in a state of perpetual inquiry.
You might ask, how then, could one claim to be a Skeptic and a Christian? My reply is that it is a personal non-dominating choice made by faith alone, and as Peter Maurin elegantly phrased it, remaining open to the further clarification of thought.
Parallel to the good Reverend, I'm reading I.F. Stone's Trial of Socrates every evening on the half-built screened-in porch minus screens. In his retirement, this muckraking journalist learned Greek so he might read source materials to better understand how individuals gained the right to speak their minds and how they paid the penalties for it.
Stone traces, something I'm wont to do, the genesis of the idea; his trail winds beyond the 17th century English Revolutions (Puritan and Glorious), farther down the ages past the Reformation, through the Middle Ages where the discovery of Aristotle by Aquinas rocked the thinking of Western Europe, landing finally in that famous courtroom in Athens.
The Spotsyltuckian similarly places great significance on the Reformation where the structure of the village parish was dismantled in lieu of State control, releasing the energies of national commerce, which in the American era continues to resonate as Lincoln promoted internal improvements and progress, while Jefferson was content to live in an agrarian country governed by landed gentry.
In a fabulous piece, John Brewer, in reviewing 'The Big Change, A Mad, Bad and Dangerous People, England, 1783-1846, emphasizes the loss of the first British Empire, especially America, and the Repeal of the Corn Laws, which by eliminating tarriffs and introducing international competition, prompted the growth of organized and enfranchised workers.
As during the Reformation, Brewer highlights: the continuing urbanization of a rapidly growing population; flucuating boom and bust economic cycles replacing a less violent and relativly natural rural stability; and the emergence of a prosperity gospel and Puritan work ethic which intermingled church, commerce and Godly blessings.
In mid-nineteenth century England, where Brewer's history ends, there stood a broad Anglican Church invested in civil rights, such as ending the slave trade and the promotion of political/economic reform, as against a High Tory backlash of those who claim the standard of defending country and traditional family values.
Sound familiar? We find the lines drawn today on our cultural battlefields where to be a conservative, is to be one who champions a free market which destroys the very traditional values he/she steadfastly defends, just as much as the excesses of the French Revolution horried the English.
As I strolled past a news-stand box on the way from the station to work and glimpsed the 'TEEN PACKS PROWL METRO' headline, immediately after reading yet another idiotic "it would appear that liberals are very anti-American, pro-one world government," letter in our local rag, I despaired over where an aging almost-retiree with a failing body and as-of-yet active mind might find solace in such a world.
Almost without hope, I stumbled upon, while surfing Sextus Empiricus, a heading called "Living is easy with your eyes closed: this month, the local Te Henga nursing group tackles the issue of scepticism versus cynicism and ponders which quality is more prevalent in the nursing profession."
You've just got the read the entire piece - it's wonderfully laugh-out loud hilarious, albeit in a nerd sort of way (which if you read this blog...), but a few highlights (mis-spellings and all), from New Zealand, via the world-wide web, that capture the flavor, such as, "The Te Henga Section of the Marxist Nurse's Union is currently hosting a series of educational and uplifting evenings. Last week we heard Helen Wishnesky - "Red Helen" - on "Scepticism as an inoculant against foolishness, bureaucratic excess and the folly of obedience. We don't have a very good tape recorder so this record is from notes. Unfortunately, Red Helen didn't have any, and mine got wine (also red) on them. So this is from memory, also dodgy - for reasons best left unsaid."
Also, "We asked Red Helen along because she's a bit of an intellectual. She says she's not academic. "Academics do it by themselves, intellectuals do it to each other," is how she explained the difference. No, it didn't make such sense to us either."
Lastly, "What really got him going was Jane Pain calling him a cynic. When Pat protested he was a sceptic, Jane said something dismissive like scepticism being cynicism in drag. So we invited Helen to give us a bit of an update on scepticism and so on. Red Helen let it rip. She gave us a succinct precis of scepticism from the Greek Pyrronhonian sceptics through to the Roman Septus Empiricus and to Immanuel Kant. She wove the utilitarian ethical philosopy of Jeremy Bentham and existenstial thought into a fascinating discourse tapestry, which was only occasionally interupted by the gentle snores of her audience."
That's it! Where can I find a place in America with nurses like these? You listen to a discussion and take a nap at the same time. Must we emigrate to New Zealand?
I can't top Red Helen, but inspired by her, and all that's happened this week, and by another piece in the New York Review on poor souls forced to flee, I'll stop, with this, lest you snore:
When the Bolshies seized old Russia,
and exiled philosophy by ships;
bound for Prague, Berlin and Paris,
silencing the couturier hip.
Lenin gave birth to Stalin,
oh, how the Soviets did sink;
like this broken body which sailed away,
leaving too much time to think.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Positively Job-like, Part Two
I note today I'll be reviewing MRI results at the family practice. Results will determine future quality of life. I suppose a life where there's always a reminder of constant sufferring theoretically carries an inherent Christian taint yet minus pain meds I could not endure it.
Upon retirement in February, joining the Y, adding pool aerobics to the proposed daily schedule of dusting, mopping, shopping for groceries, etc., looms preferable to surgery - we'll see.
A non-pharmaceutical way of temporarily alleviating pain is acheieved by engulfing the self in the fellowship of our dear old parish. For Sunday School this term, as previously noted, I've selected Brennan Manning's "The Importance of Being Foolish," a deceptive title in light of the last word; after two sessions, it's proven anything but light or foolish - there are deep waters of immersion in this pool.
For anyone following along at home, after the lively session, as reported upon last week, in which we investigated the editorial headline, 'When is a pharmacist not a pharmacist,' and how reactions reflect faith confronted by daily life, we've arrived safely at Chapter 1 (B) 'The Loss of Wonder.'
Prior to class, I marked on the easel, "I Wonder if the Word has Changed Your Life" starting the session by asking is there anything which results in a sense of wonder?
I began by describing cresting a hill in the Laguna Hills to encounter a sparking Pacific Ocean in the late morning sun.
Other responses:
- sex (if anyone was sleeping, this was a wake-up call);
- riding metro for the first time, a grandmother wondering where did the dirt go;
- in '48, plowing behind a mule, watching the sunrise;
- a recognition of being alive after close calls in military service;
- enjoying new everyday experiences;
- morning clouds and kids;
- nature (before/after church, glimpsing deer, a rabbit, horses and wild turkeys);
- successful birth of daughters after difficult pregnancies.
I asked the class if they'd experienced any similar sense of wonder at church. I began by describing a time in youth group where a girl, after spending a day repairing a roof in the blazing July sun of Savannah, turned in her ladder with an angelic look on her face.
Other responses:
- hearing Priest Kate preach "be not discouraged;"
- the annual Father's Day song by Sr. Warden and son;
- baptism of godson;
- wife's adult baptism;
- fellowship of our church family;
- Cursillo;
- 'a-ha' sermons;
- discovery of a continuing Episcopal Church in Eastern Prince William County;
- attending the original St. Margarets formation meeting;
- first charismatic experience;
- the Liturgy.
In reconciling secular and spiritual sets of responses, we explored if there was anything living in our faith experience which moves beyond comfortably numb to a place where we allow Jesus to push our buttons.
One such sharp but short exchange occured as brother R who'd expressed the above listed response of being alive after dangerous military experiences, pushed the buttons of our resident peace campaigner, when he went on to say, peace is only gained by war - this inviting topic will be more fully entertained at another time.
My offering concerned the futility of establishing a shelter for chronics; those unable to gain entrance to family shelters due to addiction or criminal records - those who stubbornly insist on dying even after we'd demonstrated attributes of Christian service. That they did not respond, unto death did us part, manifested in my frustrated reaction, a desire for personal control beyond dependency on God.
Manning wrote of the foolishness he attributes to followers of Christ; to reconginze that to follow His teachings in worldy terms is impossible, impracticable and irrelevant. As a class, we agreed upon the first two but soundly rejected the last.
As friend Aracely pointed out, the session, as is often the case, mysteriously mirrored, and was complimented by the sermon, where Priest Kate asked of us as a congregation, where the parish is going beyond embracing the comfortable fellowship which is, and always has been, the hallmark of St. Margarets Episcopal Church.
-
Upon retirement in February, joining the Y, adding pool aerobics to the proposed daily schedule of dusting, mopping, shopping for groceries, etc., looms preferable to surgery - we'll see.
A non-pharmaceutical way of temporarily alleviating pain is acheieved by engulfing the self in the fellowship of our dear old parish. For Sunday School this term, as previously noted, I've selected Brennan Manning's "The Importance of Being Foolish," a deceptive title in light of the last word; after two sessions, it's proven anything but light or foolish - there are deep waters of immersion in this pool.
For anyone following along at home, after the lively session, as reported upon last week, in which we investigated the editorial headline, 'When is a pharmacist not a pharmacist,' and how reactions reflect faith confronted by daily life, we've arrived safely at Chapter 1 (B) 'The Loss of Wonder.'
Prior to class, I marked on the easel, "I Wonder if the Word has Changed Your Life" starting the session by asking is there anything which results in a sense of wonder?
I began by describing cresting a hill in the Laguna Hills to encounter a sparking Pacific Ocean in the late morning sun.
Other responses:
- sex (if anyone was sleeping, this was a wake-up call);
- riding metro for the first time, a grandmother wondering where did the dirt go;
- in '48, plowing behind a mule, watching the sunrise;
- a recognition of being alive after close calls in military service;
- enjoying new everyday experiences;
- morning clouds and kids;
- nature (before/after church, glimpsing deer, a rabbit, horses and wild turkeys);
- successful birth of daughters after difficult pregnancies.
I asked the class if they'd experienced any similar sense of wonder at church. I began by describing a time in youth group where a girl, after spending a day repairing a roof in the blazing July sun of Savannah, turned in her ladder with an angelic look on her face.
Other responses:
- hearing Priest Kate preach "be not discouraged;"
- the annual Father's Day song by Sr. Warden and son;
- baptism of godson;
- wife's adult baptism;
- fellowship of our church family;
- Cursillo;
- 'a-ha' sermons;
- discovery of a continuing Episcopal Church in Eastern Prince William County;
- attending the original St. Margarets formation meeting;
- first charismatic experience;
- the Liturgy.
In reconciling secular and spiritual sets of responses, we explored if there was anything living in our faith experience which moves beyond comfortably numb to a place where we allow Jesus to push our buttons.
One such sharp but short exchange occured as brother R who'd expressed the above listed response of being alive after dangerous military experiences, pushed the buttons of our resident peace campaigner, when he went on to say, peace is only gained by war - this inviting topic will be more fully entertained at another time.
My offering concerned the futility of establishing a shelter for chronics; those unable to gain entrance to family shelters due to addiction or criminal records - those who stubbornly insist on dying even after we'd demonstrated attributes of Christian service. That they did not respond, unto death did us part, manifested in my frustrated reaction, a desire for personal control beyond dependency on God.
Manning wrote of the foolishness he attributes to followers of Christ; to reconginze that to follow His teachings in worldy terms is impossible, impracticable and irrelevant. As a class, we agreed upon the first two but soundly rejected the last.
As friend Aracely pointed out, the session, as is often the case, mysteriously mirrored, and was complimented by the sermon, where Priest Kate asked of us as a congregation, where the parish is going beyond embracing the comfortable fellowship which is, and always has been, the hallmark of St. Margarets Episcopal Church.
-
Friday, August 8, 2008
This Sacred Cycle
I note this week the passing of Tamar Hennessy.
Daughter Kate writes, "My sister Maggie and I were with her - I am grateful for this -- to have been with my mother at the moment of her passing, as she was with her mother in 1980, and as Dorothy Day was with her mother Grace in 1945. I feel blessed to be part of this sacred cycle."
There was a time I felt blessed to be a non-familial intruder in the Day sacred cycle, inspired by Dorothy's life, to serve the poor.
Any romantic notions I once held of poverty are now gone. When I left the sacred cycle I was as angry at the poor, and Dorothy, as I was with myself.
Three years later most of those I served are dead. One with whom I am still in contact lives constantly on the brink of returning to life on the streets. There are times I participate in her drama and others where I can not be bothered to call her back.
Dorothy and Tamar lived lives of intentional poverty. I do not. When I take a shopping day, whether at the mall, or stores like Kohls, it never fails to lift my spirits. I love to sniff out $3 sale racks, also never failing, at Target and Wal-mart, to solemnly choose, in season, the right pack of baseball cards. At home, I carefully, ritually, cut off shirt tags (only to be reminded later by a stranger if I've left the long repeating vertical size "L" sticker on), picking afterwards, the best time to open an Upper Deck pack, thrilling to spot favorties, those familiar Yankees and Orioles who magically appear amongst the common no-names.
All the money I spend is legitimately earned. It's not excessive, for example, like the televangelist Copeland family, who as depicted by AP reporter Eric Gorski, own a "1500 acre campus outside Fort Worth which includes a private airstrip, a hangar and a $6 million mansion," and who among others, are being investigated for misappropriating donations. I don't believe, like Joyce Meyers, that "God wants us to have nice things." This isn't a theological problem.
I don't even know if there's a problem at all other than no longer holding out for a better life for those still living on the streets. Direct contact led me to pit those whose conditions were so far gone that assistance was merely of a hospice-type nature, and therefore worthy and dutiful, against those, who, despite being able, reject an extended hand to alleviate their condition. The latter therefore die at an alarming rate as if punished for their wilfulness, and weaknesses, which of the latter, I am also guilty of many, although cushioned by advantages, not to the same killing effect.
The distinction doesn't matter since both the helpless and redeemable end up dead.
No longer immediately concerned, I live a contented life in the country far from problems I once considered critical, and indeed, they were matters of life and death, of which, my decisions and actions could make the difference.
I'm considering volunteer work in a much more genteel place such as a hospital wheeling patients to their rooms.
In Sunday school, I present left-theological scholars who advocate anything but a Copeland-Meyers style prosperity Gospel; these writers favor the blessed option for the poor, but, like myself, now, at a safe distance.
I note last week I pegged at 50% on the self-rated artibrary Christianity scale. Those, like the Days, immersed in the sacred cycle, are at 100%. Out of respect for Tamar's passing, I'm lowering my mark to 40, and let's face it, that's still way too high.
We musn't give up hope the downward slide represents an inevitable trend. On the commuter train last night, I stumbled across the works of Sextus Empiricus who may very well, provide an intellectual framework to rationalize this in a postive way.
So I'm off, very gingerly, in light of the bad back, rolling a suitcase full of last month's abandoned topic of enthusiasm, to the University library, to re-pack several more volumes of promising ancient wisdom.
The sense of anticipation is as electric as the time right before the contents of a new pack of baseball cards are revealed.
Daughter Kate writes, "My sister Maggie and I were with her - I am grateful for this -- to have been with my mother at the moment of her passing, as she was with her mother in 1980, and as Dorothy Day was with her mother Grace in 1945. I feel blessed to be part of this sacred cycle."
There was a time I felt blessed to be a non-familial intruder in the Day sacred cycle, inspired by Dorothy's life, to serve the poor.
Any romantic notions I once held of poverty are now gone. When I left the sacred cycle I was as angry at the poor, and Dorothy, as I was with myself.
Three years later most of those I served are dead. One with whom I am still in contact lives constantly on the brink of returning to life on the streets. There are times I participate in her drama and others where I can not be bothered to call her back.
Dorothy and Tamar lived lives of intentional poverty. I do not. When I take a shopping day, whether at the mall, or stores like Kohls, it never fails to lift my spirits. I love to sniff out $3 sale racks, also never failing, at Target and Wal-mart, to solemnly choose, in season, the right pack of baseball cards. At home, I carefully, ritually, cut off shirt tags (only to be reminded later by a stranger if I've left the long repeating vertical size "L" sticker on), picking afterwards, the best time to open an Upper Deck pack, thrilling to spot favorties, those familiar Yankees and Orioles who magically appear amongst the common no-names.
All the money I spend is legitimately earned. It's not excessive, for example, like the televangelist Copeland family, who as depicted by AP reporter Eric Gorski, own a "1500 acre campus outside Fort Worth which includes a private airstrip, a hangar and a $6 million mansion," and who among others, are being investigated for misappropriating donations. I don't believe, like Joyce Meyers, that "God wants us to have nice things." This isn't a theological problem.
I don't even know if there's a problem at all other than no longer holding out for a better life for those still living on the streets. Direct contact led me to pit those whose conditions were so far gone that assistance was merely of a hospice-type nature, and therefore worthy and dutiful, against those, who, despite being able, reject an extended hand to alleviate their condition. The latter therefore die at an alarming rate as if punished for their wilfulness, and weaknesses, which of the latter, I am also guilty of many, although cushioned by advantages, not to the same killing effect.
The distinction doesn't matter since both the helpless and redeemable end up dead.
No longer immediately concerned, I live a contented life in the country far from problems I once considered critical, and indeed, they were matters of life and death, of which, my decisions and actions could make the difference.
I'm considering volunteer work in a much more genteel place such as a hospital wheeling patients to their rooms.
In Sunday school, I present left-theological scholars who advocate anything but a Copeland-Meyers style prosperity Gospel; these writers favor the blessed option for the poor, but, like myself, now, at a safe distance.
I note last week I pegged at 50% on the self-rated artibrary Christianity scale. Those, like the Days, immersed in the sacred cycle, are at 100%. Out of respect for Tamar's passing, I'm lowering my mark to 40, and let's face it, that's still way too high.
We musn't give up hope the downward slide represents an inevitable trend. On the commuter train last night, I stumbled across the works of Sextus Empiricus who may very well, provide an intellectual framework to rationalize this in a postive way.
So I'm off, very gingerly, in light of the bad back, rolling a suitcase full of last month's abandoned topic of enthusiasm, to the University library, to re-pack several more volumes of promising ancient wisdom.
The sense of anticipation is as electric as the time right before the contents of a new pack of baseball cards are revealed.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
Positively Job-like
I note this week, already in grief and pain, the appearence of a nasty rash.
After first reacting, John Cleese-style, clenched fist to the sky, upon further reflection, I reached for Phyllis Tickle's Divine Hours to regain composure.
It's something I've been striving for all week while enduring pinched nerves. Some relief has come pondering examples found in Roy Sorensen's "A Brief History of the Paradox, Philosophy and the Labyrinths of the Mind."
Nothing beats a problem like how Achilles can never pass a turtle if the turtle has half a room's headstart to refocus the mind.
In Sunday school class, studying Brennan Manning's demanding "The Importance of Being Foolish," I introduced a more practical problem whose solution reflects against where one might fall on an arbitrary Christianity scale, that is, 10, 25, 50, 75 or 100%.
Testing the premise, I introduced an editorial from our local rag by Dan Thomasson who asks "When is a pharmacist not a pharmacist." He writes, "A rape victim walks into a pharmacy with a prescription for a morning-after pill that will prevent any possible pregnancy and is told politely that it wil not be filled, that she will have to go elsewhere no matter how inconvenient. That is, if the pharmacist has the decency to return the prescription."
'R' opened our debate: "I'm a lawyer who indeed resigned from a firm and opened my own so I could fully stand by my convictions."
'J' responded: "I'm uncomfortable with the State legislating a requirement to fill prescriptions presented to a pharmacist if it violates his conscience."
'ZZ' offered: "I'm concerned a person with convictions may also decide he won't serve people of color, and due to such a possibility, a legal mandate to fill all presented prescriptions is necessary."
Most of us admire persons who stand up for their convictions although we also recognize there are times when the State needs to intervene for the common good.
In relation to Manning, and our scale of Christianity, what might Jesus ask of us in this situation? Might He back the pharmacist who acting out his faith convictions denies the prescription or might His compassion for the suffering of the victim and consequences of the rape trump the pharmacist's legalistic discernment of what is required by Scripture?
Might there be more than one answer? Perhaps this might be decided upon a case by case basis resisting any consistent universal solution.
As Sorensen points out, the 19th century German philosopher Ludwig Wittenstein "poked fun at the logicians who trumpeted contradictions as intellectual disasters. In real life, when people discover they have fallen into contradiction, they unceremoniously patch up the problem -- if they do anything at all." Wittenstein predicated "a time when there will be no mathematical investigations of calculi containing contradictions, and people will actually be proud of having emancipated themselves from consistency."
One of my heroes, Bill James, the great baseball statistican, has climbed that plateau by publishing an astonishing essay entitled "Underestimating the Fog." Despite this new self-questioning, James remains the guru of statistical player evaluation and prediction replacing forever the gut instinct utilized by old-timers. His approach revolutionized the game - Billy Beane of the A's is his foremost student yet the knock against his A's has been the James approach can only take you so far but not over the top. What Theo Epstein and the Boston Red Sox have proven is that the statistical approach combined with more money than is available to the A's can create a dream team that not only reaches the top of the standings but stays there indefinitely.
What James admits, however, after a lifetime devoted to the reliability of stats is his methodology is flawed; that (1) the database to calculate accurate numbers isn't sufficiently large (for example, a pitcher may only pitch 100 innings in a year) to accurately predict future performance next season; and (2) he has significantly underestimated the luck factor - that is, no matter what happens during any measured time period, all factors are influenced to a significant degree by luck than any other available measurable outcomes.
In contrast to Wittenstein and James' openness to inconsistent solutions, Douglas Groothuis, in his review of Christopher Hitchens "God is not Great," writes without any doubt that, "The Bible proclaims that there are many false gods. Christians have no need to defend religion, in general, since Christianity by its very nature claims to be the exclusive truth and final revelation of God in humanity - Christians, consequently, can accept many of Hitchens attacks on religion [condemnations of Mormonism and Islam] as criticisms of false gods without thereby engaging in special pleading of their own view."
If we theorize where these three authors might think about the pharmicist, we might safely guess the philosophical Sorensen would deduce there is no one right or wrong answer; the methodical Bill James may offer a statistical but admittedly flawed guess; while the assured Groothuis might deny the prescription without any moral compunction to offer any explanation to the victim.
I'm unsure, as of yet, where Manning might fall on this question, although by listening to the music of his ragamuffin disciple, Rich Mullins, I'm leaning towards the idea that Manning might opt for the kind of radical Christian compassion Rich embodies.
I stake a personal theology and subsequent worldly actions upon the instinct Jesus provides the prescription to alleviate the immediate suffering of the needy human being in front of Him. If that means any person of like-mind falls at the 50% mark, I'm satisfied with the implication on this plane we'll never know the right answer but perhaps may find out on the next.
After first reacting, John Cleese-style, clenched fist to the sky, upon further reflection, I reached for Phyllis Tickle's Divine Hours to regain composure.
It's something I've been striving for all week while enduring pinched nerves. Some relief has come pondering examples found in Roy Sorensen's "A Brief History of the Paradox, Philosophy and the Labyrinths of the Mind."
Nothing beats a problem like how Achilles can never pass a turtle if the turtle has half a room's headstart to refocus the mind.
In Sunday school class, studying Brennan Manning's demanding "The Importance of Being Foolish," I introduced a more practical problem whose solution reflects against where one might fall on an arbitrary Christianity scale, that is, 10, 25, 50, 75 or 100%.
Testing the premise, I introduced an editorial from our local rag by Dan Thomasson who asks "When is a pharmacist not a pharmacist." He writes, "A rape victim walks into a pharmacy with a prescription for a morning-after pill that will prevent any possible pregnancy and is told politely that it wil not be filled, that she will have to go elsewhere no matter how inconvenient. That is, if the pharmacist has the decency to return the prescription."
'R' opened our debate: "I'm a lawyer who indeed resigned from a firm and opened my own so I could fully stand by my convictions."
'J' responded: "I'm uncomfortable with the State legislating a requirement to fill prescriptions presented to a pharmacist if it violates his conscience."
'ZZ' offered: "I'm concerned a person with convictions may also decide he won't serve people of color, and due to such a possibility, a legal mandate to fill all presented prescriptions is necessary."
Most of us admire persons who stand up for their convictions although we also recognize there are times when the State needs to intervene for the common good.
In relation to Manning, and our scale of Christianity, what might Jesus ask of us in this situation? Might He back the pharmacist who acting out his faith convictions denies the prescription or might His compassion for the suffering of the victim and consequences of the rape trump the pharmacist's legalistic discernment of what is required by Scripture?
Might there be more than one answer? Perhaps this might be decided upon a case by case basis resisting any consistent universal solution.
As Sorensen points out, the 19th century German philosopher Ludwig Wittenstein "poked fun at the logicians who trumpeted contradictions as intellectual disasters. In real life, when people discover they have fallen into contradiction, they unceremoniously patch up the problem -- if they do anything at all." Wittenstein predicated "a time when there will be no mathematical investigations of calculi containing contradictions, and people will actually be proud of having emancipated themselves from consistency."
One of my heroes, Bill James, the great baseball statistican, has climbed that plateau by publishing an astonishing essay entitled "Underestimating the Fog." Despite this new self-questioning, James remains the guru of statistical player evaluation and prediction replacing forever the gut instinct utilized by old-timers. His approach revolutionized the game - Billy Beane of the A's is his foremost student yet the knock against his A's has been the James approach can only take you so far but not over the top. What Theo Epstein and the Boston Red Sox have proven is that the statistical approach combined with more money than is available to the A's can create a dream team that not only reaches the top of the standings but stays there indefinitely.
What James admits, however, after a lifetime devoted to the reliability of stats is his methodology is flawed; that (1) the database to calculate accurate numbers isn't sufficiently large (for example, a pitcher may only pitch 100 innings in a year) to accurately predict future performance next season; and (2) he has significantly underestimated the luck factor - that is, no matter what happens during any measured time period, all factors are influenced to a significant degree by luck than any other available measurable outcomes.
In contrast to Wittenstein and James' openness to inconsistent solutions, Douglas Groothuis, in his review of Christopher Hitchens "God is not Great," writes without any doubt that, "The Bible proclaims that there are many false gods. Christians have no need to defend religion, in general, since Christianity by its very nature claims to be the exclusive truth and final revelation of God in humanity - Christians, consequently, can accept many of Hitchens attacks on religion [condemnations of Mormonism and Islam] as criticisms of false gods without thereby engaging in special pleading of their own view."
If we theorize where these three authors might think about the pharmicist, we might safely guess the philosophical Sorensen would deduce there is no one right or wrong answer; the methodical Bill James may offer a statistical but admittedly flawed guess; while the assured Groothuis might deny the prescription without any moral compunction to offer any explanation to the victim.
I'm unsure, as of yet, where Manning might fall on this question, although by listening to the music of his ragamuffin disciple, Rich Mullins, I'm leaning towards the idea that Manning might opt for the kind of radical Christian compassion Rich embodies.
I stake a personal theology and subsequent worldly actions upon the instinct Jesus provides the prescription to alleviate the immediate suffering of the needy human being in front of Him. If that means any person of like-mind falls at the 50% mark, I'm satisfied with the implication on this plane we'll never know the right answer but perhaps may find out on the next.
Friday, August 1, 2008
A Harsh Functionality
I note this week the deaths of a machine and a dog.
Tonight there is a machine in Texas on death row. Its crime: lack of functionality.
Its execution symbolizes a global end for mechanical devices which perform one function, but only one, even if they're faster and better than anything else in the world.
The demise isn't surprising in the face of the recently conducted Ohio State University survey showing 38% of people would rather speak to a chatterbot than another person.
Even so, Scrooge's lament comes to mind when he asks how the world can condemn the poor and the pursuit of wealth in the same breath.
Do you not admire, say, Mr. Coffin, who, as reported in the Times, at age 90, "first repaired a clock while a pupil at the grammar school in a seaside village of 900 people, and has collected, sold, made and fixed clocks - only those that run on cogs and springs, nothing electric, ever since."
Some of us are trapped, carried forward, clinging - here I am writing on a laptop whose software will carry these words to China after I push a button. Who wouldn't marvel, as Thomas Friedman points out in his The World is Flat at such a system where I may call the barbershop in town for an appointment but talk to someone in India to set it?
Deeper instincts retreat from the threatening vastness of such an enterprise even as I take advantage of a few features at the edges. It makes me uneasy not to speak to the barber himself, while, conversely, it provides great pleasure to visit shopkeepers on Main Street, like Coco at the Hunan Gardens, who worries, not for my lost custom, but for my person, if I haven't been in to take a meal for a while.
What counts more than any marvel of technology are the dear ones of our noble parish who gathered round last Sunday to offer ancient prayers of healing for a bad back.
What carries lasting value is that after I held our Max in my arms last week while the vet administered the injection which ended his suffering, I returned home to a beloved bride to share the grief and take comfort in simple cards received from friends and a sister who show by these small acts their abiding concern.
I'm lost in a world where there's no value bestowed upon an elegant machine with no chips, which, while still outperforming those that do, must be destroyed because it lacks the potential for an increased functionality.
At the same time as I tap into the technological wonders of the whole Flat World from a small town in Virginia, I embrace the life which is found at home.
Tonight there is a machine in Texas on death row. Its crime: lack of functionality.
Its execution symbolizes a global end for mechanical devices which perform one function, but only one, even if they're faster and better than anything else in the world.
The demise isn't surprising in the face of the recently conducted Ohio State University survey showing 38% of people would rather speak to a chatterbot than another person.
Even so, Scrooge's lament comes to mind when he asks how the world can condemn the poor and the pursuit of wealth in the same breath.
Do you not admire, say, Mr. Coffin, who, as reported in the Times, at age 90, "first repaired a clock while a pupil at the grammar school in a seaside village of 900 people, and has collected, sold, made and fixed clocks - only those that run on cogs and springs, nothing electric, ever since."
Some of us are trapped, carried forward, clinging - here I am writing on a laptop whose software will carry these words to China after I push a button. Who wouldn't marvel, as Thomas Friedman points out in his The World is Flat at such a system where I may call the barbershop in town for an appointment but talk to someone in India to set it?
Deeper instincts retreat from the threatening vastness of such an enterprise even as I take advantage of a few features at the edges. It makes me uneasy not to speak to the barber himself, while, conversely, it provides great pleasure to visit shopkeepers on Main Street, like Coco at the Hunan Gardens, who worries, not for my lost custom, but for my person, if I haven't been in to take a meal for a while.
What counts more than any marvel of technology are the dear ones of our noble parish who gathered round last Sunday to offer ancient prayers of healing for a bad back.
What carries lasting value is that after I held our Max in my arms last week while the vet administered the injection which ended his suffering, I returned home to a beloved bride to share the grief and take comfort in simple cards received from friends and a sister who show by these small acts their abiding concern.
I'm lost in a world where there's no value bestowed upon an elegant machine with no chips, which, while still outperforming those that do, must be destroyed because it lacks the potential for an increased functionality.
At the same time as I tap into the technological wonders of the whole Flat World from a small town in Virginia, I embrace the life which is found at home.
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