I note last week, we discussed the impossibility of purity, like the vegan who drives a VW Bug on tires made with the fats of animal by-products. I was reminded of her this weekend, as an Alternate Delegate, examining Resolutions proposed for vote, at the Annual Council of the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia.
There are times when you feel at home even if you've never been there before: cresting a ridge in Laguna Hills to encounter a sparkling Pacific ocean in the bright morning sunshine; drinking a pint of Guinness in the Dublin pub where Joyce held court; drinking another pint in another pub in Oxford where Lewis and Tolkien spoke of their work in progress; bargaining for a suit on Orchard Street in the Lower East Side neighborhood where my father was born; standing in solidarity with other pot-bellied gray-beards singing "By the Time We Got to Woodstock," at a Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young concert, even though I wasn't blessed to attend the festival.
The symbolism of the naieve vegan resonates even though I haven't the fortitude to join her. Council Resolutions, as a whole, on recognizing and fighting global warming, inclusiveness, recognition/support for Latino/Native Americans, against Payday Lending, for Sudan Divestment, and for a just and humane immigration policy, all speak the familiar native language of a household with good intentions.
In 1935, Louis Darquier de Pellepoix, a neer' do-well who found his only business success eight years later as the murderous Vichy Commissioner for Jewish Affairs, ran for office in Paris, on the platform: "stronger authoritarian government, a more agressive foreign policy, the reduction of taxes, the revision of naturalisation laws, repatriation of unemployed foreigners living on public relief, the suppression of trade unions and parasitic organizations, and the defense of the birth rate and the family."
Languages of resolutions and campaigns doesn't change much over the years and plays itself out in decisions, large and small, over and over. On the Freakonomics audio tape, the author describes a KKK marketing slogan of the 1920's that proclaimed Yesterday, Today, Forever, which brought to mind another moment seventy-five years later in our parish hall where a woman speaking against inclusivity said God is the same Yesterday, Today and Forever. We've just concluded a family debate in our home on whether its right to join a health club whose distant owners reputedly fund political causes to which I'm opposed.
It's always instructive to study not only what oppressors have written and said, but how ordinary people responded, and made graduated decisions, to either abet, ignore, or oppose, injustices perpetuated by the respective powers of their time.
Of the intellectuals who so opposed Vichy, Clive Davis wrote, "As true scholars, they refused to be drawn into the tacit, tautacular, bargain by which Vichy's cooperation with the invader was seen as a pragmatic strategem to preserve the eternal France. They could see how that bargain attacked the eternal France in its essence. As true heroes, they were not content to keep their heads down until it all blew over: they guessed correctly, that too much could be blown away."
I heard an activist at Council say his goal was to move the clergy inclusivity resolution, in its original purity, to a vote unconnected to any other resolution, especially, the more controversial proposal of same-gender blessings, for he knew if that happened, it would constitute its demise. Alas, it transpired just as he predicted. While the clergy inclusivity resolution wasn't killed outright, the structure of the committee that originally examined it was re-named, and a new commission, recommissioned, to study it some more.
A blurb in the January/February Atlantic Magazine dispels the stereotype of the average terrorist as primarily recruited from amongst the ranks of the poor; a new Oxford study reveals, that of 404 militants, from 131 countries, an astonishing 178 (over 40%), were university-trained engineers. The authors speculate the "emphasis on structure and rules, and on finding singular solutions to complicated problems may fit neatly with Islamist notions of the ideal society - and in support of this hypothesis, the authors cite surveys from America, the Middle East, and Canada indicating that engineers are more likely than other professionals to be religious and right-wing."
As examination of all Resolutions brought forward unmistakenly captures that Council had good intentions; indeed, the outcome of most votes seemed inevitable. I couldn't have conceived, for example, although debate on the floor grew somewhat heated, that the resolution on just and humane immigration policy wouldn't have passed.
The ideal of justice is pure, as are all ideals. Patience is required; something I lack; I avow especially that personal and corporate purity in this world is impossible; I'm therefore in no position to demand purity of anyone or anything else. Even so, I'm compelled to wonder, while we cautiously deliberate resolutions on inclusivity, are there mothers who fitfully weep over imprisoned sons in Nigeria tonight?
As a member of a Continuing Church that's received steadfast Diocesan support, I'm forever grateful to the Diocese; the existence of our parish, in itself, we were told repeatedly at Council, serves as inspiration for others. Although, not cradle, I'm home, within the Episcopal Body, as nowhere else, even though, we, at times, choose to override our good intentions by donning the hardhats of engineers rather than wearing the dreadlocks of vegans who drive VW Bugs on tires manufactured with animal fats.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Neighborhood(s) Watch
I note this week, in dead of winter, snow and ice on the ground, it's time to dream of better things; it's time to buy Orioles tickets. Half the attraction is Baltimore itself. Before there was Camden Yards, there was Memorial Stadium - a plot of sacred greenery where Earl Weaver planted a tomato garden in the outfield. A stadium on 33rd Street, the beating heart of a lively neighborhood: loping down that boulevard of rowhouses, on Opening Day, the first gentle days of Spring, consuming a Tugboat Annie's sub, buying peanuts on the block, re-set time, embracing prospects of another promising season.
Our local rag printed an article last week on the re-location of a day shelter from the basement of our old church to a storefront downtown. To seal the deal, it was necessary to offer negative conditions: "It will not be a cold-night shelter, restaurant, classroom or gathering place." If it doesn't provide aspects of the latter three out of four, it'll be defeating its purpose by not recreating the qualities of the neighborhood, in facsmile, for which its guests are longing.
Scholars propose/debate economic models as to why the German homefront supported, or at least never rebelled, against Hitler. One theory describes a nation moving out from under Depression, revitalized by the implementation of a war-time economy, where an immediate solidarity-building communal sacrifice, yielded to the promise of greater riches to come. Another theory dismisses early sacrifice, emphasizing the back-end; after countries were conquered, those at home were satiated by a generous distribution of appropriated loot.
No matter what, people defend their homes, old or newly acquired, with ferocity. We know one of the worries the leaders of the exiles returning from Bablyon had upon their minds, as reflected bewtween the lines of several Psalms, is what might happen when they encountered non-exiled neighbors living in their former homes. Indeed, that turned out to be a precursor to a post World War II massacre by Gentiles, of Jews, returning to their former homes in Poland.
A tradition the Spotsyltuckian married into is Sunday dinner at the mother-in-law's featuring all-day Westerns on the tv. A Gunsmoke episode, a few weekends ago, featured Harry Morgan playing an erstwhile well-intentioned posse member who was alleged to have shot a more charming rogue in the back. Harry was ultimately harrassed to the tipping point of finding his daughter's cat hanging from a tree in the front yard, after which, the town contracted a sudden epiphany of good will, and he was welcomed back into the community with open arms.
No similar hometown ephiphany appears due for the neighbors of a Missouri family whose mother and daughter posed as a 16-year old boy on the internet only to harass the 13-year old girl next door, so meanly, she committed suicide. No hanging pets, yet, but death threats are just the tip of an iceberg which includes a brick through the window, fake 911 calls, deprivation of income, you name it. An elegant headline captures the classic sense of isolating any outcast: "Neighborhood shuns suspected tormenter in Internet suicide."
An epiphany of my own occurred at a camp where I once worked as counselor. One of the children was grossly overweight. He was also home schooled. The knee-jerk response in all conversations about home schooling is kids won't be socialized. Yet, here is a young person, who, at least in school, won't be tormented or shunned on account of his appearance. Is it possible he may grow up better socialized for not having had to endure the socialization, real or virtual, that was sure to be his lot if he'd attended public school? On the other hand, if the home schooling curriculum incorporates elements of far-right extremism, he may mature with great potential to shun and torment others.
I note this week an article in Politico, by Samuel Loewenberg, which begins, "Genocide in Sudan, a dictatorship in Myanmar and the prospect of nukes in Iran could make this the Year of the Sanctions." Yet, Loewenberg, goes on to detail corporate free trade advocates who consistently lobby against sanctions. As William Reinsch, a former Undersecretary of Commerce was quoted, "You go up and lobby on this, and they play the genocide card. They say you want to do business with mass murderers."
Could an efficient prosperous Germany have been built without resort to the unifying negative community building force of anti-semitism? What would such a Germany look like today? Is it feasible to 'sell' a shelter without offering up the things it's not? Is it possible to educate a child in isolation yet better socialize him than if he'd had to undergo the usual socialization of our times? Does an unrestricted free trade policy lead to a more open world that promises extended human rights, or does it too nonchalantly sweep humanitarianism under the rug?
An article in the Sun, last week, reflects the complexity, if not the impossibility of attaining purity, in this or any other, human endeavor. A fella in an otherwise vacant corner of an East Baltimore factory, roasts coffee beans every morning, the old fashioned way, providing superior tasting java to neighborhood eateries. The beans come from Costa Rica, Sumatra, India, Bolivia and Ethiopia, not all of whose governors are paragons of humanitarianism. He says, "I realized there was a bit of a vacuum in town for people who liked to know where their coffee is coming from."
Yes, and, no. If all I need think is the coffee comes from a Baltimore neighborhood with friendly connotations, I'm warm, cozy, fine. If I think beyond, though, to where the beans come from, I may confront a conumdrum like a vegan who drives a cute VW bug pasted with peace-sign bumper stickers even though her tires contain animal fat by-products. Is it necessary to trace every action to its source to attain the essence of purity? Is it possible in such a small world? If I picture my small part of the world as a neighborhood, it's envisionable, but they'll always remain the nagging doubts I've intellectually conditioned myself to live with, either too nonchalantly, or in the necessary practical interests of preserving a reasonably functional sanity.
Our local rag printed an article last week on the re-location of a day shelter from the basement of our old church to a storefront downtown. To seal the deal, it was necessary to offer negative conditions: "It will not be a cold-night shelter, restaurant, classroom or gathering place." If it doesn't provide aspects of the latter three out of four, it'll be defeating its purpose by not recreating the qualities of the neighborhood, in facsmile, for which its guests are longing.
Scholars propose/debate economic models as to why the German homefront supported, or at least never rebelled, against Hitler. One theory describes a nation moving out from under Depression, revitalized by the implementation of a war-time economy, where an immediate solidarity-building communal sacrifice, yielded to the promise of greater riches to come. Another theory dismisses early sacrifice, emphasizing the back-end; after countries were conquered, those at home were satiated by a generous distribution of appropriated loot.
No matter what, people defend their homes, old or newly acquired, with ferocity. We know one of the worries the leaders of the exiles returning from Bablyon had upon their minds, as reflected bewtween the lines of several Psalms, is what might happen when they encountered non-exiled neighbors living in their former homes. Indeed, that turned out to be a precursor to a post World War II massacre by Gentiles, of Jews, returning to their former homes in Poland.
A tradition the Spotsyltuckian married into is Sunday dinner at the mother-in-law's featuring all-day Westerns on the tv. A Gunsmoke episode, a few weekends ago, featured Harry Morgan playing an erstwhile well-intentioned posse member who was alleged to have shot a more charming rogue in the back. Harry was ultimately harrassed to the tipping point of finding his daughter's cat hanging from a tree in the front yard, after which, the town contracted a sudden epiphany of good will, and he was welcomed back into the community with open arms.
No similar hometown ephiphany appears due for the neighbors of a Missouri family whose mother and daughter posed as a 16-year old boy on the internet only to harass the 13-year old girl next door, so meanly, she committed suicide. No hanging pets, yet, but death threats are just the tip of an iceberg which includes a brick through the window, fake 911 calls, deprivation of income, you name it. An elegant headline captures the classic sense of isolating any outcast: "Neighborhood shuns suspected tormenter in Internet suicide."
An epiphany of my own occurred at a camp where I once worked as counselor. One of the children was grossly overweight. He was also home schooled. The knee-jerk response in all conversations about home schooling is kids won't be socialized. Yet, here is a young person, who, at least in school, won't be tormented or shunned on account of his appearance. Is it possible he may grow up better socialized for not having had to endure the socialization, real or virtual, that was sure to be his lot if he'd attended public school? On the other hand, if the home schooling curriculum incorporates elements of far-right extremism, he may mature with great potential to shun and torment others.
I note this week an article in Politico, by Samuel Loewenberg, which begins, "Genocide in Sudan, a dictatorship in Myanmar and the prospect of nukes in Iran could make this the Year of the Sanctions." Yet, Loewenberg, goes on to detail corporate free trade advocates who consistently lobby against sanctions. As William Reinsch, a former Undersecretary of Commerce was quoted, "You go up and lobby on this, and they play the genocide card. They say you want to do business with mass murderers."
Could an efficient prosperous Germany have been built without resort to the unifying negative community building force of anti-semitism? What would such a Germany look like today? Is it feasible to 'sell' a shelter without offering up the things it's not? Is it possible to educate a child in isolation yet better socialize him than if he'd had to undergo the usual socialization of our times? Does an unrestricted free trade policy lead to a more open world that promises extended human rights, or does it too nonchalantly sweep humanitarianism under the rug?
An article in the Sun, last week, reflects the complexity, if not the impossibility of attaining purity, in this or any other, human endeavor. A fella in an otherwise vacant corner of an East Baltimore factory, roasts coffee beans every morning, the old fashioned way, providing superior tasting java to neighborhood eateries. The beans come from Costa Rica, Sumatra, India, Bolivia and Ethiopia, not all of whose governors are paragons of humanitarianism. He says, "I realized there was a bit of a vacuum in town for people who liked to know where their coffee is coming from."
Yes, and, no. If all I need think is the coffee comes from a Baltimore neighborhood with friendly connotations, I'm warm, cozy, fine. If I think beyond, though, to where the beans come from, I may confront a conumdrum like a vegan who drives a cute VW bug pasted with peace-sign bumper stickers even though her tires contain animal fat by-products. Is it necessary to trace every action to its source to attain the essence of purity? Is it possible in such a small world? If I picture my small part of the world as a neighborhood, it's envisionable, but they'll always remain the nagging doubts I've intellectually conditioned myself to live with, either too nonchalantly, or in the necessary practical interests of preserving a reasonably functional sanity.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Compromising Positions
I note this week there are bound to be times in a career when you're required to loyally implement policies with which you disagree. At such junctures, you may find yourself a prisoner of your own personal sense of honor; or, you alone, may possess the experience, expertise and contacts, to pull it off, thereby gratifying your ego, even if it means the ends aren't something you desired.
What can we think of an Admiral who orders the fleet to run a blocade of one-time Allies to deliver raw materials to an enemy that conquered his country, so that the conquerors release thousands of his fellow countrymen held prisoner? Although he's made a deal with the devil, and it looks as if Satan holds all the cards, it's only through the power of a fleet still personally loyal to him that he continues to possess a leverage that'd be lost if he committed the fleet to battle in support of either side. What would you do?
Such was the dilemna of Jean Louis Xavier Francois Darlan, Vice-Premier of the notorious Vichy regime, Admiral of the French Fleet. I note this week, a quixotic, and likewise conflicted, invitation by modern descendents of other Nazi victims. Organizers of the Global Anglican Future Conference, the anti-Lambeth meeting of those representing the reactionary arm of the Anglican Communion, "told the Jerusalem Post, this was not merely a gathering of an anti-gay coalition of bishops, but a meeting for 'orthodox' Anglicans to be getting on with things, doing the work of the church."
Likely in attendance will be the Bishop of the Bukedi Diocese of Uganda who's quoted recently in 'The New Vision - Uganda's Leading Website, that "advocates of gay rights have no place in the Kingdom of God - these are acts to question the ordinances of God. There's nothing like intellectualizing sin; sin is sin. How do you imagine a woman sharing the same bed with a woman or a man with a fellow man?" In Uganda, "according to the Penal Code Act, homosexuality is illegal and carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment."
Reflecting more than the 'not merely anti-gay' agenda, one stated Conference goal is to "bring fellowship and bear testimony to the Christian communities in Israel and Palestine." Darlan-esquely, there is more at stake here than meets the eye. Lacking friends in the world, Israel is no doubt cheered, as the Post reports, that last year, 15,000 Nigerian Christians made a pilgrimage to their country, and upon their return, affixed the initials, JP, after their names, competitively with Muslims, who add 'al Haj,' to their names after a similar trip. It is often true that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend,' yet, uniting Israeli Christians and Palestinians in hatred for the current nominees designated the premier outcast of the day, crosses a line, in a country founded by a people who once held that distinction, and know the consequences themselves, all too well.
Can compromise be uncompromising? I note this week, in Texas, a Federal court threw out a challenge to a law that allows schoolchildren to observe a daily minute of silence. As a staunch separation of State and Church defender, I can abide, with almost no qualms, a law that permits children to 'reflect, pray, meditate or engage in another other silent activities,' for one minute. If I was a Middle School kid in Texas, it's likely if I wasn't meditating upon the girl who told me she liked my best friend but doesn't know if he likes him or his best friend, I'd be praying for victory in the football game that afternoon, football, of course, being the supreme religion of Texas.
Someone approached me once in the parish hall and asked if I'd be joining the 'Purpose Driven Life,' course that was forming, I suppose, at every church in America, at that time. During those days, in addition to a full time job, and classes at seminary, I was managing a shelter three nights a week and Saturdays. I responded that I prayed to God daily for less purpose.
I'm wary of the purpose-driven phenomenon just as I was skeptical of Jabez and the Christian flavor of the month before that (yet if I could latch onto some theme myself and earn millions, to boot, I'm not totally averse...). I note this week, admiringly, a new, more substantial, book by Rick Warren's wife, Kay, who writes of how her compassion for AIDS victims led her into a "Dangerous Surrender." As reported by Rachel Zoll, in our local rag, "as recently as last year," a poll of born-again Christians revealed that "two out of five said they had more sympathy for people with cancer than for those with AIDS."
The Warrens have nevertheless waded in deep, potentially offending millions of acolytes, by not only focusing on care and prayer, but on practical prevention, including "correctly using condoms, limiting the number of partners, offering needle exchange," and as Kay states, "I don't know how anyone can reasonably say that virginity isn't a protection against HIV." I've never objected to abstinence - only to "Abstinence Only."
What constitutes uncompromising compromise? Is it possible to extinguish personal considerations borne of ego or the pride of accomplishment when it comes to making a decision on whether ends can accomodate involvement in means? Can we approach any issue solely on its merits despite an entrenched loyalty to country, faith, idea or party, that has held sway over our minds and hearts over a lifetime?
Peter Maurin, the French peasant philosopher and Catholic Worker theologian said it was all about trying to create a society where it's easier for people to be good. History demonstrates when that end is intentionally attempted without the enshrinement and institutionality of the principle of compromise, the end inevitably represents an uncompromising failiure of epic proportions.
What can we think of an Admiral who orders the fleet to run a blocade of one-time Allies to deliver raw materials to an enemy that conquered his country, so that the conquerors release thousands of his fellow countrymen held prisoner? Although he's made a deal with the devil, and it looks as if Satan holds all the cards, it's only through the power of a fleet still personally loyal to him that he continues to possess a leverage that'd be lost if he committed the fleet to battle in support of either side. What would you do?
Such was the dilemna of Jean Louis Xavier Francois Darlan, Vice-Premier of the notorious Vichy regime, Admiral of the French Fleet. I note this week, a quixotic, and likewise conflicted, invitation by modern descendents of other Nazi victims. Organizers of the Global Anglican Future Conference, the anti-Lambeth meeting of those representing the reactionary arm of the Anglican Communion, "told the Jerusalem Post, this was not merely a gathering of an anti-gay coalition of bishops, but a meeting for 'orthodox' Anglicans to be getting on with things, doing the work of the church."
Likely in attendance will be the Bishop of the Bukedi Diocese of Uganda who's quoted recently in 'The New Vision - Uganda's Leading Website, that "advocates of gay rights have no place in the Kingdom of God - these are acts to question the ordinances of God. There's nothing like intellectualizing sin; sin is sin. How do you imagine a woman sharing the same bed with a woman or a man with a fellow man?" In Uganda, "according to the Penal Code Act, homosexuality is illegal and carries a maximum sentence of life imprisonment."
Reflecting more than the 'not merely anti-gay' agenda, one stated Conference goal is to "bring fellowship and bear testimony to the Christian communities in Israel and Palestine." Darlan-esquely, there is more at stake here than meets the eye. Lacking friends in the world, Israel is no doubt cheered, as the Post reports, that last year, 15,000 Nigerian Christians made a pilgrimage to their country, and upon their return, affixed the initials, JP, after their names, competitively with Muslims, who add 'al Haj,' to their names after a similar trip. It is often true that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend,' yet, uniting Israeli Christians and Palestinians in hatred for the current nominees designated the premier outcast of the day, crosses a line, in a country founded by a people who once held that distinction, and know the consequences themselves, all too well.
Can compromise be uncompromising? I note this week, in Texas, a Federal court threw out a challenge to a law that allows schoolchildren to observe a daily minute of silence. As a staunch separation of State and Church defender, I can abide, with almost no qualms, a law that permits children to 'reflect, pray, meditate or engage in another other silent activities,' for one minute. If I was a Middle School kid in Texas, it's likely if I wasn't meditating upon the girl who told me she liked my best friend but doesn't know if he likes him or his best friend, I'd be praying for victory in the football game that afternoon, football, of course, being the supreme religion of Texas.
Someone approached me once in the parish hall and asked if I'd be joining the 'Purpose Driven Life,' course that was forming, I suppose, at every church in America, at that time. During those days, in addition to a full time job, and classes at seminary, I was managing a shelter three nights a week and Saturdays. I responded that I prayed to God daily for less purpose.
I'm wary of the purpose-driven phenomenon just as I was skeptical of Jabez and the Christian flavor of the month before that (yet if I could latch onto some theme myself and earn millions, to boot, I'm not totally averse...). I note this week, admiringly, a new, more substantial, book by Rick Warren's wife, Kay, who writes of how her compassion for AIDS victims led her into a "Dangerous Surrender." As reported by Rachel Zoll, in our local rag, "as recently as last year," a poll of born-again Christians revealed that "two out of five said they had more sympathy for people with cancer than for those with AIDS."
The Warrens have nevertheless waded in deep, potentially offending millions of acolytes, by not only focusing on care and prayer, but on practical prevention, including "correctly using condoms, limiting the number of partners, offering needle exchange," and as Kay states, "I don't know how anyone can reasonably say that virginity isn't a protection against HIV." I've never objected to abstinence - only to "Abstinence Only."
What constitutes uncompromising compromise? Is it possible to extinguish personal considerations borne of ego or the pride of accomplishment when it comes to making a decision on whether ends can accomodate involvement in means? Can we approach any issue solely on its merits despite an entrenched loyalty to country, faith, idea or party, that has held sway over our minds and hearts over a lifetime?
Peter Maurin, the French peasant philosopher and Catholic Worker theologian said it was all about trying to create a society where it's easier for people to be good. History demonstrates when that end is intentionally attempted without the enshrinement and institutionality of the principle of compromise, the end inevitably represents an uncompromising failiure of epic proportions.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Reading Isn't Fundamentalist
I note this week two studies. The first, as reported by AP writer Anick Jesdanum, shows, "young adults are the heaviest users of public libraries despite the ease with which they can access a wealth of information over the Internet from the comfort of their homes."
The second, as displayed in "unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity...and Why It Matters," by Kinnaman and Lyons, shows, "40 percent of Americans aged between sixteen and twenty-nine are outside Christianity and that, what's more, they have an overwhelming negative perception of it: 87% find it judgmental; 85% hypocritical; 78% old fashioned; 70% insensitive to others."
Any connection between well-read youth and a disinclination towards narrow-minded thinking? It tends to confirm what I've thought true over the past half-decade of American cultural struggle; that the struggle within our Episcopal Church is primarily generational; lines drawn amongst party factions are split between members born in the 1930's-'40's, and those born in the 50's; the former stubbornly insisting upon a facade of a familial normalcy and institutional Christendom despite all evidence to the contrary of the conflicting realities that lie beneath; confronted by the latter's unwillingness to act as if such certainty ever existed.
Was it in Fist Full of Dollars that Clint Eastwood built a store-front town, and called it Hell, to fool outlaws bent on revenge? I note this week a scene, straight out of such Westerns, where a former Episcopal bishop, with a marked resemblance to Sidney Greenstreet, displaying a Jack Elam-attitude, bursts into an Episcopal church, bodyguards at his side, to terrorize the inhabitants, kill the sheriff or fire a priest, whose only crimes were duty and loyalty. Maybe if the parishioners had advance warning the Bishop was coming, they could've constructed a movie set church, to likewise divert Bishop Greenstreet-Elam, when he rode into town, bent on mayhem, that dusty Sunday morning.
Jesdanun entitled his article, "Libraries still relevant." I note this week when Tony Blair converted to Roman Catholicism, it created neither the scandal nor the soul searching such a move certainly would have as late as the 1940's in Britain. This time around, nobody much cared; it wasn't particularly relevant to anyone.
Stretching the Christmas holiday, for all it's worth, into two weeks away from the office, and although lying outside the supposed aged demographic of usual users, I proved Jesdanum otherwise correct, on library relevance, spending hours yesterday at the University and public libraries, arriving home with a stack of books so heavy, it took two trips from the car to carry them all in.
Atop prominent positions in the tall stack were tales of occupied France and its aftermath: The Enigma of Admiral Darlan, They Speak for a Nation - Letters from France, published in 1941, and The Trial of Marshal Petain, reflecting a continued personal interest upon the relevance of how people act, ethically or not, under serious pressure, when confronted by life-and-death realities.
Another pile represents voices from the oppressor nation, in this case, particularly, Hjalmar Schacht. In the quaintly titled "Confessions of the Old Wizard" I'm assuming before I read it, that Schact, from his peripheral position, as an economist and banker, might purport to offer self-justifying insight into how those not in charge, yet necessary to the operation (bureaucrats like myself), might choose either to promote efficiency, or throw a cog into the machine, or do both, at the same time.
Similarly to how the generation born after 1980 inspires hope for the future through their transcendence of the prejudices that came before, the last set of books are borne of a desire to create something new - as reflected in Louis Diat's French Cooking for Americans, not perhaps uncoincidentally published in 1946, the same year France arose with fresh hope, freed from the Occupation. Maybe, as the young grow to supersede the faults of the old, it's time to reinvent and improve myself, and in doing so, contribute to the preservation of the gentle arts of humanity, saluting things of the spirit that are eternally relevant; that stand, intrinsically, indeed, whimsically and charmingly, against the ideologies of oppressors and their inevitably obsolete fundamentalism, no matter the stripe. It was not for nothing, Goering muttered, 'whenever anyone mentions culture, I grab my gun.'
Whereas you must always begin with some technical grounding, all great creative efforts, need rely on instinct. I recall guitarist Carlos Santana saying he thought of brushing his daughter's hair while he played Perhaps that ephemerel touch of grace was and is present for Fred Astaire when he danced, Groucho when he quipped, and Ken Griffey, Jr., when he swings.
Annie Lamott's description of driving in a rainstorm and peering through a tiny spot in the windshield to see a little bit of the road ahead is apt in this way. In his eulogy for the late Oscar Peterson, Nat Hentoff alludes to it by writing, "Only when it was absolutely necessary, would he go on stage before a concert to check out the piano, because doing so might lead to preconditioned ideas, and they can in turn interfere with the creative process so essential to a creative jazz concert."
In all this half-century of life, I've only felt 'it' a tantalizingly few times. That day on the tennis court when, for one half-hour, I practiced serves that were perfect. Or the flowing stream-of-consciousness that fuelled a writing session which may have been as remotely close to the genius of Kerouac and Hunter Thompson I'll ever approach. When there is no pre-conditioned intransigence to defend, and all you have to start forging ahead is the briefest trace of an idea, then cooking, writing, indeed, living, transforms into a series of surprising adventures, full of unexpected possibilities, twists and turns, revelations and realizations. In their wake, lies, somehow, a mystical antidote to irrelevance.
The second, as displayed in "unChristian: What a New Generation Really Thinks about Christianity...and Why It Matters," by Kinnaman and Lyons, shows, "40 percent of Americans aged between sixteen and twenty-nine are outside Christianity and that, what's more, they have an overwhelming negative perception of it: 87% find it judgmental; 85% hypocritical; 78% old fashioned; 70% insensitive to others."
Any connection between well-read youth and a disinclination towards narrow-minded thinking? It tends to confirm what I've thought true over the past half-decade of American cultural struggle; that the struggle within our Episcopal Church is primarily generational; lines drawn amongst party factions are split between members born in the 1930's-'40's, and those born in the 50's; the former stubbornly insisting upon a facade of a familial normalcy and institutional Christendom despite all evidence to the contrary of the conflicting realities that lie beneath; confronted by the latter's unwillingness to act as if such certainty ever existed.
Was it in Fist Full of Dollars that Clint Eastwood built a store-front town, and called it Hell, to fool outlaws bent on revenge? I note this week a scene, straight out of such Westerns, where a former Episcopal bishop, with a marked resemblance to Sidney Greenstreet, displaying a Jack Elam-attitude, bursts into an Episcopal church, bodyguards at his side, to terrorize the inhabitants, kill the sheriff or fire a priest, whose only crimes were duty and loyalty. Maybe if the parishioners had advance warning the Bishop was coming, they could've constructed a movie set church, to likewise divert Bishop Greenstreet-Elam, when he rode into town, bent on mayhem, that dusty Sunday morning.
Jesdanun entitled his article, "Libraries still relevant." I note this week when Tony Blair converted to Roman Catholicism, it created neither the scandal nor the soul searching such a move certainly would have as late as the 1940's in Britain. This time around, nobody much cared; it wasn't particularly relevant to anyone.
Stretching the Christmas holiday, for all it's worth, into two weeks away from the office, and although lying outside the supposed aged demographic of usual users, I proved Jesdanum otherwise correct, on library relevance, spending hours yesterday at the University and public libraries, arriving home with a stack of books so heavy, it took two trips from the car to carry them all in.
Atop prominent positions in the tall stack were tales of occupied France and its aftermath: The Enigma of Admiral Darlan, They Speak for a Nation - Letters from France, published in 1941, and The Trial of Marshal Petain, reflecting a continued personal interest upon the relevance of how people act, ethically or not, under serious pressure, when confronted by life-and-death realities.
Another pile represents voices from the oppressor nation, in this case, particularly, Hjalmar Schacht. In the quaintly titled "Confessions of the Old Wizard" I'm assuming before I read it, that Schact, from his peripheral position, as an economist and banker, might purport to offer self-justifying insight into how those not in charge, yet necessary to the operation (bureaucrats like myself), might choose either to promote efficiency, or throw a cog into the machine, or do both, at the same time.
Similarly to how the generation born after 1980 inspires hope for the future through their transcendence of the prejudices that came before, the last set of books are borne of a desire to create something new - as reflected in Louis Diat's French Cooking for Americans, not perhaps uncoincidentally published in 1946, the same year France arose with fresh hope, freed from the Occupation. Maybe, as the young grow to supersede the faults of the old, it's time to reinvent and improve myself, and in doing so, contribute to the preservation of the gentle arts of humanity, saluting things of the spirit that are eternally relevant; that stand, intrinsically, indeed, whimsically and charmingly, against the ideologies of oppressors and their inevitably obsolete fundamentalism, no matter the stripe. It was not for nothing, Goering muttered, 'whenever anyone mentions culture, I grab my gun.'
Whereas you must always begin with some technical grounding, all great creative efforts, need rely on instinct. I recall guitarist Carlos Santana saying he thought of brushing his daughter's hair while he played Perhaps that ephemerel touch of grace was and is present for Fred Astaire when he danced, Groucho when he quipped, and Ken Griffey, Jr., when he swings.
Annie Lamott's description of driving in a rainstorm and peering through a tiny spot in the windshield to see a little bit of the road ahead is apt in this way. In his eulogy for the late Oscar Peterson, Nat Hentoff alludes to it by writing, "Only when it was absolutely necessary, would he go on stage before a concert to check out the piano, because doing so might lead to preconditioned ideas, and they can in turn interfere with the creative process so essential to a creative jazz concert."
In all this half-century of life, I've only felt 'it' a tantalizingly few times. That day on the tennis court when, for one half-hour, I practiced serves that were perfect. Or the flowing stream-of-consciousness that fuelled a writing session which may have been as remotely close to the genius of Kerouac and Hunter Thompson I'll ever approach. When there is no pre-conditioned intransigence to defend, and all you have to start forging ahead is the briefest trace of an idea, then cooking, writing, indeed, living, transforms into a series of surprising adventures, full of unexpected possibilities, twists and turns, revelations and realizations. In their wake, lies, somehow, a mystical antidote to irrelevance.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Christmas, Behind the Hymn
I note this week a fella at the fundamentalist church I used to attend who'd say, every year, at this time, "Santa re-arranged spells Satan." He was one of 'the reason for the season' men.
He's not alone. An AP article by Tom Breen draws attention to folks like Pastor John Foster in Charleston, West Virginia, who says, "People don't think of it this way, but it's really a secular holiday," and Clyde Kilough, President of the United Church of God, who opines "The theological question is quite simple: Is it acceptable to God for humans to choose to worship him by adopting paganism's most popular celebration and calling them Christian?" Breen adds, "In colonial New England, this disapproval extended to actually making the holiday illegal, with celebration punishable by a fine."
How does one go from chuckling at the man, with a belly like jelly, to Satan? Now, if some different fundamentally-minded folk had their way, Christmas wouldn't be illegal, or ascribed to the devil, rather, it'd be illegal not to "recognize the importance of Christmas and the Christmas faith," 'as a House resolution recently recognized - though not without dissenters, as the Family Research Council (FRC) pointed out (Democrats, by name; one lonely Republican, identity withheld).
I'm confused - are we damned if we do, and damned if we don't? I made it a point never to attend office Christmas parties after a Director lectured it was good for business to attend. Could even I be a closet reason-for-the-season man?
Maybe I can't make sense of it because what I'm hearing and reading appears to omit certain things that my brain instinctively attempts to make whole. An editorialist on the local rag, for one, recently gushed with admiration for Jim Dobson, the founder of the above-cited FRC, who "will always be the man who taught me to parent." Fair enough if that works for her. However, when she writes, "This was a man, I realized, who took his faith seriously, whose care for the smaller, weaker members of society was evident," my cerebral cortex cries foul.
This is the point where my mind insists on filling a hole, patching a leak, mortaring the cracks - is the special care reserved for 'smaller, weaker members of society,' only if they're children of families deemed legitimate, natural, or, 'traditional,' in FRC-talk? What if what's protected, exclusively, then, has intended or unintended consequences which creates discrimination or persecution by default for 'smaller, weaker members of society' who don't fit within the restricted, glorified, mold; which is indirectly acknowledged, but lightly dismissed, with, "Sometimes it takes a little noise on the battlefield to get the job done." Noise? Battlefield? Parenting is war? Battlefields produce casualties. Who are they? What's the allowable range and extent of their wounds?
Injuries aren't always overt. I was initially attracted to an editorial by M.J. Andersen entitled "Elder Care >> The Benefits of Staying Home," about "a new program called Choices for Care allowing government dollars to pay for home care rather than nursing homes," since I'm likely on that road myself sooner than I'd like to think, when, like the burst of a shell on another battlefield, Andersen writes, "Gay elderly people who have felt themselves shunned in traditional nursing homes - and sometimes packed off to live with the severely disabled - are finding more adult facilities specifically geared toward them." Elderly gay folk categorized, segregated, severely disabled? Classifications of this sort sound depressingly familiar. Where is such everyday evil instilled, perpetuated, generation after generation? Parenting class?
Whether theologically correct, or not; Christian or non, Christmas holds a power that exceeds, even suspends, logic. A letter to the editor, a week ago, tapped into it. Carolyn R. Jones-Kelly, an inmate at the Rappahannock Regional Jail, writes about "some pretty heartless crimes I'd committed. I've talked bad about good people, stolen their property, and just generally violated every honor code imaginable." She continues, "Now that my trials are over, I'd like to publically apologize. I've accepted my guilt and have worked my way into understanding just how much hurt I've caused people, some I don't know and others I care very much about." Through the recognition of her 'heartlessness,' and acknowledgement of consequences, to those known and unknown, she elegantly patches the holes in the logic leaking from the Dobson portrayal; plus aren't we inclined, to grant Carolyn the benefit of the doubt, and accept her apology, more at Christmas time, as opposed to say, on July 4th?
There's a tradition in the family I married into where holidays and birthdays are celebrated together regardless of the distance required to overcome the absence. On the three and a half hour drive home from the Shenandoah Valley, after eating dinner at the sister-in-law's, I spotted a rusting, decrepit tin trailer off the side of the road, festooned with Christmas lights, hung from every conceivable angle, not to mention the plastic blow-up Santa's in the yard. No matter their theology, this was a house that hadn't given up hope.
The Roman orator Tacitus is famous for saying, "They make a desert and they call it peace." There are those that'd make a desert out of Christmas by likening Santa to Satan, or passing laws that enforce their own reason for the season, so that others of not like mind are shunned and abandoned to a lonely solitude.
The power of Christmas, whether religious or secular, stands in their way, like an unexpected plea for mercy from a prisoner, or an amazing ramshackle trailer, in the middle of nowhere, that illuminates the dark, as did a Star, one December night, two thousand years ago.
He's not alone. An AP article by Tom Breen draws attention to folks like Pastor John Foster in Charleston, West Virginia, who says, "People don't think of it this way, but it's really a secular holiday," and Clyde Kilough, President of the United Church of God, who opines "The theological question is quite simple: Is it acceptable to God for humans to choose to worship him by adopting paganism's most popular celebration and calling them Christian?" Breen adds, "In colonial New England, this disapproval extended to actually making the holiday illegal, with celebration punishable by a fine."
How does one go from chuckling at the man, with a belly like jelly, to Satan? Now, if some different fundamentally-minded folk had their way, Christmas wouldn't be illegal, or ascribed to the devil, rather, it'd be illegal not to "recognize the importance of Christmas and the Christmas faith," 'as a House resolution recently recognized - though not without dissenters, as the Family Research Council (FRC) pointed out (Democrats, by name; one lonely Republican, identity withheld).
I'm confused - are we damned if we do, and damned if we don't? I made it a point never to attend office Christmas parties after a Director lectured it was good for business to attend. Could even I be a closet reason-for-the-season man?
Maybe I can't make sense of it because what I'm hearing and reading appears to omit certain things that my brain instinctively attempts to make whole. An editorialist on the local rag, for one, recently gushed with admiration for Jim Dobson, the founder of the above-cited FRC, who "will always be the man who taught me to parent." Fair enough if that works for her. However, when she writes, "This was a man, I realized, who took his faith seriously, whose care for the smaller, weaker members of society was evident," my cerebral cortex cries foul.
This is the point where my mind insists on filling a hole, patching a leak, mortaring the cracks - is the special care reserved for 'smaller, weaker members of society,' only if they're children of families deemed legitimate, natural, or, 'traditional,' in FRC-talk? What if what's protected, exclusively, then, has intended or unintended consequences which creates discrimination or persecution by default for 'smaller, weaker members of society' who don't fit within the restricted, glorified, mold; which is indirectly acknowledged, but lightly dismissed, with, "Sometimes it takes a little noise on the battlefield to get the job done." Noise? Battlefield? Parenting is war? Battlefields produce casualties. Who are they? What's the allowable range and extent of their wounds?
Injuries aren't always overt. I was initially attracted to an editorial by M.J. Andersen entitled "Elder Care >> The Benefits of Staying Home," about "a new program called Choices for Care allowing government dollars to pay for home care rather than nursing homes," since I'm likely on that road myself sooner than I'd like to think, when, like the burst of a shell on another battlefield, Andersen writes, "Gay elderly people who have felt themselves shunned in traditional nursing homes - and sometimes packed off to live with the severely disabled - are finding more adult facilities specifically geared toward them." Elderly gay folk categorized, segregated, severely disabled? Classifications of this sort sound depressingly familiar. Where is such everyday evil instilled, perpetuated, generation after generation? Parenting class?
Whether theologically correct, or not; Christian or non, Christmas holds a power that exceeds, even suspends, logic. A letter to the editor, a week ago, tapped into it. Carolyn R. Jones-Kelly, an inmate at the Rappahannock Regional Jail, writes about "some pretty heartless crimes I'd committed. I've talked bad about good people, stolen their property, and just generally violated every honor code imaginable." She continues, "Now that my trials are over, I'd like to publically apologize. I've accepted my guilt and have worked my way into understanding just how much hurt I've caused people, some I don't know and others I care very much about." Through the recognition of her 'heartlessness,' and acknowledgement of consequences, to those known and unknown, she elegantly patches the holes in the logic leaking from the Dobson portrayal; plus aren't we inclined, to grant Carolyn the benefit of the doubt, and accept her apology, more at Christmas time, as opposed to say, on July 4th?
There's a tradition in the family I married into where holidays and birthdays are celebrated together regardless of the distance required to overcome the absence. On the three and a half hour drive home from the Shenandoah Valley, after eating dinner at the sister-in-law's, I spotted a rusting, decrepit tin trailer off the side of the road, festooned with Christmas lights, hung from every conceivable angle, not to mention the plastic blow-up Santa's in the yard. No matter their theology, this was a house that hadn't given up hope.
The Roman orator Tacitus is famous for saying, "They make a desert and they call it peace." There are those that'd make a desert out of Christmas by likening Santa to Satan, or passing laws that enforce their own reason for the season, so that others of not like mind are shunned and abandoned to a lonely solitude.
The power of Christmas, whether religious or secular, stands in their way, like an unexpected plea for mercy from a prisoner, or an amazing ramshackle trailer, in the middle of nowhere, that illuminates the dark, as did a Star, one December night, two thousand years ago.
Friday, December 21, 2007
A Question of Loyalty
I note this week, as last time, another incident in the office (perhaps this reflectational fixation has something to do with the impending new year being my last before retirement) when, twenty years ago, a senior executive, even for senior executives, floated a notably bad idea. When it inevitably drifted towards and hit the fan, he, along with other species of the breed like him, ducked for cover. When missiles of consequence were targeted in my direction, a lowly drone, four levels below the instigator on the organizational chart, I reviewed, with my boss, the merits of falling upon a metaphorical sword for the sake of the company. In that instance, I argued the firm had not instilled such a willingness in its employees by acting repeatedly to place its staff in such a dishonorable predicament.
Over the years, I've entertained repeated discussions with colleagues over the question of whether one should 'respect the position,' regardless of the occupant. I find I can not separate the two. It would seem, over the last half of the American 20th century, I'm not alone. For liberals, Viet Nam and Watergate were but the most recent confirmational turning points in establishing a mistrust of persons in authority. There was a even a rather bizarre editorial in the local rag two weeks ago castigating Walter Cronkite for allegedly stabbing troops in the back during Tet; in its perpetual quest to assign grades in non-definitive shades of loyalty and patriotism, Vietnamese anguish rages on, forty years later, with no end in sight.
Over the past five years, we've observed another scene of vehement linguistics, equal the propaganda of the best wars, manufactured by Episcopal seccesionists, the presumed conservatives of the struggle, against persons in authority, such as Archbishops and Bishops, while presumed liberals and progressives, stress loyalty and obedience to the institutional Church, its officers and canons.
As much as I can't separate the person from the position, there is still something instinctive, no matter the situation, that digs deep and calls for a modicum of loyalty despite circumstances. Perhaps it's a remnant of a tribal DNA defense mechanism. When I attended a fundamentalist church, I was appalled by the anti-Americanism espoused within the relentless criticisms hurled at the country. Qualms are also stirred now when someone in our Adult Sunday school castigates America from a position on the Left. There is something buried inside the conscience that reacts to criticism in a way that indicates something is out of order and needs to be put right.
Perhaps loyalty is a matter of timing. I note a book on tape on the life of Fritz Kolbe, a minor German bureaucrat in the Foreign Ministry, who served as an American 'spy in the heart of the Reich.' Up until mid-1943 into 1944, his secrets were highly valued. When it became clear the Germans were losing the war, less so. After 1945, he was shunned, by his countrymen as a tainted carrier of disloyalty, no matter the nature of the regime he betrayed.
In contrast, as observed here last week, Helmuth James Von Moltke, a conspirator in the plot to kill Hitler, executed by the Gestapo, is unambiguously honored, in retrospect, as a hero. Is this partly because he never had to face an aftermath where fellow countrymen might have regarded his actions as traitorous? Perhaps it was deliberate ruse, but I sense, even in Von Moltke's letters to his wife, there was still a 'we,' invested when writing of victorious German battles, as if he couldn't help loyally cheering his country despite working simulataneously to defeat it. (A lesser magnitudinal feeling similar to the one I have when I watch the beloved New York Yankees of my childhood play the downtrodden local Baltimore Orioles -- I want both to win when they don't play each other.) How long was it, in the end, anyway, before the post-war policy of De-Nazification was reversed when the West sought and found that former foes were useful allies in the new Cold War? How would Von Moltke reacted to that unforseen development?
In Voices of Morebath, Eamon Duffy, examines the impact of great events upon everyday parish life through looking at a small village in the English countryside during the Reformation. Prior to the 1530's, the village, as it had for over a millenium, was Roman Catholic. Mid-way through Henry the VIII's reign, it moderately blended old ritual with the liturgy of the oncoming new religion. Changes introduced by reformers, working under Henry's son, Edward VI, were more radical. His sister, Mary, reversed direction, restoring Catholicism, but so brutally, there was a backlash stirred throughout the general populace. Elizabeth I, of course, reversed course again, establishing England as a Protestant nation.
Most poignantly, in one viginette, Duffy writes of parish priest Father Christopher Trychay, who when he, "finally achieves the purchase of a new set of black vestments for requiem masses, the crowning achievement of twenty years painstaking effort, it is hard not to rejoice with him. The sense of loss is palpable, therefore, when the images, vestments and traditional trappings are removed, under the new Protestant order."
How could any priest or parishioner not turn cyncial in times like these? What constant is left to which to be loyal? An answer might be found in noting Father Christopher's tenure of service lasted from 1520 to 1574. In order to accomplish that, he might, indeed, have allowed himself to be carried 'any way the wind blows,' in national affairs over which he had no control, but dedicated himself, pastorally, to the myriad duties a parish priest attends to guide his flock through all their travails and needs of daily life.
Did Father Christopher bury his head in the sand or take care of more important business? Was it his small flock, or as the ghost of Jacob Marley screams to Scrooge every Christmas, "mankind was his business?" Where does the greater loyalty lie? My country right or wrong? Loyalty to the Church, the parish, or 'Spiritual Authority' as discerned through personal discernment? If individual conscience guides you to dissent, is this loyalty of another stripe to a higher calling, or betrayal? Or is it all simply a matter of timing?
I don't know for sure. What I do know is when our re-constituted Episcopal church gathers for its first Christmas Eve service, this Monday night, in reduced material circumstances, what someone might see as deprivation and loss, feels richer and more abundant than ever before, fulfilled by the simple parish pleasures of fellowship, common human, no, extraordinary human, decency, and unbreakable bonds of affection.
The good people of my parish, like those in medieval Morebath, remain honorably loyal to old Mother Church. It's a loyalty that's global, national and local in its implications; globally and nationally, in terms of symbolizing securing justice, dignity and human rights for marginalized peoples by warmly elcoming them in from the cold; locally, in an existence that sustains itself through steadfast goodness, intentional hospitality, and sacrificial charity, values of Jesus Incarnate, who we presume to imitate, humbly and naturally, despite existing in a world of constantly shifting, conveniently personal, loyalties.
Our re-constituted congregational birth and renassiance reflects another ancient local birth that purchased renewal for the entire world. Since taking a baptismal vow of Church loyalty, in 1997, I've opened myself to amazing new possibilities, harboring no questions or doubts on that course, and unlike my worldly career, not reflecting upon the past with dismay and regret, but awakened to a new life, filled with optimism, hope and faith, just like Ebeneezer Scrooge, on Christmas morning.
Over the years, I've entertained repeated discussions with colleagues over the question of whether one should 'respect the position,' regardless of the occupant. I find I can not separate the two. It would seem, over the last half of the American 20th century, I'm not alone. For liberals, Viet Nam and Watergate were but the most recent confirmational turning points in establishing a mistrust of persons in authority. There was a even a rather bizarre editorial in the local rag two weeks ago castigating Walter Cronkite for allegedly stabbing troops in the back during Tet; in its perpetual quest to assign grades in non-definitive shades of loyalty and patriotism, Vietnamese anguish rages on, forty years later, with no end in sight.
Over the past five years, we've observed another scene of vehement linguistics, equal the propaganda of the best wars, manufactured by Episcopal seccesionists, the presumed conservatives of the struggle, against persons in authority, such as Archbishops and Bishops, while presumed liberals and progressives, stress loyalty and obedience to the institutional Church, its officers and canons.
As much as I can't separate the person from the position, there is still something instinctive, no matter the situation, that digs deep and calls for a modicum of loyalty despite circumstances. Perhaps it's a remnant of a tribal DNA defense mechanism. When I attended a fundamentalist church, I was appalled by the anti-Americanism espoused within the relentless criticisms hurled at the country. Qualms are also stirred now when someone in our Adult Sunday school castigates America from a position on the Left. There is something buried inside the conscience that reacts to criticism in a way that indicates something is out of order and needs to be put right.
Perhaps loyalty is a matter of timing. I note a book on tape on the life of Fritz Kolbe, a minor German bureaucrat in the Foreign Ministry, who served as an American 'spy in the heart of the Reich.' Up until mid-1943 into 1944, his secrets were highly valued. When it became clear the Germans were losing the war, less so. After 1945, he was shunned, by his countrymen as a tainted carrier of disloyalty, no matter the nature of the regime he betrayed.
In contrast, as observed here last week, Helmuth James Von Moltke, a conspirator in the plot to kill Hitler, executed by the Gestapo, is unambiguously honored, in retrospect, as a hero. Is this partly because he never had to face an aftermath where fellow countrymen might have regarded his actions as traitorous? Perhaps it was deliberate ruse, but I sense, even in Von Moltke's letters to his wife, there was still a 'we,' invested when writing of victorious German battles, as if he couldn't help loyally cheering his country despite working simulataneously to defeat it. (A lesser magnitudinal feeling similar to the one I have when I watch the beloved New York Yankees of my childhood play the downtrodden local Baltimore Orioles -- I want both to win when they don't play each other.) How long was it, in the end, anyway, before the post-war policy of De-Nazification was reversed when the West sought and found that former foes were useful allies in the new Cold War? How would Von Moltke reacted to that unforseen development?
In Voices of Morebath, Eamon Duffy, examines the impact of great events upon everyday parish life through looking at a small village in the English countryside during the Reformation. Prior to the 1530's, the village, as it had for over a millenium, was Roman Catholic. Mid-way through Henry the VIII's reign, it moderately blended old ritual with the liturgy of the oncoming new religion. Changes introduced by reformers, working under Henry's son, Edward VI, were more radical. His sister, Mary, reversed direction, restoring Catholicism, but so brutally, there was a backlash stirred throughout the general populace. Elizabeth I, of course, reversed course again, establishing England as a Protestant nation.
Most poignantly, in one viginette, Duffy writes of parish priest Father Christopher Trychay, who when he, "finally achieves the purchase of a new set of black vestments for requiem masses, the crowning achievement of twenty years painstaking effort, it is hard not to rejoice with him. The sense of loss is palpable, therefore, when the images, vestments and traditional trappings are removed, under the new Protestant order."
How could any priest or parishioner not turn cyncial in times like these? What constant is left to which to be loyal? An answer might be found in noting Father Christopher's tenure of service lasted from 1520 to 1574. In order to accomplish that, he might, indeed, have allowed himself to be carried 'any way the wind blows,' in national affairs over which he had no control, but dedicated himself, pastorally, to the myriad duties a parish priest attends to guide his flock through all their travails and needs of daily life.
Did Father Christopher bury his head in the sand or take care of more important business? Was it his small flock, or as the ghost of Jacob Marley screams to Scrooge every Christmas, "mankind was his business?" Where does the greater loyalty lie? My country right or wrong? Loyalty to the Church, the parish, or 'Spiritual Authority' as discerned through personal discernment? If individual conscience guides you to dissent, is this loyalty of another stripe to a higher calling, or betrayal? Or is it all simply a matter of timing?
I don't know for sure. What I do know is when our re-constituted Episcopal church gathers for its first Christmas Eve service, this Monday night, in reduced material circumstances, what someone might see as deprivation and loss, feels richer and more abundant than ever before, fulfilled by the simple parish pleasures of fellowship, common human, no, extraordinary human, decency, and unbreakable bonds of affection.
The good people of my parish, like those in medieval Morebath, remain honorably loyal to old Mother Church. It's a loyalty that's global, national and local in its implications; globally and nationally, in terms of symbolizing securing justice, dignity and human rights for marginalized peoples by warmly elcoming them in from the cold; locally, in an existence that sustains itself through steadfast goodness, intentional hospitality, and sacrificial charity, values of Jesus Incarnate, who we presume to imitate, humbly and naturally, despite existing in a world of constantly shifting, conveniently personal, loyalties.
Our re-constituted congregational birth and renassiance reflects another ancient local birth that purchased renewal for the entire world. Since taking a baptismal vow of Church loyalty, in 1997, I've opened myself to amazing new possibilities, harboring no questions or doubts on that course, and unlike my worldly career, not reflecting upon the past with dismay and regret, but awakened to a new life, filled with optimism, hope and faith, just like Ebeneezer Scrooge, on Christmas morning.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Bureaucrats
I note this week an incident which occured in the office fifteen years ago. A new boss asked I do something a bit dodgy ethics-wise. My response, upon pondering the request, was: 'interesting.' His ballistic reply: "It wasn't a question, it was an order." The counter-response once again, 'interesting,' only infuriated him more. He recognized, in his heart of hearts, as I knew in mine, I wasn't going to do it, no matter what.
The eventual consequence of the exchange was that I was denied work of any significance for a period of ten years. In fact, a cadre of three, this boss, his superior, and one toady underling, eventually took upon themselves, the work of sixty people, leaving nothing but rote crumbs for the rest of us, until, damage done, they left, together.
People reacted to forced idleness in various ways. One staffer, previously distinguished by his workaholism, as demonstrated through emails written at 3 a.m., suffered a breakdown and retired on a medical disability. Others had no problem with being paid for inactivity. My response, after a decade of deep devotion to the firm, was to fortify my heart against office politics, releasing energy for activities elsewhere.
I arrived at 5 a.m., leaving eight straight hours later, to attend afternoon classes at a local seminary. (I constantly worried the trio might, one day, attempt contact, while I was out of the office, on a work-related matter; no matter, in three years, not once.) I worked evenings on tasks related to opening a homeless shelter. Whereas any bureaucratic talents I possessed went unused at the office, here they were here tested to the limit, interacting with politicians, the police, hospital administrators, clergy, corporations, the media, and other shelter directors (especially, them, since they resented competition for limited financial resources and acted accordingly).
This period of life came to mind, this past week, as I read letters written, during World War II, by Helmuth James Von Moltke to his wife Freya. The scion of a revered German military family, whose reputation initially offered some protection, Helmuth served the Reich as a otherwise clandestine lawyer in a bureaucracy that posed considerably more ethical dangers, in the extreme, than my office, but in some ways, contained similar characteristics, to all bureaucracies.
As an attorney assigned to produce opinions related to international law, Motlke reports in September 1941, "The following landed on my desk yesterday: An officer reports that ammunition produced in violation of international law was found on Russians: dum-dum bullets. That they were such could be proved by the evidence of the Medical Officer, one Panning, who used the ammunition in a large-scale experimental execution of Jews. This produced the following results: such and such was the effect of the projectile when fired at the head, such when fired at the chest, such in abdominal shots, such when limbs were hit. The results were available in the form of a scientific study so that the violation of international law could be proved without a doubt."
In matters of no great consequence, I often offered, as a good bureaucrat, and in way of intellectual exercise, "let me know what you want to prove, or not, and I'll produce statistics either way." The absolute depravity of the Third Reich is encapsulated, in the above 'proof', where such documentation is considered allowable and compelling (such as it is today, perhaps, when presented by ethically untroubled lawyers, who employ the 'gay defense,' tactic, alledging justifiable self-defense, to win release of murderous homophobic clients).
Von Moltke is cognizant of his predicament. He writes, "The realization that what I do is senseless does not stop my doing it, because I am much more firmly convinced than before that only what is done in the full recognition of the senselessness of all action makes any sense at all." Even so, in the case of the dum-dum bullets, he willfully envisions a future of justice as he concludes, "That surely is the height of bestiality and depravity and there is nothing one can do. But I hope one day it will be possible to get the reporting officer and Herr Panning before a court of law."
The inextinguishable hope of Von Moltke got him killed, in the end, for complicity in the circles of men and women rounded up and killed by the Gestapo, after the plot on Hitler's life failed, in July 1944.
At our shelter for those with active addictions or criminal records of violence, who can not enter other shelters, for the protection of women and children, we were frequently accused, by competitors (even though they didn't allow admittance of our guests to their facilities) of enabling the clients. Friend Mark, and I, considering, in retrospect, our high death rate, have discussed many times whether our work did any good, or at least, more good than harm. Some days, I think it enough, in the endeavors someone undertakes, to be 'a fool for Christ,' other days, less so.
Von Moltke tells the story of a priest whose job it was to spend the night with prisoners before their execution. After commenting on the suprisingly consistent good nature of the fellow under such conditions, Von Moltke writes, "I made him describe such a night; it is horrible and yet, somehow, sublime. He said that no-one is so well prepared to face death as these people; and he said that in the 8 years of his work, there was not one . . . who did not go to the scaffold calmly. What an accomplishment such a night means! It is gruesome and frightful; but such a night poses questions which are not put otherwise so starkly, so nakedly and absolutely." It brought back the night I spent bonding with a previously remote, alternatively violent and gentle guest, watching the sunrise, the morning after a hurricane.
Nothing in my experience approaches the horror Von Moltke faced, nor the courage he demonstrated - I pray he won't mind then if I apply any lessons garnered by his struggle to my life. I do grasp, though, from limited experience, that when you encounter life and death on such stark terms, much of the facade of detail, falls away, so that what is left, is magnified, and counts all the more.
Yet, throughout the war, he retreated, to the family farm, or even just to his apartment, with a book, whether a biography of Charles XII, or (so ironically delicious, a book by the great Jewish philosopher) Spinoza, for solace, and for strength, since any text you approach in circumstances like these, seems to carry a serendipitous relevance (reminding me further of the time I took a Catholic Worker farm phamphlet on organic toilets to surrpeticiously read at a meeting of high-ranking company executives). Von Moltke's revelation alleviates guilt and permits me not only to excuse time I spend reading, as not time taken away from more important work, but to value reading, in itself, as a quiet act of self-preservation, or even subversion, when no other means is permitted.
Some letters included exchanges with his wife on whether the recitiation of grace should be imposed upon their children before meals. Bonfoeffer, in similar circumstances, wrote from prison, on the significance of regular Sunday church attendance. Perhaps, likewise, I discern the parable of the rich young man who sulks away after Jesus tells him he must discard his worldly goods to follow Him. I have the feeling He was trying to tell us He realized this wasn't possible for most folks, and that as the man walked away, He still gazed upon Him with tenderness, because He knew, in the weakness and helplessness of all people, it's enough that we do little things in our lives, to preserve the dignity of those around us, as well as our own, especially under conditions we can't control, so that we remember our reliance remains upon Him, the Great Transcender. Our spirit, aligned with His, is the only thing, temporally and eternally, unconquerable.
Von Moltke wrote in November 1941: "We must, it seems to me, do all we can to instill into their very flesh and blood, the principle that there must be an accounting for every action, and that all men are equal before God, so that whatever happens to one human being concerns all others too, and that no-one can hide behind some notion that any human being is in a different category."
I'll leave him with the last word.
The eventual consequence of the exchange was that I was denied work of any significance for a period of ten years. In fact, a cadre of three, this boss, his superior, and one toady underling, eventually took upon themselves, the work of sixty people, leaving nothing but rote crumbs for the rest of us, until, damage done, they left, together.
People reacted to forced idleness in various ways. One staffer, previously distinguished by his workaholism, as demonstrated through emails written at 3 a.m., suffered a breakdown and retired on a medical disability. Others had no problem with being paid for inactivity. My response, after a decade of deep devotion to the firm, was to fortify my heart against office politics, releasing energy for activities elsewhere.
I arrived at 5 a.m., leaving eight straight hours later, to attend afternoon classes at a local seminary. (I constantly worried the trio might, one day, attempt contact, while I was out of the office, on a work-related matter; no matter, in three years, not once.) I worked evenings on tasks related to opening a homeless shelter. Whereas any bureaucratic talents I possessed went unused at the office, here they were here tested to the limit, interacting with politicians, the police, hospital administrators, clergy, corporations, the media, and other shelter directors (especially, them, since they resented competition for limited financial resources and acted accordingly).
This period of life came to mind, this past week, as I read letters written, during World War II, by Helmuth James Von Moltke to his wife Freya. The scion of a revered German military family, whose reputation initially offered some protection, Helmuth served the Reich as a otherwise clandestine lawyer in a bureaucracy that posed considerably more ethical dangers, in the extreme, than my office, but in some ways, contained similar characteristics, to all bureaucracies.
As an attorney assigned to produce opinions related to international law, Motlke reports in September 1941, "The following landed on my desk yesterday: An officer reports that ammunition produced in violation of international law was found on Russians: dum-dum bullets. That they were such could be proved by the evidence of the Medical Officer, one Panning, who used the ammunition in a large-scale experimental execution of Jews. This produced the following results: such and such was the effect of the projectile when fired at the head, such when fired at the chest, such in abdominal shots, such when limbs were hit. The results were available in the form of a scientific study so that the violation of international law could be proved without a doubt."
In matters of no great consequence, I often offered, as a good bureaucrat, and in way of intellectual exercise, "let me know what you want to prove, or not, and I'll produce statistics either way." The absolute depravity of the Third Reich is encapsulated, in the above 'proof', where such documentation is considered allowable and compelling (such as it is today, perhaps, when presented by ethically untroubled lawyers, who employ the 'gay defense,' tactic, alledging justifiable self-defense, to win release of murderous homophobic clients).
Von Moltke is cognizant of his predicament. He writes, "The realization that what I do is senseless does not stop my doing it, because I am much more firmly convinced than before that only what is done in the full recognition of the senselessness of all action makes any sense at all." Even so, in the case of the dum-dum bullets, he willfully envisions a future of justice as he concludes, "That surely is the height of bestiality and depravity and there is nothing one can do. But I hope one day it will be possible to get the reporting officer and Herr Panning before a court of law."
The inextinguishable hope of Von Moltke got him killed, in the end, for complicity in the circles of men and women rounded up and killed by the Gestapo, after the plot on Hitler's life failed, in July 1944.
At our shelter for those with active addictions or criminal records of violence, who can not enter other shelters, for the protection of women and children, we were frequently accused, by competitors (even though they didn't allow admittance of our guests to their facilities) of enabling the clients. Friend Mark, and I, considering, in retrospect, our high death rate, have discussed many times whether our work did any good, or at least, more good than harm. Some days, I think it enough, in the endeavors someone undertakes, to be 'a fool for Christ,' other days, less so.
Von Moltke tells the story of a priest whose job it was to spend the night with prisoners before their execution. After commenting on the suprisingly consistent good nature of the fellow under such conditions, Von Moltke writes, "I made him describe such a night; it is horrible and yet, somehow, sublime. He said that no-one is so well prepared to face death as these people; and he said that in the 8 years of his work, there was not one . . . who did not go to the scaffold calmly. What an accomplishment such a night means! It is gruesome and frightful; but such a night poses questions which are not put otherwise so starkly, so nakedly and absolutely." It brought back the night I spent bonding with a previously remote, alternatively violent and gentle guest, watching the sunrise, the morning after a hurricane.
Nothing in my experience approaches the horror Von Moltke faced, nor the courage he demonstrated - I pray he won't mind then if I apply any lessons garnered by his struggle to my life. I do grasp, though, from limited experience, that when you encounter life and death on such stark terms, much of the facade of detail, falls away, so that what is left, is magnified, and counts all the more.
Yet, throughout the war, he retreated, to the family farm, or even just to his apartment, with a book, whether a biography of Charles XII, or (so ironically delicious, a book by the great Jewish philosopher) Spinoza, for solace, and for strength, since any text you approach in circumstances like these, seems to carry a serendipitous relevance (reminding me further of the time I took a Catholic Worker farm phamphlet on organic toilets to surrpeticiously read at a meeting of high-ranking company executives). Von Moltke's revelation alleviates guilt and permits me not only to excuse time I spend reading, as not time taken away from more important work, but to value reading, in itself, as a quiet act of self-preservation, or even subversion, when no other means is permitted.
Some letters included exchanges with his wife on whether the recitiation of grace should be imposed upon their children before meals. Bonfoeffer, in similar circumstances, wrote from prison, on the significance of regular Sunday church attendance. Perhaps, likewise, I discern the parable of the rich young man who sulks away after Jesus tells him he must discard his worldly goods to follow Him. I have the feeling He was trying to tell us He realized this wasn't possible for most folks, and that as the man walked away, He still gazed upon Him with tenderness, because He knew, in the weakness and helplessness of all people, it's enough that we do little things in our lives, to preserve the dignity of those around us, as well as our own, especially under conditions we can't control, so that we remember our reliance remains upon Him, the Great Transcender. Our spirit, aligned with His, is the only thing, temporally and eternally, unconquerable.
Von Moltke wrote in November 1941: "We must, it seems to me, do all we can to instill into their very flesh and blood, the principle that there must be an accounting for every action, and that all men are equal before God, so that whatever happens to one human being concerns all others too, and that no-one can hide behind some notion that any human being is in a different category."
I'll leave him with the last word.
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