the reach

Soon. Maybe.

2010-02-27T11:01:00.000-06:00

INAUGURATION

2009-01-16T07:58:00.000-06:00

My daughter and I will be traveling to D.C. next week for the inauguration. I don't know how much access I will have to computing while we're there, but at some point I hope to share our stories about the crowds, the cold, the history, and the crowds.

Stay tuned.

IS THE MEDIUM THE MESSAGE?

2008-12-28T10:16:00.000-06:00

What's music for? What does a song do? What should a song do? I've been thinking about these questions lately, as a consumer and a musician.

Recently, an old friend of mine (who is actually quite young, and a musician herself) introduced me to some newer tunes. She turned me on to Fleet Foxes and Greg Laswell, among others. It's not the sort of thing I typically listen to, but I really like them. I find that I am attracted to the sonic qualities and some of the lyrics. I bought 2-3 CDs on iTunes, and I'm enjoying them, particularly as background when I'm driving or having conversation with friends. It's good atmospheric music, in style and effect.

But, something keeps nagging at me. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there is something substantively different about these new indie-folk-pop-rock bands than the music I play and listen to.

In a NY Times article today, Jon Pareles gets at part of it when he explores the way music is being made today. It's not about songwriters and albums anymore--the instrinsic appreciation of the songs--it's about marketing. Before you assume I'm criticizing the artists, let me assure you I'm not. It is virtually impossible to sell music today. No one believes they should have to pay for music anymore; so, the best way to turn it into a financially sustainable enterprise is to attach it to commodities. Whether it's a Grey's Anatomy soundtrack, a car commercial, or sonic wallpaper for office buildings, music has to be sold differently than a decade or two ago.

Pareles asks the important question:

What happens to the music itself when the way to build a career shifts from recording songs that ordinary listeners want to buy to making music that marketers can use? That creates pressure, subtle but genuine, for music to recede: to embrace the element of vacancy that makes a good soundtrack so unobtrusive, to edit a lyric to be less specific or private, to leave blanks for the image or message the music now serves. Perhaps the song will still make that essential, head-turning first impression, but it won’t be as memorable or independent.

After reading that, I may be getting a fix on part of what I was noticing about newer music. It is less specific...?

I have been told by a few people that a very personal song I wrote would be more commercially viable if I would take out the specific references and generalize it. I have not done that, probably as much out of laziness as anything; but, there is something about changing a song that tells my former brother-in-law's tragic, yet hopeful story, into a dramatic pop song. Nothing wrong with that. Might even be a better song. It's just something I am noticing.

I don't share the snarky perspective of Gawker, when Hamilton Nolan took Laswell to task for corporate "bootlicking" by selling his songs to hotel chains for lobby music, Pepsi and Amazon commercials, and nearly a dozen television soundtracks. I don't begrudge Laswell these moves, but I am still interested in how it changes the way music is made.

I wonder if songwriters and producers make room for more atmospheric spaces and less specific poetry so the focus can be on the product or the "feel" a potential buyer would want to get at with the sound.

For the record, let me say there is a difference between your music being picked up and used in a corporate context, and recording songs with a clear eye on that market.

I have several friends who have been delighted to find their songs have been selected for local commercials, national commercials, TV shows, and elevator music, among other commercial outlets; but I don't think that was on their minds when they wrote and recorded the songs. Maybe Nick Drake turned over in his grave when "Pink Moon" was used for that VW commercial, but I doubt it.

I saw a band last night that was a blast from my personal past. Fools Face, a local and regional phenom in the 80s, blew my mind last night. They were sensational, but they were pretty straight ahead rock and roll, with a nice selection of punk-influenced, new-waviness, and pop grunge in the mix. Don't hear too many soundtracks coming out of that, but it was tremendous music.

I guess I find myself at this mid-life point, where culture is changing around me, and I'm trying to make sense of it. I am not entirely unhappy with where pop music is going. It's just becoming something different than what it was. Isn't it? Hmm?

LET'S BE PLEASIN' FOR THE SEASON

2008-12-21T11:49:00.000-06:00

We've come through an election where sides were chosen and winners were declared. Propositions were made and pastors proclaimed victory. Culture wars were restarted. We seem to be as aware as ever of the lines that separate us, and there is much money and power to be gained making those lines as clear as possible. Blessed assurance sells. Mystery is rarely profitable, outside Agathie Christie and Mickey Spillane.

May we join David Wilcox embracing the unsure this Christmastime, saying, "I didn't join the other side. The battle lines just disappeared."

May the Love we celebrate this season be fearless.

May the lines that we have drawn be blurred.

May "the others" in our lives become very sacred to us, whether they sit across the table, hold a different belief, or play for the other team.

May we all get at least a small dose of vertigo from the unhinged love contained in that small Child, so that when we speak we speak from our blindness and dizziness and emptiness, thus using the very voice of God.

A DIN OF INEQUITY

2008-12-09T18:31:00.001-06:00

I don't really have anything to say about the economic crisis, or the various bailouts in the works. I just thought this moment in history should not pass without someone using this headline.

TRYPTOPHAN DREAMS

2008-11-29T08:30:00.001-06:00

I don't think I had fully engaged my thankfulness until the morning after the morning after. Spent a wonderful Thursday with a family of 25, where I tiptoed up to the edge of gluttony, stared into its gorgeous face and embraced it. Fully. Reprised my performance yesterday with another family remnant of six, where, in addition to performing the roll (that's right, I performed the roll, not role) of digestion machines, we baked crazy amounts of cookies and chocolate goodies for my nephew and his buddies serving in Qatar.

Yesterday, as my wife and daughters and I were together decorating the house for the holidays, listening to Christmas music by Sufjan Stevens, James Taylor, Sarah McLachlan, and the late, great Dan Fogelberg, I was reminded--as I am every year about now--how fortunate I am.

When I turn on the faucet I can get hot water, while many in the world can't even get clean water.

I may fear the turns my life may take professionally, aesthetically, emotionally...but I don't live in fear that someone is going to conk me on the head and drag me by the hair into the weeds.

I have more than one guitar, even though I can only play (sort of) one at a time.

I live in a 98-year-old house that is aging well and continually shaping me in its image.

I have three women in my life (only sleeping with one) who are exceedingly beautiful, intelligent, funny, and simply the best company a man could want.

I have friends from the Midwest, to Colorado, to DC, to NYC, to New England, to Florida, to Oregon, to Greece, to Singapore, to New Zealand, to China, and all divers places in between who are meditative, irreverent, crazy smart, and full of grace; who would actually acknowledge my presence in their world and would at least stumble a bit in their daily lives if I were to depart this skin suit.

I live in a country that is confused and in disarray, but where no tanks are rolling in the streets, and we are free to bang our rhetorical heads together as we try to figure things out. And where we are hopeful.

I am generally content with the things I have, and I don't feel the need to trample my fellow humans to death in pursuit of outrageously low holiday prices.

I know Love, when so many do not.

In the words of the profound prayer written by Anne Lamott, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

TWO EARS, ONE MOUTH

2008-11-25T15:22:00.000-06:00

We have just come through a time of talk. We have heard the candidates and all the pundits had to say, and we have all said our piece. Too often we didn't say our peace, just our piece of some bigger thing that was being hammered against the thing of the other, in hopes of being the winning thing. That's not to say that our piece and peace are always mutually exclusive.

It is my belief that there are two primary uses for communication: conciliation and critique. There is a time for each. There is a time to speak "truth" to power, and jab our rhetorical sticks into the soft underbelly of whatever beast is in need of poking. There is also a time to use our voices as magnets and glue--drawing closer to each other through the sharing of narratives and the building of consensus. Conciliation without critique makes us victims. Critique without conciliation can make us mean.

So, the timing is very appropriate for Storycorps to sponsor the National Day of Listening this week.

As we prepare to enjoy the balm of family and gravy, may we all use this time to be mindful. And listen. Be mindful of the one across the table. Everyone has stories to tell. And it is in the telling that we become aware of who and what we are.

In the listening we take on the posture of thanksgiving. How can we give thanks when we are onstage or on the attack, or preaching, or desperately needing to be right?

Two ears and one mouth? Must be a sign from God.

MY LIFE THESE DAYS

2008-11-25T08:17:00.000-06:00

I'm Not One Of Those "Love Thy Neighbor" Christians

2008-11-22T17:22:00.000-06:00

The Onion just keeps bringing it.

WHAT NOW?

2008-11-22T09:58:00.001-06:00

Obama Win Causes Obsessive Supporters To Realize How Empty Their Lives Are

PREACH IT, KEITH

2008-11-11T08:26:00.000-06:00

I'm not always an Olbermann fan, but on this day he could be my pastor.

SPREADING THE WEALTH IN AN AGE OF SELFISH CHRISTIANS

2008-11-10T09:08:00.000-06:00

Conservatives regularly oppose state-supported social programs for the poor, arguing that they interfere with market principles and diminish incentive for individuals to achieve. In rare moments of compassion (or cold calculation), when they consider how the catastrophic failure of the proletariat will affect the ruling class, they will say any relief should come from private rather than public sources.

Politically conservative evangelicals and fundamentalists will continue this argument by suggesting that such relief is the responsibility of the churches, not the state.

Fine.

Where are they?

Let me say that I have read about and witnessed extravagant and impressive acts of giving from faith communities, and there is no doubt in my mind that well-intentioned and well-motivated believers are far more capable of addressing the needs of the poor than most agencies, public or private.

However a new book, Passing the Plate: Why American Christians Don't Give Away More Money, delivers some sobering news about the reluctance of believers to part with their cash. In his review, Ron Sider (author of Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger), lays out some of the disturbing data:

20% of Christians give nothing.
Those who do give average 2.9% of their income.
20% of Christians give 86.4% of the total.
5% give 59.6%.
As our income has quadrupled, our giving has declined.
The facts suggest that as we get wealthier, we get stingier.
If Christians who attend church regularly would tithe (presumably the standard 10%), there would $46 billion extra available for serving the poor.

For the record, I happen to believe that relieving the suffering of the "poor" (in all manifest meanings of the word) should be the prime objective of our churches. Above mall-like worship centers, gymnasiums, and Starbucks, we should be serving "the least of these." And, it appears that as hard as it is to get believers to give, when they do we are more likely to fund our edifice complex than the poor.

A couple of disclosures: My wife and I used to give over $500 a month to an organization that serves the poor in Central America--we quit giving to churches years ago (see edifice complex comment above)--until things came to light about how the funds were not being used honestly. Now, we will only give to actual people in actual need. But, it is terribly inefficient and ad hoc.

Also, it appears from Sider's review that while evangelicals still have nothing to brag about, they give better percentages than other Christian groups.

So, I cannot take conservative Christian's arguments seriously when they protest loudly about "socialism" and "redistributing the wealth," while they are actively keeping more for themselves than even their doctrines demand.

We must be a culture that takes care of those who can't take care of themselves. If we aren't, we embrace a form of social Darwinism where the weak are trampled underfoot, and civilization as we know it deteriorates. Public means of support are terribly inefficient and often not the most effective, but until "believers" step up and get as aggressive in living out the gospel as they are preaching it, I cannot support a political ideology that would benefit the powerful over the weak.

CRACKER MAP (updated)

2008-11-07T10:06:00.000-06:00

This map has been a point of discussion at The Ready Room, and in several email threads. Based on the reported numbers from Tuesday, the bluer an area the stronger the vote for Obama in comparison to the vote for Kerry in 2004. The redder the area the stronger the vote was for McCain than for Bush. The less color, the closer the vote was to '04.

The rash of red in the South seems to suggest a disturbing racial pattern. The southern areas with larger African-American and Latino populations are bluer, but Old South whites seemed to vote Republican in dramatically higher numbers this year than in 2004.

I tend to side with Occam's Razor in assuming the most obvious answer is the best. The reddest areas seem to be where the whitest Southerners live. What else would move them so deeply?

McCain supporters are strongly denying this is about race. Maybe so. What's another explanation? Somehow you would need to isolate an issue that was unique to that area.

Before you are tempted to make the reverse racism argument, take a look at the West. Not a lot of black voters in Montana and Nevada.

**********UPDATE 11/11/08**********

As pointed out by Stephanie (Mrs. Ready Room), today's NY Times supports the cracker map thesis, adding terribly disturbing interviews with crackers that position Inland and Deep South as being out of step with the rest of the country and on the wrong side of history.

While not exactly in Cracker Map territory, this picture was sent to me from Mike in Springfield, MO. This was sent to the local paper.

And, this news: The Sapulpa (Oklahoma) Herald did not print anything about Obama's victory in their paper Wednesday. The cracker-dominated county went overwhelmingly for McCain.

God, bless America. Please.

POST-GAME SHOW

2008-11-05T12:19:00.000-06:00

My emotions are still too raw and unprocessed to do more than this for now.

An assessment and course correction on my predictions: First, I had a math error. I never got around to posting my state list. What I found as I marked the results on my paper copy last night was that I had misapplied Georgia. Early Sunday I had Georgia in the Obama column, thinking that the unanticipated African-American turnout would subvert the polls. However, late Monday I switched it back to McCain, but forgot to change the math. So, my real prediction was 375 to 163. Assuming Missouri and North Carolina end up the way they are looking now, I will have picked every single state in the country correctly, with the exception of Missouri. Some of you will find that amusing.

My prediction: 375-163
Likely outcome: 364-174

My prediction: 52%-45%
Likely outcome: 53%-46%

Not bad. Better than most of the people who are paid handsomely for their analysis.

I have more to say about where we go from here and what we should talk about next, but I'm still trying to assemble my thoughts. Not to mention the amount of work I need to attend to that has been put off while I followed the campaign.

IT'S A GOOD DAY

2008-11-04T10:16:00.000-06:00

I voted at about 8:00 this morning in my swing state. Pretty uneventful, until I turned in my ballot and noticed that our Republican governor was right behind me submitting his ballot. On the way out of the building I wanted to turn to him and say, "I canceled you out, buddy. This state doesn't belong to you and yours anymore." But, my better angels prevailed (and my instinct for self-preservation, since I suspect his secret service detail might have interpreted "cancel you out" differently than I would have intended).

Instead I simply smiled at him, nodded, then looked up at the beautiful blue sky and choked back a tear. The time for rancor and division is over. It's a new day.

It's a good day.

Goodnight, Toot

2008-11-03T19:55:00.001-06:00

I cannot imagine the exhaustion and emotion of two years of constant campaigning, nearly at its end. Then, on the eve of the greatest night of your life, you get the news that the woman who raised you passes from this life.

Thank you, Madelyn Dunham, for your life and your work. You done good.

May you rest in peace.

Our hearts go out to you, Barack.

MARK IT

2008-11-02T21:11:00.000-06:00

Popular Vote*
Obama 52%
McCain 45%
Other 3%

Electoral College*
Obama 390
McCain 148

Winner*
All of us.

*Assuming voting irregularities are held to a minimum.

I know that's more dramatic than predicted by the pollsters and pundits. I'll give you the list of states and the analysis behind it. Tomorrow.

40,000 in Springfield...

2008-11-02T10:31:00.000-06:00

MISSOURI!!!

Sorry Sarah. Eli's comin'.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LOST GREATNESS

2008-10-25T09:03:00.000-05:00

James Dobson's flying monkeys are at it again. The Word from the King of Chaos, the Wicked Pitch from the West is here--the Letter from 2012 in Obama’s America--designed to scare the beJesus into us. I wondered how long it would be before JD would once again offer us a toxic blend of bad theology, Rovian politics, and hide-under-your-covers fear appeals. Praise God and pass the gunpowder. This man likes the smell of gaypalm in the morning.

Dobson's Focus on the Family Action (Don't you remember that passage in chapter one of II Bealiah where Jesus encourages us to create cultural hit squads in case anyone disagrees with us and threatens our power?), feeling the pressure of being Left Behind, or Behind the Left, felt the need to use the power of time travel to scare us straight.

Sorry Barack. Dr. Dobson gave us the news: we got a bad case of loving you. Apparently, no pill's gonna cure our ill; and, in fact we are probably going to die miserable deaths at the hands of pornographic terrorists.

When faced with the likelihood of a Christian man being elected as a Democratic president, What Would James Do? It appears that he would scare the shit out of you.

According to Focus on the Fantasy, an Obama administration will result in a hijacking of the Court, ushering in nearly mandatory gay marriage, public elementary gay factories, the shuttering of Christian schools, adoption agencies, and publishing houses. Christian doctors and nurses, counselors and soldiers, teachers and broadcasters will all be out on the street. The Boy Scouts will be abolished. The streets will be littered with exterminated fetuses. We will terminate unwanted newborns like roaches. Our gunless citizens will be overrun by porn-juiced criminals. Americans will be killed abroad, and several major U.S. cities will be destroyed by terrorists. Our country will become communist, but for some reason at war with Russia. Israel will virtually cease to exist. Health care will become so rationed we will start euthanizing the old and infirm. Our economy will collapse, we will suffer electrical blackouts, while buying $7 gas.

Honestly, in the midst of all that, $7 gas doesn't sound so bad.

The letter is prefaced with a statement that includes a call for mutual respect.

Of course, there are many evangelical Christians supporting Senator Obama as well as many supporting Senator McCain. Christians on both sides should continue to respect and cherish one another’s friendship as well as the freedom people have in the United States to differ on these issues and to freely speak their opinions about them to one another.

Oh, yes, let's be respectful of the infidel wolves masquerading in sheep's clothing. Respect them until you get a clear head shot. If this is how you cherish friendships, all your enemies should shave their heads, move to Tierra del Fuego, and change their names to Chris (unless their name is already Chris, in which case they should change it to Terry).

Dobson and his kind are driving thousands of people out of the faith. They do so by devouring their young. They observe that young evangelicals may make up the margin of difference in this election. Then they tell them they are wrong. "We want you to be part of our Family, but everything that matters to you is crap. Now, sit up straight and repeat after me...."

On behalf of young evangelicals (one of which I'm not) told by Dobson they are wrong, let me say: "Are not. You are."

WHEN THE MAN COMES AROUND

2008-10-23T13:22:00.000-05:00

Last summer my family had the opportunity to attend an Obama town hall meeting. It was great. Not as exciting as tens of thousands of people at an outdoor rally, but a solid, reasonable display of intelligence and leadership. At one point during his answers to audience questions, my 15-year-old daughter sighed and said, "I feel calm listening to him. He makes me feel safe." Back then I took that to be the words of a teenager who is more than a little intoxicated by this good-looking, charismatic man. But, reading Joel Klein's article "Why Barack Obama is Winning" in Time magazine, I now understand what she was feeling.

Klein closes with this assessment:

His has been a remarkable campaign, as smoothly run as any I've seen in nine presidential cycles. Even more remarkable, Obama has made race — that perennial, gaping American wound — an afterthought. He has done this by introducing a quality to American politics that we haven't seen in quite some time: maturity. He is undoubtedly as ego-driven as everyone else seeking the highest office — perhaps more so, given his race, his name and his lack of experience. But he has not been childishly egomaniacal, in contrast to our recent baby-boomer Presidents — or petulant, in contrast to his opponent. He does not seem needy. He seems a grown-up, in a nation that badly needs some adult supervision.

REPRESENTIN'

2008-10-22T09:58:00.001-05:00

This and many more here and here.

BOOM...BAM...POWELL!!

2008-10-19T09:56:00.000-05:00

Over 50 major newspapers have endorsed Obama.

Big deal. Many of them would endorse a shoe with cheese on it if it was running on a Democratic ticket.

But, when you combine the growing number of print endorsements with the cacophony of conservative voices lining up behind the Democratic ticket, a national consensus begins to emerge.

Today's nod from Colin Powell is more significant than most. As a lifetime Republican, former Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, National Security Advisor and Secretary of State in the Bush administration, Powell brings a bucketful of credibility to the table.

I KNOW SIZE DOESN'T MATTER, BUT...

2008-10-18T15:09:00.000-05:00

100,000 in St. Louis...

...and 75,000 in Kansas City

Didn't know there were that many socialists in the Midwest, not to mention Missouri.

LOOK. THEY'RE FUNNY, MY FRIENDS

2008-10-17T12:14:00.000-05:00

TIPPY TURTLE

2008-10-16T10:00:00.001-05:00

No time to write up an analysis at the moment. For now, picture...worth...so...many...words...

'Nough said.

***Update***

My friend Matt sent this prescient video:

FRANK SCHAEFFER: AN OPEN LETTER TO JOHN MCCAIN

2008-10-11T09:30:00.000-05:00

Senator John McCain: If your campaign does not stop equating Sen. Barack Obama with terrorism, questioning his patriotism and portraying Mr. Obama as "not one of us," I accuse you of deliberately feeding the most unhinged elements of our society the red meat of hate, and therefore of potentially instigating violence.

At a Sarah Palin rally, someone called out, "Kill him!" At one of your rallies, someone called out, "Terrorist!" Neither was answered or denounced by you or your running mate, as the crowd laughed and cheered. At your campaign event Wednesday in Bethlehem, Pa., the crowd was seething with hatred for the Democratic nominee - an attitude encouraged in speeches there by you, your running mate, your wife and the local Republican chairman.

Shame!

John McCain: In 2000, as a lifelong Republican, I worked to get you elected instead of George W. Bush. In return, you wrote an endorsement of one of my books about military service. You seemed to be a man who put principle ahead of mere political gain.

You have changed. You have a choice: Go down in history as a decent senator and an honorable military man with many successes, or go down in history as the latest abettor of right-wing extremist hate.

John McCain, you are no fool, and you understand the depths of hatred that surround the issue of race in this country. You also know that, post-9/11, to call someone a friend of a terrorist is a very serious matter. You also know we are a bitterly divided country on many other issues. You know that, sadly, in America, violence is always just a moment away. You know that there are plenty of crazy people out there.

John McCain, you're walking a perilous line. If you do not stand up for all that is good in America and declare that Senator Obama is a patriot, fit for office, and denounce your hate-filled supporters when they scream out "Terrorist" or "Kill him," history will hold you responsible for all that follows.

John McCain and Sarah Palin, you are playing with fire, and you know it. You are unleashing the monster of American hatred and prejudice, to the peril of all of us. You are doing this in wartime. You are doing this as our economy collapses. You are doing this in a country with a history of assassinations.

Change the atmosphere of your campaign. Talk about the issues at hand. Make your case. But stop stirring up the lunatic fringe of haters, or risk suffering the judgment of history and the loathing of the American people - forever.

We will hold you responsible.

This post first ran in the Baltimore Sun as an op-ed on Oct 10, 2008. Frank Schaeffer is the author of Crazy for God: How I Grew Up as One of the Elect, Helped Found the Religious Right, and Lived to Take All (or Almost All) of It Back.

JOE AND AMANDA: JUST BIDEN TIME

2008-10-10T15:29:00.000-05:00

I had the privilege of attending a Biden rally today. I got to share the concomitant experience with my daughter, who was a volunteer for the same event a day earlier in another city. She got to have a pleasant conversation with a Secret Service agent named Allen, and a private meeting with the senator, who called her "honey." I have to admit the honey reference struck me as a little creepy at first, but I passed it off as a generational thing: a term of grandfatherly endearment. I was not so fortunate at my event, in that while I thoroughly enjoyed the speech, I only got looks from Secret Service agents that said, "Move wrong and I'll kill you;" and I got no love from the future VP. I was kind of hoping I could get him to call me "stallion."

Joe Biden has a way about him. He is very believable and seems extremely competent. I particularly like how he breaks down complex economic analysis for regular folks. He clearly explained how McCain's most recent $300 billion plan to bail out mortgages would only work to rescue the banks, and encourage their irresponsibility by rewarding their failed policies. He also repeatedly demonstrated, in surprising detail, how the McCain/Palin economic policies are showcased to feign help for all taxpayers, but are strategically designed to further empower the powerful at the expense of the middle class.

I know someone else who is good at unpacking this stuff for dummies like me. My good friend and economist, Amanda Watson Boles. She teaches college in Florida, and she gave me this schooling:

I am SICK of hearing that lowering taxes on big business and corporations fosters job creation. It is patently false. Here's why.

According to the International Monetary Fund, over the last 20-30 years, job creation in the U.S. has come mainly in the retail and services sectors---shopping, manicures, and baby-back ribs. The fastest job growth in U.S. history occurred during the Clinton administration, despite higher corporate taxes and higher marginal income tax rates for wealthy individuals.

Why? Because what keeps the retail and services sectors afloat is when the majority of Americans have money to spend on retail and services. Companies hire people and create jobs when they know their product/service will be bought, not when they think taxes are low.

On top of this, the largest part of our gross domestic product (72%) is consumption—which just means every day people spending money on stuff. Want to stimulate GDP growth? Make sure low- and middle-class Americans have money to spend. (See: JM Keynes. It still applies, now more than ever!)

Also something to consider: Our per capita GDP is about $47,000, but our average national income is in the mid-$30's—lower than it was in 1972 (adjusted for inflation). In other words, whenever you hear the Republicans talk about income redistribution, they're right—middle-class prosperity is being redistributed to the wealthy, and that's why McCain wants to continue the Bush tax cuts and continue cutting taxes for the rich and big business.

Amanda and Joe--two people I am inclined to trust on these issues--sketch out one of the fundamental differences in this election. We can continue to use the halls of power to create more privilege for those who already have it, and, in many cases, have squandered it; or we can put some new kids in them halls.

ABORTION DISTORTION

2008-10-06T09:03:00.000-05:00

This post is back. I originally sent it to a newspaper, but heard nothing; so I put it up here. The newspaper eventually published it, and I took it down from the blog until it ran its course on the paper's website. Now it's back here for posterity. I'm sure you don't care about all that, but I said it anyway.

Last Sunday a few dozen evangelical pastors across the country defied the IRS by publicly endorsing John McCain from their pulpits. I will leave the constitutional implications of that move to other commentators and the courts for now. What I found interesting was the exclusive emphasis on abortion as the central issue prompting many of these congregations. It is not my intention to question their moral stance on abortion; however, it seems important to examine the practical realities under a McCain presidency.

There have been six terms and 23 years of Republican presidents since Roe v. Wade legalized abortion in 1973. Abortion is still legal. The most significant declines in abortion rates were during the George W. Bush and Clinton administrations with the steepest increases coming under Carter and Reagan. When we consider the historical trend and the fact that, according to the National Right to Life Committee, Senator McCain has only voted pro-life 66% of the time, it seems highly unlikely a McCain presidency would outlaw abortion.

Even if McCain developed some uncommon resolve to change this law, let’s examine the likelihood of court action. If McCain were to nominate activist judges committed to overturning Roe v. Wade, they would have to pass confirmation by the Senate Judiciary Committee. Not going to happen. The Democrats will solidly control the committee after this election. Even if a nomination made it through committee, all indications suggest the Democrats will have a nearly filibuster-proof majority in the Senate. It is very unlikely the balance of Senate power would shift during a first, or even a second McCain term, since Senators serve for six years. Perhaps it’s worth mentioning that a constitutional amendment is also out of the question, since both houses of congress will be in Democratic hands. It is virtually impossible that any serious threat to Roe would come during a McCain administration.

So, voting for McCain will have no impact on the availability of abortion in this country.

None.

That leaves Christian pro-life voters two alternatives: continue to fight a culture war to the serious neglect of other important issues, or vote for Obama.

Barack Obama is a follower of Christ. He recently told Christianity Today, “I believe in the redemptive death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I believe that that faith gives me a path to be cleansed of sin and have eternal life. But most importantly, I believe in the example that Jesus set by feeding the hungry and healing the sick and always prioritizing the least of these over the powerful.” Obama went on to say he was committed to reducing unwanted pregnancies and making abortion less common.

A McCain vote is not a vote for life, it is a vote for a futile hope. It seems to me, if we care about faith, peace, the environment, our family’s economic health, a culture of life, and caring for “the least of these,” Senator Obama represents a hope worth believing in.

A hope that behaves like this.

THE GOOD (not quite great) DEBATERS

2008-09-27T06:55:00.000-05:00

The first debate is over and the spin machines are running full out. The hacks are making their absurd claims of total victory. Virtually every scientific poll and focus group so far has Obama with a close or clear win. I'm reluctant to jump on that wagon at this point; although, as a debate coach I can tell you victory is declared by the "judges." Regardless of our partisan perspectives, or even our dispassionate evaluations of the arguments, when the "judges" (voters) vote, then we have a winner. For now I think it is fair to suggest a draw with a slight edge to Obama. I have a feeling over the next day or so, as the analysis filters in, it will evolve into a bigger win for Barack. But, no one is getting a KO here.

I'm not going to walk you through my debate flow. Instead, allow me just a few observations.

I think Jim Lehrer did a great job, except for his odd attempts to get the debaters to go after each other directly. While that might make for better TV drama, direct engagement tends to highlight something other than the issues. Much has been made of McCain's shiftiness and unwillingness to look Obama in the eyes. I wasn't particularly bothered by that during the debate. Keep it focused on the "judges" and the issues, not on personal attacks. But, here's what's strange about that--Obama made more direct contact, but was more issue-focused. McCain avoided direct contact but made more personal attacks. Interesting. Obama seems to come out of that looking more presidential. I do think McCain's squinting, smirking, and general nonverbal disdain for Obama hurt him. Watch the debate with the sound off and Obama wins the nonverbal contest hands down.

As an Obama supporter, I was delighted to see that he has been successfully coached out of the vocalized pause ditch. Virtually no "uhs," "looks," or "y'knows." He was clear and direct. Nice work, debate coaches. I suspect there were many drinking game participants disappointed by McCain's improved rhetoric as well. Only one or two "my friends," and with the exception of his reference near the end, he did not answer every question by connecting it to his POW experience.

I think McCain scored some points in keeping the experience argument alive and continuing to cast Obama as naive. However, there was nothing new here. In fact, most of McCain's best lines were borrowed from his stump speeches. Obama seemed fresh and assertive. He blunted nearly all of those attacks, successfully turned some, but a few of McCain's condescensions and fear tactics (or were they strategies?) may still make their way through the clutter.

On the whole I thought the debate was a success. Neither debater faltered in any signficant way; there were no big dramatic moments or gaffes. I know this disappoints many in the media. But, at the end of the day the debate did what it should. We saw a clear contrast of styles, different governing philosophies, distinct views on the role of government, and a showcase of leadership temperament. The debate helped us make a better decision. Precisely what it was supposed to do.

It was nice to see Joe Biden covering his mate's back after the debate. Where in the world was Palin? Hmm.

REALLY? SERIOUSLY?

2008-09-25T18:08:00.000-05:00

I have been preparing myself for the possibility that, while Sarah Palin may be inexperienced, she may still be a formidable candidate and a quick study.

Um.

Uh.

Watch CBS Videos Online

By the way, there's more. I'm being kind limiting it to this single excerpt.

Well, okay. One more.

I'm sorry, but this is UNBELIEVABLE. She is lost. These questions come at her and she is twisting in the wind. She said when the call came from John McCain, she didn't blink. She should have blinked. She should still have her eyes closed, the blink should have been so pronounced.

It seems quite clear that on the subject of the Palin selection McCain was beyond irresponsible. This is ridiculous, that she could be our president in a matter of months. I will not apologize for how pissed this makes me. It's an outrage.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE FAMILY IN NEBRASKA WHO LOST THE SILVER PONTIAC GRAND AM WITH THE SMALL CRACK IN THE BUMPER

2008-09-24T20:34:00.000-05:00

We have your car. No, we didn’t steal it. We recently bought it from a car dealer friend who got it from the auction where your finance company sold it after repossessing it. We couldn’t really afford it either, but we couldn't pass it up. My wife and I are teachers and our daughter just started college about three hours away. She needs a car, because even though she has great scholarships, she had to take an off-campus job to help pay expenses. Even though we are struggling to make the bills, we have not had to face what you’ve been going through. We’re sorry.

You can tell a lot from the condition of a person’s car. The Grand Am is really nice. The shape it was in when we got it tells me you are good people. Except for the Happy Meal toy someone lost in the cushion of the back seat, the car was clean and, with the exception of the bumper, completely undamaged. Irresponsible people don't care for their vehicles this well. You seem to be a family that plays by the rules. But the rules keep changing, don’t they? Maybe your child got sick and you had to use the car payments to cover the doctor bills. Maybe mom was laid off when the factory outsourced her job to Asia. Maybe dad couldn’t keep up with the payments because he was sent back to Iraq for yet another tour with the National Guard. Maybe keeping your home or keeping food on the table became more important than keeping your car. Whatever the problems, you are not alone. More of us are facing the same kind of struggles every day.

I understand my words are cold comfort for you. I just wanted you to know that more and more of us out here aren’t too far away from where you’ve been. We don’t know you but we will hold you in our prayers. It is our hope that soon you will get the change you need.

By the way, don’t worry about that crack in the bumper. We took care of it.

It was the least we could do.

THEY'RE COMING OFF, THE WHEELS

2008-09-18T17:00:00.001-05:00

The McCain/Palin ticket is going to start losing again. Here's why:

He doesn't know who the prime minister of Spain is, he doesn't know Spain is not a Latin American country, or he is willing to publicly turn his back on one of our NATO allies.
She is obstructing an investigation of her alleged corruption in Alaska.
Conservative columnists say she is inexperienced and not ready.
The former publisher of the ultra-conservative National Review endorses Obama as the more truly conservative candidate.
Palin lies.
She famously continues to lie about earmarks and the "bridge to nowhere."
Even conservative Alaskans say she lies.
She refuses to submit to a press conference. Interesting choice in a democracy.
Oh, Sarah Palin lies a lot.
The world overwhelming supports Obama (I know we're not supposed to give a damn, but, you know, silly me; I still think it's easier to build peace through diplomacy and dialogue than by killing everyone you don't like). Some in the world are apalled at the Palin pick.
McCain and Palin both lie.
His running mate outdraws him.
He continues to lie about Obama raising our taxes.
The story that he can't use a computer because of war injuries is a lie.
Republican senator doesn't think Palin is ready to lead.
Supporters leave rallies after Palin speaks and before McCain begins.
Neither of them understands how to deal with the economic crisis.
Conservative columnist, George Will, seems to think the only good argument McCain has left is that a divided government is better than a Democratic president with a Democratic congress.
Right-wing policies and calling working families and the poor "whiners" doesn't help anyone.
The former Republican mayor LA endorses Obama.
Speaking of California, the GOP seems to be giving it up.
McCain's ad in response to the Wall Street meltdown is to talk vaguely about "reform" for less than 30 seconds. Obama looks at the camera and gives his specific economic plan for 2 minutes.
McCain campaign inaccurately uses factcheck.org to make an argument against Obama. Ironic.
Both campaigns are dishonest, but McCain is The Biggest Liar.

***Update***
Another GOP congressman endorses Obama.

In fairness:

Obama distorts McCain's taxation of healthcare benefits.
Obama uses unfair fear appeals in his Spanish-language ad. But, McCain's ad also severely distorts Obama's immigration stance.

The post-convention bounces are all bounced out. Obama is back up by 5+ points.

And that's pretty much just from the last 24 hours.

I spoke to a man last night on the phone who believes the anti-christ will soon take over the world, God removed his protection from the U.S. when we took prayer out of the schools, and we headed toward moral ruin when we started letting men marry men. Even that guy, by the end of our conversation, conceded that Barack Obama was probably a better choice for our future. I think he's on to something.

OH MY

2008-09-13T21:28:00.000-05:00

You must read this.

McCAIN: JOEY IN A 'ROO POUCH

2008-09-13T08:58:00.001-05:00

There's something happening here, but you don't know what it is. Is it a new sense of patriotism sweeping the nation? No. Is it a cascade of hope? Nope. Is it the jingle-lingle-ling of change? Is it a stampede of lipsticked pigs? Is it a new wave of spirit-filled laughter? No, no, and no. A colleague of mine calls it the "campaign season of discontent." Barack Obama calls it the "silly season in politics." Things have gotten dirty. And, it's our fault.

Americans regularly say they despise negative campaigning, yet negative campaigns are much more likely to be persuasive. I guess we don't like being fat either, but it doesn't stop us from strapping on the feedbag and scooching down in the couch for another riveting episode of "So You Think You Can Dance?". Negative attack ads are lowest common denominator discourse. And they work. For a while. If we allow them.

The McCain campaign is charting new territory in the depths of their distortions and attacks this past week or so. They will soon make the '04 Swiftboaters look like Boy Scouts. Make no mistake about it, the bulk of the negativity is coming from the Rovian Republicans, not the Dems. If it were balanced there wouldn't be scores of liberals wailing and gnashing their teeth at Obama's failure to come out swinging. And it's not just nastiness, it's flat out dishonesty.

Even Don Sipple, a Republican advertising strategist, argues “I think the predominance of liberty taken with truth and the facts has been more McCain than Obama.”

Matthew Dowd, Republican campaign strategist for Bush, says, “I think the McCain folks realize if they can get this thing down in the mud, drag Obama into the mud, that’s where they have the best advantage to win. If they stay up at 10,000 feet, they don’t.”

Let's agree on something here: politicians twist and distort the facts. Big surprise. Obama's campaign has done it, and I don't like it. You can't win a presidential race without lying. Sad but true. So, it seems that the choice before us is to withdraw from the process, or choose the candidate whose lies are less vicious and less frequent. There's no doubting the fact that I have a dog in this hunt, and that I have picked a side, but that does not change the reality that professional fact checkers (like factcheck.org) have called out McCain twice as frequently as Obama. The Republican response? It's liberal bias in the media. My response? Liars.

Pay attention now. I'm not going to say anything about McCain that is not objectively true here. At this point in the campaign, McCain is the much bigger liar.

It actually doesn't bother me that much when McCain distorts Obama's tax plan, suggesting that it will harm families. I happen to think the analysis relies on flawed trickle-down models, but it is a political argument, and that's fair game. Or, when McCain calls Obama's health plan "state-run" healthcare. It's a naive and inaccurate characterization, but normal for political rhetoric.

However, when McCain accuses Obama of sexism over the lipstick comment--when anyone watching that utterance would know it was not aimed at Governor Palin, and McCain used the same phrase to refer to Hillary's health plan--he's lying, plain and simple.

When McCain runs an ad suggesting the Obama values comprehensive sex-ed for kindergartners, and that he thinks it's more important to teach children about sex than to teach them to read, he's a liar. Obama passed legislation to teach small children how to avoid sexual predators. Kind of ironic.

McCain has reportedly flip-flopped over 75 times in this campaign (Obama has flip-flopped too, but I couldn't find a list), and by nearly all accounts his current communication strategy is to rely almost exclusively on misrepresentation. Seriously, what is John McCain for? All we know from his ads is what he's against: Barack Obama. McCain is a bigger liar than Obama. If that doesn't matter to you, then embrace your nihilism and do what thou wilt, but if it does, then it does.

What does John McCain have left? He's not a straight talker anymore. He's not a maverick anymore. He is an admitted joey in the Bush-Cheney 'roo pouch. He used to be a statesman of integrity. Now, he's the bigger liar.

Oh, and he's a war hero. Um, like John Kerry?

I have a solution for all this, by the way. Since experience has been jettisoned as an issue, let's focus exclusively on the candidates' policy proposals for the future. Let's look carefully at them and try to exam the facts without lying. Are we capable?

****UPDATE****

On Fox News Sunday Karl Rove agrees: "McCain has gone in his ads one step too far, and sort of attributing to Obama things that are, you know, beyond the 100-percent-truth test."

Man, if you're a Republican and Karl Rove calls you out, you know you done gone too far.

LIPSTICK, PIGS, HANK WILLIAMS, AND YOU

2008-09-13T08:53:00.000-05:00

Sometimes a person has to find a little diversion to maintain some sanity. This week mine was to write the beginning of a bluegrass song. It goes a little sumpin' like 'is:

You bring the lipstick
And I'll bring the pig
You check my dipstick
And I'll wear a wig
You take my hand
And we'll dance a jig
Oh, honey, you bring the lipstick
And I'll bring the pig

Everybody now.

Write more verses for me now, hear.

PALIN AND DISRESPECT

2008-09-03T22:33:00.000-05:00

First read on the speech: Competent delivery of material written by Matt Scully and Company. It was good, if the election were for student body president, but it lacked the gravitas of a VP (likely presidential) candidate. She could be a really good candidate some day.

I may have more analysis of Palin's speech later on, but here's my take on Wednesday night at the RNC: Disrespect. In particular, Giuliani and Palin totally mocked Obama and the sacrifices he made to work with the poor in Chicago. If smugness and mockery is all they have to offer, things are going to be tough for the GOP. This is exactly the kind of thing that drove me out of the Republican party. There were some hard hits on John McCain's record at the DNC, but NO ONE disrespected his character or his service to our country. I guess when you are desperate and losing you do what you have to in order to win. I just hope the old divide and polarize politics does not continue to pay off like it has in the past.

We should all demand more of ourselves, and our leaders.

Progressive and Religious

2008-09-01T09:18:00.000-05:00

If you are interested in the intersection of politics and faith you need to read the new book, Progressive and Religious: How Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and Buddhist Leaders are Moving Beyond the Culture Wars and Transforming American Public Life, by my friend, Robby Jones. He is a former religious studies professor who has been working with political think tanks and high profile religious figures in the DC area for the last few years exploring the changes occurring in contemporary religious movements and political identities. Check out his blog too.

SARAH PALIN BROUGHT ME BACK TO LIFE

2008-08-30T11:01:00.000-05:00

That's right, folks. I was dead. I had stumbled, squeaked, started up, quit, started again, then...pfffffttt...nothing. But, I'm back. At least for now.

I'm back because I'm upset. Senator McCain's choice for his running mate is not first a political issue for me, it angers me as an American. Let's break it down, shall we?

Sarah Palin will enter the race with a high school basketball championship, a victory in the Wasilla, Alaska Beauty Contest, a University of Idaho journalism degree, a one-year-old passport, two terms as the mayor of a village, and 20 months on the job as the governor of the fourth smallest and arguably least typical state in the country. I know what you just did. I did it too. You just thought, "I could have done that." Okay, maybe most of us couldn't have, but it's not a huge leap. Yeah, yeah, the beauty contest thing would be an absolute impossibility for some of us.

What's the big deal? Don't we want someone in the White House that's a lot like us? No! Not me. I want someone very, very different from me! Someone much better than me should occupy the most important chair in the world. Palin is probably a pretty impressive person, but she doesn't get in the same arena with the people running for this office. Dan Quayle was an impressive nominee next to this.

So why am I mad? Because John McCain gave such little thought to the well-being of his country when he made this decision. A colleague who may prefer to remain anonymous gave me a boost on this analysis. Currently, there is about a 50/50 chance that 72-year-old McCain will be elected the oldest president in our history at the beginning of his term. I'm no medical doctor, but add his multiple bouts with cancer into the mix and he couldn't have more than a 50 percent chance of surviving his first administration. Charlie Black, one of McCain's top advisers, said that "most doctors think that he will be around at least that long." Most? There are some doctors who think otherwise? Perhaps we should get a second opinion. Let me finish crunching the numbers. This means that there is a 25-30 percent chance Sarah Palin will be President of the United States. Soon. Black goes on to say Palin is "going to learn national security at the foot of the master for the next four years." So, she's going to be taking the train home to Wilmington, Delaware to Joe Biden's house each night? No, seriously. Seriously? What if she doesn't have four years to study? They don't have a GED for president, do they?

Are you kidding me? This is scary. We could have a president in a matter of months who has no demonstrable knowledge of world affairs, no national security experience whatsoever, no experience with broad domestic policies or economic issues, but who has shot a moose.

Let's ignore for the moment that Palin is a strident culture warrior on life issues, a supporter of mandated creationism in public schools, and does not believe human activity is the cause for global warming, this is just a terrible management decision. One that was so bad, everyone (Republicans included) was in stunned silence at first. Of course the GOP has fallen in line, what else are they going to do?

Is John McCain's judgment that bad, or does he just have no regard for us (his country) at all?

Pundits say that at the very least it nullifies the experience argument, since Obama is inexperienced too. Again, are you kidding me? Pay attention to this one, because this is the analysis you'll only get here.

Even if you believe that Senator Obama's Ivy League degrees, Harvard Law Review, years as a community organizer, multiple terms as an Illinois state senator from Chicago, and four years as a U.S. Senator still leave his resume thin, consider that he has served for nearly two years as the CEO of the largest and arguably most disciplined and successful grassroots campaign in our history winning support of tens of millions of voters along the way. He went on to pass the experience test when world leader after world leader parroted his ideas, and nearly a quarter of a million people came out to hear him speak in Germany. He passed the experience test when dozens of decorated generals publicly endorsed him and supported his views on national security, and when economic experts across the country in academia and political administrations certified his economic plans as sound. He passed all those tests, then in his first real presidential decision he selected a running mate whose experience far surpasses John McCain's.

Sarah Palin does not meet the experience test and she was not vetted by election, she was appointed. I'm sure she is a great person. People testify to her plain-spokenness and her maverick style. She's a member of the NRA for gosh sakes. I'm sure she's a hoot. A spitfire. A veritable ring-tailed tooter. She's a pistol, for sure. Unfortunately, we're not auditioning for Annie Get Your Gun. This is the real deal. And it's important, damn it.

Someone may be tempted to make gender bias my issue. Sorry. I have two beautiful daughters, and I desperately hope for a woman president. No sexism here, latent or otherwise.

This is about judgment. John McCain has failed this test so miserably, he deserves disqualification on this ground alone.

I guess there is one positive thing to come from the Palin selection. Once again, in this country, we can believe that anyone can be president. And I mean, anyone.

GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD LUCK

2008-03-28T05:31:00.001-05:00

So, I think I'm done.

It's been an interesting ride. I have found this blog to be a cathartic outlet at times, a surrogate community at others. But lately, it has been little more than a drive-by shooting.

Maybe the blogosphere hasn't changed and I have. Maybe if I posted frequently and engaged the process responsibly we could recreate a meaningful community. Maybe I'll bring it back at some point. But for now I'm done. Blogging seems to do little more than bring out the worst people and the worst side of good people. It wears on my soul.

I have trimmed my reading of online exchanges of all kind these days, because it seems that little goes on there beyond narcissistic yawping. Who cares about anything or anyone anymore? We just want to BE HEARD. As a meaningful alternative to journalism I think blogging has mostly failed.

I will leave this up for a while, but I am disabling comments. After a time I will set this blog to be accessible only to invited readers, and I will not be inviting anyone. I may bring it back some day, so I don't want to delete it altogether. Those of you that know me can email me.

To those of you who pushed and have been pushed in our dialogue, I wish you well. To those of you who get your rocks off dumping on people, then running away into anonymous safety...I don't really have anything to say to you.

Except...goodnight, and good luck.

IN THE BEGINNING WAS HOPE, AND IT WAS GOOD

2008-02-25T15:03:00.000-06:00

John B. Judis writes one of the best articles I've seen on American politics and the Obama candidacy.

Among other things, he says,

"The American instinct to continuously remake ourselves in the image of Adam--to achieve a decisive and final break with history--has periodically proven seductive to voters. And, sometimes, this instinct can produce important, transformative results. Yet the past--in the form of race or war or deeply held partisan animosities--has a way of lingering around. At the very least, it rarely recedes without a bitter fight. None of which is to say that Barack Obama will fail. He has already defied the expectations of wizened political journalists like me who believed he had no chance to win the nomination. If he becomes president, he will have a chance to prove me wrong again: to show that the party of youth and hope and change can govern effectively. No one will be more delighted than I will if he succeeds."

OH, YEAH

2008-02-13T12:57:00.001-06:00

WAIT FOR IT

2008-02-11T22:09:00.000-06:00

I'm saying this here and now. Expect another decisive Obama victory tomorrow. THEN...just wait for the bomb to drop. I don't know what it will be, but just wait for it. Somewhere between tomorrow and March 4th, the Clinton Machine will pull the pin on whatever WMD they've been working on. It will be brutal and potentially devastating...for all of us. These people know how to win elections. They don't know when to quit or how to win without significant collateral damage, but do not underestimate them. They refuse to lose. It might not be one blow, it might be a series of dirty tricks, intimidations, or full on attacks, but it will come. Just. Wait. For. It.

And we will all be the worse for it.

I hope to God I'm wrong this time.

WHILE YOU WERE SLEEPING

2008-02-10T19:33:00.000-06:00

Primary and caucus wins in Washington, Nebraska, Louisiana, the Virgin Islands, and Maine.

And now, a GRAMMY!

Not a bad weekend, that.

What's next, a Nobel? Loaves and fishes?

THE REAL PROBLEM WITH AMERICAN POLITICS

2008-02-10T17:58:00.000-06:00

I was following the returns of the Maine caucuses. It was terribly hard to find a source that was even tracking the results. It was as if the Maine contest had no meaning. (Yes, it could be that it only had meaning to the weirdly obsessed political freaks like myself, but...)

So, I finally locate an official recording of the numbers. Obama is significantly ahead early on, yet I still see no one talking about it on any news sites. This is important. The number of delegates makes it all but meaningless to the overall count, but the cumulative effect of five in a row (WA, NE, LA, Virgin Islands, ME) for Obama in two days builds some momentum and growing feel of grass roots consensus.

After 70% of the precincts have reported and Obama leads 58% to Hillary's 41%, I go to www.cnn.com, expecting it to be their headline. No. Wrong.

The BREAKING NEWS banner: "CELEBRRITIES ARRIVE FOR THE 50TH ANNUAL GRAMMY AWARDS."

There you have it. "Who are you wearing?" has replaced "Who are we electing?"

Does anyone know who won the last American Gladiator? Pass the pork rinds. Belch.

READY TO GO

2008-02-10T08:32:00.000-06:00

Then there's this one.

Obama definitely wins the cool musician contest.

SI SE PUEDE

2008-02-02T14:17:00.000-06:00

This video directed by Jesse Dylan, Bob's son.

The first president I voted for was Reagan in 1984. By the end of that decade and into the next, I became disillusioned with the militant triumphalism that marginalized the weak for the sake of the powerful. I went from skeptic to supporter during the Clinton years, but I couldn't shake my concerns about dishonesty and the politics of division. The last seven years of malice, incompetence and Rove-ian tactics have driven me to despair. I have voted against Bush, but never really felt like I had something to vote for. Until now.

I am drawn to Barack Obama's words of hope and what author Toni Morrison calls his "searing vision." Some say we need more than words. Of course we do, but words matter. When words draw millions of people of every background together in a common belief, they matter. When words highlight "us" and "we" rather than "I" and "me," they matter. Obama's words move us beyond a candidacy and into a movement.

The cynics who prey on our fears ask us to dance with the devils we know. They tell us we can't change things through faith and hope. Our answer: "Yes we can."

DO SOMETHING TO HELP.

VOTE.

WORD

2008-01-06T15:15:00.001-06:00

As a teacher and scholar of rhetoric and the use of public words, I am loving the way the Democratic primary distinctions are revealing themselves. It appears that it is becoming a choice between words and action. Of course, it's not really that simple, those with nice words also have deeds, and those with records of accomplishment also are fine crafters of language. But, this exchange in last night's debate was telling.

Hillary:

So you know, words are not actions.

And as beautifully presented and passionately felt as they are, they are not action. You know, what we've got to do is translate talk into action and feeling into reality. I have a long record of doing that....

Obama:

[T]he truth is actually words do inspire. Words do help people get involved. Words do help members of Congress get into power so that they can be part of a coalition to deliver health care reform, to deliver a bold energy policy. Don't discount that power, because when the American people are determined that something is going to happen, then it happens. And if they are disaffected and cynical and fearful and told that it can't be done, then it doesn't. I'm running for president because I want to tell them, yes, we can. And that's why I think they're responding in such large numbers.

Now, for the record, I am no fan of bluster or sophistry absent substance and follow-through. However, Obama's speech is much more than that. Who accused of FDR ("We have nothing to fear..."), JFK ("Ask not..."), or MLK ("Ihave been to the mountaintop.") of empty speech, simply because they sounded good and galvanized a society around a shared vision of hope and nobility? What's so wrong with a leader rising up who can use the power of speech to make us all believe we can do better and become better? Sure, if there was incompetence or other suggestion of an inability to back it up, it would be nonsense; but there is no evidence of a weak mind or soft resolve in this case.

Ultimately, it's about cynicism. The jaded among us scoff and sneer at the pollyanna notions of transcendence and imagination, opting for the verifiable pragmatism of the known quantity. It is a fair and reasonable reaction. But, if we hope to leap ahead, rather than crawl, we have to believe.

I'm ready. Word.

FIRED UP?

2008-01-04T10:07:00.001-06:00

Ready to go.

RESOLVE

2008-01-02T17:16:00.000-06:00

Some time ago I encouraged my sister (some of you may recognize her comments...she goes by, um, "Sister") to guest author a little sumpin' sumpin' for this sorry excuse for a blog. Just in time, she rises to the occasion.

December 2007

Resolutionary

I'm not big on making New Year's resolutions. Seems like a big set-up for failure, if you ask me. Ever so much better to do well that which no one expects than to fall short of achieving lofty goals, yes? This new year, however, I find myself approaching with something that feels suspiciously like resolve.

Clearing out has been a big theme with me for some time now. Digging deep and challenging those internal beliefs that no longer serve me and definitions that no longer know me. Cleaning out and discarding (or selling on E-Bay! Check it out!) physical items that are cluttering my living space and blocking my energy. Revamping what sort of things I do in exchange for a paycheck. Clearing out the old to make room for the new has laid claim to my dreams, my meditations, my prayers and my time.

It's good work, but hard.

The physical clearing out forces me to deal with packed away remnants of a former life. The emotional remodel entails somewhat painful excavations of long-held certainties of who I was and what and why. Spiritually I'm questioning everything and trying to Be Still and listen long enough to hear the answers. I'm not as sure of myself as I once was and I'm teetering, slightly off-balance in the upheaval. Yes, it's hard. Hard, but necessary if forward motion is to be achieved.

Yesterday I noted (for the hundredth time) a very large, very dead tree along the fence row of the pasture behind my house. I thought (for the hundredth time), "That tree really needs to come down," but then (for the hundredth time) went on about my business, forgetting it until the one hundredth and one time it catches my attention.

This morning as the coffee brewed and I stared absentmindedly out the kitchen window, I saw the pasture that was clear the day before now littered with branches and trunks and vines. Sometime in the night the tree that needed to come down did so with a crash, taking a couple of fence panels out with it. Now any plans I had for the day have been scrapped. I'll be bundled up in the cold sunshine, cutting up dead wood and repairing fence.

Already though, as too-hot coffee scalds my tongue and I gaze at the woods where decay had been taking center stage, I can see how much more pleasing that portion of the landscape is with barrenness erased. Already I can see how accustomed I had become to believing beauty was out of sight. Already it's better. All that's left now is work.

And I can do that. Oh,yes. That I can do.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, I'M AN ATHEIST

2007-12-22T09:03:00.000-06:00

Many of you have emailed me to check on how I've been these last few, quiet months. Rather than call via satellite or fiber optics, stop by your home for a visit, meet you for breakfast, run a tin can with twine from your treehouse to mine, get a gig at a major venue and send out a sensitive ballad just for you, make a personal documentary for viewing at your local cinema, send a singing telegram or a message in a bottle, pass notes in class, mail a Christmas card, offer an interpretive dance (or, "choreographed movement" we called it in the Baptist church), write an autobiographical novel (don't get me started), YouTube you, Facebook you, MySpace you, or otherwise assault you with personal messages from me to you, I thought I would objectify and dehumanize our relationship by catching all of you in this world wide net.

How have I been? Okay, I suppose. It has been a year of Sturm und Drang. I've questioned who I am as a father and a son. I haven't always been the best husband or friend. My faith has been tested, confirmed, and tested again. People who matter a great deal to me have taken hits. It would be easy to sit and pout as I pick the shrapnel of collateral damage out, but it hasn't all been lateral. Some of it has been internal, self-inflicted. When you walk stumble-drunk in a minefield, you're bound to lose a limb. But, hey, we go to war with who we are, not who we want to be.

I have had trouble finding joy. It has to find me. And it does from time to time. It finds me in the classroom and in the middle of a song. It finds me in the swing of a hammer and in the middle of a tight, tight hug. It finds me when we cut through the bullshit and tell each other the truth. Not the partisan, scriptural, or certified truth; just those moments when we get humble and honest and connect in those transcendent ways that can only happen when pretense is outlawed and self-preservation is replaced by love.

I haven't written much. Of anything. It's like I've run out of things to say. Cause for disappointment from few and celebration by many. I'm not exactly sure why I have been absent from the blog. I suppose some of it is the rancor. I know I dish it out as much as it is served to me, but consistent with my strong belief that the WAY we talk is more important than WHAT we say, I took the measure of you and me and found us wanting. That is not to say there aren't still plenty of people in high (and low ) places who need an occasional boot in their ass, me being chief among them, I just don't want to worship the gods we create and serve in our kicking. One of my favorite songwriters, David Wilcox, would say I'm becoming an "Atheist."*

Merry Christmas. And, as the old year gives way to caucus and taxes, classroom and faxes, theory and praxis, grinding and axes--the pitch and yaw of all that awaits us in 2008--may we all be atheists.

*Apparently this song is an adaptation from the original by Brian McLaren.

DAN FOGELBERG 1951-2007

2007-12-16T20:51:00.000-06:00

I know. I've been absent for a long time. You might expect me to come back to you with a reaction to Barack's surge in the early primary states, or with a comment on faith and politics via Romney and Huckabee, or with my take on Oprahlooza. Sadly, I return with the news that a great songwriter has left us. I have to admit I haven't followed Fogelberg's career enough lately to know that he was suffering from prostate cancer, or that he had dropped out of live performing three years ago, due to his illness.

Few people will step up and anoint him the songwriter of a generation, or point to him as a trailblazing musician; but most of us who love music can point to his influence in our lives. Even if it is nothing more than the top-40 hits from his 1981 album The Innocent Age ("Run for the Roses," "Leader of the Band," "Same Old Lang Syne"), all of us have probably been affected by this extraordinary artist.

It is a little more personal for me. I only saw the man in concert once, but there was one performance of his I'll never forget. It was a wet night in the summer of 1985. I was sitting on a screened-in porch with my girlfriend, watching it rain. The old Pioneer turntable playing in the background had this really cool repeat function that allowed you to play the same side of an album multiple times. Side A of Fogelberg's "High Country Snows" played over and over and over again, for probably an hour or so, while I screwed up the courage to ask this lovely woman to be my wife. She said yes. I have always given Dan some credit for the grace shed on me that night.

It's only fitting that I mention his death here, since--some of you may remember--Dan Fogelberg was the first songwriter I ever quoted on this blog...my very first post.

I have to leave you with the lyrics from his song, "The Reach:"

It's Maine, and it's Autumn, the birches have just begun turning
It's life and it's dying
The lobstermen's boats come returning with the catch of the day in their holds
And the young boy is cold and complaining
The fog meets the beaches and out on the Reach it is raining
It's father and son, it's the way it's been done since the old days
It's hauling by hand ten miles out from the land where their chow waits
And the days are all lonely and long and the seas grow so stormy and strong but...
The Reach will sing welcome as homeward they hurry along

(Chorus)

And the morning will blow away as the waves crash and fall
And the Reach like a siren sings as she beckons and calls
As the coastline recedes from view and the seas swell and roll
I will take from the Reach all that she has to teach to the depths of my soul
The wind brings a chill, there's a frost on the sill in the morning
It creeps through the door
On the edge of the shore ice is forming
Soon the northers will bluster and blow
And the woods will be whitened with snowfall
And the Reach will lie frozen for the lost and unchosen to row

(Chorus)

Dan Fogelberg, may you reach no more.
May you discover what a heaven is for.

GOODBYE, GOOD RIDDANCE

2007-08-14T21:53:00.000-05:00

But, we all know he's not going anywhere. He will never go away. Whatever happens, it's quite certain the effects of his influence will take generations to purge.

Sure, division, enmity, polarization...these things have always been part of the human social condition. But Karl Rove took us to new lows. No single individual in the twenty-first century has worked so hard to consciously generate ideological division than this man. Who had ever heard of blue states and red states until this administration? When did evangelical Christianity become known almost exclusively for its opposition to homosexuality and gay marriage? For that matter, when has there ever been such a sharp distinction among Christians about which party they should support? All of this coming from a guy who doesn't even claim to be religious. He played us. Well, at least he played several million otherwise decent people into believing in a chimera, and buying into a artificially generated cultural and spiritual war that never existed, except in his evil brilliance.

No question the guy is a genius. How else will history account for one of the most incompetent presidents ever to hold the office winning an election he lost, then getting reelected? It takes an architect of ungodly skill to pull it off.

Rove, along with like-minded demagogues, has spread a brand of anger, distrust, and cynicism that may never go away. We can't change that; but we can change us. And we can decide today that we will not allow it to happen to us again.

There is only one candidate in the field today who eschews talk of blue and red, them and us, liberal and conservative, etc. Only one who thusfar has not played the game of polarization, divide and conquer. He may not turn out to be some messiah, but he is better prepared to take us a new direction than anyone else.

"Karl Rove was an architect of a political strategy that has left the country more divided, the special interests more powerful, and the American people more shut out from their government than any time in memory. But to build a new kind of politics, it will take more than the departure of a man or even an Administration that constructed the old -it will take a movement of everyday Americans committed to changing Washington and reclaiming their government."

SUMMERTIME AND THE LIVIN' AIN'T SO EASY

2007-07-18T13:34:00.000-05:00

That's a lie. It's pretty easy. If by easy you mean no set schedule or formally defined expectations (benchmarks). However, over the course of this last year I have found that it is much more difficult to work for myself than anyone else. There are no clearly defined parameters, working hours, or evaluations. So, when you add the various dimensions of guilt I was raised with, it makes for a almost constant sense of failure, or fear of failure. So, maybe the livin' ain't so easy after all.

This summer has been quite good, actually. No real vacation trips planned this year, since we helped send our daughter to Spain. It didn't work out too well, she came back. I have been spending my days writing, remodeling my dining room, and playing music. I have discovered a similar neurosis in the writing and remodeling. I seem to be more comfortable with deconstruction than completion. I start in on a book chapter, and after several hours discover that I managed to tear apart what was already there and make it far more complicated than it was when I started. What was a simple, clean plot now has 17 fragments that will require advanced narrative geometric analysis to fit together. Likewise, my remodeling job was supposed to consist of opening a doorway between the kitchen and dining room, to create some flow and a more enjoyable space for our new dining room table. When I started, I wondered if I would be able to fit all the plaster and lath in our little trash bin. Several weeks later, I have delivered about 7,000 pounds of debris to the landfill, reinforced numerous wall studs, replaced ductwork and wiring, reinforced ceiling joists, completely rebuilt one wall and doorway, cut out and patched portions of the wood flooring, and replaced the french doors. I now have a much bigger set of fragments it may take an architect and contractor to put back together.

A LITTLE BIT LOUDER NOW, OR THE WAY TO THE WHAT

2007-02-10T17:46:00.000-06:00

What can I say, I'm excited. But I'm nervous. Basking in the afterglow of the announcement speech, I just want it to stay this way. Can't we just hold each other and spoon forever? No. No we can't. They won't let us.

By tomorrow at least two things will begin happening that remind me how hard it is to live in this world. First, the attacks, which have become de rigueur for American campaigns will begin. Second, jaded media will begin calling for less "lofty rhetoric" and more policy details from Mr. Obama.

"What's wrong with specifics?" you ask. "Don't we want our candidates to tell us what they will do if elected?" Well, first of all, this is my blog and you have no business asking me questions in the middle of a post. But, if you must know, here's what's wrong with it: It's politics as usual, and it shackles us to a cycle of despair. We line up candidates and make them lie to us so we can create lists that can be measured by whatever ideological or personal instrument we happen to be using. We are made to feel like we are voting for specific policies. Then, people are elected and proceed to do nothing they promised, either because they are liars (recall "compassionate conservative") or because the overwhelming inertia of the system simply won't allow it. In the meantime, we dismiss idealism and powerful oratory as "mere rhetoric," and exchange knowing smirks with the turn of every beautifully-crafted phrase.

Well, I'm sick of it. We have before us the best campaign speaker in forty years. We have an opportunity to move back from cynical pragmatism that asks "Where's the beef?", and settles for the inevitability of inaction and betrayal. We have a chance to consider the speech of an audaciously hopeful figure, who inspires us to change the way we communicate. That's what Obama's message is about: communication. His argument is that the WAY we do democracy is as, or more, important than WHAT we do--that, in fact, the WAY actually can become the WHAT.

So, wait for it. Tomorrow all the talk will be about the WHAT, but no one will point out that, once elected, candidates probably won't deliver on the WHAT, but the WAY is entirely in their hands.

"By ourselves, this change will not happen. Divided, we are bound to fail. But the life of a tall, gangly, self-made Springfield lawyer tells us that a different future is possible. He tells us that there is power in words. He tells us that there is power in conviction. That beneath all the differences of race and region, faith and station, we are one people. He tells us that there is power in hope."

Scoff if you wish, but there is power in words.

THE FAITH OF OBAMA

2006-12-15T17:47:00.003-06:00

Barack Obama's Call to Renewal Keynote Address Part 2

Go to YouTube and watch the whole speech. If you are suffering from an attention deficit and can't sit still that long, at least watch this excerpt.

I don't know if he is going to run or not. And I don't know if he would be the best president for America. But I do know that I haven't seen this kind of authentic faith, or heard such genuine words from a politician in a long time.

Reachin', Writin', and a Rhythmic Tic

2006-10-04T09:12:00.000-05:00

I am on sabbatical this semester, which you might assume would mean more blogging than less. Obviously, you would be wrong. I am working on a writing project that makes it hard to justify writing blog posts. Here's an update on my progress.

My original aim was to take on a topic similar to my academic book published in 2002. I was going to treat apologies and the discourse of humility as a counter to apologetics and the militant rhetoric in our current culture. I had in mind to prop up my arguments with serious background reading and well-placed interviews, all directed toward literary nonfiction for a relatively broad audience.

This idea didn't take for three reasons. First, I found the book I wanted to write had already been written by a psychiatrist and a sociologist. Second, even though my original idea was probably more overtly spiritual than the psychiatrist's and the sociologist's, I decided the particular angle I wanted to take on the topic would make a really good magazine article, but would not warrant a book-length work. Third, my informal survey of readers found that they (and I) were...just not that into it.

So, I shifted my focus to a collection of nonfiction essays. I would still treat the original topic, but I would expand the project to include a broader commentary on cultural practices, faith, and rhetoric. This found no traction either, for similar reasons as above.

Then, I got very excited about doing a collection of essays that were more memoirish in nature: a collection of creative nonfiction, not unlike the work of Anne Lamott, Donald Miller, or Frederick Buechner. I started collecting essays and making plans for a unifying rhythm or theme. I sent out my first essay to some editor friends. They were very encouraging and gave me some tremendous help with my writing; but they kept asking, "Where's this going? What is the book about?" Days and weeks passed, and I could not get the focus I needed. In the meantime I had accumulated a couple hundred pages of writing with nothing to hold them together.

In a fit of frustration, I flew to Colorado and retreated to a mountain cabin with a writer, artist, musician, therapist friend of mine. We spent time writing (he was editing the third draft of his novel) and talking about our projects, our souls, our insecurities, our addictions, our failures, our hopes, our families, our truths, and our gods.

After one particularly frustrating night of work, I was prepared to declare that I had no business writing, that I had nothing to say, and that I was a fraud. I was contemplating ways I could move to another country and change my name to Reuben. I was about to toss my laptop through the window, and Jeff stepped in and calmed me down. For the next two hours he wove a tapestry of grace and encouragement that got my mind going again, in a whole new direction.

I'm writing a novel.

It's a reach. Long fiction is terribly intimidating, even downright scary. I worry about my mental health. But, I decided that this project has been trying to get me to this point from the beginning. There is a tale that needs to be told, and it needs to be told in the medium of the novel. The Russian literary theorist Mikhail Bakhtin once argued that if you want to impart a truth or message, don't prepare a speech or an essay, write a novel. By putting many voices (heteroglossia) in play, you create a much more textured meaning than a monologue.

I hope to use much of the narrative compost I've accumulated (a reader of The Reach might recognize the kernel of a story or two), and the original idea about apology will likely show up, but the story will be able to go places the previous incarnations could not take it.

The morning after I made this creative and spiritual breakthrough, my computer crashed.

GONE

2006-09-08T06:40:00.000-05:00

Daughter. Sister. Mother of a 12-year-old son and a 10-year-old daughter. Wife to my wife's brother. Dead at 39.

There was no warning, no chronic health problem, no clue. She went to sleep last Friday night. Around 5AM she breathed heavily like she was having a nightmare, then she was gone.

It has been a week of unimaginable grief. I have seen children age before my eyes. I have heard grown adults weep like babies. I have witnessed an extraordinary level of honesty.

Why does it take this kind of loss for families and friends to reconnect, to let down our guard and become vulnerable to each other? And, isn't it tragic that we don't often learn the best about someone until they are gone?

My new creed: Love one another honestly. The rest is bullshit.

MY DIRTY LITTLE SECRET

2006-08-28T12:42:00.000-05:00

It was 1984, and I pissed off Aunt V.

The world was living under the threat of nuclear holocaust and Lionel Richie. The fundamentalist takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention that started in 1979 had begun to get serious traction, and the Christian Right was becoming a political force to be reckoned with. I was going to college, where I was flirting with a major in political science, playing endless games of Defender, and perfecting my air guitar. I was tight-rolling my jeans and teasing my permed mullet. Business in the front, party in the back. I wore pastel shirts and skinny knit ties for my part-time job at Sears selling paint, electrical supplies, toys, and sporting goods.

And I campaigned for Reagan.

Yes, that's right.

No need to reread.

I was part of the Reagan Revolution.

I'm not sure I can fully explain it. I suppose part of it was overcorrection. I had recently made a dramatic turnaround from a life of narcissism; and, much like the Bob Dylan of that era, I found a home in an opposite pole. I wasn't part of the pinstriped set or the ultra-angry religious mob; but, I sincerely bought into the idea that the marketplace (of commerce and ideas) was the best hope of lifting all boats. I was a serious reader of Christian apologetics and activism, and I got carried away with arguments for moral absolutes, creationism, and biblical inerrancy. I was good at it. So good that I was capable of destroying a relationship in under 10 minutes.

I spent endless hours in the university coffee shop posing philosophical challenges for my detractors. I had (emphasis on "had") a friend--Jerome Shapiro--who was Jewish and planning to go to law school. He, like many of my acquaintances at the time, didn't buy my absolutist ontology, so we engaged the issues over Chik-fil-A sandwiches and Mello Yello. When friends like Jerome left and never came back, it just added verve to my swagger and my martyr complex ("Doing the work of the kingdom means we will suffer in this world.").

My Aunt Vinita had worked at Sears her entire career. Sometimes we would run into each other and have pleasant exchanges about our family. I didn't know her well, but she was a good soul with a kind heart. One of the things I didn't know about her was that she was a yellow dog Democrat. It was probably more of a cultural resentment of Lincoln and the Civil War than progressive ideologies, but whatever the reason, she was a hardcore Dem.

One night, I had stationed myself near the timeclock to pass out Reagan/Bush bumper stickers. It was closing time and employees were herding out the door.

I saw Aunt V making her way through the stockroom toward the exit. She saw me and her eyes filled with joy, until she saw what I was handing out.

"Reacher. Oh, Reacher" she exclaimed, voice dripping with despair and head wagging in shame. I didn't get it. How could this decent, heavenbound woman not support God's cause and candidate?

Didn't matter to me. I was committed to the "Truth," and I was prepared to suffer for it. Being right was the ultimate calling.

People like Jerome and Aunt V haunt my dreams sometimes. I never saw Jerome again, and I never talked to Aunt V about God or politics after that day in 1984.

I wonder how many relationships I sacrificed at the altar of a false god. Oh, Certainty, you wretched beast!

When Aunt V died last year, I went to her funeral. I'd like to tell you that I placed a Kerry/Edwards bumper sticker on her grave. I didn't. She sure would have liked that, though.

Eponymity

2006-08-28T11:00:00.000-05:00

Since a new semester is upon us, I couldn't imagine a better post than Reach! A Lecture Musical.

My apologies for the lack of blog activity. I am on sabbatical this semester to work on a book. More on that soon.

Baptists, Revenge, and Too Much Tetosterone

2006-07-27T14:46:00.000-05:00

Here are the articles that caught my attention this last week or so:

This article is old news to those of us in the Christian University business. It is a pretty accurate treatment of the subject, but it is not new information that Baptist universities have been cutting ties with their respective conventions for some time. In the cases of William Jewell, Georgetown College, and Baylor, for instance, the further away they get from Baptist affiliation, the better they do their jobs. It raises the question: can faith and academics be reconciled without compromising one or the other? Read this too.

This op-ed piece by Harvard psychologist, Daniel Gilbert, demonstrates what I am calling the "escalating reciprocity" principle. Fascinating stuff about our natural human propensity to take "an eye for an eyelash." It sheds a great deal of light on our natural escalation toward revenge.

Maybe Gilbert's column is connected to the problems in Baptist higher ed? Hmmm.

Finally, those of you who know me well know that I am a freak for the Tour de France. I have been an off and on cyclist myself for 20 years. Among my greatest sports heroes are Eddie Merckx, Greg Lemond, Miguel Indurain, and, of course, Lance. I was prepared to add this year's winner, Floyd Landis, to that pantheon--partly because we share hip problems--then, dammit, it happened. Doping scandal. It's not completely proven yet, but it doesn't look good.

Sigh.

I'm not sure why I grouped these stories. Each of them contains good news and failure. Maybe it is within the tension of hope and fear that I find meaning. Maybe this is why certain stories don't grab my attention. Stories about pleasantly unified academic communities, perfectly peaceful relationships, and spotless champions don't get much traction with me.

Maybe we all need to live with the sense that whatever we are a part of could be triumphant or disasterous at any given moment: living between the scourge and ascension. Maybe John Mellencamp is our dialectical prophet, living "between a laugh and a tear." In our inexorable progress toward destinations--life without uncertainty, prepackaged formulas with guaranteed results, and uniform perspectives--we lose something essential.

Or, maybe I'm just a freak who needs a powerful serotonin reuptake inhibitor.

NOSE JOB

2006-07-16T23:01:00.000-05:00

My entire life I have had this problem. I came by it honestly; it's in my DNA. My father has it. My mother has it. From time to time, I see glimpses that suggest I have passed it on to at least one of my children. Is it psoriasis? No. The consumption? No. An overdeveloped sense of moral legalism? Hell no. Dyslexia? On. Body odor? Ew. Liberalism? Eh. A taste for Russian vodka? Nyet. Surrealism? The fish. No, it's none of these.

I have the pokey nose. I am predisposed to poking my nose into things that are none of my damn business.

Most people suffer from the opposite disorder: snub nose. Most people--or at least many people--live life afraid to get involved, fearful of the risks and dangers of drawing fire or attracting responsibility, inspiring an apathetic monotony in their lives. Or, maybe most people just live with an intelligent dose of wisdom that prevents them from enduring a lifetime of grief. They go about their business with noses tucked neatly into their own affairs. I, on the other hand, don't have enough of my own problems; so I create more by meddling. It comes in handy when someone is being dealt an injustice, or there is a need for bold or decisive action. But, most of the time there is no Bat signal beckoning me, no need for a superhero. Too much of the time, I just make trouble for myself.

The symptoms of nose-pokism may include -

1) using phrases like:
"My advice is..."
"I know you didn't ask for it, but my thoughts on the matter are..."
"I couldn't help but overhear..."
"What she needs to do is..."

2) an overdeveloped sense of obligation to be "my brother's keeper."

3) an abundance of expectations and responsibilities, because everyone is happy to let pokey-nose do it, if he is going to act like he knows everything.

4) less serving of others, and more doing for others. (They are not the same.)

5) a prevailing sense of guilt if you are not solving everyone's problems.

If you experience two or more of these symptoms, you may choose to follow my lead (I'm not trying to tell you what to do...really). I have resolved to do something about my nasal aggression. Eventually it may take the influence of prescription medication, but for now I am attempting to change through mindful behavior modification, a bit of a rhetorical rhinoplasty. My nose job does not require a retreat from active involvement in relationships: the world does not need another passive spectator paralyzed by relational inertia. But it does require that my default settings change from heedless action to a more reflective method of existence.

For instance, some neighbors of ours are thinking about moving. I don't want them to move. I heard a rumor about a great house on our street being remodeled, potentially for resale. It would be perfect for them. The old me would rush over the neighbor's house to give them the news and try to broker the deal. Make it happen. It is likely that the rumor would have turned out to be false, the neighbors would have resented me for putting them in an awkward position, and getting their hopes up. The owner of the house would have been a little put out that I was prying into their business, and, apparently wishing they would move away, etc., etc.

The new me--with the nose job--recogizes that it's none of his business, and further sees the wisdom in filtering out those times when intervention is not useful or important.

I suppose my absence from the blog lately has been motivated partly by this newly developed desire for self-censorship, and an effort to measure out my talk in more deliberate doses. Bad news for blog readers, I know. Our culture, particularly blogging communities, draw their life from nose-pokers. I realize that were it not for the pokers, most of us would just have to sit at our desks and get work done. Well, have no fear: I am not going away, and I am NOT turning into a coward, unwilling to speak his own peculiar brand of truth to power, or unwilling to comment on a heretofore overlooked phenomenon. I'm not going to become a humorless, passionless dullard. I'm not giving up blogging for knitting any time soon (even though knitting is very cool right now), I'm just going to work harder to recognize those moments when my intervention, my advocacy, my creativity, or my criticism may be useful. Otherwise, I'm going to shut up. Don't want to be no Cyrano.

I owe thanks to my wife and our friend Sarah for working out some of these thoughts with me. If you are ever in Portland, Oregon, you need to go to Sarah's chocolate shop.

SUNDAY BLOODY SUNDAY: UNDER A BUSH RED SKY

2006-06-16T10:19:00.000-05:00

After this post, I had to share this video with you.

George W. Bush sings U2.

Sweet.

Thanks for passing this on, Etta.

CHURCH IN THE WAR

2006-06-10T10:00:00.000-05:00

There is no question that my struggles with church haven't gotten any better, but it's nice to catch glimpses of the Holy when my journey eases into Its near-orbit from time to time.

My pastor called and asked us to play some acoustic music on the front steps of the church before our Friday night alternative service. She didn't ask for "churchy" music--which is good, since we don't really know any--just our original stuff with a few obscure covers thrown in.

We were playing our version of this great Josh Ritter song for the downtown crowd gathering on the street and stoop when she came by and asked us to play it during the service. She had planned to use a recording of it before her sermon, but thought a live performance would do better. Weird. This is not a well-known song. And not a song you would expect to hear at church.

GIRL IN THE WAR

Peter said to Paul you know all those words we wrote
Are just the rules of the game and the rules are the first to go
But now talking to God is Laurel begging Hardy for a gun
I got a girl in the war man I wonder what it is we done

Paul said to Peter you got to rock yourself a little harder
Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire
But I got a girl in the war Paul the only thing I know to do
Is turn up the music and pray that she makes it through

Because the keys to the Kingdom got locked inside the Kingdom
And the angels fly around in there but we can't see them
I got a girl in the war Paul I know that they can hear me yell
If they can't find a way to help her they can go to Hell
If they can't find a way to help her they can go to Hell

Paul said to Peter you got to rock yourself a little harder
Pretend the dove from above is a dragon and your feet are on fire
But I got a girl in the war Paul her eyes are like champagne
They sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain
They sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain
They sparkle bubble over and in the morning all you got is rain

So, there I was playing a song that is critical of the church, with a musical partner whose beliefs are uncertain at best, and I thought: Isn't this what church is supposed to do? Nudge us into a corner and beat on us a little bit with velvet gloves? Not to hurt us, but to dislodge us from the crust for a little while...until we eventually get back to our calcified ways of screwing it up.

It didn't solve my issues with organized religion, but it was a moment of grace.

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON FEAR AND LOVING

2006-05-24T10:05:00.000-05:00

Last weekend was the best and worst of times. Beginnings and endings. Laughter and tears.

As is often the case with the tug and tumult of extremes, some convergence and discovery emerged.

Friday we went to a party for a friend who quit her job to spend the summer in Europe. Not a terribly sad occasion--we're not exceptionally close friends and she will be back in August--but we wanted to support her in this big decision she's made. At the party we met some very interesting people, like Chris the video animation technician and Philip, the British computer programmer who lives in our neighborhood and walks his dog past our house.

After bidding our host farewell and making our way home, we ended up in an impromptu party on our back patio with the next-door-neighbors and their houseguests: two new journalist friends from Florida, who were in town for a wedding. Apparently everyone found the conversation sufficiently stimulating, since we didn't call it a night until about 1:00AM. Somewhere over the course of the evening the topic of inappropriate touching came up.

A physical education teacher at our neighborhood elementary school has been charged with sexual misconduct with students, and the principal is facing charges for not reporting the accusations in a timely manner. I have no position on the allegations, but there are some who are claiming that the charges are exaggerated or false. We all agreed that if it's true, the guy should have terrible things done to him; but if his life and career are ruined over false reports, it's a shame that has a long reach.

"With this kind of thing going on, why would anyone ever become a teacher?" asked Neighbor Matt. "The risk seems too great."

Everyone agreed that even for educators of the highest integrity the stakes have gotten terribly high. Every move and every word is scrutinized to the point that even the slightest miscalculation might cost you everything. As parents, all of us recognize the importance of protecting our children; but what happens to the quality of teachers, when the unsupported claims of children are allowed to destroy the adults who have committed so much to the shaping of young minds?

But what about copywriters and urban developers? Preachers and mechanics? Attorneys and carpenters? Don't we all have the threat of litigation hanging over us all the time? One wrong move, and game over. Unfortunately, some people don't fear the risk because they don't care. They are the problem. They sexually harass their employees and create unsafe work environments with little regard for the well-being of others. I'm not talking about assholes like that. I'm talking about the majority of folks who desire to do good.

I guess the question becomes this: Will you live your life in fear, or will you take your chances? What are we really afraid of? Are we afraid of incarceration or financial penalty? Humiliation and inconvenience? Or, are we afraid that our wretchedness will find us out? Most of us, if we are honest, recognize that there are plenty of reasons for us to suffer accusations. Our love is not pure. At least on some higher level, we are usually due a cosmic pounding. We aren't really afraid of the social consequences, we are afraid of our own inability to love recklessly.

"Perfect love casts out fear." Okay, I didn't say it to my friends on the patio, but I did say something like it.

"It seems to me that we have two choices: Live in fear and deny ourselves and others a relationship that is full of honesty and passion, or we can cast care to the wind, love people with all our hearts, and hope for the best."

That seemed to make sense to my friends. They are smart people, their decision to be my friend notwithstanding.

But, why is it so hard for us? Why is it so hard to embrace the one thing that liberates us and heals us, binds us together and gives us peace? Why is it so hard for us to love like that? Sin. That's what sin is about. It's not about having a drink, a smoke, a chew, or runnin' around with girls who do. It's about resisting the power of grace, the power of love to absolutely blow our minds and transform our relationships from antagonistic, competitive equations to nurturing, empowering entanglings of spirit and bone.

So, I went to the wedding the next day. Haven't seen that much seersucker, khaki, linen, dixieland jazz, and mint julip in one place since the last time I stepped into a J. Crew catalog. It was beautiful and joyful to see so many people celebrating unconditional love. I tried to not guard myself in conversation too much, but to give the love that we are all clearly desperate for. I failed much of the time. It is difficult to change our nature.

Perhaps the place we should all begin is the relationship closest to us. If we can love without fear in that place, we can start to build a critical mass that spreads. So, I am trying to give more comfort to my wife. Last weekend she was profoundly sad as she began packing her things and planning her departure from the school that was forced into closure. She's coming out the other side of her loss, and I pray that her happiness will be fully restored.

Saturday, I attended the University's commencement exercises Saturday morning. Immediately after shedding the sweat-soaked cap and gown, I had to deliver my friend, Dr. F, the embattled theater professor, to his moving van and watch him drive away to his new position.

It's always hard when friends leave. But, particularly difficult when they really get the "perfect love casts out fear" idea. Dr. F was unafraid. He refused to buy the company line and modify his behavior, scared it would cost him. The result: He left a legacy of students, and a few faculty, who will likely be a little more loving and reckless in their relationships.

To Dr. F, and Dr. H, who also walked away for good last weekend, and to all of us who are learning how to get beyond the fear: May you teach, trade, write, research, plant, build, defend, prosecute, proclaim, compute, dig, paint, parent, program, sing, and play with a love that is fierce. Is there risk? Will it cost you? Absolutely.

CAIRN

2006-05-09T12:38:00.000-05:00

Sorry. I plan to get back to more substantive writing soon; but for now, piles of pre-finals papers await me. So, I go to grade. But before I leave you, let me give you this charge: Buy the new CD from Jeff Wiens. This disc, Cairn, is one of the finest examples of songwriting, inventive arrangements, and incredible production quality you will find in a recording these days. These songs will spill you out and soak you up, box you in and let you loose. Go ahead, listen to it...then buy it.

Buy it, or I'll slap you.

SLAM SUPERHERO

2006-04-28T10:12:00.000-05:00

My friend Ocho was dubbed Slam Champion last night.

Here is a sample of his work.

Word.

TWO SCORE AND TWO

2006-04-23T18:27:00.000-05:00

In five months I will turn 42.

Ouch.

I'm not too worried about it, though; a while back somebody on the Today Show said something like, "42 is the new 27." So, it's all good.

I mean, even though I do tend to grunt when I stand up, my pant size hasn't grown lately. I could still pull off a red convertible without looking totally pathetic. I don't yet begin all my stories with "Back in my day...." And, all but one of my teeth are original equipment. I've never been one for daily shaving, but now when my beard starts to show, my chin looks like I grazed it across a bowl of whipped cream. People will nod and wipe around their mouth sometimes say, "You got something on your...oh...er...nothing" before they walk away embarrassed.

Yes, I am aging. I check my retirement account frequently. I have various hitches in my git-along. It's cold in here, and "You kids better STAY OUTTA MY DAMN LAWN!" But I have not yet switched to elastic waistbands.

I have an alarm on my cell phone that reminds me on Tuesdays and Thursdays that it's my turn to pick up my daughter and the neighbor kids at middle school. I started using the alarm after a couple of panicked calls I received 30-45 minutes after school was dismissed.

"Um, Reacher?"

"Yeah, Barb, how are y-- Oh, crap!"

I have alarms for everything now, and my shirt pocket is perpetually full of notes reminding me what to do, where to be, and who to call.

I was on the phone the other day with a representative from the company that administers my 403b account. The call was taking longer than I expected. I realized that in a few minutes my alarm would go off, and since I intentionally programmed it to be loud and obnoxious, capable of distracting me from whatever I happened to be doing at the time, I got really worried. (You'd think I would have quit caring what people thought so far this side of adolescence.) So I started a frantic search for my cell phone so I could disable the alarm before it sounded.

The time was approaching. I couldn't find the phone.

"From a customer service standpoint, sir, is there a reason you wish to transfer these particular funds?"

Don't have time for this. Must end call.

I used shorthand, and probably lied a little to quicken the transaction.

"Is there anything else I can do for you today, Mr. Reacher?"

I rushed to finish the call. "Nope. Thanks. Bye."

Click.

As I ended the call, I saw my cell phone. There it was. IN MY HAND! I had been using it to place the long distance call.

It's a wonder that I still know how to breathe.

HEAD NOTES

2006-04-15T12:05:00.000-05:00

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, it wasn't really stormy, but it was a dark night. Not particularly dark I guess. And, actually, it was about 1:00 in the morning, on July 11, 2002. I was fast asleep, until I was strangely awakened by an overwhelming sense of disorientation and numbness in my limbs.

I woke to the most frightening experience of my life.

For two days previous, my friend Todd and I had been holed up in a friend's river cabin on the Niangua, recording about 10 songs for a self-produced CD. We called ourselves "Brother Wiley" back then, and you won't find the disc anywhere, unless you ask me for a copy. We had a very productive session, thriving on very little sleep and original musical elixir. When I returned home, I recounted the stories to my family, then promptly collapsed in bed, exhausted.

"Messy," I slurred to my wife, Betsy. My speech was nearly gone.

She rolled over, in the throes of her own peculiar diorientation that comes from interrupted REM sleep.

"What?" she asked lazily, blinking.

"I can...I cn...Som...Somes wrong," I managed to stammer, my eyelids fluttering.

She bolted upright. "What? What's wrong? What's wrong?"

"I jst...I ngh...I jss...I ono...can think"

I managed to get "call 911" out somehow, then thickly rolled out of bed and started to stumble toward the bathroom. I don't know what I thought I was going to do there. I guess it's just where we go when something is wrong with our bodies. I discovered, when I got there, that I had an overwhelming urge to urinate. I did, then collapsed on the floor, moaning and slinging verbal nonsense. Betsy had run to get help; so, for a few moments I was alone.

What was happening in my mind was, "I'm dying. This is it. I don't know how or why, but this is it--the end of my life." I always thought I would face death calmly. "I'm not afraid to die." Lived with no regrets. Got my spiritual ducks in a row. Bullshit. I was terrified. "What would happen to my daughters? Will my wife remarry? Is there a hell?"

Amidst the blathering, I managed to get out, "Jesus. Jesus. Jesus..." not as a mantra, or even a prayer. It was just all I could think to say. All my talk about radical grace and learning to accept forgiveness, and I realized I didn't really believe it. I was a liar. When it came my time, I was not saturated with sweet assurance, I was tripping in a panic unlike anything I had ever felt before.

By the time the paramedics arrived, I had stabilized quite a bit. I was still weak and dizzy, but the severe disorientation and most of the numbness had passed. The immediate thinking was that I had experienced a TIA, or mini-stroke. The ER docs ordered a CT scan and blood tests. Normal. They did some other tests (thyroid, blood sugar, etc.), but everything came back fine.

Over the next few weeks, I had an MRI to test for MS or a brain tumor. Normal. An EEG to test for seizure disorders. Normal. A lumbar puncture (spinal tap) to test for things like encephalitis, Lyme's disease, West Nile, meningitis, etc. Normal. Normal. Normal.

It was mid-August and the new semester was upon us, and I was normal. I was so normal, I walked with a cane much of the time, and my incredible father drove me the 65-mile roundtrip commute each day, because I was experiencing too much vertigo to drive a car safely. I'm sure my classes were the height of academic stimulation: teacher talks in a monotone while staring at us like he is drunk.

Eventually, through my own research, I raised the possibility of low B12 level to my neurologist. He checked me and found that I was right at the dangerously low threshold. I began taking B12 injections right away and experienced a dramatic improvement. I was able to function normally, but the lightheadedness and loss of balance were still with me. I think I have progressively gotten better, or I am just learning to cope with it. I still have "bad head" periods, where I experience pressure, a cognitive fuzziness, fatigue, a loss of balance, and a variety of other symptoms.

Over the course of the last--soon to be--four years, I have had two more MRIs (the brain pics are from the last one), numerous blood tests, a full allergy panel, an inner ear exam, and I've worn a heart monitor. I've been examined by three ER docs, three primary care physicians, four neurologists, an ear, nose, and throat specialist, an allergist, and two chiropractors, one of whom also practices acupuncture and Chinese medicine. I have discussed my case with at least three lawyers, several English professors, and one landscaper. No one seems to have a clue. The result of every test and medical visit: I am in perfect health.

Two different doctors essentially told me I should quit being a baby and get over myself, suggesting it was all in my head. I guess that's what medical dumbasses say when they are too stupid to figure out what ails their patients. "It's not in my handy-dandy medical differential diagnostic guidebook, so you must be cuckoo."

I don't happen to believe that mental illnesses should be stigmatized, so I even went through a mental screening with a psychiatric counselor. After 30 minutes of insightful probing like, "Are you under a lot of stress at work?" the therapist declared my problems to be purely physical, rejecting me as a psychiatric patient.

As a longshot I tried two different selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs). One made me much worse, and one made me happier...but I still had all my normal symptoms. I'm not a fan of long-term medicating, so I punted the depression pills. I took sleep aids for quite awhile, since I had taken to sleeping 3-4 hours a night. I have since quit that, and my slumber has improved a bit. I tried various herbal remedies that either did nothing or exacerbated my symptoms. So, no medications have worked.

I struggle with my memory sometimes, and I still tip over sometimes. But, since I have passed 4o in the interim, I don't know how much of it is aging and how much is bad head. Overall, I can function normally, I'm just not always doing so well behind the veil.

So, why am I telling you all this?

Sympathy. I want to be showered with well-wishing and pies. Warm pies. Mmmm, warm pies.

I'm really not fishing for encouragement. Please don't leave comments about how you are praying for me. There is some question about how effective that is these days anyway. I'm not really looking for help. If you want to pray for me, just do it; don't tell me about it. However, your time would be better spent if you prayed for them.

I suppose this is partly an exercise for me to try to understand things better by telling the story. Maybe some aspiring medical genius will read this and figure out what's wrong with me (there's a pie in it for you if you do). Maybe I would like to use this as an excuse for why I haven't posted anything in a month. It has been a bad head couple of weeks, but that's never stopped me before.

Some have suggested that I should be careful telling this story publicly, since employers or other interested parties might be tempted to discriminate against me because of my health condition. I have serious disagreements with some of the folks at the University, but I must say that no one there has ever been anything but kind and supportive regarding my health.

Maybe this is the reason for this post: I have been a little discouraged about my spiritual vibrancy lately. I begin to wonder sometimes if I am just kidding myself, that I really don't believe, and that I am a terrible person, husband, father, friend, teacher, musician, writer, etc. But, I am encouraged when I remember that when I was "dying," it made perfect sense to me to cry out the name of my savior. Nothing else came to mind. The only hope I saw in the face of certain ruin was the One. It's a no-brainer as a Sunday School answer, but the name came to my lips automatically, in the time of my greatest fear.

I don't know if he saved me that night. Maybe things just happened the way biology dictated they should. I must confess that it pisses me off sometimes that my so-called savior hasn't fixed me completely. I sometimes wonder how much good I could do if I didn't fall into an occasional brain cloud. I am selfish and spoiled. I want to be fixed and I don't understand what the hold up is. Then I listen to how I talk to my daughters sometimes, how I ignore the poor, how my dogs go unwalked when I don't feel like getting out, how I cut people off in traffic, how I snicker at the misfortunes of others, and I think: It's a wonder that I still know how to breathe.

WHAT GOD IS DOING

2006-03-14T05:29:00.000-06:00

I'm a little behind on this, but I just recently watched Bono's Keynote Address at the 2006 National Prayer Breakfast.

It was a relatively stunning piece of work. He was refreshingly nonpartisan, giving props to the President and Congress for their accomplishments in addressing third-world debt and AIDS in Africa. He claimed that religious and political leaders had helped usher in an "era of grace." But he was also prophetically confrontational in calling the US to increase its "tithe" to the world's poor.

What was most interesting, however, about the homily was that Bono can preach. He was bringing it, and it was good. He didn't get political, expliciting condemning or criticizing administration policies on war or economics. He addressed the human struggle we face in balancing the convenience of "charity" and the uncomfortable demands of "justice" and "equality."

This is not about charity, it’s about justice. And that’s too bad. Because we’re good at charity. Americans, Irish people, are good at charity. We like to give, and we give a lot, even those who can’t afford it.
But justice is a higher standard. Africa makes a fool of our idea of justice; it makes a farce of our idea of equality. It mocks our pieties; it doubts our concern, and it questions our commitment. Six and a half thousand Africans are still dying every day of preventable, treatable disease, for lack of drugs we can buy at any drug store. This is not about charity: This is about justice and equality.

Because there's no way we can look at what’s happening in Africa and, if we're honest, conclude that deep down, we would let it happen anywhere else -- if we really accepted that Africans are equal to us.

Look what happened in South East Asia with the Tsunami. 150, 000 lives lost to the misnomer of all misnomers, “mother nature”. Well, in Africa, 150,000 lives are lost every month -- a tsunami every month. And it’s a completely avoidable catastrophe.

It’s annoying but justice and equality are mates, aren’t they? Justice always wants to hang out with equality. And equality is a real pain in the ass. Seriously.

As a way of discerning the will of God when we take our faith public, Bono points out that wherever God may be, we know God is with the poor and the downtrodden. He says, "God is with us if we are with them." Sounds like a pretty simple calculus: If our actions are designed to benefit anything or anyone over "the least of these," it is suspect. Doesn't mean it's wrong, but it ought to come under some serious scrutiny.

The "money line" in the speech was when he recalls the wisdom of a spiritual advisor:

A number of years ago, I met a wise man who changed my life -- in countless ways, big and small. I was always seeking the Lord’s blessing. I - I'd be saying, "Look, I've got a new song...Would you look out for it. I have a family; I'm going away on tour -- please look after them. I have this crazy idea. Could I have a blessing on it."

And this wise man asked me to stop. He said, "Stop asking God to bless what you’re doing. Get involved in what God is doing -- because it’s already blessed."
Well, let's get involved in what God is doing. God, as I say, is always with the poor. That's what God is doing. That's what He’s calling us to do.

I suppose the problem is that everyone thinks that what they are doing is what God is doing. We continually make and remake God in our own image.

May we all be blessed by our actions, not by our intentions.

WHERE HAVE I BEEN?

2006-03-02T14:10:00.000-06:00

What's it to you?

If you must know, I have been racking my brain for a writing idea. Nothing is coming. Sure, I could write about politics or current events; but don't you think there are enough bloggers doing that duty? I don't mind laying down some smack on the matters of the day, but I would rather peer into my soul and share what I see, even if it scares the hell out of us. But, for now nothing screams at me to be written, and I am not so desperate for attention that I will just post something just to be posting something.

Yeah, the brain appears to be empty at the moment. However, in the spirit of democratic bloggery, I invite you to participate in my muse search. Look around.

See anything worth writing about? Sure, there's the goofy head shape and the inexplicable piece of broccoli resting below the intestine east of the nose. But, no meaningful ideas appear to be floating around in there.

I almost had a story when I discovered this angle: It seems that I have a relative of Mr. Bill floating around near my cerebellum. Ohhhh Noooo!!!!

And I must confess that it disturbed me a great deal to know that at a certain angle I look like this:

Yipes! Protect your children.

Well, I'll keep looking.

I'm thinking about inviting my sister in as a guest blogger. Huh? What do you think? She has a very scary brain.

GUNS AND POSES

2006-02-17T12:58:00.000-06:00

I wasn't planning to address Dick's misfire, expecting instead to point you to the excellent treatment of the topic here and here. But, after engaging my conservative colleagues on a private editorial advisory board blog for a local newspaper, I have to address a couple of things.

Even though there are some interesting issues surrounding the hunting of quail raised in captivity, drinking and shooting, and the lack of firearm safety, to me the bigger story is the way the issue was handled and what it reveals about the Vice President's view of us and democracy.

Cheney's supporters that I have talked to suggest that all of this is a non-issue that is being unfairly inflated by the liberal media. Perhaps. Certainly is possible. They go on to say that Cheney is not a weak-willed politician who is poll-driven in his decision making. He is a man of principle who plows ahead regardless of the popularity of his moves. Maybe. Or, maybe he is driven by the perception that he and his cadre of fellows have received a divine millenial calling to release the world from certain brands of tyranny, and no one will be allowed to stop them, or even question their goals or methods. When you adopt a position like that, it is not a big step to believe that none of your actions should be scrutinized by the public.

Cheney's reaction to this situation has betrayed an arrogance and an insensitivity to the will of the people that is disturbing. At first he indicated that it wasn't anyone's business, then he agreed to an interview by a shadow of a journalist (Fox's Brit Hume) that served notice to all the "liberal media" that he was not interested in offering his story as news.

The whole thing just reveals the ongoing trend in this administration: Decide on your version of the truth; make sure the public is always afraid; accept no criticism; engage in no meaningful dialogue with your detractors. I've already talked about Bush's disdain for opposition. This is just another example.

Please spare me the purely partisan defenses of the guy. I am not making these remarks because he is a Republican. For instance, I found Clinton's "depends on what the meaning of 'is' is" rhetoric to be shameful and devastating blow to the notion of accuracy, truth, and integrity in public life.

So anyway, that's not what I really came here to tell you. The Dickshot incident reminded me of a story.

I was 13 and a brand new hunter. Back in those days, people didn't take hunter safety or gun certification courses. Your course was getting up in the middle of the night, donning too-big tin cloth pants and coats with game bag pockets, drinking coffee for the first time (black, no cream or sugar), and learning how to act like a man. No goofing around. No petting the dog like she's a pet. It's working time.

I rode quietly on the bench seat of the pickup with stool-softening anticipation and fear roiling around in my pre-pubescent gut. I kept thinking about the Savage 20-gauge riding in back. I had shot it a few times to get used to the recoil. I knew there was something in that gun that was far more powerful than me, and I was not sure I was strong enough to conquer it.

[Okay, I'll shorten the story since I hadn't planned on the big Dick prologue.]

We met up with our hunting companion and got on our way. After a few hours we had nearly given up. All of a sudden the dog went on point. We kicked up a covey and I shot. I caught one on the wing and it went down. My first bird. We found it a few yards away, flopping around in an injured state. We circled around it to contain it. Apparently the expectation was that the dog would go in and finish it off. Not good enough for me. I was intoxicated by the juice of the hunt. The rush of bloodlust overcame me and I fired. The blast shredded the wounded bird into a bloody smear of pins and feathers. I knew immediately that I had done wrong. If I hadn't felt it in my conscience, the look of horror on all faces would have been my clue. Even the dog stopped and glanced at me, then looked around the circle, as though to say, "Where the hell did you get this kid?"

In my childish mind what I came away with was the glee that "I got a bird." Later, it began to dawn on me that I could have killed someone.

I hunted a few times after that, but eventually lost the appetite for it. Literally. I never really liked the meat I killed, so I guess it was all a little empty as an exercise.

When I heard about Cheney's incident I felt a certain empathy at first. I know the sense of shame, the fear of what could have happened. It has troubled me for years that I didn't grasp the full gravity of what I had done. Besides completely obliterating the bird, I had seriously imperiled everyone around me. My ignorance and lust almost cost a life. To those men and that dog I say I am sorry.

I guess this is what bothers me so about the VP. He came very close to killing someone because of his negligence. I don't think any fair-minded person is going to continue to blame him for that misjudgment if he quickly owns up to it and subjects himself to public scrutiny. By finessing the situation and showing disregard for inquiry, however, is to suggest that you aren't really sorry.

Shame costs something. When you are afraid to endure it, you aren't really sorry.

CONFIRMATION

2006-02-16T01:22:00.000-06:00

So. You turned 13.

I was in the process of writing an essay about my first hunting experience that happened when I turned 13. I thought it was timely, what with the Vice President shooting a guy like I almost did in 1977. But that's a story for another day.

I was thinking about turning 13 and the whole notion of coming of age, and I couldn't get my mind off of you. Before my very eyes you have become a young woman. When I see you, when I think about you, it shatters me. You devastate me with your beauty and paralyze me with fear. You are a mystery that is daily unfolding, then refolding, then surprising me with a whole new angle. Pubescent origami.

I remember that as a baby, and then as a toddler, you were bald. People thought you were a boy, even when you were festooned with pink frilly things. You were hard to figure out even then.

As soon as you could speak and hold on to an opinion, you expressed your disappointment that you had not been born black.

I remember the moment the U.S. women's soccer team won the 1999 World Cup. Brandi Chastain ripped off her jersey as a group of us erupted in cheers. You retreated to the corner with your arms crossed and a sour expression on your face.

"What's wrong, honey?" I asked.

You turned your defiant little six-year-old face toward me and said, "I'm mad. I wanted China to win."

I told that story to my university hosts in China a few years later. They are probably still talking about you.

"You come back next year and bring Daughter Number Two with you!" declared Mr. Mu triumphantly.

Your kindergarten teacher said that if she were planning a party she would most definitely invite you.

I remember the times you join me for a walk around the neighborhood, and you can't stop talking. Then, sometimes you join me for a walk or a ride in the car and we can be together for long periods of time with comfortable silence resting between us.

I love watching you grow from a baby to the person dozens of adults turn to first to care for their babies. Little kids look at you like you're Willy Wonka and they just found the golden ticket.

I love your strong will. It often manifests itself in protests against the daily required piano practicing, but all I can really hear is the way you make me feel when you lose yourself in music.

I love how you love innocence. Children and old people. Anyone who might be considered vulnerable. You have always favored the underdog, the least of these. You despise injustice like a Hebrew prophet.

I love that you love the presence of your friends, but how you can be absolutely content in solitude.

I love how adults who know you get a certain glimmer in their eyes when they talk about you. You seem to bring out the mischievous impulse in everyone. They know you are an outlaw...in the best kind of way. You evoke a yearning in them. They sense that you will have the courage to say and do things they would never dream of. That's the part that scares me. It fills me with pride and frightens me at the same time. That's what I love about you.

If we were Jewish, you would have a bat-mitzvah (Actually, I think bar-mitzvahs are at 13 and bat-mitzvahs are actually at 12.). Instead, the only tangible sign of your age is a confirmation class at church, where you are learning from a fantastic woman pastor how to come at God from an uncommon perspective.

You are confirming who you are in the world and what you believe. At this moment and in this space I also confirm something: I cannot imagine my life without you.

I know there are times you would rather not have me around. You're 13. I get that. But I remember what you used to say to me when you were three or four: "Go away in the house." You didn't want me in your face, but you needed me nearby.

Well, dear, I will try to give you the space to become a woman. May you grow into everything God has dreamed for you. May you learn to love foolishly and fight recklessly. May all that passion and ferocity and mischief in you ignite holy fires. May there always be evidence that you were in the area.

Okay. I'm going to go away now and leave you alone.

But I will always be right here.

THE STATE OF THE SPEECH

2006-01-31T21:41:00.000-06:00

Okay, here's the speech teacher's score: C-

My score this time around is based almost entirely on delivery. I have to confess that I have quit paying much attention to the content of State of the Union addresses, because they are usually little more than forgettable laundry lists of unrealistic proposals.

Here are my delivery observations:

He is better than he used to be. He used to really herky-jerky. It's still there, but not as pronounced. There were brief moments of clarity and gravity, glimpses of cadence and intensity; but overall the speech was incredibly uneven.

He is uncomfortable in the rostrum. This guy does not want to be there. I'm not talking about the presidency, he very much wants to be there. But he is not an orator, and these events are not pleasant for him. He does not enjoy the spoken word.

The speech is not his. He didn't write it; but more importantly, he has never owned it. Presidents don't write their own speeches anymore, of course, but some go to great lengths to make the speech theirs (see Reagan and Clinton). This is a speech assembled by bureaucrats that could never find its rhythm. He is anchored to the teleprompters. He turns his head before his eyes are ready to leave the security of the plexiglass manuscript. Watch him when he finishes a phrase that invites applause. He doesn't lean into it, because it doesn't belong to him. He is not offering something of himself to his audience, he is simply serving as a vehicle for a broad set of ideas. When he finishes those phrases, and the applause begins, he appears relieved that it is over for a few seconds. Eager speakers get impatient with the applause because they want to get on to the really good stuff.

The old smugness is still there. Again, not as bad as before, but the smirk and wink business persists. Here's one thing that will always prevent him from appearing to be a statesman or grand orator: opposition pisses him off, and it shows. He has no respect for disagreement. This hardly makes him unique, but he allows it to color his rhetoric. It visibly disturbs him when people don't stand to applaud for him and his ideas. Consequently, when he talks about bipartisanship and unified goals, it all falls flat.

I swear if I hear him say, "nucular" one more time, I may resign from the assiociation of English-speaking humans.

His handlers are not getting him ready. Maybe that's as good as it can get, but the best it can get is a C- from me.

Why do I care? Because speech matters. Sure, policies and actions are more important, but when you are the Chief Orator, the public and history look to you to shape the way we talk about things of importance. When you reveal in your rhetoric that you have no tolerance for dissent, and that any effort you make toward dialogue is little more than a chimera of the worst order, you do a disservice to all who aspire to democracy.

Oh, by the way, please save us the irony of eulogizing Coretta Scott King in the same speech that you declare the rightward shift of the Supreme Court.

A RIVER RAN THROUGH US (PART II)

2006-01-17T00:50:00.000-06:00

Sorry about that. A four-day trip to Chicago has diverted my attention. I'm back. Here we go:

After scurrying around to throw on some clothes, they came to the door.

Dusty and Clint. It was clear by their accents and all the nonverbal cues - that men learn to recognize in other men - that what we had here were two gay, native Arkansan, Shetland pony ranchers, who had a strong interest in bourbon and baseball.

We had to explain ourselves to Dusty and Clint several times before they understood our predicament. Admittedly, our situation jumped the grooves of normal expectations; but the fog of alcohol was making it even harder for them to comprehend.

"You came from where?"

"What happened, exactly?"

I felt like the family in Flanner O'Connor's story A Good Man Is Hard To Find. Jeff and I were John Wesley and June Star shouting "We've had an ACCIDENT! We've had an ACCIDENT!" I was just hoping we had not stumbled upon the Misfit and Bobby Lee, the escaped convicts that end up murdering the family in cold blood.

Before long, Dusty and Clint drew a bead on the situation and started scrambling to help. We used their phone to call the canoe outfitter. No answer. Clint drove us down to the river in his his pickup and we hauled our crew up to the house.

Finally, Jeff and Clint decided they would have to take the truck and try to find our vehicle. Good luck. We had no idea where we were, or what bridge the Suburban was supposed to be under. It was about 9:30 when they pulled down the driveway on their search.

The rest of us settled in the living room to wait. Some of us lounged on the couch and most of the kids scattered on the floor. We made small talk and pretended we were all very interested in the fate of the Cardinals. However, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling I'd had since we came upon the goose.

I kept my eyes on Dusty. He was uncomfortable and fidgety. He kept getting up to go to another room. Each time he left, I made up a reason I needed to follow him. I had to try the outfitter's number again. I needed a glass of water. I guess I was being paranoid, but this was rural Arkansas, and these guys had to have firearms in the house. I think it's the law: Live in rural Arkansas, have gun.

After 11:00 had come and gone, Dusty started to get visibly agitated. His drunk had turned to the droop-eyed stare. I found him gazing darkly at the girls from time to time. Out of nowhere, he would pop out of his trance and ask, "How did you all get here again?" Or, "Somebody tell me what's going on again." Clint was clearly the one who kept it together around here, and Dusty was getting scared. Don't get me wrong, Dusty was a good host. He was kind and helpful, but as the hours passed, the paranoia and bourbon were burning deeper into his brain.

About 11:30 Dusty gestured to me. "C'mo...C-c-can you...c-c'mon out here...side...I need talk t' you." He busted out the front door, clearly upset and ready for a confrontation. I followed him, keeping my eyes on loose objects I could use as weapons. Dusty was a pretty small guy, I think I would have been able to take him pretty easily, but this daddy wasn't going to leave anything to chance.

He pulls me around the side of the house and starts to cry.

"What's going on here?" he sputters. "I don't know y-you. I d-don't know w-what's goin' on. Where's Clint?"

I try to reassure him. "It's okay, Dusty. This must all seem pretty weird to you. But, I'm sure they are just having a hard time finding the car."

"Clint's all I have," said Dusty, with his chin drawn toward his shoulder and the top of his head swaying back to the other shoulder. As he then turned and looked me square in the face, he said, "I'm scared."

I tried to give him a reassuring smile. "I know, Dusty. I'm sorry. Surely they'll be back any minute now."

Then, it happened. He looked me up and down. He spread his arms like Christ and hung his head. He was either that drunk, or that ashamed of this betrayal.

"Can I have a hug?" His body hiccupped a little with sobs.

I was confused. What was I supposed to do? I was still fairly new to the world of liberal sensibilities. I had been raised to believe that this man's lifestyle was sinful. Was I to support it? Was hugging him a tacit endorsement? Would he take it as a come-on? Would a kiss be next? Besides, I was still a little scared myself. My fear and the residue of adolescent homophobia bested my impulse toward grace.

"No, Dusty. I'm not going to hug you. I know you are upset...they'll...be back...soon." My words trailed off as I stood there in shame. Now I felt like crying. I had chosen the route of safety and suspicion. What was I so afraid of? How was this small, scared, drunk, gay man a threat to me? I was spinning.

A few minutes later, around midnight, Jeff and Clint pulled up in two separate vehicles. They had finally found the Suburban, after an exhaustive search of the Northern Arkansas bridge population.

With great relief, we offered our thanks and made our departure. I was experiencing a strange hangover of release and guilt.

Jeff and his family exchanged Christmas cards with Dusty and Clint for a couple of years after that. Eventually they lost touch. I'm ashamed to say that I never pursued the relationship with those men. I suppose part of me rationalized it as Jeff being our spokesman. But, I guess there were just too many secrets I had learned about all of us.

A river ran through us that day. I can't help but think that the Kings, in its sovereignty, took us where it wanted us to be; changed the course of our lives just a little. Sure, the river left us with a great story - few people get to tell about being rescued by gay Shetland pony ranchers in Arkansas - but, I always tell it with a certain amount of regret.

Float trip anyone?

A RIVER RAN THROUGH US

2006-01-10T11:24:00.000-06:00

"You can't miss it," claimed the woman. She was assuring us that we would see the vehicle from the river. Her kids, who helped her run a river outfitter business, were putting in our canoes before they left to drop the truck at the take out spot six miles downstream.

"A big ol' bright red Chevy like this? It'll be easy to see."

It was a beautiful summer day in northern Arkansas. My family and I had joined up with some friends for a canoe trip on the Kings River: one of the best-kept secrets in the Midwest. A beautiful day and a quiet stretch of water. Ahh, sweet release. What a day.

"You'll come to a wide gravel take-out by a bridge. Just go past the bridge and you'll see it. I'll leave the keys on top of the left front tire."

Jeff told her thanks and gave her the keys to his Suburban. The nine of us stepped into our four boats and settled in for a great time away from the city.

We weren't exactly whitewater veterans, but most of us had spent a fair amount of time on the water. We had a couple of reluctant novices with us; but as is always the case, the magic and mystery of the river quickly muted all protest. Before long, we were shooting the rapids and paddle-splashing our companions like pros.

I have heard it said that a sure-fire compatibility test for a couple is a river trip in the same canoe. Canoes have a way of clarifying relationships. Disaster is ever-present, requiring constant coordination and communication. It is the perfect opportunity to negotiate conflicting views of reality. You can disagree, but physics is the final mediator, and walking away in a huff means getting very wet and uncomfortable.

On the whole, all of our relationships eventually settled into a comfortable rhythm of J-stroke and stern pry, the panic paddling of roiling foam and the lazy cruise of calm water. We stopped on gravel bars and ate. We snorkeled and lounged. We fished and frolicked, jumped from bluffs and skipped rocks. As the afternoon reached toward early evening, we came to the take-out and bridge.

At least we thought we were there.

We passed under the bridge, tired, full, and satisfied with a successful day of floating. We did not see a bright red Suburban.

We assumed, then, that by "past the bridge" she must have meant around the bend. So, we floated on down a few hundred yards, making the turn. No Suburban. In fact, no cars or parking lot. Well, maybe it was the next bend. After all, she didn't really say how far past the bridge.

The Kings is not a well-traveled river. Normally you expect a campground or river access road every mile or so. Not on the Kings. As we went around bend after bend, the afternoon began to creep toward evening, and there was no sign of civilization anywhere near the water's edge. We didn't worry, because experience had told us that we could just take out at a lower point and hitch a ride back to our car.

Except there were no lower points. Nothing. And there was no going back: the current was too strong to allow it.

By the time our situation began to get a bit usettling, we noticed that most of the houses we could see in the distance would require about a mile walk through a cornfield. Not a terrible prospect...if you had real shoes and a shirt.

Visions of Deliverance danced in my head. "You sure got a purdy mouth, boy" started to become something more than a chilling quote from a disturbing movie. Three teachers, five children, and a professional opera singer did not seem to make for a mighty force against what I was sure would soon become teeming hordes of inbred ne'er-do-wells.

Laughter and smiles were dimming with the sun. No one found it amusing when I suggested that it would soon be over when we spilled into the Gulf of Mexico. Soon we would begin to blame and turn against each other. We were exiled Israelites talking only in murmurs. And our manna supply was dwindling. How long, O Lord?

When we judged that we had probably doubled our planned distance, and evening was giving way to night, we decided we had to stop. It was getting dark, we were wet and cold. We pulled onto a gravel bar and started a small fire.

Jeff and I could make out lights from a house up the hill. So, with our families huddled together for heat and strength, we decided to go for help. We made our way up through a pasture, slowed by a skunk going up the same path ahead of us.

We soon came upon a small ranch that appeared to specialize in small horses. Shetland ponies. We shouted a few times as we approached. Sure, we were city boys, but both of us had country roots; and we knew it was a bad idea to walk up to a house in rural Arkansas unannounced, unless you wanted an assload of buckshot.

"HONK! SQUAWK!"

After nearly soiling ourselves, we realized that we had been discovered by the home's guard goose. The large winged beast strutted around the yard, neck jutted out and head cocked as if to declare, "You ain't getting inside this fence, boyfriend." We sweet-talked the bird, and it eventually allowed us to come onto the porch.

Before I went to the door, I peered in the window. It was a precaution. I was a little concerned that with the shouting and the honking no one had come out yet. As I looked in I saw two moustached men sitting on a couch in their underwear, drinking whiskey and watching a Cardinals game on television.

I took a deep breath and knocked.

(Part II soon)

LIFE AFTER ALL...FINALLY!

2005-12-29T13:23:00.000-06:00

It has arrived. You can read more about it and order it online here. If you are shopping here, you can buy it in person. It will soon be available in a variety of regional book and music stores.

If you know the artists, you can purchase the disc direct. This is the recommended method, since it allows them to look you in the eyes and work their sorcery on you, seducing you into buying multiple copies for family, friends, and co-workers. It's painless, and relatively inexpensive. Of course, if you experience an erection for more than four hours you should consult your physician.

Live performances and CD release party information will be forthcoming. There are plans to assemble the entire cast from the album for at least one live show. Watch for it. Sign up for the mailing list at mincksmiller[at]sbcglobal.net.

Listening samples won't be available on the MayApple site until next week. But you can hear four songs in their entirety here.

Happy New Year.

MY CHRISTMAS JEREMIAD

2005-12-23T16:38:00.001-06:00

The New York Times ran an article recently that was a nice companion to this column. In the article, David Cay Johnston reviewed a study conducted by the NewTithing Group challenging the assumptions that the most wealthy are the greatest benefactors for charities. The study is unique in that it looked at investment assets as part of income, rather than simply salary.

Relying on IRS data from 2003 (the most recent available), the study reveals that the "super rich" are the least generous group in our society. Here's the "take away" from the study:

If affluent young and middle-aged filers had donated as high a proportion of their investment asset wealth to charity in 2003 as did their less affluent peers, total individual charitable donations that year would have been over $25 billion higher, an increase of at least 17%.

Sure, the rich still make up an enormous amount of the charitable giving in this country, but when you consider that much of what they give does not actually go to the poor, and that they are not living out the charge - to whom much is given, much is expected - it appears that a high tide raises all yachts...but leaves those on life rafts to fend for themselves.

Do the rich have the right to use their income however they want? I suppose. Should they be forced to share the wealth? Probably not. But, at least they should have to face up to the fact that they are in it for themselves, that they are not saviors of the downtrodden. Where are the religious leaders on this topic? How come we don't hear sermons about this in our churches? Because the pursuit of individual wealth is sacrosanct. You can gain much more traction attacking gays and liberals than telling your parishioners to give away everything and follow God. If the leaders of the evangelical Right want people like me to ever take them seriously, they must address this disparity with the same prophetic fervor as they pursue the conservative agenda.

By the way, there's plenty of criticism to go around. The study shows that even the most charitable among us give at about a 3-4% range, with most of us giving in the 1% range. That's a far cry from 10% tithe I was taught growing up. My family gives over 10% each month, with the bulk of it going to Rainbow Network (I spent a week in Nicaragua and saw that the money goes exactly where it should). But it still isn't enough. When I pray, I don't pray that God will smite the wicked, I pray that God will give me the faith to do with less so I can give more.

I believe that giving is largely about bringing comfort where there is suffering; but it should also bring suffering where comfort is too much with us. It's an overlooked and underappreciated symbiosis. If our giving does not create any kind of discomfort for us, it probably isn't fulfilling the giver side of the equation.

May you have a merry Christmas. And, if you don't celebrate Christmas, may you experience the spirit of grace and generosity.

May we all learn to take less and give more.

GRADUATION

2005-12-19T13:55:00.000-06:00

Last Friday I was reminded what I love about teaching. No, it is not the fact that I get to dress in academic regalia - fully chevroned, hooded, and topped with a 6-pointed tam o' shanter in odd imitation of my medieval forebears. And, no, it is not the semi-annual reminder that "...commencement is not an end, but a beginning...."

It is the spectacle of completion. I love witnessing the personal and corporate climax of students who are sharing a cocktail (for you, John) of emotions: the sorrow of departure and relief of completion, blended with the thrill of anticipating a future yet unknown. It's an intoxicating atmosphere. All of us are a little more real than we are during the rest of our semester groove.

It always surprises me that some of them made it. I selfishly wish some of them would never leave; but, there they go - out the door into all the rattle and the hum of the world. I always hope that more of them would take risks and tilt at windmills than will probably come to pass. Unfortunately, we work hard to tame them when they are with us. Produce, produce, produce. Too often we have driven them into submission so they can be meaningful contributors to the economy and the faith. What thrills me are the subversive glances I catch from behind mortarboard tassles assuring me that not all will go gentle into that good night. Thank you, sweet Jesus.

I have to say, the thing I enjoyed most this semester was the speech by the reigning president of the state denominational convention (the one that muscles the University). He did fine, I guess. Seemed like a nice enough guy. Managed to avoid talking about gay marriage or the secularizing influence of evolution.

But, he told a story about when he was playing football in high school. His hero at the time was Dick Butkus, famed middle linebacker for the Chicago Bears and ubiquitous shill for Miller Lite (the speaker didn't mention the latter). He claims that in the state championship game, he took a page from Butkus' playbook and bit another player on the leg, while they were both at the bottom of a particularly fierce dogpile. The captain of their defensive team brought them back into their huddle, fuming about an opponent who had bitten him on the leg!

Heh, heh. That was a good story.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't think it was particularly funny or meaningful as a graduation story; but considering the way our current evangelical leaders often end up harming those on their own teams - through lawsuits, witch hunts, and power plays - I thought it was an especially appropriate metaphor.

The dying of the light? Rage against it.

WAR ON CHRISTMAS

2005-12-12T18:38:00.000-06:00

Have you heard? Of course you've heard. Christmas is under seige by the radical liberals. By removing "Merry Christmas" from the holiday lexicon, liberals have declared war on God, faith, America, heterosexuality, and life itself.

Admittedly, this whole "Merry Christmas" ban is out of control. Those who support it are overly sensitive and those who are aggressively opposing it are nuts. Are we to believe that God-With-Us is somehow affected by the policy of Target department stores?

By the way, what is a greeting anyway? Do we offer greetings to declare our socio-political sympathies, or do we offer them as a salve for the wounds of those who struggle through this life? If your "Merry Christmas" is an instrument of cultural warfare, if you are more interested in the content of a greeting than the content of a poor person's cupboard, then I know a place you can stick it. The sun doesn't shine too brightly there, and your "Merry Christmas" will find company with the all the religious cliches that are meant to declare your allegiances without helping anyone much. "I'll pray for you" is there. "God bless you and God bless America" is growing old in the darkness. If you rummage around in there you might find a "Smile, Jesus loves you."

If you want to fight a war on Christmas, why don't you put your efforts into banning this:

This is a photo of my terrified wife sitting in Santa's lap at Heer's department store in 1966. It's a wonder she made it out alive! St. Nick looks like he is about to send Prancer and Vixen to the liquor store for a refill of high octane egg nog.

Alcoholic, pedophile Santas should be banned.

(If this particular Santa was played by your grandpa, I'm sorry. It's just...do I really have to explain? The guy looks waxed. Maybe he was the president of the Kiwanis, but he looks like he's got a snootful of MD 20/20.)

Seriously, if you want to strike a blow for Christmas, why don't you declare war on the greed and materialism that is enfolding your family? If you want to fight a war for Christmas, do like the original St. Nick and give away all your riches to serve the poor. If you want to fight a war for Christmas, learn to forgive this December and quit looking for people to blame.

Don't talk to me about wars against language if you can't find the time and resources to give something to the least of these. God is not impressed with your righteous indignation. You may get Sears to reinstate their holy greeting, but the weak will still huddle in the cold while your nephew plays with his new Xbox.

God, forgive us.

Visit us this season with a new sense of hope, and a bountiful dose of grace.

Merry Christmas.
And Happy Holidays.

UNCLE

2005-12-04T17:58:00.000-06:00

I quit.

This will be my last post on this topic. They win.

I am taking the dog out of the fight, even though a fair amount of fight remains in the dog. It's just that I have come to the conclusion that there would be no value in furthering the conflict, other than some narcissistic fulfillment of a primal skirmish-urge. I ain't skeered, just tired. And lonely. And wondering how one remains loving and faithful in a struggle for justice. As our president (of the US, not the University) says, "It's hard...it's hard work." I don't want to become some angry, twisted activist; especially if the battle is futile.

The University has been circulating a message that goes something like this:

1) Dr. H is not being "fired;" he is loved and valued by the university.
2) He and other senior faculty were approached last year with a retirement offer; Dr. H refused.
3) He was approached again this year, and he accepted.
4) We can't talk about the details of a personnel issue.
5) No one is being told what to teach in class.

That's a very different version of the story than the one I heard. But Dr. H has decided to remain publicly silent on the matter. I respect that. There is something elegant, even monk-like about exiting the stage free from the need to answer all the questions. Just like the Dylan he so enjoys.

You always said "People don't do what they believe in,
they just do what's most convenient, then repent."
I always said,
"Just hold on to me, baby, and hope the roof stays on."
("Brownsville Girl")

For the record, I have not been threatened or intimidated. And, I haven't reread everything, but I don't think I retract anything I have said on the matter either.

Who knows, maybe it's not all over; but for now, I'm going on to talk about other things and tilt at other windmills.

For instance, some of you have been asking about this: There will be major album release news within the week! We deliver the goods to the printer tomorrow. Sample mp3s and online ordering info coming soon.

Is that Freedom Rock? Well, turn it up.

WHERE'S THE REACH?

2005-12-02T16:51:00.000-06:00

My last post clearly sparked some interest.

Since the date of that entry, "The Reach" has registered well over 2,000 unique visits to the site, over 5,000 page views, with about 150-200 visitors a day. Regular and returning readers hail from such places as the UK, Germany, the Czech Republic, Finland, France, Thailand, Japan, Singapore, Australia, South Africa, Brazil, Canada, and a bunch of other global locations I have forgotten - not to mention the heaviest traffic from all corners of the US, with a growing cluster of visitors near the University. Apparently I am being "outed" by super sleuths.

By the way, if my knowledge of your location is unnerving, don't worry, I can't tell who you are, just where you're network is located...oh, and what you're wearing.

For the record, I continue to maintain my anonymity and to protect the identity of the school, because my purpose is not self-promotion or aggression. I clearly have some pointed things to say from time to time; but the intent is not to harm, but to reach.

Speaking of reaching, where's the reach on this topic? Those of you who have been around awhile will remember that the original purpose of this site was to boost reaching over grasping. If all this discussion achieves is the polarizing of supporters and detractors, victors and vanquished, I will move on to other topics. Sure, it's fun to watch a dog snarl and try to pull an old sock out of your fist (although it's arguably more fun to watch a dog try to find her way out from under a blanket), that's just novelty, a parlor trick. I'm not interested in just creating spectacle here. If all you want is polarizing media, switch on Hannity or Franken. I want our conversations to matter for more than boundary work.

Clearly the topics of intelligent design, academic freedom, and Christian higher education are compelling to lots of people, but where does all this get us? If your interest is in wounding your opponents, please leave me out of it. If my interest is scoring more more hits on my site, I could achieve a better result by abandoning conversation for porn.

So, where do we go from here? Do we just retreat to our predictable corners: conservatives over here, liberals over there? Do we blindly defend an idea or a university simply because we like them? What do we say to each other? How do we say it?

How do we reach each other through all this? While I deeply appreciate all the supportive comments - public and private - that I have received on this topic, there's something immensely more satisfying about seeing those who are separated by ideology or allegiance come together through their common interest in reaching beyond their grasp.

How do we make our world? How do we treat each other in times such as these? Where's the reach?

INTELLIGENT RESIGN: WHEN FUNDIES MONKEY WITH ACADEMICS

2005-11-17T14:00:00.000-06:00

For the last eight years, friends would ask me, "How can you teach at a place that has such a narrow view of the world? Surely you don't fit in there." I would defend the University. I would comment that many of our students are pretty bright, and that there is a nucleus of faculty committed to academic rigor and fair inquiry. Most of all, however, I would satisy them and myself by saying, "Even though the jack-booted thugs sometimes come knocking, the administration has historically been good about protecting our freedom to teach what and how we choose."

I kept making that argument after Dr. N was forced to retire as a religion professor and dean. He had publicly supported a moderate shift away from the conservative denominational control over the University. When they came for him, I did nothing.

I kept arguing that we still had academic freedom when, a year or two later, another religion professor, Dr. L, was denied promotion for supporting the same moderate denominational shift. Dr. L resigned after feeling pressured out. That time I did a little bit. I raised the issue as a point of concern in our bid for regional accreditation. I was regularly told that I was mistaken and that I was only going to hurt the University if I kept up such public naysaying. I resigned from the accreditation steering committee in protest.

I was still arguing that "at least my personal academic freedom is intact" when the campus moral squad came after the theater program. My good friend, Dr. F, is the director; I serve on the theater advisory board. I waded in a little deeper that time, writing pointed screeds to colleagues and powers, and going mano a mano with the provost on issues of academics, aesthetic freedom, and the theological politics of public morality. Apparently my efforts had little effect. The provost has just announced that he will be censoring cuss words in the next University theater production. It appears we may soon lose another immensely talented educator. Gosh darn it. Shucks.

All of this establishes a clear pattern of creeping fundamentalist control, and a profound erosion of faith (Anne Lamott, says "The opposite of faith is not doubt: It is certainty."), not to mention a serious problem for academic freedom and integrity. The purveyors of religious paranoia continue to ride the recent momentum of conservative populism, cracking whips and taking names, in case anyone dares to step outside their box. No one is being tortured on campus yet, but if your interests run more toward independence than indoctrination, it's a good idea to sleep with your rump to the wall.

This renascent evangelical inquisition has recently showcased its latest blunt object: Its name is Intelligent Design.

After 40 years of faithful service to the University, Dr. H is being forced out.

He came as a student in 1960, and went on faculty as the sole biology professor in 1966. He and his family suffered low pay and tough conditions: for years qualifying for food stamps and free lunches, but not accepting them. He was faithful to the school and the community, maintaining membership at First Big Church. For years he served as a Gideon, helping get copies of Christian scriptures into the hands of people around the world who hadn't really read them before. He became one of the most scientifically literate and well-read professors the University ever had. His personal collection of books currently fills bookshelves that stand seven feet high and span about 70 feet in length. He is a colossal mind with a warm heart. Sure, he's a little more churlish than the happy clappy college-is-like-Sunday-school teachers, and he is an unapologetic old school liberal--and I think he has read every book ever written about Bob Dylan--but, hell, er, I mean, "heck," that's what tenure's supposed to be for, right? Trustees and administrators are fundamentally prohibited from coming to a professor and saying, "We don't like what you teach, and you get our panties in a wad, so we are firing you."

Through the years some detractors would object to his refusal to teach a Genesis account of creation. He would respond with a simple, "Well, it's not science, you see," and that was usually the end of it. On the occasion that it went any further, the administrators of yore would assure him, "You let us fight those battles for you." They may not have personally agreed with him, but they recognized that his academic freedom was sacrosanct, if they hoped to have any credibility as an institution of higher education.

Emboldened by their recent rise to political dominance, conservative voices have grown louder. Three or four years ago, a University trustee, who is also a pastor in the community, convinced the Gideons to kick Dr. H out of the organization. I guess teaching evolution doesn't make you fit to worship or share Jesus. The pastor never talked to Dr. H. Hasn't ever met him. Coward. Oh, the Gideons? They're cowards too.

The University gave Dr. H his walking papers this week. They aren't making it too hard on him financially, but it's a firing. They are taking him out of the sensitive classes for the spring, then he's done for good in the classroom. And we are all worse off for it.

I am not going to rehearse the public debates over evolution, from Scopes, to McLean, to Aguillard. I'm not going to mention Dover or Kansas. My purpose is not to settle the dispute over the teaching of intelligent design; you can find an interesting discussion of the topic here. My interest is broader: How do we treat those with whom we disagree?

Apparently, the new stategy for people of faith is to love everyone (who agrees with you); and, if anyone stands in the way of your cultural agenda, recognize that the principles and the agenda are far more important than any stinkin' relationship. I have a good friend, soon-to-be Dr. S, who argues that the marker for fundamentalist communication is a form of "chaos rhetoric." She says the implied message is always, "Accept my argument, or our society will be catapulted into ruin."

Lucky for the University, Dr. H is not a crusader. Even though he has been treated like a plate of warmed over shinola, he maintains his commitment to the campus community, and refuses to hurt them publicly or financially.

He's a better man than I. I am fed up with the spiritual arrogance and academic ignorance that impels them to continue cherry-picking those they see as ideological threats. I'm also upset that they are allowed to keep acting with impunity, enabled by this guilt-trippy, "You don't want to make a big deal out of this and hurt the university, do you?"

What infuriates me even more is that this purging really has nothing to do with morality or scholarship, it's about money. The University, like most colleges these days, is facing tough budgetary times. They hear of a redneck kid from Gravel Road High School who decides not to come to the University because we teach the evil evolution, and they run scared. They lack the courage and the capacity to lead. Instead they circle the wagons into a tighter and tighter knot, until everything we were attempting to protect has been squeezed out onto the trail and trampelled by the stampede out of Dodge.

I know Dr. H wishes everyone would just forget it and go on. There's nothing we can do about it, and what would be the point anyway? I am in awe at his mind and at his enduring humility. Unfortunately, it's not in my nature to sit idly by when innocent people are treated unjustly, particularly when they mean so much to me.

Since everyone I respect on campus has been targeted, my day must not be too far off. Well, in the words of our commander-in-chief: "Bring. It. On." In fact, I doubt I'm going to wait. I think I'll bring it to them. Soon.

I won't call the media, or write op-ed pieces...at first, anyway. I will communicate with people honestly one on one, in hopes of restoring relationships. I have little hope that I can help Dr. H keep his job, but I hope I can help him regain some of the honor and respect he deserves.

Since there may not be anyone left to do anything when they come for me, I may be out of a job soon.

WILL BLOG FOR FOOD.

DOG IS MY CO-PILOT*

2005-11-09T04:31:00.000-06:00

Dog doesn't follow a point. She just licks my finger.

"Over there," I say.

"Right here," she replies.

"No," stretching and shaking my pointer, " in the distance."

"I'm right here." Lick. Lick.

"Worry."

Wag.

"Heaven, up there."

Lick.

"Hell, back there."

Lick. Lick. Wag.

"I should have...Could have...Need to."

Lick. Sneeze. Slurp. Wag.

Do I dare take my cues from this mongrel love? Is finger-licking...good? Is this existential cross-breed my monk? My seer?

It is a fetching image, this canine mind that knows no regret, shares no guilt. Sheds no tears, only hair. But, will I miss God if I make this mutt my prophet? Can she lead me beside still waters? Restore my soul? Can she take me to the promised land? Deliver manna? What about my guilt? How should I then live? What should I do with my life?

Wag. Wag. Lick.

Her presentlust shames me.

Dog exists. In her image she makes me.
She never leaves or forsakes me.

Wag.

Wag.

Lick.

*The title idea came from a conversation with this wordsmith.

HOLY HALLOWEEN

2005-11-01T07:50:00.000-06:00

I thought about writing a Halloween screed. I considered writing about the absurd belief among many evangelicals that participating in the practices of All Hallow's Eve is to lend yourself to the pagan forces of darkness. Yes, friends, carving pumpkins and passing out candy can become a stumbling block to the weak of spirit. Let's not consider how ridiculous it is that we celebrate Christmas, a monthlong celebration of unbridled consumerism, or Super Bowl Sunday, a ritual of masculine bloodlust and gluttony; let's point to toddlers in puppy costumes and say, "Get behind me, Satan!"

I was once part of a Sunday School class in late October where our teacher, an optometrist, started in on Halloween as a "worldly practice." He went on to argue that for us to participate in the dark ritual was to compromise our faith and endanger our witness. I sat in the back of the class (yes, we were already on our way out the door of that particular church) seething, while my wife patted me on the arm and attempted to calm me. This was before we moved to our hundred-year-old neighborhood where Halloween is like a national holiday, but I still had strong feelings about Christians who turn off their porch lights on Halloween and join the faithful for a holy huddle and a Bible heroes costume party.

When the teacher equated children's costumes as masks of deception, I said nothing. When he said that giving out candy was like offering sacrifices to demon gods, I said nothing.

When he said, "If what we do and what we are around does not bring glory to God, it glorifies the work of Satan. We are to be without blemish." I couldn't take it anymore.

I raised my hand. "Don't you work at LensCrafters in the mall?"

"Um, yes."

"Can you explain how the mall brings glory to God? I mean, using your standard, is there anything spiritually redeeming about store after store of merchandise that is not necessary for our survival? Isn't the entire focus of the mall designed to create an addiction to consumption that distracts us from a life of purity and holiness? How does the mall draw us closer to God? In fact, couldn't one make a pretty compelling case for the mall as Satan's church?"

"Um. Well. I'm actually trying to relocate to a vision center outside the mall."

"So, you concede that the mall is evil?"

"Um."

"If the mall is evil, couldn't we say similar things about the movie theater, the ballpark, or the bowling alley?"

"We should always be careful to not associate with anything that conflicts with the will of God."

"And you are prepared to declare for all of us what the will of God is? Don't you think that's kind of dangerous? At the end of the day, aren't we better off living lives of grace rather than judgment? I mean, are our efforts best spent criticizing beautiful little children going out into the streets to meet people, building community, and learning to share candy with their neighbors?"

Things continued along this line until the end of class. In his closing prayer, the teacher spoke about "the spirit of dissension" that had entered the class. I guess God listened and cleansed them of unrighteousness, since we never went back after that.

Yeah, I considered writing something about all that Halloween crap, but I decided not to. Instead, I thought I would just tell you about something that happened last night.

My youngest daughter went trick-or-treating in the neighborhood. She and her friends thought it would be cool to stop by the governor's house - he just moved in about four blocks from us. It turns out that he was the one answering the door and giving out the goodies to future voters.

Later, when she joined us at the bacchanalian feast we were enjoying at a neighbor's house, I asked her if the governor was passing out Butterfingers, since it would be an appropriate metaphor for his handling of Medicaid (denying coverage to the "least of these"), among other things.

She couldn't remember what candy he offered, and she had no overtly political comments.

She just said, "His face was completely without blemish."

Beautiful.

MOVE TO THE FRONT, ROSA

2005-10-24T22:14:00.000-05:00

Rosa Parks, 1913-2005

May your tired feet find rest, Rosa.

The weak have become strong. The last have finished first. You have moved from the back to the front. Take your place in the driver's seat.

When you make it to your final destination, dance. Step out the front door and dance.

DRIVE BY

2005-10-12T16:25:00.000-05:00

My oldest daughter took her driver's test yesterday. She turned 16 last week, and we finally made it to the license bureau.

I made her take the test at the downtown office in the middle of our metropolis. Her friends all took their driving tests in the surrounding suburbs. It's supposed to be easier in the smaller towns. We live near downtown. That's where she will be driving most of the time. If she can't pass the test on the streets she'll be driving, she shouldn't be driving.

I made her take the test in a 16 year-old Saab with a stick shift. Lots of her friends used the nicest vehicle available to them, complete with power steering and the easy-to-navigate automatic transmission. My daughter will be driving the old 5-speed Saab. If she can't pass the test in the car she plans to drive, she shouldn' t be driving.

I made her take the test with a leering pervert in the back seat. Most of her friends were only accompanied by the evaluator. My daughter is quite beautiful and will regularly be distracted by leering perverts. If she can't pass the test while enduring constant leering, she shouldn't be driving.

I made her take the test with a live mongoose wrapped around her neck. Most of her friends had to carry no live animals on their person, or even in their cars. My daughter is going to be wearing a live mongoose, or at least some weasle-like carnivore most of the time she's driving. If she can't pass the test wearing an animal, she shouldn't be driving.

I guess a small part of me mourns the passing of her childhood. Part of me anticipates her adulthood. Most of me is just delighted with her as she is. In fact, I may be the luckiest father alive. My daughters are both teenagers and we really like each other. I don't wish for them to be little girls again, and I don't long for them to be grown and gone. I am in awe at the way they are--the ways they change and grow every day. And I feel incredibly blessed that I get to share the ride with them. I really like my kids. At a point in their lives when many parents are sick of their teenagers, I can say that I really enjoy spending time with them. In fact, I would generally choose to hang out with my daughters than most other people. Maybe it's because I can ground them. Maybe it's because I can say things like, "I brought you into this world, and I can take you out." Ohhh boy, do we laugh over that one. Or, maybe it's because God smiled on me (and my wife) and gave us better children than we deserve.

Anyway, she passed her test. Now I have to stock up on mongooses. Mongeese?

TOPEKA, 1973

2005-10-04T17:33:00.000-05:00

Something happened in Kansas.

We lived in a first-phase subdivision, one of the early housing developments still close in, near parks and the city infrastructure, full of ranch homes and split levels. What I remember most were the vacant lots. It didn’t make sense: mature neighborhoods with untended piles of dirt on empty lots. I didn’t think to question it then—when I was ten—but reflecting on it, I know that the lots were vacant because potential buyers had lost interest when space suddenly became available in rapidly sprawling suburbia. Why build infill among ten-year-old homes when you can be part of one fell swoop in a brand new cul de sac?

All I remember is that those vacant lots were heaven for a boy on a bike. We didn’t plan after-school activities in those days. No playdates, carpooling, or adult supervision. We just showed up on our bikes with a bucketful of mischief. It was in the lot across the street from my house that Chris Wiggins asked me if I worshiped Satan.

“You must be a Satan-worshiper if you talk like that,” he said. I had just lobbed a “Goddamn you” at Chris for side-swiping my new Schwinn Stingray. Sure, I used the Lord’s name in vain, and I was expecting a lightning bolt, or at the very least a bar of soap in my mouth, but he had just dented the chain guard and scuffed my shiny banana seat. Pissant (I learned that one from Mary Ellen on The Waltons).

“My dad says the only people that say g.d. are Satan-worshippers and Jaycees,” Chris continued.

I wasn’t even a practiced swearer. I had only learned the word the year before from a Baptist deacon’s son in Sedalia. He taught me the word as we played catch and dropped the ball on purpose. “Goddamn it,” he’d say. We’d giggle, then he’d pick it up and toss it to me. I’d drop it and repeat the deliciously forbidden profanity. There was something powerful about biting into that word. Until that night I hadn’t dreamed of using such language. But there was something strangely liberating about it. I had just recently been released from a life of serious constraint; to be able to utter the most egregious of curse words and survive was a testament to my immortality. In reality, I think I felt like God just wasn’t looking right then. Sort of like a surveillance satellite that loses contact with certain points in its orbit for a few hours at a time. This was my time.

Before we were done with our cussfest, God had returned to a position of perfect triangulation, directly over the Missouri State Fair and its surrounding neighborhoods. My hubris found me prancing and pointing at the ground, performing my curse on the errant baseball. I didn’t know the storm window was up and my mom could hear me.

It was like my transgressions had been beamed from above. She was NORAD. She was Strategic Air Command. She was on the red phone. Sitting at the table, talking with the deacon’s wife, the call came. She sat up and shot out the door faster than gunfire.

My friend was a deacon’s son. My daddy was the pastor. A Southern Baptist pastor. Satellite God was not amused.

Yessir, I tasted some Ivory that night. For real. She twisted a bar around in my piehole and sent me to bed early. Man, that soap tasted bad. It worked, though. I didn’t say that particular curse word too much after that.

Except for that day in Topeka.

So, when Chris started in on me, all the old guilt and fear started to creep in. But, there was more to it than my language. Chris’ dad was a deacon too. And there had been some trouble at the church.

It was the early 1970s, so if you looked past the mutton chops and leisure suits, you might have noticed the tail end of the Jesus Movement. Since the late '60s, teenagers and college students had been getting into Jesus as the original hippie, the righteous flower child; and "one way," with the forefinger extended, was replacing "peace" as the greeting of the day. Topeka was no San Francisco, but we had our share of Jesus Freaks.

It seemed that the entire population of Topeka Jesus People started coming to our church. I'm not sure why, but they did. They were coming to prayer groups and Bible studies at first. Then they started coming to Sunday morning worship services. They were long-haired, barefooted, and liberated from the regimen of daily bathing. The church members were excited, to say the least. You could just hear them exclaiming their joy, "This is so great. Now they will bathe, cut their hair, wear some decent clothes, and get jobs."

It didn't happen. The hippies didn't clean up and they didn't start playing along with the status quo. They did start coming to church and making a scene. My dad would be bringing it from the pulpit, and they would jump and shout, "preach it, brother!" or "right on" at strategic points in the sermon.

My dad was diggin' it, but people like Chris' dad were not. They told him to have those kids get their act together. Dad told them to shove it. Those kids were children of God, and they were a lot more real in their faith than anything he was seeing from the members who were fat and tenured. I'm not sure about all the details during that period. I just remember peeking through the door of the sanctuary when they voted to fire him.

He changed after that. There was a bitterness and an anger that entered his life that never really disappeared. He was okay, though. The hippies all left the church, with half the original members. They started a new church and asked Dad to be their pastor. He said yes. A couple of years later, when the hippies had all gotten jobs and families, they started to become the thing they had once hated, and he decided it was time to leave. Wounded and a little less hopeful, he moved on.

Thankfully, we had a mom in our home who believed in prayer. We still struggle with our demons, but her faith caused Grace to keep filling us and eventually start mending the broken parts.

But, before we left Topeka, I was sitting in a vacant lot, having just said, "Goddamn you" to Chris Wiggins. I don't know, maybe it was about the chainguard and the banana seat. Maybe I was just pissed at this kid for running into me. Or, maybe I was remembering the nights I had heard my parents crying. Maybe the weight of their pain had begun to leak into my ten-year-old heart. Maybe I had been wounded as well, and I wanted someone to pay for it.

Here's what I do know: That little prick never did fix my bike.

WHAT DO WE HAVE TO SAY?

2005-09-28T12:20:00.000-05:00

Last night I watched the final installment of the Scorcese-directed Dylan documentary, No Direction Home, on PBS. It was a compelling narrative about the perplexing Dylan persona as it evolved from the early days in Hibbing, Minnesota to 1966 and the motorcycle accident. But, the best moment in the film was a comment by artist Bobby Neuwirth.

In those days, artistic success was not dollar-driven. It was, you know, those were simpler times. If you had something to say, which was basically the way people were rated, you know, they'd say, "Have you seen Ornette Coleman? Does he have anything to say?" And it was the same with Bob or anybody else, you know, do they have anything to say or not?

Forty years later, there is no shortage of talking. But are we saying anything?

It's so easy for us to commodify our experiences as lovers, preachers, poets, and bloggers. Does size matter? What's your attendance? Have you been published? How many hits do you get? When we let salaries and test scores define us, when contracts and media attention signify the quality of our existence, we become less human and more widget-like. The result is just clutter.

When we grant a hearing to whatever whirling dervish catches our attention, we just perpetuate the problem. We're like kittens responding to the loudest TRUTH claims dressed up like tempting balls of string. We give them a swat, then claw the couch and look for the next distraction. Every time it happens, we just increase orders at the yarn factory.

That's all I have to say about that. You?

PRIORITIES

2005-09-22T16:04:00.000-05:00

I'm not abandoning the previous conversation, but I thought you might want to get this soon. A fellow MayApple artist, Eric Leick, recently wrote about our failures in the wake of Hurricane Katrina. He muscled a bunch of folks into the studio (most of whom are showcased on our upcoming disc), and made this song. Give it a listen. Pass it on. It only takes a spark.

THIS BLOG, IT IS A'CHANGIN'

2005-09-20T11:32:00.000-05:00

But not much.

I'm not planning a big redesign. Mainly 'cause I don't know how...and don't really care.

However, there are some issues to address. Traffic has picked up quite a bit, but - with the exception of the more controversial topics - comments are holding steady or dropping off. This leads me to believe that there are numerous "lurkers" who, for whatever reason, don't feel comfortable jumping into the conversation. If you don't want to speak up, that's fine; but I don't want anyone to feel like what they have to say isn't appreciated. So, let me propose these guidelines for users:

1. If you have something to say, say it. Contrary to what some have assumed, you do not have to have a Blogger account to leave a comment; although I recommend it. Entering the blogosphere brings certain spiritual, financial, and physical rewards (I'm getting rich...and you should see my abs).

2. You can choose to name yourself in the comments section, or you can remain anonymous. Makes no difference to me, but it is easier for people to engage your ideas if you put a name to it. If you don't want to use your real name, make one up. I think "Biscuit" would be a cute name for someone...or "Cheryl."

3. Try to limit your comments to a brief paragraph or two, Biscuit. I don't know this for sure, but my sense is that the novel-length comments work to discourage the less verbose. If you have more to say on a topic, that's a good sign that you need to start your own blog. You can leave a link to your site in the comments section, and we'll go read what you have to say.

4. You will notice that I have started using a word-recognition security step for comment postings. That has nothing to do with you, it's designed to filter out spammers (scourge of the planet).

5. In case you didn't pick up on this recently, abusive attacks on me or others won't be tolerated. I am completely accepting of strongly-worded disagreements mixing up a cocktail of truth. I even support those who hope to muscle everyone into their perspective (if they can pull it off, more power to them). However, angry profanity-laden screeds will generally be removed.

6. If you have a personal message for me, send it to my email (thereacher [at] sbcglobal.net). The comments section works best if we are all engaging the content of the post, or the other comments.

Of course, you have the right to ignore my patriarchal ramblings; but, then, I have the right to put a boot in your rhetorical pooper.

One of the reasons I started this blog was to encourage dialogue. If you have ideas of how I can do more to improve things, no matter how absurd, let me know. Perhaps I'll present an award for the best idea (even though I'm pretty sure Biscuit will win).

AN OPEN LETTER TO CLOSED MINDS

2005-09-13T15:23:00.000-05:00

This message is for Christian fundamentalists.

First, let me say that I'm not particularly fond of you right now. On any given day I can tolerate you. Sometimes I even like some of you quite a lot. But now is not a good time.

Before I explain why, perhaps I should clarify who I'm talking to. I am not referring to honest, sincere believers who simply hold to a set of principles they consider fundamental. If this is as far as "fundamentalist" goes in describing you, we're okay. We may have contrary views on any given day, but usually the greater aims of love and mutual respect allow us to, at our worst, agree to disagree.

No, the fundamentalists I am speaking of are the religious operatives who use the theology of biblical inerrancy and reactionary moralism as a thinly-veiled strategy to harness the power of cultural certainty and ride their way to theocratic dominance. Slapping leather. Cracking whips.

If you have been paying attention to my blog, this should come as no surprise. So, I guess the play is the thing. Last weekend, the University staged a student-directed production of a Pulitzer and Tony award-winning play. It was magnificent. Maybe the best performance of its kind I've seen in my eight years on faculty. The play opened to rave reviews and audiences stunned by the vibrancy of the production.

Then it came. The shit. Hitting the fan.

Dr. Fussy Budget, the religion professor, sent an email of rebuke to the theatre professor and his advisory board. Among other things, he referred to the play as "shameful," "an embarrassment," "garbage," and "waste." He went on to comment that "We don't have to crawl into the mud with the pigs in order to know that it's dirty in there."

Was there nudity? Gun play? Were animals harmed in the making of the play? No. There were about a half dozen curse words, "alcohol" consumption, and the suggestion that two of the characters had been sexually intimate offstage. Far less offensive than the average half-hour of broadcast television.

Fundamentalists, this is where I remind myself that I'm not fond of you right now. I know you didn't do it. But, given the chance you would have. If not, the culture of intolerance you promote emboldened this guy to come after his colleagues with both holy barrels ablazin'.

He completely missed the point of the script, disrespected the efforts of the students, and villified the performance by way of a bastardized theology that has more to do with his own provincialism and personal hangups than it does with the nature of God.

I wrote him a lengthy response. I haven't sent it. It's harsh. I mean it's pretty brutal; and I struggle with how much I am prepared to become like him in my rebuttal of him. I am tempted to use Matthew 23 (where Jesus opens up some whoop-ass on the Pharisees) as my justification; but I'm not sure that's enough. On the other hand, I fear that too many believers let crap like this go unanswered because they have been taught that good boys and girls shut up and smile pretty.

What I do know is that it's bullshit. It's exactly this kind of bullshit that prevents us from being a light in the world. It is this kind of bullshit that corrupts and distorts the message of love and grace eternal. (If you are still wondering if this message is directed at you, ask yourself if my repeated use of the word "bullshit" bothers you more than the response of Dr. Fussy. Hint: If it does, this message is for you.)

What's even more disgusting is that Dr. Fussy goes on to suggest that the immorality of the University theatre will cost the campus recruits. Marketing. That's what it's really about. Not Truth and Goodness. I guarantee you, if we were flush with funds, this issue wouldn't have come up. Isn't that usually the case with Fundies? At the end of the day, it's about who has the power (financially, morally, emotionally, etc.).

Before you start weighing in with your charges that I am hoisted on my own petard because I deliver the very intolerance abhor, let me just save you the time and cop to the charge. Guilty. I am stuck. "One dead, the other powerless to be born," as Walker Percy said. I don't want to abandon the field to rhetoric of legalism and control; but I don't want to become the thing I despise.

It's amazing to me that anybody believes in God anymore. I mean, other than those of us who grow up believing because that's what our families did. It seems that the Holy has to cut through a tremendous amount of detritus, wade through a lot of slop, to get to us. I'm just glad Jesus is willing to crawl into the mud with the rest of us.

Oink.

EVERYBODY'S FREE (TO WEAR SUNSCREEN)

2005-09-06T22:13:00.000-05:00

Interesting confluence of events.

I had just finished watching one of my favorite films, and I was reading columns about the post-Katrina world. I kept mumbling the song that played over the credits of the film. After a while the song got to me, so I looked it up. It sounded like literate advice put to a dance beat. Turns out the original song scribe is a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, who just happened to author a good piece on New Orleans.

The song is called "Everbody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen) Mix." The song's origin is another story unto itself. After its birth as a newspaper column, the song made an appearance in an Internet hoax, starring Kurt Vonnegut and MIT. Ultimately it became a hit in Australia, then found its way onto a soundtrack of a largely ignored, but brilliant American film.

It would probably be more appropriate to save this posting until graduation time, but I've never been much for timing. So, here it is.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience. I will dispense this advice now.

Enjoy the power and beauty of your youth. Oh, never mind. You will not understand the power and beauty of your youth until they've faded. But trust me, in 20 years, you'll look back at photos of yourself and recall in a way you can't grasp now how much possibility lay before you and how fabulous you really looked. You are not as fat as you imagine.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindside you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday.

Do one thing every day that scares you.

Sing.

Don't be reckless with other people's hearts. Don't put up with people who are reckless with yours.

Floss.

Don't waste your time on jealousy. Sometimes you're ahead, sometimes you're behind. The race is long and, in the end, it's only with yourself.

Remember compliments you receive. Forget the insults. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old love letters. Throw away your old bank statements.

Stretch.

Don't feel guilty if you don't know what you want to do with your life. The most interesting people I know didn't know at 22 what they wanted to do with their lives. Some of the most interesting 40-year-olds I know still don't.

Get plenty of calcium. Be kind to your knees. You'll miss them when they're gone.

Maybe you'll marry, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll have children, maybe you won't. Maybe you'll divorce at 40, maybe you'll dance the funky chicken on your 75th wedding anniversary. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much, or berate yourself either. Your choices are half chance. So are everybody else's.

Enjoy your body. Use it every way you can. Don't be afraid of it or of what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance, even if you have nowhere to do it but in your living room.

Read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

Do not read beauty magazines. They will only make you feel ugly.

Get to know your parents. You never know when they'll be gone for good. Be nice to your siblings. They're your best link to your past and the people most likely to stick with you in the future.

Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.

Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard. Live in Northern California once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel.

Accept certain inalienable truths: Prices will rise. Politicians will philander. You, too, will get old. And when you do, you'll fantasize that when you were young, prices were reasonable, politicians were noble and children respected their elders.

Respect your elders.

Don't expect anyone else to support you. Maybe you have a trust fund. Maybe you'll have a wealthy spouse. But you never know when either one might run out.

Don't mess too much with your hair or by the time you're 40 it will look 85.

Be careful whose advice you buy, but be patient with those who supply it. Advice is a form of nostalgia. Dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than it's worth.

But trust me on the sunscreen.

Not the most groundbreaking lyric...or performance for that matter. But, settle it into the tail end of an amazingly dramatic closing scene, and mix it with just the right amount of techno to give it gravitas - or street cred - and you have the makin's of a fine piece of news column-commencement speech-cyber spoof-spoken word-dance track-movie theme-media convergence phenomenon.

HURRICANE HOUSING

2005-09-03T11:37:00.000-05:00

Well, we did it. We registered to receive refugees into our home; and now we wait to be contacted. I think there are others in our neighborhood doing the same. We are hoping that we can get some families with children so they can all attend the neighborhood school together.

We have heard from most of our New Orleans friends. One couple's house was undamaged. They are still home with running water and gas, but no electricity. They are running low on food, so they'll have to leave soon. For now they are staying inside with their guns, since there are roving gangs in the streets.

Another family found out that their house is sitting in 15 feet of water. Fortunately for them they are pretty wealthy, so they were able to buy a house in Baton Rouge. Had to give more than the asking price and pay cash to get it. The husband's brother is an ER doc at one of the hospitals. He and the other hospital personnel are all packing heat in shoulder holsters to defend themselves against the drug addicts suffering from a disrupted supply.

We haven't been able to locate two other friends. They had just finished restoring a century-old house in one of the hardest hit neighborhoods. May God shine his face upon you, Greg and Art.

Let me encourage you to become a haven. You can register here to take a family into your home. If you can't give your home, give something: time, energy, money, etc. Do something that hurts a little. Check the comments here and in the post below for some good ideas from readers.

I'm going to go help load a truck. Have a good weekend.

A HURRICANE OF EMOTIONS

2005-09-02T12:55:00.000-05:00

This morning I was listening to some of my students talk about all the cool stuff they're going to do over the three-day weekend. It sounded great. Lots of sun, fun, and family.

I lost it.

I had just watched video footage of poor, black people literally dying before my eyes. The dispossessed, the least of these. Right. There. In. Front. Of. Us. Chanting "Help. Help. Help." Is it okay to go back for seconds and talk about the game when people need help? I have always struggled with the rationalizations we use to justify our inaction.

So I said this -

Before you load up the car for a bitchin' time at the lake, don't forget to take a look at the people who will be sitting by their own lake this weekend. A lake full of disease, violence, and the bodies of their neighbors. Be sure, when you go to church this weekend, and you join with fellow believers in a celebration of your life in Christ, that you at least mention the single mom who now has no job, no home, no peace, no rest. Remember the filth, as you sleep on clean sheets. Remember the starvation, as you grill your burgers. Remember your homework, while so many look at the rubble that used to be their school. Be grateful for what you have, when so many others have lost it all.

If you think about all the suffering and do nothing, you are a liar. You say you are a disciple of Jesus; that you are committed to loving and living like him. But if you stare in the face of the newly homeless and do nothing, you lie. Write a check, if it will make you feel better. But I don't think Jesus called us to be check-writers. It's better than doing nothing; but I think Jesus asks us for more than a payoff. He asks us to get into relationship with the poor. Anything less is game-playing. Understand, I'm as guilty as you. I want to bring a family of refugees home with me, get them jobs, put their kids in school, etc. It scares me to think about bringing a strange family into my house. It might cost me. It might interrupt my comfortable existence. But where's my faith? I say I'm willing to die for my beliefs...just don't ask me to share my room.

In a strange way I am energized by times like these. It is an opportunity to separate the true believers from the bullshitters. You'll recognize the bullshitters as the ones who are more concerned about the word "bullshit" than the fact that thousands of innocent people are suffering. You can only trade on piety for so long, until the people in need recognize you for the phony you are. So, before you finalize your plans for a day of jet skiing this weekend, ask yourself who you are.

Okay, I didn't say the "bullshit" part, but it was definitely implied.

I am at sea here. I'm a little paralyzed. I have made some inquiries about housing a family. Dear God, give me the faith to follow through, if someone accepts my offer.

TURBO

2005-08-30T23:35:00.000-05:00

After a recent rainstorm, my daughters found a baby squirrel that had been blown out of its nest. It barely had hair, and its eyes were not yet open. So, being the tenderhearted people they are, they brought it home.

After setting up an old aquarium in the garage, they used one of my syringes (sans needle)—left over from my smack habit—to feed it milk. They soon discovered that it was a he, and they named him Turbo. I don’t know why. Maybe because squirrels are fast...?

They kept up the feedings for a few days, and Turbo seemed to gain strength and vitality. He would crawl around some and cling to them with his little claws when they fed him. But his good health was creating a certain degree of tension in our home.

My wife is a gardner. She raises all kinds of flowers and herbs. She grows some vegetables too; but it’s a hardscrabble life in a yard surrounded by 80 year-old trees giving heavy shade. In her attempt to cultivate a tomato crop each year, she suffers from lack of direct sunlight, and she regularly loses to the ranks of the thieving squirrel population. She’s tried fencing and home remedy repellents; I’ve even trapped squirrels for her and released them outside the city. They call in reinforcements and continue chowing down on the convenient crop. It makes her furious. Damn yard rats.

But after a couple of days I noticed my wife starting to warm to the little fella. I'm not sure she was loving the idea of nurturing a future enemy; but as a mother she saw her daughters caring for a vulnerable creature and it changed her.

Love has a way doesn't it? No matter what your beliefs or experiences; no matter how dogmatic you might be, witnessing the selfless love of another bends you to a new way of thinking. There is nothing quite as beautiful as an act of authentic grace.

Well, after three or four days, Turbo took a turn for the worse. He was showing signs of dehydration and malnutrition. We could mother him, but we didn’t have what his momma had to give. We called the local conservation office to find out what we should do.

"Take it back where you found it."

"Excuse me. It's just a baby; it wouldn't stand a chance."

"It stands a better chance of its mother finding it and caring for it than it does surviving in your care."

This was hard news to take. We were not optimistic. The next day we formed, what looked like a funeral procession, to take Turbo home. We walked the block in silence. When we got to his tree, the girls set him down and covered him with dry leaves, so he would stand a better chance with the neighborhood cats. They considered saying a few words, then decided to just say goodbye for now. The youngest got red-faced and wet-cheeked; she's always had a soft spot for the underdog, the neglected. It was killing her to give up and walk away.

All of a sudden my eyes began to sting.

"It's just a damn squirrel," I told myself.

"It's a wild animal. Wild animals die every day and no one in their world gives a shit. Grow up."

Call me weak and childish, but I couldn't get that squirrel out of my mind.

I went to look for him the next day. I searched and searched; then I saw him. The poor little guy was a couple of feet up the tree, spread out wide, clinging on for dear life, still breathing, but not looking too good.

The next day he was gone.

Maybe his family found him and carried him home. Maybe his aunt is teaching him the fine art of tomato theft at this very moment. Or, maybe he became a meal. Contrary to the anthropomorphizing of Disney, there was no celebration or mourning in the squirrel community. They moved on. Life and death are just part of everyday existence.

But I find myself still thinking about how that vulnerable creature changed our family. How it turned my children into mothers and how it changed my wife's heart.

I think about how, even though he was insignificant, Turbo did not fall to the ground without God's knowledge.

I think about how we don't live in isolated boxes. Our lives affect the world around us.

I think about how we sometimes do the wrong thing, even when our intentions are pure.

I'm not sure what the Lesson, or Higher Purpose was in Turbo's visit to our home; but I'm leaving a tomato out for him.

WHY I DON'T PRAY IN CLASS

2005-08-20T11:38:00.000-05:00

As you may know, I teach at an evangelical Christian university. It seems like a strange fit sometimes, what with my progressive ideologies and occasional snarky attitudes toward the religious right, but on the whole it's a pleasant experience. I don't mind being an enigma. In fact, I quite enjoy it sometimes. I recognize the danger of slipping into my own sanctimonious martyr complex, so I try to engage in regular self-examination and criticism. Valuing honesty over agendas works pretty well for me.

At the University, many of the faculty begin classes and meetings with prayer. Makes sense: Christian school, prayer, etc. I, on the other hand, do not begin classes with prayer. It's a college, not a church. After having my faith questioned by a student a year or so ago, when he challenged me on my class prayer platform, I wrote this essay that I distribute with my syllabi.

WHY I DON’T PRAY IN CLASS

Okay, so I don’t pray in class. This is a relief to some, a concern for others.

You might assume that I am opposed to praying in class. You’d be wrong. You can pray if you want to. I know some praying professors, and I completely support them. If they are compelled by the spirit to begin class with prayer, who am I to discourage, denigrate, or otherwise diminish them in their obedience to God? And it’s not like I’ve never prayed in class. I just don’t make a habit of it.

You might also assume that I am not the praying type. You’d be wrong again. Many mornings (but not as many as I should) at 6:30 a.m. I settle in and center down. I begin with a time of contemplative meditation, where I discipline myself to remove all distraction from my mind except the holy presence of God. I do that in complete stillness and silence for 15 minutes or so, until the spirit of Christ fully inhabits me. I offer my thanks, confess my sins, and ask for help. After that I join my family and my dog. We read scripture and pray together. Justice, the dog, is a canine mystic. She puts her head on her paws and usually lets out a gentle grunt, as though she is in touch with a deeper spirit than we silly humans.

It is rare for me to finish a time of prayer with dry eyes. Something about the truth and grace of it just gets to me. Sometimes it's hard to pull myself out of the world of the spirit and into the step and fetch of the here and now.

I have taught at the University for eight years, and I have seen hundreds of meetings and gatherings begin with prayer. Sometimes it strikes me as humble and genuine, but too often it is sort of like calling a meeting to order - like a pledge of allegiance or a national anthem.

I take this cue from Jesus’ teaching in the Gospel According to Matthew:

And whenever you pray, do not be like the hypocrites; for they love to stand and pray in the synagogues and at the street corners, so that they may be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward. But whenever you pray, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Father who is in secret; and your Father who sees in secret will reward you. When you are praying, do not heap up empty phrases as the Gentiles do; for they think that they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him.

I don’t pray in class because prayer shakes me, it shatters me, it breaks me into a thousand pieces, and puts me back together. It gets me lost and finds me. It tears me up and mends me. It’s like nudity: beautiful and grim, and rarely appropriate for public consumption. I know that every prayer doesn’t have to be so intimate and intense. I do pray in a “normal” way at times. But, I’m not a big fan of “normal.”

Now that I’ve told you far more than you ever wanted to know, you understand why I don’t pray in class. Feel free to disagree, and even criticize me if you wish; but if you do, I may ask you to join me at 6:30 in the morning.

PERSPECTIVE

2005-08-08T11:59:00.000-05:00

In April I wrote about this ill-fated battle to save a neighborhood school. Well, blow the bugle and sound the shofar; they're baaaaaack. The School Closers are back and they’re packing multiple warheads. It’s not just about one or two small schools this time. They are discussing a proposal to abandon a dozen neighborhood elementary schools with the aim of consolidating them into regional education supercenters.

Among the targeted is Rountree School, in my neighborhood. My kids went there. Their grandpa went there. Many of our friends are graduates. It's more than just an educational institution, this 90 year-old, red brick structure is the heart that pumps the life through our little part of the city. At the very least, Rountree acts like a matriarch, shaping each new generation of neighbors in her image. As each new resident moves into the 'hood, or grows to the age of awareness, the old girl slows them down, fills their hearts with history, and puts a healthy glow on their faces. They learn that places aren't just spaces; they are meaning-makers that influence the way we inhabit the world. The gaggle of young voices passing by on the sidewalk each morning is not an insignificant curtain of sound; it is a sound and a sight that cuts a goove in our hearts.

The district hired an outside consultant, who has determined that small historic school buildings do not "achieve maximized facility usage" standards. Yeah? Maximize this.

He would have us believe that modern buildings, housing 500 students, are far more economical and conducive to education than decrepit old buildings that drive students and teachers to failure and mayhem. He's wrong.

Well, true to our reputation as an activist community, the Rountree neighbors have rallied, organized, protested, and persuaded. We continue to fight for, not only our school, but all the small schools that anchor neighborhoods throughout the city.

I have spent countless hours researching, writing, calling, etc. I hate what the Walmartization of education does to us as individuals and as communities. The good news is that I'm building buns of steel, what with the angry butt-clenching all day. Righteous indignation can be liberating. But it keeps me up at night. It's exhausting.

Friday night I got some perspective.

I watched Born Into Brothels. It's a documentary about an American photographer, Zana Briski, who befriends a group of children in Calcutta's red light district. Their mothers are prostitutes and the men in their lives are criminals and drug addicts. Zana gives them cameras and teaches them photography. The result is beautiful and heartbreaking. The work they produce is quite good, and they garner a great deal of international attention for their art. However, in her attempt to get the kids into boarding schools and out of the hellhole they're in, Zana is only partially successful. Some of these amazing children are doomed to a life of poverty, humiliation, and violence.

As documentaries go, it isn’t the most amazing piece of cinema I’ve ever seen; but the story vandalized any notion I had that my life was difficult. It didn't lessen my resolve to continue fighting for my neighborhood and the value of community; but it gave me perspective.

If we win and our school is preserved, it will be hard to go home, prop my feet up, and feel like we’ve actually done something, when Gour, Puja, Manik, Shanti, and Suchitra are still searching for a chance to escape the red light district.

When I pray tonight, I will pray that the consumeristic minds of my generation loosen their grip on the worlds within their fists. May we reach beyond the convenient. May we see beyond our desires. May "the least of these" be moved to the front of the line.

God help us.

MY HERO

2005-08-01T23:33:00.000-05:00

I have been away, mentally and physically, for the past couple of days. I may try to unravel the incredibly tangled web we created with that last post. I just don't have the energy or desire at the moment.

I spent this afternoon with her and her family.

I sat in the courtroom, at the county courthouse, in my college town, watching a preliminary hearing. My presence was motivated by nothing but her desire to be surrounded by people who cared about her.

What a weekend. She graduated on Friday, and this on Monday.

She sat up there on the witness stand, still in her neck collar, and was the bravest person I've ever met. She told all the awful details to the judge, the attorneys, a room full of people, and the accused. She never faltered, never wavered. When she pointed at him, in his orange jump suit, she looked at him for a moment, then she was done. He would maintain no hold on her today.

She made it look easy, even though I'm sure it was excruciating. I know I hurt. I know I couldn't stop thinking about my daughters, until I had to force myself to stop thinking about them so I wouldn't start weeping or cursing. But something about her courage and strength rebuked me. In a strange way, I felt like she was supporting me. Her faith and her bravery surpass anything I've seen lately. I lost the urge to romanticize my pain as a father. She revoked my permission to grieve as a dad. I had no right. We didn't dwell on destruction, we moved on to live and love another day.

When she was talking with her counselor at home, she said, "I'm glad it was me."

What?

"There are a lot of women who wouldn't have been able to handle this. I can. I'm glad it was me and not one of them."

That's one of the most disturbing and beautiful things I've ever heard.

GOD HATES FLAGS

2005-07-27T16:19:00.000-05:00

Flags have been on my mind lately.

What an interesting thing, a flag. What’s it for? Vexillologists tell us that flags were originally designed for identification and signaling purposes. They were meant to communicate important information in an efficient manner. Most flags have evolved past that, to become largely ceremonial or symbolic. But, events often conspire to reinvigorate flags with new potency.

The tragedies of 9/11 prompted a renewal of the U.S. flag as a sign of mourning, hope, and solidarity. Some used the war in Iraq and the election of 2004 to further reshape (or return) our national view of the flag as an ideological marker. So, for some the U.S. flag is a matter of honor and recognition, for others it’s a signal of pride and aggression. There are endless debates about the flag as a symbol of patriotism, and I won’t play Chomsky and submit a “flag theory” in this space.

That’s not what’s on my mind.

The U.S. House recently passed a resolution in June, supporting a Constitutional amendment that would ban flag desecration. It will likely move to a vote in the Senate any day now. Having failed to get the necessary votes the last five or six times it’s been tried, legislators apparently stand a much better chance of passing it this time around. While there are some compelling issues surrounding the issue of flag desecration, that’s not what’s on my mind.

The confederate flag has also received a great deal of attention lately. Several Southern states and numerous local institutions continue to debate the balance between heritage and offensiveness.

But, that’s not what’s on my mind.

THIS is what’s on my mind:

The United States Christian Flag

I first heard about this flag here and here.

Some of you may be familiar with the original Christian flag, designed by a Sunday school superintendent and a Methodist minister in 1907.

The original pledge to the Christian flag was,

I pledge allegiance to the Christian Flag and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands. One brotherhood, uniting all mankind, in service and love.

Most conservative Protestant churches, feeling that the message was too broad and liberal, modified the pledge to read,

I pledge allegiance to the Christian flag, and to the Savior for whose kingdom it stands; one Savior, crucified, risen, and coming again with life and liberty to all who believe.

While more than a little disturbing in its crusade-ishness, for decades the Christian flag sat stoically next to the American flag in Protestant churches, proclaiming a strange and benign version of patriotism and faith. It received little attention beyond mumbled rituals of punch-stained preschoolers at vacation bible school.

Well, apparently, the Christian flag’s design and pledge were too anemic and inclusive for Marcia Thompson Eldreth and her pastor.

The Betsy Ross of American Fundamentalism designed the new U.S Christian flag, which carries this pledge:

I pledge allegiance, to the Christian Flag, of the United States of America, and to the Lord, who made us great and free. I purpose, to band together, with all believers, to protect the truth and liberty of God.

Holy. Shit.

Where to begin. Why a flag? Why an exclusively U.S. flag? Is the U.S. unique in its "greatness" and "freedom?" When we "band together," is that a thinly-veiled call to arms? By "all believers," does that imply only American believers? Since when did God's truth or liberty need your protection? And that's just for starters.

I know this represents a perverted extreme of the American Christian Right, and I know that many of my conservative friends will recoil at this too; but where is this God-is-on-our-side stuff going to end? Star-spangled bibles? Pistol-packing missionaries? Seeing the cross by the rockets red glare?

Whenever we fly something, wave something, or display something designed to signal our cultural location, our religious identity, or our ideology; and whenever the flying, waving, and displaying become more important than the living and the loving, we have completely missed the point.

My neighbor, Bill, regularly displays an American flag on his house. While Bill and I do not agree about most things political, and I am not much for flag-waving, his flag is not offensive to me at all. Bill is a good guy whose son is in the military, and who is simply proud of his country. He doesn’t fly his flag to say something about me, or to draw some line of division between us, and he would never let his flag come between our relationship as neighbors.

The U.S. Christian flag bothers me a lot. My God and my faith are not things to be possessed by an exclusive group or nation, or weapons to be wielded in a nationalistic culture war.

Jesus said that his followers will be known for their love, joy, peace, kindness, etc. He didn’t say, “They will know you by your flags.” Someone needs to remind Marcia that Jesus taught that we win by losing.

So, does God hate flags? I don’t know. I honestly don’t think God gives a damn about our flags. But I feel sure that God hates it when we spend more time and attention on banners, edifices, proclamations, and policies than we do loving God and loving our neighbors.

ON THE MEND

2005-07-25T16:49:00.000-05:00

This is the latest in the story. My sister and brother-in-law just returned to Texas after the VA docs in Madison, Wisconsin removed parts of his frontal and temporal lobes.

Rick wanted to pass this on to all of you--

To the faithful readers of The Reach, from Reacher's bro-in-law: I simply must say that I appreciate being in your prayers while I was going through the whole head surgery thing. I kept a journal, as is my habit, while all this stuff was happening; but there was nothing I wrote that seemed exceptional, or that I would grasp better at a later time.

What I would like to say is that I am a disabled vet who was in on the end of the Vietnam War. I zigged when I should of zagged, going through a hatch. I got injured, started having seizures, and was discharged. My intention was to join the Navy out of high school, stay 20 years and retire at 37 with a pension. But things don't always go the way a guy plans or expects.

Such is life.

In a way things did go the way I planned....It has been 29 years since my injury. Each month I get a disability compensation check. I feel I should send every taxpayer in America a Christmas card. Were I working at just a job I can only imagine how I would be cared for.

Here's the update: I returned home yesterday. I have been seizure-free since the surgery, and when I have been so for a year I will be eligible for a driver's license. Being unable to drive is the most exasperating aspect of having seizures - and the most inconvenient. Fortunately, my wife and family hang in there. My self-esteem would not break any records, because I feel I have fallen short of any meaningful contribution due to the limits thrust on me. However, because of everybody's prayerful support I now see that things might quickly change. I appreciate y'all's prayers. Thank you. It is my belief that without them there is no hope.

I thank God for my Wonder Woman wife who has been by me the whole time. I believe that without her I would have soon become unfit to live with. And while I would not wish anybody to be injured I can only say head injuries are a strange, intense, and peculiar way to go from day to day. And this is especially true for the caregiver! It takes a special person to provide direct care to someone with a traumatic head injury. Thank you, Sister, for your aid and support. You are my superhero and I can't imagine a pedestal tall enough for you. Nor can I picture me without you.

Reacher Readers: I have been seizure free now since June 15th or so. Texas law requires one year seizure-free before a driver's test can be repeated. That is my first goal. My year is getting shorter all the time. And a restorable '74 Ford Thunderbird or a '67 Mustang is my second. It is even possible I could get back in the classroom.

Reacher: Thanks for being in Wisconsin with us. Our chat on the bank of the lake was great. And it was something out of the routine that my days were quickly becoming. In the event I appeared calm, truth was I was scared. I can't say it any other way. The two stronget feelings I experienced were fear and uncertainty. Yours and everybody else's prayers brought me comfort and gave me the stamina to get through another day.

We're all glad to hear it, Rick. It sure is nice to know you'll be with us a while longer. Here's to your health, and may you refuse to give up the fedora, even after the ugly scar heals.

And let me say this about my big sister. Rick's right, she is a superhero. But, her heroics don't come without a cost. She does the heavy lifting like a caped crusader, and she walks through fire for those she loves; but she gets tired and burned, and most of us don't see it. May you heal as well, Sis. And may you rest.