DAN FOGELBERG 1951-2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.