THE STATE OF THE SPEECH

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)

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

"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!

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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.