Driving down the freeway,
Listening to sports radio.
It occurs to me –
America is
The Wal-Mart of the world.
Big boxes everywhere,
With benefits,
Computer communication coordination,
And old people
Saying “hi” and offering you a cart
At the door.
It’s all right there,
Aisles 1 – 1,000,002.
Gleaming, glittering
Inviting the purchase of 2 for 1.
Generic stores -
Generic stuff –
Generic staff –
Generic marketing -
Generic prices –
Generic people.
Wonderful, wonderful
Wal-Mart.
There atop the
Evolutionary pile of production
Of free enterprise,
At all the busiest corners
In the world.
My granddad,
He must be laughing –
‘Bout how the Piggly Wiggly supermarket
That spoiled his grocery
Got squeezed –
And his little town’s
Not even there anymore.
He would probably say “hi”
And offer them at cart
At Wal-Mart’s door.
Me
I never worked for a living.
I just peddle empty time and hot air,
And take the paper proceeds
To Wal-Mart.
Cheese balls
To give the kids --
And wicker chairs
For the patio.
Some people seem mad
Some people seem surprised.
Some people say,
“It’s the end of the world!”
I think I’m a little tired
Of all this negativity.
I’m going to “Returns,”
In front, right next to the exit.
What I got here is broke,
And I didn’t need it anyway.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Terror
Terror
I have suffered night terrors most of my life. As a young child I often slept on the rug at the foot of my parents’ bed. Even as a teen I used to bribe my little brother to come in my room and sleep with me; then I told my parents he came into my room because he was scared. I peed on the floor because I was afraid to leave my room to go to the bathroom. Many, many nights I have sat or laid there shaking, sweating, heart and mind racing and I have simply given up all hope for the light of the next morning.
A psychiatrist friend of mine tells me that night terrors can be associated with brain activities or dysfunctions that are not unlike epileptic seizures. Today, they might be treated with medication -- a circumstance that might have changed my life significantly.
On the other hand, how could I have ever suspected that the night terrors would, 50 years later, prepare me in some ways for my life events in a culture that has become preoccupied with terror? Considering the information from my psychiatrist, I am also led to speculate about the medication (perhaps like soma) that might vastly reduce the hysteria of today’s world. It is always hard to separate the good breaks from the bad ones in any true circumstance.
There is no real story I can relate in night terrors – no recurring pattern of thought or horror, vision of monsters or demons; I have approached that feeling at times at a scary movie or reading a Stephen King book, in an airplane in stormy weather or on a roller coaster the first second of its first descent; none of that ever really gets there.
For a time, I was afraid that my son, Wes, had inherited my penchant for night terrors. He would wake us up regularly, crying and afraid in his bed. One night as I was walking by his room I discovered the villain, a huge raccoon staring into Wes’ bedroom from the window perch outside his room. Case closed, night terrors abated.
So, you might be able to distinguish my night terror from Wes’ situation (and the purportedly similar experience of thousands or even millions of people evoked by the destruction of the buildings and loss of life in New York on 9/11); at least they had (have) a raccoon and/or Osama to blame. On the other hand, maybe that is no true distinction at all. As my doctor says, I may have a brain dysfunction to blame, or my delusion of being Jesus, or demons, or even God. Under any objective analysis, anyone can find an object of fear; more importantly, regardless of the icons, we all find ourselves simply in the dark, and often anxious and afraid about it.
I read that many of the marines shit their pants as they left the boats to run on the beach at Normandy. A WWII pilot I talked to told me that an aircraft carrier looks like a cigar butt floating on the ocean when you first spot it for a landing. Yet, it does not seem accurate for me to think about them in a state of terror. It seems that terror is something different than fear, and terror may dwell in the comfort of my bedroom more comfortably than in horrific firestorms of war.
Curious is the apparent lack of relationship between terror and courage. History is full of examples of heroic actions by fearful people. Likewise, moments of insight, perception, and/or enlightenment usually are in fits of fearful circumstance, like the presence of an angel, a demon or even God Himself. In contrast, the images of terror run more to the pathetic – fetal positions under the safety of a wool blankets, and airport lobbies full of metal detectors and drug store cops – symbols of those who are “gripped’ in terror.
“Pathetic” is not to be confused with “harmless.” I set my little brother up for derision and scorn almost without remorse to protect my teenage pride; just as my culture sends its kids into rains of fire and bullets for some perceived safety of their ideals. We might say, then, that if fear is often about self-preservation, terror is often about self image-preservation; it is one thing to be afraid and to act in reality (a state of courage), and quite another to act in defense of being or even appearing to be afraid in anticipation or in delusion of a real threat (a state of terror).
Curious also is the almost mysterious power that one can invoke to aid the infliction of terror; one person, or a small group of persons evoke mass terror, even among those who have very little if anything to fear. It is hard to imagine the collapse of our economic system resulting from having no World Trade Centers. Then again, maybe we have something to fear… What if we have something to fear? Is it possible that we have something to fear? Shouldn’t we be prepared as if we have something to fear? Amber alert! Danger! And so it goes.
It is not as if nobody has any legitimate fear. But people deal with fear all the time in courageous ways; people with cancer, people who are hungry, soldiers, doctors, astronauts, mothers, people in the twin towers, drivers who get on the on ramp to the freeway... It is the rest of us who recoil in terror, cast suspicious eyes all around and unleash rage indiscriminately on innocents (the brothers) and random misfits (the raccoons).
Jesus, me or the real one, apparently left the building during my night terrors. Not one of the uplifting words of the sermons I preached to mom and nan dared to cross my lips; nor did I have the slightest inkling of the fervor or conviction of those other times, while I was there in the dark -- when the wind was blowing, the walls creaking, the end was nearing. I could judge that in the crisis I simply lacked faith. Yet, my dad and mom were, without any doubt, present in the very next room and I didn’t cry out to them either. So, it wasn’t merely or even mainly that I didn’t believe in God or that God couldn’t or wouldn’t help me. Indeed part of the grip of my terror was to disable that part of me that could perceive the situation and alleviate it; i.e. pray or call to mom and dad, or, even, get up, walk across the room and turn on the light.
It seems like a lot of what Jesus, the real one, said was simply, “Hey, get up, walk across the room and turn on the light.” It was called healing when people actually did it. As circumstances would have it, however, the ones who didn’t killed him. Again, it wasn’t fear when the nailed him up, he had never hurt anyone. It was terror. Jesus was the brother who had to take the rap for coming in the room and sleeping with us.
For many, even or mainly christians, the terror has not abated. Terror lurks in our religious orthodoxy when we react intolerantly and in rage to unorthodoxy or to other orthodoxies, when we rationalize outrageous and inhumane acts against those “disadvantaged,” against those who are “different” and against our very environment, and when we willingly live in grand delusion to avoid the risk of seeking the real truth of the here and now. We see the same terror in our other orthodoxies – politics, morality and the law.
As I lay there in terror in the dark, the object of my dread was certainly delusional. It wasn’t about the real, mundane risks and fears in that room; it was about the grand drama of the unreal unknown -- the titanic resting point between good and evil. Like judgment day at death – heaven or hell. I may act with courage overcoming the fears of my circumstance, good or bad. But how am I to avoid bowing in terror to such primordial forces of evil? You see, it couldn’t be that I was just a scared little boy laying there in the dark; I am after all, Jesus, and a victim of circumstance. To avoid the demeaning seeming image of me, it was necessary for me to invent evil and the devil himself. I think that most of you do the same thing.
There has been a lot of thought and discussion about the problem of evil. How do we cope with bad circumstance? How do we explain it? How can we keep our faith in good in spite of it? Why must we endure it?
It seems possible that this discussion mostly misses the point -- that the real problem of evil is to prove that it exists at all. Perhaps the very concept of evil is delusional, conjured in those moments when are captured in terror, like when I was locked under the covers in my bedroom in my night terrors – scared of the dark.
When I finally fell asleep and morning came with the light, it wasn’t that the light didn’t illuminate anything scary, it was just that I was no longer terrified by the scary things I could see. When my brother came in, or when there was someone else in the room, it was not that the darkness was gone, it was just that I was no longer there to face the evil alone. It turns out that evil is not so powerful after all, to be so easily and readily dissipated.
Terror and evil are dangerous even if there is no devil and even if they are ephemeral. If we do not wage war against evil, are we destined to be victims?
Jesus, the real one, said that the victims would inherit the earth, the ones who have mere reality, which they cannot own, and not delusions, which do not exist. The ones to whom courage is more useful than self-image. I think that it is important for me to find and join them, when morning dawns.
I have suffered night terrors most of my life. As a young child I often slept on the rug at the foot of my parents’ bed. Even as a teen I used to bribe my little brother to come in my room and sleep with me; then I told my parents he came into my room because he was scared. I peed on the floor because I was afraid to leave my room to go to the bathroom. Many, many nights I have sat or laid there shaking, sweating, heart and mind racing and I have simply given up all hope for the light of the next morning.
A psychiatrist friend of mine tells me that night terrors can be associated with brain activities or dysfunctions that are not unlike epileptic seizures. Today, they might be treated with medication -- a circumstance that might have changed my life significantly.
On the other hand, how could I have ever suspected that the night terrors would, 50 years later, prepare me in some ways for my life events in a culture that has become preoccupied with terror? Considering the information from my psychiatrist, I am also led to speculate about the medication (perhaps like soma) that might vastly reduce the hysteria of today’s world. It is always hard to separate the good breaks from the bad ones in any true circumstance.
There is no real story I can relate in night terrors – no recurring pattern of thought or horror, vision of monsters or demons; I have approached that feeling at times at a scary movie or reading a Stephen King book, in an airplane in stormy weather or on a roller coaster the first second of its first descent; none of that ever really gets there.
For a time, I was afraid that my son, Wes, had inherited my penchant for night terrors. He would wake us up regularly, crying and afraid in his bed. One night as I was walking by his room I discovered the villain, a huge raccoon staring into Wes’ bedroom from the window perch outside his room. Case closed, night terrors abated.
So, you might be able to distinguish my night terror from Wes’ situation (and the purportedly similar experience of thousands or even millions of people evoked by the destruction of the buildings and loss of life in New York on 9/11); at least they had (have) a raccoon and/or Osama to blame. On the other hand, maybe that is no true distinction at all. As my doctor says, I may have a brain dysfunction to blame, or my delusion of being Jesus, or demons, or even God. Under any objective analysis, anyone can find an object of fear; more importantly, regardless of the icons, we all find ourselves simply in the dark, and often anxious and afraid about it.
I read that many of the marines shit their pants as they left the boats to run on the beach at Normandy. A WWII pilot I talked to told me that an aircraft carrier looks like a cigar butt floating on the ocean when you first spot it for a landing. Yet, it does not seem accurate for me to think about them in a state of terror. It seems that terror is something different than fear, and terror may dwell in the comfort of my bedroom more comfortably than in horrific firestorms of war.
Curious is the apparent lack of relationship between terror and courage. History is full of examples of heroic actions by fearful people. Likewise, moments of insight, perception, and/or enlightenment usually are in fits of fearful circumstance, like the presence of an angel, a demon or even God Himself. In contrast, the images of terror run more to the pathetic – fetal positions under the safety of a wool blankets, and airport lobbies full of metal detectors and drug store cops – symbols of those who are “gripped’ in terror.
“Pathetic” is not to be confused with “harmless.” I set my little brother up for derision and scorn almost without remorse to protect my teenage pride; just as my culture sends its kids into rains of fire and bullets for some perceived safety of their ideals. We might say, then, that if fear is often about self-preservation, terror is often about self image-preservation; it is one thing to be afraid and to act in reality (a state of courage), and quite another to act in defense of being or even appearing to be afraid in anticipation or in delusion of a real threat (a state of terror).
Curious also is the almost mysterious power that one can invoke to aid the infliction of terror; one person, or a small group of persons evoke mass terror, even among those who have very little if anything to fear. It is hard to imagine the collapse of our economic system resulting from having no World Trade Centers. Then again, maybe we have something to fear… What if we have something to fear? Is it possible that we have something to fear? Shouldn’t we be prepared as if we have something to fear? Amber alert! Danger! And so it goes.
It is not as if nobody has any legitimate fear. But people deal with fear all the time in courageous ways; people with cancer, people who are hungry, soldiers, doctors, astronauts, mothers, people in the twin towers, drivers who get on the on ramp to the freeway... It is the rest of us who recoil in terror, cast suspicious eyes all around and unleash rage indiscriminately on innocents (the brothers) and random misfits (the raccoons).
Jesus, me or the real one, apparently left the building during my night terrors. Not one of the uplifting words of the sermons I preached to mom and nan dared to cross my lips; nor did I have the slightest inkling of the fervor or conviction of those other times, while I was there in the dark -- when the wind was blowing, the walls creaking, the end was nearing. I could judge that in the crisis I simply lacked faith. Yet, my dad and mom were, without any doubt, present in the very next room and I didn’t cry out to them either. So, it wasn’t merely or even mainly that I didn’t believe in God or that God couldn’t or wouldn’t help me. Indeed part of the grip of my terror was to disable that part of me that could perceive the situation and alleviate it; i.e. pray or call to mom and dad, or, even, get up, walk across the room and turn on the light.
It seems like a lot of what Jesus, the real one, said was simply, “Hey, get up, walk across the room and turn on the light.” It was called healing when people actually did it. As circumstances would have it, however, the ones who didn’t killed him. Again, it wasn’t fear when the nailed him up, he had never hurt anyone. It was terror. Jesus was the brother who had to take the rap for coming in the room and sleeping with us.
For many, even or mainly christians, the terror has not abated. Terror lurks in our religious orthodoxy when we react intolerantly and in rage to unorthodoxy or to other orthodoxies, when we rationalize outrageous and inhumane acts against those “disadvantaged,” against those who are “different” and against our very environment, and when we willingly live in grand delusion to avoid the risk of seeking the real truth of the here and now. We see the same terror in our other orthodoxies – politics, morality and the law.
As I lay there in terror in the dark, the object of my dread was certainly delusional. It wasn’t about the real, mundane risks and fears in that room; it was about the grand drama of the unreal unknown -- the titanic resting point between good and evil. Like judgment day at death – heaven or hell. I may act with courage overcoming the fears of my circumstance, good or bad. But how am I to avoid bowing in terror to such primordial forces of evil? You see, it couldn’t be that I was just a scared little boy laying there in the dark; I am after all, Jesus, and a victim of circumstance. To avoid the demeaning seeming image of me, it was necessary for me to invent evil and the devil himself. I think that most of you do the same thing.
There has been a lot of thought and discussion about the problem of evil. How do we cope with bad circumstance? How do we explain it? How can we keep our faith in good in spite of it? Why must we endure it?
It seems possible that this discussion mostly misses the point -- that the real problem of evil is to prove that it exists at all. Perhaps the very concept of evil is delusional, conjured in those moments when are captured in terror, like when I was locked under the covers in my bedroom in my night terrors – scared of the dark.
When I finally fell asleep and morning came with the light, it wasn’t that the light didn’t illuminate anything scary, it was just that I was no longer terrified by the scary things I could see. When my brother came in, or when there was someone else in the room, it was not that the darkness was gone, it was just that I was no longer there to face the evil alone. It turns out that evil is not so powerful after all, to be so easily and readily dissipated.
Terror and evil are dangerous even if there is no devil and even if they are ephemeral. If we do not wage war against evil, are we destined to be victims?
Jesus, the real one, said that the victims would inherit the earth, the ones who have mere reality, which they cannot own, and not delusions, which do not exist. The ones to whom courage is more useful than self-image. I think that it is important for me to find and join them, when morning dawns.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Fitting
Fitting
I have always tended to be “stout,” as they say; “fat” to someone who is inclined to make such judgments. As a kid, I could not wear blue jeans; in order to get some that would fit me in the legs (thighs), the size would have to be hopelessly too big in the waist and/or too long.
Apparently, this predicament was common enough, because by the time I was 10 or 11 years old, the jean companies marketed jeans that were tailored to my situation.
I have imagined the scene at the jean company. The guy in product development, who suffered a “slacks wearing” childhood, develops the jeans that would fit, and the company loves his idea. Imagine the designer’s mixed feelings of joy and shame when the marketers decide to designate his new jeans (and him) as “HUSKY.”
The coaches took delight in referring to me at times as “heavy hocks,” but the cut of my jeans was impeccable.
And so I learned, as a well-dressed HUSKY, that the circumstance of “fitting” or “not fitting,” like most circumstance, can be an elusive and ambiguous matter indeed; consistently, I learned the importance in conventional wisdom of “fitting,” as well as the circumstance of “not fitting” that has made me at various times a malcontent, a sociopath or a prophet, or something of all of them.
I observed a time from my adolescence in the 60’s and 70’s when “not fitting” was all the rage: “Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out.” Even then, it seemed obvious to me that it was far too important for the hippies to “fit in” by “not fitting,” and to follow the “counter” conventional wisdom of the “counterculture” As a result, it was not completely surprising to see that group elect Ronald Reagan as president and become some of the staunchest “fitters” of American history; the group that set the humankind record for irony by tearing down the Berlin wall in the name of peace and love, only to establish the MacDonald’s Empire worldwide, “One world, under FREE ENTERPRISE, with a Big Mac and french fries for all.” A part of me was right there with them – there in my HUSKY hip-huggers – until I traded them in for a three-piece suit and an office at Fulbright & Jaworski law firm. I never voted for Reagan, but I marveled at the end of the cold war, the apparent peace and the spoils of victory – covered, of course, with lots of ketchup.
It turns out that it is not so easy not to fit, even among the HUSKIES and the hippies.
Also interesting is the relationship of “fitting” to “being fit.” No matter how hard the “fitters” try to control events – how much they invest, how many policeman and soldiers they have -- who their friends are – the “fittest” seem to be the ones who don’t quite “fit.”
The survivors, heroes and progenitors are often freaks. My favorite hero, Jesus, is perhaps the best example; the Sermon on the Mount is something like Jimi Hendrix’s “raise your freak flag high!” Who “is fit,” for the Kingdom of Heaven? – those who do not “fit” in the Kingdom of Earth. No one less than God could make this stuff up.
I have to ask if “fitting” is such a dubious distinction, why is its importance so tenaciously advocated? Why are the important ones, the misfits, so persecuted? Why do we turn nature on her head to persecute the “fit”? Don’t history and Jesus tell us to celebrate the nonconformists instead (and not just posthumously)?
Closely related to the preoccupation with “fitting” is the fear of being “lost;” The “fitters;” shake their heads at the misfits and bemoan, “…the poor soul is just lost.” An interesting concept, I think – one either “fits,” or is “lost.”
I preached to mom and to Nan about being “lost” long before I had any notion of geography or, for that matter, philosophy. “Lost” meant not believing in Jesus. To me at that time, believing in Jesus meant believing in myself. As it came to occur to me that I might not “fit” in some way, the thought of being “lost” became more ominous; husky and imperfect, I was not to be counted on. Of course, that development opened many doors – husky jeans and the real Jesus could come along and I could be “SAVED AT LAST.”
That is, I was taught that the antidote for being “lost” was to be “saved.” Regardless of the nomenclature, “lost” was geographic – not on the road to heaven -- and “saved” was simply following directions. So, whether it was husky jeans or the real Jesus, “saved” was a process of fitting – following the prescribed sartorial, philosophical, moral, cultural, religious, social roadmap for the promised reassurance of good grooming, eternal life, goodness, beauty, heaven or what other goodies might be unavailable or unattainable for a “lost” soul. Yet, whether it was husky jeans or Christianity, “saved” or “fitting” didn’t do much to change the qualities of my body or my character; at the point of that realization is when I think I could truly appreciate the feeling of, and meaning of “lost,” and the consideration of “lost” as a way of life.
A few years back, my wife and I were in Paris; it was a first-time visit for both of us. We happened on a little square near Montmartre, a hill with a beautiful cathedral. In the square there were a number of artists painting all kinds of wonderful things. After the fact, I found out the significance of this spot for artists, the likes of van Gogh, Picasso, Degas and other notables had occupied those spots we saw on that day. We came upon an artist who was painting portraits from photographs, and came up with the wonderful idea of commissioning a portrait of our grandson. Of course, the photograph we needed was back at the hotel. We rushed with great excitement to the hotel and en route back for this great adventure. We had prided ourselves on mastering the Paris subways but, despite all skill and efforts, found ourselves unable to locate the square.
“You are lost,” Kathie stared at me.
No doubt in a manner of speaking she was absolutely right. Yet, I was taken aback by the accusation. Here I was in an utterly foreign place, with only the vaguest notion of my location and, for that matter, where I was actually going. It struck me that “lost” was a very odd way to assess my/our predicament. That is, when you don’t know where you are, and you don’t know where you’re going, “lost” doesn’t seem to have much relevance. The particular situation was soon exacerbated in my attempts to ask a Frenchman directions in English.
On the other hand, I believe that is the sense of “lost” for which the true antidote is being “saved.” It is a matter of condition rather than location. It is a place in which what is needed is not so much a set of directions, which might be utterly unintelligible to me in my particular circumstance, but rather a change of perspective or orientation. Perhaps it is like a point of consciousness on an infinitesimally small particle in a near infinite universe asking, “Where Am I?” or “Why Am I here?” or “Is There Some Other Point of Consciousness – Maybe God?”
My sense of this condition of “lost” has evolved over my life experiences. I do not believe that I am unique in that regard – we may see this development in many contexts – failed relationships, disease, death, career setbacks, even good luck or wealth. It is not surprising that we go to our doctors, our pastors, our lawyers, our parents and ask for a “prescription,” “orthodoxy,” or the law. Like the french roadmap handed to me in the middle of Paris, it is also not surprising that these directions often simply do not work to “save” me from being “lost.”
So it is that “fitting” may not necessarily “save” me from being “lost.” Maybe that is why we say, “Misery loves company.” Maybe that is why Jesus said that the misfits are blessed, and would “inherit the earth” – a particularly reassuring vision of the rapture in which most of the rising souls are wearing husky jeans…
I have always tended to be “stout,” as they say; “fat” to someone who is inclined to make such judgments. As a kid, I could not wear blue jeans; in order to get some that would fit me in the legs (thighs), the size would have to be hopelessly too big in the waist and/or too long.
Apparently, this predicament was common enough, because by the time I was 10 or 11 years old, the jean companies marketed jeans that were tailored to my situation.
I have imagined the scene at the jean company. The guy in product development, who suffered a “slacks wearing” childhood, develops the jeans that would fit, and the company loves his idea. Imagine the designer’s mixed feelings of joy and shame when the marketers decide to designate his new jeans (and him) as “HUSKY.”
The coaches took delight in referring to me at times as “heavy hocks,” but the cut of my jeans was impeccable.
And so I learned, as a well-dressed HUSKY, that the circumstance of “fitting” or “not fitting,” like most circumstance, can be an elusive and ambiguous matter indeed; consistently, I learned the importance in conventional wisdom of “fitting,” as well as the circumstance of “not fitting” that has made me at various times a malcontent, a sociopath or a prophet, or something of all of them.
I observed a time from my adolescence in the 60’s and 70’s when “not fitting” was all the rage: “Tune In, Turn On, Drop Out.” Even then, it seemed obvious to me that it was far too important for the hippies to “fit in” by “not fitting,” and to follow the “counter” conventional wisdom of the “counterculture” As a result, it was not completely surprising to see that group elect Ronald Reagan as president and become some of the staunchest “fitters” of American history; the group that set the humankind record for irony by tearing down the Berlin wall in the name of peace and love, only to establish the MacDonald’s Empire worldwide, “One world, under FREE ENTERPRISE, with a Big Mac and french fries for all.” A part of me was right there with them – there in my HUSKY hip-huggers – until I traded them in for a three-piece suit and an office at Fulbright & Jaworski law firm. I never voted for Reagan, but I marveled at the end of the cold war, the apparent peace and the spoils of victory – covered, of course, with lots of ketchup.
It turns out that it is not so easy not to fit, even among the HUSKIES and the hippies.
Also interesting is the relationship of “fitting” to “being fit.” No matter how hard the “fitters” try to control events – how much they invest, how many policeman and soldiers they have -- who their friends are – the “fittest” seem to be the ones who don’t quite “fit.”
The survivors, heroes and progenitors are often freaks. My favorite hero, Jesus, is perhaps the best example; the Sermon on the Mount is something like Jimi Hendrix’s “raise your freak flag high!” Who “is fit,” for the Kingdom of Heaven? – those who do not “fit” in the Kingdom of Earth. No one less than God could make this stuff up.
I have to ask if “fitting” is such a dubious distinction, why is its importance so tenaciously advocated? Why are the important ones, the misfits, so persecuted? Why do we turn nature on her head to persecute the “fit”? Don’t history and Jesus tell us to celebrate the nonconformists instead (and not just posthumously)?
Closely related to the preoccupation with “fitting” is the fear of being “lost;” The “fitters;” shake their heads at the misfits and bemoan, “…the poor soul is just lost.” An interesting concept, I think – one either “fits,” or is “lost.”
I preached to mom and to Nan about being “lost” long before I had any notion of geography or, for that matter, philosophy. “Lost” meant not believing in Jesus. To me at that time, believing in Jesus meant believing in myself. As it came to occur to me that I might not “fit” in some way, the thought of being “lost” became more ominous; husky and imperfect, I was not to be counted on. Of course, that development opened many doors – husky jeans and the real Jesus could come along and I could be “SAVED AT LAST.”
That is, I was taught that the antidote for being “lost” was to be “saved.” Regardless of the nomenclature, “lost” was geographic – not on the road to heaven -- and “saved” was simply following directions. So, whether it was husky jeans or the real Jesus, “saved” was a process of fitting – following the prescribed sartorial, philosophical, moral, cultural, religious, social roadmap for the promised reassurance of good grooming, eternal life, goodness, beauty, heaven or what other goodies might be unavailable or unattainable for a “lost” soul. Yet, whether it was husky jeans or Christianity, “saved” or “fitting” didn’t do much to change the qualities of my body or my character; at the point of that realization is when I think I could truly appreciate the feeling of, and meaning of “lost,” and the consideration of “lost” as a way of life.
A few years back, my wife and I were in Paris; it was a first-time visit for both of us. We happened on a little square near Montmartre, a hill with a beautiful cathedral. In the square there were a number of artists painting all kinds of wonderful things. After the fact, I found out the significance of this spot for artists, the likes of van Gogh, Picasso, Degas and other notables had occupied those spots we saw on that day. We came upon an artist who was painting portraits from photographs, and came up with the wonderful idea of commissioning a portrait of our grandson. Of course, the photograph we needed was back at the hotel. We rushed with great excitement to the hotel and en route back for this great adventure. We had prided ourselves on mastering the Paris subways but, despite all skill and efforts, found ourselves unable to locate the square.
“You are lost,” Kathie stared at me.
No doubt in a manner of speaking she was absolutely right. Yet, I was taken aback by the accusation. Here I was in an utterly foreign place, with only the vaguest notion of my location and, for that matter, where I was actually going. It struck me that “lost” was a very odd way to assess my/our predicament. That is, when you don’t know where you are, and you don’t know where you’re going, “lost” doesn’t seem to have much relevance. The particular situation was soon exacerbated in my attempts to ask a Frenchman directions in English.
On the other hand, I believe that is the sense of “lost” for which the true antidote is being “saved.” It is a matter of condition rather than location. It is a place in which what is needed is not so much a set of directions, which might be utterly unintelligible to me in my particular circumstance, but rather a change of perspective or orientation. Perhaps it is like a point of consciousness on an infinitesimally small particle in a near infinite universe asking, “Where Am I?” or “Why Am I here?” or “Is There Some Other Point of Consciousness – Maybe God?”
My sense of this condition of “lost” has evolved over my life experiences. I do not believe that I am unique in that regard – we may see this development in many contexts – failed relationships, disease, death, career setbacks, even good luck or wealth. It is not surprising that we go to our doctors, our pastors, our lawyers, our parents and ask for a “prescription,” “orthodoxy,” or the law. Like the french roadmap handed to me in the middle of Paris, it is also not surprising that these directions often simply do not work to “save” me from being “lost.”
So it is that “fitting” may not necessarily “save” me from being “lost.” Maybe that is why we say, “Misery loves company.” Maybe that is why Jesus said that the misfits are blessed, and would “inherit the earth” – a particularly reassuring vision of the rapture in which most of the rising souls are wearing husky jeans…
Crying
I feel like crying right now.
The heaviness on the edge of my eyes,
That means it’s dangerous to blink.
It’s not that I can’t take it like a man,
I just can’t seem to take it any other way.
Mad as hell,
I sit here staring
In both directions,
Out there,
In here.
A man feels that way,
When he can’t fix it.
A man might cry
When “it” seems like everything.
Everything is like
The heart within me.
I read that we hiccup
Because we are still part fish.
Ancient lineage.
I wonder, “Is that why
We have to cry?”
Adam might ask Jesus,
“Was it worth it?”
Jesus might ask Adam
The same thing.
Neither answers,
And God’s not talking again.
I think I’ll cry right now,
Like an old woman
At the wailing wall.
Spirit given up,
Tears falling down,
Worship and Sacrifice.
The heaviness on the edge of my eyes,
That means it’s dangerous to blink.
It’s not that I can’t take it like a man,
I just can’t seem to take it any other way.
Mad as hell,
I sit here staring
In both directions,
Out there,
In here.
A man feels that way,
When he can’t fix it.
A man might cry
When “it” seems like everything.
Everything is like
The heart within me.
I read that we hiccup
Because we are still part fish.
Ancient lineage.
I wonder, “Is that why
We have to cry?”
Adam might ask Jesus,
“Was it worth it?”
Jesus might ask Adam
The same thing.
Neither answers,
And God’s not talking again.
I think I’ll cry right now,
Like an old woman
At the wailing wall.
Spirit given up,
Tears falling down,
Worship and Sacrifice.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Inauguration
It is ironic that we have become a nation of slaves, and that we would now turn to a black man for liberation. We are addicted, indentured, indebted, stripped of fundamental rights and ruled by terror - slavery by any estimation. And so perhaps Obama is truly one of us, or we are truly within his heritage. In any event, it seems that Obama's message speaks to us out of the spirit of the civil rights movement which spirit is now not so much about color, though it is still that, but more about raising our spirits out of the chains that bind us. The shackles are strong, the masters, they are mustering their power and caucusing in the big houses. We must consider the ends and the means. Freedom is more than security or economy or even democracy. Freedom is about integrity of the spirit, responsibility, respect and even love. Such things cannot be institutionalized nor imposed lest they lose reality and meaning; such things cannot be won by the sword lest the fundamental principles be fundamentally corrupted; such things cannot be awarded or bestowed, but must be earned by the sweat of our brows, the earnest application of our intellect and unpretentious and humble respect and commitment to the will and the nature of God. I believe that this is the calling and I pray that we will hear and take up our plowshares.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Christmas 2008
Here I am,
At the end of a road
Again.
The lights
Of just another Bethlehem,
Ornaments
Like tiny stars --
A cold wind.
They tell me
Over and over,
There’s just no room at the Inn.
Not a single, solitary place
To be sheltered in…
I see a tear
On Mary’s cheek.
So tired,
The Baby
Just can’t sleep,
He cries out
From His altar –
When He came here
Looking
For a manger.
How could He know
What
We would do to Him?
A story
Is more than paper,
Like something
In a package
Under the tree.
We wonder
And shake it --
Hope what it
Will be.
Maybe a baby
A gift
To you and me.
Here I am,
At the end of a road
Again.
The lights
Of just another Bethlehem…
Star bright, Star light
What will I see tonight?
Here I am,
At the end of a road
Again.
The lights
Of just another Bethlehem,
Ornaments
Like tiny stars --
A cold wind.
They tell me
Over and over,
There’s just no room at the Inn.
Not a single, solitary place
To be sheltered in…
I see a tear
On Mary’s cheek.
So tired,
The Baby
Just can’t sleep,
He cries out
From His altar –
When He came here
Looking
For a manger.
How could He know
What
We would do to Him?
A story
Is more than paper,
Like something
In a package
Under the tree.
We wonder
And shake it --
Hope what it
Will be.
Maybe a baby
A gift
To you and me.
Here I am,
At the end of a road
Again.
The lights
Of just another Bethlehem…
Star bright, Star light
What will I see tonight?
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Advent and Christmas
I believe that advent ("the waiting") is the time for our preparation for the experience of remembering and celebrating creation. To me, creation is the very essence of Christmas. The union of the reality of our human existence and that creative spirit in the nature of things; the offspring that is me, as I look in the mirror, and beyond me, as I look beyond the mirror, beyond my cognition, beyond even the powers of my cognition. As a Christian, I struggle to relate to what it must have been like to be Jesus, the thoughts... the feelings... the fears... the hopes... the love... so that I might better follow Him. Such a daunting enterprise... so, at this time of year I celebrate the simplest, most beautiful, most mysterious image of all our experiences... the baby.
The Baby is Jesus. The angels sing, the universe pays homage... and so do I.
I realize that the "real" time of Christmas can be, like other times, very different from the "meaning" of Christmas. So, "real" Christmases in the shopping malls, in the midst of our dysfunctional culture, government, economy, familes and personal lives are often all the more poignant and sad; hopes of peace, love, beauty, "the Baby" seem so far away and even silly. In his ministry, over and over Jesus spoke to all kinds of people seemingly caught in their lives, caught in "real" Christmases, and he said, "stop, look, listen... their is a kingdom of heaven at hand all around you." In that kingdom, that is right here and right now, there are angels singing, shepherd's tending their flocks, wise men coming from the East and there is "the Baby."
Jesus message is difficult to swallow, perhaps especially at Christmas. There is no natural (as in laws of nature), moral, theological, cultural or other imperative from God, Jesus or any other authority that imposes Christmas, in its essence, upon us. To be in the "kingdom of heaven" is a choice, and a difficult one at that. It is a choice beyond rational, beyond feelings that we feel comfortable with... ultimately a matter of faith; faith so strong that, as Jesus put it, we must be willing to or even really "die" in some sense to experience it.
The stories, like our lives, can be hard, unlike the story of the Baby in the manger at Bethlehem. And so, in advent, we must prepare ourselves to leave those stories behind. We must look deep within our spirits, look into the stars in the skies, look at what is beautiful and enduring in the midst of and in spite of everything. We must raise our eyes to the heavens and prepare to sing with the heavenly host. The power of God. The image of the Baby Jesus.
Creating Christmas: Discovering the Sacraments of the Nativity
I recently read an account of the Christmas story in Newsweek, an article analyzing the biblical accounts in historical perspective; questioning the proof for the related events.
It was a very respectable and thoughtful article for its purpose, “… we can see that the Nativity saga is neither fully fanciful nor fully factual but a layered narrative of early tradition and enduring theology… .”
The Christmas story told in Matthew and Luke is certainly retrospective and second-hand information. There is no contemporaneous narration. Nor do any of the accounts of Jesus teachings or actions specifically refer to or enlighten us about the actual events at his birth. One can surmise, like the author of the Newsweek article, that this status of our knowledge about the events of the Christmas story, in general, and the lack of any first hand account, more specifically, results from the fact the importance of the events was not and really could not have been recognized contemporaneously. It is certainly true that for the most part the participants in the recounted events were not of social, political or other status to expect that they would have provided written accounts, or that others around them would have deemed their lives and activities “newsworthy.”
My reaction is not quite so glib. In any event, to me, to analyze the Christmas story as literal history versus literary exposition misses the point. God could certainly have included an eyewitness account had He seen fit. Moreover, as I thought about it, the approach we have to take through the available information to understand or otherwise “process” Christmas seems to be, in and of itself, part of the story.
Recently, there was a group of infamous trial lawyers whose notoriety came from outlandish aggressiveness. Whenever a witness would attempt to offer evidence of his/her name, birthdate or other such identifying information, the lawyers would vigorously make objection – hearsay! What can a person know about such matters other than what they have been told?
So, as we mature into self-awareness, we create the first chapters of our life stories, the foundation of our identities, from the bits and pieces of historical and second-hand information that comes to us from family, photographs, and all kinds of sources. It is this kind of information that plays a seminal part in my creation of me.
The Christmas story is an account of creation. Genesis is cosmology – an account of God creating and participating in the universe. Christmas is genealogy -- an account of our spiritual lineage. I look at the Christmas story like looking into a baby book. There are the snapshots, the footprints, the swaddling cloth… -- as real as the wounded flesh that Thomas demanded for his belief. As unreal as life itself – in the manger or after the cross. God, here among us, here within me.
If I am to be a Christian, I must weave those images into myself and make them real in my own life. It is Jesus’ baby book; it is my own spiritual baby book. Creating Christmas in me is the manner in which grace, forgiveness, love, everlasting life – everything Jesus stood for – are born in me. These are God’s Christmas presents, to be unwrapped and used as I might strive for the potential that is both beyond and within me.
How do you create the innocence, beauty and audacity of birth – even your own birth? What do you know about the being you see in the baby book? Creating Christmas is not easy. It is a task we do not often have the stomach for, since we have become so different, so occupied by other things, so preoccupied by fears, doubts and maturity. Let us ponder the lessons, analyze the historical data, reach out for Jesus’ wounds… .
I think Scrooge finds out that creating Christmas is about the aesthetic, not the empirical experience of things. In our aesthetic sense, there are ghosts and there are angels, there are stars that give directions, there are kings from faraway kingdoms bearing gifts, there is a Holy Presence which is the fountain of all procreation… . To say “aesthetic” is not to deny the literal, but to recognize that the literal is not all of the story. God’s reality is the palette on which we are drawn in perspective with all creation, in all shades of color and light. We know that is true with every image on every Christmas card that we have ever carefully selected to send that special Christmas message.
The angels, the songs, the stable, the manger, the shepherds, the wise men … these are the sacraments of Christmas -- those special ornaments we unpack and admire every year in those special places -- those things from the baby book that tell us who Jesus was, who we are. They are sacraments of mysterious and real truth. It is the truth beyond understanding. The truth of Joy, Love, Peace and Goodness -- the truth of the Baby Jesus.
I believe that God’s promise, through Jesus, is that if we will believe in these things, if we will participate in these sacraments, then they will become a part of us – the enduring part of us, the perfect part of us that will be welcomed into God’s own family.
The Baby is Jesus. The angels sing, the universe pays homage... and so do I.
I realize that the "real" time of Christmas can be, like other times, very different from the "meaning" of Christmas. So, "real" Christmases in the shopping malls, in the midst of our dysfunctional culture, government, economy, familes and personal lives are often all the more poignant and sad; hopes of peace, love, beauty, "the Baby" seem so far away and even silly. In his ministry, over and over Jesus spoke to all kinds of people seemingly caught in their lives, caught in "real" Christmases, and he said, "stop, look, listen... their is a kingdom of heaven at hand all around you." In that kingdom, that is right here and right now, there are angels singing, shepherd's tending their flocks, wise men coming from the East and there is "the Baby."
Jesus message is difficult to swallow, perhaps especially at Christmas. There is no natural (as in laws of nature), moral, theological, cultural or other imperative from God, Jesus or any other authority that imposes Christmas, in its essence, upon us. To be in the "kingdom of heaven" is a choice, and a difficult one at that. It is a choice beyond rational, beyond feelings that we feel comfortable with... ultimately a matter of faith; faith so strong that, as Jesus put it, we must be willing to or even really "die" in some sense to experience it.
The stories, like our lives, can be hard, unlike the story of the Baby in the manger at Bethlehem. And so, in advent, we must prepare ourselves to leave those stories behind. We must look deep within our spirits, look into the stars in the skies, look at what is beautiful and enduring in the midst of and in spite of everything. We must raise our eyes to the heavens and prepare to sing with the heavenly host. The power of God. The image of the Baby Jesus.
Creating Christmas: Discovering the Sacraments of the Nativity
I recently read an account of the Christmas story in Newsweek, an article analyzing the biblical accounts in historical perspective; questioning the proof for the related events.
It was a very respectable and thoughtful article for its purpose, “… we can see that the Nativity saga is neither fully fanciful nor fully factual but a layered narrative of early tradition and enduring theology… .”
The Christmas story told in Matthew and Luke is certainly retrospective and second-hand information. There is no contemporaneous narration. Nor do any of the accounts of Jesus teachings or actions specifically refer to or enlighten us about the actual events at his birth. One can surmise, like the author of the Newsweek article, that this status of our knowledge about the events of the Christmas story, in general, and the lack of any first hand account, more specifically, results from the fact the importance of the events was not and really could not have been recognized contemporaneously. It is certainly true that for the most part the participants in the recounted events were not of social, political or other status to expect that they would have provided written accounts, or that others around them would have deemed their lives and activities “newsworthy.”
My reaction is not quite so glib. In any event, to me, to analyze the Christmas story as literal history versus literary exposition misses the point. God could certainly have included an eyewitness account had He seen fit. Moreover, as I thought about it, the approach we have to take through the available information to understand or otherwise “process” Christmas seems to be, in and of itself, part of the story.
Recently, there was a group of infamous trial lawyers whose notoriety came from outlandish aggressiveness. Whenever a witness would attempt to offer evidence of his/her name, birthdate or other such identifying information, the lawyers would vigorously make objection – hearsay! What can a person know about such matters other than what they have been told?
So, as we mature into self-awareness, we create the first chapters of our life stories, the foundation of our identities, from the bits and pieces of historical and second-hand information that comes to us from family, photographs, and all kinds of sources. It is this kind of information that plays a seminal part in my creation of me.
The Christmas story is an account of creation. Genesis is cosmology – an account of God creating and participating in the universe. Christmas is genealogy -- an account of our spiritual lineage. I look at the Christmas story like looking into a baby book. There are the snapshots, the footprints, the swaddling cloth… -- as real as the wounded flesh that Thomas demanded for his belief. As unreal as life itself – in the manger or after the cross. God, here among us, here within me.
If I am to be a Christian, I must weave those images into myself and make them real in my own life. It is Jesus’ baby book; it is my own spiritual baby book. Creating Christmas in me is the manner in which grace, forgiveness, love, everlasting life – everything Jesus stood for – are born in me. These are God’s Christmas presents, to be unwrapped and used as I might strive for the potential that is both beyond and within me.
How do you create the innocence, beauty and audacity of birth – even your own birth? What do you know about the being you see in the baby book? Creating Christmas is not easy. It is a task we do not often have the stomach for, since we have become so different, so occupied by other things, so preoccupied by fears, doubts and maturity. Let us ponder the lessons, analyze the historical data, reach out for Jesus’ wounds… .
I think Scrooge finds out that creating Christmas is about the aesthetic, not the empirical experience of things. In our aesthetic sense, there are ghosts and there are angels, there are stars that give directions, there are kings from faraway kingdoms bearing gifts, there is a Holy Presence which is the fountain of all procreation… . To say “aesthetic” is not to deny the literal, but to recognize that the literal is not all of the story. God’s reality is the palette on which we are drawn in perspective with all creation, in all shades of color and light. We know that is true with every image on every Christmas card that we have ever carefully selected to send that special Christmas message.
The angels, the songs, the stable, the manger, the shepherds, the wise men … these are the sacraments of Christmas -- those special ornaments we unpack and admire every year in those special places -- those things from the baby book that tell us who Jesus was, who we are. They are sacraments of mysterious and real truth. It is the truth beyond understanding. The truth of Joy, Love, Peace and Goodness -- the truth of the Baby Jesus.
I believe that God’s promise, through Jesus, is that if we will believe in these things, if we will participate in these sacraments, then they will become a part of us – the enduring part of us, the perfect part of us that will be welcomed into God’s own family.
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