I-YOUniverse

A Tale of Patmos

                “Old John’s nurse at Patmos called,” his wife Minnie said.

                “What about?” Nick asked.

                “They found him standing in Route 29 on the double yellow line, staring at the sun again.”

                “I keep telling that doctor his meds ain’t right,” Nick said. “Where’re them oatmeal raisin cookies y’made?”

                “Wrapped in foil, there on the end table by the door. Been a snake, they’d a bit ya-Elmo!”

                Daddy named him Elmo out of spite. Daddy hated Elmo Knickerbocker III, the state senator two generations removed, the family’s only claim to fame. “Near-sighted bilious old goat” is how Daddy described him under his breath. Nana, Elmo’s maternal grandmother, insisted he had old Knickerbocker’s distinguished dome-like forehead and elegant grey eyes.

                “Wouldn’t you rather take ‘em cookies yourself? He likes you,” Nick whimpered.

                “Oh, hush. It’s you he always asks about: “How’s Nick?”–y’d think there was no one else in this wide world.”

                So Nick backed the SUV out of the driveway. Every trip to Patmos cost $16.72 gas money they didn’t have. Before he got to the corner, he’d wrestled open the foil and begun munching on a cookie.

                Minnie wasn’t a looker. None too bright, neither (he told himself), though she could whiz Little Joe through his trig like it was soccer practice. However, he had to admit, nobody came that close to matching Minnie’s cookies. For rich buttery taste and soft crumbly texture, wasn’t a woman in the state could equal her oatmeal raisins.

                Alice (down the block, worked at Wal-Mart 32 hours a week, wore a blonde wig, said it made her look like Madonna) she made a passable snicker doodle. But Minnie never messed with the snicker doodle. She stuck to the tried and true: oatmeal raisin, or white chocolate chip, or caramel chocolate chip, or iced double fudge brownies.

                If the guys at work missed a batch of Minnie’s iced double fudges in a week, they thought she was goin’ through another one of her female spells. More than once, after work, a man stopped by with a sympathy card and a bunch of carnations in his fist.

                Patmos “closest thing to Glory this side of the Pecos” was Nick’s last choice of Nursing Homes for old John. It was decrepit, cramped; had so many coats of paint, the walls were an extra inch thick. But Nick didn’t catch on in time, that old John was going to choose whichever Home Nick hated most.

                His first day at Patmos, ignoring Nick and Minnie’s protests, the administrator moved him into Room 16, a frilly pink room overlooking the back parking lot and the garbage, dumped behind a bright green wall. Large clay pots full of blooming pansies prettied up the view. And in the center a small fountain featured the angel Gabriel blowing his trumpet, out of which a stream of water flowed on Family Days. The rest of the time, they shut it off to save money.

                It always brought to Nick’s mind a chubby angeling pissing in a pond.

                Nick tried to explain to old John the difference between 16 and 666. Of course, no other suitable room was available. (Translation: you’ll pay more for a room with a better view.) Nick thought of asking for a demon discount. But the administrator was not religious, except when introduced to prospective residents; old John had already signed.

                What they did, after repeated exorcisms failed to scare Satan away, is this: Nick found a decorative spray bottle at the dollar store, Minnie painted a cross with gold sequins on it, they filled it with water, and the volunteer chaplain blessed it. They sprayed the door and windows of the Room, and when Satan or his minions appeared, old John was to give ‘em a direct hit. To Nick’s and the chaplain’s disbelief, it worked.

                That afternoon, by the time Nick nosed his truck into the narrow parking place at the Home, there’re only three oatmeal raisins left. Pity to take the old man only three. So Nick left them in the truck to eat on the trek home. Next trip he’d make it up to old John.

                Anyway, Minnie never asked John how he liked the cookies, because he never remembered them, and he got upset.

                “Hey, Snickerdoodle,” old John said, when Nick walked into his room, “you bring me some o’ Minnie’s white chocolate chips?”

                “The name’s Knickerbocker, Nick Knickerbocker,” Nick said, as always. “You can call me Nick. No cookies this afternoon. Things get so jammed up in the summer, she just don’t have time.”

                “Ate ‘em all on the way, eh?”

                “No, “Nick said in perfect honesty. He couldn’t figure a tactful way to mention the old man standing in the middle of the highway.

                “Too bad,” old John sighed. “Before the End comes, I crave one more o’ her oatmeal raisins, but now there’s no time.”

                “No time?” protested Nick. “I’ll get her to bake you some next week for sure.”

                “Too late,” the old man shook his head. A single wisp of white hair floated at the top of his forehead, oscillating gently back and forth.

                “Aren’t sick, are you?”

                “Nope, I’m in tip top condition.”

                “Well, what do you mean, no time?” The second he said it, Nick wanted to suck the syllables out of the air right back between his lips.

                The old man gathered Nick by the shoulders into a conspiratorial clinch. “Snickerdoodle,” he whispered loudly, “I’ve had me a visitor!”

                “Has that gorgeous 79-year-old doll from Room 19 been checking you out?”

                “No, I mean a heavenly visitor! I saw the Lord!”

                Nick tried to be patient. “I’m going to talk to Dr. Valentine about your meds. I think they’re out of whack.”

                “You don’t believe me, do you, Snickerdoodle?”

                Nick took a deep breath. “No, old John, I don’t. I don’t believe in angels, or demons, or 666, or that obsolete old Bible you got on your laptop. I don’t believe a thee or thou of it, not one.”

                “Somebody sure addled your eggs today.”

                Words tumbling out of his mouth, Nick backed out the door. “Y’know, come to think of it, I forgot, I do have some oatmeal raisins in the truck for you. Minnie baked ‘em up this morning special. Don’t know why they slipped my mind.”

                He fled from the room.

                Old John’s reputation for a Seer spanned the whole state. Like others read the morning newspaper, he delved into End Times; every now and then he had a vision. Angels streaked across the heavens. Locusts plagued. A huge neon 666 appeared in the heavens.

                When he got back to Room 16, he found old John at his laptop, reading the book of Revelation, King James Version, red letter edition.

                “Y’see! Y’see!” old John said. Out loud he read, “I John, who also am your brother, and companion in tribulation, was in the isle that is called Patmos, for the word of God, and for the testimony of Jesus Christ. I was in the Spirit on the Lord’s Day!”

                “Oh, you crazy old coot!” Nick shouted. “You’re living in a Nursing Home some marketing guru called “Patmos closest thing to Glory this side of the Pecos.” You ain’t seen no angels, no Jesus!”

                 ”I saw the Lord, high and lifted up. His head and his hairs were like wool, white as snow; and his eyes were as a flame of fire; and his countenance was as the sun shineth in his strength!”

                Nick reached down to pull the foil wrapping off the oatmeal raisins. Old John snatched the spray bottle of holy water off his dresser, shouted “Get thee behind me, Satan!” and spritzed him right in the kisser.

My childhood church had a holy heirarchy (lowest to highest):

Sinners

• lowest were those who committed the Unpardonable Sin (somewhat vague in nature). I got the notion in my young head that these guys were queers (whatever they were).
• The Pope, the Anti-Christ (hard to tell which was which)
• Madeleine Murray O’Hare, who was perpetually petitioning the FCC about something
• godless materialistic communists
• drunkards
• Catholics
• then other sinners
• In the summer Christian ladies who wore short shorts always got a dishonorable mention. Connected to them in some spooky way were loose girls who got themselves in Trouble. This was never specified.

Among church goers

• lowest were 6th grade boys. The Nominating Committee could never find or keep a teacher for them.
• Negroes and Mexicans who knew their place, weren’t uppity
• Methodists, who were low on the list because they preached the social gospel. You could go there all your life and never learn the Plan of Salvation and how to be saved.
• seminary professors. These took discernment; they could be infidel intellectuals who disbelieved the Virgin Birth, and read from the Revised Standard Version.
• backsliders
• About here you’d find the folk who white-knuckled the pew in front of them to keep from walking the aisle, even after you’d sung the invitation hymn twice through. You discovered who these people were by peeking when the preacher signaled the choir director to go into the second invitation hymn, “Almost Persuaded.”
• lukewarm believers

The next group included most of the saints

•  godly grandmothers and saintly mothers (pretty much always kneeling in prayer)
• then your soul winners
• next, your prayer warriors
• then you had deacons. But they were kinda hard to classify because every so often them and the preacher got into a knock down drag out with each other. Of course, the preacher always won or got run out of town.

Climbing the ranks of righteousness, you’d find

• boys who’d surrendered to the ministry. Preachers loved to recall their struggle, especially if it was long and bloody. Here’s where weeping mothers kneeling in prayer, and in the most exciting cases alcohol and backsliding, often came in.
• beloved former pastors who did everything right, and refused to take salary increases. These were the deacons’ favorite.
• current pastors. Again, this category was confusing, because in theory preachers were men o’ God, but in practice they caused right many first class dust ups, the best of which required kids to be sent from the room.

The nosebleed section of sanctity included

• missionaries
• medical missionaries. The great thing about these guys is that they were only around once or twice a year. If possble you had one to display during the Lottie Moon Offering season (otherwise known as Christmas shopping days).
• Martyrs
• Billy Graham

This system comes in mighty handy for those who want to avoid their sins. You always have a scapegoat: gay or drunk or Catholic or ladies who wear short shorts, and almost always a goal that’s out of reach: medical missionary or the next Billy Graham. So at both ends you’re off the hook.

The problem is, it doesn’t match up with what the Bible says, that we’re all sinners, none is righteous, no not one.

And, while it helps us avoid our sin, it also causes us to avoid our Savior. In his sight there is no heirarchy. Only people he loves and righteousness he freely gives.

My family of origin was DYSfunctional. Like most of my blood relatives, Mom was an alcoholic. Dad chose to stay away from home a lot of the time. Having learned a little Freud, I blamed my mother for some of my problems. Though she was a dry drunk by my growing up years, she was difficult to live with.  I kept my distance.

A healing dream-vision

A few months after my mother died, I had a dream or vision, I don’t know which. I saw her as the woman clothed with the sun with a crown of 12 stars on her head (Revelation 12). She held me a baby in her arms and was singing “Mighty Lak a Rose.”

I actually remember a photo of me as a baby on the piano bench and that sheet music on the piano.

This vision healed the breach between my mother and me. I believe whatever was cruel or unpredictable in her is now gone, and she is the woman God created her to be. I feel very close to her.

Uncovering unwelcome truth

During my training in pastoral counseling I discovered some big sins of Dad’s. In the last ten years of his life, I lived across country. We talked on the phone now and then. When he was no longer able to live alone, my oldest sister and I worked together to get him into a nursing home of his choice.

She became his legal guardian. In court I stood beside his wheelchair, my hand on his shoulder, except for the moment when the judge asked him if he understood and agreed.

As we left the federal building in El Paso, the lawyer said, “Your father’s legally dead.”

Accepting and forgiving is a process

Dad’s mother was Mexican. He grew up in El Paso, speaking Spanish at home and hiding from the outside world his Mexican heritage. To this day the Hamilton roots are more prominent than the Mercado ones. I know a little of the Mexican story based on my Aunt Margaret’s remembrances.

Dad did some wonderful things. He was a Major in the Army, serving in World War II. He founded five Spanish-speaking missions in Juarez, Mexico, and one in El Paso. He was a lay preacher, and for awhile ministered among migrant workers. He was devoted to his grandchildren, rearing two.

I realize it’s not up to me to forgive Dad. It’s between him, those he wronged, and God. I’m certain he spent the last years of his life trying to atone for his sins.

Yet … I’m still in the process of accepting. On my graduating from Seminary Dad gave me an 1862 Greek New Testament, edited by Constantin von Tischendorf. On the cover leaf are the signatures of my great grandfather B. B. Hamilton, a Baptist minister, another Hamilton preacher, my father, and me. I have put this book away for now; though precious, it has very complicated meanings for me.

I am a Father, too

I’m a sinner, too. My sins aren’t like Dad’s. But nevertheless I stand in need of God’s grace.

I hope and pray my son, who will discover no surprises about me, has a Dad whom he can look up to, though not perfect. But one who loved him and loved his Mom more than life itself.

When I get to glory, I look forward to meeting the man God created my father to be.

Healing, blessing memories of Dad

For now, I have two memories:

One. As a ten year old I accompanied Dad to the San Juan Mission, where he preached in Spanish and English. One communion Sunday, I felt unworthy to partake. Dad noticed, stopped the service, and directed the servers to serve me.

Two. Dad and several fathers took a group of us boys camping in the desert. Early in the morning Buzzy Parks the PK and several of us set off on a trek by ourselves and got lost. I recall clearly seeing Dad coming toward us late in the day, red-faced, having searched for us in the scorching heat for long hours. That evening, I heard him on the phone with other parents defending me from being blamed for the misadventure.

So, my image of God is not of the waiting Father, but of the searching Father, who treated me in a no-fault way. In that as in many things he’s an example.

I love you, Dad.

I feel like a sap, writing about heaven. Hard-headed realists do without it. People with the purest motives do without it.

Not me. I need heaven.

What the mind cannot conceive

I grant you that words about heaven are language that can’t be put into words, the chick breaking its shell.

So I’m not into streets of gold and all that jazz. It’s metaphor.

The same goes for hell. Literal fire and brimstone etc. etc. belong to another age or another mindset. I’m not attacking or belittling it, just admitting it’s not my point of view.

Heaven’s where God is

The psalmist wrote:

You guide me with your counsel,
     and afterward you will receive me with honor.

Whom have I in heaven but you?
     And there is nothing on earth that I desire other than you.

My flesh and my heart may fail,
     but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

Psalms 73:24-26 (NRSV)

 I’m not exactly where he or she is, because on earth I love my wife and my son, and others, too. On a lighter note, books and chocolate make my list. (Not necessarily in that order.)

For here and now a taste

It’s the other lines of the psalm that get me. You guide me here and now….God is the strength of my heart. God is present in the moment, not some far-off future or distant past.

Yet, my heart longs for a deeper, truer union with God. It’s like what I have now is just a taste. But what I have now is enough to persuade me that God’s promises for the future are true.

Sandy made this scrumptious blueberry cheesecake for my birthday. She came into the living room with a spoonful of blueberry topping. “There’s too much, do you want a taste?”

Some questions don’t need asking!

Youth without acne

What prompted me to write this piece was an Aha! moment. I waste a lot of time looking back to my youth. I wasn’t much to look at back then, either. But 20 vs. 60?–you get it! And, it occurred to me that looking forward to the resurrection body is a lot more fruitful than looking back at a lost youth.

Funny, you don’t recall the acne.

I don’t have a clue what the risen body will be like, except that it will be like Jesus’:

He will transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory.

Phil 3:21 (NRSV)

Perhaps it will be some flesh-and-bone chasis, or an energy imprinted with my transformed personality, or a memory in the heart of God.

For a long time, I’ve thought of heaven and hell, too, as relationship rather than place. Being one with God or being cut off from God.

Seeing through glass darkly

Language shatters reaching for truth of this kind.

But we can take the shards and make a window of stained glass. You can’t see out of it like ordinary glass. But you can see light, beauty, truth.

You can’t see the literal reality of heaven. Neither can you grab for it. God alone knows the number of days God has allotted each of us on earth. Gandalf reminded Denethor, authority is not given us to order the hour of our death (Lord of the Rings, 1994, p. 835). None in that epic is more selfish and petulant than Denethor, blinded by his own vanity.

However glorious the future may be, the present partakes of it already here and now. The kingdom of heaven is at hand.

Heaven begins here and now

I need to know that, when my flesh and heart fail, as now when they function (more or less), God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.

I once preached a sermon entitled “Hometown: Heaven” about Abraham. “He looked forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.” Heb 11:10 (NRSV)

The point is not pining all the time to be someplace you’re not. Born and reared in El Paso, I’ll always be a paisano–think of mountains as bare granite jagging up into an endless clear blue sky above red land that grows prickly pear and yucca, listen for the melody of Spanish, admire the might of the Maya and Aztecs, and love Mexican food.

The point is being citizens in two dimensions at once, finding heaven now and here.

I suppose living on both sides of the border makes me a sap.

But then I’m in pretty good company.

This is in response to commendation of the book The New Monasticism in Jesus Creed, June 6, 2008. It’s interesting to me that Gandhi lived in an ashram; we see the power of the group in such movements as Alcoholics Anonymous.  Common life is the only way we can address some of the huge problems of our time, like consumersm (devouring the planet) and inner city decay. If you know of contemporary rules, I’d appreciate your letting me know about them.

I tried my hand at a contemporary rule of common life. Here goes:

A RULE OF COMMON LIFE

I. Name. We will be called “Jesus’ family,” or “sisters and brothers of Jesus” because he said, “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” Mark 3:35 (NRSV)

II. Jesus is our only Lord. The Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 5-7, is our only charter; the Bible, interpreted in the Spirit of Christ, our only creed. The following is our rule of common life. Persons over 21 who do not accept Jesus as Savior and Lord will not live among us.

III. Purpose.

a. Above all else, even survival as individuals or community, we seek to glorify God.

b. We seek to fulfill the great commandments: “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the greatest and first commandment. And a second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’” Matt 22:37-39 (NRSV)

IV. Vows. Keeping in mind the traditional vows of poverty, chastity and obedience, we will take these vows upon entering the community. After a trial year, we will take them for life.

a. Simplicity. We will seek to live with few possessions. Our clothing will be that of the poor; our “Sunday best” will be clean, everyday wear. One or two changes will suffice. All of us will dress in similar fashion, there being no difference among us. Our community will decide what other individual possessions there will be, but let the Rule of Benedict guide us.

b. Purity. Those who are single will be celibate. Couples will be monogamous and true to each other for life. We will use such codes of conduct necessary to protect one another, and children in our care, from abuse. We will guard heart and mind, where purity begins, by establishing community standards for use of media.

c. Solidarity.  We will strive to discern the will of God through consensus. We will honor liberty of conscience. We will hold all property in common.

V. Worship

a. The family’s calling is prayer.

b. All who can will gather for family prayers at evening, morning and noon, using as our guide the Daily Lectionary of the Book of Common Prayer and a hymnal of our choice.

c. The psalms provide our model for disclosure in public prayer. With God’s help we will seek to pray more for others than for self.

d. Once a day at a time chosen by the Holy Spirit, we will gather for a full service of worship.

e. Members may therefore set aside time for prayer with fasting, but let such times be not habitual but few, only in urgent need or periods requiring discernment.

VI. Property and Work

a. We will use good financial management, holding all funds and assets in common. We will be accountable to one another and transparent to all.

b. Family members will work at their vocation, remembering that Paul said, let us labor and work honestly with our own hands, so as to have something to share with the needy. (See Eph 4:28 NRSV.)

c. The community will be self-supporting, holding in highest regard those of us who work with our hands.

d. Any venture will be cooperative; proceeds will be shared equitably according to need. Any worker among us, although not having taken vows, will share proceeds equally with family members.

e. The family will not hoard its resources, remembering that Jesus said, “Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Luke 12:33-35 (NRSV) Therefore, when God prospers the community, it will set aside a reasonable reserve for hard times (not a large endowment) and give its surplus to the poor.

f.  After the first two or three years, the community will give a tithe or more to the Lord’s work beyond and outside itself, remembering that the faithful of Old Testament times tithed more than 20%.

g. When someone wishes to separate from the community, they shall receive appropriate wages and the family’s blessing.

VII. Leaders. We will elect from our community by consensus

a. Community leader, appointed for a renewable term of five years

b. Business manager, appointed for a renewable term of five years (business being as much a spiritual matter as prayer)

i. Trustees, three persons who will legally represent the community, but who are authorized to act only upon direction of the whole community

ii. Trustees will serve rotating three year terms, and must remain out of office for three years before eligible to be re-elected.

c. Worship leader

d. Community, business, and worship leaders will be the administrators of the community, making decisions as needed between meetings for business.

VIII. Relationships

a. Our first relationship is to God.

b. We will love and cherish the earth, our mother.

c. We will practice good self-care and have self-esteem because we are God’s “works of art” Eph 2.10 NJB, and Jesus said, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” John 10:10 (NRSV) We will seek to avoid both self-indulgence and the masochism of some earlier orders.

d. We will abide by the Golden Rule, and love especially those of the household of faith.

e. If the Lord blesses us with more than one community, each will be autonomous. Our only tie will be love. We are not an organization or institution, nor do we aspire ever to be.

f. Following Jesus’ instruction, we will give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s (see Matt 22:21 NRSV).

g. We will be people of peace, adhering to principles of non-violence exemplified by Thoreau, Gandhi, and King. While we honor those who serve with honor in the armed forces, we will not bear arms.

h. We adhere to God’s preference for the poor.

i. We acknowledge that ours is not the only way, but it is the only way we know.

IX. Order

a. The community will diligently practice all principles of Christ.

b. In the event a member fails to do so, the community leader, business manager, and worship leader will investigate and seek to restore the member following Matthew 18.15-22 in a spirit of humility and mercy. A member who refuses to amend their life will be excluded. No other action will be taken against them. The community leader will excuse those under 17 from any meeting where such matters are discussed.

c. The community will abide by all laws and cooperate fully with law enforcement, except in public matters of civil disobedience.

X. A family meeting for business will be held annually, more often if, in response to the community’s wishes, administrators decide to do so, but not more than once a quarter.  Articles I, II, and III may not be amended. Other amendments may be introduced at one annual meeting; if adopted by consensus at the next annual meeting, they will take effect.

At our house through DVDs we’re reliving The Waltons, the mythic story of a family in Appalachian Virginia during the great depression. Sandy brings dinner into the living room on wicker TV trays, and we settle in for a feel-good hour. OK, sure, the show rasps off all the rough edges.

But I can’t imagine too many shows today that would continue to feature a star after a stroke, as Waltons did Ellen Corby. On TCM I looked for her as a much younger woman in I Remember Mama; she got more beautiful as the years passed, especially the lovely shots of her in the Waltons reunion show, on Easter Sunday.

Last night, we made it through half of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I had remembered the cute child “Short Run,” but even he couldn’t hold our attention. So we switched and watched a Waltons episode about the Revival Meeting.

Sinners in the Hands of an Angry Preacher

The evangelist arrives in town, demanding to go to the local den of iniquity. The preacher suggests the nearest they have is the Dew Drop Inn, which serves beer as Jason Walton pounds out country ballads on the upright piano. The evangelist blasts the patrons with the news that they’re going to hell, if they don’t come to his meeting and get saved.

Young Ben Walton happens to be there with ne’er do well Yancey Tucker. The outraged preacher sends him home.

John and Olivia are divided, John having never been a church-going man. He insists the children be let alone to make up their own minds. But the saved siblings tease those who are lost, particularly Ben. He asks why he should get baptized if Daddy never has.

Peacocks and Other Sinners

John does go to the meeting, but, as the preacher yells at the top of his lungs, John walks out, drenched in the rain. I can’t help wondering if that isn’t symbolic of John’s being a natural-born man of God, whose faith doesn’t express itself through ritual.

Each  episode seems to have a symbol parallel to the story. In this one the symbol is a peacock. Jim-Bob names it Rover; when he confines it to the barn so that it won’t fly off, it begins to lose its feathers. At last, persuaded he must let it go, he releases it and it roosts in the tree-house. There it cries through the night, until Jim-Bob goes outside to keep it company.

Maybe the subtext is that the church folk need to go outside the walls of the safe and familiar.

Seeing with an Outsider’s Eyes

Having given most of my life to the church and been baptized twice, I’m now seeing things more from John’s point of view.

American Christians have lost a lot of ground the past several decades, by throwing our weight around. I wonder if we will only reach people today “from below,” in Bonhoeffer’s words; outside the corridors of power, in the alleys with Mother Teresa, and on strike with the sanitation workers and Martin Luther King Jr.

As for the century, the Indian poet Tagore expressed it like this:

Alas, shadowy Africa,
Under your black veil
Your human aspect remained unknown,
Blurred by the murk of contempt….
You wailed wordlessly, muddied the soil of your steamy jungles
With blood and tears;
The hobnailed boots of your violators
Stuck gouts of that stinking mud
Forever on your stained history.

Meanwhile across the sea in their native parishes
Temple-bells summoned your conquerors to prayer…

“Africa,” by Rabindranath Tagore, Selected Poems, trans. William Radice, (NY: Penguin, 1985).

A Christian whose example we might follow is William Wilberforce, whose determined efforts led to the abolition of the slave trade in the British Empire. (His story is told in the 2006 film Amazing Grace.)

Hope of the Hopeless

Flipping through the channels, I heard one scientist say that we’re headed for another mass extinction like the one that occurred 65 million years ago. On CNN was a review of the documentary I.O.U.S.A., a serious look at the public debt, which will shackle our grandchildren.

I struggle to find hope. There are historical examples of civilizations that used up their resources, like the empire whose capital was Angkor Wat in Southeast Asia, or that destroyed themselves through warfare like the Mayan culture of Central America. Today the world is one culture. We live or die together.

“Is there any hope?” Pippin asked Gandalf, as they looked out over the destruction of the great City. “There never was much hope,” answers the old wizard, “just a fool’s hope.”

The poet of Lamentations, surveying in heart-breaking detail the razing of Jerusalem, found this reason to hope:

But this I call to mind,
     and therefore I have hope:
The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases,
     his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
     great is your faithfulness.
“The LORD is my portion,” says my soul,
     ”therefore I will hope in him.”
The LORD is good to those who wait for him,
     to the soul that seeks him.
It is good that one should wait quietly
     for the salvation of the LORD.

Lam 3:21-26 (NRSV)

Gandhi taught us that meaning abides in the struggle for, as well as the achievement of, our goals. If there was hope for the poet of Lamentations, surely on this side of the cross there is hope as well-even if, in the eyes of the world, it is just a fool’s hope.

When the heart is hard and parched, come upon me with a shower of mercy.

When grace is lost from life, come with a burst of song.

When tumultuous work raises its din on all sides, shutting me out from beyond, come to me, God of silence, with Your peace and rest.

When my beggarly heart sits crouched, shut up in a corner, break open the door, my God.

When desire blinds the mind with delusion and dust, O Holy One, come with Your light and Your thunder.

The Heart of God: Prayers of Rabindranath Tagore, ed. Herbert Vetter (Boston: Tuttle Publishing, 1997).

First Asian to win Nobel Prize for literature (1913), Rabindranath Tagore (1861-1941) is a national poet of India, an educator, lyricist, advocate of Indian liberation from British rule.

I’m doing my annual read of Lord of the Rings, a myth of war.

Soldiers of Peace?

As much as I love Tolkien, I realize

(1) he wrote when his city was being bombed by the Germans and his son was in the military.
(2) He was a veteran of World War I.
(3) He wrote from the Germanic tradition that glorifies the war hero, depicting Jesus as a hero who leaped onto the cross as to a battle.

For example, take these lines from Dream of the Rood, one of the oldest poems in English:

The young hero stripped himself–he, God Almighty–
strong and stout-minded. He mounted high gallows,
bold before many, when he would loose mankind.

(ll. 39-41)

A Tradition Explolited

More than to Boromir, the elder brother, I’m drawn to Faramir, the younger brother, who longed for peace. He said:

War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom.

LOTR, 1994, p. 656

In the past the desperate straits of war often called forth human response at its best. Civilians worked long hours, sacrificed for the common good. Soldiers gave their lives to defend home and loved ones, and ideals such as freedom. Today it’s still true some individuals offer their very best in time of war.

Politicians and corporations exploit this tradition of honor and valor.

Mass Destruction in a Bottle

Today is different. The capacity to destroy the earth lies within reach of small groups as well as nations. All the progress of science will be weighed against the development of weapons of mass destruction including weaponized gases and viruses, which can be transported in small bottles. The good accomplished by warfare will be obliterated along with everything else by its indiscriminate violence.

History will judge as a grave error the decision to treat the attack on the World Trade Center as an act of war rather than as a crime. Once we responded with violence, with our own WMD, we became the aggressors, the destroyers; the terrorists became defenders of their homes, their culture, their religion.

A Corporate Shell Game?

The war on Iraq is more about economics, oil, than ideals. It’s about the military-industrial complex. It would be interesting to analyze corporate bottom lines in relation to the cost of war and so-called aid to Iraq, the development of its infrastructure, schools, hospitals. I believe the incredible sums of our children’s and grandchildren’s money we are spending are chiefly going to corporations.

I also keep asking who benefits from keeping the world’s second largest oil reserve off-line?

Is Violence a Vestige?

Violence is a vestige of our evolutionary past. Dictionary.com defines “vestige” as:

a degenerate or imperfectly developed organ or structure that has little or no utility, but that in an earlier stage of the individual or in preceding evolutionary forms of the organism performed a useful function.

Viewing footage of sheep or rhinos or other male animals rutting, competing for the right to mate, you see that violence once served to select out the healthiest, strongest, and most adept individuals to contribute to the gene pool of the species. But we humans don’t determine individual rights based on brute force. (At least, most of us don’t.)

The Courage of a Non-Violent Future

It takes more courage to put down your weapon and fight using non-violent resistance. Yet Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. both demonstrated that non-violence is more persuasive than any weapon. Non-violent resistance is not passive, it is not weak. It takes all the courage, wit, and will humans can muster.

In the coming Presidential election, Americans face a daunting choice. John McCain stands in the tradition of military force. He is honorable, though his temper could have deadly consequences if it had the world’s strongest military at his command.

Barack Obama represents the future. Much of the world identifies with him. He would be the first person of color to hold the office of President. But, more important, he voted against the war. He can demonstrate to the world that this war is not the American people’s war, but the war of a business and political elite, perhaps even the war of America’s enemies seeking to run the U.S. financially into the ground.

Not a bad strategy. You explode an IED that cost a few hundred dollars. Americans respond with weapons that cost tens of millions each. Before long, that amounts to quite a tab.

And even one life (on any side) is one too many.

A New Species?

Jesus never fought in war. His saying about bringing not peace but a sword cannot be used to justify war.

I believe that, in Jesus (yes, uniquely Son of God) and a few others, a new species is evolving, whom I call Homo spiritus, a species whose strength lies in the spiritual capacity to love and be loved, especially in the sense of agape love, and especially in the case of loving those whom it’s not easy or “natural” to love.

We have reached a turning point in human history, in fact in the history of all life on the planet. We will either learn to live together in peace, mutual respect, and cooperation, solving together the immense problems that we face, or we will die.

Unlike the dinosaurs, we still have a choice.

You dig out of a hole many different ways. The truth is, often it’s somebody else who gives you a hand up. In Lord of the Rings, the movies, a hand up is an important symbol. Frodo gives Sam a hand up into the boat (in contrast to Isildur who drowns at the beginning); then Aragorn offers Wormtongue a hand up, which he spurns. Galadriel offers Frodo a hand up as he struggles beyond Shelob’s cave. Of course, it’s Sam who gives Frodo the ultimate hand up by carrying him toward the crack of doom, when he’s totally out of juice.

Counting my blessings is an antidote for the blues. Here’s a sampling:

I am

… grateful for my wife, who loves me in spite of my faults. It’s her nature to love. We’ll celebrate 38 years of marriage this anniversary.

… grateful for my son, who showed up at 7:30 a.m. last week so that I could get to church. Sandy had to be there all day, and Jim made it possible for me to go for one hour. We also had pancakes and real maple syrup. My son is a man of integrity. I’m grateful he’s part of my life.

… grateful for God’s good gifts of a functioning brain, good eyesight, hearing, the ability to move about. (If you’re young and able-bodied, you may not get it. But one of the secrets of successful aging is to focus on the things you have, not the things you don’t have.) This is something I learned in the retirement center. People ate themselves alive by dwelling on the negatives, and overlooked many positive gifts they had.

… grateful for the scripture. The 90^th, 130^th psalms to name just two.

 … grateful for friends who come to the house every Tuesday evening, every Thursday morning (at 7 a.m.) to study the Bible. Bible study is so much richer when in a small group.

… grateful for Bible study tools like the New Interpreter’s Bible. What a commentary!

…grateful for my African friends’ safety and well-being.

… grateful for a peaceful home, full of goodness.

…grateful for the riches of literature. As I do when I hit a bump in the road, I returned to Tolkien. I haven’t  read LOTR in a couple years, and it always renews and refreshes my spirit.

… grateful for a cat who curls up in my lap in the wee morning hours.

… grateful for the chance to write a blog, and for you who take time to read it.

My friend is gone, the house is still, I’ve slept around the clock almost twice. How Sandy, who resumed 10 hour days Wednesday, manages I don’t know. I hoped to write about his stay, but like an Orthodox Jew on Temple Mount not knowing precisely where the Holy of Holies is, I choose not to walk anywhere.

I think of these lines from Stephen King’s Rita Haworth and the Shawshank Redemption (an incredible piece):

We’re glad he’s gone, but a little sad, too. Some birds are not meant to be caged, that’s all. Their feathers are too bright, their songs too sweet and wild. So you let them go, or when you open the cage to feed them they somehow fly out past you. And the part of you that knows it was wrong to imprison them in the first place rejoices, but still, the place where you live is that much more drab and empty for their departure.

We spent the last couple nights at the movies: Gandhi and Pope John Paul II. I agree with Gandhi’s statement, “Poverty is the worst form of violence.”

Invisible Violence

I am convinced that one of my and the Western church’s chief sins is materialism. We’ve had several Enlightened Ones now, Gandhi and Mother Teresa, and others who have shown us that God empowers the poor to change the world.

There are 9-11 massacres happening every day among nameless millions who lack food, water, vitamins, shoes, childhood inoculations. But they are invisible, they are institutional. Nobody sets out to harm them. They just fall to the side because of globalization policies that give preferential terms to the wealthy.

We do not realize when we shop for the cheapest price we are perpetuating child labor; when we buy multinational brands we enable employers who pay less than a living wage for commodities like coffee, while drug lords pay handsomely for the drug-makings that poison our streets.

I feel so damned helpless.

Learning to See

I am fascinated by Charles Freer Andrews, the Anglican clergyman who spotted Gandhi early on and quickly allied with him. How did he see differently from other Christians? I’ll be commenting on his biography in awhile.

(I’m half through three or four books: The Life of Dialogue, Anglo-Saxon Spirituality, Sadhana: The Realization of Life, by Rabindranath Tagore, the first Asian Nobel laureate, friend of Gandhi, an overview of one kind of Hinduism, a religion I’ve never understood.)

Sick of Religion

We had a get together of my wife’s relatives, some of the best people on the face of the planet. And as we usually do, our conversation turned to the Southern Baptist history of the last 30 years, much of which is written in our families’ sweat and blood. But my son left the room. After awhile I went to find him.

He said, “Dad, I’m sick of religion. I’m not interested in religion, it’s not my thing.” He no longer goes to church, although we raised him to. In that moment I got a glimpse of myself. This is what my sectarianism has done! God, have mercy!

Mid-Year Milestones

Tonight we’re celebrating my son’s birthday, bringing in meals from Outback. Sunday will be Mother’s Day, then wedding anniversary and our birthdays, all bunched up in the middle of the year.

But I’ll have to punch my way through this damned depression to do all that. Writing is the last thing I want to do. I’m out of pain meds until next week sometime, and pain hovers at 5 or 6 or more. Not only that, I’m depressed as hell.