Walking the Labyrinth—January 29, 2010— Far down the list of saints on the Church Calendar today (after the archbishops and bishops, like St Caesarius or St Sabinian and martyrs like Sts Papias and Maurinus) is St Blath. Not an archbishop or bishop, not even a priest, St Blath (pronounced “Blah”) was—still is, for that matter—a woman. She was not a queen or princess but for many years a scullery maid, then a cook for St Brigit’s convent on the plains of Cill-Dara (Kildare). And what a cook! Her stews and pastries became the stuff of legend, but her renown came from her hospitality. There are stories of her miraculously feeding hundreds of hungry people from a single stew-pot, but these tell us more about her character than her cookware. No person, says her medieval biography, “left except his belly was filled with good food and his heart warmed by kind words.” All of us can be kind and generous now and then. For St Blath it was a way of life, feeding both body and soul of those in need. Not much more is known of her, but those things tell us enough to assure us she’s rightly enrolled with the Saints. Her symbols, quite properly, are a spoon, a kettle—and a small Irish flower called the Common Shepherd’s Purse. Few have lived such a roller-coaster life as Thomas “these are the times that try men’s souls” Paine, the pamphleteer of the American Revolution. Born on January 29, 1737 in Thetford, England, he was the son of a corset-maker. He apprenticed to his father's trade while a boy, but ran away to sea, looking for adventure. Finding a sailor’s life and the salt-sea air less than salubrious, he returned before long to his apprenticeship. In 1759, he married and set up his own corset shop. Within a year, his business was bankrupt and his new wife dead. Paine then turned to government work, finding a position as a tax-assessor, but after a few years was dismissed for “neglect of duty.” He returned to corset-making but also applied for ordination as a priest in the Church of England (the fact that he was uncertain as to whether he believed in God proved a hindrance, although he wouldn’t have been the first—or last—clergyman to compromise his agnosticism for ecclesiastical promotion—remember the famous Vicar of Bray). When his application was rejected, Paine moved to London and became a schoolteacher, shortly thereafter marrying his landlord’s daughter. With money from his father-in-law, he set up a tobacco shop. The old man also helped Paine get back his old job with the tax-assessor’s office. Before too long, however, he’d been fired again (for the same reason); his tobacco shop likewise failed. To avoid debtor’s prison, Paine boarded a ship to Boston, armed with a letter of introduction from Benjamin Franklin (he never saw or communicated with his wife again). Paine stepped off the ship on November 30, 1774, to find America in turmoil. The colonies were buzzing with talk of revolution. With the help of his letter from Franklin, Paine soon secured the editorship of a Philadelphia newspaper. From the start he advocated breaking America’s ties with England, and his writing proved popular. The newspaper flourished; Tom Paine had found a niche at last. He published his immensely popular Common Sense early in 1776—it sold 100,000 copies, an almost unheard of number at that time—one in twenty Americans bought it, many more read it (or had it read to them). His stream of pamphlets bolstered the war effort through the darkest days of the Revolution. He made a fortune writing against the policies of Great Britain, but Paine surprised everyone by returning to England after the Revolution. There, he embroiled himself in controversies political and religious. He supported the unpopular French Revolution (with his pamphlet The Rights of Man) and traveled to France to see it firsthand. Though he spoke no French, his fame in America preceded him: he was given citizenship in the new Republic and elected to the National Assembly. But Paine was out of his depth: in the volatile world of revolutionary France, making friends with some unknowingly made him enemies with others. Before he knew it, he was imprisoned by orders of Robespierre himself and scheduled for a visit to “Madame Guillotine.” By an odd series of flukes, Paine's cell was overlooked when they filled the tumbrel the day of his appointment; before his execution could be re-scheduled, Robespierre himself fell victim to the French “national razor.” Paine was released. At that point, France would have lost its charm for most of us but not Tom Paine. He stayed on through the first years of Napoleon, quite taken with the future Emperor. When he actually got to known the Corsican, disillusionment did set in, and Paine wrote “he is the completest charlatan that ever existed." Shortly thereafter—very shortly thereafter when his remarks were published, he decided it was time to leave France for good. Returning to America, Paine immediately began a one-sided feud with George Washington, who, he believed, hadn’t done enough to rescue him from French prison. In that prison, Paine had written the longest of his books, The Age of Reason, an attack on religion in general and Christianity in particular. Like his earlier books, it was a best-seller; unlike his other works, it won for him an almost universal loathing in both America and England. Vilified by most of its readers, the book soured Paine’s reputation as quickly as his Common Sense had earlier won him acclaim. He was referred to as a “lily-livered cynical rogue", a "loathsome reptile", and a host of epithets even today’s newspapers wouldn’t print. He died quietly, alone, and widely disliked, seven years later; only six people attended his funeral. His obituary, in the New York Citizen, read: “He lived long, did some good and much harm." His bones were disinterred by a later admirer—and have disappeared. On January 29, 1845, Edgar Allen Poe published “The Raven” in the New York Evening Mirror. He wrote it under the pen-name “Quarels”and for it was paid $9.00. The editor of the Mirror later declared the poem was “unsurpassed in English poetry for subtle conception, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent imaginative lift... It will stick to the memory of everybody who reads it.” Not everyone agreed. After reading the poem Ralph Waldo Emerson said “I see nothing in it” (over the years his dislike of Poe’s writing only increased; Emerson’s nickname for him was “The Jingle Man”). Last year was the 200th anniversary of Poe’s birth. Not only was he celebrated by a U S postage stamp (well, okay, so was Donald Duck), but “The Raven” is the most anthologized poem in books of American poetry. The Mystery Writer’s Guild of America dubbed its highest award “The Edgar,” and every year on the anniversary of Poe’s death (October 7) for more than half a century, hundreds of devotees stage a night-time gathering at the grave of “The Master” to watch an unknown figure leave three red roses and a half-finished or (depending on your point of view) half-unfinished bottle of cognac on his tombstone. Quite "Poe-etic." He would have loved the gesture. On January 29, 1880, the only actor to ever do justice to Charles Dickens’ immortal character, Wilkins Micawber, was born. William Claude Dukenfield (known to us as W C Fields) began his stage career as a juggler on vaudeville while in his late teens. By then he’d already worked as an oyster-shucker and clothing salesman. Flo Ziegfeld hired him for his famous “Follies” and from there he went to Hollywood in 1925. Fields, who loved Dickens, often said playing Micawber in David Copperfield was the highlight of his career. MGM wanted him to play the Wizard in their 1939 production of The Wizard of Oz and offered him $75,000 for the role. He turned it down, demanding “$100,000 or nothing.” It never occurred to MGM to ask him to do it for nothing, so the role went to Frank Morgan. Fields, an atheist, used to call Christmas Day “the worst day of the year.” Los Angeles newspapers didn’t miss the irony when he died on December 25, 1946. Edward Lear, the author of The Owl and the Pussycat, lover of limericks and writer of preposterous prose, died on January 29, 1888 at his Italian villa. He never married, although he had a life-long love for a family friend, Gussie Bethel (over the years, he proposed to her 46 times! but she never accepted). Late in life, due to poor-health, he settled in Italy. During his final illness, he was visited by English friends who discretely inquired after his health. Playful to the end, Lear confided in fake cockney “T’is the cook ‘ere what done me in.” He said the man had a reputation as the worst cook for miles around. “Why then, sir, do you employ him?” asked one of his guests. “No one else will give him work!” Lear replied. All his other accomplishments, literary and artistic, aside, Lear deserves a place among the pantheon of English poets for seven words from The Owl and the Pussycat I will always remember: “which they ate with a runcible spoon.” In Baltimore, on January 29, 1956, H L Mencken, "the Sage of Baltimore," died. He was an American journalist, American critic and lover of our language. His classic work, The American Language, is as fresh, readable—and enjoyable—today as when it was written. It’s one of those rare books that you can open anywhere and read with sheer pleasure. After the book’s publication, Mencken received a stream of letters from Americans sharing bits and pieces of regional linguistic peculiarities, many of which he researched and included in later Supplements to his book. One of these letters came from a woman who earned her living as a “stripper.” She told Mencken she wished there was some “more dignified word” for her profession, and asked if he knew of one. He responded that up till the time of her letter, no other word existed, but now one did. “Madam, from this day on you are now an ‘ecdysiast,’ that is to say ‘one who sheds.’ ” Henry Louis Mencken is buried in Baltimore's Loudon Park Cemetery. His epitaph reads: “If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner, and wink your eye at some homely girl." Oprah Winfrey was born in Kosciusko, Michigan on this day in 1954. She is the host of a television program. This is the 29th day of the year; 336 days remain in 2010. On the Roman calendar today is ante diem iii kalendas Februarias; it is generally believed the Greek dramatist Sophocles died on this day in 405 BC, at ninety-one. He choked on some grapes.
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In her lifetime, Greta Garbo was often quoted as saying “I want to be alone” (or, with an accent) “I vant to be alone.” At one point she corrected a reporter, “I never said ‘I want to be alone.’ I said 'I want to be let alone.' All the difference in the world lies between the two.” While she lived as a recluse, Garbo had close and intimate friends. She didn’t want to be alone alone.
In the Garden of Eden, God placed Adam in the midst of a spectacular creation, but He knew the hibiscus and pomegranates and chimpanzees wouldn’t satisfy Adam’s longing for companionship. Though God made Adam intending to be friends with him, the Lord knew he needed someone like himself, a human being, to be close to. “It is not good for man to be alone” the Lord said, and he made a woman to be with him. There’s an interesting inquiry to be made about why God didn’t just make a duplicate of Adam—another man—to be with him. Sexual implications and all, it hints at a host of fascinating topics. But that’s for another time. Today it’s the nature of solitude—“aloneness”—I want to explore with you. We are created with a need—even a craving—for companionship: it’s built into our genes. When we don’t get it, strange things happen to our psyches. All that being said and acknowledged, there is another side to the coin. We also need to be alone.
John Donne, the priest and poet, wrote truly “No man is an island…we are part of the main…” Our common humanity binds us. But it is also true, as the Burial Office of the Book of Common Prayer says, “We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out…” We come into the world alone; surrounded by family and friends, we grow. As we begin to grow and discover the world into which we’ve come, we soon discover that, while we are “part of the main,” a human being in a sea of humanity, we are alone. We’re distinct from others. My thoughts and experiences, my feelings and fears and hopes, my joys and sorrows—these are a part of me (many people mistakenly think they are me, as if I’m simply the sum of all that’s happened to me). This “self” I can share with others. I can tell them my thoughts and feelings and fears and they can do the same with me (careful, though; when we do this we discover we’re not as unique as we thought!). But, regardless of popular psychology and what passes for “spirituality” nowadays, we are not the sum total of our experiences. In fact, these things are not a “part” of us at all. The experiences of our lives are the things which happen to us. Without doubt, they have an impact on us. But they are not us. You and I are not merely “data receptors” or “experience processors.” Men and women, souls and bodies, we are made in the image of God.
We are “part of the main,” Donne reminds us. None of us is, despite another modern heresy, self-sufficient. I cannot know everything. Even things I think I know, I discover with uncomfortable frequency, I forget! “It is certain we can carry nothing out” is disconcertingly true!
If we’re not our experiences and thoughts and feelings, what are we? What does it mean that we have souls?
There is that which is you. Not how you feel or what you think, not your memories of Christmases past or hopes for winning lotteries in the future—but you. It is here that you and I are created equal. My soul and yours and everybody’s is that of us which IS us. We can damage it—that’s what sin is—or we can nurture it—that’s what Grace does—but make no mistake—your soul is you. And while we are “part of the main,” here, we are also alone. That’s the scary part of solitude—it’s the “aloneness” we fear. We don’t know who we are, and for the most part, as fascinating as each of us believes ourselves to be, we don’t want to know.
Many people get the creeps when they think about monks and nuns living in silence (like the Trappists) or in solitude (like the hermits). A frequent observation is “that’s not natural.” It’s a true observation, if by natural we mean “what most of us do.” I’ll be frank. I’ve lived in monasteries where some observed silence and others lived as hermits. Sometimes they did so because they had psychological problems. Some of us (not all in convents) simply retreat inside and never come back out. Some of us are silent and solitary because God calls us to that life. All of us are called to silence and solitude sometimes, and even if we choose to ignore the call, we need it. We need a time to be alone, to let our transitory concerns fade, to find a better, longer, deeper perspective. You have a soul—it is your greatest, most precious possession—more important than your savings account, better even than a library of the greatest books (uh-I’m pretty sure that’s true). We need time to tend our souls. It won’t just happen by itself, because you "want" it to, or because you "wish" you had time for that kind of thing. Among the many heresies of our day, one of the most widespread is the notion that God is like an indulgent grandfather—a jolly, pushover of a guy—Who knows we’re really busy, worrying about paying bills and making sure the kids get to basketball practice and taking the dog to the vet. If we do have souls, if anything about them really matters, God will take care of them. He’s just that kind of a guy. He worries about our bank balance just as much as we do. Television preachers tell us so.
You know, God just might take up the slack. But we will have missed the reason we were called to live. He might not toss us into a lake of unquenchable fire. We might simply come to the end of our lives wondering why we had to spend so much time in the car.
I remember a song, sung by (I think) Peggy Lee, sometime in my past. I didn’t like it then, I don’t now—but it does seem cogent. A plaintive, uninspiring and insipid song, the refrain asks “Is that all there is?” It may be the song piped into the hallway leading to hell. Hell may not be pitchforks and devils in red leotards but might very well turn out to be dull, uninteresting sameness; gray, colorless shadows forever and ever and ever. If our eyes aren’t opened here on earth to Beauty and Goodness and Grace, seeing it Unveiled might be too much for our puny, unexercised souls to bear. Hell, eternal separation from Unspeakable Beauty, might turn out to be a mercy to such souls.
Unless we cultivate our souls, unless we can make time to be alone, we’ll find, too late, we’ve squandered the greatest gift God gave us—ourselves! In time I’ll forget—or misremember—my experiences, my fears will fade, my goals will lose their potency—only I will remain. But if you and I have walked the Labyrinth with open eyes and attuned ears, looking for (and knowing we’ll find) Beauty and Goodness and Grace at almost every step, solitude holds no terrors for us. It is one of the needful steps to Joy.
Garbo was right. None of us wants to be alone—but unless we can learn to embrace solitude, alone is what we very well just may be.
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FROM MY BOOKSTACK:
Don’t be shocked, but this week I read a book about Texas. Texas politics. It’s non-fiction, so it strains credibility much more than a novel would. More, it’s about Texas politics were I grew up—in Duval County.
The Fall of the Duke of Duval tells the multi-generational story of the Parr family. For a hundred years, the Parrs controlled the governmental machinery of several counties in south Texas, but their base was in the towns of Duval County. They unashamedly and quite openly rigged elections, dispensed favors and punished the uncooperative. The county tax office was their treasury; the Sheriff’s office their own hired enforcers. County maintenance employees worked the Parr estates first and in their spare time kept county roads in repair. If anybody from “outside,” like a reporter from Houston, started asking too many questions, they’d be shot dead on the street (by four policemen, acquitted in a county court trial when they claimed they’d fired in “self-defense”).
The Parr story is the story of a political machine and how it worked. When I was a boy, both my grandmother and great-grandmother taught in the Duval County School District. I heard their accounts time and again when I was young. Come election time, a Parr appointee would meet with all the employees of the school district and tell them who and how to vote. There was no secret ballot—in some cases, the ballots were even pre-marked. I remember asking my grandmother—not a woman easily intimidated—if she did what they told her to. She said “Yes, of course I did.” I was disappointed. It wasn’t until years later I realized she did it to make sure I had food to eat and clothes to wear. Duval County came briefly to national prominence during the election of 1948. Lyndon Johnson was running for the US Senate and the race was “tight as a Texas tick.” Johnson called George Parr, the second Duke of Duval, and asked for help. When the votes were in, Lyndon lost by only a few votes statewide—until some of Duke George’s ole boys found Box 13—somebody “overlooked it,” they claimed—and all 200 votes were for Lyndon. For a generation of Texans, Lyndon Johnson was nicknamed “Landslide Lyndon.”
The book was written by one of the lawyers that eventually brought down the third Duke and saw to the partial dismantling of his fiefdom. He details the Parr story with a lawyer’s precision—and sometimes too much detail. Not surprisingly, the Parrs weren’t brought down for the murders they sponsored, the frauds they committed, the voters they intimidated over the years or the graft they dispensed. Like Al Capone, it was the tax man who got them in the end. There, the story bogs down. But the first half of the book, where the author is telling a story of the Rise and Fall of the Dukes, it makes fascinating reading. Fiction could never be so fantastical.
The Fall of the Duke of Duval was written by John E Clark, published by the Eakin Press in 1995. Hardcover copies are selling on Amazon right now for about $4.00.
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QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
Thomas Paine-“All national institutions of churches, whether Jewish, Christian or Turkish, appear to me no other than human inventions, set up to terrify and enslave mankind, and monopolize power and profit.”
“Government, even in its best state, is but a necessary evil; in its worst state, an intolerable one.”
Edgar Allen Poe-“I have no faith in human perfectibility. I think that human exertion will have no appreciable effect upon humanity. Man is now only more active - not more happy - nor more wise, than he was 6000 years ago.”
Edward Lear-“ They dined on mince, and slices of quince, Which they ate with a runcible spoon; And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, They danced by the light of the moon.”
W C Fields-“ I'm free of all prejudices. I hate everyone equally.”
“Drown in a vat of whiskey? O Death, where is thy sting?”
“Hell, I never vote for anybody, I always vote against.”
H L Mencken-“ A man may be a fool and not know it, but not if he’s married.”
“Every government is against liberty.”
Oprah Winfrey-“Is that camera on me?” [attributed]
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Friday, January 29, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
In Paradisium...
Walking the Labyrinth-January 22, 2010-The old martyrologies (catalogues of saints and martyrs) of the Church list no less than four St Vincents today: Vincent of Saragossa, who died about AD 304; Vincent of Nice and his brother, Onontius, who were killed in 305; Vincent of Digne, a bishop of North Africa who went to his heavenly rest in 380; and Vincent of Pellotti, who died in 1850. While the story of each of these is fascinating (in the school-records of young Vincent of Pellotti, who later earned a doctorate in theology and taught in a Roman college, his teacher recorded “he’s a bit of a block-head”—so there is always hope!), St Vincent of Saragossa is the one who attracts most attention. He was a deacon in Spain when the Emperor Dacian instituted a general persecution of Christianity in AD 303. That year 18 Spanish Christians were killed for their faith. When St Vincent, along with his bishop and several priests were arrested the following year, no one doubted their fate (at the time, it was a capital crime simply to be a clergyman). Vincent’s bishop, Valerius, had a speech impediment and chose Vincent to speak for them at their trial. The bishop was exiled but Vincent, as the spokesman, was singled out for torture, hoping to get him to renounce his faith. Vincent was stretched on a rack (dislocating his joints), hung on a hook, and burned on a large grill. Nothing broke him, so his jailers tossed him in a dungeon, the floor of which was covered with broken pottery shards. He unnerved them by singing hymns. A sympathetic jailer allowed some Christians to come and tend to Vincent, but too late. He died in prison. A hundred years later St Augustine of Hippo said Vincent’s fame “extended everywhere in the Empire; everywhere the name of Jesus was known.” Given the various tortures the saint endured (and I didn’t mention them all), he is patron to all sorts and conditions of men. Bakers (for being “cooked”), roofers and pottery-makers (for the broken shards), sailors (-uh-), schoolgirls (?). Because his feast falls late in January, he was also invoked by medieval vintners against seasonal frosts damaging to burgundy wine. Having never tasted a burgundy I like, I’m not sure how efficacious this practice is. On January 22, 1561, Sir Francis Bacon was born in London. He rose to be Lord Chancellor of England under King James I (of Bible fame). Some people (the same type who believe in the multi-tentacled Illuminati), believe he was the true author of Shakespeare’s plays. Whether or not the Bard was merely Bacon’s amanuensis, it is certainly true that, from his youth, Bacon loved Things Scientific. While some of his experiments were typical alchemical ones—looking to transmute lead into gold—his interests ran from astronomy to zoology. On April 1, 1626 (not an inappropriate day, given what followed), Bacon was traveling with a friend through Highgate, then a rural section of London. The two were discussing Bacon’s theory that ice could be used as a preservative for meat (it was a cold, snowy day). He was convinced ice could preserve meat indefinitely and to prove the point, had their carriage stop at the next farm they came to. Bacon’s companion recounts: “We went into a poor woman's house at the bottom of Highgate hill, bought a fowl, and made the woman exenterate it for our use" (I was ignorant of the word ‘extenterate’ until I read this account—it means to ‘eviscerate’). Bacon then took the plucked and gutted chicken outside, dug around in the snow and stuffed the bird. He then packed it in snow and wrapped his icy bundle in sacking. Unwisely, he decided to hold the big ball of ice in his lap till he got home. Shortly afterward he came down with chills. For reasons inexplicable, his doctor put him into a bed with damp sheets. Chill turned to pneumonia and after three days a priest read the Last Rites of the Church of England over his shivering body. His final letter, poignant if not quite Shakespearean, told a friend that he died a martyr for science. You remember the old adage, “Those who will not learn the lessons of history are doomed to repeat them.” Neither the “DotCom” collapse of the 1990’s nor our current crumbling economy are New and Unprecedented Events. Today, January 22, 1720, the South Sea Bubble burst and rocked England’s financial and political establishment to the core. I won’t recount the details, but suffice to say they involved inflated claims for stocks fed by investment bankers, aided by politicians who received “loans” and a populace eager to “flip” stocks to make a quick bag o’ shillings. Stocks in the South Sea Company rose in one year from 100 to over 1000 pounds. When the dividends came due and it was revealed the Company could not pay, values dropped overnight, fortunes were lost, businessmen committed suicide and members of the government went to jail (Sir Isaac Newton lost the equivalent of $3,000,000.00 and for the rest of his life refused to discuss it; the composer George Frederic Handel—of Messiah fame-however, made an immense fortune from the fiasco—he “bought low” at the beginning of the craze and “sold high,” divesting himself of his stocks only weeks before the Bubble burst). Sub sole nihil novi est, quoth the Preacher. James Shields was sworn in as the newly-elected Senator from Missouri on January 22, 1879. Though this was undoubtedly a red-letter day in his life, it hardly seems worth a mention except for the fact that twenty years earlier he had served as Senator from Minnesota and ten years before that he went to Washington as a Senator from Illinois. He's the only man to hold that record. He's also the only man who ever challenged Abraham Lincoln to a duel. In 1842, Shields was the State Auditor for Illinois. Some unpopular rulings on his part resulted in his vilification in the press and among those who attacked him was the future Great Emancipator. Lincoln turned his famous wit on Shields in a series of letters to local newspapers and made him look the fool. Shields angrily demanded an apology, Lincoln refused, and a challenge to a duel resulted. Lincoln was mortified, but as an up-and-coming public figure, he couldn’t refuse without being accused of cowardice—never good for an aspiring politician. Both men had a following and news of the duel quickly spread. Since dueling was illegal in Illinois, an island on the Missouri River (where dueling was not illegal) was chosen as the spot. As the challenged party, Lincoln had the choice of weapons. He was convinced that firing pistols one at the other might result in serious injuries, so he set out to make the whole thing as ludicrous as possible. Rather than guns, he chose “Cavalry Broadswords of the largest size.” Lincoln was 6’4”, with the nickname “the Railsplitter.” Shields was a foot shorter and had a slight build. Lincoln added several other stipulations which increased the absurdity of the affair, but Shields accepted them all. When the two met for their duel, hundreds of people crowded the Illinois shore to watch the outcome. Once the pair with their seconds and attendants disembarked, the heavy swords were produced. While Shields tried to wield his, Lincoln made a point of cutting down tree limbs with ease. Form required the seconds to make a final attempt at reconciliation before the combat began. After a moment, Shields agreed to take back his challenge if Lincoln would apologize. Lincoln did, everyone shook hands and took their boats back to Illinois. That night, the two men appeared together at a “post-duel” party. Six years later, Lincoln supported Shields in his run for the US Senate. One hundred and nine years ago today, Alexandrina Victoria, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, died in her sleep at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight. She was crowned Queen on July 20, 1837 and reigned till her death, more than 63 years (she still has 6 years on Queen Elizabeth II). The last year of her life her health steadily declined and by December 16, doctors entertained little hope of her survival. Bulletins were issued several times a day for a week before she finally died: England held its breath. Finally the morning edition of the London Times carried the announcement: “All day long, the Angel of Death has been hovering over Osborne House. One could almost hear the beating of his wings, but at half-past six, those wings were folded and the Queen was at rest.” England went into official mourning for three months. On January 22, 1907, Richard Strauss’ opera “Salome” (based on the play by Oscar Wilde) debuted at New York’s Metropolitan Opera. The performance was so shocking to patrons (with the sensual “Dance of the Seven Veils” and Salome’s declaration of her love for St John the Baptist made as she caressed his severed head) that it was immediately banned; it wasn’t performed again until 1934. Some Americans—not ones usually associated with the opera—became familiar with the music because it was a favorite of “strip-tease” artists in burlesque theaters through the 1920’s! President Harry Truman signed a directive on January 22, 1946, creating the Central Intelligence Agency. Not to be outdone, on January 22, 1964, the Wisconsin Dairy Association created the Largest Piece of Cheese in the history of the world. Steve’s Cheese Factory, in Denmark, Wisconsin, produced the 34, 591 pound block of cheese for the State of Wisconsin’s entry to the 1964 World’s Fair. The cheddar block measured fourteen and a half feet long and five and a half feet high. A special glass-walled truck was built for the display. After the Fair ended, people were invited to consume as much of the cheese as they could, and they did. The refrigerated truck and all the nifty signs were returned to Wisconsin and a debate ensued about what to do with the stuff. Today, if you go to Neillsville, Wisconsin (population 2,600), you can find the Refrigerated Cheese Truck on display, together with a styrofoam replica of the World’s Largest Cheese and, to introduce you to the display, the city erected the World’s Largest fiberglass Cow, Chatty Belle. Chatty has a voice box which is supposed to tell visitors about the Cheese, but it broke in 2002 and, by visitors’ accounts since, has yet to be repaired (it’s part of the collapse of our National Infrastructure you hear about). Chatty, who herself is sixteen feet to the shoulders and twenty feet long, would tell you if she could that 170,000 quarts of milk from 16,000 Wisconsin cows went into making the Cheese. This is the 22nd day of the 2010; 343 days remain in the year. On the ancient Roman calendar, today is ante diem xi kalendas Februarias (literally, “eleven days before the first of February”—not the easiest way of keeping track of dates. There have been some improvements in 2000 years!). Finally, on January 22, 1951, the future Jefe de Cuba, Fidel Castro, a talented left-handed pitcher, was cut from the roster during a winter league tryout game for the Washington Senators. What if…?
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There are two Wal-Marts within easy distance of where I live. I never shopped at a Wal-Mart before, but I’ve been to both stores several times now since returning to the Lone Star State. The lay-out is different, but similar. I can find what I want now easily in either one, which, no doubt, is the intention. Clustered around the Wal-Marts are other places to buy things, equally similar—a MacDonald’s, a Taco Bell, a store selling fried chicken, a Texaco and a few strip malls within a block or so. The two areas look as if they were both drawn from the same architectural plan. If you drive around Los Angeles, California, Manassas, Virginia, Denver, Colorado or Seguin, Texas, you’ll see an identical urban landscape. We can find what we want easily, which, no doubt, is the intention. There are still places we can go in Los Angeles and Manassas and Denver and Seguin that are peculiar to the place—the white-and-black lighthouse sitting out by itself at the entrance to the Los Angeles harbor, the battle-scarred stone bridge at Manassas, the eerie Richthofen Castle in Denver, or the World’s Largest Pecan outside the Courthouse in Seguin—these are remnants of our past. How much, though, are they part of our future?
This past year, I wasn’t the only American who moved from one place to another. Forty-eight million others did the same in 2009. According to the Census Bureau, the “average” American changes residences twelve times from cradle to grave (not counting either of those). We are the most “mobile” people in history—with the possible exception of the nomads—and an argument could be made that our culture is “nomadic.” This mobility can bring new opportunities, new experiences, new people and new promises into our lives. We can make more money and "broaden our horizons." But we do so at a cost. That’s what I’ve been pondering of late.
Last week, I wrote about Fr Karas and the Coptic monastery outside Barstow. The Coptic (Egyptian Christian) community here in the United States is growing. My good friend Fr Robert Sanchez and I-both of us students of Liturgies Ancient and Modern-began attending a Coptic church in Los Angeles about a year and a half ago, initially from liturgical curiosity. As we got to know the people, though, our interest shifted from the academic to the personal. How does a group of Arabic-speaking Christians, a minority persecuted in their homeland, adjust to life in Los Angeles? The city, which officially prides itself in its cultural and racial diversity (but is racked with cultural and racial divides), must seem a continual contradiction. Will the Copts (a close-knit community in Egypt ghettoized by the Muslim government) lose their identity here? How will their faith, which reaches back to the first centuries of Christianity, survive in a secular society—indifference to religion is not religious intolerance. As I came to know the Copts, I came to admire and love them. These Egyptian Christians, often mistaken for Muslims because of their looks and language—and thus disdained by many in their new homeland for being un-American—are enthusiastic about their new country and certain of their Faith. I confess to paternalistic feelings about them. But what does any of this have to do with Wal-Marts and cookie-cutter neighborhoods?
At the request of the editor of a Catholic magazine, Fr Sanchez and I began research for a series of articles on Copts living in the United States. He was curious about some of the same questions we raised. As our research continued, further questions came up. Some I’ve asked myself for a long time. Most basically, “What does it mean to be ‘from’ somewhere?” I’ve moved at least twenty-four times—twice the average—and my life’s not quite over yet (although I pray my movings are). Anyone unfortunate enough to ask me “Where are you from?” won’t get a simple answer! In a sense, my Coptic friends are pilgrims, walking a complex labyrinth of their own. They’ve come to America in search of more than a job, and they bring more than a little of their homeland with them. If you ask them where they’re from, you’ll get a fascinating assortment of answers. Miriam, a mother of three boys all born here, told me emphatically “I am from here! I am not an Egyptian. I am an American and my sons are American!” but in a more quiet discussion she revealed her fears about America. “My boys love the church, but they love video games, too. They watch too much TV.”She clung to her youngest son and said, “My older boys like girls and it’s too soon.” She sounds like an American mom. Joseph is an older man. In Egypt he wanted to go to the university but was blocked time and again because of his religion. He immigrated in his mid-thirties, went to UCLA and is now a successful electrical engineer. “In America I achieved my dream,” he told me, “but I love Egypt. To achieve my dream I had to give up my home.” His life is torn; Joseph, unlike Miriam, is a hyphenated American. Ask where they are “from” and you’ll get two very different answers.
Ask where I’m “from” and I’ll tell you “Texas”—and even name a specific place in the Great State, although thus far I’ve lived more of my life in California than here. Being “from” a place is important. It defines us, sometimes more than we know, often more than we’re willing to admit. Fr Davis, my old curate, used to excuse some of the things I’d say by telling people “He can’t help it. He’s from Texas.” He didn’t just mean “Fr Wilcox was born somewhere else,” but “he’s from a provincial backwater where his attitudes are not only acceptable, but the unfortunate norm.” Most of us have a sort of “pride of place,” Texans famously so, but even people from Oklahoma don’t usually try to conceal their natal origins (well, maybe that’s not the best example—I’m pretty sure there are some Oklahomans who pretend they’re from Texas). Californians boast “California is a State of Mind,” believing others admire them for that. Being “from” somewhere matters. It tells me something about who I am.
We are more and more a nation of restless nomads, with cell phones fixed in our ears and the internet clipped to our pockets; a people on the go. We shop the same stores coast to coast, eat the same food from Virginia Beach to Long Beach and listen to the same music, watch the same television and are fed the same news in Altoona and Azusa. Where are we from? What does it matter?
If it doesn’t matter where I’m from, if one place is pretty much like another, if everything looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same, smells the same, then every place pretty much IS the same: no place is special. No place is home. When we become disconnected from our past, all that matters is what’s right here, right now. The world loses its wonder—it becomes not a symphony of Creation but just stuff to look at. The world ceases to be a sacrament of God’s presence and becomes just the place I am right now. Without a place to be “from” we aren’t just disconnected from our past; we become disconnected from ourselves, “a stranger in a strange land.”
We each need to be “from” somewhere—not necessarily where we’re born—but we need a special place, a place we are connected to. Our walk in the labyrinth of this life has to start “from” somewhere. If we are a nation of nomads, if we don’t know where we’re from, how can we know where we’re going? “New Age” wisdom (i.e., what you hear on Oprah and read in fortune cookies) tells us “It’s the Journey that Matters, Not the Goal.” There is some truth to that—some of the winning lotto numbers on the back of your fortune cookie are correct, just not now and not for you. We know the Journey is important. What God does with us (maybe sometimes “to” us) along the Way is essential to each of us being who we are and who He wants us to be. But we are not homeless on our Walk: we started somewhere, and are intended to end up Somewhere Else.
After the Mass for the Dead is ended, as the body is carried from the church for burial, one of the most beautiful of chants is sung, the In Paradisium: “May the angels lead you into Paradise, may the martyrs receive you in your coming, and may they guide you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the chorus of angels receive you and may you, with Lazarus once poor, have eternal rest.”
If you know where you’re “from,” you’ll have a better chance of getting where you want to go (even if you have to shop at Wal-Mart along the way).
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FROM MY BOOKSTACK: Whenever I see Minister Farrakhan is going to be on C-SPAN, I make an effort to watch. I will never forget the-uh-speech he delivered at the Million Man March. Till I go for my purgatorial wire-brushing, I will remember how mesmerized I was by that bizarre locution. With his first real national audience, he wandered off into numerological, Masonic and historical fantasies that would have strained the credulity of any member of the Flat Earth Society . He has, on occasion, spoken with force and conviction and sometimes truth. But that day too many of his hidden cards fell on the table. I do enjoy watching him speak. Not so Jesse Jackson. His attempts to convey education by alliteration not only fail to convince but even fail to entertain. He’s boring. He’s the Angry Black Man who wants you to know he’s angry, but if you give his organization some money, he’ll find someone else to be angry at (his model has been successful for a couple of other national black figures, too). When I see Jackson glowering on the TV, I change the channel. But there’s a new man of late, Michael Eric Dyson. Unlike Jesse, he’s genuinely educated and undoubtedly bright. Unlike Minister Farrakhan, he knows some whites will actually listen to what he says. A lot of his work is directed their way. Like Jesse, he knows how to be the Angry Black Man; like Minister Farrakhan, he speaks with force and conviction and sometimes truth. So when I was in a used bookstore two weeks ago and saw The Michael Eric Dyson Reader in the discount book bin, I couldn’t resist.
The book is a series of essays (500 pages of ‘em), running the gamut from “When You’re a Credit to Your Race, the Bill Will Come Due: O J Simpson and Our Trial by Fire” to “It’s Not What You Know, It’s How You Show It: Black Public Intellectuals.” I will admit there are several of the essays I’ve not read, a few, like “Michael Jackson’s Postmodern Spirituality,” which I almost certainly never will. Like those I’ve mentioned, and others I’ve not, Professor Dyson is a Professional Black Man. By that I mean being a black man is his profession, his distinction. That isn’t to say his has nothing to offer, but to get to his underlying thought, you have to wade through his asides, his anger, his frustration. For those who want to grapple with the racial problems of America today, it’s worth doing. For better or worse, his will be the face and voice of many black Americans for the next generation. Understanding his thought may not bring us much closer to healing the pain of the past and the divides of the present, but it will show us something of the limits that healing will be allowed to go for the next generation.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
QUOTES FROM THE PRINCIPALS:
Sir Francis Bacon-“Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.”
Queen Victoria-“I don't dislike babies, though I think very young ones rather disgusting.”
Harry Truman-“ Always be sincere, even if you don't mean it.”
Jesse Jackson-“ I cast my bread on the waters long ago. Now it's time for you to send it back to me - toasted and buttered on both sides.”
Chatty Belle-“Hi, so nice to see you. My name is Chatty Belle. What's your name? Well, nice to meet you. Did you know I’m the world's largest talking cow? I'm 16 feet high at the shoulders and 20 feet long, seven times as large as the average Holstein."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
There are two Wal-Marts within easy distance of where I live. I never shopped at a Wal-Mart before, but I’ve been to both stores several times now since returning to the Lone Star State. The lay-out is different, but similar. I can find what I want now easily in either one, which, no doubt, is the intention. Clustered around the Wal-Marts are other places to buy things, equally similar—a MacDonald’s, a Taco Bell, a store selling fried chicken, a Texaco and a few strip malls within a block or so. The two areas look as if they were both drawn from the same architectural plan. If you drive around Los Angeles, California, Manassas, Virginia, Denver, Colorado or Seguin, Texas, you’ll see an identical urban landscape. We can find what we want easily, which, no doubt, is the intention. There are still places we can go in Los Angeles and Manassas and Denver and Seguin that are peculiar to the place—the white-and-black lighthouse sitting out by itself at the entrance to the Los Angeles harbor, the battle-scarred stone bridge at Manassas, the eerie Richthofen Castle in Denver, or the World’s Largest Pecan outside the Courthouse in Seguin—these are remnants of our past. How much, though, are they part of our future?
This past year, I wasn’t the only American who moved from one place to another. Forty-eight million others did the same in 2009. According to the Census Bureau, the “average” American changes residences twelve times from cradle to grave (not counting either of those). We are the most “mobile” people in history—with the possible exception of the nomads—and an argument could be made that our culture is “nomadic.” This mobility can bring new opportunities, new experiences, new people and new promises into our lives. We can make more money and "broaden our horizons." But we do so at a cost. That’s what I’ve been pondering of late.
Last week, I wrote about Fr Karas and the Coptic monastery outside Barstow. The Coptic (Egyptian Christian) community here in the United States is growing. My good friend Fr Robert Sanchez and I-both of us students of Liturgies Ancient and Modern-began attending a Coptic church in Los Angeles about a year and a half ago, initially from liturgical curiosity. As we got to know the people, though, our interest shifted from the academic to the personal. How does a group of Arabic-speaking Christians, a minority persecuted in their homeland, adjust to life in Los Angeles? The city, which officially prides itself in its cultural and racial diversity (but is racked with cultural and racial divides), must seem a continual contradiction. Will the Copts (a close-knit community in Egypt ghettoized by the Muslim government) lose their identity here? How will their faith, which reaches back to the first centuries of Christianity, survive in a secular society—indifference to religion is not religious intolerance. As I came to know the Copts, I came to admire and love them. These Egyptian Christians, often mistaken for Muslims because of their looks and language—and thus disdained by many in their new homeland for being un-American—are enthusiastic about their new country and certain of their Faith. I confess to paternalistic feelings about them. But what does any of this have to do with Wal-Marts and cookie-cutter neighborhoods?
At the request of the editor of a Catholic magazine, Fr Sanchez and I began research for a series of articles on Copts living in the United States. He was curious about some of the same questions we raised. As our research continued, further questions came up. Some I’ve asked myself for a long time. Most basically, “What does it mean to be ‘from’ somewhere?” I’ve moved at least twenty-four times—twice the average—and my life’s not quite over yet (although I pray my movings are). Anyone unfortunate enough to ask me “Where are you from?” won’t get a simple answer! In a sense, my Coptic friends are pilgrims, walking a complex labyrinth of their own. They’ve come to America in search of more than a job, and they bring more than a little of their homeland with them. If you ask them where they’re from, you’ll get a fascinating assortment of answers. Miriam, a mother of three boys all born here, told me emphatically “I am from here! I am not an Egyptian. I am an American and my sons are American!” but in a more quiet discussion she revealed her fears about America. “My boys love the church, but they love video games, too. They watch too much TV.”She clung to her youngest son and said, “My older boys like girls and it’s too soon.” She sounds like an American mom. Joseph is an older man. In Egypt he wanted to go to the university but was blocked time and again because of his religion. He immigrated in his mid-thirties, went to UCLA and is now a successful electrical engineer. “In America I achieved my dream,” he told me, “but I love Egypt. To achieve my dream I had to give up my home.” His life is torn; Joseph, unlike Miriam, is a hyphenated American. Ask where they are “from” and you’ll get two very different answers.
Ask where I’m “from” and I’ll tell you “Texas”—and even name a specific place in the Great State, although thus far I’ve lived more of my life in California than here. Being “from” a place is important. It defines us, sometimes more than we know, often more than we’re willing to admit. Fr Davis, my old curate, used to excuse some of the things I’d say by telling people “He can’t help it. He’s from Texas.” He didn’t just mean “Fr Wilcox was born somewhere else,” but “he’s from a provincial backwater where his attitudes are not only acceptable, but the unfortunate norm.” Most of us have a sort of “pride of place,” Texans famously so, but even people from Oklahoma don’t usually try to conceal their natal origins (well, maybe that’s not the best example—I’m pretty sure there are some Oklahomans who pretend they’re from Texas). Californians boast “California is a State of Mind,” believing others admire them for that. Being “from” somewhere matters. It tells me something about who I am.
We are more and more a nation of restless nomads, with cell phones fixed in our ears and the internet clipped to our pockets; a people on the go. We shop the same stores coast to coast, eat the same food from Virginia Beach to Long Beach and listen to the same music, watch the same television and are fed the same news in Altoona and Azusa. Where are we from? What does it matter?
If it doesn’t matter where I’m from, if one place is pretty much like another, if everything looks the same, sounds the same, tastes the same, smells the same, then every place pretty much IS the same: no place is special. No place is home. When we become disconnected from our past, all that matters is what’s right here, right now. The world loses its wonder—it becomes not a symphony of Creation but just stuff to look at. The world ceases to be a sacrament of God’s presence and becomes just the place I am right now. Without a place to be “from” we aren’t just disconnected from our past; we become disconnected from ourselves, “a stranger in a strange land.”
We each need to be “from” somewhere—not necessarily where we’re born—but we need a special place, a place we are connected to. Our walk in the labyrinth of this life has to start “from” somewhere. If we are a nation of nomads, if we don’t know where we’re from, how can we know where we’re going? “New Age” wisdom (i.e., what you hear on Oprah and read in fortune cookies) tells us “It’s the Journey that Matters, Not the Goal.” There is some truth to that—some of the winning lotto numbers on the back of your fortune cookie are correct, just not now and not for you. We know the Journey is important. What God does with us (maybe sometimes “to” us) along the Way is essential to each of us being who we are and who He wants us to be. But we are not homeless on our Walk: we started somewhere, and are intended to end up Somewhere Else.
After the Mass for the Dead is ended, as the body is carried from the church for burial, one of the most beautiful of chants is sung, the In Paradisium: “May the angels lead you into Paradise, may the martyrs receive you in your coming, and may they guide you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the chorus of angels receive you and may you, with Lazarus once poor, have eternal rest.”
If you know where you’re “from,” you’ll have a better chance of getting where you want to go (even if you have to shop at Wal-Mart along the way).
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
FROM MY BOOKSTACK: Whenever I see Minister Farrakhan is going to be on C-SPAN, I make an effort to watch. I will never forget the-uh-speech he delivered at the Million Man March. Till I go for my purgatorial wire-brushing, I will remember how mesmerized I was by that bizarre locution. With his first real national audience, he wandered off into numerological, Masonic and historical fantasies that would have strained the credulity of any member of the Flat Earth Society . He has, on occasion, spoken with force and conviction and sometimes truth. But that day too many of his hidden cards fell on the table. I do enjoy watching him speak. Not so Jesse Jackson. His attempts to convey education by alliteration not only fail to convince but even fail to entertain. He’s boring. He’s the Angry Black Man who wants you to know he’s angry, but if you give his organization some money, he’ll find someone else to be angry at (his model has been successful for a couple of other national black figures, too). When I see Jackson glowering on the TV, I change the channel. But there’s a new man of late, Michael Eric Dyson. Unlike Jesse, he’s genuinely educated and undoubtedly bright. Unlike Minister Farrakhan, he knows some whites will actually listen to what he says. A lot of his work is directed their way. Like Jesse, he knows how to be the Angry Black Man; like Minister Farrakhan, he speaks with force and conviction and sometimes truth. So when I was in a used bookstore two weeks ago and saw The Michael Eric Dyson Reader in the discount book bin, I couldn’t resist.
The book is a series of essays (500 pages of ‘em), running the gamut from “When You’re a Credit to Your Race, the Bill Will Come Due: O J Simpson and Our Trial by Fire” to “It’s Not What You Know, It’s How You Show It: Black Public Intellectuals.” I will admit there are several of the essays I’ve not read, a few, like “Michael Jackson’s Postmodern Spirituality,” which I almost certainly never will. Like those I’ve mentioned, and others I’ve not, Professor Dyson is a Professional Black Man. By that I mean being a black man is his profession, his distinction. That isn’t to say his has nothing to offer, but to get to his underlying thought, you have to wade through his asides, his anger, his frustration. For those who want to grapple with the racial problems of America today, it’s worth doing. For better or worse, his will be the face and voice of many black Americans for the next generation. Understanding his thought may not bring us much closer to healing the pain of the past and the divides of the present, but it will show us something of the limits that healing will be allowed to go for the next generation.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
QUOTES FROM THE PRINCIPALS:
Sir Francis Bacon-“Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested: that is, some books are to be read only in parts, others to be read, but not curiously, and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention.”
Queen Victoria-“I don't dislike babies, though I think very young ones rather disgusting.”
Harry Truman-“ Always be sincere, even if you don't mean it.”
Jesse Jackson-“ I cast my bread on the waters long ago. Now it's time for you to send it back to me - toasted and buttered on both sides.”
Chatty Belle-“Hi, so nice to see you. My name is Chatty Belle. What's your name? Well, nice to meet you. Did you know I’m the world's largest talking cow? I'm 16 feet high at the shoulders and 20 feet long, seven times as large as the average Holstein."
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Beyond Barstow
Walking the Labyrinth-January 15, 2010—Every now and then, the story of one of the saints delights the funny bone as much as the soul. St Ceolwulf is one such, even if at times he didn’t find his situation humorous. On the calendar of saints, he is listed as both a King and a monk, which was not how Ceolwulf planned to be remembered. According to the 1200 year old Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, recounting the history of early England, “Ceolwulf was the son of Cutha, Cutha of Cuthwin, Cuthwin of Leoldwald, Leoldwald of Egwald, Egwald of…” (you get the point; these lists go back almost to Adam). Ceolwulf succeeded to the throne of Northumbria (that part of England just below the Scottish border; York was its capital) about 729. As a young man he’d been educated by monks and was more a scholar than a warrior—and the times called for a warrior. Northumbria had been at war with neighboring princedoms for five generations before he was crowned and the wars would continue 100 years after Ceolwulf’s death. The new King announced to his noblemen he intended to “busy himself in learning the arts of warfare,” but after two years he was still absorbed in his books and had yet to pick up a sword. One night he was abducted by a group of noble conspirators and taken to a monastery, where the waiting abbot tonsured him a monk on the spot. He was locked in a cell and for months refused to talk to anyone. Coelwulf blamed the monks, the nobles and, no doubt, God Himself for his plight. When he was allowed to join in the common life of the monastery, he complained of the strict diet and uncomfortable accommodations. The noblemen of Northumbria, free of the king, fell to squabbling and then to fighting with each other. Eventually they decided life under the bookish king was better than civil war, so they fetched him back to York. Though Coelwulf initially relished the prospect of being a king, as he faced the day-to-day problems of ruling, Coelwulf began to miss his books and long for the solitude of the monastery. St Bede, in his Ecclesiastical History of England, tells us that after a reign of about five years, Coelwulf, “wearied of the splendid cares of royalty,” called together his nobles and announced his retirement to the monastery of Lindisfarne (famous for its library). Before retiring, however, Coelwulf used his royal influence to change some of the rules. The monks’ diet was improved to allow them, among other things, to drink beer and wine at meals (before this they drank only water). Cells were to be warmed with stoves. Perhaps most importantly, monks were allowed to take books to their rooms. The king-turned monk lived a life of contentment and peace for almost 30 years before he died in his warm cell on January 15, 765. He was known for his piety, love of learning and good nature. Roman history knows few years as tumultuous as AD 69, called The Year of the Four Emperors. They call it that because four Emperors reigned during the one year. Servius Sulpicus Galba was first of the four. After Nero committed suicide in June of AD 68 (he had been declared an outlaw and was sentenced to be beaten to death when found), the Senate called on Galba (commander of the Roman legions in Germany) to replace the dead emperor. It’s a mistake to put someone In Charge when you don’t know them, a lesson the Senate was not to learn that year. Galba made his way to Rome, extorting money from cities along the way. By the time he got to the Eternal City, news of his money-grasping ways had preceded him. He quickly ran afoul of the Senate and people by threatening to raise taxes and revoke their long-standing privileges. He sealed his fate, however, when he told the Praetorian Guard (the soldiers in charge of the Emperor’s palace) he wasn’t sharing any of his newly-acquired wealth with them. By the New Year, gamblers were openly taking bets as to how long the Emperor had to live. On January 15, Galba realized he was in trouble. He went out into the streets to gather supporters to demonstrate on his behalf, but couldn’t find any. Instead, a group of disgruntled soldiers stabbed him to death and left his body in the street. It was an bad beginning to what would be one of the worst years in Roman history. On January 15, 1622, the French playwright Jean Baptiste Pouqelin, who is known to us by his nom de plume, Moliere, was born. His father held a position at Court: “Valet in Ordinary of the King's Chamber and Keeper of the Royal Carpets and Upholstery.” In addition to a generous salary, the position allowed his father to grow rich with contracts and connections. Jean Baptiste was being groomed to take his father’s place when, at 21, he announced his desire to become an actor instead (a career which, at the time carried a distinct social onus). He formed a troupe with Madeleine Bejar, one of the most beautiful actresses of the day (Bejar brought her legendary beauty to the deal while the young Jean Baptiste contributed the start-up money—it’s an old story); for 12 years they toured. During this time Jean Baptiste changed his name to Moliere, probably to save his father the embarrassment of having an actor in the family. He began writing satires and comedies for his actors, and his barbed wit began to attract a following. In 1655, the Duke of Orleans (brother to the “Sun King,” Louis XIV) became his patron and within a few years Moliere’s troupe performed for the King himself at the royal theater in the Louvre. Over the following decade, Moliere’s successes followed one on another. His two greatest comedies, Tartuffe, ou L'Imposteur (Tartuffe, or, The Hypocrite) and Le Misanthrope were preformed for the King at Versailles. While both were condemned by the clergy at court (a bishop publicly burned the text of Tartuffe outside the palace), Moliere enjoyed the King’s protection and patronage. Though he wrote many of the plays his troupe performed, Moliere loved to act. While playing the role of a hypochondriac in his newly-written play Le Malade imaginaire (The Imaginary Invalid), Moliere began coughing and bleeding—many thought it an extraordinary performance—until they realized the blood was real. Moliere not only insisted the play should continue, but that he continue in his role. After the play he collapsed and was taken to his apartment, where the hemorrhaging became more severe. A doctor told the actors gathered around him to send for a priest, but two refused to come when they learned who was waiting for the Last Rites. When a third priest did arrive, it was only in time to bless Moliere’s corpse. Because he was an actor, France’s greatest playwright was refused burial in consecrated ground. Daniel Raap was a well-to-do porcelain merchant in Amsterdam. In his late forties, the Dutchman developed political aspirations and became active in one of Amsterdam’s political clubs. On January 10, 1754, while talking to friends on the street in front of his shop, he was killed by a runaway carriage. A sad tale, but not especially remarkable. Daniel’s funeral was held at the Oudekerk, the oldest church in the city (now in the heart of Amsterdam’s red-light district), on January 15. While his body was being carried to the churchyard for burial, a few of his political rivals made light of his fate. They were overheard by some of Daniel’s friends, who not only took umbrage, but attacked and beat the jokers. Someone drew a sword (a good reason not to allow people with weapons in church) and stabbed one of the pallbearers. The clergy ran back into the cathedral as the graveyard erupted into what would become a six-hour riot. Over 300 people were injured, several mortally. Daniel Raap was buried in secret, during the middle of the night, by a clergyman and four gravediggers, who performed one of the speediest burials in Dutch history. The famous American cartoonist, Thomas Nast, published a cartoon in the January 15, 1870 edition of Harpers’ Weekly Magazine. It was titled “A Live Jackass Kicks a Dead Lion,” and, for the first time, a jackass was used to symbolize the Democratic Party. Four years later, in another cartoon for the same magazine, Nast labeled an elephant “The Republican Vote.” Nast’s ideas seem appropriate, though today we might choose other animals—or plants—to symbolize our political leaders and their parties. Babe Ruth was near the height of his fame when, on January 15, 1928, he signed a fresh contract with the New York Yankees. It was for $155,000.00 (that used to be a lot of money—now it buys a garage in Los Angeles). As he left his lawyer’s office, a newspaperman asked the Babe if it seemed right to him that he made more money that year than the President of the United States, Herbert Hoover (whose salary was $75,000.00). Ruth quipped, “Well, I had a better year than he did.” That’s a reply worth remembering. On January 15, 1971, with great fanfare after years of false starts and problems, President Gamal Abdel Nasser of Egypt officially opened the Aswan High Dam. It produces 15% of Egypt’s electricity and was the most spectacular accomplishment of Nasser’s administration. But the story of the High Dam is a story of Unintended Consequences. Designed by Russian architects unfamiliar with the Egyptian countryside and the cycles of the Nile, the dam turned huge amounts of land around it into a lake—which, unsurprisingly, was named Lake Nasser (the lake is called something else by the Sudanese, who were not consulted about the project but whose lands were nevertheless flooded). The lake was much larger than expected and displaced more than 60,000 Nubians whose ancestors had lived along the banks of the Nile for over 6,000 years. They were relocated, partially at government expense, to the shores of the new lake. However, since the Nubians are neither Arab nor Muslim, their plight was largely ignored by the Egyptian government. That leads to the second great Unintended Consequence, a bit delicious in its irony. The Nile floods every year. For thousands of years the annual flood has renewed Egypt. The rich soils of the African interior are deposited on the banks of the river during the flood, from Upper Nubia (northern Sudan) to the shores of the Mediterranean. The dam allows the government to control the flooding of the river in northern Egypt, but the planners forgot about the nutrient-rich soil deposits. Those can’t pass through the dam, so they end up around the shores of Lake Nasser, where the despised Nubians now live—and farm. A crisis has been brewing in Egypt ever since, because the Egyptian farmers north of the High Dam are now deprived of the nutrients of the Nile. The Nubians haven’t had it so good since the days of their ancient Kings and the fabled “gold of Nubia.” Nubian gold, nowadays, comes in the form of mineral deposits courtesy of Russian engineers who saw the annual flood of the Nile only as a nuisance to be overcome. This is the 15th day of the year; there are 350 days remaining in 2010 and only 344 shopping days left till Christmas. On the ancient Roman calendar, today is ante diem xviii kalendas Februarias, and the second day of the Carmentalia, a feast celebrating Carmenta, the goddess of childbirth (and a sort of Roman “Mothers’ Day”—so why not send your mom a Carmentalia card). On January 15, 1951, Patti Page topped America’s music charts with her recording of “The Tennessee Waltz.” It’s the 81st birthday of Ida Lewis Guillory, the accordion playin’ “Queen of Zydeco”—and her fingers are still playin’ them plastic keys.
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Joan tells me in an email she visited a Coptic monastery out in the California desert, beyond Barstow. I know the place well. Beyond Barstow is right. When you get off the I-15, drawn by the small sign that reads “St Anthony the Great Coptic Monastery,” you travel a dozen miles or so on a road it’s generous to call “unpaved.” It’s jarring both to body and (if not soul, at least) mind, and I had a headache long before I reached the place the first time I went. My later jaunts along that “road” were uncomfortable, but as I knew what waited at the other end, vale la pena, as the Spanish goes. As some of you know, I traveled to Las Vegas from Los Angeles once every three or four weeks for more than ten years to minister to St Edward the Confessor Church in Henderson, Nevada. The people were a joy, but the next time I go to Vegas it will be in the devil’s pocket, after I’ve died, having been declared unfit for purgatorial rehabilitation: Vegas will be my first stop on the way to hell. For years, as I made the drive from Los Angeles, I saw the monastery’s little sign hanging on a fence along the Interstate. I always ignored it, convinced it was some aberrant group too bizarre even for Los Angeles. When I did visit, at Tanya’s urging (who was making the trip with me), it was unwillingly, more to prove the point that there was nothing good to be found at the road’s end. As we bounced along mile after mile, I repeated some variant of “There are better ways to spend time than this.” When we arrived, I was shocked. Hundreds of cars sat together inside a large compound on the heat-cracked floor of the Mojave Desert. A bunch of ugly buildings clustered on one part of the acreage, but the scene was alive with people—teen-agers for the most part—olive-skinned, black-headed, smiling and waving a welcome. Not what I expected.
A young monk made his way through the crowd to where I’d parked and bowed. He kissed me on both cheeks, welcomed us in imperfect English, and asked us to follow him to meet the abbot. It was as if we were expected. The abbot was surrounded with a cluster of monks, nuns and many young people when we were brought into the hall where he was talking. He stopped, came up to me, kissed my cheeks and my hand (I was in clericals and it’s the custom of Eastern Christians to kiss the hands of priests) and welcomed me. I protested I didn’t want to interrupt, that we only came to…but I never finished. He said to me “You have come as a blessing to us, sent by Christ our God.” How does a cynical, know-it-all priest like me respond to that? He sent the children away and insisted we eat. They fed us delightful Egyptian food (I now know why the children of Israel grumbled at Moses that he’d taken them away from the “fleshpots of Egypt”) and asked about my work. I spoke briefly about my duties as rector of St Mary’s in Hollywood, my role as Dean of California and Nevada, and my seemingly endless “supply” work at St Edward’s in Henderson. He smiled, took my hand and said “It is wonderful to be used up by the Lord, isn’t it? You are empty of yourself and so full of God’s blessing for others.” Again, I couldn’t respond to such certain and uncomplaining faith. He spoke of himself, not me.
After we ate, he sent Tanya off with the nuns and asked me to come with him to the chapel. It was—by my refined liturgical standards—quite primitive. As we entered, though, he stopped and had me remove my shoes, as he did. “Father,” he whispered, “we are entering a Holy Place, and must take off our shoes as Moses did before the Bush that burned with God.” I followed him to a back corner and we sat on the floor (the Copts have no pews in their churches); then for the next hour and a half, we talked about prayer. He wanted me to teach him! Happily, I turned the tables there (knowing that if I presumed to teach this saintly man about the topic Satan himself would have torn open the desert floor and dragged me straight to perdition, no ifs, ands or buts. Instead, I questioned him, and he spoke with elegant simplicity about a topic of which he was a master. His words were a joy for an old cynic to hear, like cool waters poured on the heat-cracked floor of the desert.
Some things he told me I can’t share, some things I treasure simply as Scripture tells us Mary kept some things in her immaculate heart. After we talked, we sat silently for a while, praying the Jesus Prayer. When we left the chapel, the abbot, Father Karas, had the monks call all the young people to the monastery patio. I asked him if they were here for a retreat; he said no, this was normal—Coptic families from southern California, Nevada and northern Arizona came to the monastery every weekend. I could understand why, bumpy road and all. He then spoke to them. “Father Wilcox is a priest from St Mary’s Parish in Los Angeles. He and his people love the Mother of God like we do, and the Lord has sent him to us today to bless us.” A monk appeared with a large bucket full of holy water and handed me a big stalk of hyssop. I splashed it on them liberally, amid much laughing and smiling, and hundreds of young people kissed my hands. As we went to the car, Father Karas pressed an icon of the Blessed Virgin in my hands (it now hangs in the altar guild sacristy of St Mary’s); we kissed each other on the cheeks and Tanya and I headed back down the bumpy road—I don’t think either of us thought to complain.
Father Karas and I corresponded frequently over the following years. I visited him at St Anthony’s and we spoke on the floor of the chapel again. In technical terms, he was not my spiritual director, but much of my growth in grace during those years was through his words and, I know, because of his prayers. In 1993, Fr Karas was made a bishop of the Coptic Church by the Patriarch of Alexandria (Egypt, not Virginia), Pope Shenouda III, but he always signed his letters to me, “Your brother, Karas, the monk.”
I didn’t visit him before I left California, intending to do so when I returned later this year—I’d already scheduled a retreat. Now I’ve learned he died. That day in the desert years ago, Father Karas, the man who lived with Christ, was less than 30 years old. His faith and words, though, embodied the timeless wisdom and piety of his Coptic past. It lived in him, emptied him, and enabled him to fill others with New Life. I won’t say “May he rest in peace,” but instead, “Karas, monk of God, pray for me.”
Beyond Bartow indeed, Joan.
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QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
St Bede of Jarrow—“He alone loves the Creator perfectly who manifests a pure love for his neighbor.”
Moliere—“It infuriates me to be wrong when I know I'm right.”
“It's true Heaven forbids some pleasures, but a compromise can usually be found.”
Louis XIV (the “Sun King”)—“I very nearly had to wait!”
Babe Ruth—“You just can’t beat the person that never gives up.”
Gamal Abdel Nasser—“The genius of Americans is that they never make clear-cut stupid moves, only complicated stupid moves which make the rest of us wonder at the possibility that we might be missing something.”
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Joan tells me in an email she visited a Coptic monastery out in the California desert, beyond Barstow. I know the place well. Beyond Barstow is right. When you get off the I-15, drawn by the small sign that reads “St Anthony the Great Coptic Monastery,” you travel a dozen miles or so on a road it’s generous to call “unpaved.” It’s jarring both to body and (if not soul, at least) mind, and I had a headache long before I reached the place the first time I went. My later jaunts along that “road” were uncomfortable, but as I knew what waited at the other end, vale la pena, as the Spanish goes. As some of you know, I traveled to Las Vegas from Los Angeles once every three or four weeks for more than ten years to minister to St Edward the Confessor Church in Henderson, Nevada. The people were a joy, but the next time I go to Vegas it will be in the devil’s pocket, after I’ve died, having been declared unfit for purgatorial rehabilitation: Vegas will be my first stop on the way to hell. For years, as I made the drive from Los Angeles, I saw the monastery’s little sign hanging on a fence along the Interstate. I always ignored it, convinced it was some aberrant group too bizarre even for Los Angeles. When I did visit, at Tanya’s urging (who was making the trip with me), it was unwillingly, more to prove the point that there was nothing good to be found at the road’s end. As we bounced along mile after mile, I repeated some variant of “There are better ways to spend time than this.” When we arrived, I was shocked. Hundreds of cars sat together inside a large compound on the heat-cracked floor of the Mojave Desert. A bunch of ugly buildings clustered on one part of the acreage, but the scene was alive with people—teen-agers for the most part—olive-skinned, black-headed, smiling and waving a welcome. Not what I expected.
A young monk made his way through the crowd to where I’d parked and bowed. He kissed me on both cheeks, welcomed us in imperfect English, and asked us to follow him to meet the abbot. It was as if we were expected. The abbot was surrounded with a cluster of monks, nuns and many young people when we were brought into the hall where he was talking. He stopped, came up to me, kissed my cheeks and my hand (I was in clericals and it’s the custom of Eastern Christians to kiss the hands of priests) and welcomed me. I protested I didn’t want to interrupt, that we only came to…but I never finished. He said to me “You have come as a blessing to us, sent by Christ our God.” How does a cynical, know-it-all priest like me respond to that? He sent the children away and insisted we eat. They fed us delightful Egyptian food (I now know why the children of Israel grumbled at Moses that he’d taken them away from the “fleshpots of Egypt”) and asked about my work. I spoke briefly about my duties as rector of St Mary’s in Hollywood, my role as Dean of California and Nevada, and my seemingly endless “supply” work at St Edward’s in Henderson. He smiled, took my hand and said “It is wonderful to be used up by the Lord, isn’t it? You are empty of yourself and so full of God’s blessing for others.” Again, I couldn’t respond to such certain and uncomplaining faith. He spoke of himself, not me.
After we ate, he sent Tanya off with the nuns and asked me to come with him to the chapel. It was—by my refined liturgical standards—quite primitive. As we entered, though, he stopped and had me remove my shoes, as he did. “Father,” he whispered, “we are entering a Holy Place, and must take off our shoes as Moses did before the Bush that burned with God.” I followed him to a back corner and we sat on the floor (the Copts have no pews in their churches); then for the next hour and a half, we talked about prayer. He wanted me to teach him! Happily, I turned the tables there (knowing that if I presumed to teach this saintly man about the topic Satan himself would have torn open the desert floor and dragged me straight to perdition, no ifs, ands or buts. Instead, I questioned him, and he spoke with elegant simplicity about a topic of which he was a master. His words were a joy for an old cynic to hear, like cool waters poured on the heat-cracked floor of the desert.
Some things he told me I can’t share, some things I treasure simply as Scripture tells us Mary kept some things in her immaculate heart. After we talked, we sat silently for a while, praying the Jesus Prayer. When we left the chapel, the abbot, Father Karas, had the monks call all the young people to the monastery patio. I asked him if they were here for a retreat; he said no, this was normal—Coptic families from southern California, Nevada and northern Arizona came to the monastery every weekend. I could understand why, bumpy road and all. He then spoke to them. “Father Wilcox is a priest from St Mary’s Parish in Los Angeles. He and his people love the Mother of God like we do, and the Lord has sent him to us today to bless us.” A monk appeared with a large bucket full of holy water and handed me a big stalk of hyssop. I splashed it on them liberally, amid much laughing and smiling, and hundreds of young people kissed my hands. As we went to the car, Father Karas pressed an icon of the Blessed Virgin in my hands (it now hangs in the altar guild sacristy of St Mary’s); we kissed each other on the cheeks and Tanya and I headed back down the bumpy road—I don’t think either of us thought to complain.
Father Karas and I corresponded frequently over the following years. I visited him at St Anthony’s and we spoke on the floor of the chapel again. In technical terms, he was not my spiritual director, but much of my growth in grace during those years was through his words and, I know, because of his prayers. In 1993, Fr Karas was made a bishop of the Coptic Church by the Patriarch of Alexandria (Egypt, not Virginia), Pope Shenouda III, but he always signed his letters to me, “Your brother, Karas, the monk.”
I didn’t visit him before I left California, intending to do so when I returned later this year—I’d already scheduled a retreat. Now I’ve learned he died. That day in the desert years ago, Father Karas, the man who lived with Christ, was less than 30 years old. His faith and words, though, embodied the timeless wisdom and piety of his Coptic past. It lived in him, emptied him, and enabled him to fill others with New Life. I won’t say “May he rest in peace,” but instead, “Karas, monk of God, pray for me.”
Beyond Bartow indeed, Joan.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
St Bede of Jarrow—“He alone loves the Creator perfectly who manifests a pure love for his neighbor.”
Moliere—“It infuriates me to be wrong when I know I'm right.”
“It's true Heaven forbids some pleasures, but a compromise can usually be found.”
Louis XIV (the “Sun King”)—“I very nearly had to wait!”
Babe Ruth—“You just can’t beat the person that never gives up.”
Gamal Abdel Nasser—“The genius of Americans is that they never make clear-cut stupid moves, only complicated stupid moves which make the rest of us wonder at the possibility that we might be missing something.”
Friday, January 08, 2010
Lively Sacrifices
Walking the Labyrinth-January 8, 2010—St Abo was a perfumer, chemist and a dabbler in the mystic arts. An Arab, he was born in Baghdad during the days of the caliphs and, his biographer tells us, “was well-versed in the lore of Islam.” He also loved to argue religion. He would argue with Muslim imams, Christian priests and Jewish rabbis about the doctrines of each religion, often asserting there was no truth to any of them. His skill in the perfumer’s art won him the attention of the royal court and he was eventually brought into the household of Nerses, one of the Caliph’s sons. That seemed a good thing until Nerses and all his household were exiled by his father to the far shores of the Caspian Sea. There Abo met a monk who refused to argue religion with him, but eagerly spoke to him about prayer and the life of piety. The perfumer, drawn to what he heard, abandoned his Muslim prayers for those he learned from the monk and was baptized. When Nerses’ father died, Abo returned with him to live in Tbilisi (in modern-day Georgia—the one that used to be part of the Soviet Union, not the Georgia famous for peaches and Driving Miss Daisy) despite his conversion. Abo was denounced by those “jealous of his skills” as having abandoned Islam. He refused to deny his new faith and was beheaded on January 8, 786. Before his execution the perfumer thanked God for leading him to know “the sweet fragrance of Christ.” Today he is patron saint of Tbilisi and, not surprisingly, of perfumers. Marco Polo, the Venetian merchant who traveled more than 15,000 miles during his Great Journey, died happily in his bed on January 8, 1324. He left Venice for “Cathay” with his father and uncle when he was 17, in 1271. For the next 24 years the three traveled through China, Burma, India and places between, amassing a fortune in the service of the Great Khan, Kublai. When they returned to Italy, Marco determined to write a book recounting their adventures, but new mercantile opportunities “left me little time or inclination.” Several years later, during an inter-city war between Venice and Genoa, Marco was captured shipboard by the Genoese and jailed for spying (which, by his own account, is just what he was doing). He spent 4 years in prison, where he did find the time and inclination to write. With the help of a cell-mate, he wrote the book we know as The Travels of Marco Polo. After his release, Marco returned to Venice, resolved to never leave his home again. His fortunes continued to prosper and in 1300 he married the daughter of a fellow-merchant, and by her had three daughters. He died as the sun set the evening of January 8, 1324, at home in his bed, surrounded by his family, friends and parish priest, having kept his vow never again to leave Venice. Everybody knows Galileo (technically, Galileo di Vincenzo Bonaiuti de' Galilei), who died on January 8, 1642, was imprisoned by the Inquisition. What most don’t know is that he had two daughters, both of whom were nuns. His eldest, Virginia, took the name Sister Maria Celeste at her profession. She was the brightest of his children (he had a son who most definitely did not become a monk!) and the closest to her father. They corresponded regularly through the time of his troubles up to the end of his life (124 of her letters survive). Their content may surprise those who think of the father of modern astronomy as a bold scientist of the new age, free from the shackles of religion and faith. Sister Maria Celeste saw no contradiction between her father’s new discoveries and the old Faith in which he had brought her up. Neither did Galileo. Even after his trial before the Inquisitors, Galileo privately professed belief in the Church’s faith to his daughter. Disgraceful as the acts of the Inquisition were, Galileo and his friends distinguished between his enemies (in the Church and out) and the faith the Church espoused. Galileo admitted that he had a temper and a sarcastic wit, and that calling the Pope a “simpleton” in his famous treatise on the Copernican theory wasn’t the wisest thing he’d ever done. Sister Maria Celeste is entombed beside her beloved father in Florence’s Santa Croce Church. Baskerville—you know the name. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle liked it so much he appropriated it for one of Sherlock Holmes’ greatest stories. Umberto Eco borrowed it from Doyle as the name of his friar-detective in The Name of the Rose. You also know it as one of the type fonts on your computer. All three uses trace back to John Baskerville, an eighteenth-century Englishman who was the official printer for Cambridge University from 1758 until his death on January 8, 1775. He worked for years to develop a typeface he thought elegant and easy to read; the result was the typeface we now call Baskerville (he didn’t call it that, but didn’t object when Benjamin Franklin, a printer himself who thought it the best typeface he’d ever seen, did). After developing the typeface, Baskerville began experimenting with various types of paper that would best show off his work. All this was preparatory for what Baskerville planned as the great accomplishment of his life, the printing of a large, folio Bible. Subsidized by the University, he completed the project in 1763, and it was a resounding success. While you and I may be familiar with John Baskerville for the three reasons mentioned above, in his lifetime he was renowned as the Printer of the Baskerville Bible. The fun of all this is that John Baskerville was a rather militant atheist, though his militancy softened a bit as the sales of his Bible increased. In his will, though, he pointedly required that he not be buried “in or near” a church, “nor interr’d in consecrated ground.” After his death, he was buried in the garden of his home. Within a decade, though, a canal was built through John’s property, necessitating his removal from the garden tomb. For several years his coffin lay in a book warehouse (he probably would have liked that), then he was re-interred in the underground crypt of Christ Church, Birmingham. When that church was demolished in 1899, John’s remains were carted to the Church of England Cemetery in the same city. There he rests (perhaps), surrounded by those with whom he did not wish to spend eternity. The War of 1812 formally ended with the signing of the Treaty of Ghent on Christmas Eve, 1814. Two weeks later, on January 8, 1815, General Andrew Jackson commanded a hodge-podge force of 4,000 Americans—700 members of the US Regular Army, several well-dressed militia units out of New Orleans, Jean Lafitte’s Baratarian pirates, a group of former Haitian slaves, now free men of color living as artisans and businessmen in the Crescent City, and a band of Choctaw American Indians, (their chief was a “blood-brother” of General Jackson)—who defeated 11,000 British troops under Sir Edward Pakenham “on the immortal plains of Chalmette,” seven miles downriver from New Orleans. While it’s often remarked that the war was over at the time, Sir Edward didn’t know that anymore than General Jackson, and his intention was to raze New Orleans as British forces had earlier in the war burnt Washington City. The men fighting to save New Orleans did save it. Those of us who love that city should always remember January 8 with a toast to the General who swore “By the Eternal, I will drive them back to the sea!” and did. Our national story runs a gamut of tales. On January 8, 1935, shortly before dawn, Gladys Love Presley gave birth to the second of a pair of twins in her bedroom. Earlier, in the middle of the night, she’d delivered a still-born son. Her husband, Vernon, took the mother and surviving child to the Tupelo hospital, afraid he’d lose them all. Both the mother and her son, who they named Elvis Aaron Presley (“Elvis” from his father’s middle name, “Aaron” after his father’s best friend) returned home safely. On his nineteenth birthday, Elvis went to a Memphis recording studio and, after paying a $4.00 fee, cut his first record. Two years later, on his birthday in 1956, his recording of “Don’t Be Cruel”/ “You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog” went to the top of the music charts and remained there for a (pardon me) “record” eleven weeks. Sixteen years after his death, the United States Post Office issued a commemorative Elvis Presley stamp—on January 8, 1993—his 58th birthday. His home, Graceland, was declared a National Monument in 2006; it is the second most frequently visited home in the United States, after the White House. Sometimes, I have no comment; I simply pass along information. Today, seven days after the kalends of Ianuarius, the ancient Romans kept the feast of Iustitia, the goddess of Justice. Her statue depicted her blindfolded, balancing a pair of scales and holding a sword. We have adopted the statue and her symbols unaltered. Sometimes, when the citizens of old Rome believed their courts issued unjust or unwise rulings, small, satirical statues would appear for sale with the scales out of balance (sometimes loaded down with gold coins) or the blindfold slipped from its place. There just might be a market for those little statues nowadays. This is the eighth day of 2010, 357 remain in the year. On this day in 1944, Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters topped America’s music charts with Pistol Packin’ Mama. January is, by Congressional mandate, both Family Fitness Month and National Candy Month. I could be mistaken, but is it possible our national legislators are not of one mind?
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As every decade passes, there is a custom among Observers of the Times to mark a particular distinction of the ten years just passed and “title” it: i.e., the decade of the “Me” Generation, the “Free Love” of the Sixties (those two weren’t the same?) and so on. As I look back at the past ten years, two things glare back at me: the economic restructuring we are doing to ourselves (but this is more likely to be the beginning of a story stretching through the first several decades of this century) and the War. The War against Terror (or call it what you will) has been on-going since October, 2001. That's longer than it took for the country to fight the War Between the States and World War Two combined. The new President was elected as (among other things) an anti-war president, but he shows little sign of keeping that pledge. John McCain’s ominous 100-year commitment might not be that far off target. Those things are far beyond my competence to analyze or criticize. There is A LOT most of us don’t—and won’t—ever know. But there are some things we can observe, question and comment on. In fact, we as citizens are required to do that. I'm not going to write a discourse on the War, but I do want to ponder one small aspect of it with you as we walk the Lord’s labyrinth. It impacts our spiritual lives and how we walk.
Both the terrible conflicts I mentioned above called for great sacrifices on the part of everyone involved (not that everyone made them). In most of the wars fought by this nation, people sacrificed—not only the soldiers who carried weapons and got shot at—but the families and friends of those soldiers. Communities across the country came together and sacrificed their standard of living: they ate less, worked more and prayed mightily for those in battle far away. When we went to War, it was a national commitment of ourselves, our souls and bodies. That’s what a republic does in wartime. We have believed our republic worth fighting and dying—worth sacrificing for. After the solemn speeches of September 11, 2001, after the members of Congress, Democrats and Republicans, stood together on the steps of the capitol building and sang “God Bless America,” instead of calls for national sacrifice, we were exhorted to go shopping.
In George Orwell’s 1984, the world is perpetually at war. This serves as a perennial excuse for the chronic shortages in Big Brother’s society. We needn’t worry. Our culture nowadays is much more like that of Imperial Rome, demanding for itself “bread and circuses,” than that of post-war Britain or America, willing to sacrifice for a worthwhile goal. When the Nazis unleashed their planes and bombs during the Battle of Britain, the Brits dug in their heels and redoubled their efforts and shot their enemies from the air. When Al-Qaeda destroyed the Twin Towers and crashed a jet into the Pentagon, we got mad…and went to the mall.
Are we really that pathetic? Our national leaders, of both parties, believe we are. But if you think back to that terrible morning, there were four airplanes seized, not three. By many accounts, the fourth was intended to destroy either the Capitol Building or the White House. It never got close to either, because the men and women aboard made a sacrifice. They gave themselves up to save some of the rest of us.
“Sacrifice” comes from two good Latin words mashed together: “sacra,” which means “holy,” and “facere,” “to make.” A sacrifice makes something holy. No one, recalling what went on in the Pennsylvania skies on November 11, 2001, can imagine the passengers aboard United Airlines Flight 93 did anything less than make something terrible holy. The firefighters and rescue workers in New York City, who threw themselves into those smoking, twisting masses of steel, glass and concrete, made something holy. America’s politicians, most wrapped in the mire of self-service, don’t seem capable of calling us to national sacrifice. Few of us could take them seriously if they did. The President talks about Service, but you may have concluded long ago, as I now have, that his words are…just words.
Sacrifice comes from within. We all have the impetus for it (as we do for selfishness); Holy Scripture provides us with examples of it, from Abraham to Jesus. Without exception, the lives of the saints and heroes of faith are sacrificial. Those of us in the Labyrinth are called on to live sacrificially. My sacrifices may be different than yours, but if we are worth the air we breathe, our sacrifices are daily made and the opportunities for them are ever present.
Ayn Rand, the Objectivist philosopher, regards sacrifice as a sign of “altruism,” one of the deadly sins for Objectivists. She defines a sacrifice as when someone greater gives him/herself up for someone lesser. It’s a sign of mental illness. Selfishness, self-centeredness (called “pride” in Christian moral theology, the deadliest of the Deadly Sins) is the highest virtue of Objectivism. Nothing justifies sacrifice.
Our Faith and our culture say otherwise. Some things are worth fighting and dying for. Some things justify sacrifice. We as a society should be continually debating what those “some things” are. And we in the Labyrinth, who walk by faith, are duty-bound to join the debate. We are now almost 10 years at War. Should we be? If so, why are we handling it so ineptly? If not, why do we continue its pursuit? This isn’t a matter of “conservative” or “liberal” answers, but of a reasoned discussion of purposes and goals. The politician asks “How is it going? How do we look?” They won’t—they can’t—ask “Is it right or wrong?” That’s your job and mine. Those of us walking in the Labyrinth may end up answering those questions differently. But if we don’t struggle with these questions, who will? Enough time put walking the Labyrinth gives us a different, dare I say, eternal perspective. And before we pat ourselves on the back, remember: “Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.”
We are not on the Labyrinth only for ourselves. We have been called here. And labyrinthine struggles (and sacrifices!) aren’t for long-faced mourners or croaking Cassandras. We’ve been put where we are to rejoice in the journey and call those around us to hope—not that government programs will someday work—but that Things Eternal put stuff temporal into proper perspective. “Wars and rumors of wars” we will have with us as long as this world limps along, despite what politicians promise and academics predict. But “joy cometh in the morning,” and each new sunrise, for those in the Labyrinth, is a promise of Good Things To Come (even when it’s 22 degrees as the sun breaks over the Texas Hill Country!).
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FROM MY BOOKSTACK: Last week I evidently wrote with convincing force about David McCollough’s book, John Adams. No less than six people are now reading it (or waiting for their copies to arrive via Amazon). I should work out some commission deal with booksellers. Aloyce recommended Those Who Love to me, a fictional account of John and Abigail—and I’ve ordered my copy!
Not every book is worth reading, though. This week I picked up, with high expectation, Stakes of Power, 1845-1877 . It covers the decades before, during and after the War Between the States, a time in which I have some interest. It addresses the political, economic and social concerns of the period, again, topics of much interest to me. But so poorly is it written, so predictable are its conclusions and so few are its insights (few? I can’t recall any right now) that I would recommend it only to someone I don’t like.
Now I’m reading The Christian East and the Rise of the Papacy by Aristeides Papadakis. It’s pretty good, so far. Even if I end up disappointed with the book’s contents, though, I’ll tell people about it just so I can say “Aristeides Papadakis” and they can enjoy hearing his name as much as I enjoy saying it.
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QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
Marco Polo-"I have not told half of what I saw."
Galileo Galilei-"I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use."
"I love the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
"The Bible shows the way to go to heaven, not the way the heavens go." I know this is too many quotes but I couldn't resist this last.
Andrew Jackson-"Any man worth his salt will stick up for what he believes right, but it takes a better man to acknowledge without reservation that he is in error."
"Elevate that cannon a little lower." (To the gunners at Chalmette Plains, 1815)
Sir Edward Pakenham-"Send forward the reserves and we've got them." (His last words before being shot from his saddle at Chalmette Plains, 1815)
Ayn Rand-"It only stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting the sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there is someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice is speaking of slaves and masters, and intends to be the master."
Elvis Presley-"From when I was a kid I always knew something was going to happen. I just didn't know what."
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As every decade passes, there is a custom among Observers of the Times to mark a particular distinction of the ten years just passed and “title” it: i.e., the decade of the “Me” Generation, the “Free Love” of the Sixties (those two weren’t the same?) and so on. As I look back at the past ten years, two things glare back at me: the economic restructuring we are doing to ourselves (but this is more likely to be the beginning of a story stretching through the first several decades of this century) and the War. The War against Terror (or call it what you will) has been on-going since October, 2001. That's longer than it took for the country to fight the War Between the States and World War Two combined. The new President was elected as (among other things) an anti-war president, but he shows little sign of keeping that pledge. John McCain’s ominous 100-year commitment might not be that far off target. Those things are far beyond my competence to analyze or criticize. There is A LOT most of us don’t—and won’t—ever know. But there are some things we can observe, question and comment on. In fact, we as citizens are required to do that. I'm not going to write a discourse on the War, but I do want to ponder one small aspect of it with you as we walk the Lord’s labyrinth. It impacts our spiritual lives and how we walk.
Both the terrible conflicts I mentioned above called for great sacrifices on the part of everyone involved (not that everyone made them). In most of the wars fought by this nation, people sacrificed—not only the soldiers who carried weapons and got shot at—but the families and friends of those soldiers. Communities across the country came together and sacrificed their standard of living: they ate less, worked more and prayed mightily for those in battle far away. When we went to War, it was a national commitment of ourselves, our souls and bodies. That’s what a republic does in wartime. We have believed our republic worth fighting and dying—worth sacrificing for. After the solemn speeches of September 11, 2001, after the members of Congress, Democrats and Republicans, stood together on the steps of the capitol building and sang “God Bless America,” instead of calls for national sacrifice, we were exhorted to go shopping.
In George Orwell’s 1984, the world is perpetually at war. This serves as a perennial excuse for the chronic shortages in Big Brother’s society. We needn’t worry. Our culture nowadays is much more like that of Imperial Rome, demanding for itself “bread and circuses,” than that of post-war Britain or America, willing to sacrifice for a worthwhile goal. When the Nazis unleashed their planes and bombs during the Battle of Britain, the Brits dug in their heels and redoubled their efforts and shot their enemies from the air. When Al-Qaeda destroyed the Twin Towers and crashed a jet into the Pentagon, we got mad…and went to the mall.
Are we really that pathetic? Our national leaders, of both parties, believe we are. But if you think back to that terrible morning, there were four airplanes seized, not three. By many accounts, the fourth was intended to destroy either the Capitol Building or the White House. It never got close to either, because the men and women aboard made a sacrifice. They gave themselves up to save some of the rest of us.
“Sacrifice” comes from two good Latin words mashed together: “sacra,” which means “holy,” and “facere,” “to make.” A sacrifice makes something holy. No one, recalling what went on in the Pennsylvania skies on November 11, 2001, can imagine the passengers aboard United Airlines Flight 93 did anything less than make something terrible holy. The firefighters and rescue workers in New York City, who threw themselves into those smoking, twisting masses of steel, glass and concrete, made something holy. America’s politicians, most wrapped in the mire of self-service, don’t seem capable of calling us to national sacrifice. Few of us could take them seriously if they did. The President talks about Service, but you may have concluded long ago, as I now have, that his words are…just words.
Sacrifice comes from within. We all have the impetus for it (as we do for selfishness); Holy Scripture provides us with examples of it, from Abraham to Jesus. Without exception, the lives of the saints and heroes of faith are sacrificial. Those of us in the Labyrinth are called on to live sacrificially. My sacrifices may be different than yours, but if we are worth the air we breathe, our sacrifices are daily made and the opportunities for them are ever present.
Ayn Rand, the Objectivist philosopher, regards sacrifice as a sign of “altruism,” one of the deadly sins for Objectivists. She defines a sacrifice as when someone greater gives him/herself up for someone lesser. It’s a sign of mental illness. Selfishness, self-centeredness (called “pride” in Christian moral theology, the deadliest of the Deadly Sins) is the highest virtue of Objectivism. Nothing justifies sacrifice.
Our Faith and our culture say otherwise. Some things are worth fighting and dying for. Some things justify sacrifice. We as a society should be continually debating what those “some things” are. And we in the Labyrinth, who walk by faith, are duty-bound to join the debate. We are now almost 10 years at War. Should we be? If so, why are we handling it so ineptly? If not, why do we continue its pursuit? This isn’t a matter of “conservative” or “liberal” answers, but of a reasoned discussion of purposes and goals. The politician asks “How is it going? How do we look?” They won’t—they can’t—ask “Is it right or wrong?” That’s your job and mine. Those of us walking in the Labyrinth may end up answering those questions differently. But if we don’t struggle with these questions, who will? Enough time put walking the Labyrinth gives us a different, dare I say, eternal perspective. And before we pat ourselves on the back, remember: “Unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.”
We are not on the Labyrinth only for ourselves. We have been called here. And labyrinthine struggles (and sacrifices!) aren’t for long-faced mourners or croaking Cassandras. We’ve been put where we are to rejoice in the journey and call those around us to hope—not that government programs will someday work—but that Things Eternal put stuff temporal into proper perspective. “Wars and rumors of wars” we will have with us as long as this world limps along, despite what politicians promise and academics predict. But “joy cometh in the morning,” and each new sunrise, for those in the Labyrinth, is a promise of Good Things To Come (even when it’s 22 degrees as the sun breaks over the Texas Hill Country!).
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FROM MY BOOKSTACK: Last week I evidently wrote with convincing force about David McCollough’s book, John Adams. No less than six people are now reading it (or waiting for their copies to arrive via Amazon). I should work out some commission deal with booksellers. Aloyce recommended Those Who Love to me, a fictional account of John and Abigail—and I’ve ordered my copy!
Not every book is worth reading, though. This week I picked up, with high expectation, Stakes of Power, 1845-1877 . It covers the decades before, during and after the War Between the States, a time in which I have some interest. It addresses the political, economic and social concerns of the period, again, topics of much interest to me. But so poorly is it written, so predictable are its conclusions and so few are its insights (few? I can’t recall any right now) that I would recommend it only to someone I don’t like.
Now I’m reading The Christian East and the Rise of the Papacy by Aristeides Papadakis. It’s pretty good, so far. Even if I end up disappointed with the book’s contents, though, I’ll tell people about it just so I can say “Aristeides Papadakis” and they can enjoy hearing his name as much as I enjoy saying it.
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QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
Marco Polo-"I have not told half of what I saw."
Galileo Galilei-"I do not feel obliged to believe that the same God who has endowed us with sense, reason, and intellect has intended us to forgo their use."
"I love the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."
"The Bible shows the way to go to heaven, not the way the heavens go." I know this is too many quotes but I couldn't resist this last.
Andrew Jackson-"Any man worth his salt will stick up for what he believes right, but it takes a better man to acknowledge without reservation that he is in error."
"Elevate that cannon a little lower." (To the gunners at Chalmette Plains, 1815)
Sir Edward Pakenham-"Send forward the reserves and we've got them." (His last words before being shot from his saddle at Chalmette Plains, 1815)
Ayn Rand-"It only stands to reason that where there's sacrifice, there's someone collecting the sacrificial offerings. Where there's service, there is someone being served. The man who speaks to you of sacrifice is speaking of slaves and masters, and intends to be the master."
Elvis Presley-"From when I was a kid I always knew something was going to happen. I just didn't know what."
Friday, January 01, 2010
The Right To Be Wrong
Walking the Labyrinth-January 1, 2010—It takes no wisdom to connect the New Year with new beginnings; after a hiatus of several months, this seems an auspicious day to come back to the keyboard and take up the Labyrinth again. I've missed it. Happily, this site has never been a monologue. Many of you have enriched these pages by sharing your thoughts and hopes (and fears) with me. The labyrinth in which we walk has surprises of every kind—and while not all surprises are happily received, sorrows and joys are best when shared. Today we start a new year and a new decade but we walk a path well-worn by souls who’ve gone before us, great and small. I am grateful for you, my companions on the journey.
Western Christian Churches today celebrate the Feast of the Circumcision of Christ, the Eighth Day of the Twelve Days of Christmas. According to the carol, on this day “…my true love gave to me eight maids a-milking.” Whether you regard the song as mystic in its meaning or just jolly in its verse, we're talking about a lot of milk! Down the list of Saints for January first (fifty-four saints are honored on the calendar of the Western Church today) is Telemachus, who was killed in the coliseum in Rome on January 1, AD 404. Twenty-four years earlier, the Emperor Theodosius officially proclaimed Christianity the only religion of Rome, but the slaughter in the coliseum continued regardless (the movie Gladiator doesn’t record the uncounted thousands of men, women and children who were driven onto the coliseum floor unprepared where they were butchered by trained gladiators or torn to pieces by starving carnivores, all to the laughter and delight of the mob). St Telemachus, a monk living in Rome, entered the floor of the coliseum and separated the combatants. According to some chroniclers, the gladiators turned on the monk and hacked him apart; other accounts say spectators, angry at the interruption of their entertainment, martyred the well-meaning monk. One way or the other, Telemachus died in the coliseum, its last victim. When the Emperor Honorius was told of his death, he immediately and permanently abolished the “games.” Fifty years separated the lives of two men equally unlamented, Charles II of Navarre, who history tags (with justification) “Charles the Bad,” and Rodrigo Borgia, enrolled on the list of Popes as Alexander VI, who stunned an age of casual corruption with the scandals he introduced into the papal palace. King Charles, who had a distant claim to the throne of France and ignored his native Navarre except as a source of income, spent decades scheming against his relatives (and murdering them when necessary) in his quest for the French crown. In his 55th year, the king fell mysteriously ill and his physicians decided on a mysterious treatment (not that some of our current medical practices seem to make much more sense): the king was sewn into bedsheets which had been soaked in brandy. The seamstress ordered to sew him in, unable to see her final stitches, had a candle held close to her work, forgetting a basic principle of combustion. The sheets erupted in flame and so did Charles. The terrified women ran from the room while the king burned to a cinder. Sermons for years to come were preached on how the fire ignited the night of January 1, 1387 foretold the Bad King’s eternal fate. On January 1, 1431, Rodrigo Borgia (yes, of those Borgias) was born. When still a young man his uncle, Pope Calixtus III, appointed him first bishop then cardinal and ensconced him in the bureaucracy of the Vatican. After the death of Pope Innocent VIII in 1492 (while Columbus was sailing “the ocean blue,”), Borgia bribed and schemed his way to the papal throne (it cost him, as the story went, “four mule-loads of silver”). He wasn’t singular in this, however. The King of France spent 200,000 gold pieces in bribes and the Republic of Venice dropped 100,000 towards the election of their candidate. The papal master of ceremonies remarked in his diary “this was a particularly expensive campaign.” Giovanni di Lorenzo de' Medici, later to become Pope Leo X, when he learned of Borgia’s election warned “We are now in the power of a wolf, perhaps the most rapacious this world has ever seen. If we do not flee, he will devour us all.” Hopes for the new pope were obviously not high. Alexander VI sat in Peter's Chair more than ten years, during which time he satiated his passion for card games, stage plays and parties—of all sorts. His illegitimate children were given high positions in the church or married into the higher ranks of nobility, all with their father’s help (one of the few aspects of Alexander’s life never criticized was his genuine devotion to his family—it’s just that, he wasn’t supposed to have one!). The wars, murders and intrigues of his reign became the stuff of legend. When he died, the rumors of poison, which typically followed the deaths of so many notables of the age, were widespread. With the number of enemies Alexander collected over the years, however…The Pope’s last words, muttered softly as a prayer, were “Wait a minute.” On a more gallant note, the American silversmith Paul Revere (about whom you almost certainly memorized the words, “Listen my children and you shall hear…” during your young years) was born on January 1, 1732; a few years later, also on January 1, Elizabeth Ross (we know her better as “Betsy,”) was born in Philadelphia. When she was commissioned to make the flag for General Washington’s army, she was instructed to make it with “stars of six points.” She convinced the General and his advisors that a five pointed star would look better. To her we owe at least that, if not the flag's overall design. Betsy continued making flags until she retired from the family upholstery business in 1827. Her pew at Christ Church, Philadelphia, was next to the pew George Washington occupied whenever he visited the city; it is said they first met there. Religion, politics and business never seem too far apart…The first Federal Income Tax was imposed on January 1, 1862, to help pay for the skyrocketing cost of the War Between the States. It was supposed to last for the duration of the War, which ended in 1865. The war-time tax didn’t end until 1872. If you notice those dates don’t coincide (the tax lingered, like an unwelcome relative, seven years after the War was over), that’s the history of American taxation in a nutshell. On January 1, 1946, six months after the end of World War II, Emperor Hirohito went on Japanese National Radio and announced he was no longer a god. Many Japanese—and most of the rest of the world—had figured that out sometime before. Today, on the ancient Roman calendar, is the kalends Ianuarius. This is the first day of 2010: 364 more days remain in the year. The State Legislature of California has proclaimed this “California Dried Plum Digestive Month,” probably the least damaging thing they’ve done in a decade. Not to be outdone, the Congress of the United States has named January “National Oatmeal Month.” Wasn’t it just over two hundred years ago, our legislators were writing the Federalist Papers? Well, everybody does what they can with what they’ve got. Finally, for my good friend Joe, a retired Army colonel living in an idyllic home outside Pittsburgh with his dear wife Peg, this has to be a bittersweet day: on January 1, 1953, country music legend Hank Williams died at the age of 29. Devotees of that genre, like Joe, know he was the biggest star in the history of country music and can take pleasure knowing his legacy is being carried on by his son, Hank Williams, Jr. Joe, I’ve never willingly listened to Your Cheatin’ Heart, Jambalaya, or Hey, Good Lookin’, but I know you’ve never sat down to listen to Bach’s Christ Lag in Todesbaden (BWV 4), except when constrained by good manners. Here’s to you, my friend.
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Since last I wrote, my friend, Tomasa Erickson, a long-time, faithful and always cheerful worker in the Lord’s vineyard, died heroically (a word over-used today but applicable here) after a series of drawn-out battles with cancer. Of your charity, please pray for her (as I hope she now prays for me), James her husband and her daughters in their grief. Requiescat in pace.
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As you may know, I am now living in Texas on a ranchito owned by my family. When last I wrote I had been living more than 30 years in California. Over those decades California changed; I know Texas has changed too, I just haven’t yet discovered how. Everyone still waves when you pass on the road and people nod their greetings to strangers on the sidewalk. Young people, even tattooed twenty-year olds with scruffy beards and emaciated girls with rings on their thumbs, still say “yes’m” and “thank you.” I believe I’ve already met a drug-dealer here, but he doesn’t seem proud of what he does. For the first time in many years, I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family. They haven’t changed much, either.
My young nephew is something of an Anglophile. He spent last summer studying medieval history at Oxford; while he didn’t come back with a British accent (as some clergy who’ve spent a few weeks there do), he did greet me with “Happy Christmas” when I walked in the door (like the Wise Men, I always come a bit late to family gatherings—waiting for the initial political arguments to subside before appearing). There was enough of a conspiratorial hint in his voice to let me know he’d Been To England. I returned his greeting with a knowing glance but responded with a very American “Merry Christmas.” That’s another thing I noticed here in Texas. Nobody has said to me, “Have a happy holiday.” Everybody says “Merry Christmas” (most of them having never been to England and so unaware of the adjectival distinction). The holiday has yet to be broadened into meaninglessness, as if Eid, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Yule and Christmas were equally observed by everybody. Thankfully, I have yet to see a church sign-board in Texas with the irritating message (sounding like a Jesse Jackson haiku) “Jesus Is the Reason for the Season.” They are commonplace in California. There seems no need for that kind of preachiness in a place where you’re still free to say “Merry Christmas” without wondering if the recipient of your greeting will be offended because they are Muslim, atheist or Wiccan.
A few years ago, Ben Stein wrote a Christmas column worth quoting: “I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are: Christmas trees. It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, “Merry Christmas" to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I don't like it being shoved down my throat.”
Tolerance—kindness—is recognition of the right each person has to be who they are. I have a right to be wrong. That recognition is embedded in a sense that God has endowed each of us with a bit of Himself, and that sooner or later we’ll figure that out and find our way back to Him. We can’t get very far in that journey without figuring out how to live with each other, how to “judge not.” Some of the unhappiest people I know (and you know some, too) are those who are unable to refrain from butting into the affairs of others, continually correcting and criticizing because they know better, as if that gives them the right. Imagine a society of such people, a country where every decision has to be monitored, because some of us don’t make the same decisions everybody else does. Now look around. It’s us (I know, “we”).We are becoming increasingly intolerant of our past, of our roots, of who we are. We don’t like ourselves very much.
Our culture is flawed; our past is a history replete with greed, injustice and violence. It is also generous, honest and unafraid, often in surprising ways. Our culture is flawed, not evil and our past is something of which we should be aware, not ashamed. Last year Americans celebrated the Lincoln bicentennial (some celebrated it more than others) and I enjoyed watching the interviews and discussion panels carried each weekend on C-SPAN. One of the things I found most interesting was the way Lincoln’s “racism” was addressed. Some Lincoln enthusiasts tortured the evidence to explain it away. Some academics condemned him as the worst sort of racist, worse than the slave-holders who at least were consistent in their beliefs. But occasionally someone would acknowledge Lincoln as a man of his time. By our modern lights, he would doubtless be a racist of the most unenlightened kind. But in his day, Lincoln struggled with the race question as did many other Americans, North and South. Blacks, Indians (Native Americans, to be correct), Irish, Jews, Chinese, Catholics, Germans, Italians, Mexicans, Japanese—and Arabs—almost every racial, ethnic or religious group has suffered persecution or injustice in this country (except, I think, the French, and nobody likes them!). But all of these groups—except the Native Americans—came here because here was a creed—and like it or not, it was a belief about who God is and who we are. “All men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights.” As I’ve mentioned before, it’s built into the American psyche and character that our rights as human beings are not the gift of the State but of God. The State tries continually to infringe on those rights—it’s what every government does, it can’t help it. By nature governments are coercive. If I at times kick and squirm and chew on chains in these pages it’s because I see us as a distinctive people—not a distinctive race or religion, but a people blessed with a singular vision—who now seem willing to trade that inestimable birthright for a bowl of tasty, government-flavored Wall Street stew, and endless hours of poorly-conceived television programs. Ole St Telemachus was killed because he believed people were more than creatures to be bought and entertained with “bread and circuses”; we are responsible for what we do and for who that makes us. That’s what freedom and genuine tolerance means. We can choose who we are and what we become. That’s why God put you in your labyrinth, in Texas or California or the rocky coast of Maine—to hammer out a life worth living. May your steps on the labyrinth this year bring you closer to that goal.
And Jean, as far as lesbian bishops in California go, I was told as a child, as I’m sure were you, “If you can’t say anything nice…”
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I had a Christmas cold which should have kept me in bed. As soon as I started to feel better, though, I got up. The cold returned, angry at being ignored, and put me back in bed for several more days. The good thing about being sick is you have time to read for hours on end. The bad thing is, you usually don’t feel like reading. That was solved for me when I picked up David McCollough’s John Adams, his biography of our second President. I did read for hours and hours, diverted only to wipe my nose or cough up whatever that yellow stuff is that congests your throat when you get sick. The book is hard to put down. McCollough’s thorough research combines with his felicitous writing to produce books which delight. I read his 1776 a few years back and before that, his biography of Harry Truman with no less pleasure.
John Adams is not just a recounting of the events of that worthy man’s life, but an appraisal of what Adams’ life meant, principally from the perspective of Adams himself. The second President was an introspective man. He was a frequent diarist and a inveterate writer of letters. Few others have taken so much to heart the adage of the ancient Greeks to “Know Thyself.” In letters to his children and close friends he frequently quotes Socrates’ dictum “The unexamined life is not worth living” and his letters reveal how much he examined himself: his character, his motives and his ambition. John Adams had a partner in his life, as mentally acute and perceptive as he, in his wife Abigail. McCollough shows how necessary each was to the other and how their relationship stands unique in the annals of marriage. In many ways, the book is as much a biography of Abigail as it is of John, but given their relationship, it couldn’t be anything other.
For those who are familiar with the wonderful video production of John Adams, based on this book, you will find the broad strokes of the tale intact. But many of the details of the book have been altered to make a more dramatic film. Watch the video, by all means, it is masterfully done. But to know the story, the thought of John Adams, read this book. You will then know the man.
QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
Alexander VI—“Do people say that I am both your father and your lover? Let the world, that heap of vermin, believe what they want about the mighty! You must know that for those destined to dominate others, the ordinary rules of life are turned upside down. Good and evil are carried to a higher, different plane.” (To Lucretia Borgia)
John Adams—“ Democracy... while it lasts is more bloody than either aristocracy or monarchy. Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There is never a democracy that did not commit suicide.”
“Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”
Abigail Adams—“I've always felt that a person's intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting points of view he can entertain simultaneously on the same topic.”
Ben Stein—“ Jump into the middle of things, get your hands dirty, fall flat on your face, and then reach for the stars.”
Abraham Lincoln—“Everyone wants to live a long life, but no one wants to get old!”
Western Christian Churches today celebrate the Feast of the Circumcision of Christ, the Eighth Day of the Twelve Days of Christmas. According to the carol, on this day “…my true love gave to me eight maids a-milking.” Whether you regard the song as mystic in its meaning or just jolly in its verse, we're talking about a lot of milk! Down the list of Saints for January first (fifty-four saints are honored on the calendar of the Western Church today) is Telemachus, who was killed in the coliseum in Rome on January 1, AD 404. Twenty-four years earlier, the Emperor Theodosius officially proclaimed Christianity the only religion of Rome, but the slaughter in the coliseum continued regardless (the movie Gladiator doesn’t record the uncounted thousands of men, women and children who were driven onto the coliseum floor unprepared where they were butchered by trained gladiators or torn to pieces by starving carnivores, all to the laughter and delight of the mob). St Telemachus, a monk living in Rome, entered the floor of the coliseum and separated the combatants. According to some chroniclers, the gladiators turned on the monk and hacked him apart; other accounts say spectators, angry at the interruption of their entertainment, martyred the well-meaning monk. One way or the other, Telemachus died in the coliseum, its last victim. When the Emperor Honorius was told of his death, he immediately and permanently abolished the “games.” Fifty years separated the lives of two men equally unlamented, Charles II of Navarre, who history tags (with justification) “Charles the Bad,” and Rodrigo Borgia, enrolled on the list of Popes as Alexander VI, who stunned an age of casual corruption with the scandals he introduced into the papal palace. King Charles, who had a distant claim to the throne of France and ignored his native Navarre except as a source of income, spent decades scheming against his relatives (and murdering them when necessary) in his quest for the French crown. In his 55th year, the king fell mysteriously ill and his physicians decided on a mysterious treatment (not that some of our current medical practices seem to make much more sense): the king was sewn into bedsheets which had been soaked in brandy. The seamstress ordered to sew him in, unable to see her final stitches, had a candle held close to her work, forgetting a basic principle of combustion. The sheets erupted in flame and so did Charles. The terrified women ran from the room while the king burned to a cinder. Sermons for years to come were preached on how the fire ignited the night of January 1, 1387 foretold the Bad King’s eternal fate. On January 1, 1431, Rodrigo Borgia (yes, of those Borgias) was born. When still a young man his uncle, Pope Calixtus III, appointed him first bishop then cardinal and ensconced him in the bureaucracy of the Vatican. After the death of Pope Innocent VIII in 1492 (while Columbus was sailing “the ocean blue,”), Borgia bribed and schemed his way to the papal throne (it cost him, as the story went, “four mule-loads of silver”). He wasn’t singular in this, however. The King of France spent 200,000 gold pieces in bribes and the Republic of Venice dropped 100,000 towards the election of their candidate. The papal master of ceremonies remarked in his diary “this was a particularly expensive campaign.” Giovanni di Lorenzo de' Medici, later to become Pope Leo X, when he learned of Borgia’s election warned “We are now in the power of a wolf, perhaps the most rapacious this world has ever seen. If we do not flee, he will devour us all.” Hopes for the new pope were obviously not high. Alexander VI sat in Peter's Chair more than ten years, during which time he satiated his passion for card games, stage plays and parties—of all sorts. His illegitimate children were given high positions in the church or married into the higher ranks of nobility, all with their father’s help (one of the few aspects of Alexander’s life never criticized was his genuine devotion to his family—it’s just that, he wasn’t supposed to have one!). The wars, murders and intrigues of his reign became the stuff of legend. When he died, the rumors of poison, which typically followed the deaths of so many notables of the age, were widespread. With the number of enemies Alexander collected over the years, however…The Pope’s last words, muttered softly as a prayer, were “Wait a minute.” On a more gallant note, the American silversmith Paul Revere (about whom you almost certainly memorized the words, “Listen my children and you shall hear…” during your young years) was born on January 1, 1732; a few years later, also on January 1, Elizabeth Ross (we know her better as “Betsy,”) was born in Philadelphia. When she was commissioned to make the flag for General Washington’s army, she was instructed to make it with “stars of six points.” She convinced the General and his advisors that a five pointed star would look better. To her we owe at least that, if not the flag's overall design. Betsy continued making flags until she retired from the family upholstery business in 1827. Her pew at Christ Church, Philadelphia, was next to the pew George Washington occupied whenever he visited the city; it is said they first met there. Religion, politics and business never seem too far apart…The first Federal Income Tax was imposed on January 1, 1862, to help pay for the skyrocketing cost of the War Between the States. It was supposed to last for the duration of the War, which ended in 1865. The war-time tax didn’t end until 1872. If you notice those dates don’t coincide (the tax lingered, like an unwelcome relative, seven years after the War was over), that’s the history of American taxation in a nutshell. On January 1, 1946, six months after the end of World War II, Emperor Hirohito went on Japanese National Radio and announced he was no longer a god. Many Japanese—and most of the rest of the world—had figured that out sometime before. Today, on the ancient Roman calendar, is the kalends Ianuarius. This is the first day of 2010: 364 more days remain in the year. The State Legislature of California has proclaimed this “California Dried Plum Digestive Month,” probably the least damaging thing they’ve done in a decade. Not to be outdone, the Congress of the United States has named January “National Oatmeal Month.” Wasn’t it just over two hundred years ago, our legislators were writing the Federalist Papers? Well, everybody does what they can with what they’ve got. Finally, for my good friend Joe, a retired Army colonel living in an idyllic home outside Pittsburgh with his dear wife Peg, this has to be a bittersweet day: on January 1, 1953, country music legend Hank Williams died at the age of 29. Devotees of that genre, like Joe, know he was the biggest star in the history of country music and can take pleasure knowing his legacy is being carried on by his son, Hank Williams, Jr. Joe, I’ve never willingly listened to Your Cheatin’ Heart, Jambalaya, or Hey, Good Lookin’, but I know you’ve never sat down to listen to Bach’s Christ Lag in Todesbaden (BWV 4), except when constrained by good manners. Here’s to you, my friend.
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Since last I wrote, my friend, Tomasa Erickson, a long-time, faithful and always cheerful worker in the Lord’s vineyard, died heroically (a word over-used today but applicable here) after a series of drawn-out battles with cancer. Of your charity, please pray for her (as I hope she now prays for me), James her husband and her daughters in their grief. Requiescat in pace.
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As you may know, I am now living in Texas on a ranchito owned by my family. When last I wrote I had been living more than 30 years in California. Over those decades California changed; I know Texas has changed too, I just haven’t yet discovered how. Everyone still waves when you pass on the road and people nod their greetings to strangers on the sidewalk. Young people, even tattooed twenty-year olds with scruffy beards and emaciated girls with rings on their thumbs, still say “yes’m” and “thank you.” I believe I’ve already met a drug-dealer here, but he doesn’t seem proud of what he does. For the first time in many years, I spent Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family. They haven’t changed much, either.
My young nephew is something of an Anglophile. He spent last summer studying medieval history at Oxford; while he didn’t come back with a British accent (as some clergy who’ve spent a few weeks there do), he did greet me with “Happy Christmas” when I walked in the door (like the Wise Men, I always come a bit late to family gatherings—waiting for the initial political arguments to subside before appearing). There was enough of a conspiratorial hint in his voice to let me know he’d Been To England. I returned his greeting with a knowing glance but responded with a very American “Merry Christmas.” That’s another thing I noticed here in Texas. Nobody has said to me, “Have a happy holiday.” Everybody says “Merry Christmas” (most of them having never been to England and so unaware of the adjectival distinction). The holiday has yet to be broadened into meaninglessness, as if Eid, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Yule and Christmas were equally observed by everybody. Thankfully, I have yet to see a church sign-board in Texas with the irritating message (sounding like a Jesse Jackson haiku) “Jesus Is the Reason for the Season.” They are commonplace in California. There seems no need for that kind of preachiness in a place where you’re still free to say “Merry Christmas” without wondering if the recipient of your greeting will be offended because they are Muslim, atheist or Wiccan.
A few years ago, Ben Stein wrote a Christmas column worth quoting: “I am a Jew, and every single one of my ancestors was Jewish. And it does not bother me even a little bit when people call those beautiful lit up, bejeweled trees Christmas trees. I don't feel threatened. I don't feel discriminated against. That's what they are: Christmas trees. It doesn't bother me a bit when people say, “Merry Christmas" to me. I don't think they are slighting me or getting ready to put me in a ghetto. In fact, I kind of like it. It shows that we are all brothers and sisters celebrating this happy time of year. I don't like getting pushed around for being a Jew and I don't think Christians like getting pushed around for being Christians. I think people who believe in God are sick and tired of getting pushed around, period. I have no idea where the concept came from that America is an explicitly atheist country. I can't find it in the Constitution and I don't like it being shoved down my throat.”
Tolerance—kindness—is recognition of the right each person has to be who they are. I have a right to be wrong. That recognition is embedded in a sense that God has endowed each of us with a bit of Himself, and that sooner or later we’ll figure that out and find our way back to Him. We can’t get very far in that journey without figuring out how to live with each other, how to “judge not.” Some of the unhappiest people I know (and you know some, too) are those who are unable to refrain from butting into the affairs of others, continually correcting and criticizing because they know better, as if that gives them the right. Imagine a society of such people, a country where every decision has to be monitored, because some of us don’t make the same decisions everybody else does. Now look around. It’s us (I know, “we”).We are becoming increasingly intolerant of our past, of our roots, of who we are. We don’t like ourselves very much.
Our culture is flawed; our past is a history replete with greed, injustice and violence. It is also generous, honest and unafraid, often in surprising ways. Our culture is flawed, not evil and our past is something of which we should be aware, not ashamed. Last year Americans celebrated the Lincoln bicentennial (some celebrated it more than others) and I enjoyed watching the interviews and discussion panels carried each weekend on C-SPAN. One of the things I found most interesting was the way Lincoln’s “racism” was addressed. Some Lincoln enthusiasts tortured the evidence to explain it away. Some academics condemned him as the worst sort of racist, worse than the slave-holders who at least were consistent in their beliefs. But occasionally someone would acknowledge Lincoln as a man of his time. By our modern lights, he would doubtless be a racist of the most unenlightened kind. But in his day, Lincoln struggled with the race question as did many other Americans, North and South. Blacks, Indians (Native Americans, to be correct), Irish, Jews, Chinese, Catholics, Germans, Italians, Mexicans, Japanese—and Arabs—almost every racial, ethnic or religious group has suffered persecution or injustice in this country (except, I think, the French, and nobody likes them!). But all of these groups—except the Native Americans—came here because here was a creed—and like it or not, it was a belief about who God is and who we are. “All men are created equal and are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights.” As I’ve mentioned before, it’s built into the American psyche and character that our rights as human beings are not the gift of the State but of God. The State tries continually to infringe on those rights—it’s what every government does, it can’t help it. By nature governments are coercive. If I at times kick and squirm and chew on chains in these pages it’s because I see us as a distinctive people—not a distinctive race or religion, but a people blessed with a singular vision—who now seem willing to trade that inestimable birthright for a bowl of tasty, government-flavored Wall Street stew, and endless hours of poorly-conceived television programs. Ole St Telemachus was killed because he believed people were more than creatures to be bought and entertained with “bread and circuses”; we are responsible for what we do and for who that makes us. That’s what freedom and genuine tolerance means. We can choose who we are and what we become. That’s why God put you in your labyrinth, in Texas or California or the rocky coast of Maine—to hammer out a life worth living. May your steps on the labyrinth this year bring you closer to that goal.
And Jean, as far as lesbian bishops in California go, I was told as a child, as I’m sure were you, “If you can’t say anything nice…”
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I had a Christmas cold which should have kept me in bed. As soon as I started to feel better, though, I got up. The cold returned, angry at being ignored, and put me back in bed for several more days. The good thing about being sick is you have time to read for hours on end. The bad thing is, you usually don’t feel like reading. That was solved for me when I picked up David McCollough’s John Adams, his biography of our second President. I did read for hours and hours, diverted only to wipe my nose or cough up whatever that yellow stuff is that congests your throat when you get sick. The book is hard to put down. McCollough’s thorough research combines with his felicitous writing to produce books which delight. I read his 1776 a few years back and before that, his biography of Harry Truman with no less pleasure.
John Adams is not just a recounting of the events of that worthy man’s life, but an appraisal of what Adams’ life meant, principally from the perspective of Adams himself. The second President was an introspective man. He was a frequent diarist and a inveterate writer of letters. Few others have taken so much to heart the adage of the ancient Greeks to “Know Thyself.” In letters to his children and close friends he frequently quotes Socrates’ dictum “The unexamined life is not worth living” and his letters reveal how much he examined himself: his character, his motives and his ambition. John Adams had a partner in his life, as mentally acute and perceptive as he, in his wife Abigail. McCollough shows how necessary each was to the other and how their relationship stands unique in the annals of marriage. In many ways, the book is as much a biography of Abigail as it is of John, but given their relationship, it couldn’t be anything other.
For those who are familiar with the wonderful video production of John Adams, based on this book, you will find the broad strokes of the tale intact. But many of the details of the book have been altered to make a more dramatic film. Watch the video, by all means, it is masterfully done. But to know the story, the thought of John Adams, read this book. You will then know the man.
QUOTES OF THE PRINCIPALS:
Alexander VI—“Do people say that I am both your father and your lover? Let the world, that heap of vermin, believe what they want about the mighty! You must know that for those destined to dominate others, the ordinary rules of life are turned upside down. Good and evil are carried to a higher, different plane.” (To Lucretia Borgia)
John Adams—“ Democracy... while it lasts is more bloody than either aristocracy or monarchy. Remember, democracy never lasts long. It soon wastes, exhausts, and murders itself. There is never a democracy that did not commit suicide.”
“Our Constitution was made only for a moral and religious people. It is wholly inadequate to the government of any other.”
Abigail Adams—“I've always felt that a person's intelligence is directly reflected by the number of conflicting points of view he can entertain simultaneously on the same topic.”
Ben Stein—“ Jump into the middle of things, get your hands dirty, fall flat on your face, and then reach for the stars.”
Abraham Lincoln—“Everyone wants to live a long life, but no one wants to get old!”
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