Posts filed under 'Fig Tree Notes Archives'
August 27th, 2010 |
Unless our memories fail us, there are important dates—happy and sad—carved into our personal lives. You might depict them as psychic scars or tattoos. A birthday, a day when someone in our lives died, a particular anniversary, a memorable date—perhaps when a relationship began or ended, have a way of continually emerging for reflection. They cry out saying, “Please don’t forget me.”
The same proves true when it comes to life together as Americans. September 11, 2001, now commonly referred to in shorthand as 9/11, is etched on America’s national psyche. The deadly events of that day were transformational in our life together in this nation.
Transformational dates can be recognized by the fact that we remember exactly where we were on that particular day.
Ask me where I was on June 14, 1958 and I will tell you I was in Batavia, New York, being married to Judith Graham. That day changed my personal life forever.
Ask me where I was on November 22, 1963, and I will tell you that I was in Washington at the Library of Congress working on a seminary paper. It was there that I heard that President John F. Kennedy had been assassinated. That day changed our nation’s life forever.
On September 11, 2010, I will bet that most, if not all of my readers will be able to remember where they were on 9/11. I sure remember. It was the day that Judy and I moved back to Charleston, West Virginia. Assisting the movers as they unloaded the van, a television set hastily connected allowed us to see the Twin Towers fall into dust.
In anticipation of the upcoming ninth anniversary of 9/11—when 3,287 days will have passed —here are a few of my observations offered from beneath my fig tree.
When Buildings Go Down, The Rats Emerge
When we moved into our new home on 9/11—the future of the abandoned school building behind our new digs—was in doubt. Some of us in the neighborhood, as well as the man who owned the building, were hopeful it could be renovated into a housing complex for low and moderate income folks, like many of the people working at the nearby hospital. But that was not to be—you know— the free market being what it is and government help being what it isn’t.
When the bulldozers and dynamite showed up to take the building down, we were comforted at least in knowing that another drug store wouldn’t take its place. Instead, the plan called for a new building to house soon-to-be upwardly mobile medical interns.
That’s when the rats emerged. Seeking refuge, after having lived in the subterranean confines of the abandoned building, they sought refuge in adjacent homes, like ours.
When the Twin Towers came down—reduced to rubble, like the old school building behind my house—the rats emerged. Hidden beneath the fancy Wall Street headquarters were realities that have become visible over the past 3,287 days. I’ve seen them. Have you?
• A pack of Wall Street rats, led by Bernie Madoff, who stole and bankrupted individuals and non-profit organizations, like Yeshiva University and the Holocaust Foundation, with his $50 billion Ponzi scheme.
• A whole swarm of rats—banks and investment firms headquartered on Wall Street—that stole, manipulated and fraudulently robbed Americans of hard-earned money that, when gone, cost folks their future.
• Political rats, like Rudy Giuliani, who emerged to play the part of a hero while building his own political future on the Twin Tower ashes. Chances are good that we will see a few of these political rats emerge at 9/11 anniversary events as they prepare for upcoming elections.
• And last, but not least, President George W. Bush who spoke to the nation on the evening of 9/11: “This is a day when all Americans from every walk of life unite in our resolve for justice and peace…None of us will ever forget this day, yet we go forward to defend freedom and all that is good and just in our world.” And then, after mouthing these auspicious words, ratted on us by telling us all to spend more money to fix the economy, and then sent us into a senseless and unnecessary war in Iraq that has already cost us close to $1 trillion.
Americans were angered by 9/11, grieved the loss of life, became fearful for the future, and yet hoped that our nation, like the legendary phoenix bird, would rise from the ashes to live again with a new vibrancy and direction.
But what emerged was a hawk hungry for war. And that hawk flew straight for Afghanistan and Iraq.
Peace From The Barrel Of A Gun—Like Surgery With A Bayonet
In the last issue of Notes, I ended with this quote from “Every Man in This Village is a Liar,” Meghan Stack’s gutsy book about Afghanistan and Iraq after 9/11.
“Here is the truth: It matters what you do at war. It matters more than you ever want to know. Because countries, like people, have collective consciences and memories and souls, and the violence we deliver in the name of our nation is pooled like sickly tar at the bottom of who we are. The soldiers who don’t die for us come home again. They bring with them the killers they became on our national behalf, and sit with their polluted memories and broken emotions in our homes and schools and temples”
Risking her life in order to report about the war, Stack returned home briefly for some rest, time to breathe—time to answer mail and phone messages, hear about the Enron scandal brewing in her hometown of Houston, and time to drink beer with friends before going back to the war.
“Here at home,” she writes, “people still feel assaulted, they believe they had the high moral ground. But I had seen U.S. warplanes drop bombs on villages of mud brick, and children killed and bin Laden vanish and the future of a broken land becoming the moral responsibility of my own country. September 11 seemed very far away, buried under the war it had called down. I am losing America, I thought as I lay in bed that night. I got caught out on the other side, stayed out there too long, and now I can’t get home.”
I read much about the men and women who are coming home disabled, suicidal, and violent from this long day’s journey into war. I have had my own dealings with difficult situations. What gets lost so often is the hell we have perpetrated on Iraq and Afghanistan. Millions of people who are refugees and homeless—over 100,000 people dead and who knows how many wounded—infrastructures destroyed—corrupt and failing political structures—intolerable environmental destruction.
During the Vietnam War we said we were destroying villages and poisoning the land with toxic Agent Orange in order that we might save the people and the country. That was our justifying lie for a war that should never have been fought, like the one in Iraq and Afghanistan.
The Prophet Jeremiah rails against his people for the cheap, ugly and unreal peace that is no peace at all. “They have healed the brokenness of my people superficially, Saying, ‘Peace, peace,’ But there is no peace.” In like manner, I would say that peace from the barrel of a gun is like doing surgery with a bayonet or a can opener.
Winning Hearts And Minds—A Myth
Speaking of bayonets reminds me of my Marine Corps training long ago. It was all part of months and months of training designed around the art of war—the art of killing people. That’s what our troops are trained to do. Kill people. I make no apologies for it, and refuse to cover up the truth with fancy dress uniforms or spit-polished shoes. Paper targets imitated human beings, blanks substituted for live ammunition, and mock war battle games anticipated blood and guts battles in some land across the sea.
But things have changed when it comes to war. Today’s troops are out there in Iraq and Afghanistan to “win hearts and minds.” Excuse me! Hearts and minds?
If I am asked to name one honest-to-God authentic voice on this war we are engaged in, and where it is taking us, I would point to Andrew Bacevich. A 1969 graduate of West Point, Vietnam War veteran, former teacher at West Point, and now a professor at Boston University. I might also add that his son, a First Lieutenant in the U.S. Army, was killed by an improvised explosive device while serving in Iraq.
In his latest book, just published, and one I highly recommend, “Washington Rules: America’s Path To Permanent War,” Bacevich writes about the shift in the military. “Winning hearts and minds now displaced fire and maneuver atop the pyramid of soldierly priorities. Among the unwritten duties that every modern president must shoulder is to explain to the American people ‘why we must fight.’ Up to this point, in justifying the Long War, Bush had expressed himself using the ideologically charged language typically employed by his predecessors. The global conflict begun on 9/11, he had regularly insisted, represented a continuation of a long-standing commitment to spreading liberal democratic values.”
Ah, don’t we Americans like to think of ourselves as “spreading liberal democratic values?” We see our nation as a “city upon a hill” commissioned by God to help bring light and peace to the world.
But listen to Bacevich’s warning: “When presidents use phrases like fighting for freedom, eliminating tyranny, and liberating the oppressed, they speak in code. Their real meaning, easily deciphered by their listeners is this: Safeguarding the American way of life requires that others conform to American values. Military victory offers the medium through which American warriors impose conformity.
The Iraq war was begun with military might—“shock and awe” and how now petered off into an effort to “win hearts and minds.” General Petraeus, now in charge of the military campaign, has changed his tune. Once a shock and awe disciple, he has now become a win hearts and minds man utilizing counterinsurgency as the tactic that will bring peace. This, says, Bacevich, and I agree, is a losing effort and will only lead us to endless war.
I’m happy that American troops returned from Iraq last week from a war we should never have fought. The Iraq War has been a disaster created by a lying president, a complicit Congress, and an apathetic public. I’m sickened by the triumphalism and propaganda around our troops trip home. Believe me, combat is not over, not when 93 bases and 50,000 “non-combat” troops with weapons are still there, and the number of private American security forces has doubled. Those troops left behind have weapons. They are combat troops.
Three Cups Of Tea With The Military
I was disturbed to see that Greg Mortenson, the author of “Three Cups of Tea” and the man responsible for building schools in Afghanistan for girls, has just recently hooked up with the military in order to assist in bringing peace to the land by winning hearts and minds.
This all started back in June when Mortenson was contacted via a note from the then top commander in Afghanistan, General Stanley McChrystal. He saw Mortenson’s charitable approach as a way to convince the Afghan people that U.S. presence is peaceful. This from a General who covered up the killing of Pat Tillman by “friendly fire,” and who was relieved of his duty by President Obama only nine hours after Mortenson received McChrystal’s note.
Counterinsurgency calls for the military to make friends with the people, work side-by-side in community development projects, and drink tea with the locals. But when did bonding with people become a military mission? When American soldiers bond with Afghan males like they were locker room buddies, and that includes bouts of farting, I get a bit concerned. Particularly because fart is proof to Afghan men that a man is weak and cannot control his rear end. I am not making that situation up. American Ann Jones who works with Afghan women has written about it.
Look, I am not saying our troops shouldn’t be conscious of local customs or that they shouldn’t be friendly to little Afghan girls. What I am saying is that the line between social work, diplomacy, community organizing and war should be clearly defined. Non-governmental organizations like Mortenson’s organization, if they are to be in a war situation at all, should not be connected with the military in any way. It is confusing to the people who live there and it is confusing to troops who are meant to keep their mind on military matters.
The Islamic Community Center Fiasco
Two rats running wild near Ground Zero—the former site of the Twin Towers—are named Ignorance and Islamaphobia. I shall not go into detail about the battle over the proposed mosque and community center because I trust that my readers have been keeping up with the news.
A majority of Americans think that the facility should not be built there even though they believe our Constitution gives Muslims the right to do it. My take on this matter? New York City should ignore the angry, frothing mouths of media freaks and political figures eager to make hay off this project. Sure, there are people who feel pain over the fact that they have friends and relatives who died when the Twin Towers came down and don’t want the facility there. I am not questioning their motives. But someone must remind us all, as Mayor Bloomberg and other religious and media voices have done, that the religion of Islam did not create the ashes, and that perhaps this project might very well be the phoenix that rises from that disaster.
Cassius, in Shakespeare’s play “Julius Caesar,” says these words: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.” And in this situation, quite frankly, the fault lies deep in the American psyche in that place where ignorance and fear of Islam is lodged. Want proof?
The Rev. Franklin Graham, Billy Graham’s son, says “I think the president’s problem is that he was born a Muslim, his father was a Muslim. The seed of Islam is passed through the father like the seed of Judaism is passed through the mother. He was born a Muslim, his father gave him an Islamic name.”
That rubbish, from a religious leader with a following, fed to a growing number of people who believe Obama is a Muslim, is frightening. When you discover that 60% of these people have formed their opinion from the media (you want to guess which network?) you begin to understand the role of media, particularly cable news, hell-bent on twisting truth and confirming lies. Perhaps when the mosque finally gets built in New York, it will be one of those places where Americans can overcome fear of a faith other than the one they espouse.
One more thought before I leave the fiasco over this proposed building project. It has to do with Bernie Madoff, now residing in a prison cell for his shenanigans on Wall Street. Bernie is a Jew who caused great pain among many people as a result of his fraudulent behavior. Suppose a Jewish Temple had been proposed for that site near Ground Zero. Would it have been stopped because a temple would have reminded all the folks of the Wall Street disaster that caused them so much pain? I think not.
Our Students On A Path Toward Permanent War
Our local Charleston newspaper reports that the school where our kids went, George Washington High School, had a big ceremony welcoming its first Army Junior ROTC class. The students, between 85 and 90, all wore their uniforms to school. Teachers, a WV legislator, a city council member, a former colonel and gubernatorial candidate, and the school board president all gave speeches.
It was said by the school Principal that a number of the new recruits are not involved in clubs or sports and that “the new program gives them a sense of belonging.” The school board president said “Never before have we needed ROTC like we need it today.”
Sadly, I think he might just be right, given the fact that we are on the path toward permanent war.
August 27th, 2010
July 16th, 2010 |
A couple of weeks ago I saw a clip on CNN that featured news about spying. The woman being interviewed described a number of fancy spy devices that anyone can purchase. No CIA or FBI credentials are required, for example, to buy called Spyglasses.
Here’s how the glasses work. They’re equipped with a hidden video camera inside the frames, along with a device that records conversations. All you have to do is slip the glasses on—like a pair of sunglasses—and you can record all the sights and sounds in your line of vision. This is accomplished without anyone knowing they’re being spied on.
Spying has a long history and the subject holds a fascination for most of us. It starts at an early age and may extend for a lifetime. Remember the game, “I Spy” often played with children, on a car trip? Someone says, “I spy something that begins with the letter ‘F’” and the kids look around in search of it.
My grandson, Jesse, when he was very young, wanted most of all to go to the International Spy Museum in Washington. He left the building that day with a spy kit and went home ready to play spy.
Back when I was a kid, I was fascinated by the book and television series, “I Led Three Lives.” I was intrigued by Herbert Philbrick who for nine years did lead three lives— average citizen, member of the Communist Party, and counterspy for the F.B.I. Looking back on this phenomenon, I can see how interest in the series fed stereotypes prevalent during the McCarthy Red Scare of the 1940s and early 1950s.
Spy fascination isn’t confined to the young. It’s alive and well in the adult world. It’s what accounts for the popularity of Graham Greene and John Le Carré espionage novels. And don’t forget the enormous interest in the spy film genre—films like Alfred Hitchcock’s “North by Northwest” and, of course, the James Bond series. I’m also of the belief that biography-lovers have that voyeuristic urge to spy on someone else’s life.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve felt like we’ve returned to the Cold War days as Russian and American spies surfaced in the news. We are still playing the I Spy game with one another.
So, let’s play I Spy. I’ll sit beneath my fig tree on this hot and humid July day and tell you what I’ve seen through my Spyglasses since the last issue of Notes.
Looking Through Glass At A Man In Jail
Right after finishing my last edition of Notes, I drove over to Logan, West Virginia, to visit Roland Micklem who was serving a thirty day sentence in the Southwestern Regional Jail. Roland was convicted of blocking a road to the Massey Energy headquarters near Charleston. In his 80s, Roland is a Christian who stands up for his belief that mountaintop removal is a sin against God’s creation.
The jail is located some 60 miles from downtown Charleston, just outside Logan. A sharp right turn off route 119, following a sign to the jail, I found myself on a steep climb up a mountain road. What I realized, when I got to the top, was that I was parking the car on a flat surface. As if to add insult to injury, Roland was confined in a jail situated on a mountaintop removal site.
Inside the facility, I was escorted into a visiting room—more like a closet—and seated in front of a large piece of glass. This would be a non-contact visit with Roland on one side of the glass and me on the other. As I’ve done so often in jail and prison visits, we greeted one another by placing our hands up against the glass. Cold glass replaced warm flesh.
What I saw on the other side of the glass was a man who refused to complain about the jail, his cellmates or the guards. He had been assigned to the laundry where his work offered a possibility that he might get a few days shaved from his sentence.
What I heard, during the course of the hour-long conversation, was a story Roland wanted to tell me, and which he has now written for publication in a Charleston Gazette article. It was a Jesus story, and it goes like this.
Inside Pod-A-1 was a steel table where Roland ate, wrote letters and kept his journal. Someone, unnamed, and no longer confined, had left carvings on the table. A cross was located at the center, with a pair of praying hands on one side and a Bible on the other side with the inscription “John 3:16”. The scene was framed by intertwining grape vines.
Roland told me that this became a shrine for him—a place of hope. Here’s what he wrote in his newspaper piece about the man who did the sketch. “He needs to know what an inspiration he was for me. Even though I was treated well and came to care for and respect each of my jail mates, the mere fact of being locked up and unable to come and go as one pleases is enough to undermine morale, and I am indeed grateful, as much for his courage and commitment as for his talent.”
Riding home I had this thought: What etchings do we human beings, myself included, leave behind for those who arrive on the scene after our departure? And will they engender courage and hope for others? We shall be known by our sketches.
Roland has now been released from jail. I talked to him by phone the other day. He is back home in Savannah, New York, where he is taking time to discern what the next chapter in his life will be—mind you, in his 80s planning another chapter.
Looking At The Fourth Of July
I’ve had a long love affair with hot dogs. I know, I know, a hot dog is not such a hot item for health conscious eaters, but what’s a woebegone weakling like me going to do when I pass a hot dog vendor and give thought to that dog, wrapped in a bun blanket and covered with mustard and onion?
I have read that Americans eat more hot dogs than any nation on earth—20 billion every year, according to the National Hot Dog and Sausage Council. Out of that number, 150 million are eaten on the Fourth of July. Typing these words reminds me of my youthful days in Baltimore when I would walk to Mandell’s Delicatessen and order a Hebrew National kosher hot dog, split and fried, wrapped in a slice of fried pastrami, lathered in yellow mustard, and placed in a chewy sesame seed roll.
This Fourth of July I caught sight of the news coverage of the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest. Everywhere I looked—in newspapers and television news—I found the story of people trying to win the contest by eating as many hot dogs as they could stuff in their faces in a brief ten minutes. The event was sponsored by the organization, Major League Eating, and televised on ESPN, the sports channel. Living in the most obese state in the nation, I suspect this organization must have an office here.
Anyway, I decided to write about this on my Facebook page. I asked my friends, “While oil is regurgitating into the sea, and blood from the bodies of our troops, isn’t this Fourth of July gluttony, and the media voyeurism, obscene?”
Lots of folks responded with confirmation that this Fourth of July farce was obscene. One friend, however, surprised me with the comment, “lighten up.” It made me stop and take stock of myself. I require a lot of my readers, both in my Notes and on Facebook, not to mention the numerous conversations I have with folks about the dark state of the world.
Do I need to lighten up, go easy, step back away from the war we are fighting and the BP oil spill? Can’t I just watch the fireworks, be quiet and leave the Fourth alone?
After some thought, following my trip to the river to watch the fireworks, and I might add, eating two hot dogs, I have come to the conclusion that I can’t quit doing what I do.
The troops deserve a better nation to defend than one consumed by its own gluttony. The sea life and beaches deserve more than polluted water and oil balls along the shore. And last but not least, hot dogs deserve a more dignified epicurean ending than they got at the Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Contest.
Looking At A Wedding
Author Scott Turow, reviewing the book “Mr. Peanut,” recalls the words of his creative writing professor, uttered forty years ago. He told us, says Turow, “that the one subject he had always feared writing a novel about was marriage, because it still seemed to him the most complex and frequently unfathomable of human relationships, despite his long and successful marriage.” Truer words were never spoken—complex and unfathomable.
Last weekend I traveled to Virginia to do a wedding. It was held outdoors in a beautiful setting. As the preacher, I always have the best seat in the house at a wedding. I can see everything from my vantage point.
Looking down the aisle, I saw the flowers, the bridal party decked out in fancy dress, the faces of family and friends gathered for the celebration, and, of course, the bride walking toward her groom to make commitment to one another by the taking of vows.
Ah, the vows! Every time I say the words and hear them echoed by couples, staring lovingly at each other, I recognize that I am standing before a work of art in progress. The term chiaroscuro, a Renaissance art term, seems appropriate.
Chiaroscuro is the Italian word for light/dark. It describes the bold contrast of light and dark that goes into creating a fine painting—the interplay of light and shadow—dissimilar qualities that reflect complicated, often contrasting moods.
Judy and I just celebrated our fifty-second wedding anniversary. Fifty two years ago we stood before an Episcopal preacher in a Presbyterian church in Batavia, New York, and took our vows. Hardly realizing, at the time, the power of their implication, we said we would love one another “from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, until we are parted by death.”
Chiaroscuro-like vows—the lightness of the words—better, richer and health—blended in with the darkness of the words worse, poorer, sickness, and the shadow of death.
These vows are a reminder that no painting can extend beyond the limits of its borders—no commitment beyond the border of death.
Two days before the wedding on Saturday the bride’s grandfather died. His death threatened to hang like a pall over the ceremony. But, instead, it became a reminder of those words “to have and to hold until we are parted by death.” The advice I always give to couples at a wedding rehearsal goes like this: When in doubt as to what they should do during the ceremony—just hold on to one another, then and forever.
In a very mysterious and unexplainable way, death is a gift to the living. The passage of someone’s life makes room for the narrative to continue in those left behind.
Looking At Senator Byrd’s Memorial Service
Four days after writing my last Notes, Senator Byrd died. Judy and I attended his memorial service at the Capitol here in Charleston. Without belaboring or exhausting thoughts about Byrd and what I’ve seen of this man over the years I have watched him, I’d like to cap the well of grief that poured out here in West Virginia, with a few comments about the past, pork, and privilege.
• The Past: Each one of us writes our own narrative from womb to tomb. Robert Byrd wrote his. It extended from the days when he was so poor he had no socks to wear to school, all the way to his having served for fifty-eight years in Congress—52 as a senator. On the dark side of the ledger there was the Klan, his racist views, and his support of a war in Vietnam. But, like the old saying—“God is not finished with me yet”—life was not ever finished with Bobby Byrd. He grew up until the very day he died—opposing the war in Iraq, and being critical of Big Coal. What each of us has been in the past is important, likewise the present, but what counts is what is in us to become—what we will be. And Robert Byrd was always in a becoming mode—that’s what was at the heart of his greatness.
• Pork: I’m a big fan of pork barbecue but I’m critical of political “pork.” There are more equitable ways of distributing government pork without favoring the hogs. But I get irritated when I hear folks criticize West Virginia and Byrd for all the pork this state has received. Hey, the nation comes here for troops to fight our wars, and for coal to fuel the economy, so quit belly-aching about money that has come back down our country roads for many fine and much-needed projects.
• Privilege: I choose not to romanticize Senator Byrd, because what begins with syrupy sentiment too often winds up as patronizing praise. Give the devil his due, in all of us. If there is not much to forgive in any one of us, there is really not much to love. So, returning to that word— chiaroscuro—Byrd’s life portrait mixed light with shadows. Looking at his long tenure in Congress, I must say, in all honesty, I don’t like a long running political show. Longevity guarantees privilege and privilege is a threat to democratic renewal and the fostering of new leadership. Mark my words, we’ll have to see a silk purse made out of a sow’s ear when it comes to a replacement for the man with a fiddle—Senator Robert Carlyle Byrd.
Looking At The Oil Spewing Into The Gulf
For eighty-five days I have been watching, as I am sure you have, the devastation of millions of gallons of oil spewed into the Gulf of Mexico. As I write these Notes, I hear the news that there is no more oil leaking into the Gulf. If the cap can hold the oil without blowing a new leak in the well, we may see an end to this nightmare.
The Gulf has been bleeding, and cameras placed deep below the water’s surface have been our submerged eyes allowing us to witness this terrible environmental disaster, twenty-four hours a day.
Naomi Klein, in a thoughtful article in The Nation, reminds us that “In the arc of human history, the notion that nature is a machine for us to re-engineer at will is a relatively recent conceit…until the 1600s, the Earth was alive, usually taking the form of a mother. Europeans—like indigenous people the world over—believed the planet to be a living organism, full of life-giving powers but also wrathful tempers. There were, for this reason, strong taboos against actions that would deform and desecrate ‘the mother,’ including mining.”
Those who believe that human beings can mine the sea for oil or the earth for coal, in a relentless fashion, without serious consequences, would do well to wake up.
A friend has just advised me to look at Dan Beauchamp’s (www.talesofcoppercity.com). Good advice. In his piece, “The Elephant in the Pews,” he writes: “I believe that we are like the fish in the sea that Bishop Ambrose wrote about in the late third century, the fish that lives in the ocean of life with its constantly shifting currents and its deep, deep darkness below, the womb that gave all of life and the world its birth and the ocean of life that sustains us until we die and return to that larger life.”
A reminder, indeed, that we best not foul the nest we live in—“this planet earth, our island home,” as the Episcopal Eucharistic prayer describes our residency. Wrath will come, for sure, from whatever source you wish to name—an angry God, the Laws of Nature, or Mother Earth.
Naomi Klein writes about our nation’s perverse path to enlightenment: “They say that Americans learn where foreign countries are by bombing them. Now it seems we are all learning about nature’s circulatory systems by poisoning them.” That sounds like William Blake—“The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.”
One Last Fig For My Readers
A final thought from a man who has seen lots of wounds—physical and emotional—over my 47 years of ordained ministry. It’s a fig passed on to me, and now I pass it on to you. Chew on these words, if you will: Scar tissue is vastly stronger than the standard issue.
July 16th, 2010
June 1st, 2010 |
One of my favorite magazine and newspaper formats is the Q & A—the question and answer method of getting information from people.
Each month The Progressive magazine does a four page Q & A. The comments from a variety of guests are always interesting. In the May issue, for example, Ed Asner, actor and social justice advocate, talks about politics and the Oscar winning movie Up in which he did the voice part for the elderly man who lost his wife but found his lost dream. “I think Up is a marvelous film. It treats subjects that non-animated pictures should be dealing with,” he says, “old age, loneliness, discovering new life, new directions.”
Another fascinating and challenging interview can be found in the March issue of The Sun magazine. In it, Tim Farrington, a writer who has been hospitalized for depression in the past, talks about depression, the spiritual Dark Night of the Soul, suffering and writing. On writing: “Done right, the discipline of writing makes your heart more open and soft—or at least it helps you take your head out of your ass. Writing should ultimately decrease morbid self-absorption, not make it worse.”
It’s a rare Sunday when I don’t read the one page New York Times Magazine Q & A done by Deborah Solomon. Subjects interviewed range from Jane Fonda, Rand Paul, Rosanne Cash, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Chinua Achebe, and Ayaan Hirsi Ali. Interviewed herself, Solomon says, “I don’t see interviewing as an art form. At best, it is a minor art form, like bartending, or macramé.”
Solomon, like other interviewers, has a knack for taking thousands of words and parsing them down to four hundred. That’s what folks like about a Q & A. It’s short and to the point—it’s a lean, fatless piece cut close to the bone. It’s not a thesis but rather a thimble full of information. Or, to appropriate Solomon’s bartending imagery, a Q & A is like a shot glass of bourbon rather than a boot full of beer.
In the February 14 issue of Notes, my Valentine’s Day issue, I used the Q & A format to focus on the subject of love. I am writing this issue on Memorial Day and will return to the Q & A format. This time I’ll be focusing on some of the questions that people have asked me over the years, including some that are recent, about a variety of subjects. I hope you find my pithy comments revealing and helpful as you sort through your own thoughts about life.
Cheers and down the hatch!
Question: What are your thoughts on Memorial Day, 2010?
Answer: If there is a parade downtown today, I’ll stay away from it. I hate seeing old guys in uniforms they’ve outgrown, marching with flags and ammo-empty rifles. And I take no delight in the children throwing candy from red, white and blue floats, followed by high school ROTC kids who haven’t even begun to shave. Last night I heard a woman interviewed on CNN who said that each and every one of us is able to exercise our freedom because of those who have sacrificed their lives in war.
Today, I shall wince if I hear some orator say our fallen warriors “died to keep us free.” Why? Because, since WW II, I’ve not seen a single war fought for our freedom. “Freedom” is just another word to justify U.S. hegemony in the world. The dead—some of my friends—were tragically misguided, their courage exploited, their blood wasted. And they will have died in vain, if we refuse to study war no more.
Question: That doesn’t sound like a very patriotic thing to say. Do you love your country?
Answer: Look, I was raised in a Red-White-and-Blue row house, working class neighborhood in Baltimore. I can remember the movie “Yankee Doodle Dandy” and George M. Cohan’s lyrics: “Every heart beats true ‘neath the Red, White and Blue.” I cut my teeth on the movie “The Sands of Iwo Jima.” The Marine Corps Hymn still stirs a hair or two on the back of my neck. That’s an alert I have to pay attention to because it could indicate I’ve been struck down by the John Phillip Sousa syndrome. I marched to those tunes during my brief stint in the Marine Corps where I received a rough-and-ready education about the reality of U.S. military dominance around the world.
Don’t get me wrong, I love this country. It’s your land and my land, like Woody Guthrie said in that great American folk song. By the way, he wrote that song in response to Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America” because it seemed unrealistic and complacent—romantically gushy. He was tired of Kate Smith’s version on the radio. But I need to be proud of my native land. Lincoln’s words ring true to me: “I like to see a man proud of the place in which he lives. I like to see a man live so that his place will be proud of him.” Right now I am not proud of my land, the way we are living at the expense of the earth and one another. Nor am I proud of my land when I see so many people who are not proud of Americans who are trying to change the way we live.
Question: Do you face the flag and put your hand over your heart when the National Anthem is played? Do you say the Pledge of Allegiance?
Answer: Okay, I’ll own up. I’m not a flag guy. I don’t like national flags, or church flags for that matter. I see too many folks wrap themselves in the flag, blind to the ills of their nation. The covering masks a multitude of sins. I’ve seen too many caskets wrapped in flags—men and women who were sent to die in wars that should never have been fought. The same goes for church flags. There’s a long and nasty history of Christians marching off to war—Christian soldiers on crusade. You know, the literal interpretation of those words from a very familiar Christian hymn: “Forward into battle see His banners go.”
I don’t say the Pledge of Allegiance. I chuckle when I remember that it was written in 1892 by Francis Bellamy, a Baptist minister, a Christian socialist. Hey, run and tell Bill O’Reilly, Glenn Beck and Sean Hannity about that. You know, I think I have an Annabaptist gene lodged inside my body. The Anabaptists condemned oaths, shunned arms, and refused to pledge allegiance to “Caesar.” My baptism in Christ—my allegiance to the Prince of Peace and the Kingdom of God—crowds in on me when I am asked to pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America. And, by the way, it would suit me just fine to see all the flags out of the sanctuary.
Question: Since you bring up the church, let’s talk church. At this very moment you are in a bit of trouble with the Bishop of West Virginia because he says you have “crossed boundaries.” What’s that all about?
Answer: I am in trouble, but I don’t want to write about that yet since I am presently in conversation with the Bishop and all parties concerned. Just know that I wasn’t discovered in bed with a live woman or a dead man, and I haven’t swiped any church offerings. Just let it be said that I visited some dying and sick people from the parish I used to serve here in Charleston, without conforming to certain ecclesiastical etiquette.
Question: Some folks say you play fast and loose with boundaries, both state and church. What say ye?
Answer: Prior to making peace delegation trips to Libya and Iraq, I had to meet with folks in New York from the Center for Constitutional Rights. They warned those of us making the trip that we might very well be punished for traveling to countries where Americans were prohibited from going. Needless to say, I made those trips. Peace work means crossing boundaries to meet even with the so-called enemies of our nation. Furthermore, at the heart of all civil disobedience is a passion for justice that demands a disobedience to laws in pursuit of a higher imperative. This passion is what put me at odds with my congresswoman when I was arrested in her office opposing her vote for more money for the war in Iraq.
As far as church boundaries are concerned, I have always felt the need to make the case for occasional ecclesiastical disobedience. When I blessed two gay couples back in 1976, I crossed that line and, if it had not been for a supportive bishop, I might have fallen prey to some clergy who wanted me to face a church trial. I had the privilege in the early 80’s to work with Barbara Ferraro and Pat Hussey, two former nuns who stood up to the Pope in their refusal to back down from offering poor women the option of abortion when they faced a troubled pregnancy. In the news now is the excommunication of Sister Margaret McBride, a senior administrator of St. Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix. This good sister allowed for an abortion to save the life of a 27-year-old mother of four.
We are all locked into the boundaries of the hand we have been dealt at birth, and the boundaries that mark our date of birth and our date of death. These boundaries challenge us, while we have time, to exercise as much freedom as we possibly can, in our contacts with people and the planet we inhabit. Sure, we all make mistakes in the decisions we make, but no one ever promised us a risk-free trip toward some kind of unachievable perfect life. Risk on, brothers and sisters!
Question: What are the ingredients for making a good clergy person?
Answer: Since I love chocolate, I would have to say be sure and include a cup or more of chocolate in the recipe. All joking aside, this is a tough question with no easy answer. Nevertheless, I’ll give it a try. First, a minister, like anyone else for that matter, should be the person who he or she really is. Don’t be talked out of your personality by someone preaching to you about humility. Frankly, I am suspicious of the process that leads to ordination these days. It seems to be giving us cookie-cutter clergy, fashioned like processed cheese. God given personality seems drained out of school-solution, theologically correct, officially certified clergy. Where are the renegades? Spice the cake with a bit of “heresy.” Orthodoxy needs you desperately.
Clergy must be available to the people they serve. It’s the only way they know you, and the only way you know them. Availability is a twelve letter word for love. Preaching and pastoral care emerge from contact with people and the life of the community. On top of that, clergy have to connect the dots. War is waged in Vietnam, Iraq and Afghanistan by our government, and it winds up on the church doorstep when warriors come home with a variety of pastoral problems. Gay concerns aren’t just an issue for the gay members in a church. Those concerns are an issue at the local city council, state legislature, and congress.
Question: Aren’t you in danger of mixing religion and politics?
Answer: Sure. Christians should be in perpetual danger over the radical message that Jesus lived, taught and called people to follow. That means calling attention to the fact that what goes on inside the temple is directly linked to what takes place outside in the marketplace. Liturgy disconnected from life is no more than dress-up-and-play-church. Look, Jesus didn’t hang from a cross because he forgot to cross a “T” or dot an “I.” Death by crucifixion was the penalty one paid for treason—threatening the Roman Empire. I am no great fan of Bishop N.T. Wright, but he got it right when he said: “Wherever St. Paul went, there was a riot. Wherever I go, they serve tea.” Hey, sipping tea with folks is an okay thing to do, but sympathy for those who drink the dregs from cups of injustice is what Christians are to be about. Maybe it’s all about tea and sympathy. I hear a lot about Benedictine Spirituality from clergy these days, but damn little about Christian Socialism. The balance between these two traditions seems askew.
I have been perpetually disturbed by the bed of silence churches have slept in while we have been at war in Iraq and Afghanistan. These stone edifices that Christians go to for a dose of God have been stone cold silent about this military-industrial-media complex that is eating up our economy and poisoning our world with violence. Go visit a different church for the next few months and see if any of them are addressing the issue of the rise of fascism in our nation. Please surprise me with the information that even one church is dealing with this subject. Haven’t we learned anything about how the church in Nazi Germany became complicit with evil by remaining silent?
Question: What are your thoughts about the oil spill?
Answer: It’s interesting that the initials BP (British Petroleum) are front and center in this crisis. In my mind, BP could well stand for Big Power. That’s what has us all by the throat—Big Power. The Bible story of Jesus’ confrontation with the Gerasene demoniac has much to teach us. This man lived among the tombs and no one could control him, not even with chains. His name was Legion because, he told Jesus, “there are many of us.” His strength was such that he was able to break any restraints anyone tried to put on him. Sound familiar? A mad capitalism roams and roars on Wall Street, international markets, and throughout our nation, wreaking havoc on communities made unsustainable by mega-corporations, vertically integrated companies, and greedy entrepreneurs with little concern for anything but the dollar sign. Take note at how these Big Powers resist being reined in by regulations. Accountability is a chain they refuse to wear, and Big Powers lobbyists who fight any public regulatory power are legion.
We are living at the expense of our environment—the earth, air and water, and the creatures that depend upon it for health—and they are speaking back to us. Old time religion would describe what is happening as the wrath of God. I can go there, if I see this oil spill as the direct result of our misuse of our God-given freedom. To use modern industrial lingo, God has subcontracted the care of our environment to us and we have screwed it up and, therefore, we stewards must be subjected to the flood of pollution and waste which the misuse of freedom inevitably produces. I also believe we have convinced ourselves that scientific and technological expertise can solve any problem. Technology has become our golden calf—an idolatrous icon that we call upon to save us from our self-centered behavior.
Question: You frequently write about the media. What’s at the heart of your ongoing interest in the media?
Answer: When I was a philosophy major at Washington & Lee University, the subject of epistemology intrigued me. The questions surrounding how we know what we know—the source of our knowledge—seemed critical in terms of dealing with metaphysical and ethical questions. Being a Christian, with so much emphasis on the Word becoming flesh, seemed somehow connected to publishing. You know the old hymn, “Publish Glad Tidings.” I can still remember, as a high school student, visiting The Baltimore Sun and watching the wedding of paper and ink as the presses rolled on loudly. The touch and smell of a fresh newspaper was the word becoming flesh and dwelling on my front porch every day.
Television, and now the blogosphere have been like successive Gutenberg Revolutions, and who can possibly tell where the printed, imaged word is headed. One thing I can say for sure. The Washington Press Corp is incestuous. They are married to one another, attend the same parties, and kiss up to the politicians they should be tough on. On top of that, they are poll-driven entertainers. Case in point: Mary Matalin & James Carville? In New Orleans, both crticized BP, whose subcontractor, Halliburton, is directly responsible for the oil spill. Hey, Mary Matalin was Dick “Halliburton” Cheney’s PR front for the weapons of mass destruction ploy and the Iraq War. For God’s sake James, call her to question on that fact. Instead, James harped on about Obama, that he should move down to the region and eat shrimp with the folks, smell the oil slick, and feel the pain. Feel the pain—an old Bill Clinton line. This twosome is tiresome. Where are the Izzy Stone’s and the Edward R. Murrow’s when we need them?
Question: It’s no secret that you love to read. What’s on your reading list this summer?
Answer: Right now I am working my way through “The War Lovers: Roosevelt, Lodge, Hearst, and the Rush to Empire” by Evan Thomas. Speaking of newspapers, William Randolph Hearst did his part to further the war efforts of Roosevelt and Lodge. “He tried parades and fireworks to boost circulation,” says Thomas, “but he needed something bigger, more spectacular. He needed a war.” Of course he got it and we were launched on a militaristic course that would extend for over a century. I am also working my way through Dairmaid MacCulloch’s “Christianity: The First Three Thousand Years.” All 1,016 pages of it. My fun reading is Elmore Leonard’s “Road Dogs” and Gail Godwin’s “Desires.”
Question: Anything else you want to say on this 2010 Memorial Day?
Answer: A final Memorial Day thought: Creech Air Force Base in Nevada was built after the Pearl Harbor attack. Today military personnel there, like video game players, pull the trigger that kills people in Iraq and Afghanistan. A military report was released a couple of days ago that says drones killed 23 innocent Afghan civilians earlier this year. Drones are “collateral damage” prone. My, how warfare has changed. We have progressed from hand-to-hand bayonet killing, to mortar and artillery fire at convenient distances, to bombing at 10,000 feet, and now to gaming from a room half way around the world. Ah, civilization. It invites a countercultural approach to itself—a resistance capable of changing the deadly patterns that have a hold of us.
June 1st, 2010
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