A Welcome Message

Being a pastor’s wife doesn’t mean I climb mountains more than the average person, although hiking is a favorite activity in our family.  The picture of our two sons was taken in the Colorado Rockies, where the five of us spent a breathtaking (sometimes literally) week the summer before last.  Getting to a high place and enjoying a visual panorama is always a thrilling experience.  My title here, though, refers more to the kind of expansive view I get to have from my vantage point as a clergy spouse with layers of involvement in the secular world. Sometimes there is a lovely blending of elements, and sometimes things collide in a dizzying way.  More and more, I am struck by how often two contrasting experiences keep company together.  And, in the same way that bugs are drawn to a light source, I find myself wanting to get closer to see what is really going on when something bumps up against something else.

This contrast is often just plain funny, and often it has nothing to do with being a pastor’s wife.  Just the other day, for instance, following the freakish October snowstorm we had in this part of New England, our teenage daughter came home from a sledding expedition saying, “I still have my bathing suit on!”  Turns out that following the whooshing down a hill on snow that wasn’t supposed to be there, she and her friends went to a hotel where one of the girls’ families had been staying because of the multi-day power outage.  And there, of course, they went swimming in the pool.  Everything got jumbled, and it was all good.

Another example, more visual:  My husband painted our bedroom recently, and my favorite part is the line between the rich beige (called “Amulet”) and the white of the ceiling.   Over and over, my eye is drawn to where the two colors come together…but stay separate.  These places, to me, illustrate so much that is true about regular life.  Sometimes we can see them, and sometimes we just feel them.  An ordinary moment in the present takes us right back to a time long ago; a person who is known for behaving one way does something completely uncharacteristic; an experience we counted on to be wonderful turns out to be crushingly disappointing.   We are shaken or maybe moved by the juxtaposition of things, and we try to get hold of our feelings.  During the years that I worked at a tough urban high school where students’ basic needs were often unmet while my own kids were choosing among an array of extra-curricular activities, I felt that I was leading a kind of “split screen” life.  It wasn’t a question of which side I was on, but rather an issue of trying to see as clearly as possible what was happening, to make out as best I could the topography of the landscape.

In some instances, blending, or perhaps equalizing, can be beautiful; but, depending on what you’re trying to merge, it might also cause a giving up of an essence.  In that famous poem, “Mending Wall,” Robert Frost begins with “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,” but his neighbor is adamant that “ ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’ “  It is, of course, ironic that they may meet only once a year to replace the boulders that keep a line between them.  Bring us together if you can, but don’t forget to respect boundaries at the same time.

On this site, I will be exploring all kinds of topics within the theme of duality, adjacency, differences finding common ground  – or maybe at least meeting for a handshake and mutual recognition.   I anticipate that my life as a clergy spouse (with no previous background in churchgoing) will lend a good bit of material on the secular/religious tones in the culture, but that will be just one subject of these essays.  Unlike some of the other pastors’ wives whose blogs you can easily find, I won’t be writing a whole lot about parish life, my own faith or what we clergy spouses have in common.   But my rich experience living alongside an Episcopal priest will, to some extent, affect my vision.  Since I have spent much of the last decade raising three children and taking them to hundreds of practices and games, I have become particularly familiar with the terrain of youth sports.  Indeed, some would say that a whole new kind of religion has been created in this realm.  But what are we worshipping, exactly?  Feeling so many, often conflicting, tugs on our time, how do we best determine what is truly worth doing?

Thanks for joining me as I try to paint the panorama that I see.   I look forward to hearing your responses along the way.

 

 

Giving Us a Lift in February

It’s definitely not just another ho-hum weekend, because the amazing discovery of the Trappist-1 cluster — a bunch of new planets circling a kind of sun, out there just a hop, skip and a jump away from us– means we are now on alert for possible news of life elsewhere in the universe. This is big, possibly mind-blowing. Depending on how the story unfolds, we could have some major adjusting to do about our human identity, our various belief systems, and what’s what in general.

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But for now, I’ll go back to last weekend and report on an experience that was just mildly unusual, very much on the earth, and actually both grounding and uplifting at the same time.

The media tells us that our culture is seeing a decline in organized religion, but have you noticed how church pops up in the darnedest places these days?

Over the years, I’ve attended a lot of services where my husband was presiding, but never before one where the congregants all wore ski boots. This definitely gave a new twist, or perhaps we should say “clomp,” to the whole experience.

Rob went as a kind of fill-in guy, and while I don’t usually attend Sunday morning services with him, this one was particularly appealing for both of us, as a kind of date even, because it got us out on a New Hampshire mountain on a sunny day after a week of multiple snowfalls. Where else better to be?

Jay MacLeod, rector of St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church in New London, and an innovative thinker as well as a past ski-jumper, some years ago started an unusual kind of Saturday afternoon gathering. Called “Skiiers’ Communion,” it takes place on the 2nd floor of the lodge right next to the lift drop-off area on the top of Mt. Sunapee.

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I can’t say whether the same individuals come each week, but there was a healthy (in both senses) group present last Saturday, and about half of the people were under 20—definitely not the norm for most “regular” church services these days.

Some of the kids, I learned later, race on Sunday mornings so this time slot provided a nice option. They seemed fully engaged and attentive for the half hour or so that we were together.

Downstairs, people were buying waffles, bowls of chili and other snacks; some families were having quality time, dining outside on the picnic tables; the clean-up crew was moving furniture and mopping up the floors, with music on the radio, before closing time, when they all needed to get a ride down before the lift stopped.

In other words, there were many signs of just regular life when you happen to find yourself on top of a mountain in February. And as you can see from this calendar, there’s lots going on here.

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By total coincidence, one of the readings for the day was Jesus’s Sermon on the Mount, in the Book of Matthew. I kid you not. Along with the Beatitudes, of course, there’s the topic of seeking spiritual “perfection.” A tall order, in any age, in any location — especially if you think of it in the conventional way of reaching the top level of something, being the best, winning as opposed to losing. On this particular day, when I was trying to re-gain my confidence (no skiing at all last winter, and a year older, plus a pulled muscle) on the slopes just in a physical way, the idea of perfection seemed particularly elusive.

Fortunately, though, Rob talked a bit about what it’s like learning to ski, how when we’re on the lift we naturally watch the other skiiers, wanting to emulate the best of them. This is fine and good, for the most part, and is fact often how we learn, so long as at the end of the day we can also be content with however we actually did and not feel that we’ve fallen way short of our goals. And in fact, as he said, we will likely do plenty of actual falling, even sometimes really wiping out, as well as sometimes helping others to get up, and this is in fact what it is to be fully human. Jesus knew.

As it turned out, I was proud of my husband for presenting a service that was so in keeping with the surroundings, for demonstrating really solid telemark skiing skills (mostly self-taught), and—not least — for being a supportive companion to me as I voiced my preference for wide open, mostly mogul free trails. It was, in many ways, just an ordinary day really.

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Ever since Martin Luther King’s spine-tingling last speech, “I’ve Been to the Mountaintop,” it seems right to be very careful not to confuse real mountaintops with metaphorical ones, so I won’t. Certainly, King’s vision of the pinnacle provided people with the courage they needed to get through the low, dark places. The striving continues. On our snow-covered mountaintop last weekend, we were at least managing to combine the thrill, and challenge, of a downhill run with some reflection about the panorama of life beyond the slopes.

So whatever movement might be afoot to broaden the idea of what and where church actually is, it makes sense to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shameless Shout Out For My Valentine

Since I don’t happen to work for any local, state or national government but am just a lowly blogger, do you think I’ll be in hot water with any official ethics organization if I choose to use this space to promote a family member’s creative work? And it’s pretty far from being a line of clothing, too.

Since Valentine’s Day is all about expressing our love, and I’m due to make a new post, it makes pretty good sense for me to give the floor (if that’s what this kind of virtual platform can be called)  over to my husband. Well, that’s not quite what I mean, in that he’s not coming on the page or anything, but I think you get my drift. Now there’s a word that sprung readily to mind based on recent weather events around here.

Anyway, my husband has always supported me in my ventures, including establishing this whole website, which in fact owes its origin in large measure to him and his particular calling…and to the fact that, given my background, we are two hearts joined together in rather unusual circumstances.

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Anyway, it’s not every day that one’s spouse or partner (or parent or child or sibling, for that matter) writes a book that goes all the way to publication and distribution, but mine has, and I’m mighty proud. It’s called Without Shame or Fear: From Adam to Christ by Rob Hirschfeld (Church Publishing, 2017). I’m not one bit ashamed or fearful, mind you, just plain proud.

OK, here’s the essential information about what it is, and how you can a copy if you so choose. I’ll actually give two sites; the price is the same at either one, by the way. Here’s the first one, and here’s the second. And really, no pressure whatsoever. Maybe your local library,  more likely a local church,  will pick it up — can’t say for sure.

What I can say for sure is that it’s a good read. Having seen only parts when in draft form, I’m really glad to find how the six chapters– plus the Introduction and Conclusion on either end– build upon one another and how, throughout the volume,  he achieves a lovely weaving together of Scripture, art and film and poetry, as well as his own vivid memories.

As I write, another Valentine’s Day is coming to a close. However pleased or not so pleased we are with the level of romance in our lives, chances are we’re not quite as downcast as this famous couple when they were banished from the Garden of Eden.

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The book begins with them, but fortunately for us, all is not lost at this moment. There’s plenty of shame to go around, in any era; working through it, especially working through it together, is a life-giving effort.

There– I’ve said more than enough. After all,  this is my husband’s book, so who am I to even talk about it? Well, people who have known me might say with a smile that this kind of question has never stopped me before. Really though, if you can’t sing the praises of your spouse’s work on Valentine’s Day, then when?

The fact is, after all the cards and the candy and the flowers, those of us who are in or have once been in long-term relationships know that they’re mostly about mutual support and comfort — being there for someone, day in and day out. At least that’s what I believe.

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Sure, this term might generally be used to describe various kinds of alimony arrangements. For the life of me, though, I don’t know why it’s not used much more often to describe what partners need from one another just on any regular old day, when we’ve  winced in pain or perhaps had a minor triumph, or possibly both. No extra creative work even required! In this ongoing effort, there is definitely no shame, and frequently even a whole garden of delights.

 

 

 

 

On Super Bowl Sunday, Mind Your Soup

On Super Bowl Sunday, or on any other day for that matter, do you prefer to keep politics, religion and sports separate — like food items not touching on a plate—or do you like the mélange of tastes that comes when they’re all swirling around together?

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Seems to me that there are really good kinds of soups, the broth-based ones with wholesome ingredients that bring comfort on cold days; and then the other kind that could, with the right ingredients mixed wisely, be mentally stimulating, but too often are instead the unappetizing and sometimes downright damaging products of sloppy thinking.

At this time of year, I always remember a restaurant in downtown Amherst called “Souperbowl.” It’s closed now, apparently, and was in truth always a little odd. Before its demise it tried to be more than just a cozy place offering just a few kinds of delicious soup each day. For some reason they took over a cavernous new space, installed a long bar with a huge mirror over it — a site that must have been prepared to serve all kinds of exotic drinks. But it was always empty.

They must have miscalculated, because over time, the regular patrons who were devotees of what was ladled out of those huge pots surely would have spread the word through the Pioneer Valley and they could have kept their original character, growing only slightly. Such, at least, is my high estimation of what truly excellent soup—and soup alone– could achieve in a college town.

Of course it’s always better to make our own soup when we can, and I plan to do just that today before the Big Game with a similar name gets underway.

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On my hour-long commute in the morning, I often land upon Boston sports talk radio, especially when the BBC News gets a tad dry. Over the past week of course, it’s been all Pats, all the time. The fascination with the team, and especially Brady, is endless. How can he be this amazingly good at age 39? How will he handle meeting Roger Goodell on the podium? Will the questions on Deflategate ever be laid to rest? What’s going on in his family? In his mind? And—this one is tough: Does it matter that apparently he considers Trump a friend? Can we, should we, try to keep our football (well, OK, I know we don’t all claim it) free from politics?

That depends, I think, on whether there’s any possibility of gaining yardage from mixing the two. Flag on the play! Ruling is—NO! Keep the President off the field. Let Brady and everyone else out there just be football players.

Meanwhile, the President himself is getting into some hot water with more inappropriate mingling. Last week at the National Prayer Breakfast, he said he plans to “totally destroy” the Johnson Amendment which has, since 1954, discouraged clergy from fully endorsing political candidates because their tax-exempt status would be at stake. You can read an article (2/2/2017) on this in The New York Times here. The way he wants it, pulpits would soon ring out with unbridled political stances, and evidently he’s counting on the voices on the right to be the strongest.

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What would ensue would be a dangerous diminishment of the generally well-respected separation between church and state. Do we really want religious services, seeking to provide some oasis of peace to congregants, to bring political divisions much more out in the open?

While it’s true that all of us would do well to seek out people with views different from our own, to have honest and rich conversations about what we believe our American way of life should be and why, church hardly seems like the best setting for glares or even all-out fights over matters of national policy. Religious services need to rise above this kind of thing, and that’ s not the same as saying they should skirt the important moral issues of our time. It’s a fine line, perhaps, but there’s still a line.

The article I provided the link for presents a number of Trump’s actual statements from the Prayer Breakfast. This one, to me, is the most disturbing.

“America is a nation of believers,” he said. “The quality of our lives is not defined by our material success, but by our spiritual success.”

Believers in what, exactly? He’s trying to depart from his usual identity as zillionaire here, but those of us who have been in the trenches with our own souls know there is really no such a thing as “spiritual success.” No moment of full attainment, just constant tending and maybe greater understanding of what keeps us whole. In fact, the phrase sounds almost like an oxymoron, as if internal serenity can be achieved with the clang of a gong.

If I had the chance to go back to the Souper Bowl on North Pleasant Street once again, I’d be glad for them to weigh my container of Vegetable Barley and charge me accordingly. But when it comes to how my spirituality is faring, I’m on my own. It may get a tad better, though, when I go down to the local pond and skate with some of my neighbors I haven’t yet met. Maybe we’ll talk Pats together, and that will be a good start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Just the Facts Please, Hold the Bravado

“Alternative beliefs” I can buy, but “alternative facts” ? The landscape is shifting, for sure, and my panorama is not what it used to be. Now, Truth has to go into battle with Falsehood on a daily basis. Contrasts and juxtapositions may be my bread and butter here, but I didn’t count on the kind that threaten to pull the rug right out from under us.

Essentially, I was pretty content trying to deepen my understanding of the different ways in which people seek to understand and shape their world through religious experience, leaving facts more or less intact.

The way we interpret facts definitely is all over the map, and we reach very different conclusions about how they point to God or perhaps don’t point to God, and what kind of God s/he may be, but still there are certain fundamentals that remain solid.

Now, though, the very reality of the sun rising and setting each day might be called into question. A simple walk in the woods could reveal different points of view on where the trees are located. Maybe this country wasn’t, in fact, founded on the premise that all people are created equal and that justice should be for all.

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Going forward, what then are we going to be able to agree on?

It was right after the Women’s March last weekend that Kellyanne Conway appeared on TV, smiling broadly as usual, to support her colleague Sean Spicer in his bizarre insistence that the size of Trump’s inauguration crowd was much, much larger than the media had pathetically portrayed it. She and Chuck Todd went back and forth on this on “Meet the Press” until she came out with a real whopper:  “You’re saying it’s a falsehood, and Sean Spicer, our press secretary, gave alternative facts to that.”

I watched this clip, and the most amazing thing to me was how she glided right through it, almost like a figure skater. There was absolutely no self-correction, or amendment or anything. It was as if the term had already gained common currency in our culture.

Apparently, and this is no surprise, she’s just following in the footsteps of her boss.

I found a recent (1/24/2017) column by Clarence Page of the Chicago Tribune about how Trump claims to be just giving us what we know we really want: a vision of things that are always fabulous and huge. He even invented an oxymoronic term– “truthful hyperbole.” You could check with her, but I doubt that this is what Emily Dickinson had in mind when she wrote, “Tell all the truth, but tell it slant.” Read Page’s whole column here.

It’s also very unlikely that any self-respecting religion would espouse this kind of weirdness, either. I’m just starting to read a brand new book with a charming– or ridiculous, depending upon your perspective– title: A Little History of Religion by Richard Holloway (Yale University Press, 2016). Since he’s the former Bishop of Edinburgh and Primus of the Scottish Episcopal Church, and I think my husband said he met him once, I figure he’s trustworthy.

Fact is (if I can still use that expression and be believed), I’ve always been a bit of a sucker for volumes that claim to condense a whole lot of information in a very palatable way. I mean, we all have a lot to do. My upstairs bedroom still has an unpacked suitcase from a couple of weekends ago. So why not try to find shortcuts once in a while?

Anyway, in the opening chapter he begins by saying that religion is a way to answer the Big Questions (capitals only mine).

The universe was created by a power beyond itself that some call God, that continues to be interested and involved in what it has created. The individual religions all offer different versions of what the power called God is like and what it wants from us, but they all believe in its existence in some form or other. They tell us we are not alone in the universe. Beyond us there are other realities, other dimensions. We call them “supernatural” because they are outside the natural world, the world immediately available to our senses. (p. 2)

So it is entirely appropriate for there to be “different versions” of certain phenomena, like the perception of an Almighty, but not of other phenomena, like facts discernible in Nature, or numbers of people at a certain place at a certain time. Which gets us back to why it’s important for us to agree that yes, the sun does rise in the morning, or to be more precise it seems to rise because of how our planet moves, and yes, that definitely is the sun that we see shining through the trees.

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Long live alternatives in many areas of life— alternative schools, alternative pathways, alternative ice cream flavors by all means!  But let’s protect facts over falsehoods whenever we need to, brushing off whatever threatens to cover or disguise them, the better to let Truth shine out over this great land.

 

 

A New Year and an Old Hymn

Isn’t it wonderful how some of us can listen, or view, something and pronounce it a triumph and then others of us can have the exact same sensory experience and call it a travesty?

Don’t worry, I am not taking the impending Inauguration as my subject. That would be a room-clearer for sure.

Lo and behold, after the Christmas Hymns and Carols have been put away, and we’ve sung as much of “Auld Lang Syne” as we could remember (a certain loved one of mine recently blithely advised another loved one without reading glasses in church to just “Sing what you know!”) in comes an early- January melodic surprise.

It is a widely circulated video of an unusual performance of an old church standby, but this time sung by a most unlikely chorus: a group of Nigerian elder statesmen, most at least in their 70’s, with reputations that heretofore have not included their ability to carry a tune.

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Apparently, they offered this up as a kind of New Year’s message of peace and goodwill to their fellow countrymen and women. You’ll see that it could easily be viewed as a kind of an apology as well.

Coming to me as it did on my morning commute, amidst the highway glare and the perpetual updates about Trump’s tweets, it was pretty thoroughly refreshing.

Without further delay, let me offer you the full performance. In the preamble, you’ll see some of the most famous government buildings in Nigeria and then close-ups of the various individual gravelly-voiced singers, some delivering their assigned lines in Yoruba, or another tribal language.

Here you go.

It was just the audio version I heard at first, but it was enough to lift my spirits. Fact is, there has probably never been a time that hearing “Oh God Our Help In Ages Past” has not in some way lifted, or more accurately stirred my spirits.

A personal digression seems in order here.

In my early years I heard hymns only sporadically when my visiting Canadian grandmother would introduce them to me at the piano, definitely not from regular Sunday church (which my siblings and I did not attend). In my first couple of jobs as a boarding school teacher, though, I went to chapel services more regularly, and some of those must have included this hymn. I think.

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Truth be told, I get it confused sometimes with another really famous one –“Jerusalem”—with lyrics written by William Blake. This one is of course about England, but for whatever reason it’s been frequently claimed as an official school song (in private schools because they’re more like public schools across the pond) all over the United States too.

The point is that, to my ears anyway, both of these hymns have a particular kind of solidity, a seriousness of purpose, that won’t let you go. No slouching in the pews, and make sure you feel the whole sweep of humanity while you sing!

O God, our help in ages past,

Our hope for years to come,

Our shelter from the stormy blast,

And our eternal home.

That’s why it was so easy to be drawn in by the charm, yes—charm, of this latest performance. I mean, it’s rousing enough hearing a bunch of schoolchildren deliver it, but when we get a version by grey-haired people with the weight of experience on their collective shoulders, especially if it comes to us from a land far away, a land we’ve wondered or read about but never visited, well then it’s even more mesmerizing.

And even though we know that Nigeria today is facing a huge array of problems, Boko Haram being perhaps only the most publicized, and a couple of these gentlemen say they are grateful to God “in spite of the mess we made of the country,” surely we are willing to give them a nod for the nice gesture that this video represents.

So I thought, anyway. A few days after my first viewing, however, I came upon this article (1/5/2017)  in The New York Times, on an inside page: “Peace Hymn In Nigeria Is Panned As Tone-Deaf.” Here’s an excerpt:

But the amateur choir was mocked by some Nigerians, who expressed dismay at a gathering that included several former military rulers, and leaders they partly blame for corruption, misrule and instability in Nigeria, the most populous African nation.

Apparently, many activists have been speaking out about how this performance is, to them anyway, dripping with irony, besides being comic; they say that these guys have the gall to claim God on their side even though they did nothing to solve the problems, or even helped to create them in the first place. The embrace of Christianity might look endearing, but past sins can’t be erased that easily. Furthermore, to address evil in all corners of the land, there is hard work to do by real people. To these listeners, it might be a little bit like Richard Nixon singing, “My Country Tis of Thee.”

This, too, makes perfect sense of course.

I’d like to ask the young Nigerian writer Ngozi Chlmamandi Adichie what she thinks of the singing elder statesmen. The tale she tells in her wonderful novel, Americanah, is based on the alternating points of view of two characters, teenagers who become separated and then chart their own immigration stories, experiencing various forms of racism along the way. She also gave a TED talk called “The danger of the single story.” I encourage you to listen to that right here.

To borrow from the hymn, “in ages past” people may have somehow gotten away with living as if a single story, or a single point of view or a single culture, could be sufficient. Now, though, “our hope for years to come” must surely be in seeing the world as the rich tapestry that it is. I guess this means there’s more than one way to hear an old standby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the Event of Advent

This is a perfect time of year both to give unto others and to level with yourself. What will you choose to do, and what will you choose not to do? Sure, Advent is about anticipation and preparation, but not necessarily decoration and trepidation. (I know, those two words do not often keep company together, but they definitely can.)

For me, and I suspect for many of us, the trick is to enjoy wholeheartedly much of what is swirling all around— the greening, the putting up of lights, the placing of crèches, the shopping, the cookie baking, the card sending, the placing of reindeer antlers on cars even — without feeling the need to measure up in any way. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to any of these activities; the truth is, I often wish I were more proficient at, or at least more timely with, many of them. Leaving out the antler envy, however.

This time around, I’m oddly taken with the completely free moments of splendor as they occur in the cold and clear December air and how these moments complement, in a certain way, all the glittering that’s going on indoors.

Sometimes it takes only a glance at something in Nature to remind us that beauty is readily available, peace ours if we truly seek it.

On a recent Saturday, I was just starting on my long list of essential things to do inside when I glanced out back and saw how the sun was hitting the trees by the pond in a way that made everything else seem less important. I took my dog and ran down there, and this was my reward.

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Meanwhile, during the weekdays I have been fully enjoying the way a Catholic school, at least the particular one where I work, readies itself for Christmas. The decorations are really tastefully done, a mix of the clearly sacred and the more playful. You might round a corner and see a delightful display on a table…

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It’s hard to know what to call this actually; a kind of mini-tree? If there’s any clear religious significance, I’m uncertain here. But it’s just such a pleasure to take in.

The crèche in the main entrance area has a kind of quiet solidity, a presence that says, “Whatever you’re doing, surely you can take a moment and pause here.” And then there’s this smaller sweet scene, just on a windowsill.

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Almost always, an artificial tree does nothing to stir my soul. But somehow the one at school is completely satisfying. Maybe it’s the combination of the red bows and white lights, but it definitely has a kind of elegance.

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At home, though, we go a much simpler route, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve learned through the years that the four candles of Advent are essential, and the wreath surrounding or holding them is preferable, but other items are really not needed. In fact, it’s a more a feeling of bareness—something like a field of snow – that depicts the way a soul makes room for what’s to come. Clutter of any kind only gets in the way.

Full disclosure: I recently discovered a store in Concord called “Amish Homestead” that I really like, and a few hand-crafted things from there will spruce up the way our family room looks when guests come soon. But they hardly even qualify as Advent décor.

The way I see it, no matter which holiday might be around the corner and how well put together– or not– my house might be, just by heading out for a run I’m apt to find treasures along any road or trail. For this, I say “Hallelujah!”

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'Tis the Conflict of Interest Season

President-elect Trump is certain that “the president can’t have conflict of interest.”

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Oh really? Not much mentioned during the campaign, this controversy now has reached a boiling point. Never before has someone presided over a world-wide multi-million dollar business at the same time as presiding over a country.

It sounds like some kind of magic show: now you see it, now you don’t. Maybe he could be called Hoodwinker-in-Chief.

Don’t worry—in this post-Thanksgiving blog, politics will be only a “side.”

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However the Trump Show plays out in the weeks and months ahead, he’s raised my consciousness about the various, minor, but very familiar conflicts of interest that are a fact of life, especially right now. In this case we’re not talking about two cheerfully different things, co-existing happily side-by-side. We’re talking about competing forces, locked in a kind of battle, one threatening to annihilate the other. And all on the domestic front, mind you, precisely where you might reasonably expect peace to reign.

Here’s what Trump said, to a room full of reporters from The New York Times:

In theory I could run my business perfectly and then run the country perfectly. There’s never been a case like this. I’d assumed that you’d have to set up some kind of trust or whatever and you don’t.

Going for the title of the Ultimate Multi-Tasker! Of course there’s that pesky Emoluments Clause of the Constitution, prohibiting  federal office holders from accepting anything resembling gifts or other kinds of economic benefits from foreign leaders. Trump may have wanted to “drain the swamp,” but it looks like we’re all paddling in some murky waters now.

So too, in this time between Thanksgiving and Christmas, many of us might wish that the way forward could be a little clearer. Do we concentrate on acquiring packages with new things to lift our spirits and bring smiles to our loved ones?

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Or would it be wiser to just take stock of what we have, re-find some treasures that have been with us all along, tossing much but not all of what we find? Not a huge dilemma, at first glance, but one that can be vexing all the same. We have limited energy, and so we want to do our best to direct it wisely.

A few friends posted this feature right after Thanksgiving, and it makes sense to me.

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If we spend all day Thursday with nearest and dearest, does it thereby follow that on Friday we should tear out of the driveway to hunt bargains in big box stores?

I shudder at the thought of trying this with my family. Would. Not.Work.

What we did yesterday was much more satisfying: took a drive all together to pay our respects to the hard labor a cousin and an uncle have been doing for months to build a house. The rooms are bare now, but in due time they will get filled in. Possibilities glimmered from every new outlet, each empty crawl space upstairs.

Those of us who have houses that are plenty filled in already often feel the approach of Christmas as a mixed bag. We cherish the beauty of the season, hoping to find ways to accentuate sparkle while at the same time minimizing clutter and stress.

Maybe I’m unusual, but it’s always at this time of year that I experience the greatest urge to get down in the basement and go through all the boxes that have too long been dormant. Look what we already own! Drink in the splendor of this painting done in someone’s 3rd grade year! Count our blessings! Throw whatever is not a blessing the hell out!

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Part of our day yesterday included a stop at a delightful bookstore called “MainStreet BookEnds” in Warner. I had been given a gift certificate there, one I was glad to share with my kids. It was lovely watching everyone choose their volumes; I can’t recall when we last did something like this. The book I chose was Colson’s Whitehead’s The Underground Railroad, hot off the press and featuring a main character who happens to share my daughter’s name.

This morning, seeking a kind of balance, I re-acquainted myself with some of the old books that came to me from my parents’ bookshelves. Here’s what a couple of them look like:

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The copyright year on The Wizard of Oz is 1899, about twenty years before my mother was born; I don’t know how she received the book or in fact whether it was originally my father’s. On the first page of the other one, The Princess and the Goblin, “B. Lamb” is written in pencil; as I look at it, a kind of lightening bolt goes through me as I imagine her as a ten year old red-headed girl.

The fact is, I suffer from pretty much perennial conflict of interest, and it’s probably time to celebrate rather than bemoan the constancy of the condition. Far be it from me to expect to run anything– my household or my family or my job– “perfectly,” especially when they’re combined. But there must at least be some middle path approach to Christmas, combining old and new in about the right proportions, and I intend to find it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stick-to-itiveness, Rocky style

The closer the election gets, the more I love my dog. And once it’s over, I’ll love him even more.

Recently my Rocky has gotten me thinking about a certain quality, one he demonstrates every time we’re out on the non-campaign trails (= daily).

In humans, it’s just about always considered a good thing. In dogs, maybe not quite so much. What is it? Stick-to-it-iveness. By that I mean, in canine terms at least, something like “the compulsion to find and carry, absolutely with a show off swagger, a stick, preferably a very large one.”

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Not all dogs have this, of course. Our previous labs enjoyed sticks now and again, but Rocky truly revels in the sport. Only thing is, and here we get to the adjacency/contrast aspect of this blog, there’s a definite downside to his prancing around with a big barky thing way back in his mouth. The first problem is generally that he pokes one of human companions, sometimes dramatically but usually not in a life-threatening manner. When this happens, he is often spoken to harshly, but is generally undeterred and keeps on his way, head held high. Stick-to-it-iveness means not giving up easily, remember.

The second problem is worse, because it can mean a trip to the vet. I’m not sure if there’s an actual term for the affliction, but it’s happened to Rocky a couple of times, just recently in fact. One day I notice that he’s yelping out in pain when I pet him around the ears, and also when he’s at his food dish. “Surely, “ I reason, “something’s not right!” Once at the vet’s, a few other possible ailments are ruled out, and then comes the pronouncement that it’s most likely an infection back in the jaw, caused by all those jagged edges of wood. After a few days of antibiotics, he’s back to his cheerful self…and ready to befriend more sticks.

Shouldn’t he know better after awhile? Kind of like learning to stay away from porcupines? I guess a dog’s gotta do what a dog’s gotta do.

Good thing that we humans never ever engage in activities that we know will likely bring us some harm down the road. The present always brings imperatives; the future is often just a dim possibility.

Sticks aside, Rocky is a mighty fine dog, and I can’t imagine life without him. Especially now that my husband is travelling frequently, his steady presence and his warm welcome whenever I get home shine brightly through the days.

Not to get too schmaltzy or anything, and I bet other dog enthusiasts out there will understand, permit me to quote James Taylor’s song “You’re Got a Friend” for a moment.

“Winter…

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Spring…img_2540

Summer…img_0621

or Fall..

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All you’ve got to do is call*, and I’ll be there…”

So come what may on Tuesday, Rocky will be by my side. He has my vote, always.

 

*Generally I’m the one who is doing the calling, but you get the idea.

Trading One Kind of Tumult for Another: The Beatles as Antidote

As the World Series gets underway, it’s as good a time as any to celebrate the idea of fervor, in a variety of forms. I propose to start with baseball, move gingerly through politics to rock & roll, and end up at religion. Are you with me?

Defined as “an intense and passionate feeling,” the word can definitely go either way—that is, there can be a kind you like and another kind you can’t stand. The fervor that Chicago fans feel right about now is, of course, not so different than the fervor that Cleveland fans feel; but if you’re in one camp, the other team’s expression of passion is likely to get under your skin. This happens a lot in sports, but mostly it’s good natured; except, of course, when disgruntled, or sometimes ecstatic, fans get really rowdy.

Can frenzy ever be fabulous? Is there a certain kind of tumult that is terrific? Yes and yes, so long as it doesn’t have to do with the current race for the White House.

Most of us have run out of words to describe how we’re feeling about the presidential campaign that keeps slogging, or careening, towards Election Day. According to an article I read last night, an unprecedented number of people are seeking out therapists this fall; we’re all rattled to some degree by the weirdness, even sordidness, of the conversation. And some of us are actually being re-injured by old wounds. It’s not a tranquil scene, both within us and among us. The colorful riot of the leaves is some recompense, but alas, that show won’t last long.

Around my neighborhood, this kind of thing doesn’t exactly set one’s soul at ease.

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Morning dawns peacefully enough, it’s true, but we get the distinct impression that there are some deep cracks in the ground. If we don’t go to big rallies, we can avoid the tumult to some degree; but it’s there all right. And, much as we’re eager to get past Election Day, it seems unlikely that serenity lies on the other side.

My husband and I, however, managed to find an oasis of relief by going to the movies recently. Escape? Absolutely. We saw the new Ron Howard documentary about the Beatles, called Eight Days A Week.  Actually the full title is longer than that, but no matter. The film is a retrospective of the band’s touring years, from 1962-1966, when they were on top of the world. For those of us who have always loved the music – indeed, felt that it has been to some degree the soundtrack to our lives – the movie is a complete treat from start to finish, a rollicking ride through the sustained panic that was Beatlemania.

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There’s nothing remotely like a “Candidate of Chaos” to be found here, no deleted emails either— only four young lighthearted guys who, by creating an endless stream of beautiful melodies and harmonies, brought joy all over the world. So what if this gleeful romp happened 50 years ago? Let it be, and let it live on.

Since the filmmakers got nods from Paul, Ringo, and the two widows—Yoko Ono and Olivia Harrison—it’s no surprise that the overall picture is as rosy as it is. But we’re watching actual tapes here, so presumably there are no lies. These guys apparently had a whole lot of fun hacking around together — coming up with new songs any chance they got, joking with the media, generally riding the wave of their fame. And what an amazing output; they gave us one tremendous album after another.

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Until, of course, it all got to be too much. Watching them in a constant crush of weeping and grabbing fans, with no chance for any private life, you have to be amazed at how they withstood the constant pressure for so long.

In the movie, a number of celebrities offer their own memories of the Beatles back then. Whoopi Goldberg recalls how her mother brought her to the famous Shea Stadium concert in 1965; what she heard in their music was a kind of blanket permission to be whoever she needed to be, to live fully for the rest of her life.

This was a kind of “Twist and Shout” fervor that lifted people up everywhere.

Religion, as I understand it, can do that too. Most mainline church services, at least the ones I’ve been to, wouldn’t normally be described as “fervent” but that doesn’t mean that there’s not an intensity of feeling going on therein. It seems to me true that, at the same time that many of us feel the need to keep a lid on our demonstration of emotions– in religious services or elsewhere — we also enjoy the experience of being around some expression of deep feeling, even if it is not our own, or we hold it in the pages of a book.

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Most episodes of true frenzy, generally speaking, go too far; but a degree of tumult—well, that’s usually a good thing. It’s like a ride on a crowded subway train, when you bump up against people you would have otherwise never met; or an exciting run down a sledding hill, when you take some bumps, steer as best you can, breathe in the cold air, maybe even sing a Beatles song good and loud, and realize just how great it is to have a beating heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

October Devotion

It’s October, the Red Sox are in the playoffs, Big Papi is heading out in a blaze of glory. What better time to reflect on the amazing and occasionally incongruous proximity, at least some of the time, between sports and religion?

Any thinking person knows that one realm—the one containing huge stadiums, celebrity players, non-stop action, winners and losers, fans who go crazy for their teams, huge sums of money— is completely different from the other, sacred one. And yet, the similarities are equally undeniable too. They keep popping up, like fly balls.

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Growing up, I knew sports a whole lot better than I knew religion. It was one of the main currencies of our family life. Once I got married to somebody “in the process” a quarter century ago, however, my learning curve about religion (the Episcopal faith, in particular) began taking an upswing. I sure have a long way to go, especially if I really want to understand the tenets of other faiths, but at least now I’m on the road towards greater understanding, if not full enlightenment. This is a little hard to admit, but any knowledge I gain about all kinds of religions gets absorbed by a mental landscape characterized, for better or worse, by a certain familiarity (distinct from skill, mind you) with all kinds of sports. Again, this is definitely NOT the same as proclaiming them in the same category.

But, the fact is, plenty of other people—especially sportswriters and coaches—do make this comparison. I once went to a hockey coaching clinic where the speaker pounded the rulebook down on his podium and said, “THIS is your Bible!”

Back in mid- February, The New York Times presented a lovely spread of photographs depicting the constancy of baseball in a particular country in the Caribbean. It caught my attention particularly because I’m working with students who have roots in this place; many of their family members go back and forth between Lawrence and their former homeland frequently.

You can see the whole feature here. It opens this way:

Baseball is beginning again in the United States, with players gathering at spring training sites in Florida and Arizona. But in the Dominican Republic, the sport never really stops. It is a year-round religion, a potential ticket out of poverty, and the result is that the country produces more major leaguers than any other nation except the United States.

How many major leaguers? The last best count I could find was 83— or around 10% of all players. This sounds pretty upbeat. Of course, for a slightly different take, you can read an NPR story, broadcast last April, called “Baseball is a Field of Dreams—And Dashed Hopes—For Dominicans” right here.

Let’s back to the element of religion.

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Used in the company of sports, the word “religion” is understood very broadly to mean something like “a pastime that elicits so much devotion, it becomes more than just a pastime.” Plainly, playing baseball is different from attending church in about a thousand ways. The connecting tissue is that both bring about a kind of fervor or passion, bring some release from daily cares, help make life worth living. No matter that people sit mostly quietly in pews, gathering themselves to pray, and in ball parks we hear the constant, “Get your beer heeeah!” No matter that religions hold up the virtues of spiritual strength, while sports reward those who are physically strong and agile.

Perhaps it is the Greek concept of koinonia – meaning communion, or joint participation – which most closely explains the pervasive spirit of being fully alive that can arise from both stadiums and houses of worship.

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For Ortiz, our beloved slugger and clutch hitter like none other, it’s not over til it’s over. With the playoffs just beginning, not to mention the leaves doing their best to turn despite the drought, we’re right where we want to be.

In recent interviews, David Ortiz has waxed nostalgic about the World Series championships in 2004, 2007 and 2013 and how he came to believe, with the help of Boston fans, that it really was possible to “Keep The Faith.”

shutterstock_333467312Reaching further back, he also remembers his hardscrabble upbringing in the Dominican. In his autobiography with the title Big Papi (co-written with Tony Massarotti and published in 2007 by St. Martin’s Press) he recalls how one particular church figured prominently in his life story.

Many people believe that baseball is a religion in the Dominican Republic, and in some ways it was the two together that brought me where I am today. Not far from Santo Domingo, in the town of Higuey, there is a basilica known as Nuestra Senora de la Altagracia, or Our Lady of High Graces. It is the most famous church in the Dominican Republic.

He goes on to relate how his father, who had excelled in the game himself, went to this church to pray even before David was born, saying to God, “Maybe you can bless me with a boy. And maybe someday he could be a major-league player.” (p.22).

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America Enrique Ortiz — champion wish maker! Little wonder that Ortiz still visits this church every winter, “to thank God for what he has given me.” And little wonder, too, that we show appreciation, even devotion, for what Ortiz has given us through the years. Especially on those evenings when we’ve come home tired and bothered and had our spirits lifted by watching him at bat, staring down those pitchers and their heat, we feel it—Boston Strong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wishing I Were There

My husband, lucky duck, got to go to this place a few days ago. Due to an overwhelming feeling of Pride and Joy, not to mention a connection across several states states with My Guy, I’m writing an unorthodox blog this week.Wait, have I ever been orthodox?

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Rob is out in Detroit with the House of Bishops for a whole week. You can read the detailed daily briefings here. My own topic, commencing shortly, will be something else entirely. I’m straying from my usual “this against that” theme, taking a new approach.

When I hear that term – “House”— it always throws me, because I imagine an actual house, maybe on a college campus, with rooms in every direction, and people coming together to sizzle up some food in the kitchen, perhaps a chore chart on the wall, and living room gatherings every when every couch seat is taken, and the floor-sitters are there with legs outstretched.

The bishops are not in an actual house, mind you (explaining that would be another story) but in a big hotel: you probably already knew that. The downtown hotel is close to the Motown Museum and “Hitsville USA” – the home and first recording studio of the amazing Berry Gordy.

I’m proud to say that I grew up on a steady diet of the Motown Sound. We didn’t attend church, but when we weren’t running around outdoors, we were usually playing soul music. Every one of my four older brothers, beginning with the eldest—14 years ahead of me — loved it, and I took it in by osmosis. So, in celebration of my husband’s visit to the famous birthplace, and in recognition of just how much this music is part of my being, I’m setting out to have a little fun. 

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At first, I thought I might dare to imagine the daily doings of the bishops set to a Motown soundtrack, but that would be presumptuous, especially because I’m not even there. If I were there, by the way, without needing to be in the meetings, I’d probably be tempted to Shop Around. But I get ahead of myself.

Better to stick to my own life—something within my bounds to describe. So, while I won’t pretend that all of the following happened on the same day, it either did in fact happen recently or very well could have happened. I’ll make this a kind of game: the event is provided; you fill in the Motown song that would fit that event perfectly. I’ll start by listing the choices. To help you out a little, I’ve even given you the artist for each one. Hey, this might be the first of my blogs ever to need printing out to be fully appreciated! 

 Choose from these songs:  Don’t Let the Green Grass Fool You, Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, I Heard It Through the Grapevine, You Keep Me Hanging On, Mustang Sally, You Beat Me To the Punch, Ain’t Too Proud To Beg, How Sweet It Is, Dancing In The Street, You Really Got A Hold On Me, Ain’t That Peculiar, Reach Out I’ll Be There, Get Ready

1) Wanting to have a better-than-usual breakfast one morning, I slice into a cantaloupe. As soon as I taste that delicious fruit, I swoon; it is just so perfect.

 

Marvin Gaye

 

2) That morning, my husband and I have time for only a brief conversation, about my wish to do some hiking in the White Mountains before the season gets done. He wonders how rigorous a workout I want. Asserting my own strength, I say that the small peaks don’t interest me.

 

Duet: Diana Ross and the Supremes and the Temptations.

 

3) Glancing at the clock, I see that I’d better hurry up and get out the door and on my way to work.

 

The Temptations

 

4) Heading out to the driveway to fire up the car, I get into the sensible Subaru, wishing for just a moment that I could be someone else, or a racier version of myself, with a different name.

 

Wilson Pickett (also The Young Rascals)

 

5) As I drive down the highway, as usual, I see something that’s not usual at all— a big truck ahead of me apparently towing another truck behind it; but that truck looks to be heading right straight at me. Startling, for sure.

 

Wilson Pickett

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6) At work, I make some calls to supervisors at our sponsor companies. Sometimes, a busy receptionist says she’ll help me reach someone, but she must get distracted because I wait for a really long time. (Yep — two songs work here; be a bit flexible with the language.)

 

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles

 

The Supremes

 

7) At lunchtime, getting a clear lane to the microwave can be tricky. It’s not that annoying of a wait, really, but when you’re really hungry you still have to let people who get there sooner have first dibs.

 

Mary Wells

 

8) A colleague happens to mention that, even though we badly need rain, she sees a surprising number of still good-looking lawns on her drive in; I tell her that this means nothing—the drought is still very dire.

 

Wilson Pickett

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9) In the afternoon, a math teacher whose classroom is opposite my office stops in to chat for a minute. She’d been to see Springsteen at Gillette the night before, thanks to her husband who nabbed them some tickets. “That’s it,” I think to myself, “Life’s too short. Even if my husband’s work calendar is crowded with stuff all over the place, especially on weekends, I’m going to insist, or maybe plead, that we get out and find some rock music regularly.”

 

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The Temptations

 

10) I give a presentation at Open House, at which I let parents know that we are always available to receive questions or comments about our work program, or about how their sons and daughters are doing.

 

The Four Tops

 

11) Arriving home, I realize that, in between going to concerts, it might really be possible to liven things up right on our own turf once in a while. Since we’re on a quiet cul-de-sac, cranking up the music and inviting some people over once a year to celebrate whatever might actually do the neighborhood some good.

 

Martha and the Vandellas

 

12) Speaking to my husband that evening on the phone, I tell him that I’d left off some tomatoes at his office that morning. He says he already knew. Huh! Word travels fast. Maybe this is not so surprising, though, since the theme he chose for the Diocese of New Hampshire is “Tending the Vine.”

 

Marvin Gaye

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Ok, Ok, you’ve waited long enough. You need to hear some music, right? Here’s a site that will enable you to do just that. Think of it as a kind of harvest of Motown.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mother Teresa, in Sneakers

Look! Over there! It’s Mother Teresa, white robe flying, sprinting madly to get ahead of her competitors, win the race and claim the trophy.

Wait…there must be some kind of mistake. This was a woman whose life work was tending to the poor, not striving to get anything for herself. When she wasn’t helping people directly, she was praying.

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Know that feeling when you see someone familiar, but out of context, and it jumbles up your brain? Like when you’re in the line at the post office and Larry, who is your go-to guy for any plumbing problems at your house, comes in, wearing plain clothes, just looking to mail a package. It can throw you, temporarily. Then you realize, kind of sheepishly—of course he doesn’t have to be a plumber 24-7.  

And sometimes you are prodded to see someone you thought you knew perfectly well in a different light. This too can jumble the brain. In fact, the longer I live, the more I see how most of the solid structures we count on — and by “structures” I mean actual things like buildings as well as human beings or even any realities we think are definite and unfaltering, immune to change – can, in a flash, look suddenly different; perhaps shifting in a good way, perhaps crumbling, or even disappearing in flames.

I write this on September 11th, fifteen years after this happened quite literally, and our world was never quite the same.

But I started out with Mother Teresa, now Saint Teresa, who died four years before that terrible day. Let’s look at how the language that’s used to describe her can radically change how we imagine this icon of Christian goodness.

The fact that she was “canonized” by Pope Francis last week wasn’t all that surprising, really. Back at the end of 2015, The New York Times ran a story with this headline: “Pope Francis Clears Mother Teresa’s Path to Sainthood” Doesn’t that make her sound like an airplane on a runway, and the Pope an air traffic controller? Bet you never imagined this diminutive, quiet woman with engines roaring.

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As far as I can understand from this article, a person can be “beatified” once he or she has one miracle under his or her belt. That happened with Mother Teresa back in 2003, with the apparent miraculous healing of an Indian woman with a tumor who prayed to the nun; then in 2015 the Pope “recognized a second miracle” which involved the multi-faceted healing of a Brazilian man, this time after his wife had been praying to Mother Teresa for months.

Once she was deemed responsible for two miracles, she had lift-off towards the destination of sainthood.

The canonization ceremony took place amidst throngs of people in St. Peter’s Square a week ago. For everyone there, it must have been a awesome experience to witness how a plain Albanian woman — someone who spent her life in back alleys, clinics, shelters with the poor, the sick, the cast aside – was celebrated by the full, gleaming power of the Catholic Church.

Afterwards, I began hearing another jarring metaphor in various news reports. It was said repeatedly that Mother Teresa had been “on the fast track to sainthood.” This image takes her off the runway and sends her directly to the athletic complex, with a pause for putting on sneakers.

Picturing the woman who had also been called the “Saint of the Gutters” on any track at all, let alone a fast one, doesn’t jive with our usual image of her, that’s for sure.

These runners definitely belong on a fast track, and they inspire us by being there…

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And these guys (could be women, too) provide a nice illustration of the definition from Google, when the term is used as a verb: “The old boys’ network fast-tracks men to the top of the corporate ladder.” Well, there’s no ladder pictured here exactly, but you get the idea.

This may be just fine for them; they look exuberant and all. But do we need to see someone like Mother Teresa as just another person who’s jostling to get ahead, in any sense of the word?

What’s not clear is whether we’re affixing language to her that changes her unfairly; or whether the surprising descriptions actually do present the possibility of startling new dimensions for this woman we thought we had already engraved just so in our minds. Going back to my plumber at the post office example, she doesn’t have to be perfect 24-7, but let’s hope we can respectfully refrain from giving her an overdose of ambition.

Furthermore, to savor many of life’s regular pleasures that aren’t about running races or speeding up for take-off, or even aspiring to sainthood for that matter, staying in the slow lane and really taking in the view keeps looking like a pretty good option.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Degrees of Sorriness

I’m sorry this blog is late, but I’ve been kind of stuck on how one person’s “I’m sorry” can be practically a different species from someone else’s. There’s a whole spectrum of regret out there, especially this summer.

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Here’s a contrast for you. In this corner, we have the apology that stands up straight, looks you in the eye and owns the facts, while cringing inside from the pain of it all. In the other corner, we have the distant cousin—the apology that slouches and blathers, maybe even looking the other way, just trying to save face.

We’ll get to the first kind—the one with real integrity– in a minute. The second kind, sometimes called a “fauxpology,” is so commonplace that it often goes unnoticed; but it can get you into real trouble if you’ve done something pretty lousy and you happen to be in the public eye. You might even lose corporate sponsors.

Yes, I’m referring to the swimmer Ryan Lochte, a guy who probably wishes he’d stayed in the pool longer, competed in the dog paddle perhaps, anything to keep him off the streets.

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You don’t need me to repeat the details of his tale, even if I could, and besides—who can keep up with the twists and turns that keep coming out? I’m not interested in heaping more blame on the guy, and surely he’ll get his comeuppance from the United States Olympic Committee, but we can try to learn something from the fabricated story of his escapade followed by his effort to recover.

First of all, tempting as it is sometimes, trying to deflect blame is pretty much always a mistake. After Ryan realized he’d better back down from the original accusation against the policemen-robbers, he said repeatedly that he had “over-exaggerated.” Right. Wouldn’t it have been easier from the beginning to say they’d all left the party in a reckless state and that whatever they did at the gas station was done with impaired judgement? Admitting to being drunk isn’t great if you’re champion swimmers, but most people might cut them a little bit of slack if they’d owned up to it right away.

Instead, even when he got around to apologizing, saying he should have been “more careful and candid” in describing the events, he got himself so far into the weeds that just about nobody, even his own buddies, could stick with him. Frankly, we would have liked to have seen a little bit more hanging of the head, even if his crimes fell short of being heinous.

Inundated as we all were with reports of this sorry tale on mainstream media, I was more interested in getting any intelligent takeaway from religious voices. A quick search brought up a column called “Ryan Lochte’s Non-Apology: Judaism and the Lost Art of True Repentance” by Rabbi Benjamin Blech. You can read it here. He’s tough on Lochte all right, and he also makes use of the episode to remind readers what’s directly ahead in the Jewish calendar.

 

Perhaps there is some synchronicity to the timing of this story as Jews will soon prepare for the High Holy days when we will stand in judgement before our Creator. We too will need to apologize for our misdeeds and to plead for forgiveness from the master of the universe.

 

Someone who really knew how “to plead for forgiveness from the master of the universe” was King David, in the Bible.

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Thanks to the benefit of a long car ride together recently, my husband pointed me towards Psalm 51, sometimes called the “Miserere.” Wow, this really packs a punch. Here are just the opening lines, from the King James Version:

 

51 Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving kindness: according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies blot out my transgressions.

Wash me thoroughly from mine iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.

For I acknowledge my transgressions: and my sin is ever before me….

 

He’s not exaggerating, either, because his transgressions — adultery with Bathsheba along with the murder of her husband Uriah, related in Samuel 2–were plenty serious. Way, way worse than ripping down a poster at a bathroom and then lying about being attacked. David knew this was no time for excuses, that there was no point trying to remind God of his status or concoct some story to put himself in a better light. No, the only way forward was to acknowledge that he was a sinner, plain and simple, and that he needed help.

In this outpouring, David wasn’t being “careful and candid” – he was laying himself completely bare. This isn’t even an apology; it’s an expression of repentance, uttered in great pain. Nothing short of it would have sufficed, at this moment. He couldn’t just go on with business as usual, leading his people, until he got right with God – a daunting task.

There’s no one to prescribe for us what kind of “I’m sorry” is called for each time we slip in sin, each time we hurt someone. We have to gauge how the apology should fit the offense. Going overboard isn’t necessary, but not flinching from the truth sure is.

Apparently there’s a popular T-shirt out there now that says, “Sorry I’m Not Sorry.” If that’s supposed to provide some kind of immunity from being a regular, stumbling human, I don’t think it will do the trick.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Questions About Meaning Even Before Religion Class Begins

Sometimes, when you’re solidly in the realm of Practicality, focused on getting things done in the real world and making sure others do the same, Philosophy intervenes and then you’re somewhere else entirely. One minute you’re thinking about sending an email before 10:15 a.m., for instance, and the next minute you’re wondering whether there is in fact a larger purpose– beyond all the tasks– that we’re trying to fulfill, and what might be the nature of that purpose, if it exists at all.

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This happened to me a week or so ago when I was sitting in on a class during our Corporate Work Study Training Institute—a two week period during which 9th graders at our school become prepared to take on a job at a worksite, as yet unidentified, along with their regular college-prep curriculum at school. They’re teenagers about to enter a world populated mostly by unfamiliar adults who will expect a certain level of mature behavior, not to mention productivity.

The class was “Public Speaking” and students had been asked ahead of time to prepare a short – just one minute – presentation on one of three topics: 1) What is a goal you have for the future? 2) What is an important lesson that you have learned so far in life? 3) Do you have an extra-curricular interest that is very important to you? We were not expecting a whole lot in the way of content, frankly; the exercise was mostly to give the 14 and 15 year olds a chance to get up in front of a group of their peers and see how well they could express themselves.

Students came forward one by one, each giving a small slice of him or herself before sitting down again, to flutterings of applause. Most did not use their full one minute.

The teacher, my colleague, kindly offered comments afterwards that helped to connect individuals with classmates they may not yet have met: “Oh if you love to rap, you really should meet Derrick.” It was fine for what it was supposed to be.

And then, one young man I’ll call Jose changed everything in that room – at least for this listener. He told me afterwards that it was fine to share some of what he said, so here goes:

Today, I would like to tell you about the most important lesson I’ve learned in my life. At just five years old, I learned that there can’t be an answer to everything in life. When my uncle died I went up to his coffin and screamed, “Wake up!” Everyone looked at me. I felt uncomfortable. That was my first realistic encounter with death. Then, after, I tried figuring out what is the meaning of life and without success gave up. Then when I was eight years old I found out that life has no meaning. In life you make your own purpose or meaning. Like us here today, on this hot summer day (here) to achieve a bigger purpose than ourselves—the purpose of becoming successful with dreams and hopes, graduating high school and graduating college too.

I’m not sure if the other students had a chance to grab hold of what he was saying, to hear how he had taken the assignment to a whole new level. His delivery was matter-of-fact, not dramatic in the least. But how about that wonderful turn of phrase, “..and without success gave up”? Or the monumental shift in tone he makes between “life has no meaning” and “you make your own purpose and meaning”? Gloom gives way to brightness almost instantaneously, like a cloud moving across the sun. The young man hadn’t yet started his Catholic high school education, probably had no idea who Thomas Aquinas was, but he was already grappling with the Big Questions.

When he was finished, the classroom was still a classroom, with desks in neat rows and a fan whirring to beat off the heat. In my mind’s eye. however, we were transported to ancient Greece.

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This is the “School of Athens” fresco, painted in the Vatican between the years 1509-1511 by the Renaissance painter, Raphael. It’s hard to make out individual identities, but all the heavy hitters from Team Philosophy are here, trying to figure things out. It doesn’t look like they’re getting a whole lot done except trying to figure things out. Not that there were a whole lot of companies employing people back in the 4th century B.C., but would anyone have wanted Plato or Aristotle to have a regular kind of job? Somebody had to get us started wondering what it means to live a good life, a life rich with meaning.

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Jose and all his new classmates, on the other hand, will need to juggle school and work, not to mention family, responsibilities all year. To attain a certain kind of success down the road, they will have to gain an understanding of what the “real world” expects of them– starting now. They will need to check off many tasks and play by the rules, cheerfully. Let’s just hope that, along the way, the search for meaning won’t be squeezed out. If they acknowledge its importance, they will have a steady companion for many years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Driving With My Son Past Family Church

Let’s hear it for summer, and the pleasures of leaving those pesky home chores for a while to take in some kind of elsewhere, to see how others struggle with their chores—or maybe loll on their front stoops. Just about wherever you go that’s really away, you’ll draw something from the change, see something with a new twist.

Depending on what kind of existence we’re accustomed to, each of us takes a journey with a particular slant in our vision. When a pastor’s wife hits the road, for instance, she’s apt to notice churches more than, say, fire stations or post offices. It’s how we roll.

It would be imprudent of me to speak for all pastors’ wives, and let’s not forget the growing number of pastors’ husbands, but I’m guessing that most of us, wherever we go, are pretty observant when it comes to houses of worship and other signs of religious life.

And sometimes just an actual sign along a busy road is good enough. But I get ahead of myself here.

Last July at around this time, out in Wyoming, I was taking in panoramas like this:

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Except in a handful of designated spots where they congregated to feel awe, people seemed beside the point. And so, frankly, did any buildings. Nature was clearly in charge of the vast and rugged splendor, perhaps working in tandem with an Almighty. This, to me, remains one of life’s great mysteries; a place like Wyoming really paints it anew.

This summer’s road trip with my son, through a swath of the Northeast, yielded some nice rolling farmland in Ohio and long stretches of forest punctuated by small towns in central New York. For a dose of the spectacular, we peered down into the gorges that are right in the middle of the Cornell campus.

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Churches there were aplenty, too, of course, in all shapes and sizes. The ones on the college campuses we visited had a kind of hushed quality, with the green lawns around them tranquil.

But somehow it was just a jumble of signs at an intersection – a place definitely lacking in natural beauty—that sticks with me the most.

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My eye went first to the “Family Church” sign, which seemed to be just floating there, looking so thoroughly generic. There was no actual building anywhere around that resembled a church. I know this kind of church-anywhere phenomenon has become more common, with congregations springing up in all kinds of places. So, fine. But can this actually be the name of a distinct denomination? You’ve got to admit that “Family Church” sounds a tad, well, redundant—something like “Place-for-Learning School” or “Fish Aquarium.” Aren’t they all supposed to be for the whole family? Well, maybe not the ones on the green college campuses so much, but still.

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When I landed on this website,  http://fcintl.org/mission/, I found that information was spare:

Family Church International officially launched in early 2013. Our goal is to bring the Word of God to the northeast U.S. and the world.

According to the Bible, God has a blessed plan for your life.

Now, besides questioning whether there can be a pre-ordained road map for anyone’s life, I was wondering about the “international” part. It’s not so easy to see where else in the world these churches are located, but the site definitely shows a hotbed of activity in western Pennsylvania and New York. By now it was pretty clear: I was in Evangelical territory, right outside the Wegman’s Supermarket.

i could go into the derivation of the word “Evangelical” and how it’s apparently been taken over in recent years by a certain segment of the populace with a distinct political agenda. But I’m not really qualified to comment on all of that, just picking up tidbits now and again. I can say, however, that when I was gazing at that sign, the national news had just been featuring a Pew Research survey that found how Evangelicals were in fact going strongly for Trump, even though his embrace of the Bible is not among his most salient qualities. And additionally, how the percentage of the vote that will be Evangelical is likely to be about identical to the percentage of the vote that will be No-Religion—or “None.” It’s tempting to see those two segments cancelling each other out, but one never knows.

Going back to the picture, you’ll see that another faith, one that goes back well before 2013, is part of the scene, too. It turns out that the “Family Church” is actually located right in the “The Amish Buggy.”  But wait, the store doesn’t actually sell buggies at all, but furniture that, according to that website,  can fulfill “all your decorating needs.” Or maybe it used to, and now the Evangelicals took over, I’m not sure.

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What a hodge-podge is our American life, as seen from the roads anyway, when it comes to religion and most anything else, too. And I’m not even including the other sign, the one way over on the left: “Need A New Mattress?” Since it wasn’t clear where to go for that, and we didn’t really need one anyway, we continued on, in our car that was not a buggy– mother and son, 2/5 of a family, trying to keep our own plan for at least that evening, in our own little world, as blessed as possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Any June, Maybe Especially This One, is the Right Time for Haying

It is against the backdrop of unpredictable, terrible acts of violence in different parts of the world that I appreciate anew the peacefulness and splendor of haying in June.

The two have nothing to do with one another, of course, and that’s just the point.

Over the past half a century, a whole lot has changed—the way we live, the way we communicate with one another and also sometimes isolate ourselves, and the threats we either experience or imagine someone else experiencing. In addition, as I heard on the radio this morning, it’s not exactly true that acts of terror happen with greater frequency; but it’s definitely true that, since 9/11 altered everything, we exist much more in a heightened sense of alert, of anxiety. And the ongoing random loss of life, whenever and wherever it happens, is so troubling, so incomprehensible that it can put a kind of shroud over our days.

We are the lucky ones, the ones who get to keep using our five senses, and, if we live in certain places where fields need to be mowed in June, we might get to reap the benefits.

Recently, I had the chance to notice that the haying that goes on in this particular year is really not all that far removed from the haying that went on more than 50 years ago.

Since I grew up in a family that got in hay with a trusted Farmall tractor, a rusty hay rake with a wobbly seat, and a big old wagon each summer, I know a bit about this.

Here are a few pictures from even before I was born, taken by my grandfather, of the crew. It was, above all, an everybody-is-welcome thing. And, not to be too over the top here, the kind of communal activity that stays in the memory just about forever. On this day, perhaps, my oldest brother can rightly claim he worked hardest. The guys peering out are other brothers, cousins, friends.

 

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Here’s another, showing my father taking a well-earned rest:

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And one of my mother, watching over an emptied wagon:

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Once I was old enough to participate, almost always my job was to be on top of the growing load as it went round the field, packing down the hay. I can still recall the itchy feeling on the legs, and the sense of togetherness — even if I was just the little sister who couldn’t do a whole lot. We were all in the same place.

A couple of weekends ago, I could hardly believe my good fortune when a friend let us know that a group of people would be getting bales into their barn that afternoon, and did we have any kids at home who might be able to help out?

It just so happened that I was trying to come up with a good outdoor activity for the 12 year old girl whom I mentor. All those dance classes had culminated in a huge performance earlier in the month. It was wonderful, well worth doing, except for one thing: the weather was practically shouting, “What? You’re going inside on a day like this?” At least it was to me, and I was just the person picking her up from the arts center, where I saw hoards of (mostly) little girls with hair buns amusing themselves with hand-held video games while they waited their turn to go on stage.

So on a fine Saturday morning, I picked up one particular hip-hop dancer, and her younger brother who was game for something to do away from an apartment, and we headed over to join a haying crew.

Our friends, who have grandchildren about the same age as the kids I brought over, were accustomed to making this an inter-generational neighborhood event. There were a bunch of people there I’d never met, but by later in the afternoon, partly over a picnic table full of food and drinks, we’d all gotten acquainted. I now know where to turn if I have any canning questions, for instance. What was different from my haying experience in days of yore? Well, aside from the fact that I was no longer the youngest one, this time laborers were not required out in the fields at all, because the neighbor man made a series of trips back and forth to collect the bales. But we were still needed to unload and stack, working together for short bursts.

And there was an elevator, too, making a wonderful calm and steady sound:

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The kids had as much fun climbing around and inventing games in the barn in between times of work as they did when they were up high in the wagon. At one point, I heard, “This is really FUN!” Of course, for the ones I brought over at least, everything was brand new. They even got to see some newborn calves out in the paddock as well as a – YUK—afterbirth. “What’s an afterbirth?”

 

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I don’t mean to get carried away here; nothing’s perfect, not even haying in June. There is, however, a kind of rightness, a kind of constancy– also found in many other activities that are tied to natural rhythms. A something, anyway, that allows us to keep believing that the core of life, and even of human nature, is goodness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He Packed a Punch

A whole lot has happened since Muhammad Ali left us. But since my particular mission here has always been illuminating and celebrating contrasts of all kinds — the “Look, there’s this but right next to it there’s that” moments — I’m sticking with the Greatest for a time.

Soon after he died, a friend of mine, in a Facebook post, said she was surprised to learn that Ali had been such a humanitarian in addition to being a boxing champion. Indeed he was both, although mostly in different chapters of his life. Tossing in his tremendous youthful braggadocio as well as the suffering from Parkinson’s that he endured during the last few decades, this is what made him so endlessly fascinating, so completely impossible to pin down. He was, as countless people have said, “transcendent.”

Quite apart from his exploits in the ring, how often has someone so completely full of himself been so thoroughly appealing in the delight he took in making poems? Here’s a classic, just to get us going, one of the many gems you may have heard re-played recently.

Don’t worry, I’m not foolish enough to attempt another tribute here, another go at capturing the essence of Ali. Call my refusal “rope-a-dope” or just plain “nope.”

What I can offer, though, is a memory of visiting a place where I’m guessing most of you haven’t had a chance to go…and that’s the Muhammad Ali Center, in his hometown of Louisville, Kentucky.

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My son Henry and I spent a few hours there several summers ago, on the tail end of a southern swing. We were headed back to join my husband at the Convention of the Episcopal Church, happening that hot, dry summer in Indianapolis. Some longtime blog readers (champions of a different sort) may even recall that I wrote about this trip soon afterwards. Like it or not, though, it’s come around again. Death does that sort of thing. Am I ever glad that we took the time to stop in at this quiet but powerful place on the banks of the Ohio River, which had been founded by Ali and his wife Lonnie just a handful of years earlier, in 2005.

Why go at all? Well, I suppose that had something to do with the fact that I grew up with four older brothers who played and talked sports all the time; Ali had been a kind of mystical presence in our home. And also because, years later, my older son had recently started going to a boxing gym himself, inspired in part by the Ali story. What were the workouts like? Hard enough to be really satisfying.

At the Ali Center, there’s plenty of boxing memorabilia, stations where you can try out some moves, and on one floor a full replica of a ring. After all, boxing is what put him on top of the world, for a time.

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But since the place was founded to “share the ideals” of Muhammad Ali and to raise up “a new generation of leaders”  (check out a program called”Generation Ali”) the emphasis is really much more on the expanse of modern American history – the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War, Education, Gender Equality, Global Citizenship — the different arenas in which all kinds of people have been willing to stand up for justice.

Before coming in and getting your entry ticket, would you expect that you would be making your way through exhibits with these headings? The following descriptions come right from the Ali Center website, where there’s also a just-posted video tribute and plenty of other wandering you can do.

 

SIX CORE PRINCIPLES

Confidence

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Conviction 

A firm belief that gives one the courage to stand behind that belief, despite pressure to do otherwise.

Dedication          

The act of devoting all of one’s energy, effort, and abilities to a certain task.

Giving                

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Respect              

Esteem for, or a sense of the worth or excellence of, oneself and others

Spirituality         

A sense of awe, reverence and inner peace inspired by a connection to all of creation and/or that which is greater than oneself.

 

I don’t see anything about knocking somebody out or any kind of domination here. Ali himself apparently often said that his life in boxing was just a way for him to get to a place where he could affect lasting positive change. Did the ends justify the means? Hard to say, if you put it that way, because there was indisputably so much injury along the way. In fact, wasn’t the constant pounding a kind of evil to the brain? These questions don’t go away, and it remains to be seen whether the sport can ever become something close to “safe,” although it is definitely true that people of all ages can and do benefit from elements of a boxing workout that train the muscles as well as focus the mind.

Conflicted over, or downright opposed to boxing as many of us remain, there can be no question about the kind of tireless ambassador of goodness Ali was. Here’s a paragraph that’s been on the Center’s website for some time:

His awareness of the needs of the developing world has guided much of his good work. He has served as a symbol of hope and a catalyst for constructive international dialogue, has delivered sorely-needed medical supplies to an embargoed Cuba, provided more than 22 million meals to the world’s hungry, and helped secure the release of 15 U.S. hostages from Iraq during the first Gulf War. As testament to his work in developing nations, the United Nations named him a Messenger of Peace, and he was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, as well as Amnesty International’s Lifetime Achievement Award. In September 2012, he was the recipient of the prestigious National Constitution Center Liberty Medal.

Perhaps not surprisingly, it is the “Messenger of Peace” Ali who comes across most strongly in Louisville. Confusing? Yes, in a way. We hardly imagine a dove when we think of the slugger. Then again, maybe this larger-than-life story reminds us of the virtues of fighting off any outside attempts to limit the scope of our individual souls that are, ultimately, only in our own power to shape.

 

Serendipity Strikes Again

Looking on the bright side, I have to start by saying that any annoyance caused by the delay in posting this blog has got to be nothing compared to the irritation experienced recently, especially in Chicago, by thousands of travellers in airports who had to wait for hours, and sometimes miss their flights, to go through security.

Ok, so that’s probably not such a good comparison. And plus it goes without saying that there are way, way worse things than either one of these.

Actually, it’s “non-annoyances” that have been mostly on my mind.

I’ve been pretty busy not just with the daily grind but also from extra time hanging out with my friend Serendipity. Do you know him or her? S/he’s the one who pops up with surprisingly good news, a stream of sunlight, a way through a thicket– just when we were expecting things to get difficult, or even impenetrable, for about the millionth time. Often we can barely believe s/he’s appearing, because life feels more normal somehow when we’re thwarted, have to take “No” for an answer, settle. We bear up. But when Serendipity delivers, we’d be fools not to let the glow linger for a little while — or even go out dancing (never enough of that).

The point is, I believe that we are sometimes so flummoxed when things fall into place that we are not even sure how to respond, how to celebrate the absorption of goodness.

Here’s a short list of the fortunate happenstances that I’ve experienced recently. Have had a little streak going…

 

  • Upon learning that our younger son had a command performance in a school concert on the same day that our daughter was graduating from college, campuses almost three hours apart, I assumed the worst—something would be lost. But, wonder of wonders, the graduation was at 10 a.m. and the concert was at 4 p.m. Somebody upstairs must’ve had our family in mind, seriously. I even had enough post-graduation time to sip champagne and mingle with friends before jumping in the car. About the only casualty was missing the famous Bates College lobster rolls. And the Mozart Requiem on the other end of the drive was spectacular.

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  • Just yesterday, we had another fortuitous thing happen involving cars, specifically car-sharing. This one is pretty simple but still worthy of gratitude. Our older son needed to get to Boston by early evening, but he had to wait for me to get back from work, for the vehicle. Usually I don’t pull in until 7:15 at earliest, but since the seniors are done going to their corporate work study jobs, there were no vans to wait for at the end of the day, allowing me to get back before 6:00.
  • A small pile of clothes I vaguely recognized appeared on my bed the other day. Oh! My daughter was returning things she’d borrowed months before, or maybe just getting them down from the attic. Either way, I had a cherished pair of shorts again.
  • A few minutes ago I heard the distinctive sound of the mail delivery guy, and I had just enough time to get a birthday card to my sister-in-law (which all three kids had signed) out there. Oops — forgot zip code. No problem—he’ll give me a minute by coming in driveway because we have a package anyway.
  • On his first attempt at mowing our field in back, my husband was thwarted, yet again, by the fact that the tractor needed a part. But then, once refurbished, it did its job magnificently and the just-right grass is now so inviting that I bet even Walt Whitman would absolutely love loafing out there.
  • Speaking of mowing, I heard on the radio the other day that compassionate farmers might consider waiting a week or so to give birds who like to nest in long grass a fighting chance. I’m crossing my fingers that our tractor didn’t displace any….and also celebrating the fact that we have discovered one, two, three nests right around our house, and all seem to be thriving. And now we’re arrived at The Most Salient Serendipity.

I found the first one, presided over by a house finch in a hanging plant on our front stoop, a couple of weeks ago; our son, working on scraping the house for new paint, just recently discovered the other two, both owned by robins and both in rhododendron bushes.

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So, as I’m adjusting (still) to the new reality of my kids leaving the nest, with occasional fly-backs, I get a beautiful reminder that other mothers are still giving their all to bringing up their open-mouthed babies. I took these pictures from enough distance to keep everybody safe, I think.

It starts calmly like this…

 

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Continues on, bringing forth more gasps of joy from beholders…

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And then, creatures fully alive but at their most vulnerable..

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With these, I think my job is done here now. And a good thing too, because my husband is just about to arrive home from another commencement and I’ll want to give him a proper, warm greeting and devote myself to hearing about his adventures….and caring for our own temporarily more-populated nest, naturally. Feeling the boon of so many recent treasures, it’s the very least I can do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Same Lady, Different Van

Déjà vu experiences, much like birds, come in a variety of plumages. They swoop in unexpectedly, often leaving you stunned, or smiling, or maybe wondering about the trajectory of your own life.

There are those magical time travel moments when— whoosh—you’re suddenly back in a previous day, and then, amazingly, even what happens after you make the connection is exactly like what it once was, down to the slightest gesture or expression, as if the same movie is playing. Your friend puts the dark blue mug on the counter while “Let It Be” plays in the background, there’s a knock at the door, and you can’t for the life of you understand how it can all happen a second time. This kind of thing I might call “déjà vu extraordinaire” – a rare bird.

And then there are moments, more common, when you catch yourself doing something that is uncannily like something you did before; the feeling comes over you in a wave, only with enough accompanying differences that you’re obviously in the “now” and not the “then.” This I’ll call ““déjà vu regular.”

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Matter of fact, just as I started to write this while in a restaurant, I overheard a bartender telling his colleague that he was positive they had been in this same conversation about Shandy beer before. He wasn’t too surprised by the discovery, didn’t whack his forehead or anything in disbelief, so I’m guessing he knew that this topic might have a good chance of coming up more than once when the two of them were working.

Then, stick with me here, there is a third kind of déjà vu experience— a kind that’s almost more physical than it is mental, when you’re thrust back into a sustained activity that’s like an altered version of the one you used to do, and you start making a kind of “compare and contrast” list to get your bearings, to figure out if life has in fact gone forward, or if you’re circling back.

Until recently, I thought my van driving days were over, but it turns out they were just lyingshutterstock_419171578 dormant, preparing to undergo a metamorphosis and burst forth again, changed.

At my new school in Lawrence, students need to be transported to jobs every day. Some go close, others pretty far. Here’s how the rotation works: Tuesday—sophomores; Wednesday – freshmen; Thursday- juniors; Friday—seniors. On Mondays, the classes alternate. We have a team of drivers that make this operation work. Occasionally, however, a regular guy takes a week of vacation and the substitute guy cannot fill in. Then we’re in a fix, and one of us has to step up. And I do mean step up, because it takes an ascent of a couple of levels to get into the seat. Not so easy if your knee is bothering you, either.

The van is bigger than the one my own kids used to pile into, but not big enough to require a special license. Last week, my colleague and I had to share the responsibility of one particular route, IMG_0151so each mid-afternoon off I went on my appointed rounds— clear up to Manchester, NH, as if I were heading home, except not quite as far. Although I never used a GPS back when I was rushing off to soccer and hockey games, trusting instead in printed out Map Quest directions, this time I learned to rely on the contraption to help me find the various workplaces, corporate and otherwise, with their stylish signs or perhaps no real visible markers, located down winding roads in office parks, or on main thoroughfares where pulling over briefly was the only option.

At the very first stop, when I saw a student emerge from a lobby, I’d feel palpable relief. Surely the others, wherever they were, would soon end up in the van too.

The driving to unfamiliar addresses, in traffic, brought some stress, but there were real rewards: besides seeing where they worked, at least on the outside, I had a chance to get to know a bunch of teenagers, especially once everyone had been collected and we turned back south towards school. Sure, some of them put ear buds on and disappeared into their own relaxation – who could blame them?  But others were game to talk —about their other jobs, college decisions, family matters, music. I was the driver, but they didn’t mind my being an adult listener, either. On the days following, when I saw these same students in the hallways, they stood out in a certain way, almost glowed, just because I knew them better.

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I’d give a nickel now to recall some of the conversations that went on in our family van on the way to practices and music lessons. They were pretty choppy, with me asking questions that my kids mostly didn’t want to answer. Occasionally one might say something like “Wanna hear what happened to Sam today during recess, Mom?” Usually, we were just going around town, and the distances were relatively short and predictable: down the hill, and then back up again. For travel sports, it was a longer haul. I don’t recall ever worrying that I wouldn’t find them, because I had usually been the one to get them wherever they were in the first place. Just about always, my van journeys of yore were for delivering kids to play, not to work.

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See– I’m not going in circles after all; my current driving of young people is really a whole different species from my old driving of young people. Life is progressing, definitely. It’s OK to glance in that rear view mirror once in a while, though, isn’t it?

 

 

 

 

 

 

One Curious Clergyman

Life can get exciting when we burst through the restrictions of our expected identities, especially if it’s in the hot pursuit of truth, justice and the general illumination of the human soul. You and I might do this kind of thing once in a while, but it’s risky. To watch heroes boldly striving in adventures that play out in a neat hour or two, we turn to the screen. And, in the most interesting of these, the heroes themselves can sometimes completely fall apart.

No, this won’t be about Batman, Superman, or Wonder Woman. I’m interested in someone less extraordinary, more of a regular guy, except he wears a clerical collar.

Sidney Chambers, the vicar (also called “canon” for some reason) of Grantchester, re-defines the role of Anglican priest, with panache, on Sunday evenings at 9 p.m. on PBS. Are you watching? We’re with him all the way, but it’s a rocky road all right, and everybody stumbles.

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Last season, I was vaguely cognizant of the tall guy with sandy hair who teams up with his friend Inspector Keating to solve crimes, but now that it’s the featured show on “Masterpiece Theatre” I’m hooked. And I have a fine viewing companion, too. Well, actually two, if you count the black German shepherd who’s always by the couch. In fact, Sidney’s Labrador retriever — named Dickens — looks a bit similar.

We’ve started liking the new Hawaii 5-0 also; that’s great for the sweeping views of the islands and the intense chase scenes, not to mention the multi-racial make-up of the crime-fighting team and completely current technology. Grantchester, on the other hand, takes place in a quiet village near Cambridge, England during the mid-1950s, when post-war Brits strolled through fields a lot, stuck to their daily routines, and didn’t go around blurting out their innermost feelings to everyone.

The series is really all about probing the inner sanctum of the human psyche: trying to understand why people do the things they do, apprehending the worst offenders and reminding ourselves that we are all flawed human beings. Many key conversations happen in pubs or outdoors — rarely in churches — and the two main characters are essentially allies who can also flip to become antagonists. And they bring different things to the table.

(Bloomsbury USA, 2012)

(Bloomsbury USA, 2012)

The TV series is based on a series of books, each a collection of stories, by James Runcie, a novelist and filmmaker and more, who lives in Edinburgh. The author knows of which he writes when it comes to church life: his father was Robert Runcie, former Archbishop of Canterbury. Check out the author’s website, and you can learn how he created Sidney to be a figure much like he imagined his father was, back in the day. They were both brave soldiers in World War II, and that experience continues to resonate, especially when it comes to trying to tell right from wrong.

In an interview originally printed in The Telegraph (10/5/2014), also posted on the website, Runcie explained that the central feature of the drama is the collision between two ways of seeing humanity:

The paradox is simple; as a clergyman, he has to think the best of people; as a detective, he must assume the worst.

That seems a little extreme, doesn’t it? But it makes for a good drama. The contrast constantly plays out in the conversations between the two men; here’s one from the first book, called Sidney Chambers and The Shadow of Death (cover pictured above):

‘Are you sure, though, Sidney? That’s what I want you to find out. I have a feeling that you also have doubts.’

‘How did you know?’

‘I am a detective…’

‘And I am a priest. I tend to give people the benefit of the doubt.’

‘Well, I don’t. Perhaps that’s why we are such a good team.’   (p. 188)

And they ARE a good team, mostly. Sidney pays visits, which might seem just the regular pastoral sort at first, to key people who offer up crucial information about crimes and then Geordie – who tends to miss things—does the arresting. This might be a little creepy to people who would prefer that Religion and the Law keep themselves at a safe distance from one another. Our man Sidney just can’t resist being drawn into the cases, and for a small town, there sure are plenty of dire situations. Nobody much seems to question why he drops in without notice, asking probing questions, listening intently. Often, he sees something out of the corner of his eye and then dashes off, knowing exactly what the next step should be.

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The two men are a good team, that is, until they come to blows — once even right in front of the altar of Sidney’s church. That was over a moral question: whether or not the death penalty, in the particular case of a young man who tried to help a young girl with an abortion that went wrong, is or is not the proper punishment. For the detective, it’s about answering the will of the people. For the clergyman, it’s about answering to God. This time, they don’t talk; they fight.

When we see our hero afterwards, all disheveled and with an almost crazed expression, we feel for him the most. He can’t keep it together, and we understand. Going deep, towards life’s very core, can be a costly expedition.