The Lattice

In my profile on this blog, I wrote, “Probably I was a mystic and a theologian from my earliest years.” What I mean by that is that as far back as I can remember I had a powerful sense of wonder that made me want to see beyond the edges of the world, beyond matter, beyond the realm of the senses, where I was convinced there was something of supernatural beauty to be found. “Want” is far too weak a word; I was enamored of the concept of the quest for beauty, driven to find whatever was just out of reach, for I knew it was the source of the joy my heart longed for and knew must exist.

Because I had parents that took me to church I was pretty convinced that what I sought was God, whom I believed was close to me, in my very room, but whom I could not see. I wanted to see him. Sometimes I wanted that more than anything. I could sit and look at rain falling, or the patterns of leaves in a tree, or clouds at sunset, and believe that he could be found somewhere in those things. I was convinced that there was more to what only my senses could take in.

Because of this longing, from my earliest years my favorite hymn was “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence”: in the words of this beautiful hymn, mortal flesh is commanded to keep still and silent as the divine Presence draws near from infinite realms. Now that I have lived more than six decades, that choice has never changed, though other hymns have come close and for the same reason.

Youtube has several versions of this hymn. One good one is here, in which an orchestra and choir sing it at a Lutheran church near St. Louis at Christmastime. There is also a haunting version here, accompanied by a photo montage of ethereal beauty.

Near, so near, yet always just out of reach. I have mentioned on this blog before (see Garden) the little book I found in the early 1970s that introduces prayer to children. In it one chapter begins with these words: “There is a painting in Tissot’s Life of Christ, illustrating the verse from Solomon’s Song, ‘he looketh forth at the windows, showing Himself through the lattice’, in which you see, amid tall sunflowers, the Face of the white-robed Christ gazing through an Eastern trellis.” (The verse is Song of Solomon 2:9. Tissot's four-volume set of watercolors and sketches of scenes in the Holy Land was published in 1909.)

As soon as I read this part of the book for the first time, I looked in my seminary library and was pleased to find a copy of Tissot’s book. More than thirty years later, for my 54th birthday, a member of my parish gave me the first volume of this now rare and expensive book as a gift. I scanned that particular image and now use it in my devotions.

It is the symbol of my great longing, which I have long known is the desire to be one with Jesus. Though he is the overwhelming Presence who descends to mortal flesh, he is also the Friend who peers in at the lattice of my home, seeking me out. Because he is both in my heart and the One whom my heart seeks, he is both my Satisfaction and my Desire.


If anyone reads this blog, I apologize for not posting for such a long time. I have at least a dozen ideas for posts, and I hope to put them up in a more timely manner.

A Far-off Place

I said, “Oh, that I had wings like a dove! I would fly away and be at rest. I would flee to a far‑off place and make my lodging in the wilderness” (Psalm 55:7-8). Every time I read this verse in the psalms in my daily devotions it tugs at me a little bit. From my earliest memories, far-off places have appealed to me. At first I think it was a wish to escape pain and avoid risk, but it was also, and mostly, a desire to come to the edge of the abyss that was the mighty, immeasurable ocean of the love of God. I pictured myself as a small boy going alone somewhere far off as far away as I could, and then standing on tiptoe reaching up as high as I could toward roiling clouds.

As years passed, I gradually came to realize that the “far-off” place could be found very close to me. It was in parks. It was in gardens. It was in the Blessed Sacrament that I could take in my hand and could give to others. It was in my memories. It was in my relationships. It was in the people closest to me, whom I love. Finally I realized the obvious—that it was everywhere.

Just a few days ago I came across a love song called “Al di là”, from the 1962 Italian movie, “Rome Adventure”. I find it movingly beautiful. I found a clip from the movie on youtube where the song is sung. In the clip we learn that “al di là” means… well, one scene in the clip explains it:

“What does ‘al di là’ mean?”

“It means… it’s kind of hard to explain. ‘Far, far away.’ ‘Beyond the beyond.’ ‘Beyond this world.’ That’s how much he loves her in the song.”

I guess that’s a good explanation for finding the love of God. It is “al di là”. Like God himself, it is something that is both so far off that it is “beyond the beyond; beyond this world” while at the same time it is as close as every moment of one’s life. In theological terms we say that it is simultaneously “transcendent and imminent”. It means that we can hold the universe in our hands—that we are forever in the measureless love of God.

Thy Turnbuckle and Thy Bo, They Comfort Me

When I was in seminary, one of the professors commented on the well-known line in Psalm 23, “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me” (Psalm 23:4b, KJV), and pointed out that the shepherd had both a rod and a staff. The staff, the traditional “shepherd’s crook”, was designed for leading, turning, or redirecting a sheep. The “hook” part at the end tenderly snagged a sheep going in a wrong direction and gently brought it back to safety.

The rod, however, was for those sheep that were defiant or purposely wayward. When the staff was not effective, the rod provided a clearer, unmistakable message that was hard to ignore or defy. Both rod and staff showed the shepherd’s care for the sheep as the sheep required; both, therefore, provided “comfort”.

Recently I was presented with two items. A member of the Vestry (church board) gave me a turnbuckle. I had seen one of these before but didn’t know what it was called. He said that a turnbuckle is a piece of hardware used for pulling together two walls that are bending outward from the weight of the roof over them. Without correction, they will eventually buckle and collapse, bringing down the roof. A turnbuckle joins two cables, each of which is connected to one of the walls. Tightening the turnbuckle gently but inexorably pulls the walls back to the vertical.

The person who gave me the turnbuckle told me that sometimes ministering in a church can be like that. The ministry of responsibility for leadership is often pressed to bring together people or parties of different convictions so that the congregation doesn’t collapse but rather enabling both sides to “pull together”, thereby becoming more true to themselves and so work for the common good.

A day or two after I received the turnbuckle, a family in our parish’s martial arts program gave me a bo for Christmas. A bo is a six-foot staff used as a weapon. Although a bo is usually made of hardwood, this particular gift was made of hard bamboo—for ceremonial or demonstrative purposes rather than actual combat.

The donor had had the fruits of the Spirit incised in Chinese characters on the bo. The fruits of the Spirit—“love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control” (Galatians 5:22)—are recited by the students at the beginning of each karate class.

Putting both these gifts together, it occurred to me that they were rather like the rod and staff of Psalm 23. The turnbuckle, like the staff, is a symbol of gentle correction. The bo, if I were so inclined, could be used as a “rod”—a stubborn student could be “thwacked” with the bo on the forehead, leaving the imprint of the suitable fruit of the Spirit. After the application, I could advise the individual, “Now go look at yourself in the mirror and meditate on the fruit of the Spirit you lack!” Doubtless such a student would be “comforted” by the application.

Some sensitive readers of this blog might object to the notion of a student’s being thwacked. To those well-intentioned but misguided bleeding-hearts, I ask whether they would prefer that I take a shepherd’s crook and yank people around by the neck. I don’t think so.

Besides, in these days when people by the gazillions are paying good money to get tattooed and pierced, who’s going to complain about a thwack on the forehead? Additionally, for the few days when the imprint remains visible on the student’s forehead, probably plenty of people will ask, “What’s that thing on your forehead?” –and that will provide the student with a grand opportunity for evangelism: “That’s the Chinese character for ‘kindness’; it comes from the Bible. The Bible is about Jesus. Let me tell you about Jesus…”

And what is more comforting than the truth about Jesus?

Finding Magnolias

When I was a young teenager in the early 1960s my mother took my brothers and me on a walking tour of downtown Los Angeles, where she had grown up. We went into an old-fashioned candy store and browsed. Her eyes lit up when she saw a type of candy she loved but hadn’t seen for many years.

We bought a few boxes of them. I remembered that they were small sugar balls with flavored liquid inside, and I also recalled their strange name: magnolias. As years and then decades passed, I occasionally searched for them and asked about them in various candy stores. In every case, no one who sold candy had ever even heard of them. Eventually I stopped asking.

Early in 2008, I thought about searching for them on the internet and discovered an article about them! Someone had found magnolias, had bought a crateful, and then raved about them online. Fortunately she also provided contact information. I immediately called Startup Candy Company in Provo, Utah and spoke to Jon Startup, the fifth generation owner of the company. (Yep, Startup is really the family surname.)

“Yes,” he said—not only did he sell magnolias but the founder of their company had invented the candy in 1876. Startup Candy Company was and always had been the only source of magnolias. He claimed also that his great-great-grandfather had invented the candy bar in the middle nineteenth century, and that at one time Startup Candy was the largest candy manufacturer in the nation. The Great Depression had nearly caused them to go out of business, but the firm had managed barely to survive. Jon now runs the company—a fairly small, family operation since the 1930s; Jon answers the phone himself. He did say that every now and then someone calls up, as I did, with a story that he or she had been looking for magnolias for thirty or forty years. “Oh, so you’re one of those!” he said when I explained the background to my search. I ordered a box and after it arrived, I enjoyed it so much that I immediately decided to put a post about magnolias up on my blog. It’s taken several months, but here it is!

The little can is a facsimile of those sold across the nation in huge quantities a century ago. The one ounce can is pictured, but magnolias can be purchased in a ten ounce box too. Startup’s website says that magnolias were also known as Perfume Candies. Magnolias were the forerunner of breath mints. They come in assorted floral flavors and have a liquid center. White - Carnation, Pink - Rose, Orange - Jasmine, Yellow - Cachou, Green - Pear Blossom, Blue & Purple - Violet. The artwork on the 1 ounce tin is a reproduction of a package from the early 1900s.

Maybe some of the readers of this blog will order some magnolias; whether or not you actually like this candy, it is a rare and historic confection! Here’s their website.

Evidence That God Loves Me

Back about 1964 and 1965 the Mattel toy company put out some guns called “shootin shells”. You can find some photographs here . The guns came with “bullets” that looked real (check the photo about halfway down the page on the link above). The “lead” was a gray plastic gismo that you could push into the shell until it clicked and stuck. The shell had a spring inside it affixed to the end. You could load these bullets into the attractive revolver. Pull the trigger and the hammer would smack the end of the shell. The spring inside would fling the gray plastic bullet head a few feet.

Mattel also sold sheets of “stickem” caps to put on the end of the bullets to make a rather wimpy little “bang”. A stickem cap was a circle of green paper about a quarter of an inch in diameter with a little mound of gunpowder in the middle. A good concussion would make it “pop”.

A friend of mine named Glen and I took these Mattel “shootin’ shell” guns and turned them into apparatus that would be the envy of most teenage boys of the time. We discarded the contemptible gray plastic bullet heads, and with needlenose pliers yanked out the springs from the inside of the brass cartridges. Then we drilled a small hole in the back of the resultant empty casing and put a stickem cap on its smooth and inviting flat end with the mound of gunpowder placed carefully over the hole we’d drilled. Then we poured a suitable amount of gunpowder into the shell (acquired by patiently opening up fifty or so caps and depositing the few grains of gunpowder each provided into a growing pile), and then pushed a small wad of paper into the casing and rammed it tight with a construction nail that had a proper-sized flat head.

Put them headless bullets into your Mattel “shootin’ shell” gun and you just ached for some smart aleck to provide you with the leanest excuse for pulling out your iron and sending some flaming paper flying his way with a boom that could set dogs barking for several streets around. Lacking some unsuspecting kid toodling about the neighborhood waiting for us to shoot him, we staged gunfights while we stood on opposite sides of the road as cars approached. Once we got chased by some busybody driver who had an overdeveloped sense of community service or something.

We also took some gunpowder, painstakingly acquired by the method described above, and grew a pile on a piece of wax paper about three or four inches square, put a bolt or a marble over the pile, and then twisted the wax paper into a teardrop shape. These made highly satisfactory bombs for throwing. The intensity of the explosion was, of course, directly proportional to the amount of gunpowder used and the weight of the bolt or size of the marble employed.

I remember when Glen and I were out somewhere and saw a girl we both knew. Peacefully, casually, almost aimlessly, she was riding her bike. Our eyes bulged at the providential opportunity that had been afforded us. We hastily dug into our pockets as we both yelled her name: “Hey, Cindy!” Forty feet away, she stopped her bike and turned toward us, an innocent and unsuspecting smile spread across her countenance, as we hurled two or three bombs apiece. One or two seconds passed—that sweetly delicious but all-too-brief span of time in which you know that an unforgettable, thrilling moment is about to precipitate, while your oblivious and naïve victim hangs suspended in time, puzzling just what it is that she has done to earn the wide but somewhat lopsided grins on your faces—and then small clouds of gray smoke erupted from the ground on all sides of the girl, micro-seconds apart, accompanied by dearly satisfying eardrum-shattering detonations. Cindy’s eyes opened wide and popped out like hard-boiled eggs as if she’d been hit hard in the back. Panic-stricken, the unfortunate lass dropped her bike and fled.

It is a miracle that neither we nor our victims were crippled, defingered, disfigured, or blinded, or that none of us now has wattled epidermis, the lasting result of hundreds of inextricable microscopic shards of marble glass that had sprayed into our adolescent bodies. Considering the idiotic chances we took with these homemade explosives, I now consider my good health and complete anatomy as strong evidence that God loves me.

Once, however, as I was cramming a wad of paper into a “shootin’ shell” with a large nail, the explosive detonated. Glen and I, sitting at his dining room table, looked around for the nail until I found it firmly driven about half an inch into the end of my left index finger. Just as we saw it and started laughing, his mother’s voice wafted from the back of the house: “You boys be careful out there!”

“We will,” responded Glen with a smirk.


NOTE: The author of this blog disavows any responsibility if some idiot reads this material and then tries to duplicate or excel the lunacy herein described. Don’t try this at home or anywhere else. It’s stupid. I used to be crazy and foolhardy, but I’m smart now and usually know better. “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test” (Deuteronomy 6:16, quoted by Jesus himself in Matthew 4:7).

The "Mountaintop Experience"

A day or two ago my son climbed to the top of Island Peak in Nepal. Its summit is at 20,300 feet. The mountain is only two or three peaks away from Mount Everest. In the past few years my son has also climbed to the summit of Kilimanjaro in Tanzania, Aconcagua in Argentina, Elbrus in Russia, peaks in Ecuador, and throughout the sierras from Washington State to California.

This photo shows him a few feet from the summit of Island Peak.

How often in my teen years a good friend and I set out to explore the mountains to the north of us. The youthful desire to discover, find adventure, break away from adult constrictions, and stake a claim on independence pressed us to go beyond the asphalt streets and manicured lawns into wild territory. “Wild” territory was just following a stream that somehow managed to survive the shackles of neighborhoods and shopping centers.

I noticed one day about 1964 that this stream flowed along its gentle course adjacent to my high school, that it came from the north, and that to the north was a ridge of mountains. I reasoned that the stream must have a source somewhere within a few miles of us, and I suggested to my friend that he and I follow the stream until we found the spring that brought its waters to the surface.

For a number of Saturdays we hiked alongside that stream, passing through neighborhoods we’d never otherwise have known, cutting through fields, passing underneath rows of eucalyptus, and eventually coming into the foothills. When we got far enough away, we had to depend on our mothers to drive us to the place where we’d left off the previous Saturday afternoon, and pick us up eight hours later.

As we had feared that we might, once we entered the mountains we came to places we couldn’t get through on foot—steep slopes with Gordian tangles of briars and the like. We had to go around and then guess where the stream, ever narrowing, picked up. I’m pretty sure we did find its source—somewhere on a slope. The stream burbled down the incline into a narrow dell, turned to follow the decline, and went off to the points south where we’d come from. And it was obvious that the water had to emerge from the mountain at some place veiled in the briars. We considered our quest achieved.

By that time, though, finding the spring was only one reason we were hiking; we’d found so many hidden, rural places that our pleasure was not limited to completing our goal. We pressed on until we came to the peak of the mountain. There were four old pepper trees near the summit. Under their shade we ate our sack lunch and looked out over the valley in which dozens of incorporated little cities lay and a million people had their homes—including us. We returned to that small grove near a mountaintop several times over our teen years.

There is a theological reason why Moses met God on a mountaintop, why Jesus was transfigured on a mountain. Even the crucifixion took place on “Mount Calvary”. The term “mountaintop experience” refers to some sort of revelatory experience with God. Many people need at some time in their lives to be at the top of a mountain, whether it is low or lofty. The vision they are afforded must be literal as well as internal. Sometimes people need to see for miles and miles in all directions. Human minds and souls need remote horizons, not compaction.

Firestorms

As I write, the Yorba Linda-Corona fire is burning a few miles to the east of me and the Brea fire is about three miles to the north. I didn’t see the signs of fire until about midday, when I noted a great brown and orange cloud to the east. I wondered how far away the fire was. It was obviously the kind of cloud that only a massive wildfire can produce. I’ve seen more than one of them in the years I have lived in Placentia.

At this time of year there are warm, dry winds that blow from the east, and much of the land is hard-packed and dry. What growth covers the hills is dry as well after a hot summer and before the rainy season begins. This part of California sees fires often in late autumn. Sometimes they are set, but a chance spark can also ignite them. I think this is the third season of firestorms in five years, but never have they been so close to me. It is the first time I have felt personally anxious about such a fire.

Within two hours of the time I first noted the cloud to the east, the entire sky was dark as dusk. Smoke filled the air and the only place I could see sky was far toward the western horizon. The sun was dull and surrounded by a red halo. Ash drifted downward like a light gray snowfall, and the smell of massive burning was overpowering. By late afternoon the wind died down and much of the smoke had dissipated, but now it is rising again. The winds are not expected to blow out until late tomorrow afternoon. A lot can happen in that time but most likely the church will be safe. Thousands of homes will have to burn before the church goes up, and that’s not likely to happen.

By early evening I had identified and called every member of the parish I could think of whose home might be in danger—about twenty families. I probably overlooked some since I’m not sure where their address is located. Fortunately nearly half of those I called reported that they were safe and not likely to be threatened. Four others were safe for the moment but one or other of the fires was near. There were eight who were either preparing to evacuate or whom I couldn’t reach. In two or three cases a recording picked up that said that “technical difficulties” prevented my call from going through. I suspect that some of those whose phones did not pick up had already left their homes, and it is probable that some will lose their homes to the wildfires. In fires like these, the heat is so intense that metal street signs melt.

Probably one or two families will be sleeping at the church tonight. There are other places they could go but they prefer the church. After I post this item I’ll go over to the church and see who’s there and if anyone needs anything. Tomorrow’s Masses are bound to be out of the ordinary. However, as always, I expect that Blessed Sacrament will be filled with loving people. Gotta go now.

Update, 2:00 p.m. on Monday, two days later:
I am astounded and grateful that of nearly two dozen families in the parish who were very close to the fire, many of whom had to evacuate, NOT ONE lost a home even though one home was right on the edge of the fire and another family's home was well within the red zone. The fire whipped through a canyon near their home but left it standing. They are already back in residence.

The Yorba Linda-Corona fire and the Brea fire did eventually meet to create one large swath of burning. A map of the fire's devastation as of midday Monday, November 17, can be found here. My home and the church are located a little bit above the "n" in Placentia.

Right now the skies are clear and blue, a light breeze is blowing, and it is pleasantly warm outside. It's a beautiful fall day in southern California. Though a couple of hundred homes, some schools and businesses have been lost, most of our community has been spared.

The Faithful in Babylon

In the age after David and Solomon, the kingdom divided. Israel lay to the north, and Judah was in the south with Jerusalem as its capital. Both kingdoms progressively apostatized. Injustice grew until it became commonplace and accepted. The Law was little observed or taught, and therefore eventually was forgotten. Exploitation of widows and orphans by the rich and powerful was widespread. As godly morality declined into depravity, and fidelity to God was cast aside for syncretism and eventual idolatrous abomination, the ministry of the great prophets arose to call the people to repentance.

Israel refused the call and was eventually wiped out. Judah likewise rejected the call and, seven centuries before the birth of the Messiah, was conquered by the armies of Babylon. The rightful king, 18-year-old Jehoiachin, was captured by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon, deported, and held in captivity in a foreign land. Not long after, Jerusalem was destroyed, the Temple looted and burned, the nobility and well-educated taken to Babylon in chains, and the poor of the land left to fend for themselves. They suffered and died from hunger and disease. The prophets had threatened this fate to the nation that refused to heed the word of the LORD, and that word was fulfilled.

Question: in spite of the rampant disobedience to God for several generations before the disaster, were there not people in Judah who were faithful? Of course there were. There are many indications in the annals of the books of Kings that there were many faithful, though few were prominent. God himself told Elijah that there were “seven thousand” who had not worshiped Baal—7,000 is the symbolic number “seven” (which means a full, round, plentiful amount) multiplied by “a thousand” (which adds great emphasis to the number). Even in the days of worst apostasy, there remained uncounted faithful in Judah. Most were apparently neither influential nor in positions of prominence—but they were faithful. The apostasies and corruptions surrounded them but they resisted.

Second question: in the conquering of Judah, then, and the subsequent deportations to Babylon, was it not likely that there were many faithful among the exiles—people who did not deserve and had not earned the punishment enacted against the nation? Of course there were.

Is God unfair then, to punish the innocent along with the guilty? Of course not. What then is going on? The destruction and deportations are disaster to the guilty, for they lose everything they had clutched to themselves as of most value. To the innocent, it is a time of suffering, to be sure, but also a time of challenge, refinement, and even renewed vision. They, who had never put their hope in fame, wealth, influence, or intrigue had little to lose, then, when these things were swept away. They, who had preserved their hope in God, in exile found that hope deepened and even made more pointed.

In short, they who could not possibly have “won” the day in a land where all was corrupt and in which they were without influence or power, found themselves in a position where, of all their people, they alone knew hope and knew what hope meant, and therefore lived in hope. And to the exiles who were dragged from what they craved into foreign captivity, it was only to the faithful who retained hope that they could go in any repentance and renewal. It was only the faithful who had hope to show and to give to those who could finally want it! Eventually, at the age of 55, Jehoiachin was released from prison and through him the descendants of David continued in unbroken line to Joseph, husband of Mary.

For fifteen years or more, it has seemed likely to me that the current time of apostasy and all the ills of the misguided Episcopal Church provides an opportunity for the faithful to dig in, strive for continuing fidelity, and hold onto the seeds for the time when the soil shall be ready to receive them and produce a rich harvest. Only God satisfies. Nothing else can. Any genuine hunger for God will lead the searcher to him. People can only live on spiritual snow cones and M&Ms for so long. The real food is always waiting and offered. As the most recent statistics on the Episcopal Church show, membership continues to decline and the money continues to increase—a recipe for spiritual catastrophe.

In the first millennium before Christ the age of rampant disobedience and graspingness was also the age of the prophets. They went together. And the age of the exile was the age of rebuilding the faith on firm foundations. This is the theme of the Book of Daniel, unique in the Old Testament. It is this book that features the famed “handwriting on the wall”.

There are a number of ways today that the faithful of the Episcopal Church can fulfill their calling, and are doing so. Let us not stumble, nor grow tired, nor become discouraged. The handwriting is on the wall.

Unclosure

When I first took the Myers-Briggs Inventory, I was categorized as an INFJ. As years have passed, I have taken it a few times more and seen a shift. Now the “I” is creeping toward the middle, and the “N” and “F” have been at or very near the middle for a decade or so; however, the “J” is still strong. One person told me recently that the “J” means that I need closure whenever situations or relationships terminate.

This is true. I am uncomfortable when something in my life comes to an end but there is no resolution. As I look at what this might mean in my Christian formation, this verse comes to mind: “Let no debt remain outstanding, except the continuing debt to love one another” (Romans 13:80).

This verse recognizes that love is a “continuing debt”. Loving someone means making an obligation to them, at the very least. Committing oneself to another. Making and keeping promises even when it’s hard to do so. And since genuine love can never be “paid for”, there can never really be comfortable closure. Or so it seems to me.

When I was in the first grade, I became friends with two girls who were themselves nearly inseparable: Vicky Brown and Melissa Fisher. We did a lot together in school and even visited in each other’s houses. When a new elementary school was built near my home, I was transferred there. Vicky and Melissa stayed at the old school and I lost contact with them. When I started junior high two years later, two girls came up to me while I was talking to someone else, and asked, “Are you David Baumann?” I turned to them and with sudden joy and amazement I recognized Vicky and Melissa. “Yes!” I said, and turned back to the person I had been talking to so that I could quickly close that conversation and then give my full attention to my two friends. But when I turned back to them, they were gone. Clearly they must have concluded that I was extremely rude and walked away. I never saw them again. It was my first major experience with “lack of closure” that I could do nothing about. I’ve never forgotten the incident and still wonder where Vicky and Melissa are now.

In that same new elementary school there was Mr. Elliot. Fortunately I never had him as a teacher, as he was a controlling, strict, humorless man. A friend of mine and I made a game out of our dislike of him. We drew “Elliot Wreckers”—massive machines like street cleaners that would inhale our foe and do him measureless bodily harm inside and then spit out the luckless and ghastly remains. Maybe that was the best protest that eleven-year-olds could do to rebel against capricious adult authority. I realize now that I was doing Mr. Elliot an injustice. It would be nice if I could see him again and treat him with respect. I can confess to God, but with Mr. Elliot I will not have closure.

When I was in the third grade, back at my original elementary school, we had a substitute teacher one day who acted like a dictator. Even then I realized that he was severely deficient in self-respect and self-confidence, and needed to shout orders and try to impress nine-year-olds with his knowledge to feel better about himself—a method doomed to failure. I wish I had known then how to minister to him, but there was nothing I could have done. I still empathize with his inner vacuity and wonder what happened to him.

There are also people I would like to thank, and never did. My second grade teacher was Mrs. Sawyer. She was magnificent! I don’t remember details now of her teaching, but I still can picture her face, kindly and caring and encouraging. I probably thanked her when I said good-bye and moved on to third grade, and maybe that was enough for her. The affections of a second grader do have value. But I was very pleased when I wrote a letter to my son’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Carter. In it, I told her what a fine teacher she was and what a difference she had made in my son’s life; and I added that it was, in some ways, the letter I wish I could have written to Mrs. Sawyer.

In probably nearly every relationship there is unfinished business: things left unsaid that ought to have been shared; things said that can’t be unsaid but which need to be forgiven.

Those who are “Ps” in the Myers-Briggs are comfortable with open-endedness. There certainly is value in that, but it can also mean leaving important work undone. The danger for us Js is wanting to control people and their reactions too much so that we force some sort of resolution when it is impossible to do so, or is at least untimely.

Which brings us back to “the continuing debt to love one another.” In genuine love there is the true freedom that is experienced both as “open-endedness” and the satisfaction that there is no unfinished business. Maybe someday my “J” will move more toward the center the way my other letters have done. I won’t look for it anytime soon, though.

But what should I do about the German soldier(s) who gassed my grandfather in the Great War so that he was often sick and then died at the age of 40, leaving my father fatherless at age ten, who did not know how to handle grief when he was a child nor had a model for raising sons past the age of ten, which in part contributed to my current awkwardness in relationships? The gassing happened more than ninety years ago. When I consider that event and how it affected me, so that my clumsiness with people makes them and me discomfited sometimes, I am daunted at the complexity of relationships across time, through generations, beyond the shores of distant oceans, spanning different languages and cultures. Can I draw a line through time and space from that German soldier to my loss of relationship with Pam and Vicky, because I didn’t know how to converse very well? Who knows? —but maybe so. I can only throw up my hands. Maybe I should just feel satisfied when I can trace only a few of the threads out of the thousands that make up the tapestry of life.

The fulfillment, the answer, is where all things are fulfilled and answered: in Jesus Christ, who is Lord of all—all time, all space, all love, all mercy, all laughter, all peace, whose Father is the One “unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid.” In him, and in him alone, will I ever find and truly love Melissa Fisher, Vicky Brown, Mr. Elliot, Mrs. Sawyer, … and perhaps even a German soldier.

Political Naiveté

Very rarely do I make public my thoughts and convictions about politics, but I’ll make an exception here because there are Christian principles behind my position. Admittedly I don’t know very much about politics. I understand politics to be the way people work with one another as they devise a system for governing a body of people, or when they put that system to use. Because people are sinners, any political system will be flawed. To me it is clear that the American political process is affected, and often driven, by favoritism, shortsightedness, rigidity, hypocrisy, and all the other sins common to humanity. But in a fallen world there may be no better way to govern our nation, so the political process needs constant correction and rebalancing. Sometimes, on occasion, it works well. Or appears to. As I say, I don’t know much about it.

Political parties are generally made up of people of more or less like-mindedness on whatever issues are before the nation. Like groups or parties within the Church, no one party has a corner on the complete truth. For truth to prevail, then, parties must work together, i.e. people of different convictions must listen to one another and learn to work together—without denying their convictions but also with a willingness to hear what someone else has to say so that all may benefit. That is, one must hold fast to one’s own convictions while working also for the good of all.

The prophets of the Old Testament often supported the king, but whenever necessary—which was frequently—called the king and people to repentance. The prophets’ commitment was to the Word of the Lord above all, and not unconditionally to a particular political person or position. The Christian Church, and individual Christians as they have opportunity, must do the same. The Church must support Democrats when that party wants to assist the poor; it must support Republicans when that party opposes abortion. The Church, in short, must preach the Gospel to all the political parties. The parties, all of them, sometimes get it right and sometimes get it wrong.

Commitment to truth, for me, is a top priority in the political system. I learned recently (haven’t verified it) that in the ancient Greek culture (which loved philosophy and debate), whenever two people were going to debate their philosophy, before the debate could begin each person had to give a summary of what his opponent believed and get that person’s agreement that his position had been stated accurately. Only after that had happened, could the debate begin. Without beginning in that fashion, the debate could have no value for the arguments offered could have no foundation. That practice seems to me to be quite sound. Bearing false witness against one’s neighbor, mudslinging, trying to get ahead by denouncing your opponent, twisting facts, attacking others anonymously, hitting below the belt, etc. are all contrary to truth or virtue or both, no matter which party or individual does these things. No one can get to the truth by lying about his opponent.

Because of my convictions, when our parish’s Discernment Committee was working to come to a consensus about what to do in the current Episcopal controversy, at the very first meeting I gave the members axioms from which they were not to deviate as they did their work. These axioms included: no name calling, no crediting any rumors or other unsubstantiated material (i.e. use only first-hand material in its proper context), no violation of Scripture (e.g. admission of lawsuits), listen to those who disagree with you and make sure you understand what they believe before reacting to it, act always in full charity. The Committee followed these principles and did a marvelous job.

I believe that those in the political process must do the same. Of course, I know that they won’t—or won’t very often. But still, any party or individual acting for a party that violates these same principles will have no credibility for me. I believe that any political assertion must honor every individual by telling the truth and allowing each person to speak for himself. Only in such a circumstance will I have the best chance to learn what someone really stands for. Truth, honor, love, virtue, etc. are principles that must guide our contacts with other people at all times, including in the political process. I fault nearly every political party and process for failing to uphold these principles consistently.

I admire Barack Obama because he seems to be enacting the American dream (and therefore is a testimony to the greatness of many American strengths), and for some of his convictions. I admire John McCain for his perseverance and some of his convictions. Both men have greatness in them, both are patriots, and both have failings.

Frankly, I usually tend to vote as a one-issue person: where a candidate stands on abortion tells me a great deal about his understanding of life’s central issues. I know that the realities of the world and what faces the nation are much more complex than any single issue, but that one issue of abortion is the most important for me because in it millions of lives are at stake. Related to it are issues of tobacco, the death penalty, and gun control. No one candidate I know of, or party, has a clean or consistent position on these issues, which are all about the value of life.

I know I am idealistic in these convictions; maybe more than a few would say I am naïve. I am willing to be educated but I won’t compromise my ideals no matter how few people might agree with them, how many people believe them to be unrealistic, or consider me to be naïve because of them. I believe that holding these convictions and applying them is part of living and proclaiming the Gospel, and the Gospel is the only solid and reliable foundation for truth, love, life, and action. Without such a foundation, one is left completely at the whim of fads, fancies, fallacies, opportunism, money-motivated goals, and the like.

Consider, for example, Jacob Weisberg’s column “The Big Idea” in the September 15, 2008 issue of Newsweek (page 41). The title of his column is, “What Happened to Family Values?” In that column the author attacks Sarah Palin’s pro-life position, which he describes as “extreme”. He states, “The availability of legal abortion actually supports the kind of family structure that conservatives once felt so strongly about: two parents raising children in a stable relationship, without government assistance.” This shocking absurdity is the central message of his column. That message, as I read it, is: Give people the right to terminate the lives of the unborn they don’t want, and what will be left are lives that are wanted, and wanted lives make for happy, committed parents. (It didn’t pass me by that he used the term “stable relationship” rather than “marriage”.) This assertion is utterly devoid of any values or standards other than convenience or preference. I haven’t heard or read such a dispassionate proposal of appalling and brutal utilitarian eugenics seriously put forward since the Nazi philosophy sought, by mass murder and genocide of undesirables, to create the Aryan society of the blond and blue-eyed. Work is freedom. Abortion is a family value. Death is life. Black is white. Hell.

What is always at stake in every human encounter, small or large, including the political system, are Gospel truth and love. I choose these without compromise.

Beyond the Circles of the World

“We are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory.” These are the last words of Aragorn, spoken to his wife Arwen. (From The Lord of the Rings, appendix A, a part of the tale of Aragorn and Arwen, by J. R. R. Tolkien)

J. R. R. Tolkien died just a little more than 35 years ago. I remember reading a brief obituary at the time in a national magazine whose title I have forgotten. A short time after that I received a note from a friend that closed, “P.S. Sorry about Tolkien.”

I read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings when the latter was in its second wave of popularity—the mid-1960s. As C. S. Lewis’ imagination had been “baptized” when in 1915 he first read Phantastes by George MacDonald, these works of Tolkien transfigured my imagination and more. I still recall purchasing The Silmarillion when it was first published, and opening the cover over lunch at a restaurant near the church where I was working at the time. I smiled grandly, though I was alone, as I began to read.

A few years ago, taking advantage of the Prayer Book’s permission to add commemorations to the calendar, I placed Tolkien, Lewis, and Charles Williams into our cycle of annual observations. (Subsequently, Lewis was officially added to the Episcopal calendar.) I had to come up with psalms, other readings, and a collect (suitable prayer) for each entry. I recall that the selections and compositions I made for Tolkien were easy. The day I chose for his commemoration was September 3, the day after the date of his death on September 2, 1973. (September 2 was already taken; on that day we commemorate the martyrs of New Guinea.)

As I celebrated the Mass today and preached on the lessons, it came to mind why I am so affected by the writings of Tolkien. He himself, as far as I can conclude from various writings about him, could be rather a curmudgeon—maybe more easily hurt than most, bothered by grudges, a bit of a complainer. He had a difficult life—his father died far away while his sons were still quite young, his mother was cast out of her family when she became a Roman Catholic. She also died while her sons were still small. Tolkien was raised in straitened circumstances, and even when he became a professor he was not well paid and often had to pinch pennies. He was traumatized, as were many young men of his generation, by the trench warfare of World War I.

With this background, where did his astonishing vision come from? Tolkien himself, an ardent Christian and daily communicant at Mass (which he experienced for most of his life in Latin), did not live a life often given to adventure, quest, peril, or heroism. He described himself once as “a hobbit”—preferring simple things like good food, fellowship, and the out of doors, and studiously avoiding adventure. Yet his vision—which he also described as intentionally “Christian and Catholic”—sets forth in incomparably rich and diverse myth the Gospel story of great events taking millennia to come to fruition, small heroes, gods and demons, goodness and evil, light and darkness, despair in which valiant action is still chosen, death and destiny, song and poetry, gold and silver and iron, magic and mystery, prophecy and choice and chance, rebellion and repentance, oath and power, battle (with many casualties and much cruelty) and serenity, fire and still water, sun and moon, dance and smoke rings, beauty and horror… but always, always the achievement of the will of Iluvatar (the “All-Father”) who is God.

In short, Tolkien opened my innermost heart to the saga of salvation, the elements by which our world was saved. He transformed for me, for ever, ordinary things like stars, shadows, moonlight, chill evening breezes, trees and leaves, the seasons of the year, gray clouds, firelight and brass and dark wood, so that they became portals into wonder, and therefore means by which I perceive the presence and activity of God.

Everything except mushrooms. Tolkien hasn’t made me like mushrooms.

Here is the prayer I wrote for the commemoration of John Ronald Reuel Tolkien:
Father of all, who inspired the heart and mind of your servant John Ronald Reuel Tolkien with visions of eternal goodness, truth, and beauty both on Earth and beyond the circles of this world: Grant that in our earthly pilgrimage we may always be bold to resist evil and obedient to your call to humble service, knowing that in your plan it is most often by small things that the great events of salvation are brought about; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God in everlasting splendor.

Burning the Scroll

In December 604 B.C., Jeremiah was ordered by the Lord to write down all his prophecies on a scroll. The prophecies included many threats against the nation of Judah and its rulers and people, which would be enacted if they did not repent of their rebellious ways. Jeremiah, prevented from entering the Temple, sent his secretary Baruch to read the scroll to the people. The populace had gathered in the Temple for a fast. When they heard what Jeremiah had written, certain officials became interested and asked that the scroll be read in their presence too.

When Baruch complied, these officials took the words seriously and said that the king must be informed. Knowing that the king would not welcome the prophecies, they suggested that Baruch and Jeremiah go into hiding. The scroll was then taken into the king’s presence and read to him by a servant named Jehudi.

Since it was winter, there was a brazier with fire in it to heat the apartments. “Each time Jehudi had read three or four columns, the king cut them off with a scribe’s knife and threw them into the fire in the brazier until the whole of the scroll had been burned in the brazier fire” (Jeremiah 36:23). The king then ordered the arrest of Jeremiah and Baruch, but they had been hidden. The Lord ordered Jeremiah to write the scroll over again; it is likely that what he wrote now comprises the bulk of his prophecies that we find in the Bible. As we know, the king and his successor did not repent, and the threats in the prophecies of Jeremiah were fulfilled.

How often it has been the case that people refuse to hear or heed the word of God proclaimed to them. In Scripture we see it and in the history of the Church. It is very easy to assert that this pattern is showing itself again in the Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion today—which I think is true. Most of the leadership in the Episcopal Church and beyond is effectually “burning the scroll” by resisting and denying and trying to silence the authoritative word of God as received by the faithful from the earliest days of our profession. They continue to resist, and the road of calamity continues to be the main highway.

I think, however, there is great danger in stopping with such an indictment. Pointing the finger at others, even when there is good reason to do so, does not excuse the finger-pointers from being “scroll burners” themselves.

Unlike the king of Judah in 604 B.C., I believe that most of today’s “scroll burning” leadership does have at least a little something of value to contribute to understanding and living the Gospel. And it is a vital part of discipleship regularly and frequently to ask, “Where am I myself resisting the word of God? What do I not want to hear?”

I expect that, except for the great saints, every age, every individual Christian, has a blind spot somewhere in Christian profession. Other ages were cruel; others were indifferent to the suffering of the impoverished; others were complacent or lethargic. In each case those who believed themselves to be faithful could and did provide good reason for believing that their “blind spot” was consistent with the Gospel.

Pointing the finger, in love, is an important part of the Gospel, i.e. taking the speck out of a brother’s eye. We must not forget, ever, that taking the beam out of our own eye is even more important. These are the very words of Jesus. (See Matthew 7:3 and Luke 6:42.)

I suppose that God knows that fallen people, even the faithful, are prone to these blind spots, and that they plague our discipleship. I imagine that he has allowed for them, also, in the course of salvation history. May he open the eyes and hearts of today’s “scroll burners”; may he open my eyes and heart wherever that needs to be done.

“I Have Been Young And Now I Am Old”

When I was a child, my grandparents lived a few miles from my family’s home. We visited them frequently. I recall a small, white, wooden house with a large pepper tree in front, which I occasionally climbed. There were many such houses in the neighborhood, nestled under the shadows of old trees. The rooms inside the house were small, even to the eyes of a child under ten years of age. There was a cozy fireplace in the living room, with a burgundy-colored wing chair in front, and an old, patterned sofa to one side. The kitchen had a worn linoleum floor, and the stove stood on cast iron legs. There was a carved table in the bedroom; a collection of tiny bottles, probably for perfume, was arranged on a lace covering, spread over the table. Behind the house and separate from it was a one-car garage. A gravel driveway led to it from the street.

My grandparents moved from the house in 1958, and as years passed I had not been back to see it. Thirty-five years later, I unearthed the address of the house and went to search for it. Although the street had been widened and its name had been changed, the site of the house was not difficult to find. One would never have guessed that there had been such a quaint and peaceful neighborhood in the area, for the entire block had become a wrecking yard. There were no houses or trees for hundreds of yards. The wrecking yard was surrounded by a high fence, made partly of corrugated iron and partly of cinder block marked in places with graffiti, with gates of chain-link fence filled in with slats. Incongruously, there was an old-fashioned mailbox on a square post jammed into the three inches of earth between the cement sidewalk and the cinder block fence. The mailbox bore my grandparents’ address.

A sense of loss coursed through me, of course, and I remembered again my family’s visits in that quiet place in a much simpler and slower age. My earliest memories of my grandparents stem from those years, when I came to know those old people who had seen the turn of the twentieth century. In the early 1970s, their ashes were buried in a cemetery a few miles to the south of their old homesite.

Two days ago I turned sixty. Am I old now? On that day, as I was praying the psalms, I read, “I have been young and now I am old” (Psalm 37:26a). I was sitting in that same burgundy-colored wing chair which I inherited after my grandparents and then my mother died. It still has its original covering, and the cloth is only a little faded. Nearby is an old wrought iron stool that, long ago, I covered with a remnant of the patterned cloth that had been on my grandparents’ sofa.

From the moment we are conceived, we move toward death, and our path is marked by many lesser deaths and griefs. We live in a world that we often perceive to be indifferent and sometimes even hostile, full of pain and sorrow, heavy with loss and disappointment and frustration. Tragic headlines reveal the appalling extent of our world’s suffering in numbers that numb us. Our years extend and our memories preserve this burden of sorrow, even as we ourselves age and weaken and suffer continuing loss.

But still we love, look for joy and satisfaction in life, and hope in unseen things. It seems most illogical to do so. If we look only at this world, the evidence of decay and wrong is overwhelming: all things die, and human greed, cruelty, and indifference seem to continue unchecked. But although some individuals despair, and a few despair completely, our race continues to hope. Taylor Caldwell, in her great novel Great Lion of God about the life of Saint Paul, referred to this redemptive, never-quite-defeated side of humanity, when she wrote of “the alleged good that lay, like a pearl, in the slimy musculature of a bestial organism”. George MacDonald used even more poetic imagery when he said, “There is glory and might in the body, this vital evanescence, this slow glacierlike flow of aging mortality and revealing matter, this ever-uptossed rainbow of tangible humanity.”

The perfect beauty and eternal joy promised by God can seem as wonderful—and ephemeral—as a rainbow in the face of the unrelenting iron of mortality. Yet a rainbow, comprised of water and sunlight, is made up of the elements that age and corrode iron over time, until it is fully dissolved and can even become nourishment in soil. True love endures against mortality. “Our present perishable nature must put on imperishability and this mortal nature must put on immortality” (1 Corinthians 15:53). Am I old now? It doesn’t matter. “There are three things that last: faith, hope, and love” (1 Corinthians 13:13). And I have all three.