Every once in a while, my dear wife lampoons me modestly with a truthful barb. She sometimes refers to me as a 'bardic whore.' And I have to agree. Sometimes I have had the urge to print 'Have Voice, Will Travel' on business cards I keep handy to pass out when it looks like I could become a potential soloist, especially for liturgical functions. I blend in well with the surroundings, and I am not the main guest of honor. After years of doing so, the job or ministry (take your pick) suits me.
The line "he who sings, prays twice" is attributed to (Saint) Augustine of Hippo, one of the ancient Church fathers. He was the living example of Luke's 'prodigal' or wayward son, but ultimately had a conversion experience and became the writer of his time. Augie was apparently used to the idea of music in liturgy, even if it moved in and out of favor over the course of Church history.
But I digress. Over the years, thanks to the friendship and collaboration with other good church musicians, I have roots, as it were, in several places. Perhaps the single person most responsible for spreading the seed that established those roots is my friend Mike.
I have not given Mike enough credit; neither for the extent of his musical accomplishments, nor the pain and endurance that comes with the territory. To that I will write here that in my mind he is one of the top five greatest people I will probably know and work with in my lifetime. Because of that, I would do just about anything for him. He's been very considerate of my own situation and doesn't ask as much as he might have otherwise.
Mike and I share one ideal. As Christians, and especially as Christian musicians, we are all brothers and sisters in Jesus. Denominational boundaries are occasionally discussed, and we recognize that there are differences, but we accept them rather than tear down each other in futile quests to determine whose spiritual path is better.
As a musician, Mike has given several recitals over the years to showcase his own talents. Still, he recognizes that there is more than that to showcase. For the last year or so he attempted to put together a choral festival of sorts, featuring choirs from three churches. It looked like it was going to happen. At the end of this past summer a date had finally been set, actual pieces of music were being discussed, the location of the concert had been agreed to and consent given, and I looked forward to it. The event was supposed to have taken place this afternoon.
Unfortunately, the plans were scrubbed about three weeks ago. See, this is Columbus Day weekend, a 'holiday' for students and bankers, and about the same time the peak of fall color is in our area. It was the director of music at the church which was to host the event who pulled out, claiming too many people were going to be out of town this particular weekend. I'm of Italian descent and the only reason I have a holiday is because I arranged to use 2 days' vacation time to shove around priorities so I could be free to attend the dress rehearsal and the concert itself.
Now ordinarily if someone canceled plans I would go back and resume my normal weekend routine. But as I had scheduled time off, and (miracle of miracles!) the weather was cooperating, my dear wife and I agreed that this would be a good time for another mini-break.
Our last, the first week in July in the Smokies, did not turn out as recharging as hoped for. I describe some of the experience in a previous post here. But what I didn't say then (because it was unknown at the time) that has been bothering me since was something else I brought home as a souvenir. Chiggers.
In consideration for the comfort of my family, while parked at the old Methodist Church in Cades Cove, a few of the nasty insects decided to make the floor of my new car their new home. From the time we returned until now, I have been affected by chigger bites, and I've suffered worse than average allergic reactions to them. It took this long to understand the source of the trouble because we weren't completely certain it was a cause to consider.
But again I digress. There were some things we wanted to do over this time as well, things we do this time of year, things that have affected who I am and what I do.
As a church musician, and one who has flexible hours to boot, I often sing at funeral services. This has had some very interesting side effects, stuff I won't go into great detail. But as a result I have become a fan, as it were, of another of the ancient Church leaders: Saint Benedict.
What I originally knew of Benedict, a 6th Century priest, was that he was the founder of the monastic movement. What I didn't know until recently is that Benedict is the patron saint of a peaceful or 'happy' death. My wife recommended that I wear a St. Benedict medal when visiting my mom at the nursing home or when attending a wake or funeral, so one of the planned stops was at a Catholic shrine and gift shop to stock up.
Also this weekend was a visit to the gravesites of our family ancestors. This ritual began for me not long after I met my wife, nearly 30 years ago. Every spring we would take her grandmother out to weed and decorate the family graves. It was an elaborate ritual that included going to a nearby nursery to load the car with geraniums - so many of a specific color which had significance. When her grandmother died 23 years ago, my wife and I more or less inherited the role of gravekeepers. And it's not such a bad thing. Despite what Hollywood and the thriller writers hit you with, cemeteries are generally very peaceful places. There is energy there, reminders of the lives of those whose remains are buried or remembered there; but it's not there to scare you (unless, of course, you want to be scared).
On occasion I would drive through the cemetery - at those times I was in my dress clothes for Sunday Mass and I didn't have time to do much other than acknowledge that without their lives, I would not have mine. Today, though, was the opportunity to linger in the spirit of the coming All Saints Day - also known as All Hallows; and its vigil, All Hallows' Eve, known more colloquially as Halloween.
I had forgotten what happens in modern cemeteries, with flat headstones designed so that groundskeepers can mow grass more efficiently. The headstones get covered up; some of them sink ever so slightly. I had trouble finding the graves of my wife's grandparents; they had become victims of nature and the lawn mowing. My wife can't move as well as she used to, and we weren't necessarily prepared for what we encountered; so I got down on my hands and knees and began to rip clumps of grass and dirt from the earth, and dug with a dinner spoon in an attempt to clear away the headstones to the best of my ability. It was mine to do, and will be mine as long as I am able - after all, this is a prerequisite. One must join in the dance of the dead in order to effectively console the survivors among the living. As macabre as that might sound, it is really not so at all. It is extending a bond that you began when both were living, and I see it as an investment toward my own afterlife.
Catholics believe in the intercession of the community of saints, those who have gone before us. And I have recently been reminded in other ways just how much God can multiply the smallest of efforts. It has been routine, especially since my father-in-law and my grandmother died in recent years, to remember them in my prayer time.
So I beg forgiveness among the living who today were expecting to hear my singing voice. I was really needed elsewhere. Everything is fine, and will be fine.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
And Now...Page Four
Cripes! Has it been THAT long since I was brave enough to make a post?
I suppose there have been reasons. Mainly, I thought -at least for that moment- I had simply run out of things to say. That period is over. Now the issue becomes finding the time and energy to put my thoughts in order and get them on paper (as it were).
I want to take a step back...to about the end of July. At that point in time I had learned that Bill, an old friend of mine, was leaving the country to teach third grade in Kuwait. Yeah, I was a bit stunned by this. I had barely understood the fact that Bill was teaching at all, let alone that he'd taken a job half a world away, all but cutting himself off from those of us who knew him...or in some cases, thought they knew.
I came to understand some of his motivation, and I didn't want to discourage him. Every person has multiple opportunities in life to make a difference - not only in the life or lives of others, but in his or hers as well. Most of us struggle every day of our lives with this, myself included, even though we may not see it.
I learned two days ago that Bill has been unceremoniously dismissed from his teaching job in Kuwait. I say this because it does not seem to have the earmarkings of a firing a la Donald Trump on The Apprentice.
Bill had high but guarded hopes when he accepted the job. There was every indication that he had the tools and ability needed. But after the first few weeks, the posts back to us were fewer and a lot less verbose. There were concerns and discouragement. Finally, the word came back that he was dismissed because he couldn't control his students.
At this point I want to address the Anonymous poster who replied to my July post as late as September 13, and who apparently commented on Bill's own blog to the point he deleted it altogether. Are you satisfied? Did whatever you say accomplish the intent for which the posts were made? Does it matter that you've "kept copies of everything?" For what it's worth, I don't think you had anything to do with the entire situation except put additional stress on an already stressful situation. There are more real reasons that don't involve outside interference.
Bill went to a country where, despite our diplomatic ties and the facade of a nation that would appear to be an ally, the overwhelming majority of the culture doesn't understand to dislikes to outright hates American culture. That is a handicap from the very start. People know where you're from and you represent all those things they don't understand and dislike.
That being said, I think that what did Bill in even worse is that the American educational model has gone to hell in a handcar. Bill is not the only teacher who has been unable to control a bunch of eight-year-olds. I daresay there are many right here who have the same problem. The reason they don't get fired is that their positions are protected by contract. Plus, we've allowed legislation and lawsuits to push the system to the point where American eight-year-olds often learn more about life on the streets than they will ever learn in the classroom. Add to this the stresses placed on both student and teacher to 'perform' (as in test) well by cramming for standardized tests that were not given when I was that age.
When I was eight, part of my education - and my learning - was fostered by the fear of God. My teachers were able to teach - but they also had the authority of an overseer - they could do something when kids got out of line, as they did even then. Today, the answer is to send them someplace else until nobody else will take them, and then simply deny them the education they by law are supposed to receive. The trouble is, very few are really receiving that sort of education anymore. This is not the reality in the rest of the world. For better or worse, other countries are doing better at preparing youth for life than we are. Perhaps that is what Bill did not understand. It is hard to say.
Bill is moving on. He has apparently accepted a teaching job in another country in another part of the world. I won't say where he is going at the moment. I believe this will prove better for him, but only time and his own experience will tell.
It is hard to know when being compassionate means having to be firm about an issue. It is difficult to, as I have been reminded to do from my Catholic culture, "hate the sin yet love the sinner." Still, to do otherwise does nothing to improve our lot in life.
I suppose there have been reasons. Mainly, I thought -at least for that moment- I had simply run out of things to say. That period is over. Now the issue becomes finding the time and energy to put my thoughts in order and get them on paper (as it were).
I want to take a step back...to about the end of July. At that point in time I had learned that Bill, an old friend of mine, was leaving the country to teach third grade in Kuwait. Yeah, I was a bit stunned by this. I had barely understood the fact that Bill was teaching at all, let alone that he'd taken a job half a world away, all but cutting himself off from those of us who knew him...or in some cases, thought they knew.
I came to understand some of his motivation, and I didn't want to discourage him. Every person has multiple opportunities in life to make a difference - not only in the life or lives of others, but in his or hers as well. Most of us struggle every day of our lives with this, myself included, even though we may not see it.
I learned two days ago that Bill has been unceremoniously dismissed from his teaching job in Kuwait. I say this because it does not seem to have the earmarkings of a firing a la Donald Trump on The Apprentice.
Bill had high but guarded hopes when he accepted the job. There was every indication that he had the tools and ability needed. But after the first few weeks, the posts back to us were fewer and a lot less verbose. There were concerns and discouragement. Finally, the word came back that he was dismissed because he couldn't control his students.
At this point I want to address the Anonymous poster who replied to my July post as late as September 13, and who apparently commented on Bill's own blog to the point he deleted it altogether. Are you satisfied? Did whatever you say accomplish the intent for which the posts were made? Does it matter that you've "kept copies of everything?" For what it's worth, I don't think you had anything to do with the entire situation except put additional stress on an already stressful situation. There are more real reasons that don't involve outside interference.
Bill went to a country where, despite our diplomatic ties and the facade of a nation that would appear to be an ally, the overwhelming majority of the culture doesn't understand to dislikes to outright hates American culture. That is a handicap from the very start. People know where you're from and you represent all those things they don't understand and dislike.
That being said, I think that what did Bill in even worse is that the American educational model has gone to hell in a handcar. Bill is not the only teacher who has been unable to control a bunch of eight-year-olds. I daresay there are many right here who have the same problem. The reason they don't get fired is that their positions are protected by contract. Plus, we've allowed legislation and lawsuits to push the system to the point where American eight-year-olds often learn more about life on the streets than they will ever learn in the classroom. Add to this the stresses placed on both student and teacher to 'perform' (as in test) well by cramming for standardized tests that were not given when I was that age.
When I was eight, part of my education - and my learning - was fostered by the fear of God. My teachers were able to teach - but they also had the authority of an overseer - they could do something when kids got out of line, as they did even then. Today, the answer is to send them someplace else until nobody else will take them, and then simply deny them the education they by law are supposed to receive. The trouble is, very few are really receiving that sort of education anymore. This is not the reality in the rest of the world. For better or worse, other countries are doing better at preparing youth for life than we are. Perhaps that is what Bill did not understand. It is hard to say.
Bill is moving on. He has apparently accepted a teaching job in another country in another part of the world. I won't say where he is going at the moment. I believe this will prove better for him, but only time and his own experience will tell.
It is hard to know when being compassionate means having to be firm about an issue. It is difficult to, as I have been reminded to do from my Catholic culture, "hate the sin yet love the sinner." Still, to do otherwise does nothing to improve our lot in life.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Larry's Celebrity Roast
The Word:
Psalm 112:5 (Blessed is the man who is gracious and lends to those in need)
(Here's a synopsis for a potential Veggie Tales episode. Unfortunately, I don't think it will ever be used. Due to the nature of the true story on which this is based, while the overall ending is happy, and the intended lesson is taught, part of the storyline would most likely be deemed too intense for young or sensitive viewers.)
This is a story about riches, service, and one man's juggling of priorities to do, as is often said on VT, what is right.
Our story centers around Larry (played by Larry the Cucumber), who works for a business in Rome. He is an executive assistant to "Mr. Six." (who, after much discernment over casting, is played by Bob the Tomato. Or possibly Archibald, the Asparagus with the British accent who wears a monocle. I'm still not sure who would be a better fit.)
Over two hundred years have passed since the time of Jesus. Remember the story in the Book of Acts? From the time the first seven great assistants were appointed, their job was to keep track of the wealth of the Church, with a priority on spending that wealth on those who needed it - the poor, the sick, the orphaned, and the elderly - people who had nobody to care for or pray for them. As the church grew, so did its potential wealth - and also the people who needed it.
The Emperors of Rome (all played by Mr. Nezzer) never quite understood how some people were able to get rich. The Emperors amassed their wealth by taxing the people for nearly everything under the sun. And if you were not a native Roman citizen (meaning you lived in one of the territories or colonies claimed by the Empire), you tended to pay a lot more taxes. But that's really another story. The Emperors tended to spend their wealth on personal luxury; and when they needed more stuff, they would finance wars to extend their empire and collect more taxes.
By the time Larry and Mr. Six were around, the Empire was in financial straits. Things that had been built to support the Empire were in need of repair, and the Emperor was not about to give up his personal lifestyle or wealth to fix things. He wanted more money. And here was Mr. Six and his business, thought to have enough excess wealth to be able to feed the hungry, clothe the needy, and shelter the homeless. Mr. Six set aside any profit from his business to use in this way. Further, he set such a good example doing this that most of his employees chipped in extra, so they could rightfully claim they also helped.
Well, one day the Emperor sent out his prefect (played ubiquitously by Mr. Lunt) to Mr. Six, demanding that the assets of the company be turned over to the Emperor. In the Emperor's mind, this was just like any other organization within the Empire, of which he was top banana (or zucchini, or cucumber, or whatever) and whatever he wanted, he got; and if he didn't get it, he would take it by force.
As you might guess, the meeting between the prefect and Mr. Six didn't go well. Mr. Six knew that God wanted him to use the wealth he was holding - which wasn't his, after all, but God's - on those who really needed it. So he flatly refused - and was led away to jail, where he was sentenced to be executed (not made executive - there could be some dark humor there).
While all this was happening, Larry was out doing what was right - what God wanted him to do. He had spent the night at the home of a poor widow, fixing her the best meal she'd had in some time - as Larry was an expert in cooking on the grill. He also gave her house a good cleaning, getting help from some of the young boys in the neighborhood, whom Larry also fed. All the while, Larry would tell all manner of stories and jokes, as this helped to pass the time and lighten an otherwise heavy work load. Nobody seemed to mind. People had come to know that a visit from Larry meant at least a few hours of a really good time.
The following morning, Larry headed back to his office to do all the paperwork; but on his way there, he encountered the prefect and some soldiers, 'escorting' Mr. Six to a place from which Larry knew he wasn't returning. Larry, in shock, asked Mr. Six, "Where are you going, and especially without me? I have gone with you everywhere you wanted or needed to go." And Mr. Six, knowing that this was their last meeting in this life, had a message from God for Larry, told him to go to work and get all the paperwork in order, and that after three days had passed, the two would meet again.
Larry went about his work diligently, as he had been told. I don't really know if he knew what fate had come to Mr. Six, but I suspect he was aware of the possibility. Two days had passed and Mr. Six had not come into the office. And on the third day, Prefect Lunt shows up to see Larry. You guessed it - he was demanding that the riches of Mr. Six's company be turned over to the Emperor. Larry, in the meantime, had put in overtime paying out more bills, buying extra food and supplies and getting these distributed. He didn't want to have any assets on the books that the Emperor could claim. On the contrary, he wanted to demonstrate to the prefect and the Emperor what the company's assets really were.
Prefect Lunt ordered Larry to appear before the Emperor the next day, and at that time to surrender the wealth of the company. At the appointed time, Larry appeared, not with gold or jewels or the keys to his office or the deed to the property on which the business stood. Instead, with Larry were many of the people he had helped through the generosity of Mr. Six's employees. He defiantly told Lunt and the Emperor, "This is my master's wealth - and as such the company has greater riches than you!"
Well, as you might guess, the Emperor thought this was some kind of joke; and it could have been taken as one, as Larry was quite the teller of funny stories. (It had helped him immensely when he worked with others, and his sense of humor was keen. It was known that Larry did stand-up comedy at times to help raise money, and never took anything for himself.) However, as it became clear that Larry wasn't kidding about this, the Emperor decided to give Larry a roasting; immediately, and he was to be the guest of honor.
Larry, true to God and to his character, went to meet his Master and his boss in good spirits. While enduring his fate, he would quip that he needed to be turned because he wasn't quite done yet; and dared his tormentors to take a bite. (Roasted cucumber happens to taste quite good.)
As usual, the show would take it's turn at summarizing its main point ("God has a lot to say in his book"). So when Bob asks Querty for a Bible verse, I would use Psalm 112:5, above; or John 12:26, or 2 Corinthians 9:6-10. All of these speak of spreading God's wealth where it is most needed.
After what I've written in the last few days regarding pain and suffering as a Christian, and recognizing that this is an incomplete theology, Deacon St. Lawrence reminds us that many people died for their beliefs when the Church was in its early years. What percentage of the population went the way of martyrdom is not truly known; it's even possible that a similar percentage is destined to that end still today. It's generally not martyrdom alone that ushers these souls into God's presence; but the acts of charity worked in an environment opposed to such works.
So remember, God loves you - and everyone - very much!
Deacon Saint Lawrence, pray for us.
Psalm 112:5 (Blessed is the man who is gracious and lends to those in need)
(Here's a synopsis for a potential Veggie Tales episode. Unfortunately, I don't think it will ever be used. Due to the nature of the true story on which this is based, while the overall ending is happy, and the intended lesson is taught, part of the storyline would most likely be deemed too intense for young or sensitive viewers.)
This is a story about riches, service, and one man's juggling of priorities to do, as is often said on VT, what is right.
Our story centers around Larry (played by Larry the Cucumber), who works for a business in Rome. He is an executive assistant to "Mr. Six." (who, after much discernment over casting, is played by Bob the Tomato. Or possibly Archibald, the Asparagus with the British accent who wears a monocle. I'm still not sure who would be a better fit.)
Over two hundred years have passed since the time of Jesus. Remember the story in the Book of Acts? From the time the first seven great assistants were appointed, their job was to keep track of the wealth of the Church, with a priority on spending that wealth on those who needed it - the poor, the sick, the orphaned, and the elderly - people who had nobody to care for or pray for them. As the church grew, so did its potential wealth - and also the people who needed it.
The Emperors of Rome (all played by Mr. Nezzer) never quite understood how some people were able to get rich. The Emperors amassed their wealth by taxing the people for nearly everything under the sun. And if you were not a native Roman citizen (meaning you lived in one of the territories or colonies claimed by the Empire), you tended to pay a lot more taxes. But that's really another story. The Emperors tended to spend their wealth on personal luxury; and when they needed more stuff, they would finance wars to extend their empire and collect more taxes.
By the time Larry and Mr. Six were around, the Empire was in financial straits. Things that had been built to support the Empire were in need of repair, and the Emperor was not about to give up his personal lifestyle or wealth to fix things. He wanted more money. And here was Mr. Six and his business, thought to have enough excess wealth to be able to feed the hungry, clothe the needy, and shelter the homeless. Mr. Six set aside any profit from his business to use in this way. Further, he set such a good example doing this that most of his employees chipped in extra, so they could rightfully claim they also helped.
Well, one day the Emperor sent out his prefect (played ubiquitously by Mr. Lunt) to Mr. Six, demanding that the assets of the company be turned over to the Emperor. In the Emperor's mind, this was just like any other organization within the Empire, of which he was top banana (or zucchini, or cucumber, or whatever) and whatever he wanted, he got; and if he didn't get it, he would take it by force.
As you might guess, the meeting between the prefect and Mr. Six didn't go well. Mr. Six knew that God wanted him to use the wealth he was holding - which wasn't his, after all, but God's - on those who really needed it. So he flatly refused - and was led away to jail, where he was sentenced to be executed (not made executive - there could be some dark humor there).
While all this was happening, Larry was out doing what was right - what God wanted him to do. He had spent the night at the home of a poor widow, fixing her the best meal she'd had in some time - as Larry was an expert in cooking on the grill. He also gave her house a good cleaning, getting help from some of the young boys in the neighborhood, whom Larry also fed. All the while, Larry would tell all manner of stories and jokes, as this helped to pass the time and lighten an otherwise heavy work load. Nobody seemed to mind. People had come to know that a visit from Larry meant at least a few hours of a really good time.
The following morning, Larry headed back to his office to do all the paperwork; but on his way there, he encountered the prefect and some soldiers, 'escorting' Mr. Six to a place from which Larry knew he wasn't returning. Larry, in shock, asked Mr. Six, "Where are you going, and especially without me? I have gone with you everywhere you wanted or needed to go." And Mr. Six, knowing that this was their last meeting in this life, had a message from God for Larry, told him to go to work and get all the paperwork in order, and that after three days had passed, the two would meet again.
Larry went about his work diligently, as he had been told. I don't really know if he knew what fate had come to Mr. Six, but I suspect he was aware of the possibility. Two days had passed and Mr. Six had not come into the office. And on the third day, Prefect Lunt shows up to see Larry. You guessed it - he was demanding that the riches of Mr. Six's company be turned over to the Emperor. Larry, in the meantime, had put in overtime paying out more bills, buying extra food and supplies and getting these distributed. He didn't want to have any assets on the books that the Emperor could claim. On the contrary, he wanted to demonstrate to the prefect and the Emperor what the company's assets really were.
Prefect Lunt ordered Larry to appear before the Emperor the next day, and at that time to surrender the wealth of the company. At the appointed time, Larry appeared, not with gold or jewels or the keys to his office or the deed to the property on which the business stood. Instead, with Larry were many of the people he had helped through the generosity of Mr. Six's employees. He defiantly told Lunt and the Emperor, "This is my master's wealth - and as such the company has greater riches than you!"
Well, as you might guess, the Emperor thought this was some kind of joke; and it could have been taken as one, as Larry was quite the teller of funny stories. (It had helped him immensely when he worked with others, and his sense of humor was keen. It was known that Larry did stand-up comedy at times to help raise money, and never took anything for himself.) However, as it became clear that Larry wasn't kidding about this, the Emperor decided to give Larry a roasting; immediately, and he was to be the guest of honor.
Larry, true to God and to his character, went to meet his Master and his boss in good spirits. While enduring his fate, he would quip that he needed to be turned because he wasn't quite done yet; and dared his tormentors to take a bite. (Roasted cucumber happens to taste quite good.)
As usual, the show would take it's turn at summarizing its main point ("God has a lot to say in his book"). So when Bob asks Querty for a Bible verse, I would use Psalm 112:5, above; or John 12:26, or 2 Corinthians 9:6-10. All of these speak of spreading God's wealth where it is most needed.
After what I've written in the last few days regarding pain and suffering as a Christian, and recognizing that this is an incomplete theology, Deacon St. Lawrence reminds us that many people died for their beliefs when the Church was in its early years. What percentage of the population went the way of martyrdom is not truly known; it's even possible that a similar percentage is destined to that end still today. It's generally not martyrdom alone that ushers these souls into God's presence; but the acts of charity worked in an environment opposed to such works.
So remember, God loves you - and everyone - very much!
Deacon Saint Lawrence, pray for us.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Priorities
The Word:
Acts 15:1-33 (The First Council of Jerusalem)
After completing my previous post on Saturday, reflecting on the Keys to the Kingdom, I went off to Mass to sing, as it was my turn on the schedule. Little did I know that my prayers and reflection on the discovery of those keys would be answered.
My new Catholic pastor Fr. Bill chose to preach not directly on the selected Scripture readings for the weekend. He touched off briefly on the second reading, Hebrews 11:1-2 & 8-12, on Abraham as the Church's 'Father in Faith'; and then took off on the reason the Council of Jerusalem was gathered in about the year 50 CE.
The question before the council: How Jewish was the Christian Church going to be?
The issue: Peter and the other Apostles were of the Jewish faith, as was Jesus. While Jesus had often questioned the intent of the Jewish leadership of his time, he was nonetheless devout and maintained the required practices of the faith. The Apostles' preaching had developed a modest following in and around Jerusalem, though naturally kept in check by the political climate around the place. Progress was slow, and generally kept from overwhelming fanfare.
On the other hand, Paul of Tarsus had begun to spread the Good News, in areas apart from Judea. Paul, whose original intent had been to snuff out the Light of Christ, had instead become a most steadfast light-bearer. His message was not taken too well in Jerusalem (he was seen as a turncoat), so the Apostles sent him out to reach people elsewhere. And indeed, there were many people of the Jewish faith to be reached. But Paul welcomed all within earshot to hear the message he was sent to preach, and there were just as many, if not more, enlightened by the message of a resurrected Savior who brought life and hope to a troubled world. The question was the Jewish practice of circumcision. It was required of all Jewish men - they went through this painful surgical procedure a week after birth. Those who would convert to the community of The Way, it was thought, should be required to undergo this process as an adult.
(Okay, guys, this is about us, as we have the equipment. Ladies, please skip to the next paragraph. Guys, would you be willing to shed a portion of your flesh anywhere on your body - let alone one of the most sensitive spots??)
Pain and suffering. Isn't that what Jesus endured in bitter agony, anguish, and torment - so that the rest of us would not? (A very important point with multiple implications, that will be addressed further.)
After much debate (whittled down to a handful of verses by Luke), it was determined that the significance of the symbolism of circumcision not understood by the Gentiles paled in comparison to their potential lost support. Conversion meant lots of good things, not only to the people; not the least of which was mutual care and concern for each other. The Apostles were doing the math, as it were; calculating the potential as well as the risk. Guided by the Holy Spirit, the Church chose to take on the risk. After all, those who had walked in Jesus' company knew through direct experience that Jesus looked at the world differently. They saw his priorites as more important.
Fr. Bill then took us to the present. It is no secret that the Catholic liturgy is undergoing revision again. It has been commanded by the Powers That Be that vernacular translations of the Mass more closely match the Latin text of the Roman Missal, Latin being the official language of the Roman Catholic Church. Yet it seems that neither Jesus, nor his disciples, nor the evangelists and writers of the New Testament, spoke or wrote in Latin. They spoke Aramaic or Hebrew or Greek. These texts were formally translated to Latin beginning in roughly the 4th Century.
Consider for a moment the humor found when one goes through several languages to arrive at a literal translation to important instruction. There are examples of it all over the Internet. Now consider that for Catholics, the 'new' translation of the Missal is not really new at all, but resurrects texts not used in nearly half a century. "The Lord be with you." But no longer "also with you," but rather "with your spirit." Wanna run that by me again? The body isn't good enough anymore?
The most contested of these texts is in the transliteration of the Nicene Creed. In Latin, the phrase Consubstantialem Patri; in our current English use, "one in being with the Father" becomes "con-substantive with the Father." As Fr. Bill quipped, when is the last time you used or heard the word "con-substantive" used in a sentence? (Reminiscent of watching the National Spelling Bee.) Then he continued to suggest that just maybe, considering the state of the Church and her priesthood, and the general state of the world, that priorities might not quite be in order.
That was the answer to my prayer. Compassion and mercy were still on top of the list where God was concerned. Yes, there would still be all these other things, and like Peter, our most well-intended thoughts and actions may get in the way of what we're called to do and to be. This reaffirmed what I had tersely written at the conclusion of my last post. I must first be open to receiving God's compassion and mercy, understand I have already received it, and spread it in every possible way. The lines in the sand that humanity insists must be drawn will always be there. Jesus showed us that these lines must not become too solid, lest we forget our own ultimate destiny on life's pilgrimage.
And then Fr. Bill finishes his homily, and invites the congregation to "profess our faith...before we change our minds." This causes one of the loudest outbursts of laughter I've heard in a Catholic Church in a long time...which makes me wonder if I can possibly sing the remainder of the service and keep a dignified face. God provided the grace, as always.
On Sunday, it was out to Cornerstone, the Methodist congregation I have come to consider a second spiritual home.
On the plan for the day - the sermon from a missionary to, of all places, Lithuania. I was intrigued for several reasons. One, the missionary is from the Cornerstone congregation; two, Lithuania's demography is 95% Christian (and likely 90% Catholic); and third, the music director at my Catholic church is a Lithuanian immigrant. There are fewer than 700 registered Methodists in the entire country, and only six pastors; yet, people there refer to the Methodist Church as "the little Church that cares."
Given the demographics, the preacher wondered why he was being sent to Lithuania. Then he began to research the country's history of struggles and occupation. Territorial ownership changed many times over the last 700 years; the last, as one of the Soviet Russian republics, was thrown out nearly twenty years ago. Under Soviet and Communist rule, Catholicism was left barely intact as the state religion. Even so, many churches were ordered converted for secular use, including one cathedral which became an atheist museum and cultural center.
A popular shrine in Lithuania is the (English name) "Hill of Crosses." Wikipedia states that as of 2006 there are an estimated 100,000 crosses of various sizes and styles that have been left there for just as many needs and intentions. Looking at the pictures provided by Wikipedia, and one other provided by the missionary during his sermon, it is clear that a majority of these crosses bear the body of the crucified Jesus, something particular but not necessarily limited to Catholicism. Given their history, Lithuanian Christians have been immersed in the aspect of Jesus as the Suffering Servant; and with it, the theology that one can expect to live this life in misery in anticipation of a glorious life in heaven.
Catholics in America should also recognize this theology. Until about fifty years ago, pain and suffering was as standard fare in preaching as is daily Holy Communion. Even today, Catholics confront that part of their identity during Lent. Many of us have an understanding now that this theology, while indeed accurate, is incomplete.
Straddling the fence as I do, I know that this is preached even today. Still, I also take this with an understanding that this is how many people have come to cope with life; and that a majority of Christians will resonate with it at least once in their lifetime. That there is a "little church that cares" is by God's design. Not that big churches don't care; I can confidently say they do. What holds things back are the things of our flawed humanity, and the weaknesses permeate everything of this world, just as do our strengths and triumphs.
In 1991 Lithuania broke away as a Russian territory and reestablished itself as an independent state. It was a courageous move. More courageous still will be the day when we're all aware that it takes joy and triumph as well as pain and suffering to exalt every valley and straddle the mountaintops, to make the crooked roads straight, and the rough places plain. How we will do it will depend on the priorities we set; but the greatest of these -for me- will be in the tender compassion of God, as the dawn of a new day breaks upon us. May it shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and may it guide all of our footsteps in the way of everlasting peace.
Acts 15:1-33 (The First Council of Jerusalem)
After completing my previous post on Saturday, reflecting on the Keys to the Kingdom, I went off to Mass to sing, as it was my turn on the schedule. Little did I know that my prayers and reflection on the discovery of those keys would be answered.
My new Catholic pastor Fr. Bill chose to preach not directly on the selected Scripture readings for the weekend. He touched off briefly on the second reading, Hebrews 11:1-2 & 8-12, on Abraham as the Church's 'Father in Faith'; and then took off on the reason the Council of Jerusalem was gathered in about the year 50 CE.
The question before the council: How Jewish was the Christian Church going to be?
The issue: Peter and the other Apostles were of the Jewish faith, as was Jesus. While Jesus had often questioned the intent of the Jewish leadership of his time, he was nonetheless devout and maintained the required practices of the faith. The Apostles' preaching had developed a modest following in and around Jerusalem, though naturally kept in check by the political climate around the place. Progress was slow, and generally kept from overwhelming fanfare.
On the other hand, Paul of Tarsus had begun to spread the Good News, in areas apart from Judea. Paul, whose original intent had been to snuff out the Light of Christ, had instead become a most steadfast light-bearer. His message was not taken too well in Jerusalem (he was seen as a turncoat), so the Apostles sent him out to reach people elsewhere. And indeed, there were many people of the Jewish faith to be reached. But Paul welcomed all within earshot to hear the message he was sent to preach, and there were just as many, if not more, enlightened by the message of a resurrected Savior who brought life and hope to a troubled world. The question was the Jewish practice of circumcision. It was required of all Jewish men - they went through this painful surgical procedure a week after birth. Those who would convert to the community of The Way, it was thought, should be required to undergo this process as an adult.
(Okay, guys, this is about us, as we have the equipment. Ladies, please skip to the next paragraph. Guys, would you be willing to shed a portion of your flesh anywhere on your body - let alone one of the most sensitive spots??)
Pain and suffering. Isn't that what Jesus endured in bitter agony, anguish, and torment - so that the rest of us would not? (A very important point with multiple implications, that will be addressed further.)
After much debate (whittled down to a handful of verses by Luke), it was determined that the significance of the symbolism of circumcision not understood by the Gentiles paled in comparison to their potential lost support. Conversion meant lots of good things, not only to the people; not the least of which was mutual care and concern for each other. The Apostles were doing the math, as it were; calculating the potential as well as the risk. Guided by the Holy Spirit, the Church chose to take on the risk. After all, those who had walked in Jesus' company knew through direct experience that Jesus looked at the world differently. They saw his priorites as more important.
Fr. Bill then took us to the present. It is no secret that the Catholic liturgy is undergoing revision again. It has been commanded by the Powers That Be that vernacular translations of the Mass more closely match the Latin text of the Roman Missal, Latin being the official language of the Roman Catholic Church. Yet it seems that neither Jesus, nor his disciples, nor the evangelists and writers of the New Testament, spoke or wrote in Latin. They spoke Aramaic or Hebrew or Greek. These texts were formally translated to Latin beginning in roughly the 4th Century.
Consider for a moment the humor found when one goes through several languages to arrive at a literal translation to important instruction. There are examples of it all over the Internet. Now consider that for Catholics, the 'new' translation of the Missal is not really new at all, but resurrects texts not used in nearly half a century. "The Lord be with you." But no longer "also with you," but rather "with your spirit." Wanna run that by me again? The body isn't good enough anymore?
The most contested of these texts is in the transliteration of the Nicene Creed. In Latin, the phrase Consubstantialem Patri; in our current English use, "one in being with the Father" becomes "con-substantive with the Father." As Fr. Bill quipped, when is the last time you used or heard the word "con-substantive" used in a sentence? (Reminiscent of watching the National Spelling Bee.) Then he continued to suggest that just maybe, considering the state of the Church and her priesthood, and the general state of the world, that priorities might not quite be in order.
That was the answer to my prayer. Compassion and mercy were still on top of the list where God was concerned. Yes, there would still be all these other things, and like Peter, our most well-intended thoughts and actions may get in the way of what we're called to do and to be. This reaffirmed what I had tersely written at the conclusion of my last post. I must first be open to receiving God's compassion and mercy, understand I have already received it, and spread it in every possible way. The lines in the sand that humanity insists must be drawn will always be there. Jesus showed us that these lines must not become too solid, lest we forget our own ultimate destiny on life's pilgrimage.
And then Fr. Bill finishes his homily, and invites the congregation to "profess our faith...before we change our minds." This causes one of the loudest outbursts of laughter I've heard in a Catholic Church in a long time...which makes me wonder if I can possibly sing the remainder of the service and keep a dignified face. God provided the grace, as always.
On Sunday, it was out to Cornerstone, the Methodist congregation I have come to consider a second spiritual home.
On the plan for the day - the sermon from a missionary to, of all places, Lithuania. I was intrigued for several reasons. One, the missionary is from the Cornerstone congregation; two, Lithuania's demography is 95% Christian (and likely 90% Catholic); and third, the music director at my Catholic church is a Lithuanian immigrant. There are fewer than 700 registered Methodists in the entire country, and only six pastors; yet, people there refer to the Methodist Church as "the little Church that cares."
Given the demographics, the preacher wondered why he was being sent to Lithuania. Then he began to research the country's history of struggles and occupation. Territorial ownership changed many times over the last 700 years; the last, as one of the Soviet Russian republics, was thrown out nearly twenty years ago. Under Soviet and Communist rule, Catholicism was left barely intact as the state religion. Even so, many churches were ordered converted for secular use, including one cathedral which became an atheist museum and cultural center.
A popular shrine in Lithuania is the (English name) "Hill of Crosses." Wikipedia states that as of 2006 there are an estimated 100,000 crosses of various sizes and styles that have been left there for just as many needs and intentions. Looking at the pictures provided by Wikipedia, and one other provided by the missionary during his sermon, it is clear that a majority of these crosses bear the body of the crucified Jesus, something particular but not necessarily limited to Catholicism. Given their history, Lithuanian Christians have been immersed in the aspect of Jesus as the Suffering Servant; and with it, the theology that one can expect to live this life in misery in anticipation of a glorious life in heaven.
Catholics in America should also recognize this theology. Until about fifty years ago, pain and suffering was as standard fare in preaching as is daily Holy Communion. Even today, Catholics confront that part of their identity during Lent. Many of us have an understanding now that this theology, while indeed accurate, is incomplete.
Straddling the fence as I do, I know that this is preached even today. Still, I also take this with an understanding that this is how many people have come to cope with life; and that a majority of Christians will resonate with it at least once in their lifetime. That there is a "little church that cares" is by God's design. Not that big churches don't care; I can confidently say they do. What holds things back are the things of our flawed humanity, and the weaknesses permeate everything of this world, just as do our strengths and triumphs.
In 1991 Lithuania broke away as a Russian territory and reestablished itself as an independent state. It was a courageous move. More courageous still will be the day when we're all aware that it takes joy and triumph as well as pain and suffering to exalt every valley and straddle the mountaintops, to make the crooked roads straight, and the rough places plain. How we will do it will depend on the priorities we set; but the greatest of these -for me- will be in the tender compassion of God, as the dawn of a new day breaks upon us. May it shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and may it guide all of our footsteps in the way of everlasting peace.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Keys to the Kingdom
The Word (Matthew 16:18-19, NIV):
"I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven."
I was helping my dear wife the other day. Our dining room table has a compartment below its surface, and it has to be cleaned out periodically as table crumbs from our meals get down in there and accumulate. It was my intention to get this out of the way and not procrastinate in this tedious but necessary task.
While going about cleaning there were the usual discoveries: a few instruction booklets and warranty cards from small appliances we no longer owned, the stray pen or two that no longer worked, and a few other things that we were ready to discard. Likewise, there were other things that needed to be kept and if possible relocated to other storage places.
We were nearing the end of the job when I discovered a set of keys on a fob my wife had made. Because this was her handiwork, I thought the keys were hers - to someplace like her parents' house, a place we don't normally need keys to get to but should have should there be an emergency. But no, these weren't hers, she said.
I took another look at them. A couple of them were stamped as having been duplicated by the locksmith in town. And then it hit me. These were the keys to the church building where I had served as a deacon until eleven years ago, that part of my life I wrote about in this blog and behind me; at least that's what I thought.
But keys are generally carried on a man's person, and carry all the energy - good and bad - that accumulate over time by the person bearing them. Flood gates were released, a wound was reopened, and with it, the haunting notion behind Jesus' words, quoted by the apostle Matthew.
Most traditional Christians and especially Catholics are aware of the symbolism behind Peter's receiving the keys to the Pearly Gates. By these words he becomes the gatekeeper. He also becomes the rock, the foundation, the leader, of the early Church. No matter how many times he would do something of questionable or dubious thought througout the Gospels, here it is made clear that Peter is to inherit the mantle of leadership.
But there's more. In undertaking this role, Peter is given carte blanche authority in making decisions. Whatever you declare lawful on earth is lawful in heaven, and whatever you declare unlawful on earth is automatically unlawful in heaven. Phenomenal and absolute power! Many times, of course, Peter demonstrated in both strength and weakness that Jesus had chosen from the beginning of time the right person for this arduous task. Then you consider the concept of apostolic succession, meaning all Peter's successors as popes of the Church assumed the same authority and power - and to an extent, every bishop as well.
I thought of these verses and the implications therein as I stared at the keys in my hand, with a sense of near burning heat to them. I was reminded that I was far from perfect, and I will one day have to account for my imperfections and lack of full discernment. Much that has transpired over the last eleven years from a faith perspective could be questionable according to whose rules I am judged.
I've lost track of how many times I've holed myself up privately to throw my life at Jesus' feet and beg for mercy and compassion - because I indeed believe and surely trust in those attributes above just about everything else I've been taught along these lines. But is that all lost in the final analysis due to what Jesus said to Peter? That judgment is already determined?
I cannot, I must not read too much into this. I still trust in God's love and mercy. And to assure that it is there, I must act as if I have already received it, which indeed I have. I must show others as best I can the depths to which that mercy and compassion can reach. Here, in this life, this is not a simple thing. The keys remind me of that. In our existence, there are impenetrable fortresses, deep chasms, and all manner of locks and blockades and red tape and policies and procedures and code that would make one think that any attempt to break through is useless.
But one candle's light penetrates the darkness, and one simple act of kindness has the potential of unlocking so many doors that will otherwise remain closed. The evidence in these times prove it out.
"I tell you that you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not overcome it. I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven; whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven."
I was helping my dear wife the other day. Our dining room table has a compartment below its surface, and it has to be cleaned out periodically as table crumbs from our meals get down in there and accumulate. It was my intention to get this out of the way and not procrastinate in this tedious but necessary task.
While going about cleaning there were the usual discoveries: a few instruction booklets and warranty cards from small appliances we no longer owned, the stray pen or two that no longer worked, and a few other things that we were ready to discard. Likewise, there were other things that needed to be kept and if possible relocated to other storage places.
We were nearing the end of the job when I discovered a set of keys on a fob my wife had made. Because this was her handiwork, I thought the keys were hers - to someplace like her parents' house, a place we don't normally need keys to get to but should have should there be an emergency. But no, these weren't hers, she said.
I took another look at them. A couple of them were stamped as having been duplicated by the locksmith in town. And then it hit me. These were the keys to the church building where I had served as a deacon until eleven years ago, that part of my life I wrote about in this blog and behind me; at least that's what I thought.
But keys are generally carried on a man's person, and carry all the energy - good and bad - that accumulate over time by the person bearing them. Flood gates were released, a wound was reopened, and with it, the haunting notion behind Jesus' words, quoted by the apostle Matthew.
Most traditional Christians and especially Catholics are aware of the symbolism behind Peter's receiving the keys to the Pearly Gates. By these words he becomes the gatekeeper. He also becomes the rock, the foundation, the leader, of the early Church. No matter how many times he would do something of questionable or dubious thought througout the Gospels, here it is made clear that Peter is to inherit the mantle of leadership.
But there's more. In undertaking this role, Peter is given carte blanche authority in making decisions. Whatever you declare lawful on earth is lawful in heaven, and whatever you declare unlawful on earth is automatically unlawful in heaven. Phenomenal and absolute power! Many times, of course, Peter demonstrated in both strength and weakness that Jesus had chosen from the beginning of time the right person for this arduous task. Then you consider the concept of apostolic succession, meaning all Peter's successors as popes of the Church assumed the same authority and power - and to an extent, every bishop as well.
I thought of these verses and the implications therein as I stared at the keys in my hand, with a sense of near burning heat to them. I was reminded that I was far from perfect, and I will one day have to account for my imperfections and lack of full discernment. Much that has transpired over the last eleven years from a faith perspective could be questionable according to whose rules I am judged.
I've lost track of how many times I've holed myself up privately to throw my life at Jesus' feet and beg for mercy and compassion - because I indeed believe and surely trust in those attributes above just about everything else I've been taught along these lines. But is that all lost in the final analysis due to what Jesus said to Peter? That judgment is already determined?
I cannot, I must not read too much into this. I still trust in God's love and mercy. And to assure that it is there, I must act as if I have already received it, which indeed I have. I must show others as best I can the depths to which that mercy and compassion can reach. Here, in this life, this is not a simple thing. The keys remind me of that. In our existence, there are impenetrable fortresses, deep chasms, and all manner of locks and blockades and red tape and policies and procedures and code that would make one think that any attempt to break through is useless.
But one candle's light penetrates the darkness, and one simple act of kindness has the potential of unlocking so many doors that will otherwise remain closed. The evidence in these times prove it out.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Third One's The Charm
A month has passed since the Methodist and Catholic pastors under which I've served for years have moved on from their long-held posts. So far, the gracious people sent to replace them have tread softly among their respective new congregation, and both have been a bit more conservative in their approach, probably out of necessity more than anything else.
It's been interesting listening to them preach. Pastor Lisa at Cornerstone has been a larger standout to me, of course, because she is the first woman in that role I have observed directly. But neither she nor Father Bill (pastor at Ascension) has yet to show themselves in any contrary way. As Martha Stewart might say, "that's a good thing."
A third person's influence returned and just as quickly passed from me in the last two weeks. And his story is as unusual as the transition with my pastors has been more-or-less smooth.
I first met Bill (the third person) when I left the parochial school environment for public junior high school in the seventh grade. I'm not sure now what we saw in each other. Perhaps it was that we were both something of social outcasts from quirky school cliques. Perhaps it was that we both lived in the same town. It may have simply been that our last names were virtually next to each other alphabetically. Whatever the reason, Bill was one person out of hundreds of unknown faces, one who didn't shove me in some useless hole. I would walk or ride a bike up and down the steep hills in our river-straddling village to see him. Later in high school we wound up traveling together - as he was a full year older than me (yet in the same grade), he got his driver's license and had access to a car long before me. We worked in our first two jobs together - at the McDonald's across the street from the high school we attended, and our first job utilizing computers - as we sorted out punch cards to run the school's daily absentee report. Bill and I somehow got into the mindset that our careers would be in the vast and rapidly expanding territory that would become dominated by computers. Only in 1970, this was before the personal computer (IBM or Mac), or Microsoft Windows, or the Internet. 'Blogging' had not been coined yet; journals were still the product of handwritten notebooks. 'Word processing' was still being done on a typewriter, and copies were the domain of the mimeograph machine, complete with its piquant aroma.
After graduation, Bill and I made the transition to junior college. Fate would take us in different ways; both of us somewhat delayed in finding the right career path. Bill wound up working as a security guard; I started working for a retail inventory service. Bill still studied programming numbers; I was crunching them. Both of us found girlfriends and were dating. He married in 1975; I married six years later.
And that's where all similarity ends.
When Bill got married, he moved in with his wife's family - the intent being, as is the case with so many young couples struggling in difficult financial waters, to start a life of their own as soon as it was practical. But it never got that way. Bill was looking for an opening in his chosen career path, and he eventually made his way through it; but never looked back to put that in place as an anchor around which to build a place for his growing family. Instead, it eventually got too crowded and too tense to handle. His wife divorced him, moving out on her own. He continued to live with his now former in-laws. As his parents had also divorced (before I had known him), this new arrangement seemed to be normal to Bill - but not to nearly anyone else whom we mutually knew. And the new addition to the environment was genuinely tough on his three children.
As we continued to move through our separate lives, we naturally drifted apart and didn't see each other for longer and longer periods of time. I confess that my previous face-to-face encounter with Bill was about eight years ago, when another of our intimate circle of high school friends passed away, a victim of Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS.
It was about a year ago that I was encouraged by yet one other of our intimate circle to open a Facebook account. Where MySpace is overrun with teens, and Twitter the online roost for celebrity gossip, Facebook appears to be more middle ground for the average, computer-literate Joe and Joanna. After a bit of trepidation (I wasn't sure as to what kind of Pandora's Box I could be opening), I opened the account. Within a few hours Bill caught up with me.
Seems that at some point over the last eight years, Bill went through a metamorphosis of his own. (As did I, and have chronicled here.) He explained to me that he got squeezed on his rise up the corporate ladder. A project he and some colleagues had sweated over was completed ahead of schedule and within budget, yet he received no credit or recognition of the effort. His last performance review was essentially copied from the previous year. He had risen to the highest he could go, and would have to stay there or jump off and start again. He took the leap.
I started reading through some of Bill's comments (brief, as deemed necessary by the restrictions of social networking etiquette). He had gone through a major career change. He had entered the 'ed biz' (as comic songwriter Tom Lehrer once put it). He had been to China! I presume the latter had at least something to do with the former. Out of all the career choices Bill could get into, teaching was one of the last of which I could picture him in my mind's eye. Still, though this seemed to make no sense, there was some logic to this choice. Teaching is a lucrative profession from the perspective of how much you can earn. Public school teachers' salaries in and around Chicago are all over the place, and some teachers command annual pay in the six-figure range. Then there's the perception that teaching work is a fairly easy job - a perception that by and large is patently false, as the best teachers (in both home and institutional education) will tell you. Then there's a third piece of logic; an old maxim: "Those who can, do...those who can't, teach"...
I read these posts about the same as most I read, grateful that the world was still spinning on its axis and in the orbit God had ordered before our footprints touched the landscape. I was content that Bill was still alive and in relatively good health, and that his life was moving in a forward direction. These things become all the more fragile the older we get.
The latest bend in the road came just over two weeks ago, when I received a 'wall-to-wall' post from Bill. He had found a teaching job and would be moving away; and wanted to get together one last time before he left. Sure, why not? After all, we've known each other for over forty years and with many of our circle scattered across the country (not to mention life everlasting), it was important enough to offer him my best wishes over dinner.
Oh, I almost forgot. Bill's teaching job is in Kuwait.
KUWAIT!!!!????
Well, Bill told me that he's going to Kuwait to teach because the economic recession sharply reduced his chances of finding a job locally. He has a point, particularly in Illinois since the state is in financial straits and has delayed payment of tax subsidies to school districts here. (Here, a chunk of property taxes is the basis of the subsidy paid to public schools.) But why Kuwait? Wasn't there anyplace else in the USA looking for teachers?
Bill mentioned that the school where he'll be teaching is paying for his relocation, that is to say, his airfare. He's not taking much in the way of personal possessions; I recall him saying that he's got a grand total of three or four suitcases, and two of these are carry-on bags that include his laptop computer. He believes he'll earn enough to cover his basic expenses; and he has enough reserve cash saved in the event something goes wrong. His research indicates that health care coverage is better there than here; that the cost of living will be better there than here (since he will not have a car, that improves the bottom line). From what he told me, he spent several months researching and preparing for this, and he believes he has all the big bases covered. While there were still some issues pending as of Sunday, when he left here, there were temporary workarounds in place which would suffice until he got there and worked with whatever powers or agencies necessary to have everything in proper order.
After this, knowing he's going through with this no matter what my feelings or opinions are, and knowing he has family, I asked what I thought was the big question. Not why he was doing it or whether or not this was overreaching, but something more important to me.
What do Bill's children think of Dad leaving the country and not likely to return for nine months - or perhaps at all?
He fidgeted for a bit before answering. "I really didn't tell them," he said. Then he added that his daughters found out about it, but his son still doesn't know and he has no intention of telling him.
That said a lot to me; a lot that I was hoping I wouldn't discover about my longtime friend. Sure, his children are all of adult age now; so the relatively quiet departure is not an abandonment, not in the legal sense, anyway. Any real abandonment took place long before now.
I looked at Bill from a distance, removing for a moment all that we did together those many years ago. I first approached his decision to undertake this venture as something of a noble gesture; sure, it was something he found he could do, and to take it outside of the box (he also did a teaching stint at a Native American Reservation school for a year, working for a non-profit company). To receive the cooperation and respect of young, malleable, moldable children and put their futures in motion in a positive way is indeed a great and honorable way to live life. I have great respect for my many teachers, and not all of my teachers have been in the classroom. But institutional education, for all its prominence, is a forced society. Many of my classmates discovered this for the first time while treading the hallowed halls of high school, only to sell out the minute they graduated; and then reawakened when they got married, had kids, and had to start sending them to schools now having to prove their ability in the wake of standardized test scores and the "No Child Left Behind" laws.
While I wish Bill success in his new venture, I can't help but wonder if this is an attempt to succeed on one level where he did not at another; a gesture that, cast against the larger picture of his life, would look to be some sort of self-serving 'repentance' that barely scratches the surface where true repentance is concerned. Even here, I have cast judgment that is really not mine to make.
I reflected when I arrived home after our parting dinner that 'education' and 'learning' are two separate and distinct things. In America, 'education' is mandated. 'Education' is the process by which static knowledge is passed on with the hope of retention, sort of like playing Trivial Pursuit. 'Learning' happens when you discover something important about yourself, or the way something impacts you and those you love, and that is stored in your memory in such a way that you can recall it without having to go to a computer, database, or encyclopedia and look it up. 'Learning' is the more important of the two, and it shouldn't be hard to see that; yet, for each and every one of us, the mandated 'education' ends at age 18, but the opportunity for 'learning' lasts until the mind fails due to trauma, or even worse, lack of use.
I took the opportunity to send Bill an e-mail thanking him for the opportunity to get together and chat; after all, it is the right and proper thing to do. While saying thanks and offering best wishes, I wrote that he has a wonderful opportunity for learning in this process. Such learning has the potential to change lives. In looking back over my years of direct contact with Bill, and with Pastor Paul and Father Damien, not to mention the 30+ years I've been happily married to my loving wife, I've learned and re-learned a lot that defines who I am and where I stand; what I do and why I do it the way I do. That will remain with me forever.
Indeed, all true 'learning' changes your life. If it doesn't, it's just chalked up as getting an education.
It's been interesting listening to them preach. Pastor Lisa at Cornerstone has been a larger standout to me, of course, because she is the first woman in that role I have observed directly. But neither she nor Father Bill (pastor at Ascension) has yet to show themselves in any contrary way. As Martha Stewart might say, "that's a good thing."
A third person's influence returned and just as quickly passed from me in the last two weeks. And his story is as unusual as the transition with my pastors has been more-or-less smooth.
I first met Bill (the third person) when I left the parochial school environment for public junior high school in the seventh grade. I'm not sure now what we saw in each other. Perhaps it was that we were both something of social outcasts from quirky school cliques. Perhaps it was that we both lived in the same town. It may have simply been that our last names were virtually next to each other alphabetically. Whatever the reason, Bill was one person out of hundreds of unknown faces, one who didn't shove me in some useless hole. I would walk or ride a bike up and down the steep hills in our river-straddling village to see him. Later in high school we wound up traveling together - as he was a full year older than me (yet in the same grade), he got his driver's license and had access to a car long before me. We worked in our first two jobs together - at the McDonald's across the street from the high school we attended, and our first job utilizing computers - as we sorted out punch cards to run the school's daily absentee report. Bill and I somehow got into the mindset that our careers would be in the vast and rapidly expanding territory that would become dominated by computers. Only in 1970, this was before the personal computer (IBM or Mac), or Microsoft Windows, or the Internet. 'Blogging' had not been coined yet; journals were still the product of handwritten notebooks. 'Word processing' was still being done on a typewriter, and copies were the domain of the mimeograph machine, complete with its piquant aroma.
After graduation, Bill and I made the transition to junior college. Fate would take us in different ways; both of us somewhat delayed in finding the right career path. Bill wound up working as a security guard; I started working for a retail inventory service. Bill still studied programming numbers; I was crunching them. Both of us found girlfriends and were dating. He married in 1975; I married six years later.
And that's where all similarity ends.
When Bill got married, he moved in with his wife's family - the intent being, as is the case with so many young couples struggling in difficult financial waters, to start a life of their own as soon as it was practical. But it never got that way. Bill was looking for an opening in his chosen career path, and he eventually made his way through it; but never looked back to put that in place as an anchor around which to build a place for his growing family. Instead, it eventually got too crowded and too tense to handle. His wife divorced him, moving out on her own. He continued to live with his now former in-laws. As his parents had also divorced (before I had known him), this new arrangement seemed to be normal to Bill - but not to nearly anyone else whom we mutually knew. And the new addition to the environment was genuinely tough on his three children.
As we continued to move through our separate lives, we naturally drifted apart and didn't see each other for longer and longer periods of time. I confess that my previous face-to-face encounter with Bill was about eight years ago, when another of our intimate circle of high school friends passed away, a victim of Lou Gehrig's disease, ALS.
It was about a year ago that I was encouraged by yet one other of our intimate circle to open a Facebook account. Where MySpace is overrun with teens, and Twitter the online roost for celebrity gossip, Facebook appears to be more middle ground for the average, computer-literate Joe and Joanna. After a bit of trepidation (I wasn't sure as to what kind of Pandora's Box I could be opening), I opened the account. Within a few hours Bill caught up with me.
Seems that at some point over the last eight years, Bill went through a metamorphosis of his own. (As did I, and have chronicled here.) He explained to me that he got squeezed on his rise up the corporate ladder. A project he and some colleagues had sweated over was completed ahead of schedule and within budget, yet he received no credit or recognition of the effort. His last performance review was essentially copied from the previous year. He had risen to the highest he could go, and would have to stay there or jump off and start again. He took the leap.
I started reading through some of Bill's comments (brief, as deemed necessary by the restrictions of social networking etiquette). He had gone through a major career change. He had entered the 'ed biz' (as comic songwriter Tom Lehrer once put it). He had been to China! I presume the latter had at least something to do with the former. Out of all the career choices Bill could get into, teaching was one of the last of which I could picture him in my mind's eye. Still, though this seemed to make no sense, there was some logic to this choice. Teaching is a lucrative profession from the perspective of how much you can earn. Public school teachers' salaries in and around Chicago are all over the place, and some teachers command annual pay in the six-figure range. Then there's the perception that teaching work is a fairly easy job - a perception that by and large is patently false, as the best teachers (in both home and institutional education) will tell you. Then there's a third piece of logic; an old maxim: "Those who can, do...those who can't, teach"...
I read these posts about the same as most I read, grateful that the world was still spinning on its axis and in the orbit God had ordered before our footprints touched the landscape. I was content that Bill was still alive and in relatively good health, and that his life was moving in a forward direction. These things become all the more fragile the older we get.
The latest bend in the road came just over two weeks ago, when I received a 'wall-to-wall' post from Bill. He had found a teaching job and would be moving away; and wanted to get together one last time before he left. Sure, why not? After all, we've known each other for over forty years and with many of our circle scattered across the country (not to mention life everlasting), it was important enough to offer him my best wishes over dinner.
Oh, I almost forgot. Bill's teaching job is in Kuwait.
KUWAIT!!!!????
Well, Bill told me that he's going to Kuwait to teach because the economic recession sharply reduced his chances of finding a job locally. He has a point, particularly in Illinois since the state is in financial straits and has delayed payment of tax subsidies to school districts here. (Here, a chunk of property taxes is the basis of the subsidy paid to public schools.) But why Kuwait? Wasn't there anyplace else in the USA looking for teachers?
Bill mentioned that the school where he'll be teaching is paying for his relocation, that is to say, his airfare. He's not taking much in the way of personal possessions; I recall him saying that he's got a grand total of three or four suitcases, and two of these are carry-on bags that include his laptop computer. He believes he'll earn enough to cover his basic expenses; and he has enough reserve cash saved in the event something goes wrong. His research indicates that health care coverage is better there than here; that the cost of living will be better there than here (since he will not have a car, that improves the bottom line). From what he told me, he spent several months researching and preparing for this, and he believes he has all the big bases covered. While there were still some issues pending as of Sunday, when he left here, there were temporary workarounds in place which would suffice until he got there and worked with whatever powers or agencies necessary to have everything in proper order.
After this, knowing he's going through with this no matter what my feelings or opinions are, and knowing he has family, I asked what I thought was the big question. Not why he was doing it or whether or not this was overreaching, but something more important to me.
What do Bill's children think of Dad leaving the country and not likely to return for nine months - or perhaps at all?
He fidgeted for a bit before answering. "I really didn't tell them," he said. Then he added that his daughters found out about it, but his son still doesn't know and he has no intention of telling him.
That said a lot to me; a lot that I was hoping I wouldn't discover about my longtime friend. Sure, his children are all of adult age now; so the relatively quiet departure is not an abandonment, not in the legal sense, anyway. Any real abandonment took place long before now.
I looked at Bill from a distance, removing for a moment all that we did together those many years ago. I first approached his decision to undertake this venture as something of a noble gesture; sure, it was something he found he could do, and to take it outside of the box (he also did a teaching stint at a Native American Reservation school for a year, working for a non-profit company). To receive the cooperation and respect of young, malleable, moldable children and put their futures in motion in a positive way is indeed a great and honorable way to live life. I have great respect for my many teachers, and not all of my teachers have been in the classroom. But institutional education, for all its prominence, is a forced society. Many of my classmates discovered this for the first time while treading the hallowed halls of high school, only to sell out the minute they graduated; and then reawakened when they got married, had kids, and had to start sending them to schools now having to prove their ability in the wake of standardized test scores and the "No Child Left Behind" laws.
While I wish Bill success in his new venture, I can't help but wonder if this is an attempt to succeed on one level where he did not at another; a gesture that, cast against the larger picture of his life, would look to be some sort of self-serving 'repentance' that barely scratches the surface where true repentance is concerned. Even here, I have cast judgment that is really not mine to make.
I reflected when I arrived home after our parting dinner that 'education' and 'learning' are two separate and distinct things. In America, 'education' is mandated. 'Education' is the process by which static knowledge is passed on with the hope of retention, sort of like playing Trivial Pursuit. 'Learning' happens when you discover something important about yourself, or the way something impacts you and those you love, and that is stored in your memory in such a way that you can recall it without having to go to a computer, database, or encyclopedia and look it up. 'Learning' is the more important of the two, and it shouldn't be hard to see that; yet, for each and every one of us, the mandated 'education' ends at age 18, but the opportunity for 'learning' lasts until the mind fails due to trauma, or even worse, lack of use.
I took the opportunity to send Bill an e-mail thanking him for the opportunity to get together and chat; after all, it is the right and proper thing to do. While saying thanks and offering best wishes, I wrote that he has a wonderful opportunity for learning in this process. Such learning has the potential to change lives. In looking back over my years of direct contact with Bill, and with Pastor Paul and Father Damien, not to mention the 30+ years I've been happily married to my loving wife, I've learned and re-learned a lot that defines who I am and where I stand; what I do and why I do it the way I do. That will remain with me forever.
Indeed, all true 'learning' changes your life. If it doesn't, it's just chalked up as getting an education.
Friday, July 9, 2010
The Road Not Taken
Reflections on "What I Did on My Summer Vacation"
The Word:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--The Road Not Taken (1920)
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Late last night
I heard my screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
I said don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
--Big Yellow Taxi (1970)
Joni Mitchell (b. 1943)
Blessed are the times when the sun and stars align, the finances and time are both available, and you can 'get away from it all' with your family to see the beauty God created and Planet Mother Earth has held sacred for time and eternity. More blessed still when you learn something about yourself and your universe in the process (or are reminded about something you forgot).
It has been 22 years since my wife and I had anything bordering on what you might call a 'proper' vacation. It's been 25 years since we last visited the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, just outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
In the time that's passed between then and now, we brought children into the world; lost one of them before it even had a chance to voice an opinion; I went through three employers; scratched out a living; and at one point, nearly lost everything (as I have documented here in previous posts). So when I was blessed with the opportunity, I wanted to treat the family to an experience we really hadn't had for some time.
After doing some research on potential accessible locations, we agreed on the Smokies. Lodging rates were exceptional, better than they are here near Chicago or in areas nearby. I was excited at the prospect of a road trip. My mother's family is from New Jersey, and every year we'd make the trip there to see them; so I was used to the idea of long car rides and had something of an admiration for map reading and taking in the view along the way. My wife's family used to take canoe trips in the summer, and my wife still has a deep and special affection for nature and natural surroundings. The Smokies satisfied all these requirements.
As I write now from home on the day after our four-day, whirlwind tour, I can say without question that the trip was indeed an experience, and one in which I learned a little more about myself and the universe I see around me. I am not sorry we did it; still, it's good to get home.
We had decided to leave on July 5 (Monday) as it was the last day of an extended holiday weekend. Because the distance to cover would take over 13 hours, we left at 3:00 AM to beat any potential traffic jams. And the drive there was more-or-less smooth sailing, until we reached the exit from I-40 into the area. Then, suddenly, it was revealed that about 100,000 motorists had the same idea. We were still 20 miles out and had run into gridlock.
I had expected that the area would be more developed than it was 25 years ago when my wife and I last visited. For openers, there was Dollywood - the theme park named for native daughter Dolly Parton, the famous country singer and actress. Several new attractions had also come to the nearby area - the most touted being a replica of the Titanic, the 'unsinkable' ocean liner that struck an iceberg and sank nearly a century ago; and an indoor aquarium that got rave reviews as being one of the leading attractions in all of the South. But I had not expected to sit in traffic as a result of people trying to get to one venue or the other.
Ninety minutes later, we reached our motel and managed to get in a dip in the pool to ease the tension from all those hours in transit. I'm not a swimmer, but it still felt good getting in the water. Rather than venture out into the sea of humanity (which we'd noted was already out in force) to eat dinner, we ordered pizza from a place known to locals only two blocks away, and dined al fresco from the private balcony of our room. (The balcony was my discovery - my wife thought that extra door opened into a connecting room.)
Tuesday morning, we set off to investigate the national park, the premier attraction, what we'd all been wanting to see. But the day started off with excitement of its own, as my son fell down a flight of stairs as we left our room to get into the car. He got up immediately, but looked as if he were disoriented. My wife has some difficulty negotiating stairs as well, so I had her wait on the landing so I could pass her and do a first check on my son. He had a few visible scrapes and some bruises, but nothing that - at first glance - would require emergency room treatment. My wife came along presently and checked him out as only a mother can. Deciding that he was none the worse for wear, we set off for Cades Cove, a late 19th-Century village that had been abandoned with the creation of the national park. The park service continued to maintain the buildings (which includes two small churches), and put in a one-way loop road so that visitors could see the pristine surroundings and perhaps take away some impression of what life was like in that era. We had brought along a very light breakfast which we ate at a picnic grove next to a mountain stream along the way.
I must say here that my wife's affinity for nature goes much deeper than a physical attraction; that is, aesthetically pleasing to the senses. She has a sense of energies, people, and events that took place when the area was settled and more-or-less thriving. Her senses had been thrown wide-open by our son's fall, and as we had not brought more substantial food to eat (discouraged because of the bear population in the park), she had little in the way of protection from what she would feel. The bombardment of energies of concern for our son, the powerful energies of land and water, the spirit of the old community, and the throngs of people passing through, ultimately proved too much. It was getting toward lunch, so we cut our tour of the cove a little short, and headed back to town as we knew there was a lunch buffet there - from a chain that operates all over the country, so we knew what we'd be getting.
Only we thought that the buffet was in Gatlinburg. It was back in Pigeon Forge, the next town up, and the one where traffic had been at a standstill the day before. Still, it was early enough in the day where I considered traffic would not be the issue it had been the afternoon before. So lunch was served, vitality was restored; and we went back to the park, this time bypassing Gatlinburg.
The afternoon destination was the Clingman's Dome overlook. At over 6600 feet above sea level it is the highest point in the park, and has offered spectacular views. But the views this time were obscured by haze, due to the effect of ozone on this hot summer day. It is said that trapped pollutants has reduced the view by up to 40% in winter and up to 80% in summer. Not only that, it was clear that something was affecting the trees. About 20% of the pines at the higher elevations were dead from a stress that is either pollution related or possibly victim to an invasive species of some sort. This, too, left us both shaking our heads.
We returned to our motel and discussed our options for our second (and last) day of sightseeing. We had dismissed attractions like the Aquarium because they really don't have anything to do with the natural attraction itself. Two separate traffic accidents on the main highway through the park were indicators that we had seen enough there. Other parts of the park were not accessible due to reconstruction of the roads leading to them, part of the recent federal government economic stimulus program. But the area was also known for its arts and crafts community. It was part of the tourist literature; it was advertised repeatedly as continuing infomercials on the local cable access channel in every lodging place within fifty miles. We hadn't really given it a fair shake on our other visits years ago, so we decided to check it out.
There was a bit more to be happy about here - we all came back with some pieces of hand-made pottery, leather goods, and wooden items we were happy with. But even here, the cost of progress raised its head. Some of the artisans listed on the brochure (which appears to have been compiled a year ago) were no longer in business. There was more an emphasis on fine art - fine art which could easily be purchased at one of many galleries right here at home in the Chicago suburbs - than on the artwork more or less unique to the area. Most of the connections that might have existed with the natural attraction seems to have been lost. We would find more of the sort of thing we had hoped to see on our way back in a town called Berea in Kentucky - at a state operated facility just off I-75. If we ever head back that way again, I hope to remember the place and spend more than just a half-hour exploring what is there.
We tried our hand at some of the local cuisine - restaurants in town that were representative of local hospitality. While the food and service were both excellent, we were a little taken aback by 'sticker shock'. A pancake breakfast for the three of us ran about $35; sandwich platters for lunch was over $45. (At dinner we cut our losses and went to KFC, again two blocks from our motel.) One of the reasons the cost is so high is obviously a hidden cost of tourism. But another is that Tennessee's restaurant and sales tax is on the high side at 9.75%. While sales tax in our immediate area is 10% it is for non-food items only. Sales tax for groceries is about 2% here, and the restaurant tax is hovering somewhere (I believe) about 7.5 - 8.5%.
I can't say that the trip didn't impress me. It did, and the Smokies really have not lost all their lure with me. However, I can't close this out without mentioning something else that impressed both my wife and I; both in the hazy predawn sky on the morning we left and in the driving rain we encountered on the return trip.
A wind turbine 'farm'.
Hundreds, maybe up to a thousand, turbines stand as sentinels in the Indiana cornfields about 100 miles south of Chicago. More are being built as well. They will help generate electrical power by use of the prevailing winds...much like the windmills of old provided a different sort of power centuries ago. These turbine farms and others like it are meant to help reduce our demand for crude oil and fossil fuels as prime sources of energy. They stand in contrast to the...well, I lost track of how much oil has erupted (and still is) from the failed BP well in the Gulf of Mexico, as tarballs and other evidence of our extravagance wash ashore and destroying a large part of an ecosystem with it. These turbines, these silent sentinels, are a sign of hope - because it offers a chance at making a much needed change in our 'standard operating procedures.'
Yes, this vacation trip was different than any other in my life. Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken is not about regret, but about choices, and those we inevitably must make. Joni Mitchell's lyrics still ring true today as planning commissions must weigh the potential income of expansion over its long-term costs and impact. The old adage, If you build it, they will come, still rings true - but will it ultimately destroy the pristine, natural attraction which drew visitors there first? I pray not! Images from this trip should serve to remind me that I can make a difference in affecting the future of this planet and my own life by learning to do more with less. That our one car household, who loves eating real food prepared with love and care, does a lot to minimize our carbon footprint, and that it doesn't stop here!
Finally, any physical journey and the return home is a reminder that I'm on a sojourn in spirit as well. It has its peaks and valleys, its quick stops and longer stays, but it is one that has not reached its end...not just yet.
To all the travelers
Pilgrims longing for a home
From one who walks with you
On this journey called life's road
Is is a long and winding road
From one who's seen the view
And dreamt of staying on the mountain high
And one who's cried like you
Wanting so much just to lay down and die
I offer this, we must remember this
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
So close your eyes with me
And hear the Father saying, "welcome home"
Let us find the strength
Ia all His promises to carry on
He said, "I go prepare a place for you"
So Let us not forget
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
We are not home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
I know there'll be a moment
I know there'll be a place
Where we will see our Saviour
And fall in His embrace
So let us not grow weary
Or too content to stay
'Cause we are not home yet
Not home yet
So let us journey on
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
--Not Home Yet (1997)
Steven Curtis Chapman
The Word:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
--The Road Not Taken (1920)
Robert Frost (1874-1963)
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Hey farmer farmer
Put away the D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
Late last night
I heard my screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
I said don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
--Big Yellow Taxi (1970)
Joni Mitchell (b. 1943)
Blessed are the times when the sun and stars align, the finances and time are both available, and you can 'get away from it all' with your family to see the beauty God created and Planet Mother Earth has held sacred for time and eternity. More blessed still when you learn something about yourself and your universe in the process (or are reminded about something you forgot).
It has been 22 years since my wife and I had anything bordering on what you might call a 'proper' vacation. It's been 25 years since we last visited the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, just outside of Gatlinburg, Tennessee.
In the time that's passed between then and now, we brought children into the world; lost one of them before it even had a chance to voice an opinion; I went through three employers; scratched out a living; and at one point, nearly lost everything (as I have documented here in previous posts). So when I was blessed with the opportunity, I wanted to treat the family to an experience we really hadn't had for some time.
After doing some research on potential accessible locations, we agreed on the Smokies. Lodging rates were exceptional, better than they are here near Chicago or in areas nearby. I was excited at the prospect of a road trip. My mother's family is from New Jersey, and every year we'd make the trip there to see them; so I was used to the idea of long car rides and had something of an admiration for map reading and taking in the view along the way. My wife's family used to take canoe trips in the summer, and my wife still has a deep and special affection for nature and natural surroundings. The Smokies satisfied all these requirements.
As I write now from home on the day after our four-day, whirlwind tour, I can say without question that the trip was indeed an experience, and one in which I learned a little more about myself and the universe I see around me. I am not sorry we did it; still, it's good to get home.
We had decided to leave on July 5 (Monday) as it was the last day of an extended holiday weekend. Because the distance to cover would take over 13 hours, we left at 3:00 AM to beat any potential traffic jams. And the drive there was more-or-less smooth sailing, until we reached the exit from I-40 into the area. Then, suddenly, it was revealed that about 100,000 motorists had the same idea. We were still 20 miles out and had run into gridlock.
I had expected that the area would be more developed than it was 25 years ago when my wife and I last visited. For openers, there was Dollywood - the theme park named for native daughter Dolly Parton, the famous country singer and actress. Several new attractions had also come to the nearby area - the most touted being a replica of the Titanic, the 'unsinkable' ocean liner that struck an iceberg and sank nearly a century ago; and an indoor aquarium that got rave reviews as being one of the leading attractions in all of the South. But I had not expected to sit in traffic as a result of people trying to get to one venue or the other.
Ninety minutes later, we reached our motel and managed to get in a dip in the pool to ease the tension from all those hours in transit. I'm not a swimmer, but it still felt good getting in the water. Rather than venture out into the sea of humanity (which we'd noted was already out in force) to eat dinner, we ordered pizza from a place known to locals only two blocks away, and dined al fresco from the private balcony of our room. (The balcony was my discovery - my wife thought that extra door opened into a connecting room.)
Tuesday morning, we set off to investigate the national park, the premier attraction, what we'd all been wanting to see. But the day started off with excitement of its own, as my son fell down a flight of stairs as we left our room to get into the car. He got up immediately, but looked as if he were disoriented. My wife has some difficulty negotiating stairs as well, so I had her wait on the landing so I could pass her and do a first check on my son. He had a few visible scrapes and some bruises, but nothing that - at first glance - would require emergency room treatment. My wife came along presently and checked him out as only a mother can. Deciding that he was none the worse for wear, we set off for Cades Cove, a late 19th-Century village that had been abandoned with the creation of the national park. The park service continued to maintain the buildings (which includes two small churches), and put in a one-way loop road so that visitors could see the pristine surroundings and perhaps take away some impression of what life was like in that era. We had brought along a very light breakfast which we ate at a picnic grove next to a mountain stream along the way.
I must say here that my wife's affinity for nature goes much deeper than a physical attraction; that is, aesthetically pleasing to the senses. She has a sense of energies, people, and events that took place when the area was settled and more-or-less thriving. Her senses had been thrown wide-open by our son's fall, and as we had not brought more substantial food to eat (discouraged because of the bear population in the park), she had little in the way of protection from what she would feel. The bombardment of energies of concern for our son, the powerful energies of land and water, the spirit of the old community, and the throngs of people passing through, ultimately proved too much. It was getting toward lunch, so we cut our tour of the cove a little short, and headed back to town as we knew there was a lunch buffet there - from a chain that operates all over the country, so we knew what we'd be getting.
Only we thought that the buffet was in Gatlinburg. It was back in Pigeon Forge, the next town up, and the one where traffic had been at a standstill the day before. Still, it was early enough in the day where I considered traffic would not be the issue it had been the afternoon before. So lunch was served, vitality was restored; and we went back to the park, this time bypassing Gatlinburg.
The afternoon destination was the Clingman's Dome overlook. At over 6600 feet above sea level it is the highest point in the park, and has offered spectacular views. But the views this time were obscured by haze, due to the effect of ozone on this hot summer day. It is said that trapped pollutants has reduced the view by up to 40% in winter and up to 80% in summer. Not only that, it was clear that something was affecting the trees. About 20% of the pines at the higher elevations were dead from a stress that is either pollution related or possibly victim to an invasive species of some sort. This, too, left us both shaking our heads.
We returned to our motel and discussed our options for our second (and last) day of sightseeing. We had dismissed attractions like the Aquarium because they really don't have anything to do with the natural attraction itself. Two separate traffic accidents on the main highway through the park were indicators that we had seen enough there. Other parts of the park were not accessible due to reconstruction of the roads leading to them, part of the recent federal government economic stimulus program. But the area was also known for its arts and crafts community. It was part of the tourist literature; it was advertised repeatedly as continuing infomercials on the local cable access channel in every lodging place within fifty miles. We hadn't really given it a fair shake on our other visits years ago, so we decided to check it out.
There was a bit more to be happy about here - we all came back with some pieces of hand-made pottery, leather goods, and wooden items we were happy with. But even here, the cost of progress raised its head. Some of the artisans listed on the brochure (which appears to have been compiled a year ago) were no longer in business. There was more an emphasis on fine art - fine art which could easily be purchased at one of many galleries right here at home in the Chicago suburbs - than on the artwork more or less unique to the area. Most of the connections that might have existed with the natural attraction seems to have been lost. We would find more of the sort of thing we had hoped to see on our way back in a town called Berea in Kentucky - at a state operated facility just off I-75. If we ever head back that way again, I hope to remember the place and spend more than just a half-hour exploring what is there.
We tried our hand at some of the local cuisine - restaurants in town that were representative of local hospitality. While the food and service were both excellent, we were a little taken aback by 'sticker shock'. A pancake breakfast for the three of us ran about $35; sandwich platters for lunch was over $45. (At dinner we cut our losses and went to KFC, again two blocks from our motel.) One of the reasons the cost is so high is obviously a hidden cost of tourism. But another is that Tennessee's restaurant and sales tax is on the high side at 9.75%. While sales tax in our immediate area is 10% it is for non-food items only. Sales tax for groceries is about 2% here, and the restaurant tax is hovering somewhere (I believe) about 7.5 - 8.5%.
I can't say that the trip didn't impress me. It did, and the Smokies really have not lost all their lure with me. However, I can't close this out without mentioning something else that impressed both my wife and I; both in the hazy predawn sky on the morning we left and in the driving rain we encountered on the return trip.
A wind turbine 'farm'.
Hundreds, maybe up to a thousand, turbines stand as sentinels in the Indiana cornfields about 100 miles south of Chicago. More are being built as well. They will help generate electrical power by use of the prevailing winds...much like the windmills of old provided a different sort of power centuries ago. These turbine farms and others like it are meant to help reduce our demand for crude oil and fossil fuels as prime sources of energy. They stand in contrast to the...well, I lost track of how much oil has erupted (and still is) from the failed BP well in the Gulf of Mexico, as tarballs and other evidence of our extravagance wash ashore and destroying a large part of an ecosystem with it. These turbines, these silent sentinels, are a sign of hope - because it offers a chance at making a much needed change in our 'standard operating procedures.'
Yes, this vacation trip was different than any other in my life. Robert Frost's poem The Road Not Taken is not about regret, but about choices, and those we inevitably must make. Joni Mitchell's lyrics still ring true today as planning commissions must weigh the potential income of expansion over its long-term costs and impact. The old adage, If you build it, they will come, still rings true - but will it ultimately destroy the pristine, natural attraction which drew visitors there first? I pray not! Images from this trip should serve to remind me that I can make a difference in affecting the future of this planet and my own life by learning to do more with less. That our one car household, who loves eating real food prepared with love and care, does a lot to minimize our carbon footprint, and that it doesn't stop here!
Finally, any physical journey and the return home is a reminder that I'm on a sojourn in spirit as well. It has its peaks and valleys, its quick stops and longer stays, but it is one that has not reached its end...not just yet.
To all the travelers
Pilgrims longing for a home
From one who walks with you
On this journey called life's road
Is is a long and winding road
From one who's seen the view
And dreamt of staying on the mountain high
And one who's cried like you
Wanting so much just to lay down and die
I offer this, we must remember this
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
So close your eyes with me
And hear the Father saying, "welcome home"
Let us find the strength
Ia all His promises to carry on
He said, "I go prepare a place for you"
So Let us not forget
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
We are not home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
I know there'll be a moment
I know there'll be a place
Where we will see our Saviour
And fall in His embrace
So let us not grow weary
Or too content to stay
'Cause we are not home yet
Not home yet
So let us journey on
We are not Home yet
We are not Home yet
Keep on looking ahead
Let your heart not forget
We are not home yet
Not home yet
--Not Home Yet (1997)
Steven Curtis Chapman
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