My Dad Was A Protestor

My dad was a protester. Probably not in the way you think, given the news of the last few weeks (or months). The story is a bit more complicated than that. My dad was a member of the Church of the Brethren. That (primarily German) denomination was part of the so-called “Radical Reformation”, which developed in response to the more mainstream Protestant Reformation of the16th century (other groups include the Mennonites and Amish). They were passionate about following the teachings of Jesus and the New Testament. Some of those teachings led them to practice “believer’s baptism”, which often implied re-baptism of those folks who had been baptized as infants. They also practiced baptism by full immersion, rather than the more common practice of “sprinkling” or “pouring”. (This practice also earned them the moniker, “Dunkards”.) 

One of their most significant beliefs, however, was that their members should NOT take up arms for any reason, in particular in service of a kingdom/country. This quickly made them personae non grata in the countries of Europe. And they were often given the choice: take up arms in support of the king . . . or die. And many of them chose the latter option. Others fled Europe, which is how my father’s family came to this country (well before the Revolutionary War). And, as I read through my family trees, I find no instance in which a member of that family took up arms on behalf of the United States.

That changed in the 1940’s. My father, in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor and the knowledge of what was going on Europe, became a soldier in the US Army. He went on to serve in Europe in some of the most significant battles after the Normandy invasion. This service was a mystery to me. I had grown up in a church that preached pacifism, and yet my father — a deacon in that church — went off to war. Sometime in my teens, I asked him about his decision/action. His response: “Hitler was different.”

And, so, my dad, the heir of protestors — not just “protestant protesters”, but protestors of “Protestantism”, in effect, protested yet again. The cause was significant enough that he set aside conformity to the norms of his upbringing in order to help bring about some kind of peace and justice in a world that was wrought by war, bigotry and violence.

My dad’s decision is often front-and-center in my mind, but no more so than in these last few weeks. Not only are we again torn apart as a country between those who would protest against injustice/bigotry and those who stand for conformity to a status quo. But many of us, too, have been watching Ken Burns’ and Lynn Novick’s The Vietnam War. What struck me over the course of many episodes is how some significant “conformers” (Including those who served in Vietnam by their own choice, as opposed to being drafted) finally became convinced that “something different” was happening, and chose to protest.

Whether it is standing in solidarity with immigrants and refugees (both of which, of course, describe my ancestors), or challenging societal structures that oppress minorities — religious or racial/ethnic, these are acts of “protest” that need be made. I would like to think that my dad would be on the right side of history once again. At the very least, he instilled in his children the belief that protest is a right, and is often, itself, right.

Open signs

 

    Many years ago, when my wife and I lived in North Carolina, we were part of a couples' group. The group itself was quite mixed in terms of age; we, however, were clearly the youngest and had been married the shortest time, which often meant we had the most to learn from the experiences of others. Harley and Marilyn were one of the other couples. They were the epitome of gracious southerners, often inviting the group to their home for non-scheduled barbecues (I still have Harley's "rub" recipe) or out on their boat for an overnight cruise. But there was one thing I anticipated whenever we would get together, and that was their "Open signs" stories.
      Again, this was many years ago, before the ubiquity of the internet-as-distraction. On Saturdays,Harley and Marilyn would frequently just head out on the backroads of North Carolina. Sometimes they would have an "agenda", like "take every second left turn". But almost always, one of their rules was "Stop at every open sign". You can imagine driving the back roads, traveling through small towns (or just wide spots in the road), that the "Open" sign next to the roadside might beckon them into some interesting places:  antique/junk stores; craft shops; restaurants; produce stands (I've got to say, the boiled peanuts they'd bring back were AMAZING!). They would not only see some intriguing sights, but they would get to meet the proprietors--fascinating people. It was an adventure Harley and Marilyn loved taking, never knowing what they would see or who they would meet.       I was reminded of this yesterday when, in a small group meeting, I was introduced to the poem "From Blossoms" by Li-Young Lee. The first stanza reads:

From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.

In our discussion of the poem, one person in the group asked the question, "Where are the places on campus of invitation?" That "invitation" like the sign painted "Peaches".
        I immediately remembered Harley and Marilyn's practice, and began to wonder how often we take the opportunities afforded us to stop at "Open" signs. I know that I am usually SO busy, SO focused on what I'm doing, or where I'm going, that simply to take the opportunity to stop is VERY unnatural. I think of job duties that allow for little diversion. Or academic major requirements that are so regimented that a "frivolous" elective is unthinkable. Or that never-finished home "to-do" list. Or . . . .        Harley and Marilyn were always enriched by their stops at the "Open" signs. They sometimes likened the surprise of what they found/experienced to a "divine encounter". They were transported beyond their controlled and controllable world to something akin to enchantment.  Their stories taught us of the possibilities.        The "Open" signs are all around us:  open office doors; an engaging book cover by an author we've never read; the neighbor to which we've only ever said "hello" and nothing else; and, yes, a funky gift shop. All may be opportunities for enchantment, or grace. And isn't that something we need a lot more these days?

Namasté

Gary

Giving in to temptation

     I will admit it:  there are times when I need a pick-me-up. (And I'm not talking about coffee -- or any other beverage.) Life has a way of battering us down. Whether it's bad news (global or national), or simply a bad day, I will sometimes find myself in front of the computer screen, giving in to the temptation to follow YouTube links. There are several "go-to's" on which I can fall back when the energy level is REALLY low (and, of course, there are always cat videos). But most of those "go-to's (including cat videos) usually only seem to "pat me on the head", virtually saying "Oh, poor mama's baby".
      Occasionally, however, I'll follow the line of links. The one that caught my attention the other night was a segment from "America's Got Talent", titled "Anna Clendening: Nervous Singer Delivers Stunning "Hallelujah" Cover - America's Got Talent 2014". Anna (along with her parents) tells the story of her depression and anxiety disorder. But she also gave evidence, by performing on the show, that those conditions would not keep her down.  Her cover of "Hallelujah" brought praise from the judges, and certainly from the crowd.  What I saw, and heard, in her was some inner well of strength; she was able to tap into it and rise above the circumstances . . . and draw others with her.
       From there, I gave into temptation again, and followed the links . . .  and I ended up at a flash mob:  A Little Girl Gives Coins To A Street Musician And Gets The Best Surprise In Return. In a city square, somewhere in Spain, a little girl puts some change in a hat in front of man holding a double bass. He begins playing, and as happens with flash mobs, other musicians emerge from the crowd, or out of buildings. Soon there is an orchestra and choir; it is Beethoven's "Ode to Joy". I will admit that I'd seen the video before, so I knew, when I clicked on the link, what to expect. But I saw something this last time that I'd not noticed before. Yes, there is a choir as part of the mob. But the music was familiar enough to the bystanders that, when the singing commenced, some of them joined in (not to mention the children who wanted to help conduct!). There was something very contagious in what the musicians were doing.
        After watching those videos, my mood had lifted a bit.  And I grew thoughtful in a different way. What both videos seemed to suggest was that, through the act of sharing -- in Anna's case, it was her mental health issues as well as her talent, and in the orchestra/choir's case, it was their gift of surprise and uplifting music -- people were drawn together. In Anna's case, it was those who (like Howie Mandel, one of the judges) had experienced -- either personally or through family members -- disabling mental illness, and who could see a bit of hope because of her story. With the flash mob, old memories (like the lyrics of "Ode to Joy") resurfaced when given the chance, and joy and wonder were kindled anew.
       Both videos suggested to me that there is great power in sharing, both in pain and in joy. In both cases, sharing brought support. Anna certainly felt it after her performance, and the orchestra/choir clearly derived more joy in a public square (where there was support) than in a recording studio. Perhaps I ought to give into temptation more often -- not to watch videos, but to share joys/sorrows.
     
Namasté

Gary

Thick Times

 

   Harvey . . . Charlottesville . . . DACA . . . Irma . . . Western US Forest Fires* . . . SE Asia floods . . . earthquake/tsunami in Mexico . . . and more . . .
      The chaplain at my daughter's college characterizes this string of events as a "thick time". What an apt image! I think of how I feel while riding a bike on a hard surface and then finding myself in mud, mud sometimes so thick I have to dismount in order to not fall over. These last few days and weeks have that same sense about them. Just about the time I think I'm about ready to get on "pavement" again, something else happens, and forward momentum is arrested.
     Another image that arises for me is that of "exile", being uprooted from one's familiar, safe, surroundings and transplanted, against one's will, into a foreign land. And, when thinking of THAT image, Psalm 137 springs to mind:

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,
when we remembered you, O Zion.

As for our harps, we hung them up
on the trees in the midst of the land.

For those who led us away captive asked us for a song,
and our oppressors called for mirth:
"Sing us one of the songs of Zion."

How shall we sing the Lord's song
upon an alien soil?

I sometimes feel, these days, that I am "upon an alien soil" and cannot find any reason or energy  to sing ANY kind of song. And I know many others who feel the same way.
      It is at times like these that we very much need community. While an instinct might be to "go to my room and pull the covers over my head" or simply to lose myself in busy-ness, instead I really benefit from being around people (even as an introvert!). The community that experienced exile in Babylon clearly supported one another, and, as a community they emerged changed and stronger. I believe the same is true for those of us experiencing "exile" in our own time and place. (With apologies to The Beatles) "We'll get by with a little help from our friends."**
     
Namasté

Gary

* The photo above is of the Columbia River Gorge; I grew up there. The fire is the Eagle Creek Fire; I hiked and camped there. I'm afraid to return, to see what's become of that beautiful place.

** An opportunity to gather with folks wishing to find and share hope with each other will be offered at DU on Sept 20. See the announcement on the Events page of Religious & Spiritual LIfe's website..

What would Robert do?

     Once again, the past weeks' newsfeeds have been filled with horrific images: images of angry people, defiant people, injured people, sobbing people. We've heard cries of outrage from clergy, politicians, activists, military leaders. Many of us have waited in vain for moral and compassionate leadership from the White House. We've heard, and perhaps engaged in, a lot of shouting (or posting in CAPITAL LETTERS). Most of us are hurt by what we've seen in our country, and around the world -- the bigotry, the belligerence, the bellicosity, the blame.
     What we've also seen in the aftermath of Charlottesville are glimmers of some folks' "true colors."  Many who've "toed a line" have been shaken out of their complacency (complicity?) and have stood up to hate. Many who've simply been quiet have found a voice. And, unfortunately, some who've claimed some sort of moral (?) high ground have been shown to be what they were all along: closeted Nazis, closeted anti-semites, closeted racists. Certainly it is time for them to be chastised, shunned, and, in some cases, removed from public office.  These people are not the leaders of this country, despite titles.
       In the course of all of the momentous events of this past week, I found myself having to do a very pedestrian chore:  iron shirts. (Yes, it's true, I iron my own shirts!)  I don't mind the task; it gives me an excuse to watch TV. Often the "show of choice" is some sporting event; equally often the choice is a favorite DVD. The latter was the case this week, and I turned on the mini-series "Gettysburg".* At the time, it had little, consciously, to do with the events of the week, but, in retrospect--especially in light of the statues of Confederate leaders being pulled down or otherwise removed--it seemed oddly appropriate.
       For those who've not seen the film, it is, as the title would suggest, about the Civil War battle waged at Gettysburg, PA. It is NOT about all of the engagements, but focuses on several, linked to significant figures in the battle. One of those figures, of course, is Confederate General Robert E. Lee, who, in the last few days has been the subject of MUCH debate in our current conversation about the ongoing legacy of the Civil War. I do not want to enter into that debate, but, rather to point to a scene in the film that, of course, may or may not have actually happened -- film-maker's license is always possible!**
        In the scene, General Lee is approached by one of his aides-de-camp on the morning of July 2, 1863. The major asks Lee if he would like breakfast, describing all the food that is available, "courtesy of the commonwealth of Pennsylvania". Lee declines, and asks how the local folks are dealing with the Confederate army's (temporary) occupation of their lands. The major tells Lee that there are some complaints about the army's taking of livestock and other provisions. Lee upbraids the army (through the major), charging that the army MUST behave itself. The major bristles a bit to reply that it would be easier "If the Yankees had behaved better in [a previous battle]". Lee reiterates his point, implying that, even in a battle, forces ought not adopt the bad behavior of the opposing force. He put the major, personally, in charge of making sure such things not happen.
        Again, I have no idea whether such an exchange ever occurred. But what struck me was the suggestion--whether Lee's or the film-maker's--that honor ought not be surrendered, regardless of circumstances. Circumstances today compel us; images and rhetoric have the capacity to incite us to action . . . and that's a good thing. We absolutely need to act! We absolutely need to address and correct the ills that have plagued this country for so long. We absolutely need to call out those who would divide us, to show them up for what they truly are. But we cannot let our  "killer angel" instincts overcome the "better angels" of our nature. There's too much at stake.

Namasté

Gary

* Based on the Pulitzer Prize-winning historical novel Killer Angels (1974) by Michael Shaara.
** I could not immediately find the movie's scene in the novel.

Choose wisely

     It is one of the most iconic moments in (semi-)recent sci-fi/adventure cinema! The antagonist finally sees the "payoff" at the end of his villainy. Donovan, Indiana Jones' long-time nemesis, has seemingly beat Jones to retrieve the Holy Grail -- reputedly the cup that Jesus used at the Last Supper. In the climactic scene of "Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade", there are many cups from which to choose, and the lone knight left guarding the "treasure trove" warns Donovan to "Choose wisely". Donovan looks over the selection and picks a golden chalice, bedecked with jewels, reasoning that such a cup would have been worthy of Christ. Believing a legend that anyone who drinks from the Grail will live forever, Donovan dips the chalice in the water and drinks from it, and  . . . . [Spoiler alert, it doesn't turn out well for Donovan!] The knight responds to Donovan's action, somewhat drolly:  "He chose . . . poorly."
      Donovan was doubly tempted as he made his choice. He was tempted by the idea of immortality (ignoring millennia of evidence to the contrary). He was also tempted by an idea that the most alluring choice would be the correct choice (alluring both because of the possibility of immortality, as well as its flashy opulence and that opulence's "connection" with power). His choice, as the knight observed, wasn't very good; his reasoning poor. Those of us who've seen the film (whether once, or innumerable times) know that Jones uses a different kind of logic and makes the correct choice. And, unlike Donovan, he doesn't test the promise of immortality ostensibly found in the chalice. He does, however, test its healing powers  . . . [No spoiler alert here -- go see the movie!]
       I think of this film every time the topic of "choice" rears its head. I recall a sermon in which I used this scene relating to the Hebrew Bible account of Joshua's call to the Israelites to make a decision between serving the gods of the Egypt they had just fled, or the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Joshua declared to those folks that, regardless of what they might choose, "As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord" (Joshua 24.14-15). I also recalled the scene again this week when I heard a great podcast with Humble the Poet on the "paradox of choice". The show was based on a book by Barry Schwartz with the same title. Recognizing that there are some reservations about Schwartz's premise, I could easily relate to his point that "too many choices can lead to paralysis". That is, we WANT to have many choices (just look at our supermarket aisles!), but we can spend a lot of time and mental energy making a choice . . . that may, ultimately, not be the best for us. (Donovan, you wanna chime in here?)
       I'm also in the position of thinking about "choice" as I have a daughter heading off to college this fall. She has to field the question: "What will be your major?" (a question of choice).  She does have an answer, but it's often qualified a bit (i.e., "Well, I might also be interested in . . .") . And, of course, I ask that question of students coming to DU. Aside from my own "asking-of-the-question" (and I try to do it in as non-directive a way as possible), I'm always pleased when the answer comes back, "I haven't chosen one yet." That answer could imply a "paralysis of choice". I would hope, however, that it would better indicate a struggle between choosing the "flashy" (or high-status, or lucrative, or parent-pleasing) or the "fulfilling" (or service-oriented, or personal-passion-related).
        And then, of course, every time the topic of "choice" rears its head, and I recall Joshua and Indiana Jones, I'm thrown into my own challenge to evaluate what lies behind my choices. Do I "choose wisely"?

Namasté,

Gary

A different "Golden Rule"

      Some of you know that my office has a window facing into a hallway. That allows me to put up posters that can be read by passers-by. For several years, I've had two posters mounted.  One is "The Green Rule"; as explained on its website:  "Selected from many of the world’s great religious texts and spiritual teachings, the Green Rules were chosen to demonstrate that each religion and spiritual philosophy has a long-standing tradition of ecological stewardship."  The other is "The Golden Rule", a poster showing the symbols of most of the world's major religious traditions, along with their version of "The Golden Rule" -- all some variation of "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you" (Luke 6.31 // Matthew 7.12).
       The "Golden Rule", at least as stated above, is a restatement by Jesus and his followers of a verse in the Hebrew Bible book of Leviticus (19.18):  'You shall not take vengeance, nor bear any grudge against the sons of your people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself; I am the Lord".  Indeed, Jesus is recorded as pairing this verse with a portion of the Shema, a major Jewish "confession of faith" (Deuteronomy 6.4-9), when asked by one of his interlocutors, "Which is the greatest commandment?":  “This is the most important: ‘Hear O Israel, the Lord our God is One Lord, and you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ The second is this: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’ No other commandment is greater than these" (Mark 12.29-31 // Matthew 22.37-39).
       But, the apparent universality of this "rule" speaks, certainly, to some underlying -- either learned, or innate -- moral conviction. And, I imagine, many of us were raised (religiously or not) on its underlying assumption:  that another person's well-being is to be considered equally as valuable as our own. The fact that most of us find it difficult to live up to the ideal does not lessen its importance or validity; it is a goal, after all.  Something towards which to strive!
       I was surprised, then, the other day, to be shaken out of my complacency about this "golden rule"  . . . or maybe just forced to reconsider its (at least for Christians) roots. I was listening to an interview (and at this point, I can't remember, or find, exactly with whom) that made reference to the verse from Leviticus ("love your neighbor as yourself"). The interviewee pointed out that an alternate rabbinic reading to the oft-assumed "love your neighbor [in the same way] as you [might] love yourself" was to see your neighbor as yourself. Or to love your neighbor as if s/he was yourself.
      This may be playing with words, and it may only be ME that finds the thought provocative. But the idea that I consider my neighbor's ideas/concerns/values as part of who I am has caused me no end of puzzlement. That neighbor with whom I disagree -- SHE's part of who I am? How do HER "bizarre" set of values intersect with MINE? The kid down the street with the VERY NOISY car -- HE's part of who I am? How does HIS insensitivity reflect (or resemble) MINE?
        To take the other person -- the neighbor -- into the center of who I am. That's a bigger challenge than a "simple" moral injunction. But it certainly suggests a deeper grounding for "loving thy neighbor."

Namasté,

Gary