Another discomforting prophet?

But wait, there’s no such thing as a comforting prophet.

When fascism comes to America, it will be wrapped in the flag and carrying the cross.”

Sinclair Lewis, courtesy of Wisdom Quotes Sinclair Lewis managed to seriously rile the folks in his hometown, Sauk Centre, Minnesota, with his novel “Main Street.” So much so that, despite his fame, nobody put up signs proclaiming Sauk Centre as “The Home of…” It wasn’t until the late 1960s or early 1970s that the town finally owned up to the connection, putting a plaque outside his boyhood home and building its “Sinclair Lewis Interpretive Center,” which I first encountered in grade school. Perhaps enough of the townsfolk who had been skewered in the book decades earlier had died off. Or perhaps anticipated commercial benefits finally took priority over hurt feelings. Whatever the case, the above quote, so eerily prescient, would seem to be capable of triggering anger on a scale far greater than that in Sauk Centre more than half a century ago. Shall we see?

Spring in six weeks?

Yesterday being Groundhog Day, I was reminded of my annual puzzlement over this observance. If the groundhog sees its shadow, we’ll have an early spring, and if it doesn’t, it’s six more weeks of winter. Calculate with me here: Six more weeks puts us at March 16. Well, if you lived in Minnesota, say, where I grew up, winter continues until at least April. Complete with snow on the ground, sometimes until mid-April. Only six more weeks always sounded like a pretty good deal. Here in Illinois, mid-March still sometimes brings snowstorms. Six of one, half a dozen of another. Don’t’cha think we’ve all been “had”?

Dad and my “heavy foot”

Dad said on more than one occasion that I had a heavy foot. But I came by it honestly: inheritance. Once, just after Dad had purchased a used car (which had a faulty speedometer) he was on the freeway, timing himself by the mile markers in order to determine his speed, as opposed to what the speedometer said. State trooper pulled him over, told him he was doing 60 mph (speed limit was 55). Dad said, “Yah, that’s probably about right.” He then explained what he was trying to do, and he got let off with a warning. (And he normally went a lot faster than that.) Contrast that with my mom’s experience. I got to witness this one, as I was with her. State highway, state trooper—happened to be someone we knew, as he lived in our town and went to our church. She was doing over 70 (again, 55-mph limit). She was polite as she tried to explain the hurry; he was polite. She got a ticket. We didn’t let her forget it for a good long time. On the day of my high school graduation, I had to be on the U. of Minn. campus in the Twin Cities for a rehearsal. As a state winner in the annual piano competition, I got to play a piece with 19 other pianists—really big piano duet, huh?—and couldn’t miss the rehearsal. Supposedly there was enough time after the rehearsal to collect my sister and get back home well before graduation. Yeah, well. Traffic was heavy on the way to get my sister. We were way late when we finally left the Twin Cities. I was afraid my father wouldn’t drive fast enough, so I insisted on driving. (n8daogg, if you’re reading, stop right now! You really don’t know to know your mother’s delinquencies of decades ago!) The drive at 55 mph (then the state-wide limit) would take two and a half hours, but we had barely two hours before I was to march in. So I went 85–90 mph most of the way. Note, not once did Dad tell me to slow down, though I think I recall him saying, “You’re going kind of fast there, then.” I have no idea what my sister was thinking. Got home to find Mom ready and waiting (anxiously, need I say?). I ran upstairs, changed my clothes. My shoelace broke, so I had to pull on some old clunkers. We hopped in the car, Dad driving this time; they let me out at the main door. I pulled on my cap and gown just in time to get in line and go on in. Luckily, I had arranged for someone to take care of my music for choir and band (and my trumpet) so all I had to do was slip into my places at the appointed times (I was also the choir accompanist…)

I, Sir (Lady), am no lady!

Nor am I ordained. But (thanks to St. Casserole) I discovered that maybe I don’t fully know me.

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Reverend Lady Bag Lady the Antique of Menzies on the Minges Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Whoops! Just realized I am at least a Bag “Lady”—so I guess Lady Fortune the Absurd of Greater Internetshire knew more than I did… and I’m kinda approaching “antique” here. When I tried the long form of my name, I became:

Her Grace Lady Bag Ladee the Dissolute of Waldenshire under Throcket Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Dissolute, yes. “Grace?” Okay, I can lay claim to quick reflexes. So of course I had to “do” my cat:

Baroness Maggie the Defenestrated of Frome Valley Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I think she outranks me—duh!

How Lutheran are You?

Thanks to Brother Dwight, I had to check this out. I did grow up Lutheran, though I “faded” during college and never really went back. Having been Episcopalian now for roughly the same amount of time I was Lutheran, I thought I might just see: if you take the girl out of the Lutheran church, can you take the Lutheran church out of the girl?

You are 78% Lutheran! This is most certainly true.

Not a perfect score. What does this mean? You have room for growth in understanding Lutheran terminology and culture. Good thing Salvation is by Grace and not by merit. We can add nothing to what God has done for us in Christ Jesus. But it never hurts to learn a little more about the church on earth. Thanks for taking the quiz!

How Lutheran Are You?
Create a Quiz

Well, as I did the quiz, I realized that a number of the answers I had to guess at, I never knew way back when, so it’s safe to say nothing has been “taken out.” And I didn’t keep up with all the mix-and-match of mergers, new hymnals/servicebooks. Again, nothing has been taken out. Still—78%? Kind of an amazing score for an Episcopalian, don’tcha think?

My American Accent

Thanks to Lutheran Chik, I had to check this out (mostly because for more than 20 years I've heard numerous remarks about my "accent"). My results:

What American accent do you have? Your Result: The Inland North You may think you speak "Standard English straight out of the dictionary" but when you step away from the Great Lakes you get asked annoying questions like "Are you from Wisconsin?" or "Are you from Chicago?" Chances are you call carbonated drinks "pop."
The Midland
North Central
The West
The Northeast
Philadelphia
Boston
The South
http://www.gotoquiz.com/what_american_accent_do_you_have">What American accent do you have? http://www.gotoquiz.com/">Quiz Created on GoToQuiz

And, well, it's accurate. I grew up not drinking pop (not because of what it was called but because my parents wouldn't permit it). I was born and grew up in Minnesota. But, unlike a commenter (Anonymous) on LC's blog, I think most of the accents in "Fargo" were exaggerated (for comic effect, obviously). Still, I got the point and I love the movie. Having lived in Chicago for more than half my life (while spending a couple of years in Texas), I know my accent has been moderated considerably, though I can relapse notably, sometimes when least expected.

I’m getting to know a pit bull

It wasn’t on my to-do list, but there it is, anyway. New neighbors in the basement apartment have one. Her name is Secret, and she appears to be a puppy still. She’s very friendly—I’ve seen her several times, and tonight she insisted on greeting me, jumping up on me and licking my hands (even as I hoped she wouldn’t decide to have a bite). Well-trained dogs aren’t supposed to jump up on people, even if they wish to be friendly.

Animals can sense fear, so maybe I’m better at hiding it than I thought. I do know a thing or two about posture around animals and how to send positive signals, but I’m also hoping that a) her owners aren’t interested in stoking a pit bull’s aggressive tendencies and b) she might come from a lineage that is sufficiently removed from fighting.

Around Chicago, there have been rather unforgettable stories of maulings, most often by pit bulls. In one haunting case, the dog even attacked its owner. After every such attack, the hue and cry arises to ban the breed. Responsible owners, breeders and trainers leap to the breed’s defense. An attacking dog’s behavior, so the argument goes, usually reflects its owners’ disposition, and if people would quit exploiting the violent traits, the breed wouldn’t have such a bad name. But in this set of circumstances, the dog had displayed behavioral red flags that its owners apparently ignored.

In my case, while I will lend some benefit of the doubt, a huge measure of caution is in order. Can I trust my neighbors to recognize and take appropriate action should there be warning signs? For me, right now, all I can do is program myself—if the dog is growling, get the hell away!

A strategy my dad often promoted, should one be faced with a rabid dog (a fairly common concern back in my childhood), was to grab the dog’s jaws and hold its head back, thus disabling it. I’m pretty sure he never had to test this theory. Given the strength of a pit bull’s jaws, I rather doubt my ability to sustain this maneuver, even if it initially should work.

I’ve been planning to move when my lease is up in May, if not sooner. This certainly provides additional motivation.

What will history say?

I’ve been pondering 20/20 hindsight. The two triggers: the death of Gerald Ford and the execution of Saddam Hussein.

Since Gerald Ford’s death, he’s been lauded for his role in stabilizing the nation following Richard Nixon’s resignation in disgrace. Back then, Ford was vilified from all sides for his pardon of Nixon, and many sources have noted that it likely cost him the Presidential election of 1976 (in combination with economic factors). My parents, staunch Republicans 1) were sure that Nixon’s downfall was engineered by a conspiracy determined to punish him for flouting their wishes; 2) believed that Ford was installed as a puppet of the conspirators (my parents were utterly dismayed, as were so many, that we had a President who had been elected to neither the Vice-Presidency nor the Presidency, and were subsequently disgusted by Nelson Rockefeller becoming Vice President); and 3) were shocked by Ford’s pardon of Nixon (for several reasons, none of which matter in this discussion). However: when Ford ran for election, my parents lined up with the party to work for Ford. Something I may address in the future.

Three decades after those events, we appreciate that Ford sacrificed his political career in that act of pardon, though I wonder that if he knew then what he surely knew two years later, would he have done the same thing? Guts. A public servant, doing right by the public. Would that we’d see it more often. It’s so easy to play it safe, adapting one’s public statements so as to garner poll approval.

With all the cry for blood—make Nixon pay for what he did—Ford perhaps sensed that extending the process wouldn’t in the long run have been in the nation’s best interest. In most cases, that isn’t so—due process must take into account both victim and alleged perpetrator with, ideally, a fair airing of the facts, in order to put the issue to rest. In Nixon’s case, facts never were tried in a court of law, but the public’s verdict ensured that he lived the rest of his life in disgrace (sort of like O.J. Simpson?).

Now for Saddam Hussein. I was taken aback by the fast track to execution, as were many. In this country, death sentence appeals last for years. His was dispensed with in weeks. It doesn’t seem that his guilt was in question, except among those who benefited from his actions. Is due process the issue here? Yes and no.

It certainly doesn’t help that a record of the execution taken from an observer’s cell phone revealed revenge on the part of the official executioners. To his followers, Hussein looks like a defiant martyr to the brave but bitter end. But to all who have been so horrendously impacted by his deeds, the lesson of true justice may have been preempted. It’s still the (currently) powerful holding sway over those without power, though in this round the formerly powerless have triumphed over their oppressor.

Transition from rule by control of the powerful to a fair shake for all regardless of their status depends on the rule of law, namely due process. How does a people learn that process? No fairy godmother can bestow it with a tap of the wand. The ability to vote doesn’t automatically confer wisdom in choice of leaders or enacting of law.

But for a system in crisis, duration of a serious issue is always a concern. How do you weigh the feared impact of potential danger from a known oppressor against what the system may need in order to progress?

Decades from now, will Iraq’s elected leadership be seen as self-sacrificing for the public interest on the path to stability in the currently (international) suspect decision to execute Hussein? Or will Hussein’s execution be the death knell for any aspiration of rising above the subtly shaded deathly deadlock in which Iraq finds itself?

Devil-Worshippers in Winter

This is tangentially a Dad Story.

Way back, senior year in high school, a couple of friends and I decided we really needed to see a movie in a town 30 miles away (life in the boondocks, you know—and I have absolutely no recollection what the movie was). January in Minnesota and the temp was below zero (no clue what the wind-chill factor was, as we didn’t take note of it then).

Mom was away at a meeting, having ridden with someone else, and I asked Dad if I could take her car. (See previous post about Dad and winter.) Of course he said yes.

Back story: for months, rumors (rural legends?) had swirled about devil-worshippers who would place pieces of furniture on lesser-traveled roads, forcing drivers to stop, whereupon unlucky travelers would be seized and used in unseemly rituals. Never mind that no missing-person reports had been filed; much less had bodies been found. Desecrated or not.

We set off, traveling a state highway that was pretty much deserted at the time but for a car far ahead that suddenly displayed red brake lights. Okay, the driver slowed for something, but what?

When we neared the spot where the previous driver had braked, my car headlights revealed a sofa in the road. No oncoming traffic, so I swerved around the sofa, only to shortly encounter a wooden kitchen chair. I couldn’t avoid it, and I wasn’t about to slow down, so I ran over it.

Big crunch, but the car kept moving, so I didn’t stop for a couple of miles before checking for damage. None that I could detect, and we continued on.

When I got home, Mom was quite ticked with Dad for having let me go—he couldn’t understand why she was upset—temperature? Nothing stopped him, so why should it stop me?. Needless to say, I never told either of them about the furniture.

Winter and Dad

St. Casserole wants more Dad Stories. All right.

So many of my memories of Dad are tied up with winter. He had an almost missionary zeal about fighting and prevailing against everything that winter could administer.

Well, with Chicago’s first snowstorm of the season looming, it seems appropriate to relate some experiences (the snow has begun to fall here in north Chicago).

Countless times I can recall him getting out of the car to shovel our family through yet another drift on the road; on open country gravel roads, those were numerous. My mother had no patience for it, but nevertheless she was along for the ride. To me, it was an adventure.

We had gone over to some neighbors, about five miles away, to buy some eggs and cream. Of course, we visited a while, while a winter storm struck. Dad insisted on heading home, though after the umpteenth snowdrift, my mother wanted to go back to the neighbors’ (though she didn’t really want to stay there). We did get home.

My dad was around 60 then (I was born when he was almost 53). I do marvel at his stamina.

I attended a one-room country school in grades 1–4, and on two occasions we students and teacher nearly ended up spending the night. Back in the mid- and late ’60s, no one could predict blizzards.

The first time, we set out for the home of two of the students, which was nearest at ½ mile away. It was already dark at this point, but still we set out (on foot) and made it. Various parents who dared to and could came to retrieve their children. Of course my dad did, with the assistance of my uncle.

The next time it wasn’t quite so late—we were still at the school—and once again we reached safety and warmth at home. With my mother once again reciting her litany of moving south.

Fast forward to after I got my driver’s license. For some reason, Dad and I were heading to a town 20+ miles south, in a snowstorm (of course). The roads were snowy and slick. I just had to drive. Before automatic braking systems, with rudimentary power steering, he calmly tutored me in his strategies (I still can’t believe he didn’t have a stroke!). We didn’t end up in a ditch (though I’ll admit that I did some years later, with a front-wheel drive—he didn’t know about those).

Embrace the steering wheel, joining hands at the top. Support your weight on the steering wheel. With the slightest deviance of grip, you’ll feel it in the wheel. Your weight will adjust to the grip and correct the steering.

I don’t think I can drive in wintry conditions with these fancy-schmancy computer-controlled cars (hey, even ABS on rental cars give me a bit of a heart attack). How to deal with winter driving conditions in this millennium?

Musical taste mischief and organ-tuning

Two more episodes in “Fixing Things with My Dad,” in which we were co-conspirators:

Episode 1:

When a childhood friend of mine got married, I played organ for the wedding. New church, but old electronic organ, the kind that organist friends of mine refer to as an “appliance” and/or a “toaster.” Really can’t compare with big old pipe organs.

The happy couple scheduled the wedding for right before Christmas in order to make it possible for me to do the job (I didn’t insist, but my friend really wanted me to play—so as I had planned to fly back for Christmas, I had no excuse).

A couple of days before the wedding, I went to practice and “try out” the organ. Besides possessing funky imitations of the real thing, it was badly out of tune. The next day, Dad came with me and we tuned it. He was an electrician and he possessed a good ear—and tuning the thing consisted of turning the screwdriver in the right direction for each note in each stop that was out of tune.

So the wedding was beautiful—duh!—and, as I’d worked out which stops to avoid, the organ sounded respectable. Many people came up to me afterward to tell me that that organ had never sounded so good. Funny what tuning does (even when people don’t know that that’s the issue).

Episode 2:

Mischief. The organ I played throughout high school and college was a good pipe organ. Not huge, but a very good sound. It also had a tremolo setting, which gave the organ a vibrato kind of sound (while shaking the organ loft). The mechanism that created the effect was perhaps ill-advised in this installation.

And most, if not all, of the great organ literature doesn’t call for whole-organ tremolo (though certain stop combinations create a pleasing effect for solo lines). Whole-organ tremolo is a sound effect native to certain worship music styles—but not native to my Scandinavian Lutheran church.

A wedding was to be held there, and the organist (bride’s preference—funny how that works) for the event was fully steeped in the tremolo-organ (Hammond, etc.) tradition. In a small town, we knew these things.

Our main organist wasn’t happy about it—Mrs. E. expressed her concern to me about the dreaded use of the tremolo.

So Dad and I took it into our hands… Even though it’s a pipe organ, the switches for the stops are electronic, and it was a small matter to put a piece of paper over the switch contact to prevent the tremolo from working.

After the organist had practiced on the organ, she encountered Mrs. E. and told her that the tremolo wasn’t working. “Oh, really?” After the wedding, the tremolo was miraculously restored, if thenceforth unused.

Bad, bad, bad. An entire wedding without tremolo organ. How righteous can one get?

Faced with the same instance now, I don’t think I would take action. Then, though, Dad and I were of the same mind, and it was frighteningly easy to act on it. We could; we did.

A lot happens in a century

My father would have been 100 years old today. He died almost eight years ago, shortly after turning 92.

His lifespan encompassed plowing fields with horses as a boy to watching the space shuttle land in California. And his mother had seen a Native American traversing a nearby swamp with a canoe. He never officially went past eighth grade, though his schooling continued—whatever was at hand, he studied.

Born on a homestead claim in North Dakota, he obtained master electrician’s licenses in both North Dakota and Minnesota—in the latter state with the highest test score up to that point and for years after. He loved his Popular Science and Popular Mechanics, and was forever tinkering and inventing. No patents, but it seems that the exploration was sufficient for him.

He went from milking cows by hand to repairing equipment in milking parlors (and the accompanying really smelly—duh!—barn cleaners). Not to mention fixing televisions—and he had the first television in the surrounding five counties.

Before I was old enough for school (no pre-school or kindergarten for me) I sometimes accompanied him on service calls to neighbors. I especially loved the electronics repair—he’d bring out his tube tester, and I really wanted to “help” him turn the knobs on his equipment as he figured out which components were shot (though he never let me). Long before solid-state electronics, sealed circuits, motherboards.

I did more than once witness him poking inside television innards with a screwdriver, only to see the set fully restored to action. He had the magic touch, widely acknowledged. But when color television blossomed, it got trickier. Still, he ruled.

Not a whole lot into “feeling,” he nevertheless provided a foundation for me. In 4-H, I insisted on taking woodworking (really hated sewing—though I still did it, under duress), and he taught me how to handle woodworking tools. I built a table that I took it to the county fair. Got a blue ribbon for it. Still have it.

Years after that, my rattletrap had brake problems after I took it in for new tires. Dad told me what to look for in the master cylinder—turns out the “tire folk” tampered with the cylinder to make it lose brake fluid. With his long-distance guidance, I fixed the problem.

Several years later, I decided to attach the optional light to the fan fixture in our rental house. Over the phone, Dad told me which wires to hook up to each other.

Never, “you’re a girl.” Just, “here’s how to do it.”

Thank you, Dad.

Jefforts Schori sighting

The new Presiding Bishop was at a nearby church this morning (only a couple of miles away!), and I just found out about it this evening, or I’d have gone. A friend who went called to tell me about it. My friend was very pleased and positively impressed by Jefforts Schori, who preached. And she got to meet her after the service, and reported Jefferts Schori to be warm and authentic (my friend has pretty good radar for that).

The following, which sums up better than I could do from my friend’s report, is from the Episcopal News Service e-newsletter:

Earlier Sunday, council members and Church Center staff traveled to All Saints’ Episcopal Church in Chicago for Eucharist. The service took place under strings of multi-colored paper cutouts or “papel picado” strung across the nave for All Hallows’ Eve and All Saints’ Day, made in remembrance of members and friends of the congregation. Parishioners, church school children and neighbors had also made “ofrendas”—traditional Day of the Dead “shrines” paying tribute to lost loved ones. The ofrendas were placed among candles on tables along the walls of the nave.

Jefferts Schori, during her sermon, noted Jesus’ admonition from the morning’s gospel (Mark 12:38-44) to “Beware of the scribes, who like to walk around in long robes, and to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces, and to have the best seats in the synagogues and the places of honor at banquets! They devour widows’ houses and for the sake of appearance say long prayers.”

Holding her cope out from her sides, Jefferts Schori said “Ouch.”

“Surely that can’t have anything to do with us,” she added, smiling.

She noted the Old Testament story (1 Kings 17:8-16) of Elijah asking a starving widow for food and promising her that if she shared her last bread with him, God would replenish her grain and oil until the killing drought was over.

He was, Jefferts Schori said, asking the woman to make the “remarkable gamble” of trusting a stranger and the stranger’s God.

The gospel reading also included Jesus’ observation of the widow’s contribution to the temple treasury, noting that she had given out of her poverty, not her abundance. Jefferts Schori told the congregation that the word “poverty” in the gospel was translated from a Greek word—hustereseos—associated both with the word “hysteria” and with a woman’s womb.

The widow whom Elijah encountered was “hysterical” because the fruit of her womb, her children, were in danger, she said.

“The desperation of the terribly poor knows no gender,” Jefferts Schori said. However, she noted that widows and mothers of children are more likely to find themselves in such desperation.

This desperation is what makes some people buy lottery tickets, enter every sweepstakes offer that comes in the mail, and otherwise gamble away their paychecks, she said. And it makes others bet that “even a God they haven’t met will provide.”

“You and I must be foolish enough” to believe that God will provide, Jefferts Schori said. “We have to bet it all.”

Making such a bet is hard for most people, she added. “We’re much more interested in playing it safe that in betting it all.”

Today’s “long-robed ones” can point fingers and calculate percentages of giving, Jefferts Schori said, “or we can figure out how to cure the hysterical desperation of poverty.”

“Be merciful, join the hysterical and companion the friendless,” she said.

After the post-communion prayer, co-warden Joey Sylvester presented Jefferts Schori and Anderson with rolls of duct tape—because “for years, All Saints has used duct tape to hold this place together. For us, it is an outward and visible sign of God’s grace and longing for unity.”

Sylvester added that the tape also symbolized the parish’s prayers for them, and the parish’s pledge to “stick by and stick with you as you shape and lead our church in the day ahead to respond to God’s call for a more compassionate, just and peace-filled world.”

All Saints, whose building is the oldest wood-frame church still in use in Chicago, is in the midst of a multi-phase capital campaign whose first phase of interior work was recently completed.

All Saints’ rector is Bonnie Perry, who truly deserves the credit for the parish’s tremendous vitality and outreach, coming back from near-mission status, if I recall correctly.

Cats and Meat

Just before the start of Ramadan, Sheik Taj Aldin al-Hilali, mufti of Australia, said in a religious lesson:

If you take out uncovered meat and place it outside ... and the cats come to eat it ... whose fault is it, the cats’ or the uncovered meat’s? The uncovered meat is the problem. If she was in her room, in her home, in her hijab, no problem would have occurred.

Follow-up articles here and here.

Of course, his characterization of women as meat provoked an uproar, being described as incitement to rape of women. At the time, I barely noticed it except to mentally file away that yet another person with authority and influence had said something stupid and potentially harmful. It happens so much that, sad to say, I blazed right on by. (Probably a result of having heard way too much from Rush Limbaugh and cohorts. And now this. It really is all the same.)

Sheik al-Hilali’s comments recently received another mention (the follow-up articles above), to which I did pay attention. This time, I pondered the entire analogy. For an analogy to hold, more than just one part of it must ring true. Yes, plenty of men consider women mere objects, possessions, in this country and throughout the world. It matters not what the religion is, as objectifying humans (male or female, enslaved or free) spans all beliefs or lack thereof. Even in this country we refer to singles’ bars as meat markets, and without any implication of religion. Though both men and women are meat in that reference.

I was far more intrigued by the implication that men are like cats, and I wondered if al-Hilali really meant to suggest that. If I were a man, I’d be hollering at that characterization. Heck, I’ll holler anyway.

Cats are amoral, predatory, whimsical, and notoriously difficult (some say impossible) to train. I’ve read that the reason isn’t just because they’re not interested in rewards for obedience, but that they have notoriously short attention spans. They may grasp what is expected of them, but are so easily distracted by what?—a shadow, a creak, nothing that’s there. They are only truly and completely focused when on the hunt.

Cats take what they want in the absence of anything that prevents them from doing so. An affectionate cat who rubs all over a human is using the human to stimulate certain glands on the head that make it feel good. (But I still pet my cat, and the good feeling is mutual.)

So a religious leader says that men are cats. What does that say about men’s spirituality? Spirituality is kind of wasted on cats. All the rules and edification in the world are useless when dealing with cats. And have you heard the expression “It’s like trying to herd cats?”

If I want to keep my cat from eating certain food (meat for human consumption), certainly I keep the food away from the cat, but as I’m not interested in rotten meat, my first concern is to take good care of the meat and so I store it in the refrigerator. The cat is but one small concern in this. And no, nobody needs to keep me, a woman, in the figurative refrigerator for my own good.

Mostly, though, I maintain boundaries for my cat that have more to do with keeping the cat in line than with ensuring my meat doesn’t misbehave. I’m not focused so much on the food as on having a coexistence that benefits both my cat and me without giving the cat something she really doesn’t need and that won’t properly nourish her. Already we’re way outside the analogy.

In defense of all the men I’ve known who don’t behave as cats (and that really is most of them), al-Hilali is as wrong about the males-as-cats part of the analogy as he is in his offensive view of women. The men I know/have known don’t go around assaulting women, even the scantily clad. And these men’s religious beliefs cover the entire spectrum, from strictly observant Islam to atheistic, including the familiar (to me) hues of Christianity and Judaism.

While I don’t know nearly enough about Islam, I have read a number of thoughtful, helpful articles by Islamic leaders who don’t share al-Hilali’s or other extremist’s views. Just as so very many Christians, Jews, Hindus and adherents to other faiths don’t share the views of extremists within their own religion.

As happens so dismayingly often, bigotry of all flavors does hide behind the skirts of religion. How convenient. God countenances my insecurities and lack of self-control by giving me permission, even commanding me, to subdue anything that might threaten that self-control. God would never ask me to develop spiritually in such a way that I might have to respect all of God’s creation, including my fellow humans. Far better that they be subservient to me, because then God won’t ask anything of me.

You’ll find people with this mindset who claim religious beliefs, but it matters not at all what religion it is.

Al-Hilali said way more about himself than he did about men and women, or even how God works in the world.

False Alarm

While sitting at my computer tonight, I gradually became aware of nearby fire trucks. I’ve become so accustomed to hearing them at work (my office in downtown Chicago is a couple of blocks from a fire station) and sirens go by so many times in a day that I no longer hear them.

But the close proximity and obvious multiple vehicles got my attention. I looked out the kitchen window to see three fire trucks below. First thought: Is there a fire in my building that I don’t know about? Second thought: Go outside and see.

One truck deployed its ladder to the roof of the building across from me. A fireman went up on the roof, while others were coming out of several of the front stairwells. Eventually they left—no fire, one fireman told an onlooker.

Relief. I know no one in that building, but I really didn’t want to see a battle against fire and destruction, an old fear of mine.

Interestingly, a couple of memories were triggered.

The first event I recalled occurred when I was around 12. Returning with my parents from a visit in town, we saw the last stages of our neighbors’ barn burning down. In my own convoluted logic, I thought the fire happened because I’d worn a new clothes combination that night, and I vowed never to wear it again.

The fact that fires occurred a bit too often, more devastatingly (at least two of our neighbors had lost their houses to fire before we’d moved there), didn’t correct my conviction. Age of reason? But in those days before smoke alarms and increased fire awareness, much was lost to fire in rural areas. Even now, buildings in the country are usually lost long before the fire company can get there.

The second memory prompted a startling realization.

I was perhaps eight years old when the junior high school in town burned down, Memorial Day weekend. My mother heard about it on the radio, and insisted that we go watch. So my family piled into the car and drove the 10 miles into town to see it. Really.

We followed the battle together with hundreds of onlookers. The school was three stories high (if my memory serves), stretched along two blocks. As the fire consumed the mostly wooden interior, we saw the floors and desks crash through to the bottom. The roof caved, too.

The firemen successively trained their hoses on sets of windows where the fire was burning, and as each window broke under pressure of the water, the crowd cheered. (Was Alice Cooper there? “School’s out forever!”)

The fire was thought to be out that night, but it resumed the next day, consuming the part of the school that had survived.

Years later I saw a film in school on fire safety, which, I now believe, included footage from the devastating fire at Our Lady of the Angels school in Chicago. It gave me nightmares. But for the children hanging out the windows and jumping, the school fire in my town looked the same.

Here’s the thing that never struck me as odd before tonight. My mother, normally a law-abiding citizen (except for occasional civil disobedience), was positively gleeful. Obviously neither my brothers nor I took it to mean that we could torch anything, but what if we had been horribly susceptible to such “role-modeling”?

Mom had attended the school decades before, and it was old then. Was the experience so awful for her that even in her mid-40s, the burning was cause for celebration? Now I realize there’s yet another part of her I’ll never know.

Rumors went around that the principal—who had been principal during my Mom’s time—set the original fire and/or rekindled it so as to destroy the entire school. In a lot of rural areas then, school bonds were terribly unpopular, and the rumors went, fire was the only way to replace a school that was beyond repair.

Such a pile of contemplation over one false alarm.

“Telephone” on the El

Remember the old Telephone (or Operator) game?

This isn’t about being a captive audience of oblivious public yakkers. Rather, it’s about an opportunity (?) to consider people’s perceptions. Public transit is so often my lab.

Yesterday it took me almost three hours to get to work. During my trip (mostly on the el), our operator diligently kept us updated—and he gets high marks for his efforts. As we traveled, a problem had developed with signals and switching, resulting in increasing delays. A point he noted often, with apologies.

Eventually we didn’t move at all, sitting in one spot for over half an hour. At that place, he notified us that he had to be off the train to check on a passenger who was feeling ill (he couldn’t walk through the cars, as they were packed). The cell phones came out as people reported the delay to their workplaces.

A woman nearby called someone to explain, and I didn’t pay a whole lot of attention to her, except to wonder that she focused on a) the sick passenger as a reason for the delay, and b) to complain about the lack of funding to the CTA: if they would go back to the operator/conductor duo, the operator could stay on the train while the conductor investigated a problem or emergency. Fair enough. Several weeks ago, the last car(s) of a subway train derailed, and while the operator was off the train to investigate, people in the rear cars, fearing the increasing smoke, chose to evacuate. The operator, while off the train, couldn’t give emergency instructions to passengers, which made the situation worse (he couldn’t do much about it). Definitely a problem with a one-operator train.

This wasn’t the case yesterday.

The operator returned shortly and reported that the passenger was feeling better. And we were still waiting for signals/switches.

After that excursion, we sat for another 10 minutes or so, and then the operator announced that he would be off the train again, to open the windows that could be opened—cars were becoming stuffy, I assumed. Out came the cell phones again, and this time I paid more attention to the woman. She repeated her rant about staffing the trains for safety, but I realized she also repeated an earlier comment about “the driver, or whatever they’re called.” She reiterated the sick passenger issue (no longer an issue) and went on about the windows. Only the barest mention of the signals/switches.

The operator reboarded, and we sat some more. Finally he announced that he’d been told to reverse direction, to return to the previous station, and he would have to be off the train to get it ready to go that way (it meant that he had to go to the opposite end of the train to operate it from the cab at that end). A couple of guys didn’t know the train could go the other direction. Hmm.

The woman, back on her phone, reported that the operator kept getting off the train, dealing with several sick passengers and whatever (with yet another rant about the CTA’s staffing).

Were we in the same situation at all?

I heard a number of other people relay less (though still) erroneous information, and it’s impossible to know all the reasons—perhaps the people on the receiving end weighted some information more importantly and messages were tailored to their anticipated reception.

People take in information differently; some are oriented towards visuals, some do better with oral information, while others plug into written instruction. Not something the CTA can fix in emergencies, even with its best efforts. Still, I’m greatly concerned as I consider how the best reporting efforts may be in vain, in the increasingly anxious world we inhabit.

More on attire in church

I wore sneakers to church today. Not because of disrespect, but because it was necessary. As it has been on occasion.

I walk to church (public transit being of no help on Sundays), and as it’s two miles and my knees and back are rather cranky, walking shoes are necessary. Normally, I would wear a pair that is maybe one step up from sneakers in terms of proper attire (my best pair), but it rained today. Those shoes throw up water, so that before I’ve walked a block on wet sidewalks, I might as well have jumped in a puddle so as to get the foot-soaking over with.

Instead I wore my sneakers, because I had to go to work after church and I really didn’t want wet feet all day.

All the time, I kept wondering, “Who’s going to judge me by what’s on my feet?”

Most of the people in the parish don’t know me—I’ve been a bit shy at meeting and greeting—so they wouldn’t know my circumstances and even if they did, they might not excuse my disrespectful feet (the rest of me was respectful—decent slacks and a nice blouse).

And I had to think back on my previous post, which I know was rather testy.

I was angry. I’m not offering an excuse—the lectionary today held me accountable: “You must understand this, my beloved: let everyone be quick to listen, slow to speak, slow to anger; for your anger does not produce God’s righteousness.” James 1:19. Instead, I must acknowledge why I reacted to Dear Abby’s writers and (only a little) to comments on Dash’s blog.

I don’t want people to look at only my outward appearance, which is, unfortunately, in keeping with my circumstances. I want people to understand that I can’t, for several reasons, maintain the appearance that would allow them to see me. If that makes sense.

Is it possible for people in different financial situations to look past that in each other (and it goes both directions) to find our connection in Christ?

What about dogs in church?

Concerns over attire in church got me to wondering: how would people feel about the priest’s dog accompanying him during Mass? I’m not talking about the Blessing of the Animals, a special service when pet-owners bring their critters to Mass (usually in commemoration of St. Francis).

I know how people feel in the parish I’ve been attending. The dog, Abydos, is loved and understood, as was his predecessor, Nabucco.

First, you must know that this parish is Episcopal/Anglican—verrrry high. All the smells and bells, and the choir chants the Proper every Sunday (Introit, Gradual/Alleluia, Offertory, and Communion). Gorgeous vestments, lots of kneeling and bowing. On feast days the Epistle and Gospel are intoned.

The parish is also quite a melting pot—it is truly the most diverse place I’ve been. I think at least half come from African countries and the Caribbean, and there are others who have come from numerous other places around the world.

So. Abydos has his own tasseled black pillow, behind the altar rail, where he is to go when the procession begins. It’s a few feet from the altar, but it’s the most out-of-the-way place for him, and Fr. H. can keep an eye on him. Now and then he gets restless, and Fr. H. calmly re-installs him in his place. Abydos is also a regular attendee of our Compline service there.

Abydos is a Saluki, as was Nabucco. Fr. H. notes that the only dog Muslims accept as clean is the Saluki, a very old breed—they say that Allah “kissed the Saluki” right above the eyes (evidenced by white “eyebrows”). Abydos looks a lot like this. So he’s already liturgically furred, though as Fr. H. notes, he often sits with his back to the High Altar.

Unfortunately, Abydos’ breeder maintained one of those nightmares you hear of on the news—way too many animals, malnourished, abused—she’s doing time for how she treated her animals. Fr. H. got involved with a “rescue” operation for Salukis, and agreed to adopt three-year-old Abydos, not knowing for sure if loving care could restore his spirit. Ten months later, Abydos looks as a dog should look (initially he took up as little space as he could and his tail was always tucked between his legs). He had to learn not to relieve himself wherever he was; in the kennel he had been caged, left to live with his own offal. He’s learned to go for walks. He’s learned that if Fr. H. is gone for awhile, he will come back (part of the reason Fr. H. keeps him close by at church).

Not all the damage can be undone—he’s definitely scarred. He’s still skittish around people he sees all the time (especially women, I think, because the damage was done by a woman).

So perhaps this is not so much about dogs in church, but a dog in a church, being restored to his rightful nature. Sometimes people treat their pets better than they do their fellow human beings, but this isn’t the case with Fr. H. How he deals with Abydos is a manifestation of his character—it’s how he deals with people. He greets all his parishioners by name, including all their children, and takes the time to learn newcomers’ and visitors’ names (and is amazing at remembering them). If he hasn’t seen someone in a while, he asks that person’s friends or relatives about his or her well-being.

If you were to walk into my parish, not knowing any of the above, what would you think?

Shoes and other clothing in church

Argh. It’s been months since I’ve posted, but Dash’s post (drat her, anyway!) has provoked me. Well, at least the comments, on top of Dear Abby’s column of weeks ago.

Proper attire in church.

Not a topic that concerns me so much, except that people are judging others—primarily on their appearance in church.

Is it a question of respect, knowledge, or awareness?

I know that Biblical Jews were bound to ritual cleansing (and I guess, by extension, concern for attire) before presenting themselves in the Temple. The culture was inseparable from religion.

Over the centuries of Christianity, there were times when laity mattered little, if at all (if not of high-born class). They might have received the Body (and maybe the Blood) only at Easter—otherwise they were expected to be seen, not heard; mostly disregarded. Peasants—serfs—probably didn’t have a whole lot of clothing different from their everyday attire in which to clad themselves. They could only look upon and (perhaps) admire royalty.

Dear Abby’s column contained complaints of those who felt disrespect for themselves and the church on the part of those who came in everyday clothes.

In these days, not so many people come to church because of parental/peer pressure or cultural expectations. They may be seeking the Holy (however diligently or not), and many come without any training in how to present oneself in the presence of the Holy as it has been understood, at least over the past two centuries in this country. They are probably very akin to the pagan converts in the first century.

Debates raged then over actions—circumcision or not?—eating food that had been offered to idols?

I haven’t seen a whole lot that indicates “dressing up” was a concern, if only because everyone then of peasant status probably more or less dressed the same all the time. So: not worthy of further consideration.

So much for respect and knowledge. How much does our culture—no longer explicitly Christian—transmit to us of these?

Awareness—self-awareness—is a topic that transcends spirituality. Yes, spirituality addresses self-awareness, but psychology has much to say in this arena.

Years ago, I had a piano up for sale. People came to the house to try it out. One woman sat down to play, and I instantly noticed her beautifully manicured, extremely long fingernails. As she played, she was rather disturbed: what was the noise she kept hearing? I heard her fingernails clicking on the keys, but tried diligently to hear what she might be hearing, because I couldn’t imagine that she didn’t know how her fingernails sounded on the keys. Eventually she did discover the cause—but even now, I wonder if that lesson stayed with her.

I ride the el to and from work, which has given me plenty of opportunity over the years to observe how people perceive their presence. So many perceive it not at all. Bulky bags pounding into fellow travelers, cell phone conversations which ought to be private—no one else is present, even on a crowded el platform when there is plenty of space to spread out. Spirituality would enlighten people as to their impact on their world—but so would simple lessons in observation and logic.

Does the church now solely bear the burden of enlightenment? I won’t presume to answer that one. But surely the church needs to be aware of concerns that impact not only worship.

We each of us have an arena of impact. What we do and say might make a difference. Is it a child, godchild, close acquaintance who wears the wrong shoes to church? It is appropriate to discuss your concerns with this person. Is it someone else? Then why are you consumed by it? Is it about you or about them? Honestly?

God looks not on the outward appearance, but on the heart. Can we presume to know what is on the person’s heart? Even if that person appears repeatedly in what parts of our culture may say is wrong?

How much impact can you have, approaching someone in criticism, as opposed to approaching him/her in love and concern for his/her spiritual journey? Get to know someone—very well—before judging them—and even then, maybe not.

“Daniel” is reality TV

In a good way. Over the past several years, I’ve caught episodes of different shows, but saw nothing that made me plan on watching regularly. But last night’s premiere episode of “The Book of Daniel” has gotten me—dare I say it?—hooked.

It’s sort of a combination of “Oh, God” (the movie with George Burns) and “Desperate Housewives,” with maybe some “Friends” thrown in. No question that it’s controversial—the religious right will take serious issue with everything in it (I’m not sure I could name anything they won’t hate in the show). But I’ve been thinking about it since last night—when was the last time that happened because of a TV show? If it generates sincere discussion, which I believe it could do, it’s not the usual idiot fare.

I compare it with “Desperate Housewives” because it has the elements of a soap—issues that, if handled overdramatically, would be only for cynical purposes of titillation. An arrest, drinking, addiction to painkillers, drug dealing, embezzlement, disconnection from life support, affairs (including a threesome), teens fixated on sex, internet hacking, medical emergency, racism, church politics, the Mob, Alzheimer’s… possibly I’ve forgotten something.

And then there’s the ongoing conversation with Jesus (that’s the “Oh, God” part). This was all in two hours.

You see the many ways this could go wrong.

It doesn’t, though, because the writing is pretty good and the casting was well done. Direction was also strong. I guess it was billed in advance by some as a comedy—“it seems to make light of many things”—but it’s thoughtful, with genuine humor along the way.

The characters are complex, and the rapid unfolding of events doesn’t obscure that. The overwhelming number of issues that crop up serve to introduce us well to the many characters and their intricate interactions, while leaving a whole lot of room for both plot and character development. It doesn’t ever take the easy way out, either—a number of times I was surprised, which is a good thing. I don’t like predictable plots and dialogue, which is one of the reasons I seldom watch television shows.

Of course, one reason I wanted to see it was that the central figures are an Episcopal rector and his family. Would it be an accurate representation? Bishops keep dropping in, which alone would be enough to make me pop pills, too. One is the bishop of the diocese (a woman) and the other is the rector’s father, who is retired. The bishops are concerned with politics (that’s accurate!) and Daniel is concerned for all parties dealing with their various problems. He doesn’t seem to be terribly focused on becoming a bishop, though he knows the bishops have that ambition for him and want him to handle everything carefully to fulfill their expectations. Classic.

How Daniel walks that line is convincing, though he does it by talking a lot with Jesus (who pops in even more frequently than do the bishops). I’m not sure what I think about the Jesus character. He could be a vision (painkiller-induced hallucination?) but those conversations serve to allow Daniel to process events rather productively.

Some of Jesus’ comments are a tad New-Agey. He tells Daniel that life is hard, hard for everyone, and that’s why there’s such a great reward at the end. But at other times he asks good questions, urging Daniel to confront issues head-on. At any rate, Daniel’s much better off talking to Jesus than to the bishops—Jesus helps Daniel to concentrate on staying connected in a healthy way with people who are imperfect, difficult. That is what being in right relationship with God fosters.

I’m not addressing any of the plot lines or situations in this post (there are just so many!) but I do see the characters and their various reactions as credible. Is it representative of Episcopal theology? Probably not, because there is no Episcopal dogma. The Episcopal Church encompasses an amazingly diverse range of beliefs, which I’m not going to get into here. Those in the Episcopal Church-USA who are moving toward schism would certainly take issue with the show, claiming it doesn’t accurately represent their experience or beliefs. And they would be right.

I wouldn't hold out any hopes for this show as a membership campaign—likely the number of people that might consider attending an Episcopal church would be offset by those who’d leave.

I’ll be watching to see what happens with the characters—it’s possible to care for them, flaws and all.