Oh Atlanta, Oh Atlanta

Whee, doggies. There’s nothing like going through the Atlanta Airport in a wheelchair being pushed by a man in a hurry! We landed on Concourse C, and in less than 15 minutes, he had moved us through all the elevators (which are not nearly as convenient to places as the escalators), onto the train, off the train, picked up our baggage and had us on the rental car bus.

Rolling, rolling, rolling, keep them doggies rolling…..Well, Rawhide, he wasn’t, but it’s the only way to go when you don’t breathe very well.

Driving in Atlanta was not nearly the challenge I remember. We took one wrong turn and were able to correct that very quickly. I did see an Antiochian Orthodox Church building – never knew that church existed. We found our motel easily, had a wonderful dinner with friends – that good fried chicken at Watershed.

After my mother died, I had given her bed to them. It’s old with caned inserts in head and foot board and a fancy raised appliqué of flowers and stuff in the center of each. She had always painted it ivory. They painted it dark purple, and it was gorgeous!!! Seeing someone enjoy it was a delight, especially knowing that my friends had given new life to an old story.

And, they have my great grandmother’s chairs, dark with a pale birch table. And, Mom’s sewing rocker is gaining new life in their living room. Other tidbits were sprinkled around their house, and my heart was pleased to see the things of my memory were making new memories.

Here, it’s air conditioning time, especially in the motel with no windows to open. Tomorrow we are all going to the zoo to see Mei Lan, the panda cub…rain or shine. Then maybe it’s on to a bookstore or to the Ikea showroom. Small town girl on a spree in the big city! Whooee. Smell that plastic burning.

See how easy it is to forget about the church’s troubles, the nation’s troubles, and just relax. I bought a couple of fluffy pillows to enjoy for this trip, and I’m full of good food, happy talk with friends, and the prospect of a good night’s sleep and a fun day tomorrow.

To my friends in the blogsphere, remember to keep MadPriest on his toes, and Cecelia in your prayers.

Off to Mississippi

Well, folks, I’m off to the great green land of Mississippi today. While there I shall be ignored by only living uncle and royally feted by my first cousin and his family. And, I shall buy McCarty pottery. When I return to Atlanta to fly home, I shall see the baby panda, Mei Lan, whom I have watched on video cam since she was born in September. And, I shall visit with a long-time friend. So, I probably won’t be posting much unless I have a connection in Atlanta. See y’all later.

The Eagles Have Gone

photo by Timothy K. Hamilton

It’s another night of the two o’clock feeding – not a baby – feeding me. And, another night of the two o’clock memories. I’m sure they are triggered by the fact that next week I go to Mississippi where most of the memories take place.

Tonight I’m remembering a Sunday afternoon drive, Mom, David and me. We liked to ramble through the places where Mom used to live, and she’d tell us stories about the people, her life and the places.

One of my favorite stories is about Eagle’s Nest Bayou, a stand of cypress trees that stood in the middle cotton fields by the time I was along. Mom wanted us to see the nest in case we never had a chance to see one again. She called this a little bit of nature’s heaven and remembered it in her childhood as being a large bayou with lots of cypress trees and lots of knees and scary scrub brush that grew around it as the land rose from the bayou waters. Eagles had lived there most of her life, and she was in her late 30s then. She said you could see the babies poking their heads up from the nest as you drove along the narrow road that skirted the bayou. And, she talked about the majesty of seeing the eagles hunting in the late afternoon as they swooped along the edges of the much smaller cotton fields – hunting mice and other small creatures to feed the family.

Other nests spotted the small bayous and ranged along the banks of the Mississippi River not far away. Not as common as blackbirds and still majestic enough to take away your breath, the eagles lived in harmony with the people and the crops. Farming was done with mules and work horses; so even the noise in the cotton fields did not disturb them. She and my Dad used to court by going in search of eagles’ nests in the area around her home – driving along on Sunday afternoons just as we were doing.

Then tractors came, and bulldozers made the bayous smaller. The fields were dusty and noisy. Still the eagles stayed though fewer in number. Mom remembered how you found nests only in certain places then, behind the levee of the river, in larger bayous and mostly out of sight of the roads.

I think I remember seeing an eagle once at Eagles Nest Bayou, which was near Jonestown, Mississippi. But, by the time I was 10 (that was 1955), only the crumbling nest remained in a tiny little bayou no bigger than an olympic size swimming pool. No eagles had been there for some time. The trees holding the nest had no protection from the dust and insecticides of the cotton fields that ranged for acres all around. Crop dusters sprayed chemicals in the fields around the bayou killing the boll weevils but also the small bugs and critters that fed the small mammals which were food for the eagles. The image of that abandoned nest is seared in my mind with what seemed like hopeless love. I yearned to see the big birds take flight, to watch diligently for the little beaks that might peek over the top of the nest. And, I cherished Mom’s memories of being around the great creatures.

I have had the joy of seeing the great eagles – driving along I-40 crossing from North Carolina into Tennessee, one swooped down from the heights of the mountain toward the river on the other side of the road. The truck driver beside me and I both nearly ran off the road watching this startling sight. And, I’ve seen one recently slowly moving along Highway 17 with something in its beak.

However, not as majestic but awesome still, the ospreys nested in a tall pine tree across the creek from our house. They’re used to the noise of the power boats and the jet skis. I watched this past year as the nest was refurbished and finally got to see little beaks peeking up over the top of the nest. I remembered Eagles Nest Bayou and I was grateful that these beautiful birds had been able to adapt to a changing habitat.

Father Brother God

My Brother David and Uncle Ralph's car

One day a few years ago in therapy I talked about loss, abandonment. My therapist asked when I realized that my Dad was gone and wasn’t coming back except for annual leave timefrom the Navy. I thought for a while, but I realized that I don’t remember missing him. I talked about what I did remember. “Daddy, pickie-toe” (how my Dad would take his big fingers and run them between my little toes, one by one, to remove the dust bunnies from my socks) and how I still do that every night. Such a powerful feeling of being taken care of. And, I cried.

I wonder if that’s what it’s like to call God Father. Does the word father convey such strength and security to most people? Is that what fathers are like? I have only two memories of my father when he wasn’t drunk. One is the nightly event, “pickie-toe”, and the other is of his teaching me how to shoot a gun for the first time.

Yet, if I could call to God, “Daddy, pickie-toe”, I wonder how I would feel. God is something ethereal to me most of the time. Present but not real, not tangible. Only when I feel God’s tangible presence am I truly moved in my ministry. I can see God in the persons with whom I work and interact, but I don’t have “ideal” images of God - only bits and pieces gleaned from the faces and beings of humans, tidbits that hint at something greater.

And, could I call Jesus brother? I felt that my brother who loved me so much and taught me so much deserted me and died when I needed him most. I understand why the disciples felt so abandoned. Why didn’t Jesus speak up to the authorities? Why didn’t he save himself? Where is the salvation in a brother who abandons you and the cause just when he’s needed most?

And, the Bible says that Jesus died to save me - substitutionary sacrifice/punishment. That doesn’t ring true. And, the parallel with my brother ends there. He did not die to save me; he did not intend to die. I wonder if Jesus intended to die. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just knew that nothing he said would change the inevitable. Eventually, the “church powers” would feel so threatened by his interpretation of God that they would have to get rid of him in order to maintain power.

And, Jesus rose from the dead. I have often felt my brother’s presence with me - less as I grow older and further away from his living days. Maybe that’s why we continue to tell the story; so that we won’t lose the presence. And, maybe the story-telling helps us continue to find God’s presence. The prescriptions for living are well and good, but they don’t have the power to move us that stories have.
Written in June 2003, Revised March 2007

Others' stories I tell

Grandmother and Grandmother (seated right) with her sisters

February 2005: I want to ask questions, but I know they have no answers now…at least not right now. Why do I think so much? Am I charged with keeping memories/souls alive by my remembering? Why me? When I listen, why do I hear the wind of some other year, some other place, some other whispering? The images flood my half and half soul, the one that only exists in that time between awake and asleep. The voices replay their conversations again and again, and I wonder, “What did I miss the first ten thousand times I heard this?” What’s the secret and why can’t I figure this out?

I rub my face and scratch my scalp with blunt nailed fingers, pushing away others questions. My Mom asking, “Where did my brother sleep?” Susan asking, “How will I talk to a judge?” Bill’s “I made a commitment.” Laurie’s “You do what you have to do.” My cousin Joyce saying, “I didn’t know if you even liked me.” Sandy’s “Are you sure it’s okay if I come.”

They eventually answer these questions themselves, but I am left to ponder my part in the conversation. Perhaps I am like the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem; it receives the petitions, questions, thanks and whatever the people have to say or not say. But its part is only to be there. If it were not there, they would go somewhere else if somewhere else were handy. We need people who can hear our words, places where it’s safe to ask questions.

And, I need a place where I can safely say (even though not to the questioner), “Thank God she’s dead.” “Your daughter would be better off in a group home for a while.” “Your stress is killing the good parts of you.” “It doesn’t matter whether I like you or not; I love you.”

And, then I keep remembering, dialogs with an 18-year-old student a long way from home – did I make a difference? Did I say the right things? How can I watch those I love die? Why did my great-grandparents send my grandmother away to live with someone else? Where did my father go when he passed out from drinking? Did my mother really think that he would change? Why do you hang on after the time has come for going? Whose voice am I hearing now? Doesn’t all the pain seem to run together and make a chorus of lamentation? Why does this noise come at some times and not others?

How did I get into this desert anyway?

March 2007: Still the questions come, still the people won’t stay dead, still the conversations play again and again, and new ones. At night I close my eyes and I can feel my grandmother’s flannel nightgown against my legs and her relief that the day is over. Still I wonder why she was sent away, and was she hungry? After a family meal at her home, we’d find her behind the kitchen door stuffing food into her mouth.

Susan’s still talking to judges but questioning her own ability to keep life together. Bill’s commitments grow year by year, and he’s not getting any younger. Joyce has disappeared into the ex-pat community on the coast of Mexico, as far from her memories as she can get.

And, other voices from the past have joined these – rather images, the voices aren’t so clear. My gentle loving brother, a picture of him with a knife in one hand and a gun in the other? Why? Was it what was expected of him then, when we lived on the farm in Mississippi? My four-year-old rotund cousin whose mother used him as a pawn for her own safety and welfare – now a rotund man who is stoic and lets feeling in so slowly.

A discussion with a friend tonight about my Mother’s fears and how she thought she had led an unsatisfactory life and worried about dying. Others’ pains and torments become my pain and torment. “Boundaries in the Mind” The joy and sense of fulfillment is harder to reach, hidden more deeply, but all recorded somewhere in my being.

So, I tell the stories – factual, maybe; true, always. My own questions and searching stifled now by the voices, the pictures, the stories of those in my past.

Clyde is back!

Hey folks, Clyde is back HERE

How did I miss this? Visit him soon if you haven't already.

Penitence and Forgiveness

Let’s talk about this confession business. The Roman Catholics got in trouble with indulgences, selling forgiveness of sins for money for the church. The worse the sin, the more it cost you. And, the poor people still had confession with penances and the disrespect of the curia since they didn't have money to give.

So the Protestants came along, and the Church of England split from Rome. But, confession of sins was still a fixture in most churches...not necessarily private confession of sin, but a corporate, public confession that the whole church is made of sinners. They didn’t have to enumerate their sins, say special prayers or pay money, but they were expected to live their lives differently in the future.

So, here comes the 1979 Book of Common Prayer for the Episcopal Church, and confessions are corporate and short. There’s a form for private confession, but most people never see it and others use it once during Lent. "Oh yeah, God, I did some things today that I shouldn’t have done and I probably didn’t do some things I should have done, forgive me." The silence at the beginning of the confession gets shorter and shorter, and a person doesn’t have time to reflect on the day’s sins or the week’s sins or just times when he/she has fallen short of being the best possible.

But, once a year, we dig out the Litany of Penitence for Ash Wednesday service. We get ashes on our forehead and reminded that we are but dust and to dust we shall return. This “dust to dust” business is also used in the burial service. So, the ashes remind us that we’re going to die. No doubt about it. Someday we will die. Then what?

We won’t go into the punishment for unforgiven sins or unrepentant sinners, nor we will go into the rewards for those who have repented and lived new lives. That’s another day.

This Litany of Penitence is modern day words that touch our lives. My partner and I are saying this litany along with a short prayer service every night during Lent. Hummmm. I have learned more about how I can sin and do sin in these couple of weeks than I ever wanted to know. Let’s look at the bulk of the prayer, and you’ll see what I mean.

We have not loved you with our whole heart, and mind, and strength. (No doubt about it, I’m truly guilty of this. Too hard to do, especially all the time.)
We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. (And Jesus indicated that our neighbors were nearby and far off – not just people who live near us – Do you love those despots over in Iran or Korea?)
We have not forgiven others, as we have been forgiven. (How many times have you said, “I forgive you.”? Or for that matter, how many times has someone asked your forgiveness?)
Have mercy on us, Lord.


We have been deaf to your call to serve, as Christ served us. (Well, I went to seminary, but I probably didn’t make enough effort to get ordained. I did serve in some ways, and then I quit. I have turned a deaf ear to God many times.)
We have not been true to the mind of Christ. (Do I really know the Mind of Christ?)
We have grieved your Holy Spirit. (Not something I really want to do.)
Have mercy on us, Lord.

We confess to you, Lord, all our past unfaithfulness:
The pride, hypocrisy, and impatience of our lives,
(Now here we have all the times when I’ve said I would do something and didn’t do it – unfaithful, to God, to my friends. And, pride – whooo-eee- my Mom said I didn’t know the meaning of the word humility. Hypocrisy – I can be anything you want me to be if I’m trying to convince you to give money to my favorite cause. And, I surely don’t live by the same words that I tell others they should. And, then, we have that bugaboo “impatience” – Lord, give me patience, but hurry.)
We confess to you, Lord.

Our self indulgent appetites and ways, (Does that include the chocolates I keep hidden near my desk and the seeking to fulfill my own desires, sometimes at the cost of...)
and our exploitation of other people,
We confess to you, Lord.

Our anger at our own frustration, (Oh, Lord, you must have had this one written for me. I get so frustrated. Her life would be so much better if she’d just do what I tell her. And, I really want to know exactly what’s wrong with me and how we can fix it or if I’m going to have to live with it – and no one has the answers yet and maybe not ever.)
and our envy of those more fortunate than ourselves, (I wish I had....., enough said)
We confess to you, Lord.

Our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts, (Here’s another one that kicks me in the stomach – all those towels I bought, all the soft blankets, and how many pair of shoes doe I really need?)
And our dishonesty in daily life and work, (Well, here at least, Lord, I try.)
We confess to you, Lord.

Our negligence in prayer and worship, (Lenten discipline is good, now if I could just keep it up all the time. And, I know I could find a worship service that I could attend somewhere, God. I’m just too lazy and too sick lately to do that. Is that a good enough excuse?)
and our failure to commend the faith that is in us, (Here again, God, I try.)
We confess to you, Lord.

Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done:
for our blindness to human need and suffering, (I don’t even see people here who might be homeless or hungry, never mind remembering all those people in other countries who are facing starvation or death or war.)
and our indifference to injustice and cruelty, (Okay, so I get riled up about one thing or another, but I don’t do much anymore.)
Accept our repentance, Lord.

For all false judgments, (I am one of the most judgmental people I know – all the time making snap judgments based on how they look, how they talk, where they live, how they dress.)
for uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors, (Specifically, how many times have I said someone was crazy – someone who lived nearby – never mind those far off.)
and for our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us, (All those fundamentalists, Lord, and the conservatives, I don’t see how you put up with them.)
Accept our repentance, Lord.

For our waste and pollution of your creation, (Ugh, I don’t think joining Sierra Club counts as penance enough for all that this generation is doing to the world.)
and our lack of concern for those who come after us, (I don’t have kids; so why should I worry?)
Accept our repentance, Lord.

(Now here’s the kicker, God. I’m asking you to forgive me for all this stuff that I’ve done wrong and stuff that I’m likely to do again even though I think I won’t. And, you do. You do it. I don’t know why, God.)

Restore us, good Lord, and let your anger depart from us;
Favorably hear us, for your mercy is great.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation,
That we may show forth your glory in the world. (Oh boy, I’m going to show forth God’s glory? However, can that happen with one such as I?)

By the cross and passion of your Son our Lord,
Bring us with all your saints to the joy of his resurrection.

Do you know how many sins you can remember when you say this every night, night after night? A lot.

But, the kicker is right there near the end – “Accomplish in us the work of your salvation...and Bring us with all your saints to the joy of his resurrection.” Okay, God. I guess you can do all this, but I know you’re working hard on me, and, if others are like me, then you have a Herculean task.

Just keep remembering, God, that you love me, and I’ll keep examining my life and trying to do better. Amen.

"Dutch and Mary" stories

Mom in wagon without hat, maybe Dutch standing beside her, Mema in big hat

At age four, Mom picked up an axe standing beside the doorstep; the axe slipped and cut her leg very badly. She screamed and Mema (her mother) came running. Mema screamed and Mary came running. Mary was the black woman who “helped out”. Mary somehow got her husband Dutch and they took care of Mom’s leg. I don’t know if they took her to the doctor or whether they just bandaged it themselves. But, I do know that Dutch took care of it!

When I was about nine, I remember seeing Mom in her mid-forties visiting Mary, who took Mom into her lap and rocked her on the porch of her weathered frame house near the cotton fields and the swamp in the Mississippi delta near Jonestown. Mom was so comforted and looked so peaceful. Maybe that was the last time I saw her look peaceful and comforted. She knew Mary was taking care of her.

When Mom talked about her childhood, she talked more about Dutch and Mary than about her own parents. Dutch was often the babysitter at night. She said he would sit in the living room and watch her do her homework at the kitchen table, reflected in the mirror above the fireplace. Dutch wore glasses, little round glasses that sat on the end of his nose, and he’d tilt his head, look over the glasses and say, “Now, Miss Lucille, you don’t look to me like you’re working on that math.”

When Mom told “Dutch and Mary” stories, her eyes would get teary, and her laughter was soft. We had no doubt that the love she felt for them was reciprocated many times over. They taught her; they reproved her; they loved her.

Today, I am comforted by Mary and Dutch. Their love spills over into my life, Mom dead six years and them gone many years ago. They would have loved me just as they loved my mother, and somehow, I believe they do.

I suppose God’s love is made tangible through the many “Mary and Dutch” people we know in our lives.

More about poverty

On Sunday, I wrote about deep poverty, and I’ve spent considerable time on the internet looking at articles and books about poverty and its causes. When asked, most people cite drug abuse as the number one cause of poverty. The second most cited answer was medical bills. Only listed as third was the lack of full time good paying jobs. (http://www.npr.org/programs/specials/poll/poverty/).

As a former director of an ecumenical social service organization, I encountered poverty and deep poverty many times. Substance abuse was rampant in some of the people we met and served. Not so in others. Many families moved in and out of poverty for many reasons. Medical bills are certainly a contributing factor. Lack of economic opportunity was a great factor. Jobs for the unskilled were often temporary, part-time, low-paying work that was unstable. Taking care of basic needs and escaping the hopelessness of their situation were primary objectives of the families. Looking beyond that in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs was impossible. Development of cultural capital and a sense of ability to function in the world were not considered.

I believe that our best hope of eradicating poverty is to work ceaselessly with children and young people. While we need to continue the care we give families, we must help our youngsters to dream not only of meeting basic needs for themselves but also to reach for those values higher on the Maslow scale. We must find ways to interest them in education, the arts, playing sports, and help them find the support they need to continue these activities – even when their families do not care or are unable to care.

I suspect that I grew up in poverty. My Mom worked as a clerk in a variety store and my Dad was the town drunk. We lived on the farm; so I never went hungry; we raised produce and preserved it for winter months. But, I do remember meatless days. Our heat was a wood stove in the kitchen although we had bottled gas for our cook stove. Our water came from a pump at the edge of the back porch, and our bathroom was an outhouse.

But, education was stressed. So was employment; I began working at the variety store as soon as I was old enough. After my father went away, we had valuable family time to read, to look at pictures of art, to listen to the radio, to sing, to talk about our extended family and play games together. Our school classes made many field trips to places of history and culture. I was rich in a cultural way. Poverty did not become a way of life in our family, and I suspect this cultural richness is one reason why we grew into the middle class.

Recently, one of my friends, Melissa, studying sociology of culture at Emory, talked with me about a paper she is writing. Her topic is: For middle class children, do having parents who were also raised middle class affect the odds that a child currently participates in high art activities? Her hypothesis using statistics from studies done in The Panel Study of Income Dynamics (PSID) is that the longer a family stays in the middle class, the more likely the children are to accumulate cultural capital.

Drawing intuitively from this information and my own experience, I think that the longer a family stays out of poverty, the less likely they will fall back into poverty. The children are more likely to have their basic needs fulfilled and thus be able to concentrate more on education, job training, arts and other poverty-fighting cultural capital.

And, yes, I recognize that the polity of our country must change to include living incomes, affordable housing, and other structures to make the jump from poverty sustainable.

Anger and Quiet Time

Anger is one of my besetting sins (one of Mom’s expressions), and I have been working on it in therapy for some time – the last few sessions most recently. I won’t try to psychologize anger or explain my anger except to say that severe control is needed to keep it from being violent – not toward people, but throwing things, breaking things. I threw my favorite tea cup against a door while I was in seminary and I have regretted that ever since. I think that was my first real recognition that I had a problem with anger.

Frustration most usually prompts my anger – at being inadequate, being sick, being broke, being unmotivated. Well, you get the idea.

Anger was my first reaction to the Communiqué from the Primates Meeting. Anger was my first reaction to the Windsor Report.

In thinking about my anger through many therapy sessions, I have learned that I must withdraw from the situation first. I cannot think clearly while the anger rages. Fortunately, my rage is short-lived. So, I go away from the source of the anger and distract myself with something – computer games, science fiction books, making something fun for someone else. Or I sit quietly and fume for a bit. Or grab a crossword puzzle book. That time away allow my rage to soften from hurricane to gale force.

Only when the intensity of my anger has abated can I even begin to think about what has happened, what fear spawned the anger. I can’t even identify thoughts and emotions that led up to the anger until I have been away from it for a bit. Then I can replay the scene, the words, the thoughts, the feelings.

Usually I discuss the situation with someone else – my partner, my IM buddy and long time friend, my new friend, my wonderful Godson, and my therapist. But, I can’t do any of that until I have spent the time away from the problem, away from the furious anger. I must let the desire to break things bleed away in the quiet space I create.

Lent is a time of fasting, and the LGBT community has especially been asked to fast for a season. But, perhaps this fasting is what the entire world community needs – a time to be away from the situation, to focus on other things, to let the subconscious process what has happened. I think our reigning government needs to fast about the war in Iraq. Going at it slam-bam is like my breaking or throwing things. Unfortunately, the broken are our own young people in this case, and the thousands who are dying in Iraq.

I think quiet time and processing time is essential to making good decisions and learning to live better lives. Our minds take the facts that we have and turn them, twist them, connect them in patterns to other patterns, and we often reach a very different conclusion than we had expected.

Perhaps our entire religious community needs to fast for a season to give us time to let the rage abate, time to let our subconscious process the hurt, the facts (as we accept them), what we have heard and what we have said. Then, we need to discuss all aspects of the situation to see where our fears lie. All sorts of possibilities might emerge.

I am not suggesting that we should ignore the call of our Baptismal Covenant to respect the dignity of every person, nor should we ignore the tragic injustices being done. I’m not suggesting that we should move backward, but I’m also not suggesting that we move forward until everyone has had quiet time. Then every person, Primate, congregation, diocese, province and nation can make decisions that are best for that particular entity.

Deep Poverty

Deep poverty means that a family of two adults and two children live on an income of $9,903 per year or a single person lives on $5,080 per year (which translates to about half the poverty level). According to a survey done by McClatchy Newspapers and published HERE, the number of people living in deep poverty in North Carolina has increased to approximately seventeen percent of the population (523,000 in deep poverty, 8,683,000 total population 2005). Government statistics show that all persons living under the poverty level was 13.4 percent in 2003. You’re right; the survey shows that more people were living in deep poverty in 2005 than government statistics show were living in poverty in 2003. Can two years make such a difference?

Never mind the differences in the figures, too many people are living on too little. North Carolina is tenth in the list of most people living in deep poverty. Not Mississippi, Not Louisiana. Never mind Katrina and its effects. And the top of the list is California. Not surprising that our largest states have very large numbers of poverty stricken families. Washington, DC, was mentioned for its high level of people living in severe poverty.

What’s wrong with us, folks? I’m buying pretty towels made in Turkey and my neighbors need toilet paper. What’s wrong with me? One year we gave away half of what we made (and that was just the tax deductible part), and our bit of giving didn’t make any difference in the number of people living in poverty, going hungry, living in tiny rooms with too many people.

The economy is doing well. Our income witnesses to that. But, perhaps the economy has forgotten about the people and concentrated only on the dollar. People who did manual labor for many years and were paid a pittance, sometimes under the table and without social security being deducted – these people are now suffering from severe poverty. They can no longer do the work they did before; they have no training to do anything else. Many are old and ill with no insurance and depending on the food pantry at the local church to help them eat. Maybe they can get a small amount of Section 8 housing money or food stamps, but that often requires paperwork that they can’t decipher.

The economy has changed. Yet, only slightly more than half of the young people who finish grade 9 in North Carolina actually graduate from high school. So, they flip burgers or stand on the street corners in outlandish costumes advertising some business. And, they live in rented rooms or bunk down at the local shelter. Who will rescue these young people from living all their lives in severe poverty? Never mind the baby boomers that magazines picture as all being middle class. Well, we know from the statistics that too many of them are living on half of the poverty level. How will they retire? Who will care for them in their illness? Where will they live?

I am concerned not only that too many people are living in such poverty but also that few programs are successful in preparing dropouts and other young adults to live in this growing technical age. They are ignorant of what is needed to live. They have few, if any, skills for this economy. How can we help them? I don’t have answers.

Gift, Inductement or Bribe

What’s the difference in a bribe and a gift? Apparently, Microsoft is offering free laptops to certain bloggers for their use and in hopes of favorable reviews. See Chalain’s Journal HERE and Joel Splosky’s blog HERE.

Encarta Dictionary defines bribe as “money or some other incentive that is given to persuade somebody to do something, especially something illegal or dishonest.” Gift is defined as “something that is given to somebody, usually to give pleasure or to show gratitude.” Neither word seems to fit this situation.

Microsoft is offering a premium product free to an influential person in hopes that person will write a favorable review of the product on a much-read and credible blog. The laptop is not a bribe because the offer specifically did not carry conditions. Joel contends that, even though the offer did not contain conditions, the acceptance of the laptop would harm not only his own credibility but that of other bloggers. This attempt to be completely objective can be accomplished only, as he points out, by Consumer Reports, a non-profit testing group that depends on consumer donations and subscriptions and purchases all the products that it reviews at retail.

I would call the offer an inducement to provide free publicity. Magazines, newspapers and television have been doing it for years – perhaps they’ve slowed down some now, but, during the 15 years I worked in journalism, I received many inducements to provide a short blurb about a new product. Some were included with good reviews; some were included with bad reviews; and some were trashed. The reviews always included the disclosure that the product was received free. Readers and listeners take those things with a grain of salt. And, I imagine the same is true for reviewers in the blogsphere. While some reviewers may have more credibility than others, no one is exempt from the skepticism of “Buyer Beware”.

Thinking that one particular reviewer is the only source of information and that readers will not check others and read specs is pure egotism. Such thinking is not about credibility or ethics. It is pride.

One field which offers inducements on a regular and expected basis is the arts. DJs get music, readers get books, and critics get tickets to plays and movies. A few reviewers have such credibility with their readers that they can influence the purchase of that product, but, they have built up that credibility over a long time. If a reviewer raves about a show, and the consumer sees the show and agrees, the reviewer’s credibility is raised. On the other hand, too many bad calls and the reviewer is out of a job. But, the free tickets and other inducements to see, read, or hear the products are expected in this field. They are not bribes, nor gifts, nor inducements, but part of the job.

In government, such “gifts or inducements” are mostly prohibited now. It’s called buying votes, like when a candidate for office sent my bootlegger grandfather a note to give the fellow a pint of whiskey because he voted the right way.

Product review on the other hand often depends on the reviewer’s budget, and most of them have no budget. I laud Joel for his efforts to become more objective by buying the products that he reviews. But, most bloggers can’t afford to do that. And, some of them provide good reviews (and bad reviews) of products that are catching the public eye. Their credibility is based more on how often their opinion fits with readers’ opinions than on where they received the product. Their credibility can also be based on how well they write and what facts they provide to back up their opinions but, still, not on the source of the product.

All reviewers in all media can be biased, no matter how they receive the product. Readers, and presumably buyers, should carefully consider the track record of the reviewer as well as read other reviews and check out specs and data and previews and short clips before they buy any product.

Not bad for a semi-recluse

ENFJ - "Persuader". Outstanding leader of groups. Can be aggressive at helping others to be the best that they can be. 2.5% of total population.

Free Jung Personality Test (similar to Myers-Briggs/MBTI)

Lenten Blog Carnival

The previous entry on "Waiting" was written for the Lenten blog carnival begun by ePiscoSours here, continued on Word of Mike here, and will be on Episcopali-fem here next Wednesday. You still have time to submit your blurb and link to your offering to her at beezerama32 at yahoo dot com. Join in this Lenten discipline with us!

Waiting to go home

Waiting to go home
Till he’s passed out
So I can go to bed and sleep.

If he’s still sitting at the table
When I come home,
He asks a hundred questions
About where I’ve been
(He saw me at a juke joint in Friars Point),
And who’s been with me,
And, what have we been doing
(He knows what kind of whore I am).

In a ’49 Ford, I just keep
Driving miles in the dark
On gravel roads
With woods on either side
Waiting to go home
Till he’s passed out.

Occasionally meeting another waiting soul
Who can’t go home
Till someone’s passed out.
We travel together with laughter
To hide the fear.

We know all the back roads
‘Cause I’m too young to drive
At least by the law;
So it’s crunchy gravel roads
Searching for friends
Who are searching for you.

Every night it’s the same.
Driving, waiting, checking the clock,
Waiting to go home
Till he’s passed out.

Originally begun November 14, 1967, revised March 2, 2007

Same story, different endings

Mema and Granddad at Sardis Dam

Hot and humid nights, when the air conditioner runs and fans stir the air and still your legs stick together and the skin on your neck feels as if you’d smeared it with goo. We’ve had a couple of those lately here in North Carolina. On those nights I wonder how I ever survived summers in the Mississippi Delta. I can remember the big window fan in one window of the bedroom I shared with my brother, and how the other window was only open about four inches; so that we’d get a strong draft through it. The draft, however, did not reach over to my bed against the wall; so I’d crouch in the tiny space between his bed and the wall and put my face in the middle of the open window. I’d write stories in my mind while I listened to the frogs and crickets and the occasional bird. Sometimes the same stories had different endings.

Last night I finished another book, “The Laughing Place” by Pam Durham, and I was appalled at the ending. I think ending are so hard to write. At least readers are hard to please with endings because we want books to end our way. We want answers to our life questions, not their life questions or the characters’ life questions

I remember Sergeant Friday on television in The Dragnet saying, “Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.” In most books, “only the endings have been changed to suit the authors.” We readers are left to extract what meaning we can from the endings the authors have chosen. If our ethic of life is congruent with their ethic of life, we read them again and again, reinforcing the belief that our way is THE WAY. If we differ, we seldom read that author’s work again.

And, we read the Bible in the same manner. The stories are interpreted as we see them through our various biases and points of view. That’s the only way it can be. We cannot operate without our assumptions of right and wrong. Occasionally we can change them, but we cannot get rid of them. A preacher or teacher has responsibility for presenting other viewpoints, perhaps ones that don’t fit her/his own ethic of life. We need various ways to see God in scripture; we need a community of eyes and ears and hearts so that we can get a broader view of what the Divine One might be like.

Now, Pam Durham’s view of possibility through her character, Annie Vess, is one of acceptance and limits. I was upset, even angry, that “Annie” did not come to see a wider view. No character in the book had a wider view; she had no role models. Society, the world, was a static place. And, I found it overwhelmingly sad. The ethos was gratitude without hope, enough not abundance, acceptance not strength.

Needless to say, that is not my ethos. Appreciation and acceptance of the present and past are essential for our lives, but hope and love must supercede those in my ethos. Enough is good, but God has promised us abundance, and I want all of us to have it, even the characters in books that I read. I want excitement and enjoyment in addition to contentment.

God never talks about life being dull. That’s one thing about the stories of the Bible; they aren’t dull. They’re filled with folk who do outrageous things – both outrageously bad and outrageously good. And, some stories talk about justice, which is never a dull subject. Solomon judged to whom the baby belonged. “OK,” he said. “We’ll just cut the baby in half and let each of you have half.” A ploy to discover which of the two women was truly the baby’s mother. Not dull, but also not part of my ethos. Can you imagine any woman saying, “Well, half a baby is better than none.”? But, not dull.

So, I look at the endings of books, and sometimes, I can rewrite the ending to fit my own ethos. Sometimes I just must realize that the character in the book, with whom I identified in many ways, is not me, does not have my outlook, my experiences or my beliefs. And, I look at both the differences and similarities to figure out how I might have done or might do things differently in my life.

I look at the Biblical stories in much the same way. Right now, I’m reading the Gospel of Mark. I am not Jesus, even though sometimes I act as if I am God. But, I try to see his ethos and his point of view and how it is similar to and different from mine. Then, I try to see how I might live differently, better, closer to God.

Today it is an ethos of abundance with a liberal mixture of gratitude and acceptance.

A little known planet

In the year 2094, the Anglican evangelists reached a little known, but very cold, planet on the outer edge of the Milky Way. The people, commonly known as Heaters, had bodies much like ours, but instead of eyes they had heat sensors. This worked well for them. They had developed many of the same scientific instruments and conveyed data by both the written and spoken word. Their language was easy to learn even if their vocabulary was smaller than the English language.

Quickly, the Anglicans determined that this planet had never developed any gods, didn’t even have a concept of god. So that when the evangelists began to explain how God had made the world, the Heaters were puzzled, not understanding. And, when the Anglicans celebrated Holy Eucharist in their midst, they understood sharing bread and wine but not the symbolism of the Christ.

This was going to be a long term proselytizing trip; so the Anglicans settled in. They had to make the Heaters understand about God and creation and Christ and love.

When the Anglicans first arrived, one of their members began learning the Heater language and all its nuances. Then she began translating the Bible into Heater. After all, the Reformation and the Evangelization of Africa had proven that people understood and accepted Christ better if they could read the Bible in their own language.

Some metaphors used in the Bible just couldn’t be translated, and the linguist looked for local metaphors to replace them. The parable of the sheep and the goats, for instance, had a comparable situation with some of the local animals. The images of light and darkness translated easily into heat and cold.

But, still the Heaters just didn’t get it. They were friendly enough, and families got to know one another quite well. As they discussed love, the Anglicans noticed that the rooms got warmer.

Finally, the linguist understood. She proclaimed, “God is love.” Everyone took off their sweaters and the hosts opened windows. There was great rejoicing as both Anglicans and Heaters understood that God/Love is life.

Vodka, valium and dyslexia

We have a friend, Kirk (name changed), who spent many years drinking vodka and taking valium. Sober and clean now for more than 20 years, Kirk still has trouble with complicated thoughts. He loves to tell jokes, but any joke with more than two steps or inferences or any big words just don’t compute in his brain. Fortunately, many jokes fit in his repertoire and he keeps us laughing a lot.

He is also one of the kindest, most gentle human beings I have ever known. His feedback when you tell him your problems is always succinct and to the point. “Does it really make a difference right now? Enjoy your food.” “Well, you can’t change her, but you can change your attitude.” “Don’t let it get to you; that makes it worse.”

His hugs are wonderful, and to put your head on his shoulder is to feel completely safe. Did I mention that he’s also very good looking?

Of course, he will ask you the same question five or six times before he gets it just right in his head. And, he wants to make sure that he doesn’t offend you, his friend. He tolerates a lot before he will just slip out of your life…and he has tolerated a lot from some of his friends. If they ever straighten up, he’ll be the first one back in their lives.

He visited us in our “new” home for the first time this weekend, arriving yesterday afternoon and leaving around lunchtime today. As we were sitting together enjoying the warmth of friendship conversation and quiet, he said, “Let me tell you something about how my brain works. Yesterday when we got here and you showed me around, this house made no sense. The rooms all ran together and I couldn’t get an idea of where anything was located. Today, it’s just a normal house, and I know where everything is.”

What an insight! A different kind of dyslexia than I’ve known before. The brain seems not to connect one view with another, no panoramic concept, no floor plan. Just a jumble of rooms. Now I understand why he didn’t want to make this trip by himself. He was afraid that he couldn’t connect the pictures to get here or to get home. Too far and too unknown.

Routine is important to Kirk. Connecting with people for whom he cares is important. His grandchildren and children are important. And, we love him dearly.

We can have some conversations about complicated things like war and politics, but we don’t dig deep into the details. We talk about people and good and harm and pain and life. Kirk is hesitant to say anything bad about anyone, but he wants the best for everyone everywhere.

Kirk is our friend, and by his sharing how his brain was working, And, I can understand that the vodka and valium probably made a small problem with dyslexia much worse. Now, I know how to have better conversations with him, how to be a better friend. And, I’m grateful to him. He’s listened to me often enough without judgment and often with no comment but a hug. He’s been on my gratitude and prayer list for a long time.

Questions about God

Recently two people have asked me questions about my beliefs about God. One was asking by phone and one at the dinner table in a crowded restaurant. Each question and hesitant answer brought on another question and even more hesitant answer. My partner began inserting her beliefs and I had a moment to reflect before answering the next spate of questions.

I am struggling with my answers about God. Oh, hell, I’m struggling with my questions about God. Some days I don’t even know where I doubt or why I question, only that I do. Like anger, doubt is probably a cover for fear or pain. And, I certainly have my full share of doubt and anger, and fear and pain lately. I also have the huge sense that I am not in control of my life, and I seriously fear that God is not in control either. Though I believe firmly that God is with me; I want to know who is running the show and what act we’re in. Will the entrance cue be properly given? Will the props be in place? Is my costume okay? Will we all remember our lines?

No, no, that’s not it. There are no lines. The props are whatever you find. No one knows when the entrance cue is – only trust that you will recognize it. No director has put us through our paces. No one is in the light booth and the sound may or may not work.

This is a metaphor for the sense of being lost that I have. My medical condition leaves me wondering each day if I will be able to do anything or if I will not. And, no doctor can answer why I am not getting better. On doctor days, I seem to breathe okay and, although I tire easily, they cannot know (and I sometimes forget to tell)of the nights when I cough until I feel as though I will never breathe again. The inhalers consumed, the steam sucked in, the tea drunk, the antihistamine taken – finally being able to breathe again. It’s very scary.

And, I panic. So, what do I know about God right now. I know I’d be truly over the edge if I didn’t believe that God was with me – knowing my hurt, knowing my panic. But, do I believe that God could or would intervene? I don’t know. I pray. I believe that praying has some power somehow even if only to clear my mind.

Do I believe in the bodily resurrection? Well, sure, that’s what I confess in every church service in the Creeds. But, how can I know, and I’m not really very concerned with what happens after I die, but whether or not I’m going to breathe okay today. If I have to come back in this body, well, thank you, I’d rather not. Give me a different set of problems, please.

So, what is the purpose of Jesus? Naw, I was asked, “Do you believe in Jesus?” Yes, very definitively yes. I believe that Jesus was God become human who wanted to know what it was like to be this thinking creation with free will and why making good decisions was so difficult. I believe that the Incarnation of God is the most important piece of salvation. God proved to us humans that we are loved and cherished. God proved to us that we could have a relationship with the divine being – the Other – the uncreated beginning.

That’s why I think that God is with me, and that’s how I get through each day.

Refrain and Refraining

At the Carnival of Lent, begun by Episcosours, and continued this week at Word of Mike the topic this week is Refraining. Last week was Repentance and I couldn’t even begin to deal with the repentance in my life and what repentance means. But, Refraining stretches me to consider why I refrain – why I refrain from doing something – why I have a chorus that repeats itself throughout my life.

I refrain from using cuss words in front of people that I think might be offended. This is respecting the dignity of other humans. I have cussed most of my life – growing up with a sailor father and finding so much gratification in the vehement propulsion of some of these words. Sometimes, however, I don’t think about what I’m going to say – mostly in times of anger – and I just burst out with this stream of profanities and blasphemies. I remember being angry at a parishioner once and stumbling into the rector’s office after a brief meeting with this person. I shoved open the door and out burst this long (for me) string of words that emptied the office faster than a fire alarm. I think I have a little better control now some ten years later. I hold it in until the place and people are more appropriate and by then the urge is often gone.

I refrain from claiming that I am not a bigot. I am in so many ways that I can’t even begin to touch them all. I grew up in the segregated south and was not allowed to associate with black people. I grew up with a slightly snobbish mother who refused to let me play with poor white trash. I grew up with a drunken father who turned me against all drunks (including myself for a time). I grew up ostracized by the Presbyterians (because Dad was a drunk) and the Southern Baptists (because I danced), and I am all for inclusion except for the Presbyterians (well the PCA anyway) and the Southern Baptists. I wouldn’t even hold my mother’s funeral inside the church that turned me away; we had a graveside service in the cemetery just outside. I don’t consciously discriminate against any of the people about whom I am prejudiced; I just do it in ways that I don’t recognize until later. Most of my prejudices are due to my own fears, many from childhood. No excuses, though.

I refrain from blaming others for my feelings. Well, I try. That only creates more prejudice and more hurt.

But, the most important refrain in my life is one that my Mother installed in my life. It’s the chorus to every verse, and it’s what holds my life together. I’ve written about this before – the songs that she played on the piano while we sang our worship of God at home. “And, he walks with me and he talks with me.” “Love lifted me, when nothing else could help, love lifted me.” “out on the glad hills of God’s glory, moving in rapturous throng, the saints are rehearsing their story, singing a wonderful song.” The chorus of Immanuel, God with us, a personal God who cares about me and you and you and you (and even those people mentioned above), God is love, We are one with the saints and with God.

If I’m to get through saying the Litany of Penitence every night of Lent, then I need this chorus to remind me that refraining from hurting others and repenting of the times that I do are offset by God’s grace and glory that I will know more fully at Easter.