Happy New Year!

Ah...I can hear the wheels turning all across America: it's New Year's Resolution Time!

Some folks give up smoking. Some folks give up meat. Some folks give up smoked meats--a two-fer, if you will.

If you're like me (And I would never wish that on anyone!), you begin the resolution process by thinking about what other people's resolutions should be. Now, lest you think I'm insane, I usually only focus on people that I know, as trying to come up with over seven billions resolutions might make me miss a ballgame on TV.
But, speaking of other people, here's a resolution worth considering: Be gracious to others. I'm speaking from personal experience here. I've also been thinking about an adult Sunday School class topic: "Judge Not", about why being judgmental comes so naturally to us, but is an incredible hindrance to peace in the world around us, as well as happiness within.
It's almost effortless to be gracious to someone who is cheerful and smiling and always ready with a compliment for us. It's quite another thing to be gracious to someone who seems rarely, if ever, satisfied with our efforts. Whether we are able to put this understanding into words, we recognize that these folks find little satisfaction in the world because they set their standards and expectations for others impossibly high. In other words, disappointment is guaranteed. I say that I speak from personal experience because this is what I (and my two brothers) witnessed firsthand in my dad.

It's a good thing that Jesus never told his followers to like other people, isn't it? He "only" told us to love each other! Well now, that seems kinda backwards, doesn't it? Liking seems so much easier than loving. But is it? To like is a choice; to love is a compulsion. We like people whom we find pleasurable to be around, or who have qualities or talents that we admire. Often times, we may never meet these people, but that doesn't stop us from liking them. And who we like reveals a lot about what we value in Life and in ourselves.
Loving someone is a completely different story. While liking someone is a rational response, a choice made with varying degrees of thought, loving someone is always irrational, whether or not we want to think of it that way. There are, of course, varying degrees and kinds of love. Love for spouse, family, and friends is a much more intimate feeling than the kind of Love the Bible demands. Love for all people--and all of Creation--is simply an acknowledgement of our connectedness, our spiritual kinship, our (sometimes) desperate need for one another. Love of this kind is based on respect, esteem, and compassion, for others, but also for ourselves. My Christian faith demands that I love everyone, even the Unloveable. And especially those I do not like! 
And at a certain point in my life, I ceased liking my dad, but continued to love him terribly. Or, as Shakespeare says about Othello, "He loved not wisely, but too well." My brothers and I grumbled constantly about our dad being a perfectionist--someone who expected everything to be flawless, even when it was painfully obvious that said perfection had never been experienced, and never would be. In our own unique ways, we all found escapes or diversions to help us keep our sanity. I don't know about my brothers, but when I look back at this strained  relationship, I see a pain other than my own. Under all the layers of anger and hatred I experienced while trying to come to terms with my pain was also the pain of another--a gift, if you will, that I certainly did not ask for!
And, late in life, it occurred to me that people who set impossible standards for others do exactly the same thing for themselves. The disappointment they feel about the faults and complications of the world around them is nothing compared to that inner judge that finds them lacking in everything they do. The constant voice of judgment that they hear wears them down until all they know how to do is show their frustration in ways that are riddled with hatred, anger, and fear. And rather than heap more judgment and damnation upon themselves, they give it to others--unwanted gifts that harm both donor and recipient.
The truly sad thing is that the one thing desperately needed is the one thing that they can neither give nor receive: compassion. That voice of judgment makes it clear that they are totally undeserving of the kindness of others. I simply cannot imagine what it must feel like on the inside to be so consumed with self-hatred that all human interaction is tinged with hatred and recrimination.

So, this year, step back. Think about what it is that motivates others to find fault with everyone and everything. Think about the enormity of pain, grief, and guilt they feel each day. The only humane response is compassion, whether or not they are able to receive it and express their gratitude. We must take comfort solely in the knowledge that we are doing the right thing, and that, perhaps, a small light has shone inside of the other, and a warm place has been kindled.

Solution or Resolution?

One would think that to dwell in Christ’s presence would be all that we would need; that trusting in Him would give us the confidence to meet the challenges of the day. Haven’t we all told ourselves that if we literally walked with Jesus, as his disciples did, we would be even more confident and reassured—nothing in life could cause doubt or distress. And yet…

            …with Jesus sleeping peacefully on the boat, how did the disciples react when waves came crashing in? They were afraid. They wanted a solution. They wanted Jesus to DO something to end their fears. Clearly, his presence was inadequate for what the disciples believed they needed, but only because their beliefs were based on fear.

            “Somebody needs to do something!” is our normal, human response to crisis or conflict. A solution—quick and effective—is what we require, mostly so that we can get on with our lives. But what we discover, if we are paying attention, is that most crises and conflicts are not ever really solved, they are resolved. In other words, they must be allowed to “play out”, to continue, to reach the end that God intends. To bring our selfish needs and desires to the table can become a hindrance rather than a help. Of course, this does not mean that we do not invest ourselves in attempting to end conflicts, especially when there is discord between people. No, we do not remove ourselves from conflict; rather, we humble ourselves, seeking Christ’s presence in the midst of the storm. But, unlike those frightened disciples, we look (and act) with confidence, knowing that our investment of love, faith, and trust will help us discover how God’s will is unfolding, even when things aren't necessarily going our way.

            How many times a week do we pray “Thy will be done?” but assume that God’s will is really our own all along? After all, our rational mind’s ability to connect the dots, figure out how to use the TV remote, and navigate city streets without mishap seem like sure indicators that successfully completing a task must by definition carry with it God's approval. But while our mind is indeed a gift from God, it can become a stumbling block when we attempt to use it to confront the walls that divide humanity one from another. The rational solution too often boils down to what we think is best, and “best” usually means what is most efficient--what requires the least effort with the greatest return. 

            When we seek God’s presence in the midst of troubles, we find that His will rarely follows the path we would have chosen. The path is rocky, shrouded in fog, and seems to go on forever. This is because God’s grace gives dignity to the distress of the troubled souls that confronts us at the same time that it gives dignity to our feeble attempts to assuage that distress. A simple solution, that is, the solution we would have preferred, is not an option. Anyone who has ever held a screaming infant in the wee hours of the morning has been an unwilling participant to this frustrating reality. We try everything—changing the diaper, warming the bottle, rocking and singing—and nothing works. Or so we think. But if we step back we'll notice that what is “working” all the time that we are panicked is simply our presence, our touch, and our words of comfort, no matter how feeble and ineffective they seem. Our presence allows Christ to be present in us, and we say to the wailing child, “Peace! Be still!” even though the howling continues, even though our rational mind is thinking of pillows and soft sheets.

Our panic in a situation like this is normal; it is a part of what makes us human. Ironically, panic can be gift, just like faith. It reminds us all to clearly that we are not in control; that it is God who uses us, not the other way around. Too often, in our frailty, foolishness and panicked state, we break the emergency glass, grab God out of the box, then race to the chaos, where we discover God has already been. We do not take God into battle; He waits for us there. And although we fail the test before we even start, God’s grace always rescues us. This usually occurs when we look back and say, “Now, how did that happen?” We charged in, ready to be a problem solver, but what we found is that we brought our own problems--our own vanities, our own weaknesses, our own doubts--to the table. Grace took all the brokenness that everyone offered up and, somehow, all was mended.

“How did THAT happen?”

What happened was the revealing of God’s will, which is the resolution of all human action and interaction. Just as TV sit-coms always have happy endings; our faith assures us that our “ending” is equally as glorious, but it plays out over the course of an entire life, not just one day, or a thirty minute episode. When we ponder how God is at work through us, we are amazed, reassured, and humbled all at the same time. We realize (again) that there really is only one set of footprints in the sand. And those prints go deep because they are not simply burdened by our physical body, but by all the baggage we carry each day: doubt, fear, and pride.

Solutions puff us up, because we only see ourselves at work—efficient, talented, and effective. Resolution humbles us, because we see God at work, and we recognize that we are just as troubled and conflicted as those whom we reach out to help. We realize (again) that God’s will is always done; and what seems like foolishness at the start, becomes a glorious revelation once it is resolved. You would think that all these glimpses of grace imprinted on our hearts would give us the confidence and courage to handle our daily challenges without fail. But all it takes is for that first wave to come over the side and soak our brand new shoes…right?

What about Kim Davis?

"Be Thou My Vision, O Lord of My Heart"

What does it mean to have the “vision of Christ”? It means to see the suffering in the world, and to look for ways to alleviate it. It means seeing past the hatred and selfishness that rules our lives. It means seeing oneself as a vehicle of healing, transformation, and reconciliation. It means a life of surrender, a life of service, a life of stewardship—taking care of God’s creation.

What DOESN’T it mean? It doesn’t mean feeling victimized. It doesn’t mean feeling like you’re under attack. It doesn’t mean feeling that, at any moment, God could be conquered. And yet, because we’re human, we give in to these feelings of hopelessness and despair on a daily basis. And that’s OK. That’s part of what it means to be human. What’s not OK is when we choose to give in to hopelessness and despair and then ask God to exact revenge on those who we feel are persecuting us. Or to side with those who mistakenly feel victimized because of their faith. It’s one thing to pray for those who struggle with their faith; it’s quite another to uphold and/or validate another’s moments of doubt and despair as a sign of solidarity.

It’s one thing (and a good thing) to pray for Kim Davis; it’s quite another to “show solidarity” with her. The first is an acknowledgment of the human frailty that we all share. The latter is surrendering to the satanic desire to rule in God’s stead. Heaven help us when people who say they want to rule the most powerful nation on the face of the earth bargain with the Devil to increase their chances of success.

Re: "My Traitor's Heart"

I have to give you page numbers, because Rian Malan's book, My Traitor's Heart, does have chapters, but they are not numbered. The book is reflections on apartheid by a native South African whose last name is synonymous with that dreaded word, thanks to his grandfather who helped develop the policy. The author, a Baby Boomer, does his part to play the role of the "liberal, socially-conscious" teenager by growing his hair long and by spray-painting "Say it loud, I'm Black and I'm proud" on a wall in his neighborhood, totally ignorant of the fact that his gesture of racial solidarity is lost on the few Blacks who would actually see it, because they are illiterate. As the Seventies inch toward the Eighties, he flees his homeland, ostensibly because he can no longer stand to watch the oppression. Or is it guilt over his family connection and the inherent complicity?

A letter from a former Black domestic in his old home brings him back to South Africa to face the reality that is his country. And all the time, the undercurrent of the book breaks the surface and asks, "Why?" The Why that is apartheid; the Why that is simply the color of our skin.
One of the many "Whys?" begins on page 148 and it tells the story of Simon Mpungose, better known to history as "The Hammerman". On November 29, 1985, he was executed for a series of
crimes, culminating in murder, where he would break into the homes of white South Africans and bludgeon them with a hammer. He never harmed the children. In response to the question, "Why?", he replied, "Because I want to die."
Was it because of racism? Poverty? Yes, but mostly No.

Malan discovered that the source of this disaster began in the days of the great Shaka Zulu over one hundred years earlier. Tracing Simon's lineage, Malan examines the role of ancestry and family ties in the determination of one's life. According to Simon's relatives, who laughed when they heard that he was executed, he was cursed from the moment he was born. Through no fault of his own, Simon was an outcast from the moment of his birth; he was shunned, dismissed. Early in life, he was pawned off to relatives who felt nothing but contempt for him. He was smart enough to know that there is no peace where there is no welcome. So, he left his homeland, not knowing that he was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire, the world of apartheid. Of course, there is no kindness in this world. One thing leads to another, and a kind-hearted, intelligent doomed man finds himself on trial for murder. After his poorly-translated testimony is given to the judge, he breaks down on the stand. On page 184, he says, "I saw there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I would start a life of damaging things and others, knowing it was a path of no return."
The "it" he's referring to is the weight of the Past and its insistence that It has Its way.

Let's be honest; we don't like the concept of Determinism in our modern world; it takes away from the power we feel when we seek out and find new avenues of Freedom. We can take some comfort in Malan's portrayal of Determinism in that he couches it in the terminology of the "native": shades, or ancestral spirits that are always there, always watching, nodding assent, or demonstrating their anger. Spirits who must be pleased so that one's life will go well. How primeval! How antiquated! But the great Southern writers paid homage to the past by emphasizing the importance of Place in personal development and understanding. Place was just as important as family for Faulkner and Welty and O'Connor. Ultimately, their stories were about stories, the stories of where we come from and the influence that this will have on where we go.
Zoom to the present, and think about those few times when we gather as families. The best times are those when we re-live (re-live!) history, and share stories about our favorite moments. That used to be all that we had, all that we needed. But then came the photograph. We no longer needed our imaginations to summon up pictures to correspond to the stories we would hear. But as we modern people teach ourselves to see little value in the past, the family photo album ceases being a starting point for remembrances and, instead, becomes merely iconic images of something irretrievable. Pictures that bring tears to our eyes do so not because of the memories they engender, but because of the emptiness they expose in our hearts.

Malan's book is a quest for THE answer to racial reconciliation. Whether your heart leaps in joy or sags in sorrow at the death of "The Hammerman" is not the focus of Simon's story. Rather, it is his discovery that it is in the human heart, in its anguish and loneliness, that a common bond among all humans is found.


But how does that awareness translate into political action? Ah, there's the rub!

How We Got "Here" (from May, 2014)

I think it's pretty obvious to everyone by now that Cliven Bundy, the rancher guy out in Nevada,  is not a victim or a patriotic American. Rather, he is a coward, a racist, and a moocher, in the worst sense of the word. It's truly sad that we've sunk so low in this country that we feel like we've got to "take sides" on every media event that happens in this country. Just like Tawana Brawley incident back in 1987, a stunt hits the headlines, and prejudices and fears determine where we feel we must "stand", as if taking sides somehow justifies or solidifies our standing in the eyes of those we despise or those we need. Both the hatred we feel and the need for approval that we crave are based in fear. Ultimately, one must feel sorry for Mr. Bundy, because he is clearly a very ignorant man. Ignorance is accidental; stupidity is intentional. Those who came to support Mr. Bundy, and the media who portrayed him as some kind of martyr are stupid. They willingly ignored the facts, the evidence, and chose to allow their fears and delusions guide their thoughts and actions.

What makes all this doubly sad is that when fear mixes with pride, a person becomes blinded to anything but his or her own fantasies and fears. When presented with the facts, instead of acknowledging their momentary lapse of reason, he or she lapses into more convoluted delusions. Conspiracies become more insidious, plots more nefarious. Soon, everyone is an enemy.

We live in new times, disconcerting times, and these are times of our own making. Words like "conservative" and "liberal" have become absolutely meaningless. And yet we try continually to make ideas and events of today fit categories that worked a long time ago but no more. Those who call themselves "conservatives" rarely have a clue as to what that term once meant, though they try to attach themselves to its history and heritage. Calling Ronald Reagan a "conservative" is truly the height of folly. Likewise, those who tout their "conservative" status based on the "Founding Fathers" usually have no idea about the central ideas that instigated the Declaration of Independence and the American Revolution. Revisionist history used to be an invective hurled at "liberals", but now revisionist history has become the mainstay of the frightened white male and his minions, those who all to often latch on to the Republican party.

This is NOT to say that Democrats are no less culpable or guilty. In reactionary times, one must look at what caused the disconnect; what made people lose their ability to reason, to think objectively. It's easy to point the finger at Fox News, because they intentionally seek to be divisive, belligerent, and unabashedly proud of the lies and stupidity they produce solely for the purpose of irritating the "opponent" and comforting the delusions of those who turn to them for the truth. In true Orwellian fashion, they then tout themselves as an alternative to deception and blatant propaganda. But we must remember that these hacks are not OUTSIDE the mainstream, but firmly entrenched in it. The Fox "News" Corporation would not exist had it not been for a major shift in the thinking and the articulation of said thinking in this country. We went from a worldview where "If the White Man said, it must be true to" to "Don't Trust Whitey!" The imbeciles at Fox seek to re-fashion the thinking of the the white, male authority figure in multi-colored hues, but the deception just doesn't work. Much of their drift into, and their acceptance by the "mainstream" is revealed in other networks' attempt to model themselves after the friendly, fluffy, forgettable formatting of the fools at Fox. Regardless of flavoring, cotton candy is still cotton candy; but it is not our teeth that are rotting. It's our minds. But this is only a tangent, valid though it might be.

What has happened? Well for one thing, "authority" became a four-letter word, thus all four-letter words became acceptable. Hierarchies, like the statue of Saddam Hussein, were slung to the ground to the sound of maniacal jubilation. The results? Now, good is bad, left is right, up is down, everything is relative. A social and cultural tsunami hit this nation, and it seemed that no one had a solution beyond finger-pointing. The world of "Every man for himself!" began; everyone, in their own special way, began thrashing around for some kind of flotation device, some kind of stability and feeling of security. As Christopher Lasch pointed out: survival, rather than self-improvement, became the foundation of modern life. Both Democrats and Republicans latched on to our fears and developed a language that resonated with our anxiety; and instead of calming us or reassuring us, they ratcheted up the "fear factor", so that our sense of powerlessness might make them seem more powerful. I don't know which is worse: The Democrats belief that we can forge a new world based on mistrust and envy, or the Republicans belief that distorting the past and promising a return to a place that never existed is how to restore calm, prosperity, and goodwill. Either way, the conservative beliefs that life is basically tragic and that there are limits to what society and/or the individual can achieve have been discarded as antiquated and a hindrance to progress. (Traditional values, then, became anathema to people who called themselves conservatives, one of the sad ironies of modern life.)

Both Envy and Greed find their base in a sense of entitlement. Both used to be part of the Seven Deadly Sins. In 1981, we began the process-- not as hated enemies, but hand in hand -- to change that, to change the look of morality in this country; to accommodate our feelings, our passions, our predilections. To do so, we had to cast aside our humility, our spirituality, our innate sense of worth. Three decades later, we see the results: a Dow Jones Industrial Average that went from just under 1,000 to over 16,000. Where once there were less than 600,000 millionaires in 1980, now there are close to ten million. But if we are honest, we will have to admit that a concomitant amount of misery -- economic, social, and psychological -- was created as well as all this wealth. Had the idea of "self-interest" instead of  "selfishness" held sway over the past thirty years, most of this misery would be non-existent. Yes, we will always have to poor, but that doesn't give us license to intentionally increase the percentage. And let's not forget gated communities, home security systems, and personal arsenals: all of these are the result of our participation in the dissolution of community, our withdrawal from the public in favor of the private, our self-destructive desire to fill our lives with things rather than Happiness or Joy. The fear and anxiety of these times is, indeed, of our own creation. 

For those of a religious bent, one need only look to the Old Testament to see the validity of this assertion. When "God's people" retained their humility and their humanity, they thrived. When they turned their backs on their Creator, when they began to live for themselves, disaster struck. (I mention biblical history because so many who see economic growth as a sign of God's favor, turn a blind eye to the reality of our selfishness.) And what did God's messengers tell the people when their world fell apart? That THEY were the cause of it. Their agony and misery was self-inflicted. All they had to do was "turn back to God", regain their love of others -- family, friends, slaves, strangers, the poor, the rich -- and things would turn around. But what are we Americans encouraged to do? Ask for divine Providence to smite those who have brought all this anguish upon us. "Hate your neighbor as yourself", in other words. It's pathetic.

So where does this leave us? We have leached the vocabulary of political debate of all meaning; it did not happen on its own. The sad truth is, there will be no resolution, no reconciliation until we let go of our fears, and the fragmented desires that spring from them. We will not be the engineers of said reconciliation, but we will be the beneficiaries. We will not only be relieved when it happens, but we will be humbled, in that it will come from dimensions and directions we thought no longer existed.

An Infinite Number of Monkeys, or One English Major...

IT has happened.

The it. The event. I am a changed person.

While in the long run it may appear as just another accomplishment or defeat—depending upon your perception—on the Big Print-Out of My Life (sort of like a line of verse from Auden’s Unknown Citizen, a cold hard fact, a nameless reality), at the moment that I describe it now, it almost approaches epiphany.

I have been arrested.

Accosted. Handcuffed. Miranded. Booked. Detained. Convicted. Sentenced. Imprisoned. (I know that a lot of you are licking your lips, thinking that all justice should move so swiftly, so “justly”. Only nine words separating real criminals from real time; and without even the least mention of attorneys! Paradisio.)

And it all began so innocently. (Oh, we’ve heard that one before!) The sun was obliging, the breezes faint and, well, breezy, the air was full of possibilities. One of which was a languorous stroll through the Dallas Arboretum—just one in the long, long list of cultural refinements and enhancement that have swept through the Metroplex like a Herculean broom recently. The Arboretum beckoned, and I complied. From the mansion, I could see the sailboats moving with imaginary gusts across White Rock Lake. It was a scene from a painting—all of it: the lake, the boats, the mansion, the Arboretum, the flowers—it was a painting.

It was Art.

It was Life.

It was a pity that someone should step in a commit sacrilege. Oh! There were clouds like cotton candy, and a murderer on the premises.

My hands were in my pocket, my step was light, my eyes feasted on the colors. I had what must have been a Sixties flashback, for I found myself communing with Nature—be it only inwardly at first.

There are no words that can adequately describe the state of delirium that overcame me (in fact, I used this as my defense). All of my previously blunted senses were screaming in ecstasy before tulips and irises and mums and even dads pushing Aprica strollers while swaying Canons bumped against their trim hips. There was no concrete, no glass-mirrored towers, and yet I was increasingly and uncontrollably in awe of my environment. There was only Nature—arrayed in Joseph’s coat—softly singing that song that will never be Top Forty, but always a classic.

The increments of joy are certainly impossible to measure, but as I stood and swayed, transfixed before this scene, I now recall that tall old trees were sighing; children were laughing, shouting, playing; bees were buzzing; the sunlight—already brilliant—seemed to grow even more brilliantly, more intensely (Mersault!) Like a champagne cork, my self-control gave way. I was no longer in control…

The officers who arrested me, considering the situation, were professional, restrained. In fact, as I look back on it, they were almost courteous. Except for broken glasses (a little tape does the trick!) and some mulch up my nose, I came away from the scene of my crime almost completely unscathed. A part of me forgives the officers for doing what they were told to—and hence, believed to be their appointed task; another part of me condemns them for being willing agents of control in a disturbed society. But I am the one in jail.

My crime? My vicious act? Did you miss it in the papers?

I kissed a tiger lily. Honestly. Kissed it—full on the petals. (I still awaken in a cold sweat as my nightmares recall those blood-curdling screams.)

From that point on, I was no longer in control of my life. Come to think of it, that moment when lips met lips, I’m not too sure I was in control either. Interesting.

But it was from that point on that I began to ride the swift sword of justice (at first, just a police cruiser to jail) through our benevolent criminal justice system.

Imagine for yourself (you’ve seen it a million times on TV) the booking process: the fingerprinting, surrendering my pocket comb—watching it be cataloged and stuffed into a big brown envelope, the mug shots. Like every other dangerous criminal, while my picture was taken, I held up in front of my face a number. My number. It could have been my Social Security number; it could have been my telephone number; it could have been the number of kilowatt hours of electricity I used during the month of August. But it wasn’t; it was just my number. A new number to add to my collection. You have one, too. A collection, that is.

Imagine that photo session and ask yourself, “Did he smile? Did he pout? Did they have to clean away any blood? Or did they leave it there? Did he glare? Did he clown around, forcing numerous retakes—winking, grinning, rolling his eyes (sort of like how I imagine Chuck Woolery or Pat Sajak would do it they were arrested)?” No. They just took them and moved on.

The time awaiting the trial seemed short. Rumors reached me that the Republican Women’s Caucus or the Junior League or somebody was picketing in front of the jail, demanding the death penalty. 

Mostly, I played the harmonica.

The trial was equally as fast, though it had the added dimension of being shrouded in sounds of confusion—mostly emanating from the attorneys. It wasn’t that they were using words that I didn’t understand, but it was the way that they used them. (I was threatened with contempt when I suggested to the judge that both lawyers be arrested for raping the English language.)

My attorney’s defense was simple: after the insanity plea failed, his new tactic was to assert that I had been coerced into my criminal activity by a worldly, and obviously quite provocative tiger lily. I was the victim, not the flower; and, more importantly, not those whose eyes and minds were forever corrupted by my act. He argued (quite vehemently) that in my precarious mental condition (Yuppie), I was unquestionably vulnerable to the suggestive, flirtatious nature of the tiger lily. When he finished, I wanted to applaud. I wanted to cry. I wanted to sing.

However, the prosecution was prepared. Cognizant of the widespread affliction in my generation that, as my attorney phrased it, led to my “precarious mental condition”, they produced a renowned horticulturist—a balding, bespectacled man with bow tie and pink cheeks—who coldly and clinically cataloged flowers according to their ability to intoxicate and overwhelm the sensibilities of even the strongest, most stout-hearted among us. He was quick to point out that the tiger lily’s allure is negligible; that, in fact, the one that I accosted had been planted only recently, and he doubted if it even had been pollinated!

There was an audible gasp in the courtroom. The prosecutor grinned. My hopes were torpedoed.

I don’t know if this is relevant or not to my case, to my life, to reality, to anything, but I do recall that, while this renowned horticulturist (why am I thinking of Dorothy Parker now?) described those flowers that do possess provocative powers (whose names I can’t recall, much less pronounce—so exotic and relatively unknown they are), he repeatedly dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief, tugged at his shirt collar, and asked forgiveness for his dry mouth which he quenched repeatedly with gulps of water.

Ironically--dramatically stunning though it might have been--this was a minor victory for the prosecution, for the criminal justice system, for America. For the DA’s office classified my act of bussing a flower as only a minor charge compared with the more heinous charge of—as they publicly described it, as it burned across the tops of both papers, as it passed through the tight lips behind closed doors throughout North Dallas and beyond—“unseemly social behavior”. (It’s a good thing that branding is no longer--and not yet--an acceptable form of punishment!)

The DA realized that the first charge might only result in a suspended sentence and/or probation, whereas the more serious charge—vigorously and energetically pursued—would result in “hard time”, in removing a proven threat to the mental tranquility of society from public view. Needless to say—as I am writing this from prison—they succeeded.

Word spread quickly, as words will do in prison, as to the nature of my crime, and I was met with a mixture of open-armed welcome and apprehension. During the bus ride to the correctional facility (the bluebonnets waved from the side of the road) I struggled not only with the discomfort of my prison uniform (polyester), but more importantly with what I felt to be the supreme injustice of my sentence. The length? No, that was unimportant because what was important was that I was remanded with the sole purpose of REHABILITATION! I am to leave here with a new suit as well as a new suit of armor around my heart.

By the time I had reached the prison gate, I had acquiesced to my situation, accepted it, and—being a Baby Boomer—began to look for ways to liberally invoke my social consciousness by improving the appalling conditions with which I was confronted. (Mind you, I was certainly aware that my motives might have been tinged with selfishness; but at heart, this depraved flower smoocher had to best interests of all the inmates--all the inhabitants of this microcosm, reflective of the entire world.)

My first reform involved correcting what passed for sustenance. As a realist, I began by suggesting small touches, like working with roux. A small step, but a sincere one. The next step, logically, was to procure through the cable television’s system the A&E Channel so that the inmates (and me) could enjoy the rhapsodic enactments of Othello and Kiss Me, Kate. But the main thing I wished to accomplish while incarcerated reflected a darker side, if you will. A heart of darkness, a partial shadow, disappearing down an alley.

Each morning, as I chant my mantra (Blake’s “The Garden of Love”), I ruminate not over the error of my ways, but over the errors that had been made. And a cold, hard (and somewhat pixie-ish) part of my soul has begun to plot my revenge—my tit for tat. This idea, this plan, this concept did not come as a result of a man being thrown into the lion’s den, thrown into the depraved arena of criminals so often seen on the silver screen, thrown on the carcass heap as the vultures circled. No, this plan came in with me, indeed, sprang from the same demented imagination that would dare kiss a flower. As unusual (disgusting?) the nature of my crime (pardon the pun), so would be my response to my sentence. Of more importance than taste buds, either culinary or cultural, I realize, is the general education of the inmates; and education that will inculcate in them another kind of appreciation.

So, I am going to hold a class each day. I will be plotting at the chalkboard. I will be diagramming a revolution. An upheaval. An assault. I am going to teach…

BOTANY!

(I imagine admission prices at the Arboretum will skyrocket.)

Kill and kill again?

The Las Vegas shooter, Stephen Paddock, was insane. I think we can all agree on that. He acted on a desire to kill as many people as possible. I think that we can all agree that it was not the act of slaughtering all of those people, but the desire to do so that qualified him as insane. Obviously, he had the arsenal necessary to carry out his desire. And having an arsenal of that size proves that he had the desire to inflict that much carnage. So, did the desire to commit such carnage cause him to amass all those weapons, or did the amassing of all those weapons give him the desire to use them in the way that he did? I think that question answers itself.
And therein lies the problem. A person must be insane to amass such an arsenal. Such a person must possess a belief that there is such an imminent threat just outside his front door that this much firepower is a rational response. This, of course, is delusional, and people like this should not be allowed to purchase or possess any type of firearm.
And therein lies the problem. Thousands, perhaps millions, of Americans--almost exclusively white, almost exclusively male--believe exactly this: there is, indeed, such a threat just around every corner, and that no personal arsenal can ever be big enough. To be unarmed--no, not to have the superior firepower to defeat any enemy--is foolishness to them that borders on the unpatriotic. There will be, there can be no discussion about guns in America as long as a significant percent of the population is deluded into believing that they are not insane and, hence, unfit to possess guns, when, in fact, they are.
Women who become obsessed with their outward appearance are often asked to pursue psychological evaluations before obtaining further cosmetic surgeries. Perhaps it is time for the same thinking to be applied to those who just can't have enough guns.

Ah, Huckabee; Ah, America!

This is in response to Mike Huckabee's lame speech about "God" and "our culture". I started to post it on Facebook, but it was getting too long. Imagine that!

As for the title: Thanks, Mr. Melville!

Re: Mike Huckabee's measured speech on "Where is God in all this?" He gets it partly right. We have "marched 'God' out of our culture". But not God, the Creator of all things. Rather, God the Concept. You can't kick out the Creator no matter how hard you try. And this "Concept" of God just happens to be someone who condoned everything that White people did in this country for two hundred years. Interesting.

Some guy said a while back that you can't serve two masters. Well, we've certainly tried to prove him wrong, haven't we? In true schizophrenic fashion, our culture tells us we can be both materialistic and spiritual at the same time. And, like idiots, we try. Just like when "Church" and "State" get together, the Church always comes out getting the raw end of the deal, so it is with our materialistic predilections and our spiritual yearnings. We give up our spiritual selves to our own detriment and the detriment of all those around us. With the goal of amassing more "things" we become selfish, egocentric, and insular. Now, think about the truly spiritual people that you know: you admire them, but do you emulate them? Would be dangerous, wouldn't it?

Huckabee clearly shows his secular bias when he claims that all this started fifty years ago. Curiously, that's about the same time that we started honoring the concept of freedom and liberty for ALL Americans. As long as spirituality is perceived as something "nice" (like Hummel figures on the mantel, as we've done in this country for hundreds of years) and not that which informs and directs every thought and every breath, we will be victims of our own folly--the latest example occurring in Newtown, Connecticut. Morals and ethics change because they are man-made. Spirituality springs from the Creator; therefore, it is timeless.

Just as we work in homeless shelters or food banks and never question why such disparities exist, so too do we flock to comfort those in great distress and all the time never ask why we have allowed things to get so bad.

It's not the ACLU and "atheists" who have "marched God out of our culture", it's the "well-meaning" Church with guidance and direction from Madison Avenue. "We have met the enemy, and he is us."

Attack of the Baby Boomers!

Before attending her first soccer practice, my daughter Laura, who must have been six or seven at the time, climbed in the back of the van, buckled up, and said, "I wonder what kind of trophy I'll get." Don't blame Anne or me! We didn't teach her that. But that's what her friends and her culture taught her to expect. Her teachers, too. What went wrong?

When I was growing up, I participated in organized sports because I enjoyed the feeling of the summer sun on my back. I loved running across grassy fields. As part of a team, I was given a task, and I wanted to handle that task and succeed because it felt good inside to test my limits and see what I was capable of. In some areas I was greatly successful: with Mr. Toler on the mound during recess in fifth grade, I could smack a softball a mile. With Bobby Joe Harris on the mound in Boys' Club baseball games, throwing a curve ball at twelve years old, however, I struck out every time. In fact, in the course of the season, I struck out 26 times in 30 at bats. There's frustration, and then there's facing reality: this four-eyed phenom was not cut out for baseball. Instead of asking them to pitch slower, I started playing softball. In 1975, I played on a team that travelled to Florida to play in a national tournament. We came in third. I got to play exactly one half of an inning for the duration of the entire tournament in, where else?, right field. No one hit the ball to me, thank God. I must have been an OK player, because I did start some games at second base.

Yes, being successful does wonders for the way you feel about yourself. If you don't have any under-pinnings of self-worth, failure can be devastating. All you have then is your actions and other peoples' reactions. You learn quickly to engage in only those things that carry no risk: of failure, of embarrassment, of ridicule.

Baby Boomers are terrified of failure; so afraid that they created a world for their childen in which failure is impossible. Failure, then, becomes not a learning experience, but a disease to be avoided. If no one is a failure, then everyone is a success, and the concept of success becomes meaningless. Like a soccer trophy. When I was growing up, there were no trophies except for first place, and really, who cared? Well, someone did care, and that bothered the Baby Boomers. First place suggested a hiearchy, and weren't we all about tearing down hierarchies? White over Black, Men over Women? Rich over Poor? In removing the struggle to overcome injustices, we black-balled the notion of struggle. No one should have to struggle. What?

My students today always ask me, "Is this for a grade?" These are some of the saddest words I can think of, and I hear them every day. After eighteen years of teaching at an alternative school, I finally entered the world of the "real" classroom. I learned very quickly that if you didn't put a grade on an assignment, a lot of kids wouldn't do it. These students were unable to make the connection between an education and the rest of their lives. School was an anomaly. The concept of becoming an adult is meaningless. I never would have dreamed of asking my teacher the purpose of an assignment. I assumed they cared about me and my education and were doing their part to make me a better person. I trusted them. Naive? Perhaps.

So, how did we get here? I believe that Baby Boomers, in their compassion for the underdog, the down-trodden, the abused have attempted to create an ethos of benevolence: a feeling that everything will be OK if only we avoid pain and suffering and failure. Everyone and everything is good, and we must resist the urge to stress excellence because not everyone can achieve it.

Some people want to call this ethos " Big Government", but it's much larger than that. And more ephemeral. This is what is so ironic about the movement to eliminate suffering: it weakens us all.

I'm definitely not for a return to "traditional values", an ultimately empty phrase. The Victorian Age has wreaked enough havoc as it is. I'm no reactionary. But a return to, and an examination of "Value" is desperately needed. Read "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" if you want to explore this concept further. It should be mandatory in high school. We, as a society, need to examine, debate, refine, and express with utmost clarity what we value in this country. It should start with an overt program-- in schools, on billboards, on stinky ol' TV-- that we value children. Of course it starts in the home, but it does take a village to raise a child.

Can we do this without mentioning God? I don't think so, but that's what the public forum is for.

"Can We Be Good Without God?" was an article in The Atlantic Monthly back in the '90s. It was written by Glenn Tinder, who is a Christian, so obviously, his answer was "No." The magazine really got slammed for publishing the article in the first place. The Church's contention that it holds a higher moral ground is specious, at best. I'm tired of amoral heathens thumping Bibles and wrapping themselves in the flag. They're doing their part to destroy the shreds of decency and morality that still exist in this nation. Which only leads to another problem: how do we re-establish respect for authority? That's a topic for another day. I think I'm rambling now. Perhaps your comments/reactions can lead me to a related topic. Let me know what you think!

The On-going battle between Love and Fear

Fear is easy. Love is hard. In a culture that celebrates what is easy, is it any wonder that being fearful feels as natural as breathing? The saddest thing about this is that the first victim of our inability to love is ourselves. Self-loathing seems to be the modern predicament, and the hardest part is that we're encouraged to hate ourselves everywhere we turn. Every TV commercial, every magazine ad, every billboard, in one way or another mocks us for thinking that we can be a whole, integrated person, content with what we have or even embarrassed at the excess we possess. Our world encourages us to crave Excess; we are supposed to be in a state of perpetual physical longing. We are discouraged from having an excess of Love, however, because when one is in that state, there is only one thing to do: give it away.

Is this predicament really any different from what people have experienced throughout time? Not really. What IS different is the immediacy of wish fulfillment. Not only can we have it, we can have it NOW! Immediate gratification, sadly, only exacerbates this feeling of never being filled, complete.

The corrective? Well, it's not popular these days. It's called "Spirituality". It is the part of us that we try to reason away. It's the part of us that Madison Avenue cannot sway. It's not a need for "religion", although that is often where it leads. It is merely the recognition that "No man is an island". Against the blaring horns of "rugged individualism" and the "self-made man", the human heart is constantly crying out for union, companionship, and community, for it is there that our wholeness lies. These are concepts that cannot be quantified or sold on stores' shelves. They can only measure in one of two ways: by the joy the heart feels when it is joined with others, or the anguish it feels when neglected.

The language of the needy individual surfaces from time to time, but it can be difficult to experience. It is given to us by the poets, the painters, and the artists. The good ones, at least. And who are the "good" ones? Ah! You must listen with your heart.

My One and Only Op-Ed Piece!

Published in The State on September 13, 2013

The “problem” of the homeless in Columbia will never be properly resolved as long as the approach of those searching for a solution is an “Us and Them” mentality. Only an “Us and Us” viewpoint can look at the problem from the proper perspective, and that’s very difficult for us Americans to do. Any time there is a “problem”, historically, we have had a tendency to look for a scapegoat or a trouble-maker, an “Other” that we can blame so as to absolve ourselves of any culpability in the problem. At the same time, there is the enormous hurdle we must first clear, which is the long, sad history of condescending Pity instead of Compassion applied to the problems of the “less fortunate” among us. Coupling this with the nagging reality that “less fortunate” in America has always meant anyone NOT “white, male, employed, and (usually) sober”, the complexity of the quandary increases dramatically.

Likewise, a humane response can never be articulated when the phrase “the homeless problem” is associated with the concept of “those who have become a blight on the community, a threat to economic viability, and an intrusion on one’s ‘right’ to be left alone”. Only when we can talk about the “homeless problem” in terms of “lack of jobs, lack of social services, and a lack of human decency toward one another” can we resolve the tensions created while maintaining our dignity. Sadly, the tenor of the discussion so far has been set by those who espouse the first of the two dispositions I’ve mentioned.

The impetus for this dangerous view of how our society should be shaped comes from a philosophy that claims kinship with the "inalienable rights" cherished by the Founding Fathers, yet this new Liberalism sweeping our nation actually only champions the “right to be left alone"--while eschewing the responsibilities that come with citizenship in this great country.  This is a radical departure from ideals concerning human conduct and relationships that have we cherished (and touted) for centuries, regardless of whether we sought to apply them or not. It is not a philosophy we can embrace without fateful consequences. As well-reasoned as so many of their proposals sound, they are ultimately only the baring of the fangs of a cornered wild animal, who will lash out violently, instinctively--concerned only with its survival. Back in the late '70s, Christopher Lasch said, "Self-preservation has replaced self-improvement as the goal of earthly existence." That's not a good thing.

Vote Andy Taylor for Sheriff!

Ah, the TV western: Gunsmoke. Bonanza. The Rifleman. Have Gun Will Travel. Rawhide. Wanted: Dead or Alive. Maverick. Lawman, and on and on. Everybody carried a gun, didn't they? When the Western moved to the city streets, the gunfire got turned up a notch, thanks to Charles Bronson and Clint Eastwood. It wasn't about guns anymore; it was about BIG guns. But who was the strongest law man on the TV screen? Hands down, it was Sheriff Andy Taylor. He demonstrated his strength by NOT wearing a gun. He was not just the strongest, but also the wisest. Today, we would even say he was "centered". But he also understood Fear, which is why Barney Fife was allowed to carry a gun. And carry one bullet in his pocket. Our nostalgia for the "good ol' days" too often leads us to think of the frontier myth, the man who did his talking with at least one gun in his hand. He was the "rugged individual". He needed no one as long as he was armed and prepared to shoot. When we think in these terms today, we are turning our backs on two of the cornerstones of civilization: community and compassion. And when this happens, the first thing to go is common sense.

We have created a world that gives us the illusion that we don't need each other. We can do our grocery shopping; buy our gasoline; do our banking; do most of our shopping for clothes, appliances, wine, flowers, and car insurance without ever interacting with another human being. The person in front of us in the check-out line who writes a check may be exercising his own freedom of choice, but to us, he is a nuisance and an unnecessary intrusion into our world. What is easiest and quickest is, by definition, what is best. In other words, the less substantive something is, the better. We only want what is on the surface, the appearance. We no longer want to wrestle with the complexities that lay in the depths of experience. But it is there that Life dwells. We choose instead to be a beautiful corpse. Thoreau put it this way: "Why should they begin digging their graves the moment they are born?"

The fear that we feel now-- the fear that we are encouraged to feel-- comes from this superficial way of life that we have chosen. But "The Depths" will not be ignored, and we can feel them constantly, despite our best efforts to deny their existence. This uneasiness translates into fear -- fear of the unknown,  fear of Death, fear of appearing foolish, but mostly, fear of others. And it is this fear that leads so many people to reach for their guns. It is not really for self-defense that so many people claim to need firearms. Rather, it is the fear of being exposed as a vulnerable, weak, and needy person. In other words, it is the fear of confronting our own humanity. We have created a world that makes us feel god-like: informed (omniscient) and powerful (omnipotent). It is the most beautiful illusion Man has created, and despite what History tells us, despite what sacred writing tells us, we continue to strive to make this illusion our reality.

Andy Taylor saw the humor in this hubris. He saw the irony as well. He allowed Barney Fife his one bullet because he knew that deep within himself lay that same fear and that same desire to appear powerful in the face of danger. Oh yes, he certainly reached for that trusty shotgun of his, but always as a last resort, not as the kind of knee-jerk response we could expect from Barney. Law enforcement to Sheriff Taylor meant keeping the community united, not "locking up the bad guys" who, in Barney's eyes, seemed to lurking around every corner. Every day, both locally and nationally, we are subjected to situations that ask us to make tough choices about how we are going to respond to threats. How we view those threats is just as important as how we seek to confront them. If we see them as threats to our own personal safety and security, we will allow expediency to come to the forefront. If we see them as threats to the cohesion of our neighborhoods and communities, we will look for solutions that benefit everyone, even those whom we might perceive as part of that threat.

I don't see us thinking clearly in the days and years ahead, at least not in the near future. History tells us that people who are united in their goal of building a tower to the skies will ultimately fail. But from failure can come success. However, we need to remember that the myth of the rising of the phoenix includes a pile of ashes. The phoenix doesn't rise from towers falling or bridges collapsing or infrastructure crumbling or a certain number of scandals. It rises from the destruction caused by a conflagration. As horrible as this sounds, we should take comfort that  those who emerge on the other side will be beneficiaries because Experience is an excellent teacher.  But at the same time we know that the same old story will play out again, and committees will be formed in due time to build yet another tower to the sky.

"When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?"