Dog Food Tales

 
Dog food.

It's considered such a lowly source of nutrition.

It may be healthy, of course; otherwise, we wouldn't feed it to our beloved family pets.  But judging by its looks and odor, we rarely assume it would taste good to us.  And those few hardy souls who've ever tasted it on a dare never seem eager to make it a regular part of their diet.

Dry, it can be even less appealing than those unappealing dry cereals doctors say are supposed to be the healthiest for us.  Moist, or in what dog food manufacturers call "gravy," dog food takes on the texture, appearance, and even smell of leftover human food that's turned bad in the back of the refrigerator.

Our dogs don't seem to complain too much, but I haven't known a dog yet that, just like you and me, prefers people food instead!  That right there probably tells us something about the flavor quality of conventional dog food.  Which makes dog food the butt of many jokes and disparaging comparisons.  "That looks worse than dog food," we'll say.  Or, "I wouldn't let my dog eat that."

Poor dogs.

Then consider this:  It has been said that American Christians today spend more money on dog food than they do on cross-cultural missions.

Do you believe that?

Dr. Michael Oh serves as the executive director of the Lausanne Movement, a group founded by Billy Graham that seeks to promote Christian evangelization worldwide.  He said it during an interview for the Gospel Coalition's website.  The statistic originally comes from Leonard Ravenhill, a British evangelist best known for being a spiritual mentor to the late musician Keith Green.

It's just convicting enough to sound accurate, although I can't find anything to substantiate its claim.  For one thing, what was Ravenhill's definition of an American Christian?  There are so many varieties.  Besides, has anybody ever done a study to determine how much American Christians spend on dog food, or cat food, or pet food in general?  Then too, how would somebody determine a dollar amount for what American Christians contribute to cross-cultural missions?  Would it be by how much they individually donate, or a percentage of what they donate to their church, or what they donate to para-church missions agencies?

Veterinarians say people food is usually bad for dogs.  So, considering the price of quality dog food these days - the stuff that isn't made with artificial fillers and questionable byproducts in China - how can American Christians NOT spend a lot of money on dog food?

Still, it makes the point that although dogs and pets in general are not a specific part of our faith walk, it's an approximation of a likely truth that American Christians are just jaded enough about foreign missions to spend more money on relative luxuries like pet ownership than they are to help fulfill a basic command from the Bible.  You know, the Great Commission?

Go ye therefore, and preach Christ's Gospel to every nation?

Do you spend more on dog food than you give to support the Great Commission?

I don't have any pets, so do I have to answer that question?

Back when I was working for a freight brokerage in New York City, I got a call one afternoon from a potential customer who had a hot lead on a job lot of dog food.  A freight brokerage, just so you'll know, arranges to ship goods from a supplier to a customer, and the firm for which I worked specialized in international exports from America to places all over the world.  And this guy who called our office with his request about dog food wanted to ship it from here to Bulgaria.*

So, I started collecting the information I'd be needing to get some shipping quotes.  His location, whether or not he was using a letter of credit, and to whom the dog food would be consigned.  We also briefly discussed the process involved.  This potential customer had never shipped dog food to Europe before.  He was acting on a tip he'd gotten about really cheap dog food, and somebody had provided him a contact in the recently-dissolved USSR who would buy it from him in Bulgaria, on the spot.

"Wow," I commented casually to the guy on the phone.  "They must have a lot of really hungry dogs over in Bulgaria."

"Oh - this isn't for pets," the man replied.  "This is for people to eat."

I stopped in my tracks.

He wanted to ship these containers of dog food to a foreign country for human consumption.  I asked him to repeat himself, figuring I'd mis-heard him.

"Yeah, the Bulgarians are starving over there," the guy confirmed, and I could practically hear his glee over the telephone.  "They're so hungry in the aftermath of the collapse of the Soviet Union, they'll eat anything to survive.  Isn't it great I got this super cheap deal?"

I don't remember how I ended that call, but when I hung up the receiver (remember those pre-cell-phone days?) I turned to my boss and said, "I can't process this request for a quote."

"Why not," my boss wanted to know.  So I told him that the guy wanted to ship dog food to Bulgaria because people there were so hungry, they'd eat it themselves.  I remember that my boss's face clouded over, too, but he was the owner of the company, and bottom lines meant more to him than to me.  He did take the information to work up a quote, and he figured it was just unusual enough a shipment that if there were any official questions from customs, it might sound better to the authorities if the paperwork was arranged by the owner of the company, instead of a regular employee.

So thankfully, I didn't get any demerits for being unwilling to perform a basic function of my job.

And, fortunately, when my boss called the guy back with some figures, he learned that the deal had already fallen through, but I can't remember why.  So my boss was relieved, too, that he didn't actually have to go through with such a questionable shipment.  We talked about it in the office, amongst a couple of us, and the possibility was floated that if food was that scarce in Bulgaria, that maybe dog food was better than nothing at all.  Somebody checked the customs regulations (we had books and books of them in our office; this was before the Internet, too!), and there was nothing illegal about such a shipment.  Dog food is nutritious, after all.  But none of us were happy with the thought that somebody was still trying to earn a profit off of the misery of people he'd likely never have to meet.

Necessity may be the mother of invention, but maybe it can also be the stepchild of abuse.

So, as I heard about us American Christians spending more on dog food than missions today, my mind floated back to that day on the 25th floor of 21 West Street, where I used to work, and had received that call about sending dog food to the starving people of Bulgaria.  The whole episode left a terrible taste in my mouth, as if I'd eaten some of that dog food myself.  I thought then that maybe, if the people of Bulgaria were that desperate, I should look into whether or not some humanitarian organization was already shipping human food over there.  The church I attended, Manhattan's venerable Calvary Baptist, had an extensive network of international compassion ministries; maybe one of them could help.

But then somebody in the office mused that maybe the reason the dog food deal fell apart was the customer in Bulgaria learned that the United Nations or some other relief group was bringing in real food to prevent a humanitarian crisis.  And then, as things tend to do, more calls came into the office regarding shipments to other places, and before I knew it, the Bulgaria situation had been shifted to a back burner.

And then it disappeared from the stove completely.

It's what usually happens when we're presented with an immediate challenge, isn't it?  If we don't act quickly on it, like this customer with the dog food deal was trying to do, something else can just as quickly divert our attention.  The diversion can be just as worthwhile, but usually, it's just more busywork, or something less demanding, or perhaps some desirable recreational activity.

That's why, when I hear things like dog food and international missions, the ease with which the Bulgarian situation dropped from my consciousness - despite my strong stance on it initially - still can prick my conscious.  Not that I think God is blaming me for whatever aid may not have arrived for the Bulgarian people.  But the truth that cross-cultural missions is an ongoing responsibility for God's people, and it's a responsibility that doesn't lose its importance, urgency, or impact on the lives of those it can touch.

Whatever mass starvation existed in Bulgaria is long over.  But the Great Commission is as valid today as it was when Christ charged His church with it over two thousand years ago.

That's a long time in which to grow complacent, isn't it?  A longer shelf-life than dog food, even.

But that doesn't make it any less efficacious, does it?

* I say it was Bulgaria, but it may have been Hungary.  Sorry I can't be positive which one it was.

People Art Culture's Value

Dum.  Dum.  Dum.

The macabre drumbeat of devolution continues from Detroit.

This time, it's a suspicious fire that destroyed part of the city's Heidelberg Project, an eclectic display of old junk alongside abandoned houses that, since its inception in 1986, has managed to cultivate a loyal following of dystopia fans.

Ostensibly, the Heidelberg Project consists of "interactive sculptures" recapturing elements of decay from within the urban fabric and rehabilitating them to serve a more honorable purpose.  In addition to abandoned homes, folk artist Tyree Guyton has repurposed abandoned cars, stuffed toys, broken furniture, shopping carts, and other detritus of his defunct city in a colorful jumble along Heidelberg Street that, to the uninformed, may look more like an organized garbage dump than Postmodern art.

But in an unfortunate twist for the Heidelberg Project, one person's trash not only has become another person's treasure, but yet another person's target.

Early this morning, Detroit's beleaguered firefighters were called to the scene of a blaze burning through what was called the "House of Soul," one of the abandoned houses along Heidelberg Street Guyton had reclaimed as one of his interactive sculptures.  For the House of Soul, also called the "Record House," its interactivity occurred when Guyton had nailed old vinyl records onto it, creating a look as if the house had a severe acne problem.

Wealthy suburbanites have the venerable, stately Detroit Museum of Art, whose revered billion-dollar collection could be raided any day now to help pay off the city's creditors.  Meanwhile, Detroit's inner-city residents have a street painted with multi-colored polka dots and lined by abandoned buildings against which junk has been stacked and tacked.  Although lawyers and judges may still pick apart the DMA, two previous mayoral administrations have already tried to tear down Guyton's claim to fame, bulldozing several of the early homes he'd decorated, in a sign that not even all Detroiters see his Heidelberg Project positively.

Indeed, it's so tempting for those of us mystified by the unconventional infatuations of new-age cultural expressionism to scoff at what seem to be mere contrivances in the name of "art."  What's the difference between a bunch of desperate new urbanists branding the Heidelberg Project a legitimate expression of civic angst and social creativity, and arsonists seeing just a pile of expired kindling to burn?

Guyton's website says that visitors have come from all over the world to marvel at his kitschy creations, and he hosts workshops and other events to help inner-city kids develop their creative sides.  I'm not quite sure how encouraging ten-year-old boys to paint colorful dots on porches translates into, say, eliminating graffiti vandalism, but apparently this is what a lot of people call progress in a part of town that has seen little of it in any variety.

Although, having said that, I must admit that Guyton's whimsical "Dotty-Wotty" House, also called the "New White House," whose entire two-story exterior is completely covered in colorful dots, is itself oddly fascinating.  If I were a bit more open-minded about such things, I might be persuaded to concede that at least some of the components of the Heidelberg Project, taken individually, could have more merit than the sum of their whole, which appears unable to sustain an impression of purpose.

As it is, as of this morning, there's even less of that whole than there used to be, with the burning of the House of Soul.

Fire officials have labeled today's fire suspicious, and it follows another fire in October that destroyed another building in the Heidelberg Project, and three other smaller fires this year.  Frankly, I'd heard about the other fires, since I've begun to follow - like a gawker at a train wreck - the increasingly bizarre news streaming out of crumbling Detroit.  I've already seen the photos from previous fires in the Heidelberg Project of burned-out houses lined with singed dolls, warped plastic, and blackened scrap metal, but they never really caught my interest, until today, when the piecemeal destruction of Guyton's dreams became more pronounced.

It's becoming ruin porn for ruin porn.  Poor Detroit.

But still, is it art?  Will curators from New York's prestigious Metropolitan Museum or France's Louvre now rush to Detroit to salvage what's left of the Heidelberg Project before it succumbs to what appears to be an arsonist's torch?  It's pretty much just been a collection of self-appointed ambassadors of the bohemian urban grunge scene who've made an avant-garde fuss over a project most other people would call "too little too late."  Labeling the Heidelberg Project as art probably doesn't do any disservice to Detroit, for obvious reasons, but does the term "art" get abused by applying it to such exhibits?

Even if you do want to call it art, however, would you want to live next to it?  And even if you think you would, plenty of other people wouldn't.  That's not to say that a democratic majority gets to decide what's art and what isn't, but sometimes, junk stacked against an abandoned house is simply junk stacked against an abandoned house.  And since we live in an approximation of a free country, if you still want to call that art, you can't make me agree with you that it is.

Which brings us to value judgments, which makes some people look at the Heidelberg Project as too important to burn.  And then there are people like me.  Yes, I feel sorry for Guyton and his supporters, because I don't think somebody should just be able to come along and torch something.  But I still don't think what Guyton and his supporters have is the same caliber of art as what's sitting, awaiting its fate, over at the DMA.

Who's right?

This is a question about the value of cultures, isn't it?  So often, we like to pay lip service to the idea that all cultures have equal validity, and that we should respect people who do things differently than the way we do things, because that's the way their culture tells them to do those things.

Sometimes, in cases like the Heidelberg Project, it doesn't really matter which cultural perspective is the correct one, or the superior one.  But many times, it does.  Yet we prefer to avoid the question by cloaking it in an admirable diplomacy.  If we don't like the way other people do things, it's because we don't understand their culture, and we don't appreciate their culture.  Not that - just maybe - either culture simply does things in an inferior, or superior, way.

My point is this:  not all cultures are the same.  We don't all see things the same way all the time.  Forget about debating the merits of the Heidelberg Project for a moment, and consider what the overall debate regarding those merits represents.  Culture itself can be arbitrary.  Particular cultures can't automatically have equal value, can they?  The values celebrated by particular cultures don't derive their validity from their very existence as a cultural value.

In this case, I don't find much appeal in what the Heidelberg Project has created, and I can't see the connection between what they've created and how that's supposed to translate into the sustainable urban renewal they claim it could.  But I can't say what they're doing is sinful, or wrong, or immoral, or wasteful, or corrupting.  I'm not sure about all of Guyton's motives, or the motives of his supporters, or the reasons for why they're apparently flocking to this one street in Detroit to take in the spectacle.  But I'm going to make a value call, and say that if it came down between the masterpieces at the DMA, and the polka dots at the Heidelberg Project, I think the city should try and protect the DMA's collection first.

Some might say that's economics talking.  At a billion dollars, the DMA's masterpieces are known to be worth far more than Guyton's efforts.  So in a way, the art world has already decided which culture is more valuable.  See?  These types of value judgments are made every day, and civilization as we know it hasn't fallen apart - yet.  That's because even though we say all cultures have value, we know they really don't.

What has value in these cultures are the people within these cultures.  That's why I say that I feel sorry for Guyton as arsonists are targeting his Heidelberg Project.  I don't really like it, but I sympathize for its creator, because while he's trying to make a positive statement about some pretty depressing circumstances in his city, at least one of his fellow residents appears to care not one iota about that.

By the way, what's that arsonist's culture like?  The ghetto culture of crime, mayhem, drugs, and nihilism?  How valuable is that?

Do you see how the acquiescence to cultural diversity is itself an ethereal pretense?  It's an impossibility.  What we should be striving for is the respect of people for their humanity, regardless of their culture.  After all, what is culture, but a social fabrication that likely has as much negatives in it as positives?

It may seem like splitting hairs, since so many of us are hardened products of our culture, and what we do and how we do it are literal extensions of our socialization.  Sometimes, the distinctions can seem trivial, such as with the different mindsets that ascribe value to art.  But enshrining culture can lead us to accepting norms and practices that may not be helpful.  So why persist with the fallacy?

Of all the lessons Detroit's downfall has taught us, and continues to teach us, learning to differentiate between things that are helpful and detrimental to cultures remains one of the most crucial.

We all have equal value as people, but the cultures in which we live do not.
_____

Update:  Yet another home burned Thursday, November 21, at the Heidelberg Project.  This time, it was the Penny House, and once again, officials suspect arson.

Yippie! Hippie Trip Over for VW's Bus

They liked 'em so much, they got two of 'em.

No, not little boys, although they got two of us, too.  But those old Volkswagen buses.  My parents bought two of them in a row.

You know - the flower power hippiemobiles from the 1960's, with the big, googly-eyed headlights, the front seats perched over the front wheels, and an engine in the rear that emitted a blue haze even when you drove it new off the dealership's lot.

VW's iconic bus hasn't been sold in the United States in years, and production at its last bastion of relevance, in Sao Paulo, Brazil, is going to end next month.  Never a marvel of German reliability, the bus lost favor in most of the developed world when its interior spaciousness - it's best feature - became available in better-made and more stylish SUVs.  Even Brazil has finally enacted safety requirements for all new vehicles sold there that officially make the bus obsolete.  It would cost VW too much to try and re-engineer things like air bags and anti-lock brakes to its bare-bones people hauler.

My father developed a taste for Volkswagens while he was stationed in Germany during the Korean War.  He served as part of a peace-keeping effort while Europe re-built after World War II, and was there as VW, legendary even back then, was re-building its line of passenger vehicles.  The Beetle had officially been known as Type 1, and the bus, introduced in 1950, was officially known as Type 2.

Oddly enough, in the 1970's, VW would try a crazy four-door concept car that looked like a cross between a Third Reich military vehicle and a Beetle on steroids, and call it the "Thing."  Thing 1?  Thing 2?  Maybe Dr. Seuss designed for VW when he wasn't writing children's literature?

At any rate, by the time my parents had gotten married in the mid-60's, the VW bus had already been claimed by liberal radicals for its quirky looks and simple practicality.  Why my parents - born-again, straight-laced, button-down evangelicals - were attracted to the bus, I  never did understand.  Granted, it was bigger than the Beetle, but I think it did make some people assume some totally wrong things about my parents when they'd first see them driving a hippie vehicle into a church parking lot.

Dad, me (feeding the rabbit), a relative from Finland
(wearing a Euro-chic pantsuit - this was July 1972, after all),
Mom, and my brother, at home in upstate New York,
with the blue VW bus behind us,
next to one of Dad's American-made tanks

I absolutely loathed those two buses.  The first one was blue with a white top, and the second was tan with a white top.  I can't remember what happened to the first one, but it couldn't have been its remarkable reliability that convinced my folks to replace it with another one.  They didn't have air conditioning either, and their heaters were laughably weak.  It figures they were probably made in either Mexico or Brazil, VW's main production centers in the Western Hemisphere.  Who in those countries ever needed a functional heater?

Regular readers of my blog know that I grew up in upstate New York.  Heaters are essential for cars for most of the year up there!  I remember ice crusting on the INSIDE of our buses' windows.  Top that off with thin vinyl seat coverings, and lots of painted metal inside, and you got a nifty walk-in, drivable refrigerator from November through April.

Not that my brother and I didn't find ways to enjoy our rides in those things.  This was back in the day before seat belts, and when we were small, both my brother and I could fit, standing up, in the front passenger seat space, where there was a handrail built into the narrow dashboard.  We'd stand up, the two of us, holding onto the handrail, as Mom sailed over those country roads north of Oneida Lake, none of us buckled up, not a car seat in sight.  My brother and I had our tiny skulls mere inches away from the broad windshield, and I remember that it was only when our heads kept banging up against the glass that we were convinced that we'd grown too tall to keep riding in that position.

Dad, meanwhile, always got big, American-made tanks from his company to drive, like those massive Ford Country Squire station wagons that were almost as long as football fields.  He'd drive off on business, plowing around the Northeast in those big, air-conditioned cars, all by himself, while his entire family bounced around rural New York in a tinny metal box.  I listen to new parents today gushing about all of the safety features on their bulky, expensive family haulers, and I smile in amazement at what we survived when I was a kid.

We were only ever in one traffic accident, in the tan van with the white top.  A high school teacher, oddly enough, ran a stoplight and hit us broad-side one Wednesday evening as we were on our way to church.  The teacher had just left a school function, and was closely followed by other high schoolers driving home as well, and they all passed by the accident scene, with their teacher standing in the middle of the intersection, next to his crumpled blue sedan.  None of us were hurt, but the bus stayed in the shop for quite a while as replacement parts found their way up from South America to New York's hinterlands.

Back then, Mom's parents lived in coastal Maine, and we'd drive up there every Thanksgiving, and during the summers.  I remember we usually took Dad's cars, since they were more comfortable and more suited for highway traveling, but a couple of times, we took those hideous VW vans.

The thing about driving from rural upstate New York to rural coastal Maine at Thanksgiving time is the weather.  Always bitterly cold.  Usually with precipitation that isn't necessarily in liquid form.  I remember Dad gingerly driving those buses along narrow back roads in New England ("all the crazy drivers use the Interstates," he'd explain, or, "it's the scenic route" when all we could see was white snow).  Of course, those roads were all ice and blowing snow because the snowplows were all out plowing... the major highways and Interstates!  And we'd always leave Maine to head back home at some unearthly hour, like 5am on the Sunday after Thanksgiving.  I don't think those vans warmed up until the afternoon sun hit them - I remember Mom piling blankets on top of us to keep us from matching the ice on the inside of the windows.

When Dad was transferred down here, I was so relieved that we could start a new life in Texas without the stigma of a VW bus.  My parents decided that the rust beginning to show on the tan van, thanks to the salt New York applies to its winter roads, would look awkward down in Texas, where it never snows (yeah, right - it snows here, but they never put salt on the roads when it does).  So Dad found a sucker - I mean, a buyer - at the Exxon gas station where we regularly filled-up, at the I-81 interchange in the little village of Central Square, north of Syracuse.  One of the guys had worked on that van so much, he probably figured he'd replaced everything on it at least once already.  Dad hated parting with it, but I was so happy when we pulled away from that Exxon station, leaving that bus in its parking lot for the last time.  But even then, it looked rather forlorn, sitting there among all of the "normal" American-made cars.

Indeed, the VW bus was never conventional, at least in the United States.  It was always odd, weird, and a vehicular misfit.  In the 1990's, a later iteration of the bus, called the Eurovan, managed to revive Volkswagen's passenger van franchise for a few years.  It was even boxier than the buses my parents owned, but it had a front-mounted engine that required a snout, making it look less funky.  Those were also manufactured in Germany, adding an air of sophistication that the rear-engine buses from South America never had.  The buses still being built today in Brazil, whose production will end by the end of the year, are the old style like my parents had.

Apparently, down in South America, the traditional Type 2 has developed a reputation if not for reliability, then at least for being easily fixable.  With a relatively uncomplicated engine, even shade tree mechanics can keep one going at minimal cost.  And obviously, heating one is no problem at all.  Anyway, since so many have been built down there, it's not like VW busses are going to disappear from their streets anytime soon.

However, I can't recall the last time I saw one of any vintage here in north Texas.

While Brazilians are reportedly mourning the end of the line for their distinctive buses, this is one death of an icon that I won't be mourning at all.  Usually, I don't like change, but when my family got rid of its last bus, I couldn't wait to replace it with a conventional sedan.  When we moved to Texas, my parents bought a silver Ford Fairmont, with a burgundy interior, and I was thrilled that it had a trunk, and nobody could walk from the front seat to the middle seat to the back seat!

The Fairmont didn't even have a middle seat.  Wow - we were moving up in the world.

Today, my parents own a Chrysler minivan, and once again, you can walk from the front seat, to the pair of bucket seats in the middle, to the back seat.  There's not as much room to do it in like the VW buses had, but in terms of practicality, functionality, and space, this new generation of minivans has taken what those old hippiemobiles started and made it mainstream.  So mainstream, in fact, that the initial burst of enthusiasm for minivans that followed Chrysler's re-introduction of the concept back in the 1980's made them synonymous with fleece warm-ups in the style department.  They're the kind of vehicles grandparents drive.  Which suits my folks, since they have five grandkids.

The last time I was in the market for a new car, I briefly considered buying a minivan, since they have the headroom I prize as a tall person, and the versatility I thought I needed.  But when Mom asked me what kind of vehicle I was looking for, and I mentioned a couple of minivans, she scowled.

"Single men don't buy minivans," she advised.  So I ended up getting another Honda Accord.

At least nobody has ever assumed I might be a hippie.

80 Years, One Church

When you were eight years old, were you going to church?

If so, imagine what it would be like if you were still attending that same church now.  No matter how old you are today.

Now imagine you're 88 years old, and you're still a member of that church you joined back when you were eight.  Eighty years ago!

Lilly Stone lives in the tiny east Texas town of Chireno, and last Thursday, she turned 88.  She's been a member of the town's United Methodist Church since 1933, which by any standard, is a pretty impressive feat.  There isn't really any type of registry that keeps track of church membership records and who's been a church member the longest of any American, but if there was, don't you imagine 80 years in the same church qualifies Stone for some sort of award?

Or maybe it qualifies the church for an award.  I can think of at least one church whose pastor was glad when I left, because I asked too many questions, and stuck my nose in places where it wasn't appreciated.

For her part, Stone was presented a plaque from officials in the Methodist denomination acknowledging her achievement.

Perhaps it comes as little surprise that Chireno is a rather small town, with a population of about 400 people, out in the middle of noplace, kinda half-way between Nacogdoches and San Augustine, if that tells you anything about the area.  And unless you're from east Texas, it likely doesn't, which is what I mean.

Pleasant enough, probably, if you enjoy small-town life on a really small scale.  Probably not a lot of crime, and a place where you know just about everybody, and just about everybody knows you.

The kind of place where a lot of kids grow up and leave, because of the scant job prospects, and the slow pace of life that teenagers don't realize is attractive until they start having kids themselves.  And by then, it's often too late to change gears.

Meanwhile, people like Stone, whose maiden name was Atkison, progress through life, and suddenly, if they've lived long enough, they're celebrating 80 years of membership in the same church where they were raised.  Granted, it's not like Stone has been spoiled for choice of churches to attend in Chireno, since the Methodists appear to be the only game in town.  There's their tidy Methodist church, occupying what appears to be the best-maintained building in town, a Capital One bank branch, a time-worn grocery store with burglar bars on its windows (what was that about "not a lot of crime"?), and an air conditioner repair shop.

Hey, this is Texas, after all.  It gets hot here.

Oh - and a dinky U.S. Post Office, and a defunct Exxon gas station.

Now, we could be really mean-spirited, and ponder all of the plausibles about what kind of person Lilly Stone is to be content with the same small-town church all her 88 blessed years.  But actually, wondering such things probably says more about us, and maybe even betrays a little bit of envy - or contempt - on our part that somebody could be that content in that type of church in that type of rural community.  So let's not make this about her, but about you and me.

Were you going to church when you were eight years old?  Where was it?  What denomination was it?  How big was it?  Does it still exist today, that you know of?  And what about your faith?  Has it progressed much beyond what it was like when you were eight?

For me, the church my family attended when I was eight no longer exists.  At least, its congregation doesn't.  I believe the actual church building is still standing, and has been adopted as an ancillary facility by a church in the next village.  I'm not naming names, since I don't know any of the details around the closure of that old church, but if you're a long-time reader of my essays, you know I grew up on the north shore of Oneida Lake, in central New York State.  That's a part of the country that's been hit hard economically, losing a lot of its employment and population throughout the 1970's, 80's, and 90's.  The major employer for the community in which that church was located moved its manufacturing overseas during those years, and eventually went bankrupt.  For all I know, my old church folded not because of any internal strife, but simply because too many members had to look for jobs outside the increasingly barren Empire State.

I didn't have any friends my age in that church, although I remember the Sunday School department having a couple dozen kids in it.  Our classrooms were on the second floor, at the end of a balcony that was so narrow, it only had two pews in it!  The sanctuary was pretty ugly, painted a light green; freezing in the winter, and stuffy in the summer.  There were two elderly ladies who always sat in front of us, wearing those little pillbox hats covered in black lace, and one of them had a problem with flatulence, a condition that is particularly bizarre for eight-year-old boys.  I think our mother lived in mortal fear of my brother or me bursting out with innocent yet uncontainable laughter after one of the poor old lady's episodes.  Mom may have been strict, but she knew that some things were just unavoidable for little boys.  Even hers!

Okay, so have I grown up since then?  Well, maybe not much, since the flatulence story remains one of my strongest memories of that church.  But what about you?  Transport yourself back to when you were eight, and compare yourself then to who you are today.

Hopefully, this little exercise provides some encouragement for you, no matter where you are on your faith walk.

Then consider all the churches you may have attended since then.  Why did you leave them?  Or, theologically, why did they leave you?

What is the one church that you've attended the longest?  And why has that been?

Eighty years is a long time to have attended the same church.  Thankfully, our spirituality isn't dependent upon how long we attend a particular church, or even church in general.

Let's just make sure we get more out of however long we attend church than just a plaque.

Saints, for One, and All

Adapted from an earlier essay...


Sainthood.

Evangelicals have a problem with the concept, because we bristle at anything and any term most commonly associated with Roman Catholicism.  Catholics make people saints, which is something evangelicals think only God can do.

Technically, of course, whenever somebody professes faith in Christ for the first time, they become a saint, don't they?  So yes, only God can make a mortal a saint.  But we often use the word "saint" as some sort of special honorific, like the Catholics do.

So confusion over the whole thing is understandable.  But it's also unfortunate.

For example, today is traditionally considered All Saints Day in Western Christianity.  But few evangelicals observe it, mostly because of the "saints" thing, and we may be missing out on something.  All Saints Day serves as a commemoration worth observing because it draws on the victory Christ secured over death by His resurrection, and how that victory translates to our own mortality.  While most unsaved people fear death, believers in Christ benefit from a unique perspective on the end of life on this planet.  Since everyone who is saved will, upon their death, be automatically in the presence of our Lord for eternity, what fear should we hold about dying?

"Death, where is thy victory," remember? "Grave, where is thy sting? The sting of death is sin, and sin is the law. But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord, Jesus Christ!" (1 Corinthians 15:55-57)

Granted, "how" we actually die is still something of which most of us remain apprehensive. And you'd be hard-pressed to find Scripture that tells us the process of dying is something we should anticipate, or we shouldn't fight against. Doctors and medical science have been gifted by God to honor life, and the advances in prolonging life our researchers have been able to achieve come not at the hubris of mankind, but the kindness of God in the form of Common Grace.

Still, when our time comes, who wouldn't prefer drifting away to heaven while in a deep sleep?  Yet how many of us do?  The point is that no matter how we die, where we end up is not in dispute, or a dreadful place.  Even if the streets weren't paved with gold, and that was only a metaphor for bliss, simply spending eternity in God's presence would certainly be far better than anything we could possibly experience in this life.

Which brings us back to All Saints Day, where the emphasis isn't on a morbid bunch of corpses, but on the reality that life is not confined to flesh.  Life continues regardless of what happens to our bones, skin, and organs.  Humans are eternal creatures, except that people who do not know Christ have no reason to anticipate the afterlife.  And it's not just the afterlife being acknowledged by All Saints Day.  Originally, the observance was created to honor martyrs of the faith, and remind the rest of us that even though God never guarantees that our life here on Earth will be idyllic, He does promise us to be with us no matter what we face, or the price we pay for claiming His Son's lordship of ourselves.

We can also use All Saints Day to remember the sacrifices made by not only martyrs, but also pastors, and cross-cultural missionaries, and even our believing parents and ancestors, that have contributed to legacy of faith that is expressed through the generations.  God works through individual relationships, but He created the broader community of faith for the perpetual propagation of His Gospel.  What's more, if we know something of the sufferings endured by these people who have gone on to their eternal glory before us, the Holy Spirit can use that perspective to embolden us in our own path of sanctification.  All Saints Day is not a time of sorrowful reflection, but joyful confidence in the sovereignty and faithfulness of our Savior!

So don't let the over-Catholicised term "saints" throw you.  If you've been bought by the blood of Christ, you're a saint, whether you always act like one or not.  Saints exist to worship God and enjoy Him forever, which is exactly what those saints who've gone before us are doing in real time right now, in Heaven.

Paradoxically, while we look back at the example of the "Church Triumphant," as dead saints are euphemistically called, we also look ahead to our own glorification with the end of our journey through sanctification to the feet of Christ.  In heavenly bodies.  Forever!

Kinda bizarre, huh?  But as long as we focus on Christ, and not on how it all doesn't make sense to us this side of Heaven, we can remind ourselves that God has not revealed everything to us yet, and that's for not only His glory, but our good.  Besides, yet another benefit in All Saints Day is reminding ourselves that we need to trust God that He will accomplish those things that impact our mortality in His time and way.

Faith.  Remember?

That's why observing All Saints Day can be so helpful, since faith is "the substance of things hoped for, and the evidence of things not seen" (Hebrews 11:1).  Honoring those saints who've already won their battles against flesh and the principalities of evil here on Earth helps us put into perspective the merits of God's love for us and the sacrifice of His Son.  And helps remind us of the eternal reward for us saints, and all who follow after us.

A common hymn at Presbyterian funerals is "For All the Saints," a wonderfully appropriate tribute to the life God provides each of His children in their walk towards their Heavenly home.  Consider its text here, and think about the saints in your life and family who've gone on before you, and the example you're setting for your sphere of influence as you continue your life journey even now.

After all, if the Lord tarries, someday, the church may be singing this song, and thinking about you as they do.

For all the saints who from their labors rest,
who Thee by faith before the world confessed,
Thy name, oh Jesus, be forever blest. Alleluia!

Thou wast their Rock, their Fortress, and their Might!
Thou, Lord, their Captain in the well-fought fight.
Thou, in the darkness drear, their one true Light. Alleluia!

O may Thy soldiers faithful, true, and bold,
fight as the saints who nobly fought of old,
and win with them the victor's crown of gold. Alleluia!

The golden evening brightens in the west.
Soon, soon to faithful warriors comes their rest.
Sweet is the calm of paradise the blest. Alleluia!

But, lo! There breaks a yet more glorious day;
the saints triumphant rise in bright array;
the King of Glory passes on His way! Alleluia!

From Earth's wide bounds, from ocean's farthest coast,
through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost: Alleluia!

For All the Saints - text by William Walsham How, 1864

PS - I can't find any free online version of For All the Saints that includes congregational singing, but I like this solo pipe organ arrangement by a guy named "BigDaddyMark" on YouTube.  This is supposed to be a powerful, majestic hymn, and he gets it!  He's playing the behemoth blaster at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine (yeah, "Saint" John) and if you can turn the volume all the way up, you'll be richly rewarded!  He goes through all of the 5 verses and then (after a glance to the camera, with a "you ready for this?" expression), does a glorious improvisation.  I like to think this is something similar to what it will be in Heaven someday when we all, from Earth's wide bounds, and from ocean's farthest coast, sing this in one massive choir to our Lord.

Detroit's Water Park Gate

Hurlbut Memorial Gate at Water Works Park, Detroit

By virtually any measure, the bankruptcy of Detroit, Michigan, is a sorry shame.

And we're talking bankruptcy in more than the financial sense of the term.

But speaking of its finances:  Detroit's are the worst of any city in the country.  Theirs is the largest municipal bankruptcy in American history, affecting a city that's probably lost more of its population than any other in the country.  The industry for which it's been celebrated the world over now employs less than 20,000 people within Detroit proper, roughly ten percent of its peak.  Half of those jobs are at two small factories, and 6,000 at downtown's Renaissance Center, where General Motors retrenched its office staff in a bid to keep the city's central business district from completely emptying out.

One of the stipulations in its 2009 bailout was that GM keep its headquarters in the city.  So it's continued presence in town represents no bellwether regarding the city's economic viability.  Ford's headquarters never were in Detroit, but in Dearborn.  And Chrysler's headquarters bailed from Motor City for its suburbs in 1992.

Left behind, after all of the white flight, the exodus of over a quarter-million manufacturing jobs, and even a sizable chunk of its black middle class, are the relics of a bygone era.  Relics from when Detroit was a great American boom town.  These relics aren't just what's become "urban porn:"  the empty hulks of abandoned factories and office skyscrapers, or boarded-up church buildings and banks and shopping centers, or block after block of crumbling houses and vacant lots, where generations of the city's families used to live.

Amongst all of that rubble are relics of a different sort.  Detroit is still home to some fabulous architecture in the form of Art Deco office buildings, some of which Quicken Loans founder Dan Gilbert has been snapping up in the hopes that Motown will find a new corporate groove.  There are also rows of opulent mansions that have survived in leafy neighborhoods with names like Indian Village and Sherwood Forest, built by the first waves of auto executives and manufacturing moguls to earn their wealth in the once-powerful metropolis.

And then there is the grand public art, the stuff with which old cities can remind newer residents and visitors of the glory they used to claim.  There's Campus Martius and Grand Circus parks, the downtown plazas from which several of the city's major streets radiate.  There's Belle Isle, in the middle of the Detroit River, that despite the city's dysfunction, continues to hold glimmers of its idyllic past.  And there are smaller, less prominent artifacts from better days, tucked into the city's now-decayed fabric.  Artifacts such as the Hurlbut Memorial Gate.

A gate, you say?

Ahh, but this isn't just any gate.

Celebrating Transitions as Public Art

Back in the 1800's, America's cities were dirty, noisy, and unlovely places.  Comparatively speaking, even today's Detroit is paradise, at least in terms of its paved streets and sidewalks, without all of the mud and piles of horse manure.  Can you imagine?

One of the popular ways Nineteenth Century cities sought to make life a little more aesthetically pleasing for their residents was by gracing their public spaces with ornamental pedestrian attractions.

Remember, this was before automobiles, trucks, and city buses, when traffic consisted of horse-drawn buggies and good ol' walking.  Creating a feeling of space and arrival could be done in ways with which people could personally engage.  There was no sheetmetal or tinted glass creating a motorized cocoon for commuters, insulating them from the streetscape.  These ornamental attractions were tactile, accessible, and functional, borrowing European design ideals while applying a New World sensibility.

Green-Wood Cemetery's gates in Brooklyn. Photo by Jason Dovey

But they could still be quite monumental in scope, such as the soaring Gothic Revival triumph of the main entrance gates at Green-Wood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York.  Walking through them, with their flying buttresses and filigreed spires, the transition between a comparatively profane streetscape and the sacred reverence of a burial ground is unmistakable.

And, on a smaller scale, the Hurlbut Memorial Gate in Detroit accomplished a similar feat, standing between the commercial boulevard of Jefferson Avenue and a sprawling city park stretching down to the river.

A smaller scale than Green-Wood's, yes, but the Hurlbut gate is still quite impressive, with its Beaux Arts opulence commanding three tiers of limestone, topped with a triumphant American eagle.  When it was built in 1894, it served as the actual gate to Water Works Park, one of the largest facilities of its kind in the world at that time.  Carriageways for entering and exiting the park flanked either side of the Hurlbut gate, and a pedestrian gatehouse, plus two water troughs for horses, anchored its base.  On the opposite side, facing the park, two ceremonial staircases reach down, welcoming visitors to the gate's terrace level featuring a pedastal that used to hold a bust of the gate's namesake, Chauncey Hurlbut.

Perhaps not surprisingly, the bust was stolen as the neighborhood faltered.  Why somebody thought they needed it remains a mystery, but perhaps being marked by such modern antisocial behavior is apropos, considering this is Detroit.

Industrialization Needed Lots of Water, and Detroit Obliged

For its part, Water Works Park was begun in 1868 to supply the city of Detroit with drinkable water.  It straddles the riverbank north of downtown, near Belle Isle, and for decades after its initial construction, was open to the public.  Water Works Park represented the rampant civic enthusiasm of Detroit's heady days, when the threat of fire on wooden construction couldn't contain the city's rapid growth.  In 1852, an agency had been created in partnership with both the city of Detroit and the state of Michigan to manage the growing city's water needs, and in 1879, Water Works Park opened as the agency's first project.

Today, that agency, now called the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department, serves 40 percent of Michigan's population, and a much-modernized Water Works Park is still one of the department's signature operations.  The whole department is owned by the city, and is well-managed and profitable, which is rare in modern Detroit.  In fact, experts following Detroit's current bankruptcy proceedings have mentioned it as one of the assets the city could sell to help pay off debts.

Water Works Park was closed to the public long ago over fears that somebody could contaminate the city's water supply by taking advantage of what had been relatively unlimited access to its acreage.  There used to be walking paths, ponds, manicured lawns and shrubbery, a towering turret almost as high as the Eiffel Tower, a library, and a children's play area.  But all of that is gone today, while underneath its vast acreage, now cleared of trees and ponds, hides a concrete catacomb of cavernous water processing bunkers.  The Hurlbut Gate has nothing to welcome guests into, and the city has even gated off the gate, running a wrought-iron fence right across its entrance, and plopping a traffic signal control box in front of it.

When the gate was remodeled in 2007, some city residents complained that sprucing up a frivolous stone bauble from Detroit's past was a waste of money.  Actually, the money to construct the gate in the first place came from Hurlbut's estate, which is why it's named after him.  Plus, his estate included funds for its care.

Unfortunately, the quarter-million-dollars or so that Hurlbut left behind may have been a lot of money in his day.  It was enough to prompt angry relatives in New York to contest his will, since they didn't want what they considered their inheritance squandered on a silly gate in Michigan.  Nevertheless, even with compounded interest, those funds likely proved insufficient to pay for a complete overhaul more than a century after Hurlbut's death.  The Detroit Water and Sewerage Department, custodians of his estate, likely had to find more money from other parts of their budget to cover all of the costs.

Whether it should have been simply relocated, of course, is another debate altogether.

If You've Ever Navigated on the Erie Canal

So, who was Chauncey Hurlbut? And why did he have this thing about ornamental gates?  In front of water treatment plants?

Hurlbut was born in 1803 in Oneida, New York, which is situated on the Erie Canal.  In 1825, when the Erie Canal opened, linking the Hudson River to the Great Lakes, Hurlbut left Oneida to seek his fortune out west in Michigan's frontier.  His first job was as a harness maker, but after he married, he and his brother-in-law opened a grocery business, and, riding on the coattails of Detroit's surging prosperity, he became a wealthy wholesale grocer.

In those days, entrepreneurs and the moneyed elite didn't leave prominent municipal jobs to civil servants.  Instead, they volunteered the credentials and expertise that earned them their money and prestige in the first place to the business of running various departments in the cities where they lived.  For Hurlbut, he had a thing for the fire department, so he made himself available to be fire commissioner.

And what do fire departments use to fight fires?  Water, of course.  So Hurlbut next served on the water commission board, first during the Civil War, and then from 1868 to 1884, when for twelve years, he was its president.  At first, city leaders wanted to name their sprawling facility on Jefferson Avenue in his honor, but the "Hurlbut" name never resonated with the public.  Instead, popular vernacular insisted on calling it Water Works Park.  Apparently, that didn't bother Hurlbut, who died in 1885, never seeing his gate, which wouldn't be built for another nine years.

Still, he wanted his legacy to be something the people of his adopted hometown could enjoy and claim with pride.  Little is known of what happened to his business, or his family, but his record of volunteer service exists today as a hallmark of one of Detroit's prized civic assets, and we're not simply talking about his gate, but both Water Works Park and the Detroit Water and Sewerage Department.

Today, many wealthy Americans would scoff at immortalizing themselves in a gaudy gate, although some will lend their names to prestigious institutions like universities, hospitals, or libraries.  And times have changed for city boards, too, where professionals with advanced degrees in the disciplines over which they're responsible make decisions and guide planning for things like water purification systems and public safety departments.  Mostly, this evolution makes sense, since even in Detroit's case, their water board was constantly struggling to keep up with advancing technologies, the demands of a rapidly-growing economy, and new scientific and public health discoveries.

Gateway to Symbolism

Perhaps what makes the Hurlbut Gate notable today isn't just its elaborate architecture, although its design alone makes it worthy of preservation.  In addition to that, however, is the dedication to the public good and the service to one's community that it represents.  Hurlbut's gate symbolizes his desire to give something back to the city where he made his fortune, and he apparently didn't begrudge Detroit the taxes it was levying for the construction of its ever-more-sophisticated water treatment facilities.  In fact, this self-motivated, pull-yourself-up-by-your-own-bootstraps entrepreneur celebrated the civic spirit, and the things governments can do when the public good is its end result.

Of course, this is one reason why many wealthy Americans today don't willingly give their money for civic projects, since we've come to learn how wasteful and autocratic government agencies can be.  Not everybody in civic life today cares very deeply about the public good.  In fact, judging by the many reasons why Detroit is facing its perilous bankruptcy today - indeed, its first trial in the process started yesterday - a lot of people who were supposed to be serving the public good of their fellow Detroiters cared only about themselves and their self-aggrandizement.

People like former mayor Kwame Kilpatrick, who just got slammed with a 28-year prison sentence for corruption in a federal probe that convicted another 32 Detroiters.  People like attorney Ronald Zajac and trustee Paul Stewart of Detroit's pension funds, who were indicted this past March for corruption.  And this is just the list within the past several years.  Detroit's history in the latter part of the last century is littered with city council members who either intentionally ignored the city's growing crisis, or refused to admit they were unqualified to address it.  To be sure, corruption and incompetence are not the only factors contributing to Detroit's current state of affairs, but they - and the people who committed them - play prominent roles.

So it's not simply that the Hurlbut Gate today represents the altruism of a forgotten generation of American wealth-builders.  It also represents the way powerful Detroiters used to give of themselves to their city, instead of being so concerned about whatever they could get for themselves.

Maybe there's no practical place for people like Chauncey Hurlbut in administrating today's municipalities.  But there shouldn't have been any room for the people who acted most unlike Hurlbut during these past several decades of the city's stunning decline.

The fact that, today, the Hurlbut Gate is completely fenced off, voiding its practicality, simply provides another bitter bite of irony for the city it was built to serve.

Calvary's the Buckle in NYC's Billionaire Belt

Suppose you attended this church.

Maybe you were even its pastor.  Or one of its elders.

This church is historic, and enjoys a high-profile location in its town, on a busy street.  It is known for preaching the Gospel, which means that while a lot of townspeople may respect its right to hold unpopular positions on various issues, that unpopularity unfortunately extends to their lack of enthusiasm for visiting your church.  The people who do attend your church, however, represent a broad spectrum of incomes, ethnicities, and races from all over town, and even nearby communities.

All of a sudden, you find that the neighborhood around your church is being inundated with billionaires.  Dozens of them.  Spectacular new homes are being built for them, just down the street from your church, and some practically next door.  These billionaires are so rich, they're beyond celebrities; you don't know their names.  You're not even sure what they do for a living.  But they're buying up property like crazy, and paying crazy prices in the process.

Technically, it's not just billionaires buying these homes.  Billionaires are buying, but so are people "only" worth hundreds of millions of dollars.  All of this wealth, and it's literally next door to your church.

Sound utterly absurd?  Well, it's happening right now, even as you read this.

The church is Calvary Baptist, and the neighborhood is Midtown Manhattan, in New York City.  57th Street, to be precise; what author Michael Gross has dubbed the "billionaire's belt."

And Calvary is its geographic buckle!  Smack-dab between Sixth and Seventh avenues, two blocks south of Central Park, and being rapidly surrounded by some of the priciest homes on the planet.

Do you remember, back during Superstorm Sandy last fall, the news about a construction crane that high winds twisted from its moorings atop an uber-luxury residential tower in Manhattan?  Well, that uber-luxury tower, called One57, is a couple of doors down from Calvary Baptist.  It's a building where two condos - that aren't even completed - have already sold for a reputed $95 million each.

Ninety-five.  Million.  Dollars.

Each!

And One57 is just the beginning.  Today, there are no fewer than seven super-luxury high-rise residential towers planned within a few blocks surrounding Calvary and 57th Street.  Towers where apartments are commanding prices in the tens of millions of dollars apiece.  Currently, the average price of these apartments is $20 million, with at least one listed for $115 million, but bidding wars may force prices even higher.  That's why everyone assumes it's only billionaires who can afford these places.  For billionaires, real estate in the world's most elite cities has become one of their safest investments, and New York - and Manhattan in particular - is one of those elite cities.  The others are Singapore, Hong Kong, and London, where similar trophy apartments at similar prices are already being snapped up.

You and I might expect at least a couple of trees and a manicured lawn for $20 million, let alone $115 million, but these homes in Manhattan's billionaire belt are all about the two V's:  verticality and views.  Prices go up the higher the apartment is, and the better its views are.  Trees are for Central Park, views of which are New York's most coveted.  And manicured lawn space can be found in one of the other exclusive properties most of these wealthy homeowners maintain in other parts of the world.  After all, it's not likely that many of these super-luxury apartments will actually serve as their owner's family home.  These will be extravagant crash pads when family members visit the city on business or pleasure.  Something to brag about to the little people back in the Mother Country, or the yacht club in the south of France, or one's clients - or competitors.

Indeed, while developers, real estate agents, and their clients claim all of this is about careful investing, it's as much about conquering the aspirations of others as it is sound portfolio management.

As far as verticality is concerned, One57 has topped out at 90 stories, and while some towers in the billionaire's belt will being shorter, others will be even taller, although their floor count may be less.  How can that be?  Because the ceiling height per floor in some of these buildings could range from ten to 15 feet or more per floor.  And, as New York's building frenzy has developed over the years, incorporating things such as hotels and department stores into lower portions of these skyscrapers, the methods builders use to number their floors has become a laughably imprecise science, with hubris and marketing accounting for curiously inflated floor counts.  Remember, the higher the floor, the higher the rent.

Gimmicks abound in all housing price points, even at the tippy-top.

After 9/11, skyscraper planners worried that people wouldn't want to live or work in tall buildings any more, and briefly, rents for lower floor spaces actually increased.  But that's all ancient history now.

This is a new level of luxury, folks, in every way.  And the market for these trophy homes is known to exist, because the first tower of its kind, a marble bauble nearby at 15 Central Park West designed by Robert A.M. Stern, recently saw an apartment sell for the then-record amount of $88 million to a Russian oligarch.

Which helps explain where all of the people to buy these stratospherically-priced homes are coming from.  Most of them are not Americans.  For one project, over on Park Avenue, where listings are going for $80 million even though half of the building doesn't yet exist, marketing material is available in Russian, Chinese, and even Portuguese, for wealthy Brazilians.

It's not that New York City isn't home to its own bevy of billionaires, but they're not as used to thinking of trophy residential real estate outside of discreet enclaves in the Upper East Side like Sutton Place, or maybe facing the park along Fifth Avenue.

Yes, West 57th Street is a prominent boulevard, but with the billionaire's belt being centered more towards Seventh Avenue than Park, it's a bit of a paradigm shift for traditionalists.  When, really, it shouldn't be.  Manhattan's money has been spreading out for generations now.

Even Calvary Baptist's history helps chart Manhattan's evolution.  For example, Calvary's move from its previous location on 23rd Street to its present spot on 57th occurred in 1883, shortly before the city's elite began their own transition from individual family mansions to luxury apartment buildings.  It was a transition that began to stall around Calvary's neighborhood, which sat between the city's wealthy East Side and historically less-affluent West Side.

Today, however, the high rents being asked - and paid - in even formerly-notorious Hell's Kitchen would make protagonists from theater's West Side Story gag with incredulity.

Not that, frankly, things will probably change much at Calvary itself, even as it becomes the buckle in the city's Billionaire's Belt.  It's been generations since the church, as a Bible-preaching, evangelical outpost in an increasingly pluralistic and hedonistic city, has attracted a lot of its pedigreed neighbors.  Interestingly, it probably has more respectability among members of its local business association as one of the district's legacy establishments.  After all, there aren't many things older than Calvary on the block.

Well, older than the congregation, anyway.  Their church facility is relatively new, by New York's antiquity standards.  Its sanctuary is actually carved out of the first four floors of a 16-story hotel owned by the church.  In 1929, when the city widened 57th Street, all of the buildings on the north side of the street - Calvary's side - were demolished for the project, so the congregation's Gothic structure from 1883 was replaced with a facility that could host missionaries coming through New York's bustling harbor on their way to and from foreign countries.  A neat idea, huh?  These days, the hotel is managed by a third party and charges market rates, of which the church receives a percentage.

Several years ago, a developer approached Calvary with an offer to buy their unique structure and replace it with a luxury residential skyscraper, similar to what's being built at One57.  He'd even re-build a sanctuary and office space for the church in the bowels of his new project, similar to Calvary's current set-up.  However, the idea proved too unconventional for the congregation, and they passed up the offer.  With their current sanctuary, the motto "We preach Christ crucified, risen, and coming again" is etched in stone over the doorway facing 57th Street.  What kind of identity would the church be allowed to have as just another tenant in an exclusive apartment tower?

So... suppose you attended Calvary Baptist.  How would you react to this invasion of your church's neighborhood?

Usually, churches worry about their neighborhood going bad with crime and deteriorating property values.  This is a whole 'nother ballgame.  Would you scramble to figure out what really, really, really rich people like in their church services?  Would you revamp your programming to attract people who probably only view the time they'll be spending in your church's neighborhood as a lark, or part of a high-intensity economic transaction?

Or would you hope that Calvary continues to worship the Lord, preach His Word, pray for the city, commission cross-cultural missionaries, minister to the poor, administer the sacraments, and keep the lights lit over their doorway with its "We preach Christ crucified, risen, and coming again" motto?

Yes, I hope Calvary does the latter, two.  In a way, it's a buckle for much more than today's billionaire belt.

Calvary Baptist's sanctuary entrance on W. 57th. St.

Needs, Wants, Faith, and Christ

All you need is love.

Believe in Christ, and you will be saved.

Simple enough, huh?

Yes, the basic Gospel is, technically, all we need.  However, if that's all you want, then you probably don't have what you need.

If you love Christ, won't you love what He says?  Maybe it won't come naturally or easily all of the time, and we'll rely on the Holy Spirit to guide and encourage us in His ways.  But He instructs us to love Him, and that there is nothing we can do to earn His love.  So you think that's a pretty cool proposition:  we love Him because He first loved us.  Period.

Rock on, dude.  I've got my fire insurance, and I still pretty much get to go do whatever I want.  Grace is awesome!

Which, of course, isn't the correct take-away from receiving salvation.  We know there are those decrees like the Ten Commandments, and the sins like getting drunk, and the do-unto-others stuff.  But we can agree that those rules are for our reciprocal benefit, and it's not like we don't have a lot of leeway in how we live the other parts of our life.

Which, if you think about it, may be the clue to tell you that you don't quite have what you need.  Because... Whose life is it now?  Who purchased your life?

If it strikes you as negative, or punitive, or fundamentalist, or legalistic, or flat-out wrong to consider the idea that Christ expects certain things from His followers, then do you understand what belief in Christ is?

Besides, if you don't do things simply because they're on a list in the Bible, how is that indicative of a loving relationship?  And if we do things because we think we're supposed to do them, how is that any better when it comes to sustaining a loving relationship?  Shouldn't the motivation for why we do or don't do certain things come from more than some holy decree?

There's a term called "lordship salvation" that some Christians use to describe the role that Christ expects to have in the lives of each of His believers.  Basically, when He claims us for Himself, we are to make Him lord of our life.  It's a concept against which many of us Americans particularly struggle, since our culture is so self-focused, performance-based, rewards-driven, and independence-minded.  Control is our goal, which makes charity something we dispense on our terms.

Frankly, it's one reason many evangelicals are struggling with the political situation in our country these days, just like left-wing liberals are.  It's not just that evil is making itself particularly obvious in many areas of society.  We mistakenly tend see the enemy as being in the form of opposite political parties, opposite lifestyles, and opposite belief systems.  We determine progress based on what we can achieve, how much control we have over policy, and how little we have to give up in order to get what we want.  We may not care about what other people think, or how many people support us, but belligerently acting on our morality doesn't necessarily mean we're being moral.

Especially if we're to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.  And still love God even more.

If Christ is the Lord of my life, then how tightly should I hold my life?  Through Whose perspective should I be interested in seeing the world?  With what document should I be basing decisions and advocating for good?  Who gets to decide what is good, anyway?

We're to "seek first" Christ's Kingdom - and His is a monarchy, by the way, not a democratic republic.  Sometimes we forget that.  Not that we shouldn't advocate for righteousness in our society and at the ballot box.  It's just that sometimes, Christ's righteousness can be different than our definition of it.  If, in our lives, efforts, desires, objectives, votes, prayers, and devotion, God is not the Purpose for, Method through which, and Recipient of commendation, then what is He?

Well, He's still love, no matter what we do or think.  But to the extent His love does not shine through us, how indicative might that be regarding our trust in Him?

Leaves Left to Peak Upstate

They've peaked.

Those iconic autumn leaves in New York state's famous Adirondack region have finished displaying the best of their de-chlorophylled splendor.  Already.

Nature's green began fading last month, along with summer's sun and heat, revealing a palette that botanists tell us was in the leaves all summer long, but simply hidden by chlorophyll's green dominance.  Indeed, to everything there is a season.  According to the visitor center in Old Forge, one of the Adirondacks' more popular tourist villages, fall's seasonal reds, golds, and oranges are still "brilliant."  Today, however, local experts are saying that the best days to experience them, like the leaves themselves, are fading.

It's never a precise science, of course, predicting when fall's leaves will peak, and across New England, from northern Maine to southern Connecticut, and even out west in Colorado, the schedule is never the same.  Besides, the brilliance of the colors can vary depending on the amount of rainfall and warm temperatures their trees experienced during the past several months.  Some years are better for color than others, and like many things in life, what makes for a good autumn leaf season is beyond the control of any tree.

Which makes the good leaf seasons that much more special.

Back when my family lived in Upstate New York, north of Syracuse, and about an hour's drive south of the Adirondacks, we could expect an autumn visit by folks from an advertising firm contracted by Airstream, the company that builds those all-aluminum travel trailers.  They'd prowl the state's north country, scouting for prototypical fall settings for photo shoots with three or four shiny silver campers, towed by brand-new pickup trucks and Chevy Suburbans.  And the requisite fashion models, of course, dressed to the nines in tailored hunting clothes and casual wear, who'd pose alongside the Airstreams.

You see, the rural road on which we lived was lined with massive old trees whose branches draped themselves like umbrellas over the pavement, and when the leaves turned color, the effect was quite dazzling.  I remember the reds and golds, but also deep purples, and orange like fire.  We had a smattering of white-barked birch trees, and trees with oval-shaped leaves that turned a translucent yellowish-green and fluttered in the breeze like ornamental paper.  Our house was hidden behind sprawling pine trees, and even they were different shades, from dark green to a silvery blue, although they were still evergreens.  And down along the road sat a long, old, rambling stone wall.  The whole tableau oozed a bucolic charm, even if, as a kid, I found it rather boring.

Apparently, the advertising firm had stumbled upon our stretch of country roadway with its tunnels of multi-colored leaves, and admired it as much as my parents had when they bought our home.  Some fall Saturday, we'd just look down our long front driveway to see the campers lining up along the side of the road, with photographers setting up tripods for their cameras.  I remember wondering to myself what made our stretch of roadway so special.  Why was this particular spot so beautiful, that these beautiful people would drive these shiny things out to the middle of nowhere and photograph them?

Indeed, back then, I was not only too young to appreciate nature, but, living year-round in that quaint, four-season environment, I was used to the leaves and the towering trees from which they fell.  It's been said that "youth is wasted on the young," and indeed, if I knew then what I know now about appreciating beauty, I wouldn't have taken the autumns Upstate for granted like I did.

Here in Texas, we have a couple of weeks after the end of October when the leaves change from green to a muted yellow, and then a boring brown. Actually, fall is my favorite season here, but not because of the leaves.  Our temperatures fall in autumn, and in Texas, falling temperatures trump falling leaves, especially after our scorching summers!

Depending on their variety, some Texas trees manage shades of orange, and even some reds, but if you don't like yellow, you're going to be disappointed.  I've heard that in far east Texas, which gets more rain than we do, if you squint really hard during autumn, you can see more colors from the leaves.  Still, it's not likely anything that would impress Airstream's advertising firm.

Meanwhile, this year's colors have peaked up in the Adirondacks.  Time truly flies, and soon, so will the leaves.  In another month, they will be on the ground, creating a new carpet for the coming snows that will blanket the region until next April.

You know, come to think of it, if monochromatic autumn leaves are the price we Texans pay for avoiding months on end of bitter, snowy weather, then I'm content to live with early memories from my youth!

TxDOT's Messing With Prada Marfa

If the devil wears Prada, he must be one-legged.

Right-legged, in fact, if he wants to shop at Prada's elite shop in Marfa, Texas.

Which isn't, actually, open for business.

Confused yet?  Good, because that's kinda what the Prada family, along with pop culture artists Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset, want you to be.  Elmgreen and Dragset are European purveyors of the ironic and socially-conscious, and they talked the Prada family, purveyors of extravagantly-priced leather goods, into letting them make a point about the transitory nature of conspicuous consumption.

Complicating matters further is that Prada Marfa isn't in Marfa, Texas, but the even smaller, dustier two-bit outpost of Valentine, a half-hour's drive northwest of Marfa.

If you're really into the arts scene, you may have heard of Marfa, a small town which, compared to Valentine, may nevertheless seem like a metropolis.  Built as a railroad stop on the high desert, Marfa, with less than two thousand full-time residents, rivals some of New Mexico's quaint, remote Postmodern artist colonies in terms of its non-classical cultural expressionism.  Eclectic, with a decidedly left-wing bias, Marfa has experienced a resurgence since the 1970's as an outpost of avant-garde East Coast minimalism, replete with surprisingly high real estate prices, and a snobbery liberals like to pretend only Republicans display.

But still:  shopping for Prada?  Who'd go so far out of their way to spend that kind of money at such a store, you might ask?  Do they build any sort of outlet mall that far removed from civilization?  Even at their prices, how can Prada manage the customer volume to stay profitable?

At the Prada Marfa, there is no handle on the door.  In fact, the door is part of the art.  From the street, which actually is a plain ol' country highway, with two lanes of blacktop running straight and flat, the Prada Marfa sits off to the side, by itself.  A small, square box in the middle of scrubland, with a life-sized and lifelike facade, complete with awnings and four Prada logos.  Two plate-glass windows frame the non-existent glass "door," revealing a monotone showroom with chic purses and racks of shoes on display, lit by custom lighting in the evening.  Except all of the products on display are from Prada's fall/winter 2005 collection, like a time capsule from when the store "opened" in October of that year.

And it's not as if the products are even sellable.  The purses have had their bottoms removed, and all of the shoes are rights, with none of their matching lefts languishing in some stockroom in the back.  In fact, there is no stockroom; that's why the devil who'd wear these Pradas is right-footed.

Not only is there no stockroom, but there's no back door.  There's no cash register, no sales people, and no customers, either.  But there is plenty of advertising, and almost all of it is free.  Like the free advertising the Texas Department of Transportation (TxDOT) is giving Prada Marfa this week with its decision rendering the so-called art installation as unlicensed advertising, akin to a billboard for the famous Prada brand.

And TxDOT (say: "tex-dot") is scrambling to corral unlicensed billboards across the Lone Star State.  Pesky varmints.

For its part, Prada Marfa is situated on private, unzoned land with the consent of its landowner, so what's the big deal?  The reason it's unlicensed is because it's neither an advertisement nor a commercial establishment; it is, in the words of Marfa's culturally sophisticated denizens, "art."  It's sculpture made of glass, concrete, leather, all-weather awning material, and electronic illumination that happens to include elements that look suspiciously like a floor and a roof.

"So," demands TxDOT, "what about the 'Prada' name and logo in four places on the awnings, hmm?"

Well, for one thing, the signs are parallel with the roadway, which means they're not exactly legible to passing motorists traveling at 80 mph.  Their lettering is also relatively small, at approximately one foot in height for the largest logo.  Granted, the - ahem! - "sculpture" sits pretty close to the road, but that doesn't make the word "Prada" any easier to read.  And since the products in the artwork are now eight years old - a lifetime in fashion retailing - it's not like they're advertising anything, either.

Several months ago, a similar complaint from TxDOT was raised not far away from Prada Marfa, on the same desolate stretch of roadway, only it involved a towering neon Playboy bunny.  Playboy erected its logo atop a 40-foot pole by the side of the road, next to a concrete pedestal upon which a battered 1972 Dodge Charger had been mounted.  Maybe the iconic smut purveyor was hoping to conjure images of Cadillac Ranch, yet another roadside oddity in west Texas, to dispel the far more overt advertising aspects of its sculpture.  Hey, Postmodern art can be interpreted so many different ways!  But no, TxDOT isn't buying it, and is making Playboy remove their logo, even if they're letting the vintage Charger remain.

Elmgreen and Dragset built Prada Marfa out of conventional construction materials, but aside from some petty vandalism over the years, they've pretty much left it to decompose on its own.  Their theme, remember, involves a mixture of status, conspicuousness, superfluousness, and decay, but since they chose the arid climes of Marfa for their project, like the planes our aviation industry stores in the desert, Prada Marfa will take a while to disintegrate.  If TxDOT wanted to complain about it being an unsafe structure, like any number of far older buildings which have been left to disintegrate along plenty of Texas highways with their vintage Texaco and Champion signs still affixed to them - which might make a more compelling argument against Prada Marfa on their part - then they're going to have to wait.  By no practical interpretation can Prada Marfa be considered advertisement, so their current objection towards it is a bit silly.

Of course, since it wasn't cheap to build Prada Marfa, perhaps the same art connoisseurs who paid for the original sculpture should fork over some extra bucks to secure whatever permits TxDOT wants it to have just to get the bureaucracy off of its back.

But then again, maybe TxDOT is unwittingly playing into Elmgreen and Dragset's hands.  By badgering the project with governmental rules and regulations, TxDOT could be adding yet another angle to the artwork - that of the struggles private enterprise encounters as it deals with tax-collecting, fee-taking, and red-tape-creating authorities.

Leave it to Texas, and the bare-bones, supposedly business-oriented state government over which Governor Rick Perry so proudly rules, to be making such a case against privately-funded art.

Ironically, a number of years ago, TxDOT created the marketing slogan, "Don't Mess With Texas," for its anti-littering campaign.  Recently, as the slogan has become more widely known, the state has been quietly ramping up its efforts at protecting it as a licensed brand, wresting monetary legal settlements from the mostly innocent parties who try to use it without authorization.  TxDOT likes to claim that the phrase is popularly known as an anti-littering message, and should stay that way, but whether the general population knows that is debatable.

Prada Marfa may not have sought to mess with Texas and its deceptively aggressive TxDOT, and after eight years, it's a little ignominious for it to take a neon bunny for officials to discover the clever bit of sculptural social commentary out in the middle of nowhere.

So, maybe an "Open from 9am until 9pm" sign should get included on the window.

That way, Governor Perry could use Prada Marfa as a prop for his "open for business" bragging rights.