Joy, Cynicism as Pilgrim to the Lovely

How lovely is Thy dwelling place, O Lord of hosts
For my soul, it longeth, yea fainteth for the courts of the Lord
My soul and body crieth out, yea for the living God!
Blest are they which dwell within Thy house
They praise Thy name evermore!
How lovely is Thy dwelling place.
- Adapted by Johannes Brahms


For anybody who spends a lot of time on my blog, you would well wonder what in the world gives me joy.  I seem to complain a lot, don't I?

Once, the publisher of a book I raked over the coals in my review of it for Crosswalk.com, complained to my editor that I'm certainly having a hard time justifying the "recovering" part of being a "recovering cynic."  Just yesterday, I became particularly morose after discovering that all of the articles I'd read on evangelical websites that morning I strongly disagreed with, for various reasons.

"Where is the joy in my life?!" I felt like yelling to God.

Maybe one of the reasons I'm such a cynic, and suffer from clinical depression to boot, is because I encounter so little in this ordinary life about which I should be joyful.  I have a hard time seeing the good that happens, and tend to slip into a sort of entitlement mode when good stuff does happen.  "Well, it's about time I had something to be cheerful about," I've sometimes thought.  I used to laugh a lot, but I rarely do anymore.  Is my caretaking of my father, who suffers from senile dementia, finally taking it's toll?

Nineteenth Century classical composer Johannes Brahms did not want what's become his famous German Requiem to be particularly Christian, even though it relies on scripture for much of its lyrics.  Yet the fourth movement from this piece has become a beloved anthem for choirs in Christian churches where congregations appreciate classical music.

In the early 1990's, I was living and working in New York City, and worshipping at my beloved Calvary Baptist Church in midtown Manhattan.  Calvary's sanctuary choir helped to train me in appreciating classical music that honors God, and even though Brahms didn't intend for his German Requiem to be such a piece of music, I quickly became a fan of Calvary's recording of "How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place," or Wie lieblich sind deine Wohnungen, which comprises the entirety of the Requiem's fourth movement.

That's the text, above, derived from the first four verses of Psalm 84, with each line repeated various times.  I've tried to find an ideal interpretation of this music online, but unfortunately, the links below are merely adequate for my purposes here.  However, if you're wholly unfamiliar with this work, you'll be able to hear the tune and see how wonderful the movement can be - when performed like a choir like Calvary's could sing it!

• In German:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZcxpl30NOw 
• With Piano:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9aXbrHUAgYc

Actually, I have to confess that the recording I had of Calvary's choir had a piano accompaniment, but with the piano, the elegance and buoyancy of the piece can sometimes be conveyed more successfully than with orchestral accompaniment.

At any rate, that summer of whichever year it was, I took a week's vacation to my parents' summer home in coastal Maine.  It actually sounds quite pretentious to say that my parents had a summer home, but all it was, in reality, was the old one-and-a-half story cottage-type house in which my Mom had grown up.  But after Dad retired, they went there every summer, so it was a summer home.  And if you're going to have a summer home, no matter how plain or grand it is, what better place to have one than coastal Maine?

If you've never been to any of the towns and villages that line the far northeastern shores of the United States, you're missing some spectacular scenery.  There's a reason why some of the richest people on the planet own property along Maine's seacoast, and it's purely natural:  the rocky cliffs, the dense forests of pine, the sparkling blue ocean, and the many bays, inlets, little islands, reaches, coves, and stony sand bars that have etched the intricate waterline between where our continent's dry land ends, and where the bold Atlantic begins.

There are almost no broad beaches, or long stretches of any continuous land formation, along Maine's craggy shoreline.  And that's what gives it its character.  Combine that with the rare yet wonderful sunny weather coastal Maine can produce during its summers, and you'll understand why I say that "a perfect summer day in Maine is a perfect day indeed."

That particular summer, when I went to Maine with the cassette tape recording of Calvary's choir, I also got to enjoy driving my parents' car around coastal Maine, and with songs like "How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place" blasting as loudly as I wanted from the stereo system, I was truly joyful.

This is an example of me having joy, folks!  You heard it here first.

Of course, audiophiles will scorn the lowly cassette tape, but hey - this was at the dawn of CD's, and I can't remember if my parents' Mercury Sable even had a CD player in it.  But driving down the steep slopes on coastal Maine's crusty, narrow roads, and darting across its rickety bridges between outcroppings of pine trees and monstrous granite boulders, I marveled at how lovely is the dwelling place our Lord of Hosts has created for us here on Earth.

Then, too, maybe my cynicism, however unsuccessfully I'm recovering from it, represents my fainting for the courts of the Lord.

Sometimes, although I know that contentment is a virtue, I wonder if we get too content with the wrong things here in our lives.

Not that cynicism is a virtue, of course.  But even though this world can have some wonderful beauty in it, like along coastal Maine, I know it's not my home.

Blessed are those whose strength is in you, who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.
- Psalm 84:5

Ambition Can Color the Big and Small

She's probably the most famous evangelical woman from the 20th Century that you've never heard of.

Henrietta C. Mears was a partially-blind woman from Minnesota who became head of the Sunday School department at prestigious First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood, California.  This was back in the 1930's, of course, when Sunday morning Christian education programs were still called "Sunday School."  This was also a time during which women were not encouraged to pursue employment outside of the home, let alone hold positions of authority and leadership in Christian ministry like Mears' eventually did.

Indeed, Mears was no ordinary woman of the 1930's.  She became one of the most prodigious authors of Christian education curriculum our evangelical community has ever seen.  She conducted classes for students from elementary school through college, and she was given free reign by the pastors at Hollywood Presbyterian to develop whatever material she needed.

At first, she worked just for the people of her church, but as the material she created became more and more popular, she was soon in charge of a sprawling educational empire, including a publishing house, and even a retreat center in the Hollywood hills.  Among her students were Bill and Vonette Bright, founders of Campus Crusade for Christ.  Several Hollywood producers who came to Christ during Mears' classes would go on to work with the multi-media department at Billy Graham's organization.  Even Graham himself was personally encouraged by Mears during his early ministry, and at her funeral in 1963, he described her as the most influential woman in his life, after his mother and his wife.

Speaking of influence, it has been said that Mears' influence on the Kingdom of God can be counted in the billions of souls, if you extrapolate the many people who have been reached by Campus Crusade and Billy Graham.

As exceptionally ambitious people are wont to be, Mears was known to speak her mind.  One of her more famous quotes was "there is no magic in small plans.  When I consider my ministry, I think of the world.  Anything less than that would not be worthy of Christ nor of His will for my life."

Does that sound a bit pompous to you?  Perhaps a bit self-aggrandizing?  Well, apparently, Mears never suffered from low self-esteem.  As a precocious 5-year-old, she purportedly scoffed at conventional kindergarten, saying she wanted to be educated, not entertained.  In sunny California, she drove a car she'd had custom-painted green and canary yellow.  She  deliberately wore ostentatious hats, rings on every finger, and gaudy clothing, justifying her peculiar taste and habits by saying she wanted to appear extraordinary for God.

A lot of gregarious, Type-A people like to think big, and Type-A Christians like to say God wants them to think big.  But in terms of Mears' quote about "small plans," what exactly is "small" to God?  And what is big?  To us success-oriented Americans, it seems obvious that small plans are inconsequential, whereas big plans can change the world.  To a certain extent, it wasn't remarkable for a confident teacher like Mears to be convinced that her work could have broader influence beyond her classroom.  But for a woman, particularly at that time, to declare that Christ's will for her life wasn't small was considerably provocative.

And it remains provocative today, regardless of one's gender, because it's the basis of a lot of teaching in our evangelical ghetto.  We've gotta be doing big things for God.  We've gotta be thinking big, to win the world for Christ.  Be bold, courageous, always climbing, building, winning, conquering, achieving... sometimes, it's hard to tell if you're listening to a Christian sermon, or a motivational speaker, or a political speech, or a business development specialist.

Meanwhile, what does God teach us about ambition?  For one thing, we know that He gifts His people differently, like we see in the Parable of the Talents.  We know that God has a different view of what's big and what's small, from learning of His favor for the Widow's Mite.  We know that God is not a respecter of persons.  We know that vain rivalry is unGodly, and that whoever exalts himself will be humbled.

So, what does God have for you to do?  For me to do?  Do those things seem to pale in comparison to what God has other people doing?  Or are we not even doing those things that God has already presented to us?  Are we afraid, or doubtful, or simply lazy?  Does God's work conflict with the goals we've already set for ourselves?  Will it require a lot of hard work that won't score us the grand house or the comfortable retirement we think we need?

Personally, I don't take sweeping assertions of ambition like Mears' with a lot of seriousness.  Type-A evangelicals with charismatic personalities say that kind of stuff all the time, but even heathen unbelievers can be incredibly successful in their altruistic pursuits.  In Mears' case, it could have been she particularly felt she had to speak like that to make herself heard by men who couldn't understand why she didn't want to get married and raise her own kids.  Nevertheless, whatever the context of her quote, it's obvious that God gave her the skills, opportunities, energy, and personality to carry out what she believed He wanted her to do.

But that was His work for her.  Not somebody else.

Meanwhile, the question for the rest of us is the same as it was for Mears, even if she didn't necessarily frame it this way.  That question isn't whether God has given us something "big" or "small" to do for Him.  The question is this:  Whatever God has for you to do, are you doing it? 

No matter where you or I happen to be at this specific point in our faith journey today, right now, as you're reading this; are you doing what God has for you to do? 

Can any of us say we don't know what that thing might be?  Usually, when we don't have some world-changing task before us, we tend to assume that we don't know what work God has for us.  But might that simply be our pride at work, as we're dissatisfied with the level of importance we've associated with whatever we're supposed to be doing?

Okay, so maybe you don't drive a green-and-yellow Ford, or wear big hats with feathers in them.  Maybe you're not running your own publishing house, and watching scores of young people in a ministry you run trust in Christ as their Savior.

What's another major component of the Christian life that often gets overlooked when we talk about ambition?

Contentment.

Not laziness, or procrastination, or ignorance, or fear, or immaturity, or irresponsibility.  But contentment.

Maybe God wants you to work for His Kingdom by being content with what He's given you.  At least, what He's given you to do right now.  Today. 

Right after you finish reading this.

Disconnecting from Our Christian Ghetto

The longer I stay engaged with evangelicalism's conventional model of religion, the more I'm learning how weird it must appear to the unchurched.

I know that's not the way churched people normally operate.  Actually, the longer anybody acculturates to their conventional model of religion, whether it's Christianity, Islam, or atheism, its dominance in our lives ordinarily makes us immune to seeing its peculiarities from an outsider's perspective.

But perhaps it's because I'm somewhat of an outsider to our North American evangelical ghetto, I have something of a vantage point to see what's happening inside, understand the lingo that helps explain what's happening inside, and yet still experience a level of detachment that many actors involved on the inside of evangelicalism don't.

When I started this blog, I called it "Outside, Looking In," which is where the "O-L-I" part of its URL comes from.  But then I suspected that it could make me sound like a socially perverted peeping Tom, or somebody who lives vicariously through the experiences of other people.

Now, however, I realize that my position is more than just social astigmatism or vicarious reality.

I'm not talking about whether corporate worship services should be contemporary or traditional, or whether the preacher should wear a robe or denim jeans.  I'm talking about our basic understanding of what church is, why we have senior pastors, why we construct huge buildings for ourselves, and why we then go out into politics and everybody else's business and try to tell them how to behave.

Now, hang on a minute:  Neither am I saying we shouldn't have corporate worship services, or preachers, or nice church buildings, or be involved in the surrounding culture and society.

No, what I'm saying is that it seems like we base our faith upon all of these things, instead of the Gospel.  Instead of Jesus Christ.  Instead of the Fruit of the Spirit.

Whenever evangelicalism has a scandal, we look at the people involved and compare their behavior against our own.  Sometimes we compare their behavior against Christ's, which is obviously the only Measuring Stick we should be using, but we still rate the impact of the scandal based on what we can see.  Will church membership drop?  Will we go into debt?  How do we look to the outside world?

Consider the scandal festering at Seattle's embattled Mars Hill Church, where the pugnacious Mark Driscoll has preached for years, or the scandals within any number of our "parachurch" ministries - like the ultra-conservative Bill Gothard and his Institute of Basic Life Principles.  Evangelicals try to assign blame, parse out punishment, and sop up the public relations mess like it's only the people involved who were at fault, and not the very way we evangelicals do business.

And yes, we're doing business these days.  Lots of business.  We're building huge not-for-profit empires we call "ministries," for pious-sounding religious reasons.  We're paying large salaries, developing a lot of products, marketing those products, and hiring swarms of people to deploy those products.  Many of us believe those products are what actually "save" the "lost."  That's why we create so many diverse products to sell:  everything from sermons and music and worship formats to clothing, books, political action committees, seminars, universities, and short term mission trips.  We compete against each other, since every church has a preacher, and most preachers like to believe their sermons are worth disseminating to as broad an audience as possible.  We all like short term mission trips because they're a convenient way to get an exotic vacation tax-free.  We build universities because nobody else could possibly teach our young adults the way we think they should be taught.  And on and on.

Meanwhile, there's still poverty in America.  But we say that's OK, because Christ said poverty would always be with us.  There's still racism, too, but we rationalize away racism as being a two-way street.  There's still greed, but we justify ours by saying the Bible says lazy people shouldn't eat.  Now we've also got gay marriage, and a mainstream media with plenty of fodder with which to mock our sanctimony and - paradoxically - our hubris.  We claim that we're entitled to flaunt our faith because this is America, and this is a Christian nation... whatever that means.

At some point, somebody in our Christian ghetto is going to realize that for a Christian nation, our Christians sure have an awful lot of problems they wouldn't have if they cared about their faith as much as they cared about what everybody else is doing wrong.

Even as one of things that's wrong is our own warped perspective of Christianity.

I heard somebody on our local news last night praising God and saying it was a miracle that their loved ones were able to catch the first flight out of Mexico after Hurricane Odile ravaged their vacation spot in Cabo San Lucas.

Really!

Really?  God orchestrated a miracle to get your healthy middle-class relatives out of their luxury resort and onto a plane, leaving behind hundreds of thousands of storm-stricken Mexicans to pick through the mess that is now their world?  You think that's the kind of religion that honors Jesus Christ?  Be thankful that your relatives are safe, and coming home, but don't credit God with extraordinarily blessing your relatives while forcing plenty of other people to live in misery.

Over in the Pacific Northwest, some die-hard members of Driscoll's congregation continue to defend their preacher, rationalizing that sure, he may be a bit gregarious, but he speaks truth from the pulpit.  Well, sure; he could be preaching that grass is green and Seattle's weather is rainy, and it would all be true, but is that the Gospel of Jesus Christ?

As the United States continues its transition into being a post-Christian nation, fewer and fewer of us will even bother to make an attempt at putting up with all of the evangelical fuss.  And some church folk will sputter that we're being persecuted, without realizing that we were never entitled to the social respect we've come to expect for the past several hundred years anyway.

Meanwhile, the Gospel of Jesus Christ never crashes and burns.  The Gospel of Jesus Christ never loses members, or money.  Neither is the Gospel of Jesus Christ ever genuinely popular, or trendy, or acceptable.  But a lot of Christians expect their religion, their preachers, their churches, and the marketing universe that has become their evangelical ghetto to be the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

So that's what the unsaved world around us presumes to be the Gospel of Jesus Christ, too.  And then they look at the mess we make of what we substitute for Christ's Gospel, and see a huge disconnect.

It's a disconnect we need to see, too.

Can One Live With Dementia?

What's it like to live with a dementia patient?

To answer that question, you have to consider all of the personality traits the dementia patient had before their illness.  Put them into a snowglobe like so many miniature white, plastic flakes, seal it up, and then shake the snowglobe as furiously as you can.

As the you hold the snowglobe still, watch the blizzard you've just created within it begin to settle down.  Those little personality traits will sort themselves out in ways that resemble the person you used to know, and slowly sink into place atop whatever stationary objects are anchored within the snowglobe.

But shake it up again, and while you can still recognize the tableau, the flakes won't land in the same spots.  Flat surfaces within the snowglobe, for example, that might have previously offered a resting place for those white, plastic flakes may be uncovered after subsequent shakes.

Tomorrow, take out one or two of those plastic flakes, and shake up the snowglobe.  Then the next day, take out one or two more.

Eventually, when you shake up the snowglobe, you won't have much of a blizzard at all.

Yesterday, I watched my father standing in front of his wide bay window, in his living room, looking out onto his deep front yard, and the suburban neighborhood beyond.  He compares the quiet, tranquil scene to his childhood in chaotic Brooklyn, where there was no bay window, no green yard, and no still street.  His block was literally a block of bricks, concrete, and mortar, with cars, delivery trucks, people walking, people shouting in play and anger, and bookies putting their profits in a small hole in a tree in front of the building where my Dad and his family lived.  He remembers men in big, fancy luxury cars coming by every now and then to collect the money that was wadded into that hole by their, um... "employees."  I once asked Dad if he was ever tempted to take the money he discovered those men would hide in that tree, and he said that even though he didn't know who the men were, he knew something terrible would happen to him if he so much as told anybody else about their secret hiding place.

That was the Brooklyn between the world's wars.  It's what my Dad remembers best, if he remembers anything at all.  Ebbets Field and the Dodgers, and Coney Island, and riding the subway at rush hour, returning home from school in Manhattan, leaning out the open windows and snatching the newspaper out of the hands of somebody standing on the platform, too close to the train.

Now, however, Dad reads his own newspaper two or three times a day - or more, never remembering that he's already read it.  He watches baseball games on television, and can call balls or strikes before the umpire does, but he doesn't know who's playing.

He does a frustrating number of ordinary things wrong.  He can't - or won't - pull his chair up close to the dining table when he eats.  Mom has taken to laying a towel over his lap to try and catch the food that drops between his plate and his mouth.  He can't work TV remotes anymore.  He's tinkered with what used to be his reliable grandfather clock so much, it's hopelessly out of synchronization, chiming the wrong time at all hours.  He frequently misplaces his glasses - which he often forgets to use - and his binoculars.  He has two pair of those - one for the front of the house, so he can spy on neighbors whose names he no longer remembers, and one for the back of the house, so he can watch the birds.

He can't drive, mow the lawn, take a shower by himself, wash the dishes, vacuum the house, or sweep the driveway:  all things he did regularly not even a year ago.  It's not just that we won't let him; he simply can't.  He doesn't have the logic and memory necessary to process the ordinary progression of steps involved in accomplishing basic tasks.  And, thanks to his fall earlier this summer, he hasn't regained the balance and strength these ordinary tasks demand, although he has improved somewhat as time has dragged by.

He argues now, but he never used to.  He complains, and he never used to complain.  He calls Mom a nag, and he never used to do that.  He pouts.  He tells bald-faced lies; although, frankly, sometimes it's hard to tell if he's intentionally denying the truth, or merely forgetting it the instant he does something.

He grouses about all of the blacks he sees playing professional sports.  He never used to do that.  Shucks, it wasn't until our family moved to Texas that I learned some people dislike blacks, but I didn't learn that from my parents.

His personality is changing before our eyes, every day, as one or two flakes of whatever it is that forms our attitude and perspective of life get taken away.

What's it like living with a dementia patient?  I've never been a parent, but I imagine it's similar to the inverse of raising children.  Except that with raising children, you should be able to reasonably expect that your child will eventually learn what you're teaching it, and be able to build upon that acquired knowledge towards bigger and better things.  With a dementia patient, it's the learning process in reverse.  It's not knowledge the dementia patient is acquiring.  They are losing knowledge.  They're losing the ability to think and process information.  Drawing correlations between similar actions and outcomes simply isn't going to happen.  They forget to use their cane, for example, no matter how many times you remind them - or nag them.  Oddly enough, they'll recognize that you're nagging them about the cane, but they still forget to use it.

I ask myself often:  what good is this type of life?  What benefit exists in the existence of a person with dementia?  They don't authentically love anymore; they respond to our affection, but they don't return it.  You can't carry on a conversation with them about anything other than what is taking place at this exact moment.

"Look, it's getting cloudy."

"Did they say it would rain?"

Then, about ten seconds later:  "Look, it's getting cloudy."

Wait for it:  "Hmm... it's getting cloudy."

"Did they forecast rain?"

Mom frequently shows Dad photos of his grandchildren, but while he'd long ago memorized the listing of their names, and can usually recite it with ease, he can't match the names with their photos.  He doesn't recognize any of them as his grandchildren when you arbitrarily present him with a photograph.  Sometimes he forgets he has grandchildren, or two sons.  Or his wife's first name.  Or mine.

Doctor after doctor he's visited this summer take test after test, and in terms of his physical health, Dad is doing remarkably well.  So we have no idea how much longer he'll live, and our family really doesn't talk about it.  But it doesn't seem like he's leading a productive existence, and in the eyes of our accomplishment-oriented society, Dad has become a drain, not a contributor.  It's a painful reality to contemplate, but it's impossible to ignore.

Why does God allow the mind to deteriorate like this?  And Dad's case isn't the worst of its kind.  Plenty of dementia patients out there are in far worse shape than Dad.  How does that glorify the Creator of all life?

Theoretically, I have to believe that life is more than one's mental health, or physical health.  Some experts can argue about the biology of life, but basically, from conception to last breath, life is that which is sustained solely through the force I believe to be the sovereignty of God.  So, regardless of what we consider to be the "quality" of somebody's life, as long as they are alive, they are alive by God's will.  And that is how God is honored.

So, can one live with dementia?  In some ways, living with a dementia patient is a lesson about life, and about what God allows that you and I probably wouldn't.  I don't necessarily see anything beneficial about dementia, but that's not God's fault.  We've become very sophisticated in our society, with technology, entertainment, education, politics, living standards, and quality-of-life metrics that can easily obscure the often uncomfortable reality that we who are alive today may not be tomorrow.  So we want as full and rich of a life experience as we can possibly achieve - now, as soon as possible, without delay.

That's how most of us determine how useful we are, or how productive and worthwhile our life is.  Meanwhile, dementia patients go from day to day, or five minutes to five minutes, or distant memory to distant memory, and God keeps them alive even though we don't think He's being very resourceful with that person.  After all, God created that person with abilities that now seem to be wasting away in the snowglobe of ever-diminishing returns.

But we're the ones who look on outward appearances, right?  We're the ones who measure people by their accomplishments.  God's the One Who looks at the heart.

In a spiritual sense, but also in a literal, mortal sense.

For His glory, whether we understand it or not.  

Elite Luxury, Now in Parking Spaces

If you're a liberal, socialist-leaning Democrat, are you sitting down?  The news I'm about to share with you may sound like an egregious example of self-indulgent capitalism run amok.

If you're a right-wing, free-market Republican, however, this same news will probably strike you as little more than what it literally is:  the new benchmark for the price of parking spaces in Manhattan.

And the new price now being asked for a parking space in Manhattan?  How about a cool, round $1,000,000?

Yes, that's right:  One million dollars.

For a rectangular patch of concrete on which you can park your car.  In the yet-to-be-built condominium project called "42 Crosby Street" in SoHo.

Granted, nobody has actually paid $1 million for one of these parking spaces yet.  So far, the highest price a parking spot has ever commanded in Manhattan has been $345,459, paid in April, 2012, for a parking spot in deeply trendy TriBeCa.  Two other parking spaces, being sold as a set to compliment a $50 million Greenwich Village penthouse, are priced at $1 million for the pair, but both they and their associated condo are still on the market.  So it remains to be seen if the parking space market in SoHo will actually have any takers at $1 million for one space.  After all, per square foot, that price is more than what the luxurious apartments are going for up above the garage.

At least these are garage spaces, sheltered from New York's sometimes dangerous streets, with their car thieves, petty vandals, and clueless drivers, many of whom play bumper-cars with other vehicles already parked along a curb just so they can get their car into a parking space.  The market for off-street, sheltered parking has been climbing for years, but the current average across Manhattan runs about $136,000 per space.  Indeed, high-density New York has a demand for such a product, and you might also be surprised to learn that there are actually about a dozen cars being made right now with pricetags of at least $1 million.  So it's not like paying $1 million for a spot to park your $1 million automobile is all that unrealistic.

Especially considering New York's already famous excesses.

Still, selling a parking space for one mil mostly makes for a splashy, provocative angle to pitch these new apartments.  42 Crosby Street's developers need some gimmick for their project to stand out in Manhattan's hyper-competitive housing market.  These extra-high-dollar parking spaces aren't located in some run-of-the-mill parking garage; they're in an exclusive building being built on what's currently - ironically - a parking lot.  And there are only 10 spaces available; one for each apartment in the building.  These apartments average around $9 million apiece in price, except for the building's $25 million duplex penthouse.  So we're not talking about dozens - or hundreds - of buyers in a skyscraper being wooed with million-dollar parking spots.  Still, these boutique buildings like 42 Crosby Street are all the rage right now, and they tend to all look the same.  This project's developers have already gone through two other designs for their building, and they spent $16 million on that old parking lot.  They've gotta get some cash coming through the door to start paying these bills that are beginning to pile up.

So, who would pay that kind of money for a parking space?  All things considered, with New York's residential real estate market being as hot as it is, the prices for apartments in 42 Crosby Street seem fairly realistic, but it likely won't be traditional wealth buying them.  Most old money already owns comfortable real estate holdings in Manhattan, and rich people who've lived in the city for years tend to leave their personal automobiles at their country homes, and let chauffeur-driven vehicles get them around Gotham.  And as far as needing to keep one's personal vehicle close at hand, a lot of people buying into this price point have employees and staffers who can fetch the family's Bentley down the block at a moment's notice.

Can you say nouveau riche?  Because that's the market 42 Crosby Street is likely targeting.  Who else but new money would jump at such an opportunity?  SoHo has become the place to be and spend for sassy technology entrepreneurs and young Wall Street bankers, as well as Russian and Chinese tycoons who are looking at foreign real estate as a reliable place to park some of their cash.  To people like this, $1 million for a parking space isn't illogical, but a bragging point, and something with which to dazzle both one's poorer family members, and one's desired peer group, further up the social ladder.

Hey - for centuries, New York City has been built by and for these people.  In a way, this is simply the next era of conspicuous consumption for the capital of the world.  "Capital" in more ways than one.

Still, can you imagine living in an apartment building filled with people willing to pay $1 million for a parking space?  It's a good thing there are only 10 apartments at 42 Crosby Street - any more, and the hedonistic narcissism of its residents would likely make the place utterly unbearable.  What would these people do if there was a fire in their building?  Who'd get out first?  What about the parties they'd likely throw, and all of the demands they might make for customizing their apartments in ways that inconvenience other tenants?

Of course, all of this is pure speculation.  Shame on me for being so cynical.  Some people would say I'm simply jealous of rich people.  So, perhaps there are ten families worth millions of dollars who are entirely nice, quiet, kind, selfless, easy to get along with,  and are looking for just the right apartment in Manhattan where they can protect their family minivan regardless of cost.

Yes, I'm sure there are plenty of .01 Percenters out there who are perfectly wonderful people.  But what makes them wonderful people almost certainly are qualities that would otherwise prevent them from spending $1 million for one parking space.

Liberals would say that no self-respecting humanist would waste that kind of money on a patch of concrete to park a fossil-fuel-burning machine.  And right-wingers would say it's none of our business, as long as whomever purchased those parking spaces can afford to do so.

Meanwhile, moderates like me say "just because you might be able to, that doesn't mean you should."