Can Karma Be All About Looks?

I just saw my first Fisker.

A Fisker Karma.  Silver.  With a black glass roof lined with metallic circuitry.

This Karma Ain't No Chameleon

Fisker Karma is a brand-new hybrid luxury sedan that can get up to 52 mpg, despite its sprawling dimensions.  I saw my first Fisker today while gazing out a third-floor window in none other than Arlington, Texas, a city better known for sports and chain restaurants than exotic automobiles.

Who knows - the driver may have been a sports celebrity.  He was a fairly short, muscular white guy with a thick head of black hair.  I watched as he pulled into a bank's narrow parking lot, and found his Fisker was too wide to fit between a poorly-parked black pickup truck and an idling armored truck.  The driver waited for a while, and then got out of his car (that's how I know how tall he was), motioning for the driver of the armored truck to move up just a few feet.  But the driver in his burly rig just stared at him.

Was that karma, maybe?

Finally, the Fisker guy got back into his swanky ride, backed away, and drove off.  Since I was up high, I could see him soon coming around the back way into the bank's drive-through area.

Maybe he had to make a deposit to cover his first month's payment.

We have a hazy sky here in north Texas this afternoon, but still plenty of sun to keep the solar cells built into the Fisker's roof drinking up the energy rays.  That's why, from above, the car's roof looks like a sleek circuit board hovering over the passenger compartment.

Developed for around $1 billion by a team of automotive and ecological engineers headed by Danish designer Henrik Fisker, the Karma represents the leading edge of a brave new world of ultra-luxury low-emissions vehicles.  At least, if you view hybrids and all-electric cars apart from the coal and gas-powered factories powering the massive electric plants essential for this new automotive technology.  We may all be fooling ourselves that "green" cars are really helping to save our planet, considering that somewhere along the way, fossil fuels still play a huge role in how they operate.  But if the ride into our environmental fantasy is going to be in cars like the Fisker, we'll at least be stylin' our way around the proverbial bush.

Immediately, looking out the window from my perch, I could tell this was a different car, even before I could recall it's name.  Fisker is brand-new to the automotive world, completely separate from the Big Three and any foreign legacy car makers, except for its GM-produced engines that power each car's generator.  Its fluid, sexy styling invokes flashbacks to the Jaguars of old, and comparisons to today's Aston Martin Rapide - at twice the price - or maybe a late-model Maserati Quattroporte.  In any event, these are all relatively rare cars, even in the exotic environs of haughty north Dallas, where elite nameplates seem to breed in valet parking lots.

Earlier today, I was chided by a reader of an essay of mine about Mitt Romney and his $250 million fortune.  My reader thought I sounded jealous of Romney's wealth, which seems to be the typical reaction these days from conservatives who think pointing out millions of dollars in assets is akin to class warfare.

Chill, people!  Who's the one who preaches on this blog that it's the love of money that's the root of evil, not money itself?  Like many things, money is relative, and I only wish I had a relative with lots of it!  Okay, bad jokes aside, as long as anybody with money - whether it be somebody working a minimum-wage job or somebody with Warren Buffett wealth - tithes the portion of that money God directs them to, how they spend what's left over is more a matter of being responsible to God than being restricted by Him.

And "being responsible" is laden with cultural variables.

In the United States, spending $25,000 for an automobile is considered relatively normal and prudent, and hardly extravagant.  But in India or Bangladesh, spending that amount of money would be seen as absurd by most of the populace that barely earns that amount in their entire lifetime.  Meanwhile, spending $100,000 on a car like the Fisker is low-balling it, at least in the orbits of New York City's hedge fund titans, or the technology wonks out in Silicon Valley.

What Effect is This Cause Having?

Maybe it's because I've always had a weakness for cars, but if somebody can honestly afford to buy something like the Fisker, I say "congratulations, and enjoy it!"  Having said that, if I personally had the money to buy one, I'm not sure I would.  But not directly because of the cost.  Being the cynic I tend to be, I'd be anxious about some crazy uninsured driver hitting it.  And speaking of valet parking, I don't even let valet employees park my humble Honda Accord anymore, after one of them scuffed the bumper of my last Honda in the back lot of a Dallas restaurant.

It's also valid to point out that cars like the Fisker have a history of introducing new features and engineering to the broader, mass-consumption market.  I'm not crazy about professional car racing, but I can't deny that many of the safety standards and equipment we drivers and passengers enjoy today have come from NASCAR and other real-world racing venues.  Who knows yet the amount of technology Fisker and other new hybrid car manufacturers are pioneering that could make ordinary cars more environmentally-friendly in the future?  Indeed, a lot is riding on cars like Fisker's in more ways that one.  The fight over hybrid technology is so fierce these days, one of Fisker's competitors, Tesla, alleged in a lawsuit that Fisker had stolen some of its secrets.

As new as this technology may be, however, at least one part of the Fisker story seems to smell of the same old bad politics that have corrupted other environmental projects.  Fisker won half a billion dollars in guaranteed loans from our federal government, like the now-defunct Solyndra did.  Fisker also received $193 million in taxpayer-funded incentives to provide "green" jobs, even though the Obama administration knew Fisker is building these Karmas in Finland, of all places.  A mothballed GM plant Fisker purchased at a government fire sale will ostensibly be used for future cars in Fisker's pipeline.

That is, if Fisker can hold out that long.  Within weeks of its debut last fall, Fisker had to issue a recall, and has issued two more since then.  At least one fire has been definitively linked with their vehicles, and another fire may have been.  Such numbers wouldn't mean much for a mass-market vehicle, but Fisker has only sold a few thousand of their Karmas so far.

Some people with $100,000 to spend on a vehicle might let the car's incredible looks overrule a more pedestrian logic, and indulge themselves with one.  However, if you've earned that money yourself, you're probably also smart enough to consider your other, more time-tested options in this price class.

I spotted that gorgeous Fisker right away out of a parking lot full of cars, and a four-lane avenue teeming with traffic.

Maybe that kind of attention is still worth it to the guy who couldn't even get an armored truck to move a few feet out of his way.
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What Might They Say About You?

Some friends of mine who live in Europe recently told me a story.

They once shared a meal with some friends of theirs:  the husband a Frenchman, the wife a product of the former East Germany when it was under communist rule.

The wife who'd grown up in East Germany recounted how several years ago, her mother, who still lives in what's now a united Germany, received something completely unfamiliar to us Westerners.  She was given the file kept on her by the Staatssicherheit, or Stasi, which was East Germany's secret police.  While she was growing up, the wife knew her family was under suspicion because they would receive packages of things as harmless as denim jeans from family members living in the democratic, capitalistic west.  Such deliveries were major red flags for government agents trying to repress its citizenry.

Who knew blue jeans were subversive?

To try and avoid any further trouble with the Stasi, the wife's family stopped going to church, a custom widely known to invite friction with East Germany's government-sanctioned thugs.  After all, they couldn't really communicate to their free relatives how even something as ubiquitous as jeans could jeopardize their safety under communist rule.  At least, they rationalized, they could try to reduce their visibility by dropping church attendance from their list of activities which would be considered objectionable.

It doesn't seem the family was ever really harassed by the Stasi, but in the file this family's matriarch received after the Berlin Wall's fall, it wasn't for lack of evidence.  Turns out, close acquaintances, co-workers, and neighbors had all turned in the family to the Stasi for various things.  As you can imagine, the family was shocked more by the familiar names they saw in the file, not particularly what activities and habits those back-stabbers shared with the Stasi.

Apparently, too, this family had never thought to report these same friends to the secret police.

It has been estimated that approximately one in 63 East Germans collaborated with the Stasi, which is one of history's most impressive records of manipulation by a nation's secret police.  During its reign, the Staatssicherheit employed over a quarter-million people in various capacities; one soccer club alone had 18 agents.

In 1992, after German unification, the security organization's files were opened to the public for the first time.  As government researchers, ordinary citizens, and journalists went on the hunt for Stasi criminals, they soon discovered that much of the most incriminating evidence necessary to produce convictions in a court of law had been shredded or otherwise destroyed.  Indeed, the process for literally piecing together these paper trails - estimated at 45 million documents - has been arduous and time-consuming.  So far, only two former Stasi officers have been convicted of any crime from their years of torturing suspects, covering up state accidents, executing dissidents, and whatever else secret police officers do in the line of nefarious duty.

We take for granted the fact that here in the United States, stuff like this is something we hardly ever need to think about.  But do you know at least 63 people?  How many Facebook friends do you have?  How many people work for your employer?  How many people live in your apartment building, or in your suburban neighborhood?

In East Germany, remember, at least one in 63 people would be spying on you!

Here's another question:  If our CIA was recruiting informants to turn in evangelical Christians, believers in Christ whose primary allegiance was to God, not our president or any particular political party, who might turn you in?

You may be familiar with the time-worn question, "if you were on trial for your faith, would there be enough evidence to convict you?"  In a way, though, that's a fairly benign question, isn't it?  In a way, the personal nature of your faith is removed from how your faith may or may not impact the lives of people around you.

But what about those people around you; the people you know, with whom you work and associate?  The people who live next-door to you?  What might they say about you and how you live your faith?

What might a secret police organization's dossier on you look like?
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Long Life's Dear Cost

Living a long life used to be a good thing.

And if you're healthy, right up to the end, it may still be.

But for an increasing number of Americans, old age is not the good thing we've been led to believe.  The Lord has blessed our doctors, scientists, and other medical experts with incredible insight into how the bodies He created function, and that insight has led to some amazing advancements in healthcare, which have helped to lengthen lifespans.

Long life, remember, used to be considered a good thing worth striving towards.

In Biblical times, long life wasn't 80 years, or 100, but several hundred years.  We still don't know how the same human bones and flesh they had back then could last so much longer than ours does today.  Or, for that matter, what the quality of life was for those folks when they hit the 300-year mark.  Survival then was much tougher than it is today, which makes one wonder whether back-breaking labor might actually better for us than sitting at computer screens all day long.

We've just finished the last of our national political conventions, and today, the race for President of the United States goes into overdrive.  One of the key topics up for debate centers on how our country plans to care for its rapidly-aging population, including ideas for revising Medicare and, even more importantly, Medicaid.  Medicaid, after all, is what many middle-class families currently rely upon to fund the oftentimes exorbitant costs of long-term care for their loved ones.

Whether you're for vouchers, reducing the role of the federal government in healthcare generally and elder care specifically, or increasing Washington's role in determining and allocating funds for such care, we need to remember that funding elder care is not an abstract problem.  It's happening now.  Baby boomers pose a significant threat to the financial integrity of American families, charities, and the government, from the local to the state and federal levels.  And care isn't getting any cheaper.

Who Can Save Enough to Pay for Long Term Care?

It may be easy for all of the young fresh faces and voices of America's contemporary media, including blogs and political action groups, to view elder care as a cost-savings opportunity.  Letting policy shapers speak from lack of experience has become a dangerous trend in our country.  Speaking as a member of a family that has already begun the slow, expensive process of long-term elder care, however, I see this issue differently.  The loved ones in my family who need specialized attention have worked their entire lives in honorable yet modestly-paying jobs.  The kind of jobs most people have that, although ordinary, helped them afford decent homes and a few luxuries.  They've retired mortgage-free and credit-card-debt-free.  With savings.  So why should they worry about paying for their own care, right?

Sure, some right-wing Republicans might grouse that my family's loved ones should have striven to become independently wealthy, so they would know they could afford any healthcare contingency.  Meanwhile, any serious student of economics knows that not everybody can be a One Percenter.  Or even a Twenty Percenter.  My family's loved ones played the career and personal finance games as well as many other Americans have been able to.  Along the way, however, the retirement goalposts got moved.  And even if they'd earned twice what they did during their careers, it wouldn't be enough to pay for modern long-term care.

Hopefully, most rational conservatives can agree with many rational liberals, and recognize that personally funding retirement care these days requires much more than conventional savings and healthcare insurance, and experts differ as to whether long-term-care insurance is worth its steep cost.  Double the quandary when both spouses live into ripe old age.  Stories about running out of money, particularly because we're living longer than past generations, are incredibly frequent.  Even most long-term-care insurance policies cover only three years of care, while patients may live much longer.  Only an ignorant person would claim that any American worth their citizenship should be able to save up the money they'll need to pay for their own elder care, or hope three year's worth of expensive insurance provides enough protection.

Indeed, if there's one great equalizer in American society, it's elder care, because even if you've earned hundreds of thousands of dollars in retirement assets, you can burn through it quickly if you're not healthy.  And it strikes me as being a bit hypocritical of politicians - of all people - to be dictating how and what types of care should or shouldn't be funded anyway.  After all, many of them benefit from a federal healthcare program the rest of us Americans can only dream about.

Being Responsible for What God Expects of Us

People of faith, particularly those on the far-right side of the aisle who normally eschew anything that drains taxpayer dollars, need to remember that the Bible is explicit and repetitive on our mandate to care for the widows and needy among us.

If that means cutting back in other programs so that we can honor our elders by paying for the care they require, shouldn't we?

Of course, if that means cutting waste in the elder care programs we already have, shouldn't we?

Should it mean that family members currently working and trying to pay for their own retirement be forced to quit their jobs to perform the care for which our politicians don't want to pay?

Should it mean our pharmaceutical industry gets to set their prices for medications required to sustain life?  Or that nursing care providers and healthcare plan administrators get to inflate the costs of elder care by setting their own payment guidelines?

Where should the line be drawn between profit motive and pure greed when it comes to elder care?

Where should the line be drawn between our personal preference for low taxes and our ability to help out our fellow families grappling with elder care costs?  Granted, having the federal government administer elder care may not be the best approach.  The rules government bureaucrats and politicians concoct - particularly at the federal level - have a bad history of being woefully counterproductive.  Right now, Medicaid is run by individual states, and paid for by each state with matching funds from the federal government.  Technically, states can opt out of Medicaid, since their participation is voluntary.  So far, however, even though some states call their Medicaid program by a different name, all fifty states participate.

President Obama would like to expand Medicaid by broadening patient eligibility standards.  He says Obamacare will provide states more federal funds, but states will have to contribute more themselves, too, causing some to balk.  After all, whether we're talking state or federal funds, it's all still taxpayer dollars, so Obamacare doesn't really appear to be solving anything in terms of Medicaid.  Subtly expanding federal control over what has traditionally been a state-run program - which is what increasing federal participation would effectively do - doesn't sit well with conservatives, either.

Don't forget that Medicaid doesn't just pay for elder care.  It, along with Medicare, pays for a variety of healthcare costs for a variety of segments of our population.  When it comes to paying for elder care, however, it's usually Medicaid that taxpayers rely upon to cover the gaping cost gaps.  Unless somebody can come up with a better idea.

You've Aged Just Reading This

Fortunately, the recent trend towards home health care is helping to reduce some costs, and fast-paced advancements in the treatment of cancers and dementia may help provide cures to help senior citizens lead less dependent retirements.  But it's all still expensive.

A lot may hinge on what happens to Obamacare after this November's election.  Right now, depending on who you talk to, Obamacare is either lowering costs, or simply reducing the number of allowable medical procedures.  It's very difficult to parse the hype and rhetoric from reality.  Considering the resources required to provide the care you would expect for yourself or your parents, however, can we afford to spurn greater federal involvement in elder care?  If states opt out and lose federal funds, can our churches and community charities keep up with the growing demand?  Would you want your family to be one of the ones to find out?

Not that the government is the only hope for elder care.  But how realistic are we being by playing political gamesmanship with the needs of our aging population?  After all, even if we find ways to better manage elder care, and I hope we do, the demand for it won't go away.  None of us are getting any younger.

And we can't all hope to be the exception, and either earn enough or stay healthy enough to avoid the elder care cost crisis.

One of the blessings God offers His people in the Bible is long life.

How much of a blessing might long life really be?
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Maybe Taxpayers Can Save Art From Itself

Should taxpayers help fund the arts?

I used to think so, since in our increasingly casual society, the rigors and disciplines of art appreciation have gone into free-fall.  Despite the fact that cultural events help broaden the mind and speak to extraordinary beauty and creativity, pop culture teaches that if it isn't loud, obnoxious, transient, titillating, or easily-understood, it's not worth the money.  If the general public doesn't want to shell out the bucks to fund culture, is that a good enough reason to let the arts die?  

Where a community's taxpayers choose to put their money says a lot about their aspirations, their values, and their understanding of how humanity works.  Leverage a surcharge on sales taxes to fund football stadiums for millionaires to play in, and you see one scenario of a community's values.  Take a fraction of taxpayer funds to underwrite a modestly successful symphony, and you see one scenario of another community's values.  If your community has the will and resources to do both with tax dollars, there's yet another scenario of that community's values.

If taxpayers individually don't care about the arts, maybe collectively, they can still keep them around for those who do.

Taxpayers as Arts Patrons

But over the past few years, America's cultural scene - particularly in classical music - has been slowly shrinking past the break-even level in many cities across the country.  Sure, classical music has been cursed with declining popularity for decades, but in many of the communities that had been able to cobble together a budget for their orchestra, philharmonic, or symphony, economic fortunes have waned, along with populations.  And one by one, classical music organizations have been closing up shop.

Inevitably, before the last encore, arts patrons have tried to rally their communities for one last push to increase municipal arts funding.  But those communities have either decided the money isn't there even if they wanted to divert it to the arts, or they just didn't have the political will.  It's hard to argue for something that the vast majority of taxpayers don't want.

Which is one of the reasons I've changed my mind about taxpayer funding for the arts.  Yes, I still believe a thriving cultural scene provides an attractive resource that helps sell the community as a place with a high quality of life.  All the things arts boosters say about the arts still ring true:  corporate relocations tend to go where the arts are present; and our burgeoning "creative class" tends to cluster in places where the arts are well-funded.  The arts also provide a wide range of eclectic jobs that don't pay much, but help fill in some of the nooks and crannies of a city's skills set.

If we're going to get serious about our government budgets, however, and reform tax codes to benefit our economy, few sacred cows should remain.  Therefore, even though I'm a strong supporter of the arts in general and classical music in particular, I've come to the realization that I cannot expect my fellow taxpayers to help foot the bill for something they simply don't want.  Even if they don't recognize the inherent value in the arts.

When my city, Arlington, Texas, voted to raise the sales tax to help fund part of the new Dallas Cowboys' stadium here in town, I grudgingly voted in support of the proposal.  Not because I enjoy football, or because I looked forward to having a bunch of drunken louts trying to plow through our city streets after games trying to find their way home.  I simply couldn't avoid the economic benefit such a facility would bring to our community.  Some people groused that billionaires like the Cowboys' owner, Jerry Jones, had no business asking taxpayers to fund his enterprise, which is 100% true, but if Arlington didn't cough up the sales tax receipts, some other city would have.  That funding scam is bigger than us Arlington voters.

Behold What Oil Money Can Buy

According to its city's slogan, the west begins just to the west of Arlington in Fort Worth, that fabled cattle and oil town.  "Fut Wuth," or "Far Warth" as the natives say it in either their southern drawl or western brogue, has evolved from a raucous, brothel-strewn cowboy drinkin' town - whose downtown used to be called "Hell's half acre" - into a sophisticated sprawl of glassy office towers, wide boulevards, genteel neighborhoods, and some of the world's best art and architecture.  Most of the city's modern transformation has been paid for by generations of beef, oil, leatherwear, aviation, and even technology money.  The Amon Carter, Sid Richardson, Science and History, Kimbel, and Modern Art museums are known around the world.  Casa Manana attracts famous entertainers from New York and Hollywood.  Downtown's angelic Bass Hall hosts a decent symphony, even if it's not as famous as Dallas', just 30 minutes down the freeway.  Eminent classical pianist Van Cliburn retired to Fort Worth, where his quadrennial piano competition is considered the most elite of its kind on the planet.  Indeed, few cities of any size can boast a similar cultural pedigree.

Recent budget talks have the city gutting its percentage of funding to Fort Worth's prized cultural scene, however, and some arts patrons have gotten all up in arms.  Fort Worth has been cutting its spending on the arts for years, but with this new reduction, they might as well not be giving anything.

And maybe that's just as well.

If you don't live around these parts, you might not realize that most of our cultural icons are named as legacies for prominent Fort Worth families, such as the Carters, Richardsons, Kimbels, Basses, and so forth.  Plenty of heirs to these names exist with their family fortunes and then some.  I doubt that many of these people would welcome their family's name falling into disrepute, were their artistic endeavors to go underfunded.  It was self-aggrandizement that got these facilities built, and it will likely be self-aggrandizement that will keep their budgets afloat.  Isn't that part of how capitalism works?  Especially the tax write-off part every April 15?

The symphony, of course, is a little different, since such ventures employ a considerable number of people, and playing to a half-empty concert hall is far more discouraging - and harder to hide - than having half-empty galleries in a museum.  It's been commented by many classical musicians that here in north Texas, we have an extraordinarily rare number of symphonies and orchestras - up to five, depending on your artistic standards.  I certainly don't wish ill of any of them, but just as we have a number orchestras, we also are blessed in north Texas by many wealthy people who should be able to afford to step into the funding breach were tax dollars removed from the equation.

Not that I'm heaping all the responsibility for saving the arts on the backs of the wealthy, even though, "to whom much is given, much is required."  I'm well aware that money can't buy good taste, or an appreciation for beautiful music and good art.  So expecting the rich to bail out the arts might enable some woefully unqualified people to begin dictating artistic goals just because they're signing the checks.

How would that help anything?

At some point, then, more middle-and lower-income people need to be brought back into the art-appreciation fold.  More people buying more tickets will be one of the most sustainable and efficient ways to fund the arts, right?  But how do we do that?  Many arts organizations are already bending over backwards trying to attract more patrons of any economic level.

Is Pleasing the Public Bad for Art?

One solution I'd respectfully suggest is that we get back to the basics regarding what art is.  And this is the second reason I support the withdrawal of public funds from the arts.  Maybe a certain amount of good old American consumer economics is in order to help save our cultural jewels.  For example, some of the classical music I've heard at our local symphony halls really isn't all that interesting, and I say that as  a person who likes classical music.  If I don't care for it, how much do you think average music consumers would pay to hear it?

Probably not anything, right?  So how much of a cultural shell might our tax dollars be disguising?

I realize that within the arts community, playing pieces of music that aren't necessary popular increases the professional credibility of musicians and orchestras.  But how much ego should you let get in the way of communicating timeless music to audiences?  I recall attending a pipe organ competition at Dallas' Meyerson Symphony Center, and the music on the program was so awful, we audience members were literally being forced out of the concert hall in droves.  The next day, organizers of the competition dismissively defended their program as obviously too avant garde for Dallas - which, considering their attitude, said more about them than us.  If making a pipe organ shriek and blast like a malfunctioning ship's horn is considered good art, then you're the one with the problem, buddy.  Not those of us expecting to hear beautiful music.

Just as classical music that's considered "modern" is one thing, so is modern art.  Maybe I've already told you about another installation at the Modern Art museum that consisted of a white fluorescent light bulb.

Yup.

That's it - a fluorescent light bulb, turned on, and bolted at an angle on the wall.  Shoot fire - if that's art, let's go to Home Depot - you'll go nuts!

If you weren't nuts already, that is:  thinking a light bulb mounted on a wall suffices as art.

While I can see the statement the artist is attempting to make, it's hardly worth the price of a $7 ticket, is it?  I mean, can you imagine Home Depot charging you money just to look at their inventory?  It's this kind of - frankly - stupid claim of artistic integrity that has contributed to the general public's dismissive attitude about art.  Granted, just as many people have a hard time appreciating Monet, so the general public's apathy is not entirely modern art's fault.  Some people just don't know what they see, which is what some of you artsy types may be thinking about me and my rant about light bulbs.

Will getting back to genuinely artistic art be the cure-all for all of the budget woes in our cultural districts?  Probably not entirely, no.  But does expecting taxpayers to continue helping out with the bills make any more sense than some of this stuff we're supposed to call artwork?  If tax dollars are removed from arts funding, how much will arts organizations be forced to return to the beauty most of us know can be found in more mainstream expressions of art?  After all, is art many people can appreciate necessarily worse than art most of us think is ugly?  To the extent that the general public disregards the arts, how much have they been pushed from the scene by arts snobs who still expect funding from the very people at which they sneer?

You might be surprised to hear me admit that despite some ludicrous examples, there are several genuinely clever and compelling pieces of art in Fort Worth's Modern.  So I visit from time to time, checking out what have become something like old friends.  On one of my visits, however, while walking through a gallery lined with ghastly paint dribbles evocative of Jackson Pollock in miniature, I overheard two ladies, perplexed, conversing with a young docent.

"Who decides this stuff is art?" one of the ladies asked with complete sincerity.

It took the docent so long to come up with some sort of reply, I was already in the next gallery before the reply came.

But I felt like stopping and saying, "the people gullible enough to pay for it."
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Just a Little Bit More Than the Law Will Allow

And then there's this:

Last week, a state trooper in Bradley, Maine, pulled over Rosco P. Coltrane, fabled sheriff of television's Hazzard County.

Okay, so the Maine state trooper is real, but the driver he pulled over was a Maine civilian who collects memorabilia from the classic 1980's TV show, the Dukes of Hazzard.  It wasn't the driver who was committing an offense, but the car he was driving - a white, mint-condition 1978 Dodge Monaco (pictured above), complete with sheriff decals, emergency lights, and a siren.

Oh yeah - and a stuffed animal named "Flash," after Coltrane's languid basset hound, in the back seat.

Once the owner of the replica cruiser explained his vehicle to the mystified trooper, named Michael Johnston, Trooper Johnston let him off with a warning to have its emergency lights and siren disconnected.  Even though everybody else in town already knows it's just a show car.

Now, if like Trooper Johnston, you're too young to recognize the '78 Dodge from its days as a ubiquitous police cruiser, allow me to remind you about the Dukes of Hazzard.  I've commented before on that true period piece - it aired during the same era as the prime time soap opera, Dallas.  Poorly written, horribly directed, and badly acted, Dukes was even worse than the artistically-challenged Dallas, but just as wildly popular.

(What does it say about the 1980's that these were two of its signature TV shows?)

There wasn't much cheatin', back-stabbin', and cutthroat oil dealin' in Dukes, but it had what most any other TV show needs to succeed:  goofy comedy, a flashy car (in the form of an orange Dodge Charger with the Confederate Flag painted on its roof), good guys always comin' out on top, and a gorgeous girl.

Catherine Bach played Daisy Duke, the gorgeous girl, and her impossibly short denim shorts - not exactly a new fashion idea - soon were called "Daisy Dukes" because, well, she embodied them so well.

John Schneider and Tom Wopat played the mischievous Duke brothers, Bo and Luke; two guys who never seemed to have regular work, unless you count always running afoul of the county's white-suited villain, Boss Hog. Boss Hog, played by Sorrell Booke, used his feeble-brained sheriff, Coltrane, to protect all of his various nefarious business schemes.  The Duke brothers' iconic orange Charger, christened the General Lee, was just as famous as any of the show's human actors, and exaggerated car chases between the General Lee and Sheriff Coltrane's cruiser - and sometimes, Boss Hog's old white Cadillac convertible - usually ate up more air time than the show's dialog did.

Backing up that cast was the wizened, grizzled Uncle Jesse; the greasy mechanic, Cooter, who usually ended up having to get Bo and Luke out of trouble; and the docile, bashful Deputy Strate, who for southern law enforcement agencies, made about as cringe-worthy a reincarnation of Mayberry's ineffective Barney Fife as any of the show's other blatant stereotypes.

Oh yes - and Flash, the sad-eyed old hound who'd probably seen so many of his owner's hijinks go awry, nothing could perturb him anymore.

Really, it shouldn't have been as popular as it was, but it was.  And its popularity came from its uncanny ability to portray a simpler place and time in American folklore.  Something not quite turn-of-the-century Old South provincialism, but not quite modern-day suburbs-invading-the-countryside, either.  Good and evil were easier to spot and deal with, with good ol' common sense and family values ruling the day.

Of course, it's rather ironic that a cop in rural Maine would pull over a benign, unofficial cop car outfitted as a replica of southern sheriff Coltrane's veee-hickle, as Coltrane would say.  Geographically speaking, Maine is about as far north from the South as you can get, but in terms of its slower pace of life, both New England and the Deep South have a lot in common.  Switch the accents, and take out all of the wealthy Boomers who've recently retired to Maine, and Dukes could have been filmed in the Pine Tree State.  For something like a state trooper's concern over a replica squad car to make news speaks to the down-home nature of Maine, and probably would have made news down South if it happened there, too.  Here in urban north Texas, this wouldn't be news, because most of our local police departments are too busy fighting real crime.

Indeed, word is beginning to spread here in Arlington, between Fort Worth and Dallas, that a new urban gang may be trying to establish itself in the northern part of town.  Just today, our neighborhood crime watch sent out an e-mail with the link to a video on YouTube showing a group of about twenty gangsta-type wannabies in a local park rapping with vulgarities and sinister swagger about drugs and general mayhem.  This same group is suspected of vandalizing another city park and bullying groups that had legitimately reserved pavilions at local parks.  Arlington never used to have a real crime problem, but it has now for years, and the small-town feel that was still here when my family moved down in the late 1970's is long gone.

It's this kind of stuff that is unsettling and even threatening to people like my neighbors and me, since we live in an established neighborhood, and are surrounded by dilapidated apartments like the ones featured in the video.  People who used to leave their front doors unlocked during the day now have security alarms, motion sensors, and closed-circuit cameras wired all over their properties.  If this new gang proves to be a genuine threat, what's next?

If only we had the crime problems like Trooper Johnston - shucks, and even Sheriff Coltrane - have, then everyday life would be a lot less stressful.

Oh well, at least in Bradley, Maine, traffic is tame enough for this replica cruiser's owner to drive his classics around town without fear damaging them - or having them get stolen.  Here in north Texas, meanwhile, driving is done pretty much the same way Bo and Luke careened their General Lee through those dirt roads and ramps on the studio lot.

Yee-haw.
_____

Saving Climbers from Themselves

Calvin and Hobbes by Bill Waterson, February 11, 1986

Climbing.

Ascending, reaching, hoping, enduring, achieving.  Being tenacious, always evaluating the terrain, looking towards the summit.

It's a thrill, a rush, a tangible accomplishment.  Adrenaline.  Bravado.  Something weaker people with fainter hearts and flabbier limbs either can't do, or are too lazy to try.

It's one thing to put on some hiking boots, grab some bottled water, and saunter up a pleasant hillside to take in the vista, or trek along a hilly forest path underneath the graceful, broad canopy of weathered trees.

But either our news media is getting more fascinated with the stories of botched rescues of climbers, or more and more Americans are woefully underestimating their mountain climbing capabilities.

Nick Hall, a native of Maine and professional search-and-rescue ranger, died June 21 while trying to help four climbers from Texas on Washington state's Mount Rainier.

Aaron Beesley, another professional rescuer, fell 90 feet to his death on Utah's Mount Olympus this past Saturday while trying to rescue two teenaged hikers.

Tony Stanley, a California Highway Patrol officer, was injured last Thursday when the rotor blades of his rescue helicopter clipped him as he attempted to reach a stranded hiker - who was a doctor.  The doctor, who had suffered a relatively minor injury by comparison, which had contributed to his need for rescue, ended up saving his rescuer's life.

Granted, considering the number of people who go mountain climbing for recreation every day all over the United States, these incidents could be considered statistically irrelevant.  And neither Hall, Beesley, nor Stanley were forced to work as rescuers.  News reports of their heroics portray each of them as lovers of their jobs and passionate about helping people.  Indeed, you'd have to be, to do these sorts of things for a living.

But dying while doing something for a living puts a different spin on it, doesn't it?  Especially when people die trying to rescue you.

We've all seen the news reports of residents in the path of a hurricane or wildfire who refuse evacuation orders and think they can defy Mother Nature.  At some point in the evacuation scenario, local law enforcement agencies will declare that if you stay, and you find yourself in imminent danger, rescuers will not be sent in to save you.  And I agree wholeheartedly with that decree.  The job of police officers and fire fighters is to protect us, but we have an obligation to be prudent about our own safety.  We can't expect to ignore warnings for our own health and welfare and then expect somebody to risk their own life to pluck us from death at the last minute because we didn't act on our own behalf sooner.

Yes, the line between refusing to evacuate in the face of a hurricane and exposing one's self to getting stuck on a mountain is fairly vague and gray.  It's certainly not crystal-clear, is it?  Especially since climbers are the ones intentionally putting themselves into an environment of danger precisely because danger is part of the attraction.  Even if you're so afraid of life that you never leave your house, there is plenty of danger right in your house.  However, our post-industrial society has designed many ways to mitigate the most common of dangers, and many of the dangers to which we're exposed in normal life aren't dangerous themselves to the people who may need to rescue us.  Shucks, that's one of the reasons people go climb mountains: because they can get away from all of the circumstances of ordinary life.  Getting away from ordinary life means you usually have to go someplace extraordinary.

Death-defyingly extraordinary.

Not that there's anything wrong with escaping to nature, going hiking, or even climbing mountains.  To the extent that risk is a part of life, climbing mountains for some people might be safer than trying to cross a Midtown Manhattan intersection.

But how American is it of climbers to feel entitled to be rescued if they get themselves into trouble?  If you're climbing in a national or state park, my taxes are helping to make sure you get help out there in the middle of noplace.  Sure enough, most rescuers employed by taxpayers don't get paid much, at least relative to their job description (saving lives, remember?).  But in our current fever to abolish entitlements, is it expecting too much for mountain climbers to pay 100% of the cost of employing those who might need to rescue them?

After all, they're willing to give their life for you.

All you want to do is climb a mountain.

Maybe you don't mind the inequity in roles.  After all, we Americans are programmed to live for fun.  And maybe my personal disregard for mountain climbing as a sport makes me disproportionately biased on this subject.  Before you write me off as just another hardened cynic, though, I know of two friends who consider themselves pretty good amateur climbers.  Still, I feel confident in what I say because both of them have scoffed to me about their peers who don't soberly weigh the costs before each climb.

At the end of the day, however, doesn't it seem that the reasons people use for justifying climbing mountains can be explored in other activities - activities in which the risks that endanger them don't also endanger the people who may need to rescue them?

The last words of American patriot Nathan Hale, before the British hung him for spying during the Revolutionary War, purportedly were, "I regret that I have but one life to give for my country."

A noble sentiment, indeed.

I wonder if mountain climbers start each trek saying, "I regret that each first responder has but one life to give for my risky behavior."
_____

Gnashing of Elite Teeth over Tower

Sometimes, neighbors can be annoying.

But what do you do when you believe your new neighbor is destroying your own property?

Well, in this case, perhaps "destroying" is a bit harsh.  But the world-famous architect whose small museum is being marginalized by the luxury apartment tower rising next to it would probably agree with the term.

He's already gone on record as describing his museum as a "victim" of the "aggressor" skyscraper.  And it's all because of something we get plenty of here in north Texas:  bright, hot sunlight.

What Could Go Wrong?

When celebrated architect Renzo Piano was commissioned by the late Ray Nasher to design a jewel box of a museum to hold the shopping center mogul's modern sculpture collection, a prime site in downtown Dallas, in the middle of the city's fledgling arts district, was chosen.

At the time, this location seemed to make sense, since the Dallas Museum of Art would be a neighbor for the new Nasher Sculpture Center, and I.M. Pei's wonderful Meyerson Symphony Center already anchored an expanding performing arts community just down the street.  To the Nasher's immediate south, a high-rise office building owned by one of Dallas' most prominent families flanked the edge of downtown's commercial skyscrapers, and to the Nasher's immediate north, an existing freeway was about to be covered over so a new, elevated park could be constructed.

Apparently, however, nobody gave much thought about what was planned for the property just to the east of the Nasher; property that for years had been a lowly parking lot.

So the Nasher was designed and constructed to considerable local acclaim, featuring glass ceilings that filtered natural sunlight to bathe sculptures on display with as little artificial lighting as possible.  Piano's design featured an expansive walled garden, where larger sculptures could be displayed amongst lush lawns and trees, like its own secluded park.  One outdoor piece consisted of a concrete shell large enough for a few people to walk inside, look up through an open-air oculus, and see nothing but the changing sky framed by a dark rim.  Maybe it sounds boring - and a bit silly - to construct something that frames the same sky we can gaze into on our own, but the actual effect when you're inside the artwork, stripped of distractions, can be kinda cool.

Except that now, a 42-story glass tower partially obstructs your view!

Not only that, but the still-to-be-completed Museum Tower apartment building is clad in a reflective glass that incessantly refracts piercing sunlight into every nook and crevice of the Nasher from noontime until the sun goes down.  Those skylights Piano designed to capture and diffuse sunlight tilt to - guess! - the east, so glare from the far stronger western sun isn't as prominent.  But now, to the east of the Nasher is where the objectionable skyscraper rises.

Oops.

Shine Some Light On It

At least for Dallas, this poses an unprecedented dilemma.  Sure, other conflicts between notable neighbors have existed before, but most of those have had to do with aesthetics, design philosophies, or even sagging foundations if excavation next-door undermines an existing structure.  But aesthetics and design philosophies don't literally render a structure worthless, and repairing damage to a neighbor's property during construction is party of the reason developers have to take out insurance.  In this case, the developers of the high-rise apartment building have violated no zoning laws, construction principles, or even aesthetic considerations.  Granted, Museum Tower looks like any other glassy skyscraper, and hardly worth the prices developers are charging for its apartments  But as far as glitzy skylines go, Dallas' is already fairly eclectic, so a building's designer would have to go pretty far off the deep end to make a new tower a complete eyesore.

And Museum Tower is no eyesore.

Art purists in Dallas insist that it's still an inferior building to Piano's Nasher, however.  To which it's easy to respectfully disagree.  Yes, the Nasher is elegant and pleasant enough, but an irreplaceable treasure for the city?  No.  A timeless piece of art all its own?  No.  One of Renzo Piano's best works?  No.

And the artwork housed in Piano's Nasher?  Some of it is pure junk appreciated only by those who crave attention from hallowed art snobs.  Nasher developed Dallas' beloved NorthPark Center, one of the nation's first enclosed malls, and despite competition from newer, bigger, and more gaudy malls, NorthPark remains the top retail shrine in the shopping mecca that is Dallas.  Indeed, when Dallasites talk about "going to the mall," they mean NorthPark.  If they're going to any other mall, Dallasites will name that mall specifically, and usually defend their decision not to go to NorthPark by complaining about it's incessantly notorious traffic.

Nasher and his wife, both of whom are now deceased, fancied themselves as experts on modern art, and modern sculpture in particular.  For years, NorthPark has featured works from their extensive collection throughout their facilities, and it's hard to deny that they make the mall quite unique in terms of ambiance.

But most of these sculptures are made of stone and metal - elements hardly at risk of damage from sunbeams from the western sky.  Officials at the Nasher claim that refracted sunlight from Museum Tower is forcing curators to relocate some sculptures considered more fragile and susceptible to fading.  Which, yes, isn't a desirable problem to have, but is hardly calamitous.  Then there are claims that grass and trees in the Nasher's outdoor sculpture garden are getting scorched from the refracted sunlight, but wilting and browning vegetation is part of everyday life here in Texas, even despite an abnormally wet spring like the one we just finished.

Officials and Piano insist it's not their responsibility to try and accommodate the sunlight glaring from their new neighbor.  Suggestions of retrofitting the Nasher with screens and blinds of some sort have met with stiff resistance from both the museum and well-connected arts patrons who bristle at the notion of crass commercialism like that of some petty capitalist apartment developers forcing changes to something as sacred as a sculpture museum.

But the Nasher isn't sacred.  Neither, for that matter, is the capitalist trophy tower next door, which will soon be home to some of the city's most expensive - and loftiest - apartments.  City leaders have arranged for a mediator to help forge some sort of compromise on this issue, but so far, no agreement has been reached.  In fact, it was rather surprising for Piano to speak out so publicly this week, since supposedly some sort of gag order is in place.  Yes, a gag order - after all, Dallas takes both its art and its construction projects very seriously.

Much Ado About Sunlight

So, what's the big deal, you ask?  Egypt is on the brink of anarchy, Greece and Spain may soon short-circuit the whole of Europe's economy, Russia still thinks it should have the right to sell arms to the merciless Assad regime... and Dallas is bickering over two ephemeral buildings in its pretentious arts district?

This debate isn't about art.  It's not even about property rights.  It's about ego.  Piano and Nasher officials are sore because the Dallas citizenry, on behalf of their beloved museum, hasn't risen up in fury against the skyscraper's developers.  They're frustrated because nobody - not even themselves - thought to more closely evaluate the effect the glass walls of a nearby tower would have on the Nasher.  After all, had the tower featured a conventional brick facade, or even balconies to break up the mirror effect of the glass, it would just be a tall neighbor, not a blinding one.

As far as the developers of Museum Tower are concerned, downtown Dallas is primarily a neighborhood of tall buildings.  City planners and arts patrons who mapped out the redevelopment of downtown's near north side for museums and concert halls had even included skyscrapers in their proposals, so the Nasher and its fans knew full well what the future held for the properties around them.

Personally, I'm a bit surprised at the attitude of Nasher's rich patrons.  Where has the enigmatic imagination that used to so pervade the city of Dallas gone?  If y'all hadn't fawned so much over Piano's building to begin with, and admitted it wasn't all that remarkable, you could have viewed this latest challenge as an opportunity to finally make a signature architectural statement out of the place.

Besides, Piano is one of many current architects known for their white sail motif, which would make a perfect addition to the roof of the current Nasher structure.  Strategically-engineered sails rigged over the Nasher could deflect the intense light from the tower next door, leave the current structure relatively intact, and lend their warmly dramatic aesthetics to helping make it the landmark building it currently isn't.

How much would it cost?  Please!  Since when has the inferiority complex which motivates arts patrons here ever fussed about cost before?

Frankly, Dallas, this whole episode doesn't show you in a good light.
_____

Dallas as City, Soap, and Survivor

Do you pay much attention to what's on television these days?

I don't.  But living here in the Dallas area, even I can't avoid the hoopla over the return of one of television's most iconic shows.  After twenty years, the soap opera named after north Texas' largest city is bustin' out in prime time, replete with Larry Hagman as J.R. Ewing and his ol' southern homestead, Southfork Ranch.

And no, I'm not going to watch it.

For one thing, it's on cable, and I don't have cable.  And the fact that cable produces shows like Dallas' remake are one of the reasons why I don't have cable.

Big D, Big Hair, Big Egos, Big Deals

Not that I'm knocking Dallas for being wildly popular, at least back in the day.  I suspect one of the reasons it was so popular for so many years - basically all of the 80's - involved its remarkable ability to capture the aspirations of that yuppified, designer logo, blow-dried decade not only here in north Texas, but across the United States.  Some TV shows become legendary despite not relating well to their time and era, but it was hard to tell how much Dallas reflected the 80's, and how much the 80's were reflecting Dallas.  Say what you will about the quality of the show, but to be so synonymous with a culture isn't something that happens much on TV these days.

Whether this new show will be able to capture our new era remains to be seen, of course.  The '80's were still a period of growth and enthusiasm in the United States generally, and Texas in particular.  Whereas, these days, our society has ossified into three dreary camps:  hard-core liberals, hard-core conservatives, and those of us in the middle who seem to be at the mercy of those two extremes.  Whereas President Ronald Reagan had us feasting on American hubris during Dallas' original run, Barak Obama has us starving for hope.  How do you model a popular TV show on today's socioeconomic angst?

Of course, even back during the original Dallas, I hardly ever watched the show.  For one thing, my parents didn't consider it proper viewing material for young, impressionable boys.  Fortunately for my brother and me, the Dukes of Hazzard was also on Friday nights, although the sight of Daisy Duke in her namesake denim shorts, coupled with the show's constant mockery of the police and other authority figures, likely didn't make it any more wholesome than what was being shown on Dallas. 

In high school, I started working nights at a mens' clothing store here near Dallas, so my Dukes of Hazzard days ended.  We had a TV in the employee break room, but Dallas ruled Friday nights outside of my house, and for some of the more anticipated episodes, even management would join us clerks for brief escapes from the selling floor to catch up on the action.  After all, customers would ask us if we had any updates from the show, right?  Remember, this was way before cell phones, Hulu, and ubiquitous flat screen TVs kept everybody wired to entertainment.

One of my co-workers was married to a woman who worked at a fancy department store across the hall, and I recall her saying that their management considered closing early on Friday nights when Dallas aired because business would evaporate and their stores would be deserted.

Several years later, when I was in college, I took a friend visiting from New York City to see Southfork Ranch, which proved to be a huge disappointment to both her and me.  It was much smaller in real life than it was on television, and far less representative of where Dallas' real millionaires lived.  If the show's Hollywood producers had wanted accuracy, they'd have placed the family in a genteel Highland Park mansion or sprawling Preston Hollow estate, and had them spend weekends on their ranch a couple hours outside of town.  Well, at least they got that last part partly right.  Southfork isn't even in Dallas County; it's miles from Dallas.  It's the most non-Dallas part of Dallas.

For Both Dallas and Dallas, the Image was the Message

So, OK:  we knew Dallas wasn't real, but it was real enough.  The show featured all of the usual soap opera dramatics:  nefarious business deals, backstabbing relatives, adultery, alcoholism; all the bad stuff.  Yet the show still revolved around family and some semblance of family honor.  And it celebrated a city that didn't know the meaning of the word "no."  Back in the 80's, Dallas grew so fast and so wealthy it was dizzying.  It seemed like a new luxury mall opened every year, and a dazzling new skyscraper every month.  Corporations were relocating here from other parts of the country like flocks of birds, and to hear our business leaders tell it, cities like New York and Chicago were going to be empty before long, since everybody was moving here.

Those were the best of times for Dallas, just like the popularity its namesake TV show was enjoying.  Soon after the 80's were over, and Dallas was off the air, corporations began moving again - out of their glassy towers in and around downtown, and into even newer office parks in the suburbs.  Developers kept churning out new subdivisions like farmers plowing dirt, and before long, the lure of new construction drew hundreds of thousands of middle-class Dallasites out of the big city into sprawling suburbs with ever more modern homes with even better luxuries - luxuries that definitely made Southfork look dowdy.

All of a sudden, the streets which Dallas laid out so hurriedly during the 80's had aged, with potholes and empty storefronts and blocks and blocks of rental homes whose owners had moved on to the more prosperous suburbs.  For a while, wide swaths of Dallas languished, until America's unprecedented interest in re-discovering central cities began to take hold, and more and more families committed to moving back into marginalized neighborhoods.  Trees that earlier residents had planted over twenty years ago were now full and lush, far bigger than those in the suburbs.  Homes that up-and-coming families once considered small and dated now appealed to new owners who appreciated their solid construction and retro aesthetics.  Then there came the McMansion phenomenon, where perfectly good homes are torn down on central city lots and replaced with towering new luxury homes.  The allure of Dallas' centralized neighborhoods makes sense when you consider how living closer-in to the city's core means that more jobs are more accessible.  By now, of course, nobody counted on working for the same employer in the same place for their entire career, and being stuck out in some exurb when the only job you can find is clear across the city can make your remote house surprisingly less attractive.

And the traffic!  Dallas' population may have leveled off, but the population all around it has continued to explode.  And those wide freeways they built around Dallas have now became obsolete.  Yes, Dallas has a fledgling mass transit system, but it's not even as reliable as sitting in gridlock, nor is it as safe.  Back in the 80's, Dallas leaders were planning massive construction projects to widen two of the city's most popular freeways - the LBJ and Central Expressway - and provide the driving public with years of easier driving.  Yet today, one small fender-bender can soon snarl any local freeway, and the state has begun another multi-year expansion project for the LBJ.  Now, however, nobody really expects such grand plans to solve much of anything.

Not that Dallas has become some awful place to live.  Like anywhere else, it is what you make of it, with its good neighborhoods and bad.  Some of the glossy pockets of stunning wealth that remain scattered across the city make the Ewing fortune look downright humble.  And hipsters flock to redeveloped neighborhoods carved out of urban blight around downtown.  We call them the thirty-thousand-dollar millionaires, because they work mostly in entry-level jobs but act like they're made of money, driving around in sleek foreign luxury cars and renting high-dollar apartments - all paid either with credit or indulgent parents.  Still, despite the sheen, it's hardly the metropolis of swashbuckling enthusiasm and 1980's glamor of both its own history and its portrayal by the original TV show.

Dallas has matured, and developed big-city problems common among much older municipalities; municipalities that have had their heyday at one time, and are now learning to get by in our brave new world of marginal public schools, a stagnant tax base, outdated infrastructure, incessant competition from suburbs which are also aging, and even competition from cities half a world away.

Hopes were running high when AT&T moved its international headquarters downtown from San Antonio, but the euphoria didn't last long when the corporation announced it was a temporary home while they built a new corporate campus in - where else? - one of the city's suburbs.  These days, the only new construction downtown has been a high-rise hotel for the struggling convention center and some luxury apartment towers which sit half-rented.

Yet streets and freeways in and around downtown are still almost always choked with traffic. 

TV critics may be anxious to see if the new Dallas will be even a fraction of a hit its predecessor was.

I care more about today's Dallas reinventing itself to be even better than it was back during the old Dallas.
_____

There Came a Still, Small Voice

Christianity can be a religion of loud voices, can't it?  Especially today, in the brand of evangelical Christianity we Westerners deal with on a daily basis.

Well, they may not be "loud" voices, but they're prominent.  They're people the evangelical community celebrates as the standard-bearers of our worldview and lifestyle.  Like anybody who's popular in America, these Christian leaders generally possess the kind of charisma that makes a lot of us think we know them pretty well.  And maybe we do.  But that just helps convince us we need to listen to them all the more.

But sometimes we forget that in all of the noise that surrounds us in our Christian cocoons, with all of the voices clamoring for our attention, even with their valid concerns that God has placed on their hearts, God Himself doesn't always call with a loud voice.  While He expects and demands our devotion, and even our very selves, He's not always "hitting us upside the head" for it, as we Texans might say in our Lone Star parlance.

Of course, it's hardly just evangelical Christianity that seems to be run these days by loud voices.  Politics has always been saddled by loud voices seeking to foment a herd mentality amongst a hounded citizenry.  Wall Street loves listening to loud voices because they convey an air of authority and success - whether they can really claim any authority or success or not.

But it's odd that we evangelical Christians so freely allow ourselves to be buffeted by loud voices.  Especially since sometimes, it's God Himself who speaks in a voice that is still and small.

Remember the scenario from 1 Kings 19:11-12, when He spoke to the prophet Elijah?

11 And he [God] said [to Elijah], "Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the LORD." And, behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the LORD; but the LORD was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the LORD was not in the earthquake: 12 And after the earthquake a fire; but the LORD was not in the fire: and after the fire a small voice.

If you'll recall the context of this passage, Elijah had become so dejected, assuming himself to be the only person left who believed in God, and seeing no fruit from his proclamations of God's sovereignty, that he had decided he wanted to die.  Jezebel, the nefarious namesake of all that is evil in womanhood, was out to kill him anyway, and being on the run with no friends to help him made his life that much less tolerable.

Well, yeah, he had God on his side, but he couldn't tangibly see God.  God wasn't reaching down from Heaven and wrapping a celestial arm around the weary Elijah, commiserating with him face-to-face, or even giving him a hokey Joel Osteen-style pep talk.

Yet God knew and cared, preparing a sumptuous meal for Elijah out there in the middle of noplace.  Maybe not the physical pat on the back Elijah thought he wanted, but plenty of essential nutrition for the beleaguered - and hunted - prophet to continue his escape from Jezebel's henchmen.  It's the classic wants-versus-needs scenario.  Sometimes God meets both of those, but other times, He knows all we really need are, well, our needs.  Not our wants.

The meal God provides Elijah sustains him for a 40-day trek deeper into the wilderness.  You and I, reading this story with the luxury of hindsight, might be tempted to think that a meal that lasts for 40 days is a pretty significant sign that God is with us and for us.  But just as we'd have probably done, by the time those 40 days are done, Elijah is back where he started.  Emotionally, anyway.

So our ever-faithful and loving God told Elijah to go stand on a mountaintop.  And still, God did not show Himself to his prophet in a way we would expect.  Neither a great wind, nor an earthquake, nor a firestorm provided a venue for God - at least, not this time.  Sometimes God may use loud voices to speak to us, but this time, He used a still, small, voice.

Intimate.  Precious.  Focused.

God didn't think it important for us to know what He said to Elijah in that still, small voice.  Apparently, it wasn't enough to snap Elijah out of his depressive state anyway, because two verses later, Elijah is complaining and feeling sorry for himself again.

But isn't that just like us?  Okay, so at least it's just like me.  A witness to the mercies of God one minute, and moaning about my circumstances the next.  But that still doesn't negate the value of God's still small voice, does it?

In his epic oratorio, Elijah, Felix Mendelssohn dramatically crafts this scene in a dichotomy of crashing power and stunning eloquence that has helped preserve the memory and imagery of this passage for me ever since I first heard it performed years ago.

You'll find, below, the text Mendelssohn used, and your choice of two videos to watch.  For you musical perfectionists out there, here's a link to a video featuring the usual technical precision of St. Olaf College's Chapel Choir and Orchestra, conducted by Christopher Aspaas.

Personally, however, I prefer this less technically perfect rendition by Singapore's Hallelujah Oratorio Society, which I think - despite some aesthetic licenses taken by its conductor - provides a more satisfactory interpretation of the still small voice that is of primary importance in this piece.

Whichever performance you choose, I invite you to worship our God in the splendor of holiness as you contemplate this classical masterpiece, no matter the despair you may harbor today, or the problems from which you feel like running.

Sometimes when I don't hear God in the loud voices of our evangelical religion, I remember Mendelssohn's "Behold, God the Lord."  And I stop still.

And listen for that still... 

...small... 

...voice.
_____

Behold, God the Lord passed by! And a mighty wind rent the mountains around, brake in pieces the rocks, brake them before the Lord. But yet the Lord was not in the tempest.

Behold, God the Lord passed by! And the sea was upheaved, and the earth was shaken. But yet the Lord was not in the earthquake.

And after the earthquake there came a fire. But yet the Lord was not in the fire.

And after the fire there came a still small voice. And in that still voice onward came the Lord.

Whose Impact Do You Pursue?

For those of you who regularly read Tim Challies' eponymous blog, you'll be familiar with my essay topic today.

And if you do read Challies' blog often, as well as mine, allow me to thank you for considering my material at least as worthy of your time as you do his.  Unless, of course, you only read mine to remind yourself how good Challies' is...!

One of Challies' regular features is called "A La Carte," in which he provides links to articles, books, and products unaffiliated with his own ministry, and in today's A La Carte, Challies provides a link to a World Magazine interview of Phil Vischer.

Vischer... Vischer... Vischer... where have you heard that name?  From his wildly popular Veggie Tales videos, of course!  Or at least, they were his Veggie Tales, until they went bankrupt and he left to form a new company.  Vischer's interview is noteworthy not because he practically created the whole Christian video animation genre, but because of what he says about his life now that he's no longer part of the company that made him famous.

You'll want to read the entire interview, of course, but here are a few key segments that made me stop and think:

"Rather than seeking God and asking Him, 'How do you want me to move forward?'" Vischer says, regarding his methodology for expanding his production company and the Veggie Tales brand, "I did some spiritual math and said, 'OK, how could I have more impact? By just making my films or by building the next Disney?'"

In other words, he knew that he had a hot commodity, but at the time, he understood his purpose to be broadening the impact of his Bible-themed commodity so more people would be touched by it  Isn't that what most of us would assume his purpose to be?  After all, we're taught that our Christian "impact" is important.

"Though I couldn't have pinpointed it at the time," he explains, "it was enormously influential in my thinking of, 'OK, sure this is great, but how do I make it bigger? How can I do more faster?' Unfortunately, the question I ignored was, 'How did God wire me?' Because He didn't necessarily call me to see how big an organization I could build."

That's not the way most of us think, is it?  We assume that making our efforts for Christ bigger and better is what God wants.  But is it?

"Today when I talk to people, I spend a lot of time trying to get them to consider what is driving them. Why do you want to do what you say you want to do? Do you have peace in your life? Because if you're stressed, if you're worried, if you're anxious, something ain't right. Those aren't the fruits of the Spirit."

Wow.  The Fruit of the Spirit.  Something that God has been reminding me of lately, too.  Love, joy, peace, patience, gentleness, goodness, meekness, and self-control.  They're how we demonstrate the Gospel.  But if they're lacking in our life, what does that say about how we're obeying God?  Obviously, some amount of stress is going to exist in everybody's life.  But should we be anxious about the impact we're making for God's Kingdom?

"My new company is called Jellyfish Labs because jellyfish can't locomote. They can't choose their own course. They can't go from point A to point B. They can only stay in the current and trust the current to carry them where they need to be... I only get my form when I stay in the current of God's will and allow Him to carry me where He wants me to be."

Did you get that?  I had to re-read it a couple of times.

"That was such a huge shift for me from the American Christian ideal," Vischer continues.  "We're drinking a cocktail that's a mix of the Protestant work ethic, the American dream, and the gospel. And we've intertwined them so completely that we can't tell them apart anymore. Our gospel has become a gospel of following your dreams and being good so God will make all your dreams come true." 

Can you see how we believers in Christ have adopted the ambition of the world and applied it to our faith?  Making an impact with our faith may now be one of those subtle fallacies many of us in our goal-oriented culture assume to be an important component of honoring God.


Then Vischer drops this bizarre insight:  "I realized I'm not supposed to be pursuing impact, I'm supposed to be pursuing God."

What?  He goes on to say, "when I pursue God, I will have exactly as much impact as He wants me to have."

I don't know about you, but I fuss all the time about whether or not I'm "impacting the Kingdom" for Christ.  Am I doing all I can?  Are you?  How much of our quest for impact depends on what we do, and how much of it depends entirely on God?

Might it be a finer line than we realize between works-based efforts, and faith-based trust?  Maybe all of the things we see God accomplish really isn't so much "through" us as it is "despite" us.

If we release our plans and aspirations to God, and we change our hope of affecting change upon our world to a single-focused commitment to Christ, shouldn't that provide us with sufficient purpose for the life we're granted on this Earth?

It may not make us rich or famous or influential.

But if we think we need to be any those things, that might be a sign that we're not trusting God to use us well.
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