Fanfare for the Common Grampa

 
Today, my Grampa would be 100 years old.

He was my Mom's father; a tall, spindly man with lanky arms and legs, and practically no body fat.  A manual laborer all his life, he rarely kept more than an ounce of fat on his skin and bones.

That is one trait I definitely did not inherit from him!

He died in 1980, in Maine, the same state in which he was born, and where he lived most of his life, with the exception of stints in Massachusetts and Rhode Island.  When I was growing up in Upstate New York, he and my grandmother would drive west from Maine to visit us, and I believe that was about the furthest he wanted to get from the Pine Tree State.

Like many native Mainers, he was born into poverty, worked most of his life just to keep his family fed, and never acquired much in the way of material possessions.  He and my grandmother, whom we called "Grammie," didn't get a television until long after we'd gotten ours - and we got ours after I came home from Kindergarten asking my parents who Mr. Rogers was!  My Grammie never learned how to drive - a lot of married women didn't back then in rural Maine - so it was just Grampa who drove their one car.  And those cars were always used; as in, several previous owners.  The first car of theirs that I remember was an old beige-colored Ford Falcon two-door, and then a newer taupe-colored Falcon, and then a four-door Dodge.  The Dodge was fairly big, bright blue with a black hardtop, and it was almost too fancy for Grammie, even though it didn't have power anything.

That's how many native Maine folks used to be.  Simple.  Reserved.  Quiet.  Hard-working.  Nothing flashy.  All the expensive cars on the roadways of Maine, especially along the coast, where my grandparents lived, belonged to vacationing summer people "from away."

The closest Mom's parents got to fancy was on Sundays.  He may have been a manual laborer, but Grampa would dress up for church every week.  He had an elegant gray suit, and socks with little diamond patterns on them.  He'd polish up his black Sunday-best shoes - long, narrow, heavy things those were.  Tie up his tie, slip on his tie clip, stick a crisply-folded white handkerchief in the breast pocket of his suit, and I'd never have pegged him as a guy who dug ditches or drove snowplows.

Almost all of my memories of him have him wearing a broad smile.  His cheeks would be a ruddy red, along with the tip of his nose, because most of my memories of him were made when we visited them in frozen Maine on Thanksgivings.  Even when Grampa and Grammie would come to Upstate New York, however, he'd work outside with Dad around our century-old farmhouse, fixing things or cutting firewood.  He always smelled of sawdust, or soot, or sand, or whatever that stuff was that he put on his hair to try and keep it neat.  Usually, however, his hair was the neatest at the breakfast table, right after he'd combed it.  After that, there was work to be done, and depending on the job at hand, the appropriate hat to be worn.

A few years before his death, somebody had sold him on the cheap an old, rusted-out International Harvester pickup truck with only wood boards where the pickup bed used to be.  It was a faded green color, with worn-out seats and battered chrome, but it was a work truck, so Grampa didn't care what it looked like.  Oddly enough, though, he never parked it in the driveway near the house, next to his blue Dodge sedan with the black vinyl hardtop.  Their property extended to a gravel drive on the other side of a brook that ran past their house, and he'd always park that truck over there, up under some overhanging limbs.  "To keep it out of the way," I think is how he explained to me.

All of his hard work eventually combined with some health problems that stemmed from his poor diet while he was growing up, um, poor.  His heart began to fail him, and he had bypass surgery that prolonged his life for only a few years, but back in the late 1970's, that was considered progress.  In his last winter alive, he was so weak, he couldn't chop wood for their stove, so the community up there in rural coastal Maine got together and cut several cords of wood to keep their stove going throughout the frigid season.  They cut so much wood, in fact, it made headlines in the local newspaper.  Over the years, my Grampa had done so much for so many other people on their sparsely-populated peninsula, cutting some wood for him was the least they could do in return.

A lot of people may take an hour out of their day to attend a funeral.  But how many will spend all Saturday chopping wood for you?

He died the next summer, on a splendid June day; the type of day I've come to say is one of those perfect summer days in Maine.  And a perfect summer day in Maine is truly a perfect day.  Not too hot, but with sunshine so buttery and abundant, it seems to be oozing out of the sun itself.  Clear air, more sparkling than glass.  Just the hint of a breeze, and the wind in the breeze is just the right temperature.  The grass on the lawns and the leaves in the trees become almost a translucent green, and the blue sky appears to go on forever through space.  My grandparents had a lovely patch of lawn to the eastern side of their little house, opposite the kitchen, and the view from that yard went across the road, under some magnificent tall trees, down a steep meadow, to a body of salt water called a "reach," which is a stretch of the ocean between the mainland and an island.

Unless you die in your sleep, a person can't ask for a better setting to be ushered from Earth into Eternity.  And my tired, thin, aging grandfather was lovingly blessed by our Heavenly Father with just such a transition.  It was after lunch, and Grampa was settling down in one of the two hand-made, wood Adirondack chairs that he'd painted a baby blue, perched over on the grassy lawn beyond the kitchen window.  Grammie was inside at the kitchen sink, washing up the lunch dishes, getting ready to join her husband and relax in the calm afternoon.  Briefly, she looked away while handling some plates.  When her gaze returned to the window, and to my Grampa, she saw that his head had slumped down.  His eyes closed.  Sitting in one of the baby blue Adirondack chairs, facing the water.  Under the deep sky, beyond which, angels were welcoming him into Glory.

Grammie didn't rush out to Grampa in a panic.  She knew instantly what had happened.

She dried her hands, went out to the Adirondack chairs, and softly bid him goodbye.

Does anybody have a pet name for you?  We don't know where he got it, but Grampa would call my brother and me "Sproggin."  As in, "how are my Sproggins today?"  Have you ever heard of that word?

He had some quirks, but he was also one of the millions of ordinary people who never were elected to public office, never held a high-paying job, never commanded troops in battle, never moved mountains... and never was upset that he hadn't.  Although, eventually, he did became a trustee in his village's historic little church.  I still have his well-worn Bible in a box in my closet; too fragile and delicate practically to look at, let alone use.  Sunday mornings, he'd be dressed in that gray suit, sitting at his little wood desk, reading that Bible to himself before the rest of us were done with breakfast.  I remember how he'd carefully turn its thin pages, his long, skinny fingers smoothing back the paper in a subconscious caress, up and down the crease in the binding, and clearing his throat repeatedly when he'd read aloud from it in that hardy Maine accent of his.

Grampa and Grammie are both buried in a humble little cemetery nestled up against a forest of pine trees, set apart from the road by blueberry fields and a white picket fence.  The church they used to attend is now closed, never used, like untold numbers of other formerly robust churches across New England.  The house where they last lived is currently owned by people from New York State and has been modernized beyond what my grandparents would probably neither recognize nor consider prudent.  Meanwhile, the two baby blue Adirondack chairs are here in Texas, in the garage, wrapped in plastic, on a shelf over my car.  A gold Honda Accord.

Too flashy, you think?

I'm not sure what Grampa would say about me owning a gold-colored Japanese car.  Or about his Adirondack chairs sitting on a shelf in a garage in Texas.  We don't know which is the one he died in, but it doesn't really matter.  Both of those chairs are a link to Grampa, just like his old Bible is.  A link not only to him, but to those perfect summer days in Maine.  And the even greater Perfection to which Grampa was called on one of those perfect days.

Some people get a lot of money from their grandparents when they die.  And that's all well and good.  Some grandparents leave both an abundance of money and wonderful memories, which probably is better still.  But some memories you just can't buy.  And you shouldn't want to.

Happy 100th birthday, Grampa - from one of your Sproggins.

King's Character Content Quotient

 
Putting words in his mouth.

Today is the day we honor the legacy of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  Some people will mark the occasion by attending a civic parade, marching down a road that used to be called something else, but is now called "Martin Luther King Boulevard," because it runs through a predominantly black neighborhood.  Others will perhaps participate in some act of charity or public-spirited endeavor, like painting the outside of a house in a run-down part of town, that just happens to be owned by a widowed elderly black lady.

Some corporations will give their employees time to participate in these conventional racially-themed activities as a good-will gesture.  They'll make sure local television news cameras are on-hand to capture the scene as blacks and whites, who ordinarily labor harmoniously alongside each other in their rewarding white-collar jobs, are hard at work happily making life just a little bit better for somebody whom corporate America would otherwise ignore.

Like a lot of American holidays, Martin Luther King Day is a day for pretension, and lately, in addition to the parades and Habitat for Humanity PR stunts, people try to vocalize what Dr. King would say if he were alive today.  They imagine how he would view the civil rights struggle, fifty years after his assassination.  He would be 84 by now; about to turn 85 in April.  Granted, black men of his generation did not have a very robust life expectancy, even if they weren't the target of an assassin's bullet.

Whomever the assassin(s) was(were).

James Earl Ray was the man officials accused of pulling the trigger, and initially, Ray confessed.  But he quickly recanted, and spend the rest of his life claiming King's death was the result of a conspiracy.  In 1999, the King family officially lent credence to Ray's claims, although all the facts may never be known.

And speaking of life expectancy, the doctor who performed King's autopsy said the civil rights leader may have been 39 calendar years old when he died, but the ravages of his struggle had worn his heart down to a 60-year-old's.

Here in Dallas last week, one of the TV stations broadcast some video from an elementary school's assembly in honor of King, and one little girl trying to complete the sentence, "what would Dr. King say today?"  She perhaps gave the best answer that could be given when she stated simply, "I don't know."  No platitudes, no poetry; but she did add something else, to the effect that "whatever he'd say, he probably wouldn't be satisfied with where we are."

And that's true enough, don't you think?  Both the probability of his not being satisfied, but also our genuine lack of knowledge of how he himself might have been transformed personally, not just politically or socially.  If he'd never been killed, had never died from a prematurely-aged heart, and were alive today, perhaps he'd have run for office at some time during these intervening 50 years.  Or maybe one of his children would have run.  But it's hard to tell how much he could have accomplished as a legislator from Georgia, especially considering the Deep South's protracted acquiescence to civil rights - even in the wake of King's assassination.

Then too, it's hard to tell what life would have been like if society hadn't reacted so decisively to the death of such an iconic figure as King.  When President John F. Kennedy was assassinated, some scholars have said that the shock of such an audacious attack on the leader of the free world - whether Democrat or Republican - actually galvanized both legislators and voters.  Kennedy's successor, Lyndon Johnson, was a bulldog of a politician, yet he may have had an even easier time hammering through the assassinated president's legacy legislation based as much on sympathy and political correctness in the face of patriotic fervor, as much as anything else.  Might King's legacy similarly be greater today because he was assassinated, instead of being left to live out his life?  After all, an early death has a way of granting history the chance to enshrine the memory of a life so publicly cut short.  Given the chance to live out that life naturally, there's always the chance a person could blow it.  For King, he had those widely rumored affairs with women not his wife, and the FBI was apparently convinced that he was a closet Communist.  With all due respect to King's memory, personal indiscretion and government-instigated slander have brought down mightier public personages.

At the end of the day, it doesn't really matter what King would say today.  The fact is that while he was alive, King put his voice to a good many ideologies that, frankly, our Founding Fathers should have incorporated into our country's incorporation papers.  Don't forget that after the American Revolution, not only were slaves - and howevermany free blacks there were - not eligible to vote, women and men who didn't own land weren't, either.  Weird, huh?  If somebody today were to read some of King's greatest speeches without knowing who he was, much of what he encourages American society to be is, technically, little more than what we've idealized our Founding Fathers to have intended for our country.  For King to be calling for that idealized America still, over 175 years after the birth of our country, casts him in as positive a light as it casts the people who were supposed to be forming this "more perfect union" in a negative one.

"Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging dark of segregation to say, 'Wait.'  But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim... when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you go forever fighting a degenerating sense of 'nobodiness then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait.  There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair."  - from "Letter from Birmingham Jail"

And then there is King's dream that makes one wonder what what the Founding Fathers would have said, had they been alive to hear King proclaim it from the steps of the Lincoln memorial in 1963:

"I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character." - from "I Have a Dream" speech

Of course, being judged by the content of one's character is a two-way street, isn't it?  The very people whose personal characteristics include bigotry are the ones who could be judged as not being worthy of emulation or honor.  But they were the ones to whom King was appealing, and even today, to whom his legacy continues to call.  People not only with white skin, you understand, but blacks, Hispanics, Middle-Easterners, Jews, rich, poor, educated, uneducated, Asians, Democrats, Republicans, Tea Partiers...

If King were alive today, what might he say about the status of race relations in the United States?

How about something like this:  "well, unfortunately, Americans have progressed on race about as far as they've progressed on judging anybody else by the content of their character."

Smoofee Doofee Office Talk

 
"The men I date don't need Viagra."

And indeed, a merrier widow I've never met.  But she's not saying what you're thinking.  And that was part of her charm.

She worked as a part-time receptionist at an office where I was formerly employed, and whenever it was her day to work, the rest of us knew we were in for a treat.  She was probably older than she looked, and certainly older than she acted.  She was one of those people who never seemed to have a really bad day, even when she was being treated for cancer.  Life was always an adventure for her, and, by extension, for us.  We simply had to come to work to go along with her.

Her husband, a Baptist minister, had died suddenly in his late 40's from cancer.  He had also sold life insurance on the side, and before becoming ill, had purchased a policy on himself that, upon his passing, left his widow financially comfortable.  She often claimed she'd gladly give all that money back if God would give her back her husband, but it also meant that she didn't need to work as much for the money, as it was to get out of her house.

She had two grown and married children living here in the area, and a son a few hours north in Oklahoma, plus grandkids and other relatives to keep her busy.  Plus her church.  Plus her volunteer work with a couple of local faith-based charities.  Although she was quite attractive, dressed stylishly, and would have made an all-around good catch for some fortunate fella, she really didn't date much, because she simply had no extra time for romance!

And, well, because she found out most unmarried men her age wanted her to take care of either themselves or their elderly parents.

Besides, she simply had too much spunk.  Then there was her being the widow of a Southern Baptist preacher, and a lifelong Baptist herself, which meant she expected the utmost in chivalry and morality from her menfolk.  That's why, when she was joking around with us about her slow dating life, she laughed that the men she'd gone out with don't need Viagra, because she didn't allow any hanky-panky.

Oh - did I mention that she had a creative way with words?  Even if what she meant wasn't always understood by those to whom she was talking.

We never really knew what she was going to say - or how she was going to say it.  For example, one of her favorite verbs was "bee-pee-doopin'," as in, "he went bee-pee-doopin' down the street."  Her exclamations and original colloquialisms became legendary.  In fact, I started writing them down, they were so extraordinary.  Here are just a few:

• Hoot de loodulee!
• Kiss my bunkers
• Bootlee skwoot
• Hoodlee doodlee's
• Fiddle-dee-di-do
• Tough luck stuff
• Holy coot
• You lazy gut
• Yay-by-hoo
• Bull-shooie  (probably to keep herself from uttering a more popular curse)

Her nouns and adjectives also defied description:

• Fleefee floppy
• Thingey-loobie
• Thingey-boopie
• Smoofee doofee
• Pur-dee ol'
• Woolly buggers
• Incentatism (for "incentive," I think)
• Flat as a flitter
• Hotter than a fruitcake
• Colder than a bat's butt flying backwards through a hail storm

One time, she was describing someplace, and she compared it by referencing a region of East Texas, known for its forests of pine trees.  So yes, I wrote it down, since the phrase she used was so peculiar, but I still don't know what it means:

"Like the Piney Woods without the trees."

Huh?  Can there be woods without trees?

I'd hear these things as she talked to various co-workers, managers, and even clients in the office, and I'd call out, "well, that one has to go on the list!"  But she was so good-natured, she didn't mind.  About the only protest she'd make is that this couldn't have possibly been the first time we'd heard that particular phrase.  Apparently, she grew up hearing these things from her family members in 1950's Fort Worth.

"No," we'd assure her, "you're entirely unique, and we like you that way!"

Here are some more examples of her unique eloquence:

• Regularly figure-out-able
• I'm fixin' ta thought of sumpthin'
• Scares the lily outta me
• It's a dog eat world out there
• Eating off the goopies
• I don't stick my tongue out for anybody
• Does your camera take pictures?
• Wore plumb slap-dab out

Once, when she was playfully reprimanding me, probably for forgetting something, she said "I told you three times" while she held up four fingers.

I mentioned earlier that she always dressed for the office to make a good impression, and once, when looking at models all dolled up in a fashion magazine, she wondered out loud, "don't they get tired of always having to look like that?  I know I do."  Yet she said it without an ounce of vanity, because she wasn't vain at all.  That's what made all of these sayings even more hilarious - at least to us.  She wasn't trying to be funny, or smart, or cute.  Her brain was shooting thoughts into her mouth, and her mouth just couldn't always keep up, and words would just tumble out.

I'm telling you all this not to make fun of my former co-worker, because oftentimes, when she'd stop and listen to what she'd just said, she'd laugh as loud as any of us.  Maybe she was even more tickled that we were paying attention to her every word, instead of treating her like many office workers treat part-time receptionists.  But we weren't the only ones paying attention.  When a daughter-in-law of hers came by the office one day, and I told her I was keeping a running list of her mother-in-law's sayings, she burst out in a good-natured laugh, saying mine was such a good idea, she should do the same at her home!  Obviously, our co-worker talked like this with everybody she knew.

It's been years since I saw this former co-worker, and I'm not even sure the company for which we both worked is still in business.  But I found that list the other day while sorting through some other paperwork, and oh, the memories it brought back!

They say that languages are always evolving, and within our little brick and glass office building, that was certainly the case.  I suppose we were our own Galapagos Island, what with all the fleefee-floppy, smoofee doofee woolly buggers scaring the lily out of us as we ate off the goopies.

Linguistic evolution?  Hey:  It's like the Piney Woods without the trees.

January Sixth, the Twelfth Night

 
Today is the sixth of January.

So what, you ask?  It's Monday, the beginning of the first full calendar workweek of 2014.  It's back to the grind after two weeks of holidays.  And even here in Texas, the temperatures are frigid.  Fifteen degrees - with a windchill of about two - when my clock radio turned on this morning.

Nevertheless, no matter the day of the week on which it may fall, January 6 on the Christian calendar denotes the Feast of Epiphany.  Ee-PIFF-ah-nee.  It's also called the "Twelfth Night," since January 6 is twelve days after December 25, the day we "officially" commemorate the birth of Christ.

Yes, centuries upon centuries of us humans re-telling the life of Christ - and striving, in some meager way, to ascribe a contrived extravagance to the mortality He suffered on our behalf - has inflicted some indignities with regards to accuracy.  We celebrate Christmas when we do, for example, because it was easier for early church leaders to link it with other secular holidays than to try and figure out a more precise timeline for the Nativity (which was probably in late March or early April).

Speaking of contrivances, it's worth noting that the Magi, whose visit with the Christ Child the feast of Epiphany commemorates, were never in the stable, as is popularly portrayed.  Nor do we know if there were only three of them.  We know there was more than one, that they traveled a great distance that couldn't possibly have been traversed the night Christ was born, and that when they finally did arrive, they brought three gifts for the Christ Child.*

Hey - not to rain on your "three kings at the stable" parade; even the whole "Twelfth Night" thing is man-made; the Magi did not arrive at Bethlehem twelve minutes after His birth, or twelve days, or twelve months - or twelve anything.  The number twelve is simply a theologically significant, frequently recurring number in the Bible.

Epiphany may look like it's a contrived tradition, which is the excuse many modern evangelicals give for ignoring it, but that's too bad, because Epiphany is, more importantly, chock-full of Gospel relevance.  Epiphany celebrates the physical revelation and purpose of our incarnate God in the form of Jesus, since it was through the gifts given by the Magi that tangible confirmation of this human baby's redemptive role in history was established.  Yes, the angels had proclaimed the birth of Christ, the shepherds had witnessed it, and Simeon and Anna had orally validated it, but the gold, frankincense, and myrrh from the Magi provided material proof for it in a world always searching for tactile affirmation.

Theologians postulate that the baby Jesus was probably two or three years old by the time the Magi arrived in Bethlehem, and that Joseph and Mary had established a residence for their little family in the same town over which the Christ Star had shone since the night of His birth.  It's even possible - although unlikely - that Joseph and Mary, by the time the Magi arrived, already had other children, since by then, they would have been officially married for a while.  But even if they didn't have at least one other child by natural means, how awkward must it have been to watch what was likely a caravan of royal astronomers and sages pull up at their front gate?

With, of all things, gold, frankincense, and myrrh?

These were exceptionally important gifts.  The gold they gave, for example, represents the royalty of Jesus as the King of Kings.

Frankincense was an expensive perfume used in the Jewish temple representing worship as a fragrant offering to God.  In the context of being a gift from the Magi, it signifies the consecration of Christ's pure life of service on Earth that would please His holy Father (some branches of Christianity tie frankincense to Christ's baptism by John the Baptist, and the dove appearing from Heaven as God decreed His pleasure in His Son).

Myrrh is a luxurious, aromatic resin that, in Biblical times, was used in the embalming process, as corpses were wrapped for burial.  Obviously, this could have been an exceedingly troubling gift for Mary and Joseph, charged with rearing the young Savior, since it foreshadowed the Passion of Christ and His arrest, torture, and crucifixion.

Sobering, indeed; and yet, for us, a reminder of the intrinsic, righteous, and holy purposes for Christ's mortality.  So that's why Epiphany is considered a feast day for believers in Christ, because without the attributes these gifts symbolize, we would have nothing at all to celebrate.

Think about it:  the gold can be seen in Christ's royal yet servile life that pleased God (frankincense) and demonstrated a sort of death (myrrh) to self.

Since no mention of these gifts is ever made again in the Gospels, some theologians have speculated as to whether or not Joseph sold them to fund the family's flight into Egypt to escape Herod.  Or maybe the family sold of some of it over time as daily bills continued to come due during Christ's growing-up years in Nazareth.  At least if the family had saved the myrrh, don't you think one of the apostles would have included a reference to it when Christ's body was taken from the cross and placed in the tomb?

Nevertheless, since the gifts from the Magi were rich in both their cost and symbolic affirmation, what happened to them matters far less than what they represent.  Maybe it's not a sin to casually shuffle the Magi conveniently about our Nativity scenes, but the Incarnation narrative as a whole is incomplete without understanding what they brought.  We Christ-followers may have meshed together some parts of His story over the millennia, but the basic components of that story remain as true as when they happened in real time, in real places, to real people, involving real gifts with real significance.

After two thousand years of telling and retelling this story, to have only the timeline get fudged is a pretty remarkable testament to its overall integrity.  Don't you think?

Like I mentioned earlier, a lot of evangelicals don't bother celebrating Epiphany, and the churches that do tend to lean on the liberal side of Christendom.  I attended a Twelfth Night service at a large Episcopal church in Dallas a couple of years ago, and the sermon was something about Christ coming to Earth to help us communicate better with each other.

Um, no; that wasn't the reason!

So, since the selection of theologically-sound Epiphany services near your home will likely be slim to none, I've taken my "virtual worship service" idea I had a few years ago for Christmas and tweaked it for a Twelfth Night observance.  It's shorter, since the repertoire for music about the Magi tends to be almost exclusively about three kings, which, as I also mentioned earlier, is more fiction than fact.  After all, it's not like we need any more folklore and legend in the account of God's Incarnation as The Christ.

Basically, just flow through the "order of worship" below, clicking on each link to open the videos from YouTube in a new window.  So, without any further ado, let us proceed with our virtual concert, complete with opening and closing prayers:


Bidding Prayer:  Oh great God, Whose divine providence has granted us salvation through Your holy Son, Whose birth we commemorate this season, we Your people bid Your help so as to worship You in spirit and truth, not just as we join in these praises to You, but as we celebrate Your many good gifts to us, not the least of which is our very reason to be joyful, our incarnate Savior, even Jesus, the Christ.


Opening Fanfare
J. S. Bach, "For the First Day of Christmas (Part 1)" from the Christmas Oratorio


The Narrative
"From the Squalor of a Borrowed Stable" by Stuart Townend

(Despite its sub-par audio quality and quaint aesthetics, I chose this video because the girls who are singing come from an African orphanage, helping to represent the global breadth of God's salvific plans through the incarnation of His Son.)


The Invitation
"O Come, All Ye Faithful"


Awe
"O Magnum Mysterium" from the ancient Matins for Christmas; this version composed in 1994 by Morten Lauridsen of Los Angeles, California

Latin text:  O magnum mysterium, et admirabile sacramentum, ut animalia viderent Dominum natum, jacentem in praesepio!  Beata Virgo, cujus viscera meruerunt portare Dominum Christum. Alleluia.

English translation:  O great mystery, and wonderful sacrament, that animals should see the new-born Lord, lying in a manger!  Blessed is the Virgin whose womb was worthy to bear Christ the Lord. Alleluia!


Exultation
J. S. Bach, "Gloria in Excelsis Deo" and "Et in Terra Pax" from the Mass in B Minor

(Yes, we have South Koreans singing in Latin!  The Gospel isn't just for English speakers, is it?  I hope I don't need to translate, but just in case, "gloria in excelsis Deo" means "Glory to God in the highest," and "et in terra pax" means "and peace on earth.")


Benediction:  Eternal God, Who replaces our night of despair with the brightness of Thy one true Light, bring us who have known the revelation of that Light on Earth to see the radiance of Thy heavenly glory through Jesus Christ, Thy Son, our Lord, Who liveth and reigneth with Thee in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever, Amen.

Our Lord Christ, to Whom gifts from the magi heralded Thy royalty, divinity, and sacrifice, please fill us who are Thy servants with goodwill as partakers in Thy salvation, and with hope, and with exceeding gladness in sharing with others the gift of Yourself, the holy Babe of Bethlehem, Amen.

Gracious Holy Spirit, on behalf of those who mourn, who are destitute, or who otherwise need our ministry of compassion, we humbly beseech Thy bountiful mercy during this festival season, even as Thou dost direct us to be Thy hands and feet of goodwill to our neighbors.

And the blessing of God almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, be upon Your people, both now, and forevermore.  Amen.
_____

* Perhaps I should also point out that some explanations for Epiphany involve the presumption that the Magi were the first Gentiles to meet the Christ Child, and thus, their visit was the "epiphany," or revelation, of Christ to the non-Jewish world.  I have three problems with this view:  First, the fact that it introduces religion (not faith) into the Gospel narrative; second, that it seems to either subordinate Judaism or unduly elevate "Christianity" when God's Incarnation was nonreligious; and third, because there are a lot of schools of thought on the role of Jewishness in Christ's earthly ministry, and it's hard to know which is the right one (although I personally tend to side with John Piper's view).  So, for the sake of God's glory over mankind's theologizing, I prefer to minimize this aspect of Epiphany.
 

Hear Amid the Winter's Snow

 
They're calling it "Winter Storm Hercules."

From Chicago to Boston and beyond, sub-zero temperatures and the season's first major blizzard have visited the nation's most densely-populated region, right at the end of the Christmas and New Years holiday.  For most schoolkids, who are already on a two-week Christmas break - if they're still allowed to use the word "Christmas" - there have been no classes to miss.  Yet, anyway.  However, for their parents, many of whom likely had to return to work yesterday, the commute is treacherous, and sidewalks and driveways suddenly much wider and longer than when temperatures are above freezing.

She had no intention of adding insult to injury, but on Facebook this morning, a longtime female acquaintance of mine posted a photo of herself all tanned and glamorous, having arrived in Palm Beach just a few days ago after spending Christmas with her family in Ohio, and before that, wrapping up a project in New York City.  In photos she'd posted from suburban Cleveland, her skin was lily white, like the color of the snow that's been falling up there these past couple of days.  But already, less than a week down in Florida, her skin is as bronzed as any native Floridian's.  I'm sure all of her friends in Ohio and New York - and Connecticut, where she has a summer home - are admiring that tan with more than a tinge of "wish-I-were-there."

Northern winters are indeed kinder to kids than adults, aren't they?  It's usually kids who get to stay home during snowy weather.  It's kids who are allowed to go play in snowdrifts while their parents shovel snow from driveways.  And it's kids who get to trudge back inside after getting snow all down in their socks and underwear and be greeted with a steaming bowl of homemade soup, or mug of hot chocolate and fresh-from-the-oven cookies.

Growing up in rural upstate New York, when we'd come back inside after romping around in the piles of snow blanketing our property, I don't clearly remember my Mom ever giving my brother and me fresh-from-the-oven cookies.  But I do recall her soups, and settling down to the dinner table after taking off our mittens, scarves, and woolen hats - clumped with little balls of icy snow - and hanging them over the big wood stove in a corner of the kitchen.  As those clumps of icy snow would melt, droplets of water would hit the iron cooking surface of that stove, and quietly spit and hiss. 

Back in the laundry room, where we'd have removed our one-piece snowsuits and clunky winter boots, little puddles would be forming as more snow - buried in the creases and folds of our garments - thawed.  The way my brother and I burrowed into snowbanks along our driveway, rolled in fluffy drifts around trees, and romped with our energetic collie in waist-high meadows of brilliant white snow, we could look like employees from a talcum powder factory when we came inside.

Dad had a snowblower, a clanky, noisy contraption that gobbled up fallen snow and blew it out of the way, and he'd clear our long driveway after a major snowstorm, leaving crisp white walls along edges that could get several feet high.  We lived in the "snow belt" of New York State's Tug Hill Plateau, where lake-effect snow blowing in from Lake Erie could dump several feet of the white stuff in one blizzard.  I remember one winter, when fallen snow got so high, it covered our kitchen window.

With all the practice he got, Dad was mighty proud of his snowplowing prowess, but since we hadn't expended the arduous effort like he had, my brother and I couldn't share his appreciation for a well-cleared driveway.  Instead, to us, a freshly-carved wall of snow along our driveway represented the next opportune site for creating a new tunnel, or pretending like we were skydiving, or simply throwing ourselves into something so soft and fluffy that we couldn't possibly hurt ourselves.

Even if we did leave a mess.

It wasn't the loss of such precise creases alongside the driveway that bothered Dad, however.  It was all of the snow my brother and I would, as we cavorted in these newly-carved snowbanks, cause to spill out and into the driveway.  Hey - we weren't old enough to drive, so we didn't let practicalities haunt us back then.  I don't think my brother or I ever learned our lesson:  inevitably, Dad would bark at us to go and get the shovels, and scrape up the snow that was now obstructing the path for our cars.

Actually, I don't remember that we had a lot of snow days, when school was closed because of the snow.  In fact, many times, blizzards would start while we were in school, and if we were fortunate, class might be dismissed early so all of the buses could get back to the depot at a reasonable hour.  When I'd arrive home, I'd climb into my snow gear, and trundle off into the freshly-fallen snow - and indeed, the freshly falling snow - to enjoy the irresponsibility of what adults would consider to be bad weather.

When it's snowing, everything seems hushed, doesn't it?  And muted.  You can shout, but your voice - especially the voice of your parent - doesn't seem to carry as far.  I suppose it's an acoustic fluffiness from all the soft flakes of frozen water.  If there's no wind, and snow is falling so steadily it seems you're wandering around in white sheets, you can enter your own private world of contemplation and awareness, with the light grayness of both sound and sight.

Stop, and try to hear the snow falling.  Flop on your back in snow so fresh, it hasn't begun to compact itself.  Swirls of snowflakes coil up from where they'd fallen and settle on your face and nose like transient visitors... because they melt away in the warmth of your skin.  We had huge, towering pine trees in front of our house, and I loved to crawl down into the snow cavities created by even the slightest breeze, and the broad, thick pine branches just a few feet above the ground, collecting most of the falling snow.  Laying up in underneath, just out of sight, but still able to command a view of one's increasingly white surroundings, the solitude was palpable.  And so freeing.  When you're a kid playing in the snow by yourself, there is no hate, no misunderstanding, no offense, no quarreling.  Just your imagination - an imagination too young to have been corrupted by what's wrong with our world.

Yes, they say youth is wasted on the young.  And whenever I see photos and videos of blizzards these days, as a fortysomething adult, while I have no regrets about not living up there and having to shovel and snowblow and try to drive in that stuff, I do regret that I can't go back and simply traipse out around the eastern side of our two-story farmhouse, down the broad side yard... around to the silent sentinel of pines, in the shadows... as they obediently held out their velvety branches in the falling snow.

And laying down and listening.

And

not

hearing

anything.

Dog Food Tales

 
Dog food.

It's considered such a lowly source of nutrition.

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

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

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

Poor dogs.

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

Do you believe that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I stopped in my tracks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it disappeared from the stove completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

People Art Culture's Value

Dum.  Dum.  Dum.

The macabre drumbeat of devolution continues from Detroit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who's right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yippie! Hippie Trip Over for VW's Bus

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

80 Years, One Church

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saints, for One, and All

Adapted from an earlier essay...


Sainthood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faith.  Remember?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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