Fourth of July Present Tense

I don't like to dwell on the origins of July 4th--not the origins of its being a holiday, but the reason we have an Independence Day. The facts are glorious, I suppose, in the soft light of nostalgia, but they are bloody and disturbing nevertheless. Anyone who thinks revolution is glorious has never seen one up close. Today we can see, sort of, protests and revolutionary clashes through instant media. But the people who form my typical, daily world are far removed from the kind of situation that led to the United States of America. The only exceptions are the few people I know who have ended up here for political asylum.

Fourth of July, present tense, is just another holiday--even better, a summer holiday--when we eat more, play more, hang out with friends and family more. There are fireworks, a lot of them, and in large concentrations. Also, parades and community-wide parties. It's all about celebration and having a good time while relaxing with your favorite drink and plate of food.

I have no idea what it cost families in our colonies who chose to revolt, or not revolt, against the British monarchy. Certainly a lot of people suffered during the American Revolution, who never saw the end result, who died in a state of confusion and at odds with neighbors, fellow Christians, and in some cases, most of the people around them. It was a devastating time, a messy time with violence, acts of treachery, and treason--but remember that treason was defined by whichever group was talking. Neighbors called one another traitors. Everyone was on the right side of the issue and yet there were at least two right sides . . .

Today, I think we should turn our thoughts of July 4th toward the messy disagreements that tear apart our communities now, because there are numerous messy issues and so many right sides that it's easy to lose our sense of direction altogether. We cluster on our chosen sides in regard to immigration, education, drugs, guns, healthcare, marriage, religious rights, political reform, environmental policies, and so on. We call one another, not traitor but certainly unpatriotic, which is close to the same thing. We accuse one another of not fighting for the community or protecting the right interests. We think we know who the community is, but then it shifts around on us. People change labels, positions, move into new paradigms.

And our sub-communities spend so much energy fighting one another that we fail to see the larger enemies of us all--the greed and corruption that divert political power and resources from the common good, the powerful players who prevent us from identifying systemic problems and solving them.

Maybe to begin, we could refrain from thinking in terms of whose on which side. Could we imagine a huge circle of life, or globe dotted with small, intimate villages? Could we go into each encounter with the idea that this person is simply here with me, in the present tense?

Jesus Did Not Coerce People

I'm probably crazy to try to write about this at the end of a workday, when I've got a stiff neck and TMJ and ongoing fatigue and still must commute home. But Facebook is abuzz today with the Supreme Court ruling in favor of Hobby Lobby. The upshot is that the corporation can refuse to pay for some healthcare services. Those who are angry about it generalize that Hobby Lobby will not allow its healthcare services to provide for contraception, period. Those in favor of the decision point out that a person doesn't have to buy healthcare through the employer and that Hobby Lobby's healthcare provider continues to pay for some birth control, just not the Plan-B (code word for some: abortion pill).

I haven't read the Supreme Court's decision, and because I'm not an attorney, I probably couldn't understand it even if I did; I rely on others for my information--people who can read that stuff and make sense of it and then translate it to me. So, honestly, I don't know what this decision means precisely. And I have been guilty of re-posting others' posts about the decision even though I don't know all the facts. And I certainly don't know which organizations know the facts--everybody speaks with such certainty that even the professional fact-checkers have a hard time keeping up and warning the rest of us. This is a temptation of Facebook: sometimes a person just wants to vent, and there are plenty of ready-made ventings ripe for the picking and re-posting.

But I do know that Christianity in this country has long had too much power, that large Christian groups have held hands with governmental ideologies too often, and that many Christians in general--and in particular those who feel threatened by "non-Christian" ideas, organizations, and vocabulary--have come to feel entitled to set moral standards for everyone who lives here.

How did we come to this? I guess it began when Christianity became state religion in Rome centuries ago. The power the church gained corrupted it so much that a whole new movement started whereby men and women fled to the desert to escape the church's sins and excesses and give themselves mainly to prayer and meditation. The monastic movement tried to correct the problems of Christians wielding political and financial power, but of course the whole world couldn't live in the desert. Not even the entire church could survive that way.

Christians are often the first to point out that the people who founded this country were trying to escape religious persecution. That's a generalization but true enough. What we don't seem to recognize is that so much feverish activity of religious people wedded to political parties creates whole new forms of religious persecution.

I need to severely truncate this post, sliding by long discussions about politics and religion, and just get to the point that always centers and stabilizes me when I begin to get crazy and bothered about other folks' bad behavior. That centering point is this: I try, not always successfully, to be a follower of Jesus of Nazareth. And Jesus never coerced people. He simply didn't. He didn't force himself on others, didn't force belief on them. Yes, with religious, powerful people he could get pretty direct and say things that would scorch their pious sensibilities. He did challenge people. He asked hard questions. He made demands of those who had committed to his cause.

But he never forced anyone to act a certain way. And I don't think he is pleased when any of his followers do. Whenever I try to manipulate the actions of others--through my judgments or conversations or the use of whatever power I have--I'm not being Jesus-like.

I believe Christians--along with everyone else--should participate in government and commerce. We must participate in society in helpful and reasonable ways. That means that we make room for others to act according to conscience. That also means we help protect others. Where freedom and protection meet is a tricky place of discernment and tension--I want you to be free to live your life and at the same time prevent you from harming other lives. So we'll always be debating and running back and forth and trying this solution and that. Of course it's complicated.

But this one idea--Jesus did not coerce others--this helps quite a bit when I'm in that place of discernment.

The Sensual Life

It can be a pain, existing as a physical being. My right knee is acting strange today. And my neck muscles are still strained and tight--will start physical therapy Wednesday. And it's hot enough today to make the sweat trickle. But honestly, who wouldn't want a life in which:

• I'm awakened by the sound of rain and the smell of it pressing through the window screens.
• The cat's tummy is soft, and she makes eager little sounds as we head downstairs to get her breakfast.
• The water in the shower is hot but not too hot; the pressure is strong enough to wake me up.
• That first drink of water in the morning--nothing like it.
• Vegetables at the farmers' market form dark rainbows, lined up in luxurious piles of greens, dark reds, yellows, purples.
• The coffee from Panera is perfectly hazelnut.
• Mozart chamber music pulses from the car radio, giving the city street an aura of majesty.
• At church we clap as we sing a spiritual; the energy snaps brightly around the room.
• We extend to one another a sign of peace; eyes meet, and we shake hands and say, "Peace be with you." Hands have so many textures and temperatures.
• High above the communion table, wide, richly colored streamers of cloth join at the top and stretch out above us in all directions.
• Later, my husband and I sit in the shade on the restaurant patio.
• We taste fresh coffee, also ice-cold water and a cocktail with wine and whiskey.
• Our sandwiches are golden, green, white, brown, yellow: sourdough bread, scrambled egg, bacon, fried green tomatoes, greens, and special mayo.
• We end with chocolate mousse, a delight to eye and tongue.
• Our hands touch there on the table top, while sunshine dances on the street and people of every size, shape, and color talk and eat around us.
• When we drive home, the city skyline is sharp against a true-blue sky.
• In our back yard, the foliage is lush and adorned with bright oranges, reds, pinks, and blues of begonias and impatiens.
• When you lie in the hammock, you can feel the whole world sway.
• Nothing sweeter to the eyes than husband in the hammock, with the cat snuggled into his side; both are napping on this summer afternoon.

What a grand, sensual life. What gifts at our feet and above our heads every single day.

Life Editing

I have begun to edit and sort the many photos I took while in England in early June. It's probably good that I didn't have much time right after my return; now that three weeks have passed, I see the photos from a greater distance, emotionally as well as chronologically. By the time I organize them into an album or scrapbook, I will be able to leave out more of them. Some, of course, I will choose to display because they remind me of a certain meal or a particular spot on the trail. But not every photo will be necessary to the preservation of events I deem important.

The emotional intensity attached to these pictures diminishes as time passes, and so all those shots of birds and flowers and tombstones--taken greedily in the thrall of a blissful experience--will not seem so crucial. I can put those photos in an envelope and store them with the album, but I will not need them to tell the story or even to relive the moment.

Some photos take years to discard. Twenty-five years after I had lived in Jordan (for only three years), finally I could get rid of poorly taken slides and photos. I had been so reluctant to let go of a single remnant of a single memory. But looking at the blurry lines, the too-light or too-dark images or simply the uninteresting ones, I had to admit that some memories don't merit special attention.

Do I clear out my memory banks just as carefully as I sort piles of photographs? I do believe that I have clung to some shreds of experience and emotion that should have been tossed aside long ago. Some moments do not bear repeating; others may have been profound at the time but lent little in the way of enduring wisdom.

How many faded, badly cropped memories does a person really need? How much space do they occupy in a heart already full of today's conversations and discernments? And do I honestly think I can change a memory by revisiting it again and again, holding it at a different angle maybe?

This is an aspect of soul housekeeping I've not considered before. That's rather sad; at my age, you'd think I'd have developed better habits of interior order and cleanliness. Oh well. Better late than not at all.

Get Out the Playing Cards

I'm not really a card person; I know how to play solitaire and gin rummy (did I even spell that correctly?) But when it's summer and we're living on our back porch, playing a few hands of rummy just seems right. We don't keep score or play for hours, just a few hands at the end of the day, after supper.

My stepson and two of the granddaughters are visiting, and because the youngest is six, we brought out the Uno cards. First thing we noticed was that most of us were out of practice shuffling a deck. We are so used to touch screens and mice that click on icons that basic card-handling skills are deteriorating.

A person should play Uno with a six-year-old on a regular basis. There's really no substitute. Add four bigger people and some Corona, and, really, it's better than television. Try it. That's all I'll say for today. If cards aren't your thing, how about board games--remember them? Remember checkers and dominoes and scrabble? It's summer. Turn off the devices and fumble around with cards and little playing pieces you move around a board. Enjoy the sensation of a breeze through the room, the sounds of giggles and cackles when people make dumb moves, and the feel of shiny cards at your fingertips--or cards faintly sticky from that bowl of caramel corn in the middle of the table.

Happy summer. Take a moment and notice the day's gifts.

Let the Words of My Mouth and the Meditations of My Heart

Do the words of today's title sound familiar? As a child attending the Methodist church with my grandmother, I said these words during the liturgy every week; I confess that I don't remember where they were in the liturgy. And this morning I have a house full of company and will not take the time to research properly this prayer, which goes: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.

Musician Fernando Ortega set these words to his own music, and I was playing that CD in the car when I went to the farmers' market this morning. Driving is not good for my meditations or my words--how quickly the profanity surfaces when another driver does something rude or stupid or I hit yet another car-engulfing pothole. So, for my morning prayer, I sang along with Fernando, hoping that singing such a prayer would get in the way of my cussing. And I did not cuss while driving this morning; this could be due to the prayer or to the fact that no other driver did anything rude or stupid. I won't waste energy trying to figure that out--I'm just happy to have run my errands minus the bad mood and the ugly words.

I don't think I cussed with any regularity until I was living in another country. I adapted well to my life there and did good work for that two-year teaching assignment in Ajloun, Jordan. But of course the culture shock sets in sooner or later, and it hit me in the form of sever depression about six months into the assignment. Also, it started leaking out in dribs and drabs of anger and frustration. I had tried unsuccessfully to tune the piano at the school where I taught, and it did not want to hold a tune. And at some point, for the first time in my life, I said, "Fuck" to an empty room. And I have to say, it felt very good. I realized then that there's a perfectly good reason for cusswords.

I do believe that there are appropriate times to swear, but they are few and far between.  Sometimes, swearing is actually a form of prayer--and I know some people will take great offense at my saying that, but if the Holy Spirit interprets our moans and sighs into the prayers they truly are, then I think she does the same for the swearing that is actually an expression of panic or pain or fear.

Three reasons cussing is not a good thing: 1) Usually it's used in a harmful way, in anger toward other people, and anger is rarely the best or most constructive response. 2) It becomes a habit way too easily. I really have trouble not swearing now; it's a habit I'm not proud of and try to put the brakes on. 3) It's death to creativity. I live in the part of town where "fuck" stands in for just about every part of speech. People who swear a lot are not developing creative ways of expressing themselves. In fact, I believe that profanity shrinks the vocabulary. Rather than coming up with a truly accurate description of your feelings, hopes, frustrations, and ideas, you just utter a few raw words, which shuts down the creative process.

Today, we hope to drive to Warren Dunes State Park and hang out on the beach and climb the dunes. This will involve driving on interstates on a Sunday, dealing with parking lots, having uncomfortable incidents with sand, wind, and possibly other people, and being grandparents in person, which we are rarely able to do. There's some stress in all of that--even good events bring stress. And so my prayer today is, truly: May the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer. Amen.

Too Serious?

I'm enjoying a book by Deborah Alun-Jones: The Wry Romance of the Literary Rectory. She explores various old rectories throughout England and the poets and writers who lived in them. It's well written, entertaining to read, and we learn a bit about writers such as Alfred Tennyson, Dorothy L. Sayers, and George Herbert.

Some writers sought solitary, romantic places in which to write; some were rectors as well as writers; some were sons or daughters of rectors. Most of the homes they lived in were in remote places, off in the countryside; they were drafty and damp and no-frills, in some cases without running water or reliable heat. Yet they were graced by lush landscapes and gardens in which to have tea or to otherwise party with friends.

I confess that at times I become irritated with a particular writer or poet who drags a wife and kids off to the country, to a pretty hard life, so that he can write in the kind of space he wants. Having written the better part of two novels on the commuter train to and from Chicago, I can't help but wonder if sometimes we take ourselves too seriously as artists. I can write only in a garden--really? I must make other family members suffer isolation and drudgery because I need a quiet study miles from city confusion--really?

Are we too serious about ourselves sometimes? Are we uncreative about our creativity? If I'm truly creative, then I should be able to make any number of situations work for me. And, as a person of faith of the fairly basic sort, I believe that love for spouse, children, and people in general sometimes makes demands of me that render the creative work more challenging.

We folks of the Judeo-Christian persuasion might imagine David the shepherd lounging out in the pasture, blissfully writing psalms. But have you ever spent much time in a pasture? Lumpy earth, animal dung, bugs, rain--at times the outdoors is almost too distracting for me to do much interior exploration. The shepherd psalmist might have imagined a clean, dry room with a flat surface, such as an ordinary table, as the perfect place to write. Actually, back in David's time, I think they simply composed and memorized and passed along by speaking and singing and memorizing some more. An artist simply did what he needed to do.