Democratic Strategy After the Mid-Terms

I am no political strategist nor am I a loyalist for either party, but it seems to me that after the mid-terms, the Democrats need a compelling, positive vision for the country, leaders-candidates of impeccable integrity who can articulate that vision clearly and winsomely, and to absolutely refrain for getting sucked into exchanging insults with the Republicans. To sink to that will only make them look immature. Left to their own devices, the immature will undo themselves and their allies. Keep it inspiring. Stay out of the swamp - both sides.

What If?

I am writing and posting this to my Writing Workshop blog on the morning of October 6, the day when the US Senate is expected to confirm Brett Kavanaugh to the US Supreme Court and a month ahead of the 2018 mid-term elections. I am purposely not linking it to Facebook or Twitter, but want to document my thoughts when it is clear they are anticipatory not reactionary.

The push and pull over Kavanaugh’s appointment started out around abortion and Roe v. Wade and ended with the credibility of Christine Blasey Ford’s testimony of sexual assault from high school days. Receiving less attention but perhaps even more significant are hints that Donald Trump wants Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court to protect his executive power as President and protect him from being compelled to disclose his tax returns, especially now that hints of some tax law problems in how his father’s money came to him. I have no way of sorting out the truth of these assertions and counter points, nor of knowing the inner intents of any of the actors in this volatile drama. However, I do have concerns about executive power from a different direction.

Assertions of election manipulation have tainted public confidence in the 2016 election. Republicans asserting voter fraud and Democrats outside interference, even from a foreign country. The specter of distrust of election results seems to have been amplified in anticipation of the 2018 mid-term election. My impression is that both Democrats and Republicans are waging the highest profile campaigns of any mid-term election in my memory. Both are accusing the other of shenanigans. Each seems to believe they are riding a wave of popular support and fear the other side will discredit their expected victories. Either way it goes, I anticipate loud cries of distrust in the electoral results and process.

So what happens after the election? If the Democrats gain power in either or both houses of Congress, will the administration seek some way to discredit the results, perhaps even challenging their legality? If the Republicans strengthen their hand in Congress, will there be an uprising that may even erupt in the streets? In either case, will the administration invoke unprecedented executive power to suppress chaos and maintain order? If that was to happen it would certainly be challenged in the courts. Would the Supreme Court support sweeping executive powers in a time of perceived national emergency?

I have neither a prophetic gift nor access to any relevant information to answer these questions. I do feel some anxiety that they are even rumbling around in my mind, and what I gather from the internet interaction that comes my way, others across the political spectrum are asking similar questions, some with anxiety and some with anticipation. I am old enough to remember the uncertainty that loomed as the Watergate crises closed in on Richard Nixon. Some were asking if he would impose emergency executive powers before he could be impeached. As he himself cast it, his political support collapsed and he resigned before such measures were invoked. Yet, anxiety about chaos did arise. Whether agreeing with all of the steps Gerald Ford took, or not, his calm and deliberate demeanor, rather than executive power, probably headed off a larger crisis.

Without making any prediction, I would not at all be surprised if sufficient chaos prompted some assertion of executive power. I would also not be surprised if a significant portion of the citizenry supported it, while a perhaps equally sizable voice protested it. Having friends and family across a very wide political spectrum, I am hearing/seeing a wide variety of responses to the anticipation of responses to both the Kavanaugh appointment and the mid-term elections. Some stand ready to make a high profile protest, and some suggesting they would welcome clamping down on protests with invoking emergency executive powers.

Though I find little credibility to the things arising from and swirling around the Q and QAnon phenomenon, it has captured the imagination of a few folk in my circle. There is no way to verify what Q puts out or what their followers make of it,  and it strikes me as rather foolish hopeful thinking from extreme right wing groups. Yet, I do want to comment on a scenario that seems to be congealing in that thinking because I see hints of it from other directions.

If it is true, as seems to be suggested though I find it farfetched, that a group of military leaders (generals and “patriots”) recruited Donald Trump to be their President and managed the 2016 election so he got into office, then he is the puppet of a military junta and not a free moral agent. If they are planning to impose martial law and replace the civil courts with military tribunals, that would constitute replacing an established government by military coup. If the attacks on the validity of the US Constitution (including some less extreme calls for a constitutional convention) are prelude to replacing it, that would be the gateway to totalitarian rule. I find this scenario quite incomprehensible, yet I do see/hear voices that seem sympathetic to things along this line. I don’t know which I find more disconcerting: the remote possibility that this might be real, or that some people I know think this is (or might be) a good idea. Less overt impositions of emergency executive powers in the wake of collapse of confidence in the results of the mid-term elections could head in these directions.

I am writing, not to predict any of this, but so that as our immediate future unfolds, I have documented my questions in advance. I hope this proves to be unnecessary anxiety. My perspective on history is that crises come and go. The Hebrew Prophet Habakkuk described this well. When crises come, they call forth moral leadership, such as the White Rose and the Confessing Church in Nazi Germany. They appeared to fail, but are hailed today as moral heroes. I don’t want to push the parallels too far, but only as an example of moral responses to major crises.

My biblical faith encourages me to keep my focus on God’s sovereignty. I am reminded of Psalm 11:3-4. When some ask, “If the foundations are destroyed, what can the righteous do?” The Psalmist reminds us that “The Lord is in his holy temple; the Lord’s throne is in heaven.” Though in somewhat different circumstances, I take encouragement from 2 Corinthians 4:16-18. “So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing us for an eternal weight of glory beyond all measure, because we look not at what can be seen but at what cannot be seen; for what can be seen is temporary, but what cannot be seen is eternal.”

Clean Up Your Own House

Whether or how you want to connect Patti Davis’ story to Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford, I believe it speaks volumes to the awareness that #MeToo has brought to much needed public attention in the past year. This is not a political issue per se; it is a human issue of paramount importance. The perpetrators are not just politicians but also government officials, athletes, entertainers, business executives, and clergy - which is of great personal concern to me. If I may use the cliché, I am sick and tired of making excuses or evasions for someone with whom I agree politically or theologically, or in any other way, by pointing out that within the ranks of those with whom I disagree are those who are similarly guilty, suggesting there may be more of them on the other side, or that what those on the other side did was worse. Keeping score of “my side vs. the other side” totally evades the supreme necessity of accountability and, as it were, cleaning up our own houses. If you tell me that those you consider to be on the other side did it too, or worse, or more, what you are telling me is that you are willing to tolerate sexual harassment and sexual predators in your own ranks. What is happening between Brett Kavanaugh and Christine Blasey Ford is a microcosm of a dangerous and destructive pattern in our whole society. How bad will it have to become before we work together to take action to change the cultural consensus on accepting sex as a weapon of power and oppression?

https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/patti-davis-daughter-ronald-nancy-reagan-reveals-sexually-assaulted-calls-christine-blasey-ford-brave-223016587.html

Would We Accept Humility in Leaders?

“La Reve di Salomon” by de Luca Giordano - 1694

The Lectionary lesson from the Hebrew Scriptures for next Sunday, August 19, 2018, includes Solomon’s prayer for wisdom from 1 Kings 3:3-14. As I have begun my lectio divina for this week, I am impressed by the great humility of Solomon as both a contrast with and rebuke to the blatant arrogance that seems rampant among those presently charged with governing this country. Solomon prayed, “And now, O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in. And your servant is in the midst of the people whom you have chosen, a great people, so numerous they cannot be numbered or counted. Give your servant therefore an understanding mind to govern your people, able to discern between good and evil; for who can govern this your great people?” (vv. 7-9)

Post The Beatitudes Instead of The Ten Commandments

For those who want to post The Ten Commandments on the internet because they (rightly) cannot be displayed in government facilities, I suggest The Beatitudes instead. They are a much more incisive expression of Jesus’ life and teaching, while The Ten Commandments tends to reinforce comfortable moralism with the futile hope that they will deter someone bent on evil.

Do understand, I have no objection to The Ten Commandments. They are a concise expression of life that flows from honoring God. With The Beatitudes Jesus goes even deeper to a heart that is congruent with the heart of God. The Ten Commandments evoke a nostalgic wishing for a time when we imagined more people lived by them. The Beatitudes, however, make us all squirm with some sense of inadequacy and dependence on God’s mercy. At the very least, The Beatitudes will annoy those who interpret life in terms of pride and power.

I want to be totally clear that I do not believe The Ten Commandment, or The Beatitudes, or any other “religious” expressions are appropriate for display in government facilities. The First Amendment to the US Constitution rightly prevents Congress from making any law respecting an establishment of religion or prohibiting the free exercise of religion. By excluding religion from government, we have great freedom to express our religious convictions personally on the internet, in our homes, even in our businesses. Of course, if you are an employee, you respect the policies of your employer. Additionally, I have no objection to teaching history and literature of the Bible in public school, as long as it is not done to promote or debunk religion. The courts have held this as constitutionally legitimate. Of course, both wonderful and horrible things have been done in the name of religion, which is also legitimate and healthy to be taught.

Further, I am fully convinced that not just government (such as state churches that were typical of the original Thirteen Colonies and persisted in Europe) but social consensus versions of religion dilute and diminish authentic Christian discipleship. Thus, not having government (or even social consensus) support for (generic) religion is good for the spiritual health of those who follow Jesus and for Christ’s Church.

Nils from "The Ghosts of Mystic Hills Cemetery"

           Nettie struggled mightily when Emily died. We had worked so hard to get pregnant and been so careful during pregnancy, that when she was born sickly our disappointment was unfathomable. We were numb as frail Emily faded and departed from us. In my own depression, Nettie’s grief was impenetrable to me. As the months passed we settled into a protective routine that enabled me to fulfill my teaching responsibilities with competence but without joy. Nettie and I were in no way hostile to each other, nor were either of us craving anything more from each other. We were both so withdrawn that I had no idea what she did each day except keep the house immaculate and prepare perfectly balanced meals. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, much less feeling. She never approached me for any opening either.

Deep inside I knew that I loved Nettie and avoided probing her isolation for fear of destroying what was left of our relationship. I was resolved to be content to go on this way indefinitely rather than risk having her disappear entirely. I treasured the two kisses I received every day, one she gave me on the cheek as I left for school in the morning and one I gave her on the cheek before we fell asleep every night. Yes, we slept in the same bed, but the space between those two solitary, scheduled physical contacts every day those seemed immense to me.

Between getting up for school Monday through Friday and going to church together as we always had on Sunday, Saturday was our only opportunity to sleep in. Depression is exhausting. Sleep was more an escape than refreshment. One Saturday morning I woke late as usual and headed for a solitary breakfast. While the coffee was perking I heard myself singing Robert Lowry’s My Life Flows On. I must have been singing loudly enough that Nettie heard me and came into the kitchen smiling at me for the first time since before Emily was born. She said nothing, but poured her own cup of coffee and kept smiling at me.

“Would you like me to fry some bacon and eggs for us?” she asked. “I’ll dice some potatoes to go with them if you’d like.”

“Certainly,” I must have smiled back at her. “That would be lovely.”

Though I couldn’t remember all of the words, I couldn’t stop from mingling humming and mumbling the song, and Nettie hummed and mumbled along at the stove. Though we still didn’t get all of the words to all of the verses, we soon pieced together the words to the driving rhythm of the refrain and were singing together boisterously. “No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I’m clinging. Since love is Lord of heav’n and earth, how can I keep from singing?” When we realize we were both humming in unison with our mouths full of food we laughed with simultaneous spontaneity.

By the time I cleared the table and washed the dishes Nettie had dressed and returned to the kitchen. As I stood up from hanging the dishcloth on the rack under the sink, Nettie was right there to kiss me on the lips and put her arms around me for the first time since Emily had been born. Instead of retiring to my desk and books, I got out my long idle guitar again, found the song in a hymnal and started to play. I hadn’t played the guitar since Emily had been born, and tuning it took me quite a while. The calluses on my fingers had softened and pressing the strings against the frets stung. But in twenty minutes or so I was singing all of the words to all of the verses and feeling their soothing assurance.

Nettie didn’t join me or even appear at the doorway to listen, and I wasn’t singing for her to hear, yet in retrospect, I believe that song marked a turning point for me and for our marriage. On Monday morning, I woke well ahead of the alarm and left the house at least fifteen minutes earlier than usual with energy and anticipation for a new day and a new week of teaching. I didn’t decide to sing that Saturday morning. I didn’t pick that song because I thought it would be therapeutic. I just discovered that I was singing it without thinking about it.

Once we found our new life together, Nettie would talk about being given images of promising social relationships, especially romantic relationships. Though I never said it exactly this way, I think what she went through after Emily’s death gave her an acute awareness of social cues that she pieced together to make her pictures. I felt like My Life Flows On was given to me at just the right moment that somehow coordinated with how Nettie was progressing. Of course, I did know the song and can explain that it rose up out of my subconscious memory because I was ready to make the turn out of darkness into a new light. Perhaps, but I did not choose it because I thought it made sense. It became the most significant landmark on my life journey of its own volition or prompted by some unseen intelligence.

Nettie and I have both grown up with Christian faith. Until Emily’s death, we accepted and lived by that faith, perhaps presumptuously but sincerely. As had been our habit from birth, we went to church every Sunday. I can’t say that it sustained me emotionally or spiritually beyond marking the turn of a new week. I can’t really speak for Nettie as we communicated so little during that time, but I know that I never questioned that God was with me as I walked through the valley of the shadow of death. I felt that God was experiencing the darkness as intensely as I was, and I did not think I’d ever get out of that darkness. But I woke up singing one random Saturday morning.

Within a couple of months I was awake and alert well ahead of 6:00 am and thought I might enjoy breakfast at Steinbergs’ Deli and Diner. The first morning I took my personal copy of Stephen Crane’s The Red Badge of Courage and a new composition book and new pen. At Steinbergs’ I went to the booth in the back corner by the window and ordered baked Irish oatmeal with chopped nuts and a cup of coffee. I asked the waitress if I could stay for an hour even if I had finished my breakfast. She chuckled and said, “As long as you tip better than the farmers, you can stay as long as you like.” I thanked her with a smile, and she poured me a cup of coffee.

I sipped and read for a bit, jotting seemingly random thoughts in my notebook. Since I was already familiar with the story, I tried to compare our grief to Henry Fleming’s pursuit of authentic courage. That line of thought didn’t go anywhere. What is real grief as distinct from self-pity or depression? What’s the point of figuring it out? By the time the waitress brought my oatmeal, I had concluded that such reflection was pointless narcissism, and I’d be better heading in a different direction, but I wasn’t sure what it could be. Maybe I’d do better bringing a poetry anthology for breakfast reading. I set all that aside and just enjoyed the oatmeal’s texture: dense and chewy underneath the crispy baked crust, with richness enhanced by real cream. At home we just cooked oatmeal in a pot and served it soft with milk. After I finished my breakfast, I went back to reading, purposely avoiding any effort to view it through my current experience, content to let it humanize the recitation of Civil War history that I knew was coming later in the day.

On returning home that evening, I couldn’t wait to tell Nettie about one student who had read The Red Badge of Courage in her American Lit class and wondered how accurately it presented the facts of the Civil War. She asked if I thought Pickett’s Charge at Gettysburg was courage or foolishness. Of course, I turned it into a class discussion, which was vigorous and not only drew out the well prepared students, but seemed to motivate the others to go back and reread the history textbook, not as assigned homework but to sort out their own questions. I wasn’t just doing my job teaching history, I was joyfully educating students.

Little by little Nettie began telling me her observations about social relationships. They hadn’t yet formed into the images that would become so important to her, but her joy grew when she saw people connect with each other. Housekeeping errands became opportunities for conversations with fellow shoppers and clerks at the grocery, tellers at the bank and most of all the women of the church with whom was reconnecting by attending the women’s fellowship again after dropping out during her pregnancy. We were having conversation with each other again. Our interest in each other’s lives was reawakening.

Now the routine pre-sleep kiss seemed to trigger a few minutes of conversation to wrap up the day. Then one night, Nettie kissed me back, right on the lips and put her arm around my shoulder. She pressed her hips up against me and guided my hand inside her unbuttoned nightgown. And so resumed our marital intimacy. But it was nothing like it had been when we were working so hard to conceive a child, or even what it had been when we first married. Freedom, joy – yes, pleasure – but above all love!

Starting with the Norton Anthology of English Literature, I experimented with different kinds of reading and writing during my breakfasts at Steinbergs’. In a few months I jettisoned all of the efforts that seemed too much like work and read whatever I was enjoying at the time. I gave up trying to make my notes into essays and just let them be snatches of things that flitted through my mind. In time, I found that themes emerged on their own without trying to figure them out. When I recognized one of these themes, I felt that a light was illuminating a dark corner of my mind that I hadn’t even known was there before. They didn’t seem to be particularly profound, but did enrich a serendipitous delight, usually with something simple and ordinary.

That back booth in the corner by the window became my own territory. Wanda the waitress whispered to me one day that she’d make sure it was always open for me if I got there before 6:15 am. That part was no problem as I was usually waiting for a couple of minutes before she unlocked the door at 6:00 am. All of the regulars had their places anyway. The farmers gathered at the tables close to the front door, rearranging them as their group evolved through the morning.  Working farmers came in when chores were done and left to start the day’s labor. This varied with the kind of farm and the season of the year. There really are no retired farmers, only those whose sons or sons-in-law were running the farms or had sold to a corporation. They staked out their places at the center tables and stayed longer than I did.

An ever changing collection of truck drivers gravitated to the booths near the men’s room. Through the morning state patrols, county sheriffs and town constables took turns in the booths closest to the door where they could look out the window at their patrol cars. No one ever seemed interested in my rear booth in the corner by the window. Though a lot of people came and went through the morning, at least a couple of booths and tables were always available. I always left for school a little after 7:00 am, so I really don’t know what happened later in the morning, but I suspect it was an extension of what I observed during my hour, but thinning out by 8:00 am.

The working farmers, especially those whose children were my students, greeted me on arrival with a wave and a respectful address. Otherwise, everyone else ignored me where I sat back in my corner, which suited me just fine. I came to relish and treasure this solitude. Though it had nothing to do with preparing for my school day, I did feel much more ready for the students than I ever had before.

One morning about the time we knew we were expecting a baby but before we were ready to say anything, Olaf Gustafson walked in and invited himself into the tables with the farmers. They received him cordially, even though I had heard the small family farmers were suspicious of his position as senior manager of Cloverland Dairy. Among themselves the family dairy farmers saw Cloverland Dairy as a corporate agriculture threat to their way of life. Olaf clearly knew their lingo and was at least as knowledgeable about all of their usual topics of conversation, but he didn’t contribute much. He just appeared glad to be there. None of them seemed to question why he could suddenly join them for breakfast. When Wanda came by to refill my coffee cup, she nodded toward Olaf and said, “He’s been a lunch regular for a while now, but this is the first time I’ve seen him at breakfast.”

After several weeks, no, it must have been a few months because Hans had been born by then, Olaf waved his usual, “Good Morning, Nils,” and seemed reluctant to sit with the farmers. I gestured to the seat across from me and said, “Would you care to join me?” He hesitated a moment but accepted my invitation. As a child growing up in the Lutheran Church I remembered Olaf as one of the big kids who faded after confirmation and vanished after finishing high school.

I didn’t try to sort out if I thought I was reading Olaf or reading myself into him, but I said, “I can tell you’re in the middle of a significant change. Ever since your high school days, you were the cow guy and just about lived at Cloverland Dairy.  I noticed you were having breakfast here every day, and Wanda told me you’d also been having lunch here for quite a while. I don’t want to pry, but I suspect eating at Steinbergs’ morning and noon means something.” And so began a partnership through our transitions that quickly became a close if unlikely friendship.

I made a major effort to focus the conversation on Olaf that day, but I did tell him that after having come to terms with not having children, to have a new baby in the house was an adjustment. He just laughed and went on with his own musings as he tried to sort out how to interpret Cloverland Dairy making him their community “cow expert” and turning over the operation of the dairy to men he had trained. He enjoyed the students in the 4-H Club but couldn’t see that drew it on his years of dairying. A little past seven o’clock I excused myself saying I liked to be at school well ahead of the noise of the day. Olaf sighed, “Good for you. Not needing to be at the dairy before everyone else just feels empty to me right now.” I nodded as I got up, left my tip and headed off to school.

That evening I wrote a thank you note to give to Olaf in case he sat in my booth again in the morning. He was definitely in unfamiliar territory talking about his personal misgivings, especially given the casual nature of our relationship that had really been non-existent since being young at the Lutheran Church. I wanted him to know I appreciated the trust he put in me. I wanted him to know I personally valued our conversation. I wanted to open a door to friendship without intimidating him. Olaf read my note silently. I think I even noticed a bit of a blush when he said, “Thanks, Nils. I’d be pleased for you to be my friend.”

Though we each needed someone to accompany us on our transitions, I didn’t want to get so heavy we’d be like psychiatrists for each other. So the next day I asked him about his favorite cows, and he asked me about my favorite students. We were groping a bit to find some common ground on which to build a friendship. Some of my uncertainties came out as I talked about students, but I didn’t feel ready to approach my real uncertainty – becoming a parent for the first time, really, at a rather advanced age for that – not yet anyway. I don’t think I lacked trust in Olaf. Rather, I didn’t want to scare him off, as I knew I needed him at least as much as he needed our new friendship.

One morning, after informal chit-chat about my students who were also 4-H Club members, Olaf hesitated before saying, “Do you remember how you told me that by being with the kids at the 4-H Club I might learn how to talk to people as well as I talked to cows?”

I chuckled a bit, “I’m sure I meant it as a joke, a little humor to lighten up the mood.”

“Well,” Olaf chuckled too, “4-H Club may be where I realize I am learning to talk to people, but I think I’m actually learning it during our breakfast conversations. Talking to the cows was emotional, at least for the cows. I wanted to help them feel relaxed because they knew I liked them and they could trust me. For me, talking to people was always practical. I gave instructions at the dairy. I assigned my children their chores and told them how to run their lives. Of course, I told them I loved them and meant it, yet I myself didn’t know what that meant. I thought I knew what love was when I told Sigrid I loved her, but even that was about how well we work together, what a great team we are. But when I told her how I felt about something, it was an opinion not an emotion. I don’t think I was actually aware of having emotions until Cloverland Dairy moved me from manager to community cow expert. I felt honor and rejection, accomplishment and disappointment all mixed up together, but I didn’t know how to talk about any of that, until we started having breakfast together.”

“If our breakfast talks have helped you, I am glad, but you have to know that I’ve been working on my own emotions at the same time.” I paused to let Olaf ponder that a moment. I also pondered if this was a suitable opportunity for me to be more open about my emotions.

Then Olaf said, “As I’ve been learning to talk to people, I’ve been learning that listening to them is even more important. It’s a little more complicated than listening to the cows, but maybe not all that different. Over the years I learned the meaning of the different sounds cows make. Just like people, each one has her own vocabulary, but they are still speaking cow, so I’m sure they understand each other. If people would pay attention, they could understand the cows too. A couple weeks ago one of the older boys who is raising a calf stayed after the meeting to ask me for advice about how to keep his calf happy. I talked non-stop for at least five minutes, probably more like ten, and he interrupted me. ‘Mr. Gustafson, I think I’ve heard your speech a few times in the 4-H Club meetings. It’s very good, but I want you to listen to what worries me about my own calf.’ Well, listen I did, for almost an hour. And he went home happy!”

“Sound’s great, Olaf,” I said with a smile.

Before I could think of what to add, he went on, “You know, Nils, I’ve done almost all of the talking at our breakfasts, and you’ve done the listening. Something started nagging at me, but I couldn’t figure out what it was at first. Then from what was lost in the debris of my mind, I remembered that you had said something about adjusting to becoming a first time parent at an advanced age. I don’t know if I was so self-centered I didn’t care that you were struggling too, or if I just hadn’t learned to listen yet, but I blew right past your comment without consciously noticing it. I’m kind of awkward at this, but I’ll try to listen if you want to talk.”

I’m sure I must have gasped or flushed or something but I managed to say, “Thank you, Olaf. … I think listening to you has actually helped me work through my realization of what being a new father means. … And, I want you to know for sure that I haven’t been wondering when you were going to listen to me. … I have to admit that I’m a little awkward talking about my interior life too, and I’ve wondered if our places had been reversed if I would have trusted me as you have done.”

“Talking to you has actually been easy.” Olaf nodded and shrugged. “I didn’t have to think too much about it or decide what I would or wouldn’t tell you. When I said something that surprised me and you didn’t flinch, the next thing just came tumbling out. Before I knew it I had told you things I don’t think I was even aware of myself. Though once I said them out loud, I realized how true and important they were. I don’t know what counselors do to get people to talk, but you could give them lessons.”

I laughed and shook my head. “Thanks, but I wasn’t consciously doing anything to get you to talk. I just let you do it. You never said anything I thought was shocking. You were just being human in your own way. You know, before you moved over to my booth from the farmers’ tables, I sat here and read books and made little notes to myself. I didn’t read anything that had to do with teaching history or geography. I read things I enjoyed and put me in a relaxed but alert frame of mind before the school day. Sometimes I read a favorite novel, but I found poetry and short stories worked better since I could get to the end before I finished breakfast and went to school.”

“And you gave that up to listen to me?” Olaf grimaced.

“I don’t feel like I gave up anything,” I replied. “I traded a conversation in my head with remote friends for lively conversation with a face to face friend. My emotions about becoming a father were not the same as yours about getting pushed out of the dairy into a more public arena, but as I listened to you talk about your adjustments, I began to identify ways I was making my adjustments, and I was encouraged that since you were making it, I would too.”

“I wasn’t thinking of myself as a helper, more as a helpee.” Olaf was blushing a little now. “When I realized I had been doing most of the talking while you were doing most of the listening, I felt some remorse about having been selfish. Now you tell me I was a help to you, so I don’t need to feel guilty about being selfish. … By just saying that, I feel relieved.”

I smiled and nodded. “One of the things I’ve realized is that I’ll be retiring about the same time Hans gets out of college.  That didn’t so much make me feel old as it reminded me to take advantage of those years, especially now while I’m not so old. I’m not much of an athlete, and I’m sure he’s not going to be interested in my academic career for many years. So I’ve concluded I can try to connect with him through music.”

“I don’t think I could have tried that,” Olaf chuckled, “but I could have given my children more than the sensible advice I dropped on them. They probably thought they were getting Dad’s life lectures at supper every night. They were always about hard work, duty and discipline, responsibility and reputation. I don’t know if any of them would have been interested in the dairy business, but they all seemed to want to get away from the farm and farm community. I fell in love with cows working alongside my Dad. That’s how I learned to talk to the cows. But Cloverland Dairy didn’t seem a good place for children, too big, too dangerous. Of course, my Dad didn’t like me working for Cloverland Dairy either, too modern, too impersonal. So though their ancestors did dairy as long as anybody can remember, none of my children wanted any part of it.”

“Are you disappointed?” I asked.

“Not really,” Olaf answered. “They have their own satisfying lives, and Cloverland wasn’t their family’s farm. When I went to Cloverland, I guess I broke with my Dad and the family farm, even though I was still a dairyman. I knew Dad didn’t like it, but I didn’t pay any attention to whether he was disappointed. I just thought he was stuck in the old ways, and I wanted to be up to date.”

“I certainly have no expectations that Hans will become a history teacher, or any kind of teacher for that matter. But I have been thinking about what Hans will be looking back to and thinking he got from Nettie and me. Music isn’t just notes and words. Music fuses thoughts and emotions. I’ve never been one to talk all that much about what goes on deep inside of me. I don’t mean just what I think about but how I engage with what I think about. To try to talk about that the same way I give a history lecture or lead a class discussion would come out all garbled. Reading fiction and poetry helps me connect with how other people have gone through these things, though I could never write it myself. It would come out like a history lecture, describing the emotions but not expressing them. But music … ah music! Singing and playing my guitar lets what’s going on inside get out in ways that both satisfy me and convey something to others. It’s not my wonderful voice or instrumental prowess. It’s sharing an experience by resonating together, even if the frequencies are not exactly the same.” Realizing I had just spilled a torrent of words, I took a deep breath.

“You at least are aware of what’s going on inside of you so you can match it to music to communicate it to others.” Olaf was leaning forward in the booth and speaking with a stage whisper. “By talking to you I’ve discovered things that were going on in me that I was completely unaware of before now.”

“Sometimes I get surprised too.” I said. “After our little girl Emily died, Nettie and I went through a long dark time. We buried more than our baby in Mystic Hills Cemetery. We buried our marriage. We buried our future. Before we buried Emily there, I could walk around the cemetery as a fascinated historian. I knew the contributions and conflicts of the people buried there. Especially in the generations ahead of ours, I was aware of families who lost several children before adulthood. Families who didn’t lose at least one child were rare. Sometimes too, there were gravestones of two wives for the same man who died at the same time as an infant. I always found those grave markers to be poignant. But after burying Emily, I asked myself how they managed to keep going. I admired their courage.

“Then one Saturday morning, I got up and was rummaging around in the kitchen, and I heard myself singing a song by Robert Lowry called My Life Flows On. I knew the song, but I didn’t know why I was singing it, but I was loud enough that Nettie came out and sang it with me. Except we really couldn’t remember the words, even putting the pieces together, except for the refrain which goes, ‘No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that rock I’m clinging. Since love is Lord of heav’n and earth, how can I keep from singing?’ Later I got out a hymnal and my guitar and sang all of the words over and over again. In one way, I felt like that song rose up from deep below my conscious awareness, and in another way, the song seemed to come from somewhere far beyond me. It was like a message sent to me from very far away. By singing that song, Nettie and I connected again, and before long we started making love again, but it was a very long time before Hans was born.”

“Weren’t you hoping for another child as soon as possible?” Olaf asked.

“Not really,” I said. “When our relationship was reborn, we let go of all of those hopes. Nettie began to find her place as a sort of social engineer, which I helped. And I discovered a delight in teaching that was new and exhilarating for me. So when we got pregnant after having given up on that, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Hans has changed our life. We can’t just jump in on every social event that Nettie dreams up. That’s alright but an adjustment after being so free for such a long time. I know Hans is still quite young, but he is starting to respond to us, and I am amazed. I love getting out my guitar and singing to him before he goes to bed at night. I love singing My Life Flows On to him, and I wonder how he’ll respond to it as he gets older, and if I should tell him the story, or if I should cut back on singing it so often. We weren’t singing it when Hans was conceived, but without it he might not have been. Since we had let go of having children, we have no idea exactly when he was conceived. Maybe by the time he goes to school or becomes a teenager, he won’t want to hear me sing that song at all.”

“Sigrid and I enjoy our love life, but I’ve never talked about it the way you just described your relationship with Nettie.” Olaf was blushing. “We don’t talk to each other about it either. We just go ahead and enjoy however it comes along.”

“I wasn’t intending to start some sort of locker-room guy talk, bragging on our conquests.” Now I was using the stage whisper. “For me, the song was what revived our marriage, not sex. The sex came along later, not much later, but as a result not a cause of the corner we turned together. And Hans was a surprise who came quite a bit later. I think we are both discovering that life doesn’t stand still but keeps on moving, and we do better when we move with it.”

“I guess I’m moving from the talking-to-cows stage of life to talking-to-people stage of life. Helping the 4-H Club kids is like the laboratory where I practice what I’m learning. But my lessons have been coming from our breakfasts together. Before that, I struggled without seeing much progress. Maybe I’ve been learning to listen from the way you listen to me, even without thinking about it. For sure, as I’ve gotten better at listening, I’ve gotten a lot better at talking to people and may even be starting to enjoy this stage of life that I resisted for quite a while.” Olaf paused and smiled with satisfaction.

When he didn’t resume speaking, I added my reflections. “Do you remember the end of the Gloria Patri we sang in church, ‘As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be: world without end’?”

“Yeah, of course,” Olaf shrugged his answer. “I can’t say it made much sense to me or that I tried to figure it out. It was just one of those every Sunday church things. That’s not why I dropped out though.”

I chuckled a little, but I wasn’t going to pursue why Olaf dropped out of church and I didn’t. “Since it came after singing glory to God the Father, Son and Spirit, I figured it meant God doesn’t change no matter how much the world changes. But as I’ve studied history and taught history, I realize that nothing stays the same from the beginning to the end of the world. Everything is always changing. I suppose some people find it comforting to think that when changes push them into something new that is uncomfortable, God doesn’t change. Somehow, I find that thinking that God keeps up with the changes in the world to be more comforting, but I don’t want to get into speculating about something we can’t know or just play word games with. I doubt this is what the Gloria Patri is getting at, but as a historian, I realize that from the beginning to the end of the world, we are always moving from one stage to another. Everything grows out of something. Nothing arises in a vacuum, but we cannot pick a perfect time and freeze the film there. It keeps moving, whether we like it or not.”

Olaf hesitated. “I don’t want to talk about church or religion or even God. Those are not happy topics for me.”

“That’s not where I was intending to go, “I said. “I was thinking about how both of us are aware we are making major life transitions and can’t see what lies ahead of us very well. I certainly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That line from the Gloria Patri provokes those thoughts in me, and I guessed you would remember it.”

“Oh, I remember it alright!” Olaf was squirming on his side of the booth.

“Since we found out we were expecting Hans, the transitions of history became very personal for me. I realized that Nettie and I will be older than the parents of most of his friends, especially once he starts school. I started thinking about how much of my life is already behind me and how limited the time ahead of me is. I don’t feel afraid or even sad about this. Knowing that I am a passing guest on the earth, in the passing of human generations, puts my life in perspective, into context. I have received a great wealth from those who came before me, and I want to leave something worthwhile behind. Supposedly Bernard of Chartres said we stand on the shoulders of giants. I’m certainly not a giant, but I’d like to think my shoulders have some stability, some elevation for someone to stand on and see a little farther because of it.”

“That’s quite an ambition,” Olaf sighed. “As much as I struggled with my father about family dairying and modern dairying, the only reason I only wanted to be the best dairyman I could was something I caught from my father. He’s the one who taught me how to talk to the cows, and what a difference it made if you did talk to them. I’m not a giant either, but I suppose Bert is standing on my shoulders as he manages Cloverland Dairy in a new generation of expansion.”

“And you’re offering your shoulders to those kids in the 4-H Club, not just what they learn about dairy or other aspects of agriculture. They are learning from you how to receive and impart respect. They are learning your work ethic and the value of behind the scenes providing what others need, even when they are unaware of where it came from and how it got to them before they bought it at the grocery store.” I could hear the energy in my own words.

“Of course, that’s what you’re doing with your students every day.” Olaf returned the affirmation.

“Yes, that’s what has kept me in teaching, even through that dark time after Emily died.” I felt a cloud slow my words down. “Every school year is different. Seniors graduate. In a town like Mystic Hills, I have continued to have contact and even personal relationships with many of them. Every year some drop out before graduating. A sad story lies behind the drop outs: death of a parent, unwelcome pregnancy, serious illness for the student or in their family, loss of a job by a parent, trouble with the law. And every year new students come. Most of them are freshmen from the junior high school, but more and more are transferring in from schools in the city or even from out of state. Mystic Hills is growing and changing. It is in transition from a small town farming community, and now looks like it will be swallowed up by the city.”

“Families move to Mystic Hills because they like the small town atmosphere conveniently accessible to the city. We welcome them. They boost the local economy. And they inevitably change the nature of the community. Before too long, Mystic Hills will not have the qualities that attracted them in the first place.” Olaf sighed and smiled simultaneously.

“Yes, many move to Mystic Hills in pursuit of nostalgia for the idealized way they wanted things to be, and in the process they force the community into a new future.” I tried to make sure my voice sounded positive. “While such nostalgia is an illusion that never actually existed, the new folk are remaking Mystic Hills into something our ancestors could never have imagined, and we can barely see ourselves. The movement is inevitable. Trying to freeze the town at a specific point in time only leads to disappointment and poor planning. Much better to anticipate what is coming and plan for it.”

“Don’t you think the tension between nostalgia and anticipation fuels political conflicts at every level?” Olaf shifted gears.

“Of course, as an historian, I see that in every era and every society.” I didn’t want to get drawn into political questions any more than Olaf wanted to get into religious questions. “But you and I are going through the same thing personally. We can’t stop life to stay in one place. Hans is a baby now. Before long he will walk and talk and go to kindergarten and graduate from high school. Of course I’d like him to go to college because it meant so much to me. But he’ll have to decide that and a myriad of other things over which I will have no real control.”

“That is for sure,” Olaf jumped in. “Just like my father couldn’t stop me from going to Cloverland Dairy, I couldn’t keep my kids in farming. Not to bring up religion again, but I still haven’t figured out what got Olga to go back to church right after Mom died. The funeral, of course, but Sunday worship? And she not only kept going but married the preacher. But I’m not going to try to talk to her about her transitions, especially now that she’s had a baby who will have to grow up being a preacher’s kid.”

I laughed a little. “You know, when Olga showed up in church after your Mom’s funeral, Nettie told me she had a vision of some kind of her and Rev. Swenson happy together. I told her to back off, but when she kept coming, she invited them both for dinner after church one Sunday. After that, they didn’t seem to waste any time building a romance, getting married and having a baby. I hope Nettie is right that they are happy.”

Olaf laughed too. “Olga is as happy as I’ve ever seen her. We are far enough apart in age that I don’t know much of what she was like as a child, but she totally devoted herself to taking the best possible care of our parents to their last days. Still, having a preacher in the family seems very strange. He seems comfortable with us when the family gets together, and we’re getting more comfortable with him. I suppose that’s part of my transition too.”

“You certainly can’t do anything about it,” I offered. “Despite Nettie’s prompting, Olga and Harold have made their own choice. Your choice is to adjust. After the care Olga gave your parents, you wouldn’t want to force her into perpetual loneliness, not that marriage is the only antidote to loneliness.”

“Of course not,” Olaf acknowledged. “I am just awfully awkward at having conversation with them. Maybe learning to talk with them would be like a graduate degree in learning to talk to people. I’ve still got a long way to go with the kids at the 4-H Club. Learning to talk comfortably to Olga and Harold is going to take some time.”

I laughed again. “You certainly seem comfortable talking to me, and I’m one of Harold’s every Sunday parishioners.”

Olaf laughed too. “I guess you’re right. I never thought about that. The Gloria Patri is about as close to religion as you’ve come in our talks.”

I chuckled. “My Life Flows On is a hymn, you know.”

“Really?” Olaf exclaimed. “The part you sang just sounds like a folk song. You know, with guitar, not something for an organ.”

“Sure does,” I affirmed. “Maybe it came to me because I can sing it with my guitar. Maybe it came to me to remind me that my life is always flowing on, just like everyone’s life.”

Pondering in Silence

This line from my Psalm prayers this morning (4:4), suggests that I at least delay expressing what disturbed my sleep last night. "When you are disturbed, do not sin; ponder it on your beds, and be silent."

So with the mid-term elections just three months away and plenty of political chaos afoot, if the Democrats do well, will be told that it was because of voter fraud? Or if the Republicans do well, will we be told it was because of Russian interference? Have we so undermined our confidence in trust and even truth that we will not believe the evidence of those who guard the integrity of our elections, no matter how conclusive? If this sort of scenario unfolds, what’s to become of our democracy? What can we expect in the run-up to the 2020 general election?

Free Press

 

Whether or not I agree with them, I believe FOX and CNN and all news outlets have a right to their editorial perspective. I know very well that all journalism must of necessity report selectively, and that will reflect their presuppositions. When honest errors and falsehoods are reported as facts, other sources find and report documentation that compels corrections and retractions. Both FOX and CNN (and others) have had to do that, even if it doesn’t alter their editorial stance. This is one reason the free press is so critical. It is not just a check on the unbridled power of government and business, but is a check on blatant propaganda from within its own ranks. This is particularly true of those who claim access to some secret sources that are not submitted to public review.

 

Right now the free press seems to be under attack with ridicule, innuendo, and denial. That is serious and calls all journalists to be scrupulous about the accuracy of their reporting. Other administrations have had their quarrels with the press, but I take some comfort in knowing that printing presses (or internet connections) are not being destroyed by government agency, such as the Texas Rangers did to Jovita Idár in 1914. Nor are journalists being executed as Sophie and Hans Scholl, and Christoph Probst were by the Nazi Volksgerichtshof  (People’s Court) in 1943. The intentional undermining our confidence in recognizing what is true is a serious threat, not just to the free press but to the social fabric of our human relationships.

 

Nevertheless, I do believe that as long as people of conscience speak out, truth will eventually surface. As Jesus said, “For nothing is hidden that will not be disclosed, nor is anything secret that will not become known and come to light. … Therefore whatever you have said in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have whispered behind closed doors will be proclaimed from the housetops.” (Luke 8:17; 12:3) We do need to recognize that something foul is afoot if we begin to see government censorship of the news, arrests or other legal measures taken to silence journalists, or the criminalization of public dissent. That would call for decisive court action and great public outcry.

King David and Bathsheba in Today’s News

I find this portrayal of Nathan as much older than King David a bit amusing as Nathan is still an active prophetic voice at the end of David's life, affirming God's selection of Solomon as the successor to David's throne. (1 Kings 1) 

The Hebrew Scripture for tomorrow (July 29, 2018) from the Revised Common Lectionary is King David’s adultery with Bathsheba and the indirect murder of her husband Uriah (2 Samuel 11:1-15). The text says very little about Bathsheba’s role, avoiding any hint of victim blaming that has been the defense (or at least rationalization) for power-men sexual predators and rapists in our time. I wondered what David may have interpreted as consent, or if consent was even considered relevant, when the king wanted sex. I wondered how aware Bathsheba was of David’s scheming to trick Uriah into thinking the child was his and then arranging his death when that didn’t work. According to 2 Samuel 12:24, after the death of that child, when David had taken Bathsheba as a wife, they conceived another child as a comfort for Bathsheba. That child was Solomon, who though he should never have been born, became the king to succeed David at the glorious pinnacle of Israel’s history. Interpreting this story as a great lesson in the gravity of sin and the wonder of God’s grace is all too easy, even if appropriate.

Whether or not this is ironically relevant, I couldn’t help connecting it with how Donald Trump’s sexual reputation is again in this week’s news. What has been getting attention this week are not the assertions of sexual predatory behavior from the Miss USA pageant and other settings, but women who have acknowledged having affairs with him. Using the word “accusations” hardly seems to fit coming from those who affirm that they were fully willing partners in these relationships. As an oriental monarch, King David had a presumptive power that Bathsheba may or may not have felt she could refuse. Donald Trump has lived the role of a power-man long before he became President. Were these women somehow drawn to that power or to the wealth associated with it? Just as I wondered about Bathsheba’s role in the affair with King David, my reflections as this week’s Scripture reading bumped up against this week’s news, I have wondered about the roles of these women in their relationships with Donald Trump. What would have attracted them to this man older than they were?

I recognize that all sorts of political implications and machinations are tangled in these stories. Undoubtedly the women are being played in a political game, though they seem to be politically oblivious themselves. Although I strongly believe Donald Trump’s sexual history is critically relevant to trusting him as President, and although I suspect there is considerable (but probably not total) truth in these women’s stories, I neither respect nor sympathize with them. I do not consider them heroes of integrity. They themselves have acknowledged behavior that taints and compromises their sexual and relational honor. I have no personal knowledge of either Donald Trump or these women, so am in no position to judge their hearts. I am thankfully content to leave that in God’s hands. Having said that, the public nature of these things seemed to crash right into my Scripture meditation this week.

Whether you see it in terms of Galatians 6:7-8 or karma, the principle holds true. “Do not be deceived; God is not mocked, for you reap whatever you sow. If you sow to your own flesh, you will reap corruption from the flesh.” As often as not, those who have sown together expose each other as they reap corruption together. Who has the spiritual insight and courage to be the Prophet Nathan?

I do want to, again, be absolutely clear that I am specifically avoiding victim blaming. I have nothing but sympathy and respect for women who have spoken up about the abuses and even rapes of power-men sexual predators. These women deserve affirmation and support both for their courage to speak out and for the long journeys of recovery and healing that continue for man

y years. I do believe the #MeToo movement is helping change the culture so predatory sexual behavior is no longer tolerated in our society, so victims are believed and supported.

Never Send To Know For Whom the Bell Tolls; It Tolls For Thee

G R Stolpe

E Stolpe

G R Erikson

A J Erikson

With all the other things overloading my emotions right now, I don’t have the energy for the debate on immigration right now, as much as it shreds my heart. Besides my personal and family concerns I still care about violence in which guns are a lightning rod, racial justice and harmony, sexual harassment and assault, climate change and environmental quality, compassion and justice for people who are poor and weak. I am grieved that rather than addressing these urgent issues, each one seems to push the others out of public consciousness before anything meaningful is accomplished. I have no illusions that my voice influences any of these things, but expressing my convictions gives my heart some relief so I can proceed with my immediate responsibilities.

I am in favor of immigration reform that provides a way to welcome new people into this country that is simple, accessible, compassionate, and just, so that those who are seeking to share life with us have no reason to end run the system. Of course, we need to do the best we can to protect the country from crime, but not from ethnicities or religions we don’t understand.

To me, the overall impact of the things being presented for non-negotiation, of which the wall is the most blatant symbol, are not so subtle efforts to post a huge sign that says, “Keep Out! This Means You!” Much as pre-adolescent boys used to post (maybe still do) “No Girls Allowed!” signs on their clubhouses.

I am only the second generation born in this country to immigrants, so the issue feels rather immediate to me. My understanding from family lore (which I know takes on a life of its own) is that they each had a unique immigration journey. For me, immigrants are neither history figures, nor anonymous figures in the news; I knew and loved these immigrants and empathize with today’s immigrants as real people, just as my recent ancestors were real people for me.

• ·         My mother’s father ran away to sea from Marstrand, Sweden at 16 years old and never looked back. After considerable seafaring adventures, he jumped ship in California and was for some time a troublemaker. Jesus found him through the Salvation Army and he married a young Salvation Army woman, which is how he got through the process of becoming what we would call “legal” today. She and their six year old son died in the flu epidemics.
• ·         My mother’s mother was the first child born to her parents who had recently immigrated from Sweden to escape abject poverty. Her father was a cobbler. They settled in Oakland, Nebraska and moved to California, where they moved frequently seeking employment opportunities. Her parents never learned to speak English. She was older when she met my grandfather at the First Swedish Baptist Church. My mother was their only child. With a bit of poetic irony, my grandmother died in Oakland, California.
• ·         My father’s father emigrated from Sweden at 16 years old largely to escape poverty in Lapland and avoided military conscription. As Baptists and not Lutherans in Sweden, they were considered nonconformist and avoided government involvement. His older sister already lived in Connecticut and facilitated his coming to the US. His siblings followed him. My grandfather learned English and to become a tool and die maker by reading a large set of technical books (I still have the math volume). At some point along the way all of his brothers and the husband of their younger sister all worked for the same tool and die shop in Detroit, Michigan, which became their home base. Eventually their father came to the US as well, but never learned to speak English.
• ·         My father’s mother came to the US from Stockholm, Sweden. Much earlier some of her forbearers had come from France to Sweden but fully identified as Swedish. I know little else about her other than that she met my grandfather in the Swedish Baptist community with which both sides of the family have identified in the US.

Until Every Drop of Blood Drawn Shall Be Paid By Another

On March 4, 1865, shortly before the Civil War/War Between the States ended, in his Second Inaugural Address, Abraham Lincoln said, “If God wills that it (the war) continue until all the wealth piled by the bondsman's two hundred and fifty years of unrequited toil shall be sunk, and until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another drawn with the sword, as was said three thousand years ago, so still it must be said ‘the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether.’" After living in Texas for 17 years, I know that Lincoln is not universally regarded as belonging among the greats, and I know that he did not espouse a conventional, orthodox Christian faith. However, I do think the line “until every drop of blood drawn with the lash shall be paid by another” gets at a basic moral principle. It echoes the prophet Habakkuk who saw a dynamic, relentless balance of justice. I know the rampant individualism of our society resists communal responsibility, but it permeates Scriptures such as Psalm 106 [both we and our ancestors have sinned] and Daniel 9 [we have sinned and done wrong, acted wickedly]. I alluded to this in my recent meditation on the plural pronouns in the Lord’s Prayer. http://nstolpepilgrim.blogspot.com/2018/06/plural-pronouns-in-lords-prayer.html I have never claimed the spiritual gift of prophecy, but with several life-and-death justice issues swirling about in recent public discourse, I do believe that injustices perpetuated in our time will bring on us and our descendants judgment that will persist until every drop of blood drawn shall be paid by another.

Economic and Political Philosophies and the Bible

Several things in the last several days have prompted me to remember and affirm that all economic and political philosophies are of human invention, not mandated by God. Justice and compassion for people who are poor, weak, needy, widowed, orphaned, foreign are consistently biblical from Genesis to Revelation. Both the “capitalism and socialism,” “conservatism and liberalism” that vie for attention in our time have features that support and undermine this fundamental biblical value. It seems to me that when Bible people (Christians of all varieties and yes, Jews too) advocate for any particular political or economic philosophy, demonstrating how it actually brings justice and compassion for people who are poor, weak, needy, widowed, orphaned, foreign is essential and central.

Of course, these are just the philosophies of our time. In previous generations the politics of empire, Christendom, feudalism, enlightenment, and more prompted other debates. In our time of multiple Bible translations, some quarters have argued for the “Authorized Version,” known as the King James Bible for literary, theological, and certainly political reasons. I find an interesting parallel to our time. The Reformation, Guttenberg’s printing press, political instability in England and elsewhere in Europe was fertile soil for the multiplication of new English translations of the Bible. King James (not church and certainly not God) authorized a translation to head off the Puritans who were a rising political force threatening the throne. So King James wanted to be sure the translation he authorized supported the principle of the divine right of kings, and insured that certain passages were slanted that way.

A related curiosity is how the translators dedicated their work to King James and called him “the defender of the faith.” His inheritance of that title came through King Henry VIII. On October 11, 1521 Pope Leo X gave that title to King Henry VIII for his book Defense of the Seven Sacraments which defended the primacy of the Pope and opposed the Reformation, especially the ideas of Martin Luther. When Henry VIII broke with Rome and made himself head of the Church of England in 1530 over his divorce and marriage and other political issues, the title was revoked by Pope Paul III, but in 1544 the English Parliament conferred the title on Henry VIII and his successors. While making exact correlations is dangerous at best, I do find it simultaneously amusing and sobering to consider the parallels with some current religious leaders’ affirmations of Donald Trump as God’s choice for US President, though his marital and sexual history is at some variance with what has been conventional Christian teaching.

Here is the King James Bible translators’ dedication of their work. I believe the all caps are original, which is also amusing in our social network norms of considering all caps to be unnecessary shouting.

TO THE MOST HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE, JAMES, by the Grace of God, KING OF GREAT BRITAIN, FRANCE, AND IRELAND, DEFENDER OF THE FAITH, etc.  The Translators of the Bible wish Grace, Mercy, and Peace through JESUS CHRIST our Lord.

I know this may seem to be disconnected stream of consciousness and different thoughts have rumbled around in my mind the last several days. You are welcome to write it off as just so much random rambling, but I do hope I evoked at least a smile or two (even if grimly) and prompted some reflection on the cacophony of ideas and words swirling around us these days.

foolish consistency hobgoblin

Seems to me that to say that we don't need new gun laws because criminals don't follow the law anyway, and then to argue that if we had prayer and Bible in schools, we wouldn't have mass shootings is contradictory. If a criminal doesn't obey regular laws, why would we think that they would be changed by rote recitation of the Lord's Prayer and posting the Ten Commandments in schools? But then there is Ralph Waldo Emerson's line, "A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds."

Wartime President

Whether in hope or dread, any who imagine that for Donald Trump to become a wartime president would bring unity to the country and glory to him better think again and consider:
• Obama – Libya
• G W Bush – Afghanistan, Iraq
• Nixon – Vietnam
• Johnson – Vietnam
• Truman – Korea
• Wilson – World War I
• McKinley – Spanish-American
• Lincoln – Civil War
It may seem only to have worked for F D Roosevelt in World War II under unprecedented conditions

Take Courage March for Our Lives People!

Johnson and Nixon et al did everything they could to discredit the Vietnam era peace movement. I expect we will see equally vicious efforts to discredit the March for Our Lives movement after the large nationwide turnout on March 24, 2018. I expect some who support this movement will be made to pay dearly. Those who control so much money and power do not let go easily. Take courage and do not give up! It is a long, uphill journey, but worth persisting.

What I Do and Don't Understand about Trump, Clinton, and Obama

I understand having political disagreements with Barak Obama. I understand not voting for Hillary Clinton. I even understand voting for Donald Trump because no other option seemed viable. But I don’t understand how the real or imagined shortcomings of Obama and Clinton are a defense of Trump’s serial adultery and sexual predation. How can someone who has violated his marriage commitments be trusted to honor his oath of office? I don’t understand how what Obama or Clinton did or didn't do justifies undermining a century of hard work by both parties to establish protections for civil rights, for the environment, consumers, and workers, or for folk who are disabled, sick, young, old, and poor. I am incredulous that so many who claim to follow Jesus or the Bible so readily dismiss serious flaws of moral character with nary a hint of the fruit worthy of repentance. (Matthew 3:8; Luke 3:8)