Category Archives: family

All Creatures Great and Small

Tomorrow is “Blessing of the Animals” Sunday. Two years ago I had the privilege of giving the sermon for Saint Francis Sunday which is the occasion for blessing of the animals. Here’s what I said:

On weekday mornings I try to start the day by reading the Psalms appointed for the morning in the daily lectionary. A couple of days ago on Friday morning as I squinted through bleary, sleep-filled eyes, I was greeted by Psalm 19, my favorite Psalm ever:

The heavens declare the glory of God

And the firmament showeth His handiwork

Day unto day uttereth speech

And night unto night showeth knowledge

There is no speech or language; their voice is not heard

But their sound is gone out into all lands

And their words unto the ends of the world.


Or so I learned it as a child in the King James Version. Psalm 19 is a celebration of God’s creation, a reminder that we can encounter God’s glory and goodness simply by looking up attentively.

This morning’s Psalm is a similar reminder that the divine is imprinted in creation. t7Ycu[1]Psalm 104 is a beautiful celebration of and tribute to the incredible, out-of-control exuberance expressed by the Creator through the various living things in our world. Wild asses, storks, rock badgers, lions, Leviathan. As Annie Dillard wrote in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, her Pulitzer Prize winning testament to the wonders of the natural world, “Look, in short, at practically anything—the coot’s feet, the mantis’s face, a banana, the human ear—and see that not only did the creator create everything, but he is apt to create anything. He’ll stop at nothing. There is no one standing over evolution with a red pencil to say: ‘Now, that one, there, is absolutely ridiculous, and I won’t have it.’” As I look out at the menagerie of animals, humans included, who are attending church today I see an embodiment of the Psalmist’s final reflection:

When you send forth your spirit, they are created;

and you renew the face of the earth.

May the glory of the Lord endure for ever;

may the Lord rejoice in his works

st_francis-animals[1]It is Saint Francis Sunday; knowing that this is Marsue’s favorite Sunday of the year, I was greatly and pleasantly surprised when she asked me a few weeks ago if I would like to give the sermon today. In preparation, I’ve had an opportunity to think about the animals, past and present, in my life. 500074-R1-040-18A_019Each of you has an animal or two in your life that has changed who you are. In my life there are two such animals. One of them, Frieda, accompanied Jeanne to the lectern to read from Genesis 1 a few moments ago. The other animal who changed my life was my childhood cat. How can an overweight, close-to-obese cat who died almost thirty-five years ago occupy a central place in my history? Allowing for imperfect memory, by my unofficial count I have had at least a dozen cats and dogs as pets since she died, but Stokely is the center of gravity in the menagerie of four-leggers that has intersected with my life. Remembering Stokely connects me with the better parts of my youth—humor, laughter, my father at his best. In a strange way, Stokely also makes me think differently about what God might be up to with us human beings. Not bad for a cat.

Stokely almost didn’t end up in my life at all. In the summer between my sixth and seventh grade years, my family was moving about 40 miles north, from a rural and isolated location to what serves in Vermont as suburbia. One of our two dogs had died during the previous year; our other dog, an elderly collie who was strongly attached to our next door neighbor, was deemed too old to make the move and stayed with the neighbor. Petless for the first time in my life, I asked for a cat. Trudy and Bruce summer or fall of 1979There had never been a cat in my world—I didn’t even know anyone with a cat. But I thought a cat would be cool. My father did not. He also had never had a cat, and my request struck him as another odd, peculiar request from his youngest son who would not hunt, tended to be overly emotional, and just didn’t fit his mold of a typical son. And now he wanted a cat instead of a dog, for God’s sake.

I worked on Dad all summer, and knew I had him when he proposed one of his random, off-the-wall bargains. “We can get a cat if he’s black and if we name him Stokely after Stokely Carmichael.tumblr_m56qax7EIP1r8majk[1]” This was 1967, and the civil rights movement was in full swing. In my father’s peculiar imagination, a black cat named after one of the infamous Black Panthers made sense—why he didn’t propose “H. Rap,” “Eldridge,” “Malcolm,” or even “Dr. King,” I don’t know. “Bruce!” my mother complained. “Good grief,” my brother sighed. “Deal,” I said—we were going to get a cat.

A few weeks later my cousin reported that her co-worker at the local hamburger joint owned a cat that had just produced kittens. The litter had three calicos with various patterns of white, brown, and yellow and Stokely—all black except for a bit of white on his chest. Stokely’s eyes had just opened a few days earlier and he could barely walk. I deposited him in a box with a bag of dry food from my cousin’s friend, jumped in the car and my mother drove us home. Stokely was an attraction in my extended family, none of whom had ever had a cat and none of whom could believe that my Cat_Scruff[1]Dad, the unofficial patriarch of the extended family, had agreed to have one in his house. My aunt picked Stokely up by the scruff of the neck (we had heard that cats like that) and let him hang from her hand—“There’s a problem here!” she announced. “Notice anything missing?” I didn’t, but my brother did—“Stokely’s a girl!”

Not only did Stokely turn out to be a different gender than we had ordered, she turned out not even to be black. 2010_0524aprilmay20100006[1]She was a calico just like her litter mates—what appeared to be solid black was predominantly dark brown, which became more and more flecked with white, cream, and yellow highlights as she grew up. Her toes were colored individually, with a dark brown, light brown, yellow, and white one on each foot in no particular order. My ever observant father said that she looked like she was assembled out of 4jrVS5r[1]spare parts. In her later years she became extraordinarily fat; from her early years she exhibited a personality that matched her appearance. Cats are supposed to be graceful—Stokely was clumsy. Cats are supposed to land on their feet when falling from heights great and small—my brother and I verified by experimentation over and over that Stokely was as likely to fall on her side or even her back as on her feet when dropped from various heights onto my bed. I saw Stokely tumble down the stairs to our front door landing more than once when a too-vigorous post nap stretch unexpectedly dislodged her from her spot in the sun on the top stair. Cats are supposed to be introverts and avoid loud noises, but Stokely would run from anywhere in the house so she could ride on the Hoover while my mother vacuumed the floor.

A couple of years ago, I asked Marsue in an email for some input on a tough decision that I had to make. She responded that “I find it part of God’s playfulness to just put things out there for which we might be put to good use, stand back and watch how we handle what has come our way.” playing-with-cats-16917[1]A playful God who might be entertained and amused by how we handle new situations is non-traditional, to say the least, but I completely understand the dynamic. My father, brother and I took endless delight—to my mother’s dismay—in slightly rearranging Stokely’s world occasionally to see what she would do. A piece of scotch tape on her back foot or ear, depositing her on top of the piano, putting a cat sized coat on her for the first time—always produced gales of laughter as Stokely first gave us a imagesCAR12L79“when are you bastards ever going to grow up?” look, then deliberately addressed the new challenge at hand.

A good thirty-five years after her passing, my crystal clear memories of this obese, made-out-of-spare-parts animal are evidence that she had an impact on me. As I’ve thought about her this week, I’ve become more and more convinced that we are all Stokelys. Although I suspect that most of us would like to believe that we are integrated, focused and sharply defined, we really are little more than random collections of spare parts—most of which are not of our choosing. We do not choose our families, the place and time of our births, our race, our gender, and yet out of these assigned parts—along with those we do have some choice in—we are given the task of constructing a life. And overseeing all of this is something greater than us whose idea of planning and design is apparently something like caution-grunge-wall1[1]“How about if I throw a whole bunch of odds and ends together and see what happens?” Psalm 139 says that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” If God takes delight in seeing what we make of the bits and pieces we have been given, perhaps we should as well.

Christians in the Public Square

At what point does political advocacy on the part of Christians distort or compromise the Christian message? This was the question I was asked to respond to in a 500-1000 word essay for an online publication three or four weeks ago. To get my thought process going, I sent the question to a couple of Facebook groups I am part of to get their input–I wrote last week about their responses as well as my preliminary thoughts about the question.

It’s the Message, Stupid!cross and flag

I found the final draft challenging to finish–such a topic in 500-1000 words is similar to teaching the history of the French Revolution in fifty minutes (which I have done a few times). Yesterday was my deadline–here’s what I submitted (minus the pictures).

I recently reconnected on Facebook with a guy who was my best friend during a year of Bible school in my late teens—we had not been in touch for four decades. During an online conversation about some political/social issue, I mentioned that I am a liberal because I am a Christian. “That’s interesting,” he replied, “I’m a conservative because I’m a Christian.” Neither of us, wisely I think, pursued the matter further.

Answering the question “At what point does political advocacy on the part of Christians distort or compromise the Christian message?” requires first thinking about “the Christian message” itself. capitalismAs my exchange with my friend on Facebook shows, well-meaning people of Christian faith can disagree sharply about the implications of their faith as it is lived in the real world on a daily basis. For instance, Susan might be thoroughly confused about how a professing Christian like Jim can whole-heartedly and full-throatedly worship at the altar of American capitalism despite the devastation it leaves in its wake for millions of our fellow citizens, while Jim is just as confused about how a professing Christian like Susan can be pro-choice and completely supportive of same-sex unions. As progressive Christians and conservative Christians go to war in the public square over whose beliefs and principles are more faithful to the true “Christian message,” progressive vs conservativewe are an offense and stumbling block to those who do not claim to be Christian. And Jesus weeps.

The parables and stories of Jesus consistently stress a central feature of faith that contemporary Christians tend to forget or ignore—the heart of Christianity is subtle, secret, and hidden. Followers of Jesus are likened to yeast and salt, the publican’s private petition for mercy is raised above the Pharisee’s public pronouncements of righteousness, we are told to pray alone behind closed doors to our Father who is in secret, and Jesus regularly tells his disciples and followers not to spread the word of his miracles or reveal his identity. The secret of lived Christian faith is that it is a way of life, not a set of principles or doctrines. Nor is it a social or political agenda. Given that Christianity is a way of life energized by love, it is to be expected that individual Christians will be as unique and various as human beings themselves are.

micahOne way of describing Christianity as a way of life begins with the prophet Micah’s directive to “do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God,” joined with Jesus’ call to “love your neighbor as yourself.” But justice, mercy, humility and love incorporated in a human life are likely to look quite different depending on who the person is. We are not provided with ways to judge which manner of lived Christian faith is more faithful than another to the “Christian message,” because faith is always interior. I am the product of a conservative, fundamentalist and evangelical Baptist upbringing, so I often wonder how I came to be as politically and socially liberal on most issues as I am, particularly since people like my friend from Bible school and many of my relatives are products of conservative Christianity and remain closely aligned with its accompanying leanings on political and social issues. My faith journey has been informed by many factors over several decades, including many that I did not choose. I have no reason to believe that I have now arrived at a place where my ever-evolving understanding of what the Lord requires of me is more faithful to the “Christian message” than the often very different understanding my brothers and sisters in faith share whose histories and journeys are very different from mine.flag and bible

The ever-present danger of Christian political advocacy is that, due to the necessarily public nature of such advocacy, it is very possible for the advocate to mistake a set of political positions or the elements of a social agenda as necessary and universal hallmarks of being truly Christian. It is very easy for the advocate to confuse her or his own purposes and agendas for the message of Christ. The “true message” of Christianity then quickly becomes something to be argued about in the public arena by persons equally convinced that their own agenda best matches up to the demands of Christian faith, entirely undermining the description of early Christians in the Book of Acts as remarkable because of how much they loved each other. The best firewall against this is to always keep in mind that the “message of Christianity” is the lives lived by those persons who profess the Christian faith in their daily private and public lives. christian communityChristianity is a way of life that is not reducible without distortion to a political or social agenda. We are the Christian message.

By all means Christians should be politically active—this is both a right and privilege of citizenship. But do not give the impression or be under the delusion that the right sort of political positions or social policies are what Christianity amounts to. I recommend that Christians distinguish carefully between Christian political advocacy and Political advocacy by persons of Christian faith. The former is to be avoided at all costs, as no person should understand herself or himself as the spokesperson for all Christians or for God. I highly recommend the latter; if my Christian faith is serious, it will have a daily and direct impact on how I engage with others and my society. Do not advocate in the name of Christianity, but advocate as the person that you have become because of your Christian faith.

Confessions of an Ocean-Hater

As I’m reviewing various posts for a current large writing project, I came across a reflection on beauty from a couple of years ago that I had forgotten about. It all starts with cognitive dissonance–I live in the Ocean State and I don’t like the ocean.

The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper. I cannot quite make it out.  Annie Dillard

Windows Live Photo Gallery WallpaperI live in the Ocean State. I really don’t like the ocean. Yet another opportunity for cognitive dissonance—what else is new? The strange thing is that this has turned out to be an ocean summer for me. First, a week early in June at a Benedictine hermitage on a steep mountain overlooking Big Sur and the vast Pacific Ocean (and I mean vast). Day after day of not being able to clearly distinguish the horizon between the brilliant blue sky and the equally brilliant blue ocean (when the hermitage was not in the clouds, that is). 041Then during Jeanne’s and my twenty-fifth anniversary week in July, we checked one thing off our bucket list and went on a whale watching expedition out of Plymouth, Massachusetts. Fortunately one whale decided that the ninety-five plus degree weather was not a reason to stay submerged and showed off for our boat for forty-five minutes. Finally, Jeanne and I spent some time visiting my son and daughter-in-law in Florida in August. 100_1931They love the beach, so I found myself doing ocean-related things and meeting ocean-related creatures once again.

I am well aware that many people, including perhaps a number of you reading this blog post are ocean worshippers and can’t think of anything more attractive, peaceful and fulfilling than a day either at an ocean beach or on a boat on the ocean. I’m not a member of your club. Some look at or experience the ocean and are struck by feelings of peace and beauty. The ocean is indeed beautiful, but for me its beauty speaks of power, vastness, and a certain amount of fear. During the week in June that I woke up every morning with the Pacific at my feet, I always felt a bit tense and edgy, as if I was in danger of being swallowed up. The beauty of the ocean puts some people in a peaceful place, but it makes me nervous. As she often does, Simone Weil nails this:

images[1]What is more beautiful than the effect of gravity on sea waves as they flow in ever-changing folds, or the almost eternal folds of the mountains? The sea is not less beautiful in our eyes because we know that ships are sometimes wrecked. On the contrary this adds to its beauty.

Immanuel Kant had this tension in mind when he distinguished in his philosophy between the “Beautiful” and the “Sublime.” The Beautiful refers to things that are, well, beautiful—Wanderer[1]in the sense that they produce aesthetic pleasure and feelings of happiness. Things that are Sublime can also be beautiful, but tend to overwhelm us, disturb us, or even frighten us. The Sublime is “awesome” and “terrible” in the original senses of these words—it inspires awe and terror. Are you attracted and repelled by the same thing or experience? Do you consider something to be both beautiful and terrifying in its awesome, often destructive power? That’s the Sublime—and that’s how the ocean impacts me. It is both beautiful and disturbing, attractive and frightening. The ocean is sublime.

Just so that you ocean-lovers out there don’t think I’m nuts, the authors of the Old Testament Psalms agree with me. Over and over again, the Psalmist reminds us of the awesome power and terror of the sea; even more provocatively, these reflections are frequently used as a bridge to talking about God, the ultimate example of sublimity. Sometimes the Psalmist describes the power of the sea, assuring us that God’s power is even greater. Psalm 33 tells us, for instance, that “God collects the waves of the ocean; and collects the waves of the sea,” in control of even the most terrifying force imaginable. This can be source of comfort–rough-seas[1]

Psalm 46—God is for us a refuge and strength, a helper close at hand in time of distress, so we shall not fear though the earth should rock, though the mountains fall into the depths of the sea, even though its waters rage and foam, even though the mountains be shaken by its waves.

or of a petition for rescue from the often ocean-like overwhelming power of human reality–

Psalm 69—Save me from the waters of the deep lest the waves overwhelm me. Do not let the deep engulf me, nor death close its mouth on me.

Of most interest is when the Psalmist begins to attribute the very sublime, fearsome aspects of the ocean directly to God.

tsunami[1]Psalm 42—Deep is calling upon deep, in the roar of waters; your torrents and all your waves swept over me.

It is one thing to seek divine protection from the terrible and awful contingencies of human experience; it is another to attribute that very terrible and awful beauty to the divine itself. If what is greater than me is the epitome of the sublime, meaning that it not only is inexpressibly beautiful but also is unpredictable and terrifying, how do I respond? Is it possible for a mere, non-sublime human being to be in relationship with something like that?

If I am disturbed and made nervous by the ocean, there is a simple solution—stay away from the ocean. Good advice, but for me at least similar advice does not work concerning God. I’ve described myself at times as “God-obsessed” (as the poet Novalis once described Spinoza), meaning that no matter how unpredictable and disturbing the divine might be, I can’t turn away. That being the case, I find the following simple observation from Rowan Williams helpful: “If you want to swim, you must begin to understand the sea.” The Jewish mystics go so far as to suggest that if God is like the ocean, we are the waves on that ocean. That’s a bit esoteric for my taste, but the point is clear—055God invites an intimacy so close that at times the horizon between the divine and human becomes as blurry as the horizon between the ocean and sky at Big Sur. And isn’t that the promise of incarnation—the fusion of divinity and humanity?

The older I get, the more time I spend trying to stay afloat in the divine sea, the more I am convinced that this is not a problem to be solved or an issue to be sorted out. It is rather something to be lived. I agree with the author of Psalm 84—“My soul longs and thirsts for the living God.” And according to Antonie_saint[1]Antoine Saint-Exupery, that is a good start.

If you want to build a ship, don’t drum up the people to gather wood, divide the work, and give orders. Instead, teach them to yearn for the vast and endless sea.

Spiritual Plagiarism

One of the most important things that any administrator or leader needs to learn is how to delegate authority. This advice has become a standard part of the package of wisdom passed from experienced administrators to those who follow them—you can’t do this alone.dwc It was a central part of the advice I gave both the colleague who followed me as chair of the twenty-two member philosophy department when my four-year stint ended several years ago, as well as what I told the new director of the much larger interdisciplinary program with eighty faculty and 1,800 students I directed for four years until just a few months ago. It is indeed essential information to pass on to the next administrator, and I talked a good game. But delegating has always been a challenge for me, and I trust that the new program director is much better at sharing and distributing authority effectively than I was.

I remember the day one October a few years ago when in the midst of trying to juggle several meetings that week, the scheduling of forty teams of three faculty each for the next academic year, upwards of two hundred emails every morning, and the demands of my own classes I pushed back from my office computer and said I. CAN’T. DO. THIS” (I might have thrown in an F-bomb between “Can’t” and “Do”). And a little voice inside my head said “No shit, moron!” (my inner voice is surprisingly disrespectful). “You’re trying to do it all yourself, which is not only dumb, it’s impossible.” delegateI had an assistant director and a program administrative assistant I was not utilizing fully and was not making sufficient use of any number of committees whose sole purpose for existence was to perform some of the important duties I was doing myself. Why was I making things so hard on myself? Perfectionism. Control. Introversion. The belief that the only way to guarantee things get done right is to do them myself. I knew all of these things about myself and still was driving myself unnecessarily nuts.

The first reading a couple of Sundays ago immerses us in what might be called “the invention of delegation” from the Book of Numbers in the Jewish Scriptures. I was lector that morning and almost started laughing as I read the text because the scene was so familiar. We find the liberated Israelites in the desert, and they are complaining—again. God has miraculously provided them with a daily supply of manna—miracle food from heaven—to keep them from starving, but everyone is pining for the wonderful variety of food they remember eating in Egypt. manna“We remember the fish we used to eat in Egypt for nothing, the cucumbers, the melons, the leeks, the onions, and the garlic; but now our strength is dried up, and there is nothing at all but this manna to look at.” Of course they have conveniently forgotten that when they were in Egypt they were freaking slaves. God is understandably pissed (this is not the first time these complaints have arisen), and Moses is also annoyed. But Moses’ annoyance isn’t just with this rabble of complainers he is in charge of; he’s had it up to here with the Big Guy as well.

“Have I done something to annoy you that I’m not aware of?” Moses wants to know. “Because otherwise I can’t explain why you have dumped all of this crap on me. Did I create these people? Am I the one who promised them freedom, a new land, and all the rest? News flash—that was YOU! But are you the one who has to solve everyone’s problems and wipe everyone’s butt for them? No—that would be ME!” And in a classic drama queen moment, Moses collapses on the spot. “I am not able to carry all this people alone, for they are too heavy for me. delegating chartIf this is the way you are going to treat me, put me to death at once–if I have found favor in your sight–and do not let me see my misery.”

In response to Moses’ tantrum, God does what God often does in such situations in the Jewish Scriptures—He makes it up as he goes along. “What if I take some of the power and authority I’ve given you and distribute it to some carefully selected folks so they can share the burden of leadership and responsibility with you?” God suggests—and delegation is invented. Moses selects seventy guys he trusts, brings them to the tent of meeting (the place where God and humans officially interact), the Lord empowers the seventy men in response to which they start “prophesying,” and a solid chain of command and power sharing structure is established.

A few things to note:

  • Authority and power appear to be zero sum, meaning that empowering others automatically means that the leader is disempowered to that same exent. Only secure people should be in leadership roles, in other words.
  • Power needs to be distributed carefully, publicly, and according to recognizable procedures. A ceremony to mark the empowerment is a good idea.
  • Others need to be clearly made aware of the new power structure. The “prophesying” part of the story means, at the very least, that the newly empowered have been publicly marked as such. Secretly adding layers of bureaucracy without transparency is a recipe for suspicion and resentment.

This all sounds eminently sensible—until problems arise in the very next verses.

It turns out that two of the guys selected by Moses for empowerment didn’t make it to the tent of meldad and medadeeting, but they start prophesying in the camp as if they had participated in the official empowerment ceremony. In other words, they are acting with authority without having been officially empowered. Moses’ number one assistant, Joshua, squeals on the two guys to Moses and asks for permission to stop the unauthorized activity of these posers and frauds. Amazingly, Moses tells Joshua to leave them alone. “Are you jealous for my sake? Would that all the Lord’s people were prophets, and that the Lord would put his spirit upon them.” In the short span of one story authority has shifted from one person to the vision of a projected future in which anyone who has the vision and ability to be effective can act on it. What about the hierarchy? What about keeping control on how power is distributed? Is this any way to run an organization?

Apparently it is. In that same Sunday’s gospel, similar issues arise in the world of Jesus and his disciples. Jesus has empowered his disciples to preach the gospel, cast out demons, and heal the sick—so far, so good. Then John reports some disturbing news to Jesus: “Teacher, we saw someone casting out demons in your name, and we tried to stop him, because he was not following us.” John, presumably speaking for the rest of the disciples as well, assumes that only those specifically authorized and empowered by Jesus to do special stuff should be doing it. This stranger using Jesus’ name to cast out demons is guilty of spiritual plagiarism, in other words. he hasn’t even learned the secret disciples’ handshake. And just as Moses told Joshua, Jesus tells John and the rest to leave this guy alone. “Whoever is not against us is for us.”wind

As we often learn when reading stories about the intersection of the human and the divine, things divine operate according to entirely different rules than those to which we are accustomed. Or perhaps according to no recognizable rules at all. The divine spirit is frequently likened to the wind, which blows where it wants when it wants to, without regard to our expectations, desires, or weather predictions. The takeaway? Divine power and authority is not a zero sum game. It can and will show up in all sorts of unlikely places, even those we have not authorized. Especially in those places.

A Jesuit Frame of Mind

Francis JesuitThe recently concluded visit of Pope Francis to the United States has put me in a Jesuit frame of mind. The Jesuits are the first Catholics I ever spent extended time with, and they ruined me for the rest of them. I have spent the past twenty-seven years of my life, first as a student then as a professor, in Catholic higher education—and it all started with the Jesuits.

So how did an Episcopalian with deep roots in hard-core conservative Protestantism end up earning his PhD at Jesuit-run Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI? Because with my philosophy MA in hand, I wanted (against the strong advice of the professors in my analytic MA program) to do my terminal degree at a place known for its excellence in the history of philosophy. I applied to four, was accepted at three, and Marquette offered me the best financial deal. So Jeanne and I (we had met just eight months earlier) arrived with my two sons in tow for fun and games in Milwaukee in August of 1988. marquetteI swear that its being a Catholic, Jesuit university had exactly zero influence on our choice of Marquette.

During my years at Marquette there were significantly more lay professors than Jesuits on the philosophy faculty, but since at the time the philosophy department was the largest in the United States (I don’t think it is any more), there were plenty of Jesuits. Father Treloar, the head of the department’s graduate program, quickly became one of my two most influential mentors and over the months a strong friendship developed. Father Teske, an internationally renowned Augustine scholar, had a quiet intensity and power beneath his favorite uncle sort of exterior and persona. Father Naus, who among other things taught courses in the philosophy of humor, proved his bona fides by displaying a certificate from clown school on his wall.

Rev. John Naus, S.J., dressed as Tumbleweed the clown.

Rev. John Naus, S.J., dressed as Tumbleweed the clown.

Each of the half dozen or so priests I came to know impressed me as committed to their vocation, but equally (if not more) committed to the life of the mind and excellence in teaching and scholarship. I learned over time thatloyola Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuit order, envisioned a different kind of monastic order, monks who did not have cells in a monastery but whose cell is to be where they are—in the classroom, in a laboratory, at a nursing home helping people. A Jesuit’s cell is to be where he is working. The Jesuits in the philosophy department lived this charism to the fullest.

Because I was five years or so older than the other new PhD candidates, I was able to avoid being placed in the large room with cubicles for the multitude of graduate students. Instead, for the three years I was at Marquette I was placed in the unoccupied office of a professor on sabbatical, a different one each year. philosophy departmentOne year I was directly across the hall from Dr. McNulty, a professor I never had in class because his area—contemporary political philosophy—was significantly different than my developing focus on early modern philosophy and ethics. He was an introvert, so am I, so during the year I was his across the hall neighbor we did a lot of nodding to each other and “good mornings” as we entered and exited our offices, and not much more.

During my last semester at Marquette—I had successfully defended my dissertation and was simply waiting for May to receive my diploma at commencement—joan of arc chapelI wandered one late afternoon into my favorite place on campus, beautiful little stone St. Joan of Arc Chapel. This tiny chapel built in 15th century France was gifted to Marquette by way of Long Island in the 1960s (it’s a crazy story—you can look it up); a particular stone in the floor at the front of the chapel was supposedly stood upon by Joan of Arc as she prayed before going into battle. The stone reportedly is always cooler than the stones surrounding it, I guess because Joan was cooler than everyone else. I never could detect a temperature difference.

A daily mass attended by a few students was in progress as I poked my head in the door, and I had a classic WTF moment. “Holy shit, that’s McNulty celebrating the mass up front! McNulty’s a priest???” And he certainly appeared to be, wearing priestly stuff and acting in priestly ways—but this was news to me. I had seen this guy once or twice a day every weekday for an academic year, and he had been on my radar screen for my two and a half years at Marquette. He never wore a collar, he never acted like a priest (my Protestantism is showing), preferring the baggy sweaters and threadbare trousers that most male academics love to wear. Suffice it to say that Jesuits, at least many of those I spent three years with, do not wear their ordination on their sleeve in the way that the members of the other three Catholic orders 140401JesuitDomincanI have taught and hung out with in the years since do. I like that.

I’ve learned a number of additional things about the Jesuits over the years since leaving Marquette in 1991, including that there is an intense rivalry bordering on serious dislike between the Jesuits and the Dominican Order—it’s an in-house family issue that non-Catholic outsiders such as I don’t entirely get. The Dominican Fathers run the college at which I have taught happily and successfully for the past twenty-one years; I learned early on never to talk about my bromance with the Jesuits within earshot of a Dominican. Once my first or second year into my current position, I was having a conversation in the philosophy department hall with a handful of colleagues, including a young Dominican priest. I mentioned tongue-in-cheek that I had the impression that for the uber-Catholics, including the Dominicans, on campus my being Protestant was far less of a problem than my having been educated by the Jesuits (ha, ha, ha). Without missing a beat, my Dominican colleague said “You’re right.” He wasn’t kidding.George Coyne

I recently heard an interview with Father George Coyne, the recently retired head of the Vatican Observatory, in which he tells a story that for me perfectly captures why I love Jesuits.

I gave a paper at a scientific meeting on the uncertainties in our determination of the age of the universe. There’s several methods we use for determining the age of the universe and a degree of uncertainty is involved with each of them. Well, whenever I’m at a scientific conference, I’m not dressed as a priest because it just — why? You know, it just confuses things.

But I had just given a talk in a church or something, so I gave this talk and I was wearing my Roman collar. So a gentleman stood up — the discussion period, question period, and the first thing he said was “Father.” And I trembled at the thought that he had, first of all, called me Father, but then he proceeded to build upon that and he said, vatican observatory“Father, it must be wonderful that, you know, with all the uncertainties we have in our scientific pursuits that you have this faith, this rock of faith to stand upon.” So what I did is I took off my Roman collar and faced him down and said, “Who told you that my faith was kind of a rock?” I said, “Every morning I wake up I have my doubts. I have my uncertainties. I have to struggle to help my faith grow.” Because faith is love. Love in marriage, love with friends, love of brothers and sisters, is not something that’s there once and for all and always kind of a rock that gives us support.

On Being: Asteroids, Stars, and the Love of God

Amen, Father George. In a different world, a parallel universe, in which rather than meeting my first Catholic when I was in my twenties I was instead raised Catholic, I have no doubt the Jesuits would have gotten me. Big time.

An Aria as Lovely as a Tree

As Jeanne headed into Dunkin’ Donuts to purchase her customary large decaf French Vanilla with eight creams and three Equals (and Mr Tpity the fool who doesn’t get it right), I stayed in the car surfing the FM dial—my coffee intake for the morning had already exceeded its quota. I landed on New York’s NPR classical station just in time to hear “Ombra mai fu,” the opening aria from Georg Friedrich Handel’s 1738 opera Serse. serseParked in an ugly Double-D parking lot on Long Island, I thought to myself that when the angels sing, they must begin and close with this piece—perhaps the most beautiful I’ve ever heard.

As is my frequent custom, I shared my unexpected and much appreciated encounter with Handel’s “Ombra mai fu” with my Facebook acquaintances, then on my blog. Several who share my love of classical music shared their own favorite versions of the aria on YouTube; a good-natured debate arose over whether the aria is most beautiful in the soprano range, as Handel wrote it,

transposed into the lower and richer mezzo-soprano or contralto ranges,

or perhaps sung by a male soprano, as it would have been originally, since the aria is sung by King Xerxes in Handel’s opera.

The music is so glorious that I, not knowing Italian, speculated that the text of the aria was probably religiously themed along the lines of so much of Handel’s compositions. But no—the text of “Ombra mai fu” contains no lofty sentiments, no paeans to the divine. It’s a brief poem of thanks for the shade of a plane tree.

Ombra mai fu                         Never was a shade    

di vegetabile                           of any plant

cara ed amabile,                    dearer and more lovely,

soave più.                                or more sweet.

Over the centuries Handel’s glorious music has been co-opted for different texts, such as the hymn “Holy Thou Art.”

But it is fitting that one of the most inspired pieces of music ever written is originally in honor of a tree.

One of the greatest continuing insights of Reverend John Ames, the aging Calvinist minister from Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, concerns the sacredness of all things. As he nears the end of his life, he pays close attention to the mystery and miracle of things most of us dismiss as “ordinary.”gilead

It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of Creation and it turns to radiance—for a moment or a year or the span of a life. And then it sinks back into itself again, and to look at it no one would know it had anything to do with fire, or light. . . . Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who has the courage to see it?

For Reverend Ames, everything is a sacrament with intimations of holiness. And the Divine Being he has served and conversed with for decades is still a mystery.

“You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who has the courage to see it?” Good question. It takes a lot more courage to embrace this world with all of its imperfections and disappointments as a spectacular and continuing divine miracle than to step back and bemoan the fact that it seldom is the miracle we would have performed if it were up to us. It isn’t up to us—the power and glory of our created, sacred world is far above our pay scale. And yet sacredness and beauty embedded in imperfect matter is a reminder that according to the Christian narrative, this very strange yet compelling fusion of the divine and the imperfect is God’s intention with us.sunset

giraffe mother

Her Children Rise Up

Last Sunday I was lector at church for the first time in many weeks. The first reading from the Jewish Scriptures was from Proverbs and included a passage that brought tears to my eyes: “She opens her mouth with wisdom, and the teaching of kindness is on her tongue . . . Her children rise up and call her blessed.” These are the verses I used when dedicating my first book to my mother over twenty years ago, just a few years after she died far too young. I wrote about her about a year ago on this blog . . .

I learned something interesting about giraffes from one of my colleagues the other day. He was lecturing on Roman art and architecture; when discussing the Coliseum, he mentioned that Roman audiences loved to watch novelty battles—between a woman and a dwarf, or a dog and a porcupine for instance. The voracious Roman appetite for more and more exotic beasts and contests produced a variety of combatants from all corners of the empire, including elephants, apes, the great cats, and rhinoceroses. fighting giraffeAnd giraffes.

Imagine the scene: a fighting giraffe towers above its opponent, then with one swift motion lowers its large jaws and bites the head off its human or non-human combatant. And the crowd goes wild. Except that giraffes turned out to be rather disinterested gladiators, preferring to lope lazily around the arena, look for vegetation to munch, and take naps rather than fighting to the death. Pacifists in the arena aren’t very entertaining, so giraffes in the Coliseum gave way to slightly more aggressive creatures. None of this surprised me, because although I have no direct experience with giraffes other than admiring them at the zoo, I gained intimate knowledge over the years of giraffe-like gentleness and peace, channeled through beloved human form—my mother.

Although I would have denied it vociferously as a boy or adolescent, I was a classic momma’s boy. untitledMy older brother loved my mother but was all about Dad, while my attachments were the exact opposite. My brother and I were a twentieth-century version of Esau and Jacob. My mother was a 100% Swede, with the appropriate accompanying last name (“Thorsen”—son of Thor), stature, and stoic personality. She was the stable center of my universe, while my father, an itinerant preacher and fund-raiser for his small Bible school, was on the road as often as he was home. We lived out in the country and my brother and I rode the bus a half-hour each way every school day. rapture and tribulationMy mother’s loving presence when I entered the house after a long day at work was so predictable and expected that on the rare occasions when she was not where I expected her to be I assumed the worst. I imagined that the rapture I had heard about so often in church and was so afraid of had occurred and my mother had been snatched up into heaven, leaving my brother and me, sinners that we were, to fend for ourselves during the tribulation to come. Be careful how much Baptist theology gets packed into Sunday School for the youngsters—someone will probably take it seriously.

Flashing forward several decades, shortly after we met (introduced by my parents), Jeanne mentioned to me that she had always thought of my mother as a giraffe—Jeanne knew my parents well for ten years or so before the two of us ever met. I had never imagined my mother as a giraffe, but once Jeanne said it I realized that it was a perfect comparison. giraffes can't danceMy mother had the temperament, grace, and even the long neck of a giraffe. Jeanne pulled out a children’s book the other day entitled Giraffes Can’t Dance—with my mother in mind, there should also be books called Giraffes Can’t Go To Movies and Giraffes Can’t Drink Alcoholic Beverages. Baptist giraffes, at least, did not do such things and neither did my mother.

My mother was in many ways a typical 1950s homemaker, cooking, cleaning, knitting, sewing, and generally making the place run. My father was charismatic and volatile; my mother was neither. But she provided a foundation and safety net so secure and reliable that on the few occasions that she was sick, away, or for some other reason unable to play her usual roles my inner world would temporarily descend into chaos. My father had a great sense of humor; my mother couldn’t tell a joke without either forgetting a crucial part of the setup or screwing up the punchline. Bruce and Trudy's wedding picture (2)She had no enemies and disliked no one. That’s not entirely true—I know of a couple of people over the years about whom she actually said something negative. I’ve often noted that the definition of a total asshole is someone that my mother would not have liked.

The word that most immediately comes to mind when I think about my mother—which I do frequently—is peace. She was the embodiment of parental love, setting a standard that I seldom if ever lived up to when I became a parent. But her presence and demeanor surrounded those around her in an atmosphere of calmness. Last Sunday during the All Saints liturgy, as both my mother and father were present to me even more than usual, I noticed how many times the word “peace” has a central place in the Episcopal service: “In peace we pray to you, Lord God,” “The peace of the Lord be always with you,” “The peace that passes understanding keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge of Christ.” The deep center of peace that I’ve discovered within over the past few years is where I believe God is—it is also where I am most deeply connected with my mother.

I am an interesting mixture of elements inherited from my parents. My sense of humor, what skills I have as a teacher, my love of books and the life of the mind, my intellectual restlessness and constant questioning of my faith, and my relatively low tolerance for being sick or for pain I get from my father. I remember many years ago a couple, B and N, who had known my parents for years before I met them were telling Jeanne and me stories about various times that my parents stayed at their house. These stories frequently featured my father being demanding, temperamental and self-centered as he often was. N said to me “in many ways, you remind me a lot of your father. But you’re a lot nicer.” Trudy and Bruce summer or fall of 1979If so, it is only because I inherited my mother’s natural concern for things and people other than herself, her Swedish even temperament, and her ability to empathize deeply (perhaps too deeply at times) with others. Of course I could also write about my negative characteristics that I also inherited equally from my parents, but I’m running out of space in this essay.

My mother was born on Halloween and would have been eighty-six years old last Friday. I shudder to think of what a handful my father at that age might have been, but I imagine my mother at eighty-six as just an older and smaller version of the loving, peaceful giraffe-like person that she was. She died far too young of cancer only three weeks short of her sixtieth birthday; I am just one year younger now than she was when she died. I recall receiving phone calls and cards from friends of my parents whom I never had met in the weeks after she died—the gist of most of them was that while my father the preacher and teacher was the ostensible draw and star of the meetings he held across the country, giraffe mother 2my mother was the real attraction. “We came to hear Bruce, but we really wanted to spend time with Trudy.” I dedicated my first book, published six years after she died, to my mother with the following verses from Proverbs: She opens her mouth with wisdom . . . Her children rise up and call her blessed.

Mom lived just long enough to play matchmaker and facilitate the meeting and budding romance between her little boy and the person whom she somehow knew had the potential to be the love of my life. Jeanne and I met at my parents’ condominium the day before Thanksgiving in 1987; I was accompanied by my seven- and five-year old sons, just five months after the end of a difficult eleven-year marriage. Things clicked, our relationship developed with nightly telephone conversations between Santa Fe and Laramie, and when Jeanne joined me in Laramie and we returned with the boys to spend the Christmas holidays with my parents, we stayed at the local Motel Six (no room at my parents’ small condo) where my mother had properly reserved separate rooms—with an adjoining door. Thanks, Mom.

Mom and her sisters

Mom and her sisters

Is the Pope Catholic?

He wants to be a modern pope. All he needs is dreadlocks and a dog with a bandana and he could be on Occupy Wall Street. Gary Gutfield, Fox News

Remember back in the old days when a spokesperson for some medical product on television would say “I’m not a doctor, but I play one on TV”? doctor on tvI have a similar sort of authority when it comes to things Catholic. I am not Catholic (I don’t think I even met a Catholic until my late teens), but my more than twenty-five years of first being educated by Jesuits in my PhD program, then teaching in Catholic institutions of higher education, qualify me to chime in on things Catholic on occasion. And with increasing frequency over the past couple of years I am saying five words that I never thought I would hear myself say: I really like this Pope.

Paul VIThe first time I ever heard about something called a Pope was in 1965 when Pope Paul VI visited the U.S. I was nine years old and recall seeing highlights on our little black-and-white television from the nightly news. My parents sufficiently filled me in on what a Pope was for me to realize that this was important to some people (although not to us). For my family, the most memorable portion of the visit was when the pontiff stepped off the plane at LaGuardia airport and the wind blew his cape over his head. The draped Pope looked like my dachshund peeking out from under a blanket, a source of great laughter and irreverence in my household.

As I moved into adulthood and learned a bit more about these people called Catholics (and actually met a few), other Popes crossed my radar screen (please understand that the following observations are the product of viewing things through barbarian Protestant lenses). The Pope prior to Paul VI, John XXIII, was an interesting guy, a placeholder choice who threw everything into disarray and set the stage for change by convening Vatican II.corleone John Paul I, who followed Paul VI, poped just long enough to meet and hear the confession of the aging Michael Corleone before dying under suspicious circumstances in Godfather III (loosely interpreted). His successor John Paul II, who contributed greatly to the fall of the Berlin Wall and the collapse of Communism, also managed to set the clock back decades in his church on many social issues and helped produce a generation of priests who proceed as if Vatican II never happened. Then came Benedict XVI, whose best decision as pontiff was to step down from his position before he messed things up any further.

Now there’s Pope Francis. Everyone knew that things might be different when the first Jesuit and the first non-white-old-guy-from-Europe since the Syrian Gregory III in 741 was elected. He’s Argentinian, from a part of the globe where liberation theology caught fire and where Catholic social thought with its preferential option for the poor has not been bumped aside in importance by issues like abortion and same-sex relationships as it has been all too often in the Northern hemisphere of Catholicism. FrancisRejecting many of the accoutrements that traditionally accompany being God’s go-to person, Pope Francis lives humbly (comparatively speaking) and has a refreshing (or worrisome, depending on who you are) tendency to say what he is thinking and feeling without checking with his multitude of handlers ahead of time. This, of course, sends the holy spin-doctors into hyper drive trying to explain what Francis really meant, when it is pretty clear that he meant what he said.

I have a number of Catholic friends and colleagues who have struggled mightily since Francis became Pope to convince me that everything he is saying is consistent with a seamless, conservative Catholic position that encompasses every issue imaginable. I’m not buying it. Not for their lack of trying, but because in the real world a seamless, all-encompassing perspective that is consistent from stem to stern across all possible issues is a pipe dream, particularly when insisting that such a framework be stuffed into the rigid “conservative” or “liberal” straitjackets that we insist everything fit into. is he catholicWhat is one to do when a Pope who advocates all of the familiar conservative positions on abortion and the ordination of women produces an encyclical containing statements and positions on environmental issues so liberal as to cause one Fox News pundit to label Francis as “the most dangerous man on the planet”?

Is Pope Francis the Most Dangerous Person Alive?

The Pope is coming to visit the U.S. tomorrow, and all things papal will be front and center for several days. Someone once said that the mark of a good Supreme Court decision is one that makes neither side happy; if so, Pope Francis is doing a good job. Liberals applaud his emphasis on the poor, environmental issues, and his lack of interest in the over-the-top and gaudy trappings of being the pontiff but are quick to point out that nothing has really changed yet—doctrine remains the same. There is enough in what Francis says and does to somewhat mollify conservative Catholics worried that he really does want to turn the Vatican into a home for liberation theology. Conservatives, however, worry that Francis’s words actually mean something—tchangeshat in his heart of hearts he is setting the stage for an overhaul of the institution he leads that will make Vatican II pale in comparison. As a very interested outside observer, it seems to me that this is a classic case of “nothing has changed, but everything is changing.”

The prophet Micah succinctly summarizes the heart of faithfulness to the divine in the Jewish scriptures: “What does the Lord require of you but to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God?” In the spirit of his namesake from Assisi, Saint FrancisFrancis has the humility thing pretty much down. Although Micah’s directive is intended for individuals and not institutions, Francis’ relatively short papacy has been dedicated to tempering justice with mercy. Justice, when understood as the application of relevant and appropriate rules and doctrinal pronouncements, has been the bread and butter of the Catholic Church since somebody thought up the idea. Francis has shown in many ways that a clinical following and application of the rules actually can undermine the heart of justice, turning it cold and clinical. Without seeking to change church teaching on abortion and annulment, for instance, Francis reminds the faithful that in such issues and innumerable others the actual human beings involved must not be ignored.

I recall that when Pope John Paul II came to Denver in 1993 for World Youth Day he was treated as a rock star. I don’t know if a similar reception awaits Francis on these shores, but it should. When just a few month into his papacy Francis said “If someone is gay and he searches for the Lord and has good will, who am I to judge?” I knew that a new pontifical sheriff is in town. Not that my non-Catholic opinion matters that much, but I’ll say it again: I really like this Pope.Well played

Date Afternoon

Marriage experts (if there are such things) often suggest that all married couples, even those who have been married for so long that they can’t remember when they weren’t married, should regularly schedule times just for themselves, times when they deliberately leave their children, animals, jobs, worries, home and everything else behind for some “us” time. NYAJThis is often called “date night,” which is an attractive title only for those who remember their dating years fondly—I’m not one of them. But I agree with the idea behind the concept. Jeanne’s and my “date night” is pretty simple and predictable—a movie preceded by or followed by a drink and something to eat. Our latest such foray involved a fifteen mile ride to Massachusetts (one is never farther than a half hour from another state anywhere in Rhode Island), a movie, then a drink and light dinner at Not Your Average Joe’s (our go-to place to eat). This should probably be called a “date afternoon,” since we almost always go to the 4:00ish showing of whatever we are seeing in order to pay a couple of bucks less. Yes, we are both cheap dates.

As we left the theatre on our most recent date afternoon, I said “I liked that.” And I did—I’ve often said that one way to tell whether a movie was worth the price of admission is to see whether the two of us talk about it much afterward. At the bar in NYAJ’s fifteen minutes or so later, as I drank an AllagashAllagash Black Porter and Jeanne consumed a Diet Pepsi with a vodka chaser (there’s no accounting for taste), she returned my attention to movie by saying “I’m really surprised you liked that movie. I didn’t think you would.” And she was right—it was exactly the sort of film that I would have hated—probably would have not wanted to see at all—not very long ago. It would have pushed about a dozen different buttons that I didn’t want pushed and resurrected a number of memories that are best left in the tomb. Maybe I’ve changed just a bit.

The movie was “War Room.” The first red flag is that this is a “Christian” movie—made by Christians, about Christians, with Christian actors, message, themes, activities, attitudes and food. war roomThose who have a similar upbringing and history to mine should already be cringing. “Christian movies” have during my lifetime earned the reputation of being propagandistic, jingoistic, in your face, smug and judgmental. Join that with abominable cinematography, ludicrous story lines, and atrocious acting and you have a product worthy of being shown only in church basements on Sunday evenings and viewed only by those who have been bathing in fundamentalist Kool Aid their whole lives. But over the past few years, movies with a Christian orientation have begun to press their way into the movie mainstream and have been popping up at neighborhood multiplexes, not through godless Hollywood but independent films constructed and packaged by people who actually know how to make and promote a real movie for real people, populated with believable characters played by talented actors.

“War Room” is a case in point. The movie is well put together, all of the actors do a more than satisfactory job, and toward the end there is a ten minute or so scene of a jumping rope championship that has to be seen to be believed. Really. The story is believable as are the performances. It is yet another proof that the rank and offensively amateur nature of the Christian movies of my earlier years is a thing of the past. christian moviesSo why was Jeanne surprised that I enjoyed it? Because it is a Christian movie. And all of the improved production value and acting in the world can’t disguise it. No one is trying to hide its message—it is hard core and in your face evangelical Christian from opening to closing credits.

I’m not going to spoil the movie for you, since you really should see it, but its plot is pretty predictable for this sort of film. A couple who has been married for several years has grown apart; their primary formx of communication are fighting and silence. The husband is obsessed with his job (pharmaceutical sales) and being a success, highly motivated and colossally impressed with himself. He is married to a successful business woman (real estate); between their jobs and their arguing, they have little time remaining for their only child, their ten year old daughter. Into their stressful world and deteriorating relationship comes a person of faith—prayer warriorthe sort of person we called a “prayer warrior” when I was growing up—who has been around the block a number of times. This person’s dynamic relationship with God has an accumulating effect on the other main characters who, first the wife then the husband, rediscover the Jesus and God they supposedly believe in but have been ignoring for a long time. By the end of the movie the couple’s relationship is restored, their attention to their daughter has returned, and both are ready to live out a renewed commitment to Christ.

And Jeanne was surprised that I liked the movie. “Why didn’t you think I would like it?” I asked, and her answer made perfect sense. “Because it is fundamentalist and evangelical Christianity,” reminding me that these are both the things that I was raised in and have spent most of my adult life trying to get over. And she’s right. The faith on display in “War Room” is no longer mine—it did sufficient damage to me that I tried in my twenties to leave Christianity entirely. So why did I enjoy the movie? fundy evangelicalBecause there is not an ounce of judgment in it. In other words, while is evangelical it is definitely not fundamentalist. The story is about people struggling with their lives and looking for a lifeline, not about the destiny of those who do not share the lifeline with them once they find it. After several weeks of a Kentucky county clerk refusing to obey the law and expressing judgment concerning those who do not agree with her, all in the name of her Christian faith, Kim Davisit was nice to see faith portrayed as a source of inspiration and stimulant for living one’s life in a difficult world rather than proscribing what’s best for everyone else.

My response to Jeanne’s answer to my question, though, was along slightly different lines. I have frequently said over the past few years, as I live out unexpected but entirely welcome changes in my own perspective and life, that the best proof of the importance of faith is a changed life. No amount of doctrine, dogma, rules, Scripture, or proselytizing can beat the testimony of the blind man in the gospel: “I was blind, but now I see.” who am i to judgeAnd that’s what this movie was about—changed lives. This is who I was, this is who I am, and this is who I hope to be. The method and manner of the changes portrayed is quite different than what I have experienced, but change for the better is a great thing no matter the process. As a famous Argentinian living in Rome who will be visiting the U.S. soon said recently, “who am I to judge?”

Tired of Hating People–Thoughts on the anniversary of 9/11

Everyone beyond a certain age can remember clearly what they were doing fourteen years ago today when they heard the news. I was in my college’s main cafeteria getting coffee and noticed something weird happening on the Today Show broadcast on a television hanging from the ceiling in the corner. first towerAt that point all they knew was that one of the Twin Towers was on fire, apparently because an airplane had crashed into it. I had scheduled office hours that morning, so I listened to live radio reports on NPR of the second tower being hit and the collapse of both towers. There was a surreal air to the broadcast—I wanted to believe that it wasn’t true, some sort of elaborate hoax along the lines of Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds” broadcast many decades earlier. But it was true.

Classes were encouraged to meet and decide individually how best to deal with the day’s events. Several students in my first class of the day at 12:30 had family and friends who lived and/or worked in Manhattan—it was clear that the best thing for these students to do was to continue their frantic attempts to contact their loved ones. About half the class stayed and shared their thoughts—what they said and the nature of our conversation is difficult to recall. I know that many students (as well as many of my colleagues) were understandably angry and wanted retribution; tower collapseas we gathered our things to leave about half way through the class period I said “the one thing I’m feeling right now is that my best response to what has happened is to become a better person. A better teacher, husband, father, friend. That’s all I’ve got right now.”

I’m sure that there will be any number of retrospective reports this evening on the various 24/7 news channels, although I suspect that the fifteenth anniversary a year from today will have many more of them. Neither Jeanne nor I lost any immediate family or close friends in that day’s terrible events, although in a few cases it was only “luck” that spared someone we know well. Almost a decade and a half removed, when I think about 9/11 and its aftermath as I have been over the past few days, I think of patriotism, wars that seem never to end, and the realization that with the swift passage of time soon I will be teaching students who, first, will not remember 9/11 and then, three years or so later, will not have been born when 9/11 occurred. But most of all, the lasting effect in this country of the terrorist attacks on that day has been a persistent atmosphere of fear and suspicion—as well as of the hatred that fear and suspicion  produce.

Just about a year ago the theme of the weekly “TED Radio Hour” on NPR was “Transformation—stories and ideas about becoming a completely different person.” The first story up that day was titled “How Did the Son of a Terrorist Choose Peace?”untitled

How did the Son of a Terrorist Choose Peace?

The story teller, Zak Ebrahim, is a peace activist and the author of The Terrorist’s Son: A Story of Choice. Ebrahim’s father, El-Sayyid Nosair, for a number of years plotted with other radicals to attack a number of New York City landmarks, including tunnels, synagogues and the United Nations headquarters. These planned attacks were thwarted by an FBI informant, but one of the attacks—the 1993 bombing of the World Trade Center–was not. Nosair and his fellow terrorists were convicted of placing a van filled with 1,500 pounds of explosives into the sublevel parking lot of the North Tower; the subsequent explosion killed six people and injured over a thousand others. Ebrahim was seven years old at the time of his father’s conviction and incarceration—Nosair was sentenced to life imprisonment plus fifteen years.nosair and son

Ebrahim’s father had become radicalized in the early years of his son’s life; in his TED talk Ebrahim describes how shortly before his father was arrested he took Ebrahim, along with several of the men who turned out to be co-conspirators, to a shooting range for Ebrahim’s first lessons in using a rifle. Even after Nosair’s arrest, the impact of his worldview on his young son continued to be strong.

Growing up in a bigoted household, I wasn’t prepared for the real world. I had been raised to judge people based on arbitrary measurements, like a person’s race or religion. He would just talk about Jews being evil. And I would hear similar things from the men that were with him. You know, gay people being evil and them wanting to turn you gay so that you would go to hell too. And just gay people being all-around terrible people and a bad influence. And he used to say things like, a bad Muslim is better than a good non-Muslim. That’s pretty much what indoctrination is. You have authority figures around you telling you that the world is one way and you don’t get to see another perspective.

This radical indoctrination began to crumble when Ebrahim, as a teenager, began through school to be exposed to some of the people he had been taught to hate. PhiladelphiaOne of his fellow group members at the National Youth Conference in Philadelphia leading up to the 2000 Presidential election was Jewish. Ebrahim did not learn that his new friend was Jewish until several days after their friendship had started developing; he says that “I felt a sense of pride in having been able to overcome a barrier that, for most of my life, I had been led to believe was insurmountable.” That summer he found a job at a Busch Gardens amusement park and for the first time had the opportunity to meet some gay people performing in one of the park’s shows. “I soon found that many were the kindest, least judgmental people I had ever met.”

One day I had a conversation with my mother about how my worldview was starting to change. And she said something to me that I will hold dear to my heart for as long as I live. She looked at me with the weary eyes of someone who’d experienced enough dogmatism to last a lifetime, and said tired of hating“I’m tired of hating people.” In that instant, I realized how much negative energy it takes to hold that hatred inside of you.

On one level it’s easy to hate because a world made of “Us” vs. “Them” is simple to define and make judgments from within. On a deeper level, though, Ebrahim is right—the negative energy of fear and hate is psychologically exhausting, an exhaustion that is symptomatic of our culture. It’s almost as if it isn’t natural for humans to hate.

A few moments of attention to the level of discourse in the early months of the 2016 Presidential campaign are sufficient to hear the tones of fear and anger that pervade our national conversation about almost everything. stormer and trumpIt is a summer of intolerant and fear-mongering language—for the first time in decades various white supremacist groups have found a candidate who speaks their language of hatred and have publically endorsed him.

How White Nationalist Groups Found Their Candidate in Donald Trump

That such attitudes exist is nothing new; what is new is that we have reached the point where hatred and intolerance have found a new foothold in the public square and conversation. And even for those who seek a moderate position that avoids anger and fear, the current atmosphere is infectious. big enough lieA character in Eric Bennett’s new novel A Big Enough Lie explains the dynamic well:

There are people in the world whose opinions differ from yours so much that the difference implies violence, urges it, supplies a will for it. And if you stand on the side of moderation, this implication, this will to violence, upsets you even more than the mere difference of opinion itself. Because you are complicit in it—you become complicit in extremism by loathing extremism. You are reduced by your enemy to what you despise in your enemy. The world excuses only saints and lunatics from its economy of hatred, is what you realize. Pick a side.

On this fourteenth anniversary of one of the darkest days in American history, my hope is that we as a nation, as a culture will decide, as Zak Ibrahim’s mother did, that we are tired of hating people. us-vs-themTired of dividing our tiny little universes up into “Us” and “Them” as we vilify those who do not look like, act like, or believe the same as those in our self-defined groups of specialness do, often in the name of rigidly dogmatic beliefs that cannot accommodate the complex and shades-of-grey world in which we live. As Zak Ebrahim discovered, the best cure for fear and hatred is simple experience. But such experience can only happen if each of us has the courage to step outside our ossified comfort zones and dare to meet the most frightening thing in the universe—someone who is not the same as me.