The Shame of the Cross

In the year 1064, Turkish tribes under the leadership of Alp Arslan, overran Ani, a Armenian city of over 100,000 inhabitants. Hundreds of churches dotted the metropolis, dominated by the great cathedral church. Alp Arslan ordered that the dome of the cathedral be scaled and the great silver cross pulled down. He had the cross embedded in the threshold of his mosque, so that "true believers" could trample upon the symbol of the Christian faith as they entered. The city never recovered from the carnage and butchery that followed it's fall. Today, Ani is a windswept ruin, though the gaunt shell of the enormous cathedral still stands.

A thousand years later, any battles over the cross are not so epic or spectacular--at least here in the West. There are no walls to scale, few defenders, and often as not, those inside the walls have already done the preparatory dirty work.

The following story should not be particularly alarming, mainly because it is so typical and the responses oh so predictable--all grist for the conservative talk show mill, I suppose. The story revolves around a simmering fuss at the College of William and Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia. W&M is our nation's second oldest university, dating from 1693. As one would imagine, the college is steeped in history. The gem of the campus is the Wren Chapel, dating from 1732. [I visited in 1998 and can attest to its beauty]. At issue is an 18" brass cross which has been on the altar there since 1940. It seems some students have taken offense. And with good reason--a cross! In a chapel, of all places! Imagine the horror of it all.

Gene K. Nichol, the school president, is sensitive to the tender sensibilities of the W&M student body. Indeed, he notes that since 2005, perhaps 20 people have mentioned to him their concerns about the brass cross. With such an overwhelming groundswell of opposition, what course could he take other than remove the cross? In October, he did that very thing "to make the chapel more welcoming to all faiths." He remarked that "it's the right thing to do to make sure this campus is open and welcoming to everyone...this is a diverse institution religiously, and we want it become even more diverse." But of course. And what better way than to remove the last remaining vestige, however faint, of the faith that both formed and has informed the university for most of his 313 years? Certainly, W&M is an elite institution that no longer caters to planters sons from along the Rappahannock. The international student body is indeed diverse, and I would doubt that a majority is even nominally Christian. But still, one can't help but be struck by the silliness of it all.

Some former students have rallied to protest the removal, and well-healed alumni have threatened to withhold funds. A spokesman for the group claims "it reflects a view that religious symbols --religion and the public expression thereof--are somehow an obstacle for us to get along with one another."

Nichol counters by asking "does that marvelous place belong to everyone, or is it principally for our Christian students...Do we actually value religious diversity, or have we determined, because of our history, to endorse a particular religious tradition to the exclusion of others."

I suppose the chapel could be converted to a cafeteria. Perhaps that would not be offensive. Of course, there could be no pork, and the other meat would have to be halal.

As one would expect, Nichol's decision was endorsed by the student assembly, most of the faculty and the Campus Ministers United. An Orthodox Jewish student from Israel complained that he was "uncomfortable" during Freshman orientation in the chapel. But now he feels "an integral part of the community due to this symbolic action." How lovely. And I'm sure Israeli colleges are equally accommodating to any non-Jewish students that come their way. Really.

Perhaps the opponents of the cross have inadvertently hit on something. In our country, the symbol has become little more than a piece of decorative art or a fashion accessory. When seen in this light, there could have been no ruckus at William and Mary. But maybe the Israeli student was right to feel "uncomfortable" in the same room as the cross. For the cross does not soothe and comfort. Rather, the cross, rightly seen, is unsettling. It is convicting. It pierces the soul and demands a declaration from us. And ultimately, it leads us to our redemption.

So, we'll see. Perhaps the alumni money will triumph over the diversity and dialogue crowd. But it will be a hollow victory. The problem here, it seems to me, is not those non-Christians who catch a sense of what the cross implies and oppose it. Rather, the true enemies are those useful idiots who, while giving lip service to Christianity, jettison the cross as a divisive and offensive symbol, to be sacrificed to the God of Diversity.

That Dang Old Enlightenment Again

Dr. David Bell, of Johns Hopkins, in a recent article here posits that we have over-reacted to the tragedy of 9/11. He makes a convincing case--one well worth reading--but what really interested me was his theory that this behavior is rooted in Enlightenment thought (I know, I know--we Orthodox blame the Enlightenment for everything.) He writes:

Seeing international conflict in apocalyptic terms — viewing every threat as existential — is hardly a uniquely American habit. To a certain degree, it is a universal human one. But it is also, more specifically, a Western one, which paradoxically has its origins in one of the most optimistic periods of human history: the 18th century Enlightenment.

Until this period, most people in the West took warfare for granted as an utterly unavoidable part of the social order. Western states fought constantly and devoted most of their disposable resources to this purpose; during the 1700s, no more than six or seven years passed without at least one major European power at war.

The Enlightenment, however, popularized the notion that war was a barbaric relic of mankind's infancy, an anachronism that should soon vanish from the Earth. Human societies, wrote the influential thinkers of the time, followed a common path of historical evolution from savage beginnings toward ever-greater levels of peaceful civilization, politeness and commercial exchange.

The unexpected consequence of this change was that those who considered themselves "enlightened," but who still thought they needed to go to war, found it hard to justify war as anything other than an apocalyptic struggle for survival against an irredeemably evil enemy. In such struggles, of course, there could be no reason to practice restraint or to treat the enemy as an honorable opponent.

Ever since, the enlightened dream of perpetual peace and the nightmare of modern total war have been bound closely to each other in the West. Precisely when the Enlightenment hopes glowed most brightly, wars often took on an especially hideous character.

Bell concludes:

Yet as the comparison with the Soviet experience should remind us, the war against terrorism has not yet been much of a war at all, let alone a war to end all wars. It is a messy, difficult, long-term struggle against exceptionally dangerous criminals who actually like nothing better than being put on the same level of historical importance as Hitler — can you imagine a better recruiting tool? To fight them effectively, we need coolness, resolve and stamina. But we also need to overcome long habit and remind ourselves that not every enemy is in fact a threat to our existence.

The Ransom

For those interested in a comparison of the Orthodox vs. Western interpretation of the atonement, check out David Wooten's excellent article, Ransomed from Death, Saved by the Father's Love: A Meditation on the Work of Christ here. As he notes,

...the point is not, “Who uses the words of the apostles?” but rather, “Who means what the apostles meant?” Nowhere is this seen more clearly, in my opinion, than in the area of salvation most hotly contended by Evangelicals and Orthodox—that of the “ransom” of Christ....Was the ransom paid to an angry, offended God the Father, as some Evangelical groups would claim....Or was the ransom actually a destruction of the reality of Death, the very real enemy of humankind, as the Orthodox would state, thus allowing humans to see God...as He truly is, and not as our human passions would immediately have us believe?

Thanks, David.

Manifest Destiny: A New Direction for America

The article here by William Pfaff in The New York Review of Books offers one of the best insights into our current foreign policy debacle, and how we got there. Pfaff sees a "larger intellectual failure," indeed, a "national conceit" where "it is something like a national heresy to suggest that the United States does not have a unique moral status and role to play in the history of nations, and therefore in the affairs of the contemporary world. In fact it does not."

For years there has been little or no critical reexamination of how and why the limited, specific, and ultimately successful postwar American policy of "patient but firm and vigilant containment of Soviet expansionist tendencies...and pressure against the free institutions of the Western world" (as George Kennan formulated it at the time) has over six decades turned into a vast project for "ending tyranny in the world."

The Bush administration defends its pursuit of this unlikely goal by means of internationally illegal, unilateralist, and preemptive attacks on other countries, accompanied by arbitrary imprisonments and the practice of torture, and by making the claim that the United States possesses an exceptional status among nations that confers upon it special international responsibilities, and exceptional privileges in meeting those responsibilities.

Other excerpts, as follows:

quoting Thomas Paine: We are...as if we had lived in the beginning of time.

and Fukuyama: ...American economic and political policies today rest on an unearned claim to privilege, the American "belief in American exceptionalism that most non-Americans simply find not credible." Nor, he adds, is the claim tenable, since "it presupposes an extremely high level of competence" which the country does not demonstrate.[2]

and Michael Madelbaum: He describes the United States as already dominating the world, much as the elephant (in his genial comparison) dominates the African savanna: the calm herbivorous goliath that keeps the carnivores at a respectful distance, while supporting "a wide variety of other creatures—smaller mammals, birds and insects—by generating nourishment for them as it goes about the business of feeding itself."[6] Everyone knows the United States is not a predatory power, he says, so everyone profits from the stability the elephant provides, at American taxpayer expense.

Elephants are also known to trample people, uproot crops and gardens, topple trees and houses, and occasionally go mad (hence, "rogue nations"). Americans, moreover, are carnivores. The administration has attacked the existing international order by renouncing inconvenient treaties and conventions and reintroducing torture, and arbitrary and indefinite imprisonment, into advanced civilization. Where is the stability that Mandelbaum tells us has been provided by this American military and political deployment? The doomed and destructive war of choice in Iraq, continuing and mounting disorder in Afghanistan following another such war, war between Israel and Hezbollah in Lebanon, between Israel and Hamas in Gaza, as well as between Hamas and Fatah, accompanied by continuing crisis in Palestine, with rumbles of new American wars of choice with Iran or Syria, and the emergence of a nuclear North Korea —all demonstrate deep international instability.

And this from George Kennan's 1993 autobiography:

He did not think that democracy along North American and Western European lines can prevail internationally. "To have real self-government, a people must understand what that means, want it, and be willing to sacrifice for it." Many nondemocratic systems are inherently unstable. "But so what?" he asked. "We are not their keepers. We never will be." (He did not say that we might one day try to be.) He suggested that nondemocratic societies should be left "to be governed or misgoverned as habit and tradition may dictate, asking of their governing cliques only that they observe, in their bilateral relations with us and with the remainder of the world community, the minimum standards of civilized diplomatic intercourse."[8]

With the cold war over, Kennan saw no need for the continuing presence of American troops in Europe, and little need for them in Asia, subject to the security interests of Japan, allied to the United States by treaty. He deplored economic and military programs that existed in "so great a profusion and complexity that they escape the normal possibilities for official, not to mention private oversight." He asked why the United States was [in 1992] giving military assistance to forty-three African countries and twenty-two (of twenty-four) countries in Latin America. "Against whom are these weapons conceivably to be employed?... [Presumably] their neighbors or, in civil conflict, against themselves. Is it our business to prepare them for that?"

Pfaff concludes:

History does not offer nations permanent security, and when it seems to offer hegemonic domination this usually is only to take it away again, often in unpleasant ways. The United States was fortunate to enjoy relative isolation for as long as it did. The conviction of Americans in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries that the country was exempt from the common fate has been succeeded in the twenty-first century by an American determination to fight (to "victory," as the President insists) against the conditions of existence history now actually does offer. It sets against them the consoling illusion that power will always prevail, despite the evidence that this is not true.

Schumpeter remarked in 1919 that imperialism necessarily carries the implication of

an aggressiveness, the true reasons for which do not lie in the aims which are temporarily being pursued...an aggressiveness for its own sake, as reflected in such terms as "hegemony," "world dominion," and so forth...expansion for the sake of expanding....

"This determination," he continues,

cannot be explained by any of the pretexts that bring it into action, by any of the aims for which it seems to be struggling at the time.... Such expansion is in a sense its own "object."

Perhaps this has come to apply in the American case, and we have gone beyond the belief in national exception to make an ideology of progress and universal leadership into our moral justification for a policy of simple power expansion. In that case we have entered into a logic of history that in the past has invariably ended in tragedy.

There's much to consider here.

King Michael

Nice interview with King Michael I of Romania, here.

This is Progress

The assassination of Hrant Dink has apparently jolted the Turkish nation. The outrage and the consequent national dialogue over this senseless killing exposes both the absurdity of their entrenched Armenian Genocide denial, as well as the infamous Penal Law #301. The funeral story, here.

Many who gathered held red carnations distributed by the local mayor’s office, or waved circular black and white placards reading “We are all Hrant Dink” in Turkish on one side and in Armenian on the other.

Other signs in the crowd read “Abolish 301,” a reference to the article of the Turkish penal law making it a crime to insult the state or Turkishness. Scores of intellectuals, including Mr. Dink and the Nobel Prize winner Orhan Pamuk, have been prosecuted under the article because of lawsuits brought by nationalists.

Tugrul Eryilmaz, 60, the features editor of the daily newspaper Radikal, was moved by the emotion and sweep of the march.

“Someone should have done this long ago,” he said. “We should have all reacted like this to Article 301, and to the killing of that priest in Trabzon. Well, better now than never.” (emphasis mine)

Another account, here, offers guarded optimism that this tragedy might help thaw relations between Turkey and Armenia.

Despite the fact that the Armenian-Turkish border has been sealed since 1993 and diplomatic relations severed, Armenia is sending a deputy foreign minister, Arman Kirakossian, to the funeral, and the archbishop of the Armenian Church of America, Khajag Barsamian, also accepted the government’s invitation to the ceremony.

Earlier, the Armenian defense minister, Serzh Sarkisyan, called for improved relations so that Armenia could “establish ties with Turkey with no preconditions,” the Turkish news channel NTV reported.

High-level Turkish government officials are expected to attend the funeral.

Turkey and Armenia have long been at odds over Turkey’s refusal to use the term “genocide” to describe the deaths of Armenians beginning in 1915. Many scholars and most Western governments say more than a million Armenians were killed in a campaign they describe as genocide. Turkey calls the loss of life a consequence of a war in which both sides suffered casualties, and has suggested that a group of envoys from each country analyze the history. Armenia has expressed a willingness to participate but insists that the border must first be reopened to trade.

Urban, cosmopolitan Istanbul has not always been particularly representative of Turkey in general. For that reason, it is encouraging to gauge reactions in other parts of the nation.

Most Armenian Turks live in Istanbul, the diverse and cosmopolitan center of Turkey. But the antinationalist demonstrations that followed Mr. Dink’s killing also surfaced in places as diverse as Izmir, the Aegean coastal city that is Turkey’s third largest, and in Sanliurfa and Hatay, which are close to Turkey’s eastern border with Syria.

“Public opinion in both countries, weary of the years-long conflict, had reached a point of explosion,” said Kaan Soyak, a director of the Turkish-Armenian Business Development Commission, the only bilateral trade council of Turkish and Armenian executives. “That’s what lies behind the massive outpouring for Mr. Dink.”

And finally, this may at last be the catalyst for the repeal of Penal Law #301, which makes it a crime to insult "Turkishness." By and large, the enforcement of the law is directed at those writers and intellectuals who have spoken the truth of the Armenian genocide.

Mr. Dink was a staunch defender of free speech and like other intellectuals was prosecuted for insulting “Turkishness” and sentenced to six months in jail, though his term was suspended.

Bulent Arinc, the parliamentary chairman from the ruling Justice and Development Party, said he would back efforts to abolish the measure under which Mr. Dink was prosecuted, known as Article 301.

“It can be discussed to totally abolish or completely revise the Article 301,” Mr. Arinc said, adding that members of Parliament “are open to this.”

I have been inclined towards pessimism with recent trends in Turkey. If what I read here is true, then real change may be in the offing: positive developments that could impact Armenia, the persecuted Greek Orthodox of Istanbul, and perhaps even the Cyprus question. We'll see.

Truth--Still at a Premium in Turkey

I was saddened to read today of the assassination of Hrant Dink, a noted Istanbul journalist (here, here). Frankly, I was unfamiliar with him until today's headlines. Of Armenian descent, Dink did that which can easily bring on a death sentence in Turkey--he spoke truth about the Armenian Genocide. The mayor and other government officials are saying all the right things, and there have been demonstrations against this outrage. It will be interesting to see how Turkish popular opinion reacts. I suspect Europe will be watching...closely.

Situation Hopeless, But Not Serious

I wish it didn't have to be this way. My perennial political disillusionment, that is. I recall being keenly interested in state and national politics since the age of 12. Taking this stuff seriously has set me up, time and again, for disappointment after disappointment.

First, there was Jimmy Carter. Lord, help us. I was a true believer at the time--my first presidential race as a young adult. It didn't take long. My idealism was no match for the unbridled naivete and sanctimony, the malaise, Iran, the killer rabbit and all that was the Carter administration. I emerged from the Carter years a pure cynic. Reagan was an exception. I started off opposed, but warmed up to him over the 8 years. By the end of Bush, Sr.'s administration, however, I was convinced that his re-election would condemn the Republican Party to a quick extinction. I cannot now remember exactly what irked me so about Bush, Sr., but I'm sure it had to be something significant. And then there was Clinton. There wasn't any great mystery, here. But still, I expected better.

This brings me to George W. I have defended him far longer than I should have. Perhaps it was because he was a somewhat decent governor of Texas, known as a concensus-builder. And then my defense mechanisms kicked in after the 2000 election brouhaha, when the Democrats opted for their tried and true "we was robbed" response. Cries of election-stealing from the party that wrote the book on this sort of thing was too much to take. I defended the President in the early years against the knee-jerk Bush-haters both here and abroad. I remember arguing with my Turkish friends who contended, on the one hand that Bush was an evil, conspiratorial mastermind, and on the other hand that he was a doofus. I said you can't have it both ways--he's either one or the other. Actually, I think he is neither. In the aftermath of 9/11, I appreciated his resolve. And I initially supported our effort against Iraq. I never believed the "weapons of mass destruction" bit, thinking that merely a ploy to gain international support. But at the time, I saw it as--if not absolutely necessary--then certainly an understandable move in our on-going confrontation.

I was wrong. And I was wrong about Bush. What appeared to be resolve is looking more and more like pure pig-headedness. And now a week after his national address, I am of the mind that he is indeed a dangerous president, one who is both out-of-touch and out-of-control. I fear that in his attempt to obfuscate the current debacle, he is seeking to widen it. Last week, Paul Krugman noted in his Quagmire of the Vanities article:

...I began writing about the Bush administration's infallibility complex, the president's Captain Queeg-like inability to own up to mistakes, almost a year before the invasion of Iraq. When you put a man like that in a position of power--the kind of position where he can punish people who tell him what he doesn't want to hear, and base policy decisions on the advice of people who play to his vanity--it's a recipe for disaster.

I know, I know...Krugman, Rich, Kristoff and the NYTimes are reliably, consistantly anti-Bush. But what about commentators that should be in his corner, or are at least not doctrinaire in their opposition?

George Will likens our situation not only to Vietnam, but to Stalingrad, here.

Or Georgie Anne Geyer, here. In my view, Geyer has always been a voice to listen to. She writes:

The president, far from taking any guidance from the anti-war November elections or polls, has used them as another stepping-stone to his imperial dreams. Far from heeding the report of the James Baker III/Lee Hamilton Iraq Study Group, with its exacting equations, he seems to have used those 79 recommendations to decide what NOT to do....In short, having left the American people, the Democratic Congress, the Iraq Study Group and even his own generals behind him, President Bush strikes out alone on a strategy that, rather than making a smaller American footprint in the world, is making it immensely larger.

Geyer worries about signs of a widening conflict, from Somalia to Iran, and involving Israel.

The point is that, despite warnings from the American people through their vote, despite the urgent cries from our best bipartisan elites in the Iraq Study Group, and despite the advice of his own generals, President Bush is himself surging ahead, and let the cards fall where they may when this foolish game is over.

Meanwhile, moderate Arab countries in the area see a "nightmare scenario," according to even the pro-war Wall Street Journal, that would be a "much larger regional conflict that pits Sunnis against Shiites and could engulf the entire region, sparking a wider war in the middle of the world's largest oil patch." Their fear is seeing Iraq looking "less and less like a buffer between these two axes of Middle East power and more of a no-man's land that is bringing them into conflict."

So there is our post-election scenario for the next two years, bare of any of its civilizing foliage. Essentially, the same gang is there, doing the same gang-like things. The neocons lurk in the curtains off-stage, whispering to W. from the American Enterprise Institute that he must not be the man to "lose Iraq" and urging him on to Tehran. The generals speak out, but nobody listens. The Congress may be a hope -- we'll have to see.

But as for us, the people, I think we've got a pretty good idea now of what our leaders think of us.

Even Peggy Noonan, Reagan's speechwriter, is appalled. She writes, here:

What a dreadful mistake the president made when he stiff-armed the Iraq Study Group report, which had bipartisan membership, an air of mutual party investment, the imprimatur of what remains of or is understood as the American establishment, and was inherently moderate in its proposals: move diplomatically, adjust the way we pursue the mission, realize abrupt withdrawal would yield chaos. There were enough good ideas, anodyne suggestions and blurry recommendations (blurriness is not always bad in foreign affairs--confusion can buy time!) that I thought the administration would see it as a life raft. Instead they pushed it away....We don't always recognize deliverance when it arrives.

Right now, in the deepest levels of the American government, intelligence and military planners should be ordered to draw up serious plans for an American withdrawal, and serious strategies for dealing with the realities withdrawal will bring. It would not be the worst thing if the Maliki government knew those plans were being drawn up. It might concentrate the mind.

What is paramount is a hard, cold-eyed and even brutal look at America's interests. We have them. I'm not sure they've been given sufficient attention the past few years. In fact, I am sorry to say I believe they have not.

The Democrats--jockeying for 2008 position--have been quite vocal in expressing their opposition, but less forth-coming with alternatives. I think it remains for the Republicans to save George W.--and our soldiers--from himself. A few GOP Senators such as Chuck Hagel are attempting to do so. More power to them.

I continue to remember a line from one of my favorite movies, the 1962 Cold War relic "One, Two, Three." The erstwhile Communist trying to pass himself off as a Capitalist, mangles his lines and blurts out "situation hopeless, but not serious." For those like myself who allow themselves to fret about these things, the situation is indeed "hopeless." Fortunately, this is only the sideshow to what is really going on.

The Pentecostals

One of the more interesting articles in yesterdays’ NYTimes was A Sliver of a Storefront, A Faith on the Rise, the first in a 3-part story on the growth of Pentecostalism. The Times article targets a small storefront church in New York City, the Pentecostal Church Ark of Salvation for the New Millennium.

Though Pentecostalism, a strain of evangelical Christianity, was born a century ago in Kansas and is often associated with the stereotypical “holy rollers” of the Bible Belt, it has made deep inroads in Asia and Africa. In this hemisphere, its numbers and growth are strongest among Latinos in the United States and in Latin America, where it is eroding the traditional dominance of the Roman Catholic Church.

Experts believe there are roughly 400 million Pentecostals worldwide, and this year, the number in the city is expected to surpass 850,000 — about one in every 10 New Yorkers, one-third of them Hispanic. Precise numbers, however, are hard to come by because there are scores of denominations and no central governing body.

Here, in cramped storefronts like Ark of Salvation, people whose lives are as marginal as their neighborhoods discover a joyful intimacy often lacking in big churches. They find help — with the rent, child care or finding a job. As immigrants, they find their own language and music, as well as the acceptance and recognition that often elude them on the outside.

They find the discipline and drive to make a hard life livable.


This phenomenon intrigues me, as it is totally outside of my experience. My background was in the opposite direction (not with liturgical churches, certainly), but with a Protestant church that was heavy on reason, logic, and biblical exegesis and very light on emotion. And given such a background, I suppose I was as condescending and dismissive of the Pentecostals as the next guy. All that is in the past now, and I try to look at them in a new light, realizing that their worship may have been more pleasing to God than mine had been. That being said, I am now even farther removed from that approach and still maintain that they do not have the theological “legs” to stand for the long haul. Looking across nearly 2,000 years of Christian history, Pentecostalism is just a recent blip on the screen, and is not a new heresy, but rather a re-casting of old, familiar ones. But, the Pentecostal movement is vibrant and sweeping the Third World, perhaps the most significant factor in contemporary Christendom. Something is definitely going on here.

Barnabas Powell, a former Pentecostal and now Orthodox, hosts an excellent blog, Sober Joy. Beginning back on November 9th, he posted a 4 part series on Pentecostalism. Powell contends that the movement's growth "is a result of a theological poverty in Western Christianity." Citing this trend in both Catholicism and Protestantism, he believes it propelled a counter-reaction in the birth of the various Holiness movements, what he calls "the poor man's mysticism and...a clear cry for intimacy with God." For someone like myself--unversed in the specifics of Pentecostalism--Powell's series offers an excellent insight. See here, here, here and here.

MLK Day Thoughts

I have always respected Juan Williams, even more so after this interview in yesterday's Dallas Morning News. An excerpt follows:

Juan Williams has had it. The veteran black journalist – after a long career at The Washington Post, he joined National Public Radio and Fox News – has had it with aspects of black America that have failed to capitalize on the civil rights revolution. He's had it with a rap music culture that has become a "masturbatory fantasy."

He's had it with African-Americans who prefer to blame all their problems on racism instead of taking responsibility for their own lives. And he's most definitely had it with old-style black civil rights leaders, who in his view maintain their power by manipulating black anger and white guilt.

In his recent book, "Enough: The Phony Leaders, Dead-End Movements and Culture of Failure That Are Undermining Black America – And What We Can Do About It", Mr. Williams delivers a strong – and highly controversial – challenge to black America. Mr. Williams, a civil rights historian and progressive pundit, brings his message to Dallas tomorrow night as the keynote speaker at a public symposium on the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr., sponsored by the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture.

Some Good Press

Two decent articles pertaining to the Orthodox Church have cropped up recently in the mainstream press. In the January 11th issue of USA Today, we find More Americans Join Orthodox Churches. Except for one major boner when they assert that "Orthodoxy was born from the Great Schism of 1054," the article is really not that bad, especially for such a topwater as USA Today. They even quote our friend Fr. Joseph Huneycutt, and give a plug for Orthodixie. Read it here.

And then Christianity Today (not always a friendly voice for Orthodoxy) posted an article by Bradley Nassif in recent weeks, entitled Will the 21st be the Orthodox Century? He begins by referencing Jaroslav Pelikan, always a good sign. Nassif, whether you agree with him or not, has interesting points to make. The entire article can be found here, and a few excerpts follow:

During the past two decades, mainline and evangelical scholars have rediscovered the creative relevance of the Christian East, with its insistence on the authority of the first 500 years of Christian teaching and practice....The problem with the usual Protestant approach to the Great Tradition, however, is the gaps and inconsistencies in retrieval efforts. To many, the Great Tradition is like a library, a place you go to pick out the books you find most helpful. You can discard the ones that no longer seem relevant, while choosing the ones that have proven to be of lasting value.

Simply put, I think more and more people will recognize the vital relationship between the major movements and themes of Christian antiquity and the organic life of the Eastern Orthodox Church from whence these themes came.

In two areas, especially, the Orthodox church has maintained its unbroken succession with Christian antiquity, and these areas are particularly attractive to an increasing number of Christians.

Scripture....whether they are aware of it or not, every time evangelicals pick up their Bibles, they are relying on the historic church's judgment on the colossal issue of canonicity! Without acknowledging it, evangelicals validate the authority of the Spirit-led tradition in determining canonicity. That same Spirit-led tradition has governed the Orthodox church over the centuries.

I believe an increasing number of people fascinated with the early church will see that the Spirit, the Bible, tradition, and real, historical, identifiable churches are inseparably united, then as now.

Historical continuity. I imagine that the deeper evangelicals delve into church history, the less they will confine the meaning of "orthodoxy" to the first 500 or 1,000 years. They will come to embrace the "whole story" of the faithful, not just the parts they personally like. …They will recognize that today's "rebirth of orthodoxy" cannot do justice to classical Christian faith without keeping it connected to the church that most fully produced and inherited its achievements.

Burnt Over Christianity

If you are not already a regular reader of Fr. Stephen Freeman's blog, Glory to God, then there is no better article to begin with than this one. A selection follows:

My contention was (and is) that the popular preaching of American Protestantism, had winnowed the gospel down to a few graphic images, easily preached and repeated. Those images were a caricature of the substitutionary atonement and a simplified version of Christian initiation (”accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior”) that came to be the stock of popular American evangelical preaching. Just think, American campuses were inundated with the “four” spiritual laws. Imagine trying to convey the Orthodox faith in four anything.

My further contention has been that what was once true of Upstate New York is now descriptive of an entire culture. America is the Burnt Over District. Most Americans, if they have heard a version of the gospel, have heard a very truncated, often caricatured version.

Problematic has been the dominance of an atonement metaphor (which is dogma for some) that portrays God as wrathful, vengeful and in need of appeasement. Often, at the heart of this image is an argument that God is “bound” by His justice and that His justice must be satisfied.

Bookmark his site. You will be blessed by doing so.

State of Denial

I am a little late in slogging through Bob Woodward's State of Denial: Bush at War, Part III, as it was all the buzz back in September and October. I wasn't particularly eager to read the book, but felt as though I needed to do so. In his telling of the now-familiar story, Woodward proves too much, in my view, piling on anecdote after anecdote.

The work does confirm and solidify the popular perception of the major characters that has taken hold in the country. Bush is seen as well-meaning, but clueless, stubborn and worst of all, incurious. Cheney is, well, Cheney. Rumsfeld is an arrogant, tyrannical micro-manager. Rice is brilliant, loyal, but ultimately ineffectual. Powell is wise and insightful, but shut-out of the crucial decisions. One surprise is how out-of-the-loop Cheney appears to be once the Iraq war effort is churning along. When you start a war, they have a way of taking on a life of their own.

Another surprise was the long-term relationship between Saudi Prince Bandar and Bush. Theirs was a teacher-student relationship, with Bandar being a mentor of Bush from the onset of his Presidential itch. And in a book that is chock-full of outrages, what gave me pause was a relatively minor aside dealing with Bush's religious impulses and his relationship with the Saudis. A selection follows:

Whenever Bush saw or talked with the Crown Prince he referred to their shared, deep belief in God. The Crown Prince sent Bush a prayer, which the president told Bandar he used.

"This is the most precious thing I ever got," the president said.

Why take umbrage over this little item, of all things? I suppose this is a pet peeve of mine, and I tend to get a bit radical with it. Well, it is one thing to mouth public platitudes about how "we're all children of Abraham," and how the Muslim worships the God of Abraham just as Christians and Jews do--indeed, one has come to expect such talk. Such blather suffices for our ubiquitous "inter-faith dialogues" and such like. But it is altogether a different thing to actually believe it, as Bush apparently does. So, if I have this correct, Bush is fond of praying this Saudi prayer, a prayer sent him by the very Protector of Wahhabism. I'm sorry, but whoever equates the triune God with the Allah of Islam (that untidy mishmash of Christianity, Judaism, Zoroastrianism, paganism and tribal superstition)--well, that person has a thin grasp of either concept.

There, I've got the rant out of my system. I'll put up my soapbox now and return to being calm and collected. But it is worse than I ever imagined.

The Faith that Suffers

I appreciate the story by Fr. David Rucker in the recent OCMC newsletter. As the son of Methodist missionaries to China, he related the story of one of the persecuted house churches.

In a three-story house church in southern China...a Cantonese congregation...packed the unassuming structure from rafter to floor board. Every week they risked imprisonment by the communist authority and abandonment by their local community.... For a people without freedom, the hope these gatherings offered were far more valuable than the risk they cost....As David left that prominent Chinese house church, however, the head pastor, who himself had spent the past 17 years in and out of prison for his beliefs, took the opportunity to evangelize the evangelist. With a simple request, this devout man completely altered David’s perception of purpose, “Please, tell the people in America that we pray for them daily because they don’t have to suffer for their faith. It must be very difficult to be a Christian without suffering.”

For the whole story, read here.

As always, it's the small things

A recent encounter has been much on my mind. Due to the type of vehicle that I drive, I carry it to the dealership for all repairs. The only problem with this arrangement is that the dealership is 100 miles away, in Dallas. But hey, this is Texas. What's 100 miles? Anyway, a friend and co-worker was driving me there to pick up the vehicle, and I had promised him a steak dinner afterwards in appreciation.

Things went off without a hitch. I paid for the insanely expensive repairs with a swipe of the credit card. We then located a nearby steak house where we both ate very well. I am generally not one to eat much steak, but this seemed the generous and expansive thing to do. Anyway, the meal was delicious. Another swipe of the credit card paid the tab. As I was headed towards home, I pulled in to fill up the tank--again, all made possible with the magical card.

As I was pumping gas, a young man approached me. My defenses automatically went up. He wanted to know if he could ask me something. I mumbled something about not being from there. He then asked if I had any spare change I could give him. Again, I tried not to look at him and mumbled something about having only $5 on me and that it had to get me back home--100 miles away. (This part is true. I have taken off across 5 states with only $3 and some plastic in my pocket.) He turned and started walking off. I knew I had just blown it. I called out after him and said for him to wait and let me see what I could do. I opened my wallet and saw that I actually had $6 on me--a 5 and a 1. I pulled out the dollar and gave it to him. He thanked me and walked off.

If you look at such encounters as something of a test (and I definitely do), then I realized that I had just failed miserably. Almost any alternative would have been preferable to what I actually chose to do. I could have given him the $6 (it's not like there are no ATMs around). I could have given him the $5 instead of the $1. I could have been gracious in giving him the $1--which I was not. I could have said something--"God bless you"--anything. I just gave him the $1 and cut things off as soon as possible.

As I drove off, the chance encounter stayed with me, as did the words of Jesus from Matthew 25:31-46..that whole "least of these" thing. So, there is still a lot of work to do here. Maybe next time. Lord have mercy.

Friedman at His Best

I have cut out this article and plan to keep it handy throughout 2007, to measure any and all commentary on the Middle East.



THOMAS L. FRIEDMAN
The New York Times
20 December 2006

WHAT BUSH NEEDS TO KNOW
Mideast rules to live by

For a long time, I let my hopes for a decent outcome in Iraq triumph over what I had learned reporting from Lebanon during its civil war. Those hopes vanished last summer. So, I'd like to offer President Bush my updated rules of Middle East reporting, which also apply to diplomacy, in hopes they'll help him figure out what to do next in Iraq.

Rule 1: What people tell you in private in the Middle East is irrelevant. All that matters is what they will defend in public in their own language. Anything said to you in English, in private, doesn't count. In Washington, officials lie in public and tell the truth off the record. In the Mideast, officials say what they really believe in public and tell you what you want to hear in private.

Rule 2: Any reporter or U.S. Army officer wanting to serve in Iraq should have to take a test, consisting of one question: "Do you think the shortest distance between two points is a straight line?" If you answer yes, you can't go to Iraq. You can serve in Japan, Korea or Germany -- not Iraq.

Rule 3: If you can't explain something to Middle Easterners with a conspiracy theory, then don't try to explain it at all -- they won't believe it.

Rule 4: In the Middle East, never take a concession, except out of the mouth of the person doing the conceding. If I had a dollar for every time someone agreed to recognize Israel on behalf of Yasser Arafat, I could paper my walls.

Rule 5: Never lead your story out of Lebanon, Gaza or Iraq with a cease-fire; it will always be over before the next morning's paper.

Rule 6: In the Middle East, the extremists go all the way, and the moderates tend to just go away.

Rule 7: The most oft-used expression by moderate Arab pols is: "We were just about to stand up to the bad guys when you stupid Americans did that stupid thing. Had you stupid Americans not done that stupid thing, we would have stood up, but now it's too late. It's all your fault for being so stupid."

Rule 8: Civil wars in the Arab world are rarely about ideas -- like liberalism vs. communism. They are about which tribe gets to rule. So, yes, Iraq is having a civil war as we once did. But there is no Abe Lincoln in this war. It's the South vs. the South.

Rule 9: In Middle East tribal politics there is rarely a happy medium. When one side is weak, it will tell you, "I'm weak, how can I compromise?" And when it's strong, it will tell you, "I'm strong, why should I compromise?"

Rule 10: Mideast civil wars end in one of three ways: a) like the U.S. civil war, with one side vanquishing the other; b) like the Cyprus civil war, with a hard partition and a wall dividing the parties; or c) like the Lebanon civil war, with a soft partition under an iron fist (Syria) that keeps everyone in line. Saddam used to be the iron fist in Iraq. Now it is us. If we don't want to play that role, Iraq's civil war will end with A or B.

Rule 11: The most underestimated emotion in Arab politics is humiliation. The Israeli-Arab conflict, for instance, is not just about borders. Israel's mere existence is a daily humiliation to Muslims, who can't understand how, if they have the superior religion, Israel can be so powerful.

Al Jazeera's editor, Ahmed Sheikh, said it best when he recently told the Swiss weekly Die Weltwoche: "It gnaws at the people in the Middle East that such a small country as Israel, with only about 7 million inhabitants, can defeat the Arab nation with its 350 million. That hurts our collective ego. The Palestinian problem is in the genes of every Arab. The West's problem is that it does not understand this."

Rule 12: Thus, the Israelis will always win, and the Palestinians will always make sure they never enjoy it. Everything else is just commentary.

Rule 13: Our first priority is democracy, but the Arabs' first priority is "justice." The oft-warring Arab tribes are all wounded souls, who really have been hurt by colonial powers, by Jewish settlements on Palestinian land, by Arab kings and dictators, and, most of all, by each other in endless tribal wars.

For Iraq's long-abused Shiite majority, democracy is first and foremost a vehicle to get justice. Ditto the Kurds. For the minority Sunnis, democracy in Iraq is a vehicle of injustice. For us, democracy is all about protecting minority rights. For them, democracy is first about consolidating majority rights and getting justice.

Rule 14: The Lebanese historian Kamal Salibi had it right: "Great powers should never get involved in the politics of small tribes."

Rule 15: Whether it is Arab-Israeli peace or democracy in Iraq, you can't want it more than they do.

THE NEW YORK TIMES

Christmas Thoughts

Also, for those with young children, Terry Mattingly has good thoughts on that whole Santa thing, here.

And this ad in today's NYTimes from CNI.

Wishing everyone a blessed Nativity.

What I Like

Last week, we observed the second Divine Liturgy held at our mission, with 27 in attendance. An adjacent small portable building serves as our temporary "hall." Needless to say, some of us had to spill over outside during and after the fellowship meal. I chanced upon an ongoing conversation among 3 of our young men. What were they discussing? Sports? Hardly. Pop culture? Please. Work? Nope. They were comparing their favorite Flannery O'Connor stories. I just love Orthodoxy.

Spengler on Jenkins and Global Christianity

Recently, I have caught up on my Spengler. His regular columns in the Asia Times , unfailingly insightful, are collected here. I took particular interest in his review of The New Faces of Christianity: Believing the Bible in the Global South by Philip Jenkins. The work, which charts the shifting locus of Christianity from the Northern to the Southern Hemisphere, has been generally well-received, and for the most part, Spengler concurs with the consensus. He finds it "indispensible not only for its understanding of global change, but also for its understanding of what Christianity implies." Indeed, Spengler concludes that the "new book is a source of astonishment. One cannot quite make sense of today's world without it."

Spengler does level some criticism at Jenkins, finding him a much better demographer than theologian, whose work sometimes "maddens as much as it informs." For instance, the author views the general uncertainly of life in Africa as the major factor in the explosive growth of sub-Sarahan Christianity. Spengler argues that life in Africa has always been fragile, and even in the face of the AIDS epidemic, the drastic reduction in child mortality has in fact, made life more certain than before.

Also, Spengler faults Jenkins when comparing Christianity and Islam. Most irksome among Jenkins' omissions is a failure to explain the often brutal antagonism between Christianity and Islam throughout Africa. Where he compares the two religions, Jenkins invariably sees common features rather than fundamental differences - yet the vast amounts of Christian blood shed by African Muslims suggest that a great gulf is fixed between the two faiths. Jenkins notes that Christianity is winning the battle for souls in sub-Saharan Africa, but even so, is at a loss to explain why. Here Jenkins is no help at all. In matters of theology and religious practice, he calls attention only to similarities between Islam and Christianity.

Jenkins infers that Africans feel an instinctive cultural affinity with the Old Testament, with its stories of nomadism and polygamy. Spengler dismisses this as so much condescension, indeed the same attitude taken by America's liberal elite towards African fundamentalism (witness mainstream Episcopal hand-wringing over Archbishop Akinola).

Spengler sees other factors as work. First, a more convincing explanation of African identification with the Old Testament is that African Christians identify with ancient Israel because they desire to become part of the People of God, as tribal society disintegrates.

He also credits the role of American evangelical missionaries. US evangelical Christianity…is …unique in its identification with Israel, for Americans selected themselves out from among the nations, and crossed the oceans to come to a New Land in emulation of the Tribes of Israel crossing the Jordan into Canaan. Evangelical Christianity centers on the rebirth of the individual out of his sinful, Gentile origin into Israel, into the People of God, by the miracle of Christ's blood.…Appropriately, American evangelical religion, with its central notion of being saved in the blood, has exercised immense appeal in modern Africa. Even here, however, Spengler believes Jenkins does not follow through fully with his premise. The reason that blood is so important to Christianity (and not just evangelical Christianity) is that the Christian undergoes a change of ethnicity. As Africa emerges from tribalism - if it is to emerge at all - this is decisive. It is the Gentile flesh that is sinful by its nature, and to overcome sin and gain the Kingdom of God, the Christian must be reborn into a new flesh, the flesh of Israel. The blood sacrifice of Jesus Christ is what makes that possible.

Yet, in the end, Spengler finds this to be a seminal work. Some choice Spengler quotes, as follows:

Westerners have spent the past 400 years in a grand effort to make the world seem orderly and reasonable without, however, quite suppressing the strangeness and wonder of life. Now come the new Christians of the Southern Hemisphere, who confound enlightened Western prejudice. The Bible, and above all the Hebrew Bible, speaks immediately to the new Christians of the global South ...unlike the complacent and secure Euro-American Christians who find disturbing the actual Bible of blood and redemption. Southern Christians will dominate the religion within a generation or two and, if Jenkins is right, will bring it closer to its original purpose and character. Southern Christians hold to biblical authority not because they are backward, but because they have embraced the Bible for what it really is. Euro-American Christians who interpret Scripture to suit their evolved cultural tastes are soon-to-be-ex-Christians.

The conclusion suggested by Jenkins' report is that the people of the Southern Hemisphere increasingly are willing to substitute a universal Christian identity for their ethnic or tribal identity, choosing Christianity over Islam. If that is correct, we are witness to one of the most remarkable things to happen in world history.

Reflections of a Humble Heart (continued)

The elder, addressing his monastics:

...I greet you and say to you, "Rejoice!" Rejoice, because you are a Christian and you bear the name of Christ. Rejoice, because, for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ, God has numbered you with His sons, and you daily turn to Him with the words, "Our Father." Rejoice, because the Son of God and your Saviour calls you His brother (John 20:17; Heb. 2:11-12). Rejoice because you are redeemed (Gal 3:13, 1 Tim. 2:6). Rejoice, because from the foundation of the world the Kingdom has been prepared for you (Matt. 24:34), if only you apply yourself in the course of this life to inherit it in eternity. Rejoice, because you are always numbered among those who are saved (Eph. 2:5), and your name is already written in the Book of Life (Rev. 3:5), and of you is required only that you confirm this and that you hold to this great height. Rejoice, because God has called you to please Him in this monastic life. He has clothed you with the robe of salvation (by which you are to understand your baptismal robe) and He has covered you with the garment of joy (Is. 61:10), which is how you should revere your monastic habit. Likewise, rejoice and know that the Mother of God herself and the host of saints protect and watch over you, if only you do no fall into despondency and do not become careless or indifferent towards your calling. If you should stumble, they will help you up, if only you are determined to continue your path and to avoid the mire from which there is no salvation. If we have many enemies along our path to salvation, we also have many friends and helpers....Know that time does not wait for you. Love the time of your life, for this is the time that the Lord has entrusted to you in order that you labor on the salvation of your soul, and there will not be another time....Rejoice, that you are alive and are given the opportunity to manifest love for God, to please God, to labor, to show yourself His faithful servant--and not merely a servant but a son, according to the Gospel (John 1:12). And if you are called to such an honor, to such a joy, well then, endure all trials and misfortunes steadfastly and courageously. In no case hang your head in sorrow, because you have no grounds for doing so.

Reflections of Humble Heart, pages 24-26

Reflections of a Humble Heart

I have recently enjoyed reading Reflections of a Humble Heart, a small book of Orthodox spiritual writings. The title was new to me, and I chanced upon it at the Holy Archangels Monastery bookstore in Kendalia, Texas. The work is taken from an Byzantine manuscript discovered in the Vatican library, then translated into Russian, and only recently into English. The writer was a monk Basil, who recorded the teachings of an unnamed priest. Either the elder was so well-known that his name did not have to be mentioned, or it was recorded in the portions of the manuscript now lost. The great interest for me was that the writings date from early 15th-century Constantinople. By that time, the greatest city in the world had been reduced to a hollow shell of its former self, and the empire--if you could still call it that--extended little farther than the city walls. Written under these dire conditions, I was intrigued to see what it had to say.

I was also curious to discover just how the book would sound to me--and by this I mean that as a 21-century reader, how exactly would I hear and receive the wisdom of 600 years past? I know that for Protestants reading the actual writings of the Reformers, the teachings can seem odd and stilted in light of current beliefs (which ought to be a clue). It was refreshing to discover that the Reflections read as though one were reading a contemporary Orthodox theologian or author. Maybe this is due to the translators, but then maybe it is something a bit more basic; a confirmation of the successfull trasmission of doctrine from generation to generation. I am not saying this to try and score points, or indulge in Orthodox triumphalism, but merely noting my overall impression of the work.

Later on, I will post excerpts from the elder's writings. First, however, I found his thoughts on the impending doom of Constantinople, as well as the relationship of eastern and western Christianity to be of interest. I might note that this is not at all the thrust of the book, merely an aside to his readers in the first few pages.

The enemies of our Lord Jesus Christ will take captive our earth and the Great Church [the Hagia Sophia] will cease to be a temple of God. Great tragedies will overtake the land of the Romans [the "Byzantines"], and by God's great judgment it will cease to exist. People will die, cities will perish, even whole nations will perish, because there is nothing eternal under the sun except the human soul, which is created in the image and likeness of the eternal God. Do not look for help from Western Christians, expecting that they will take up arms in defense of the common Christian heritage. Do not expect this. Because the Western Christians are not Christians; they are pagans.

Before one dismisses the writer as just another knot-headed anti-Latin Greek, the elder goes on to explain:

Even we Orthodox have a lot of things that are pagan....Yes, brother, we have much that is pagan, because we Orthodox are sinners, both as individuals and as a people. However, we are pagans on the surface, while in the depths of our souls we are Christian, because in our humility we have Christ in our hearts....Western peoples are Christian on the surface, but in their hearts, in their souls, they are pagan. We Orthodox grieve that we have idols living in our souls, and in humility we fall prostrate before Christ, desiring with our whole heart to belong to Him. In the case of Westerners, however, Christianity is like a thin gilding over copper; the rest is wholly pagan, because within their souls they bow down before their idols and these idols reign over them. They are proud, and Christ does not dwell in their hearts. For this reason, we Orthodox are truly pagans--on the surface--but deep within we are Christians; while the Western Latins are Christians on the surface but pagans underneath. Therefore, do no expect that they will help us. We Orthodox are strangers to them. Of course, in every nation there are good and humble people who bear Christ in their hearts and in their way of life.

I find his 15th-century analysis of what separated East from West interesting, to say this least. Of course, the elder realized he was speaking in broad terms, and he qualified his judgment in the last statement. I would be curious to know if anyone finds merit to the distinctions he draws.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 7 (final)—The Monastery

This subject may seem an odd choice for my last observation in this series. But the Texas Hill Country is also home to Holy Archangels Greek Orthodox Monastery, located between Kendalia and Twin Sisters (or between Blanco and Boerne, to put it in a slightly larger context). Going to monasteries is what Orthodox people do. I am no exception.

The monastery occupies 155 acres at the end of a dead-end road. Frankly, it took me a while to track it down. Holy Archangels is one of the 15 monasteries founded across America by Elder Ephraim, and has been in existence for about 10 years. As I understand it, there are presently 3 priest and 7 monks in residence. A number of Orthodox faithful come for services on the weekend, and the homes along the little road leading to the monastery are lined with the vacation and/or weekend homes of Orthodox who wish to be close by.

I inquired about the metal framework for a large dome that I saw lying on the ground behind some building supplies. The monk informed me that the property had been previously owned by a Muslim group who had a mosque here, and that was their dome. So, he concluded, it was a double blessing: a mosque was destroyed and a monastery established. At the risk of engaging in a brief moment of triumphalism, I couldn’t help but agree.

The church at Holy Archangels is simply beautiful, the intricately carved iconostasis (made in Greece) is as impressive as any I have seen. A large amount of construction is underway at the monastery. A 3-story dormitory is being built around the church, large enough to accommodate 100 monks, as well as providing for an iconography studio and other needs.

All in all, I was impressed. The monks are unfailingly friendly and hospitable. I have seen discussions among Orthodox bloggers, with various insights pro and con about the role of monasteries in American Orthodoxy, and their influence in Orthodoxy in general. Some may believe that these monasteries perpetuate a perceived Orthodox “exoticism,” and worry that Orthodoxy will never really fit in, so to speak, to American society. God grant that we never “fit in.” Our country is saturated with that "fit-in" style of religion. But really—and I hope I am not setting up a straw man, here—I think this argument approaches the issue from the wrong angle. I view these monasteries as healthy, and while they are certainly a new addition to the landscape that doesn’t mean that do not belong here. We are a mongrel, polygot nation. We are, and have always been, in the process of becoming. I recall a magazine cover from several years back with an artist’s conception of what the average American would look like in the year 2050. And unless you are already part Caucasian, part black, part Asian and part Hispanic, then this average future American will not look like you, or like me. That is our future, as a nation. And in this particular part of the world, any concern about Orthodox "exoticism" just falls flat. We WASPs have only been here 160 years, hardy long enough to make an indelible stamp; and even from the beginning, heavily diluted with German Lutheranism and Hispanic Catholicism. The monks in their black cassocks, going about their work and worship at Holy Archangels Monastery look as natural in this rugged hill country as anybody else who has come along. In fact, maybe more so. The region has just a hint of Greece to it.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 6--Luckenbach on a Friday Night

Back in 1970s, the little German village of Luckenback, Texas became something of pop culture icon, or at least among Willie Nelson/Waylon Jennings/Chris Kristofferson aficionados. I hated all the hoopla back then. I have since mellowed, and let's face it, Luckenbach has always been mellow, so we are now a good match. This local watering hole persists, with a dogged determination to preserve a unique take on life. The old store has been there, almost forever. But the main attraction is the shed on the back--a 25' square room with a bar around 2 sides, a cookstove for heat, a smattering of benches and stools, with every inch of wall covered with memorabilia. On this particular Friday night, 6 musicians sat in a circle, taking turns picking and singing. Some 25-30 of us were huddled around, backing up to the stove for warmth when need be, listening to such classics as "Watching the Fire Go Out," and "I'm the Lonliest Man in Town." Or, at least with the obligatory Shiner Bock, they seemed like classics.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 5—Enchanted Rock

Enchanted Rock is a noted landmark between Llano and Fredericksburg, Texas. If a foreign visitor were to ask me the one place that is quintessentially “Texas,” this would be the spot. Although a huge granite outcropping, to call it a mountain would invite ridicule from those who live where there are real mountains. Yet, it is certainly something more than just a large hill. I have climbed it 5 or 6 times—so far. After spending most of this fall on crutches, scaling the peak was something of a personal vindication as well. My healing foot made it just fine, and gasping for breath as I approached the summit was not as embarrassing as expected. I enjoy the view, and watching the sunset from here is a special treat, though this day was noticeably chilly and overcast.

Captain Jack Hays was the hero of a famous Indian skirmish here in 1845. He was working on a survey party, became separated from his group, and soon found himself confronted by about 20 Comanche. He sought refuge on the peak, as the war party followed. Hays was able to keep them at bay, without ever firing a shot. As they would approach up the bald, unprotected face of the mountain, he would rise to fire off a shot, and they would retreat back. This standoff allowed his survey party time to discover what had happened and come to his rescue. Hays went on the have a distinguished career, which included becoming mayor of Oakland, California.

Conditions remained dicey here, even 20 years later. The Civil War wiped away whatever defenses that the U. S. Army and/or Texas Rangers had afforded. My great- grandmother’s brother, Charles, was a young man of 20 years, just home from the war in July of 1865. He volunteered to help his uncle and family move from Honey Creek down to Mountain Home, a two-three day journey. On the return, Charlie stopped off in Fredericksburg, refreshed himself in a local saloon and then pushed on. About four miles out of town, he stopped at a creek to water the team and camp out for the night. He was ambushed by a party of Comanche, tied to a wagon wheel, tortured and then scalped. Neighbors overheard his screams. When word reached his family's ranch on Sandy Creek, his father, brother and brother-in-law set off to retrieve his body. Before leaving, they dug a hasty grave for him next to his mother. The heat and the time delay, however, dictated that they bury him where found, south of Enchanted Rock. In 1923, my granddad and his uncles sought to relocate the grave, but to no avail. Soon after the tragedy, my family abandoned their home of 13 years and moved 75 miles northeast to a safer area. They would remain away for 12 years. The murder (and the subsequent murder of another uncle nearby some 4 years later) has always made me take a somewhat jaundiced view of the “noble red man” school of revisionist American history. I realize that it was 140 years ago, but generationally (merely my grandfather’s uncles), it was not far removed at all, and the stuff of my childhood stories.

Looking out from Enchanted Rock, I recalled this saga, and pondered how life seldom works out the way we envision. And thank God for that. Most of our envisioning is motivated by our selfish wants and whims of the moment. Somehow this story causes me pause, even at home when I walk down our hallway and the honest, confident, clean-shaven and youthful face of my Uncle Charlie stares out at me from the old daguerreotype on the wall. If my family had not been chased off by the Indian depredations, my great-grandmother would have never met my great-grandfather (himself, ironically, part-Indian). Their love, and the years and obstacles that stood in the way of their marriage, is another story. But somehow, this twisting tale is all God’s grace, and part and parcel of who I am.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 4 -- The Grove

The family of my great-grandmother Nannie was the last of my relatives to settle in the Hill Country of Texas, arriving in 1879. Her parents lived in a 2-story house on a flat stretch of high ground. Nannie lived there in later years, as did my dad, one year. The school in his neighborhood went only through the 10th grade. He lived with his grandmother so that he could attend the 11th grade and graduate from high school. The little rock schoolhouse down the road had a graduating class of 8.

In 1882, Nannie’s little brother, Willie, died. My great-great grandparents laid him to rest in a live oak grove a couple of hundred feet west of the house. The cemetery took on the name of Nannie’s family, even though it soon grew into a community burial ground. The house is long gone, marked only by a cistern and a straggling fig bush. In fact, the cemetery is now so large that most of the house site is within its fence. The oldest area, under the live oaks, is filled with my kin. I remember hearing accounts of my grandmother’s funeral in 1934--the casket being carried directly from the house to the grove, the waves of grief and incomprehension of the children, the uncomforting words of the preacher—as they laid her to rest, next to her father and near her Uncle Willie. The effects of her untimely death still ripple down through the generations.

From the early 1980s through the mid 1990s, I would visit my favorite uncle, who had retired to nearby Georgetown. Our Saturday morning routine would never vary—after a pot of coffee and pecan waffles, we would hit the road. Sometimes we would visit this or that family landmark. Sometimes we would drop in for a cup of coffee with another uncle, though always leaving before the war-stories could begin. We would often check on various older relatives, with my uncle being the self-assigned caretaker. We might even stop by Jimbo Davis’ roadhouse on the way back. But always, we would stop at the live oak grove.

Here we would perpetuate an age-old country tradition. Neither of us knew why it started, or why we continued to do it. We would keep our family’s graves “mounded-up.” Grave sites here are rocky by nature, and seldom grassed over. Old-timers would keep the graves slightly mounded. The cemetery association maintains a pile of rough, course sand just for that purpose. So, we would remember to throw a wheel barrow and shovels in the back of the truck before leaving, and we would, if needed, “mound-up” the graves of my grandfather, grandmother and grandmother’s father. This must be a central Texas thing. It is certainly not done in East Texas, or other parts of the South.

My favorite uncle himself now lies in the grove, as does another uncle and his wife. I try to attend the cemetery work-days whenever possible, though there is little to do. The association does an excellent job of maintaining everything. But we meet out there anyway, and rake the acorns and leaves away. And when need be, I mound-up the graves, and most especially that on my uncle.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 3 -- The Road

My grandmother’s people lived across the river from my granddad’s farm. Though only a few miles apart, as the crow files, the road twists for 7 or 8 miles around the rugged, hilly terrain to connect the two communities. Other than paving, the road has changed little since my dad’s youth. I rarely drive it without seeing deer or turkey. As one travels south, the road unwinds into a long straight-of-way, stretching nearly a mile from one hilltop to the next. This is known as “Seven-Mile Hill,” though I am unsure of which of the two peaks is so named. This stretch of road is the setting for one of my dad’s favorite stories. Whenever he would begin the story, my mother would always roll her eyes and claim that it “grew” with each telling; much the same way my wife does when I tell it. For it was on this stretch of road, in the summer of 1919, that my dad saw his first automobile.

My granddad was very much the stereotypical old-time Texan. Dark-complected and square-jawed, he stood 6’ 4” in his stocking feet. With boots and Stetson, he seemed 7’ tall. He died when I was 8 years old and he has been my life-long hero. My granddad and his mother-in-law never quite got on, as they say. Nannie was so tiny that she wore a hatband as a belt. She stood 4’ 8” and never weighed over 90 lbs. She kept her hair pulled back tight and wore spectacles over huge, piercing eyes. This gave her a something of a hen-like appearance, and in fact, she looked much like an even tinier version of Granny Clampitt from the “Beverly Hillbillies.” Nannie had been widowed when only in her mid twenties, and never remarried over the course of her long life. And she was tough as a boot. She and my grandfather were evenly matched.

Nannie was not above using a little maternal manipulation. Her three daughters were overly protective of her, and I suppose that they somewhat “petted” her. If things were not particularly going her way, she could pout and throw a "Smith fit," as my grandfather later dubbed it. She imagined herself subject to "heart flutters,” as she put it, particularly in those times when she needed to get her way. The “heart flutters” did, in fact, finally carry her off, but at age 84. My grandmother loved her mother, but she also loved my granddad. They married when she was 19 and he 24, and she left home in a sense that her 2 sisters never did. I suspect Nannie somewhat resented my granddad for taking her oldest daughter away. He, on the other hand, had little patience with her carryings-on. And herein lay the root of their low-level war of wills.

Nannie would come for extended visits. My dad recalled that once, in the midst of a “Smith fit,” she exclaimed, “Well, I’ll just kill myself.” My granddad coolly replied “Well Lizzie, the strychnine is on the mantle, next to the clock. But if you take it, make sure you take enough because if you don’t, it will just make you sick.” Such was the nature of their relationship.

And so on that summer day in 1919, my granddad was carrying Nannie back home. It was a family affair. My granddad was driving the team with my grandmother sitting next to him, holding the baby. My dad, his older brother and his next youngest brother were sitting on the back of the wagon, their bare feet hanging off. And in the bed of the wagon, in a cane chair, sat Nannie. They were nearing her home, when they topped Seven-Mile Hill. In the distance, on the far summit, an automobile was chugging their way. The boys were craning their necks to get a better view of the approaching vehicle. Meanwhile, my grandmother began to admonish her husband to stop and hold the team until the vehicle passed. He, like most of my gender, took a dim view of such sensible instructions. My granddad just keep on his way, as the dust and noise from the car came closer and closer. Sure enough, right before the two travelers met, the jittery horses spooked and reared straight-up. Grandmother clutched the baby and screamed. My dad and his brothers were yelling with excitement, while my granddad was attempting to bring the team back under control. In this midst of this commotion, Nannie’s eyes got “big as sauces,” and without a word, she leapt over the wagon wheel and landed in a bar-ditch. My grandmother turned to my granddad and said, “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and hurt Mother!” It would take more than a tumble in a bar-ditch to do serious harm to Nannie, but I suspect my granddad never heard the end of it;, from either his spouse or his mother-in-law.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 2—The Bridge

Much of my family story played itself out along the Lampasas River of central Texas. The area remains somewhat remote, but with relentless sprawl marching north from Austin, and a smaller version of the same moving south from Fort Hood, the rural nature of this part of the world will ultimately give way. But for a while yet, progress is at bay. In all my returning, I try to visit 3 touchstones: the bridge, the road and the grove.

The old iron bridge over the Lampasas River was brand new in 1914, the year of my father’s birth. I have crossed the rattlely old bridge dozens of times in my life. In recent years, it has been closed to vehicular traffic as a new, low concrete replacement has been opened downstream. At some point, a do-gooding entity of some sort will undoubtedly declare the old bridge to be unsafe, and recommend that it be dismantled. But until then, I retain this link with our past.

It has even gained a bit of fame in its last days. The movie “Second Hand Lions,” starring Robert Duvall and Michael Caine, was shot on location in central Texas. The 2 bridge scenes in the move were shot here. The background scenery was digitally altered, but there is no mistaking the bridge.

My great-grandparents’ farm lay about 1 ½ miles north of the community which was clustered on either side of the bridge. My dad was born in the village and lived there until he was about 6. He was a natural horseman, even as a child. By the time he was 5 years old, my grandparents would set him atop old Star--their gentle mare--and point her in the direction of the general store. There would invariably be a cluster of men gathered around in front of the store, located just north of the bridge. One of them would go in, get the family’s mail, hand it to my dad, and then he would head the horse toward home. The community cemetery (perhaps one of the most beautiful in Texas), lies just south of the bridge. My great-grandparents are here, lying beneath massive Woodmen of the World grave monuments. The old Baptist Church is a little west of here, though now a non-denominational something or the other. In my dad’s youth, there would have undoubtedly been a Presbyterian Church somewhere in the area.

The Lampasas River is not much of a river, actually. The banks are high and wide, but the river is sometimes shallow enough that one could walk across without getting unduly wet. A huge sandbar hugs the south bank, just east of the bridge. This, more than anyplace else, served as a community center for the now vanished village. Large enough to accommodate quite a crowd, the sandbar provided the perfect venue for picnicking, swimming, wading, and perhaps some low-key fishing. The rocky bluffs above were also popular. Granddad’s two sisters came of age in the Edwardian era. I recall the faded old hardback pictures—they, with hair piled high beneath wide-brimmed hats, posing with the other area young people on the bluffs.
My dad remembers one gathering from about 1919 or 1920 in particular. Grandmother’s mother, Nannie, and her two other daughters had just returned home from Dallas. I have always been incredulous that Nannie ever lived in that city, for she was notoriously old-fashioned, even then. They had left the Hill Country after the debacle of my youngest great-aunt’s rather thrown-together marriage. The baby died and the husband bolted. The whole saga was a little scandalous for that day and time, and so they decamped for the anonymity of the city for a while. My aunt would recover. She would marry again. And again. And again. But at that time, friends and family were just glad to have them back where they belonged. As my dad recalled, everyone was down on the sandbar. His younger brother (not much past toddler stage) had captured a horned-toad that he was carrying around in a shoe box. He was chasing his aunt, both of them running barefoot across the sandbar. My great-aunt was something of a tomboy and hardly afraid of a horned-toad. But she was glad to play along with her nephew. Standing on the old bridge, looking down, I can just about see it all, in my mind’s eye.

Return to the Hill Country

Part 1--The Farmhouse

I am going to stray a bit from my usual topics and take a break from fretting about our foreign policy, George Bush, Pope Benedict, the Armenian Genocide, the banalities of our popular culture, as well my various observations of a religious nature, etc. Rather, I want to flesh out some jumbled thoughts and impressions that are never far from my consciousness. They are all of a family nature. Whether the writing of them will be therapeutic, or merely self-indulgent navel-gazing, remains to be seen. But I do apologize in advance, so don't feel compelled to read through all these ramblings.

In recent weeks, I have had the opportunity to spend time in the Texas Hill Country--that ruggedly beautiful region than fans out northwest, west and southwest from Austin. As much as I enjoy the scenery, the real treat is the approach to life one finds here—straight-forward and honest, little given to pretense, egaliterian, lively, yet laid-back. My own region of the state, by comparison, appears cramped, uptight and often given over to superficial pettiness. I recognize the romanticism in all this--there's clearly good and bad all over.

My roots are here, at least on the paternal side of things, though my immediate family has been gone for 70 years now. My dad’s leaving had everything to do with the cold, hard necessities of the Depression era. His life (and as a result, mine) was played out elsewhere, and in the measure of the world, done so with some degree of success. And yet, I have always believed that something special and meaningful was lost along the way. And so, I return here, time and again, whenever possible; looking for that intangible, and on occasion, catching a glimpse of it.

A distant cousin invited us to a Christmas barbeque at her ranch, which served as the excuse for the most recent excursion. Although she lives in Austin, she lovingly maintains the old 1870s farmhouse, and drives out several times a week. And her holiday get-togethers are always done up right—this year being a catered, chuck wagon barbeque out on the hilltop homestead. The connections are now remote—my closest kin there being a few remaining 2nd cousins of my dad. But my surname removes these gradations, and I treasure the time spent with these easy, gentle souls. I allow myself a little pride here, noting that the adjoining “mountain” (more like a butte, actually) bears our name and still gives testimony to the role we played in this place.

On the drive out, I made a quick detour by my grandparent’s last farm. My granddad had sold the earlier, old family farm in 1920. With his sisters living elsewhere and owning a 2/3 interest in the place, the decision was made to sell. And so they did. A succession of rented places followed; first by grandmother’s people, and then later among granddad’s, until he purchased this 160 acre farm in the late 1920s. There's no getting around the fact that it is something of a forlorn and melancholy site now. Yet, in my mind I can see the bustling farmstead in its day. They grew crops of all kinds--cotton, as well as row crops--raised beef cattle, kept dairy cows, sheep, horses, mules—altogether as diversied and self-sufficient a farm as could be. My granddad served on the board of the little school house located two miles south. And, most importantly, grandmother had a church of her faith within riding or driving distance. Theirs was a happy home.

My granddad was a forward-looking, optimistic sort—perhaps foolishly so. After the Stock Market Crash of 1929, agriculture and cattle prices dropped sharply. While prices were low, he figured that this would be a good time to expand. The leading local mercantile firm was happy to oblige and gave him more than enough rope. But agricultural prices had not stabilized, they had just paused before dropping off the precipice into nothingness. My granddad was a proud man and concealed their plight from his children, who really did not realize they were poor. My dad thought he was going to college. Granddad talked him into putting it off a year or two, and by that time it was out of the question. During this time, my dad when out to the Texas Panhandle (in the fall of 1933) to earn extra money by picking cotton. Some cousins were becoming well-established out there, and had a job waiting for him. He returned home for Christmas, only to find an empty and deserted farm. The lender had pulled the plug—taking everything, even my dad’s personal horse and saddle. This event, in turn, led directly to my grandmother’s untimely death 3 months later, which completed the tragedy. My dad had just turned 20 years old; his baby brother had just turned 3 weeks old. My dad and his younger brother had to go to work to support the younger children, wo were more or less farmed out among various relatives. So, the farm became a melancholy place in our collective family memory.

The little box house still hangs on, after a fashion. The porches are long gone, and recent owners have covered the structure in tin and used it as a barn and/or storage building. I stopped to have a look around. The back was more or less off the house, so I just hopped in. Since I was trespassing, I didn’t linger long. The wood floors remain firm and strong. The ceiling and some interior walls have been removed to facilitate storage. The room that must have been my grandmother’s kitchen lay next to the back porch. But I couldn’t tell where the stovepipe into the parlor had been. I recall the story vividly. My dad’s older brother, who always took him self very, very seriously, was entertaining his girl friend in the parlor. My dad and his younger brother snuck up to the attic room, taking along one of the family cats. Somehow, they managed to open the stovepipe and shove the cat down the pipe going into the parlor. The mayhem which ensued from a screaching, clawing cat, frantically trying to extricate itself from the stovepipe, brought a swift halt to my uncle’s wooing. My dad, ever quick-witted, made a hasty retreat down the stairs and out the back of the house. His younger brother, convulsing in laughter, was a little slower on the getaway and, unfortunately for him I suppose, by that time my granddad was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. I smiled as I jumped to the ground from where the porch had been. As I walked back to my vehicle, I noticed narcissuses coming up in the surrounding pasture and wondered if my grandmother had planted them. And I also paused to wonder what all of our lives would have been like had they not lost the farm, had she lived to a ripe old age and if the family had stayed together? But such thoughts are not helpful and are not productive of anything. And worse yet, such thinking discredits and discounts the very real providence of God. And so I drove off, for my cousins, and the barbeque, were waiting.