Shards of Culture

If for no other reason, I enjoy checking in at the Ochlophobist because it keeps me abreast of all those books that I should have already read. One case in point is Faded Mosaic: The Emergence of Post-Cultural America, referenced by Owen a few posts back. This volume was published by Christopher Clausen back in 2000. The only thing that dates the book is the author's persistent capitalization of "Internet." It's funny to think back to what a relatively new thing that was at that time.

I certainly know better than to do so, but I waste considerable time fretting about the sorry state of American culture. I would recommend the book to those similarly afflicted. But the first thing the author teaches is that the usage of the term "American culture" has no real meaning. I am guiltier than most in the sloppy usage of the phrase (but no longer.) Clausen contends not just that we are past all that, but rather we never really had it to begin with. We have always been a place that shredded cultures, seeking a "mass individualism," that he describes as being "an individualism without much individuality."

Nor are we in any way "multicultural," that is, if one defines multiculturalism as a society where differing cultures flourish and coexist with one another. The peculiarly American take on the concept is that the sharp edges of cultures get worn down, and then bits and pieces of varying cultures are cherry-picked as an individual's choice. In so doing, the true culture which once was determinative, loses all real meaning. In a telling example, he chronicles the Schandler-Wong family of Hawaii. The Jewish-American Schandler bride marries the Chinese-American Wong groom. The newlyweds construct a life with carefully selected bits of each heritage. When the Chinese groom eventually converted to Judaism, his mother was ecstatic, concluding that now he was truly American. The couple had woven Jewish, Chinese and Hawaiian cultures into their home like a bird building a nest from twigs, mud and foil....Any influence that Jewish, Chinese or Hawaiian cultures have on this family is purely residual, a matter of individual preference, and individual preference is the opposite of culture as traditionally understood. [As an aside, one wonders how Clausen would analyze a similar Hawaiian family of the same era, combining the heritage of Kansas with Kenya.]

Clausen posits that multiculturalism is, and has always been, an agenda or a program, and never a condition or state of affairs. He labels our real condition as "post-cultural." The best line in the book, in my opinion is this: Post-culturalism turns everything, whether sacred or profane, into twigs and foil from which any breed of bird can try to build a nest. The real meat of our cultures has been ground down to mush, from which emerges not a "multicultural" society, but one in which for all our vaunted "diversity," we are all very much the same. No other country has so undermined through its founding ideals and actual ways of life, the identities of those who lived there. By gradually turning more and more categories of outsiders into insiders, a process without logical limit, America began to solve some of the oldest problems of humanity while systematically dismantling the whole basis of traditional cultures.

Clausen finds similarities between the diversity Leftists and Right-wing groups. In the contest suburbs of social ideology, multiculturalism on the left and monoculturalism on the right flourish deceptively as expressions of longing for a past--differently interpreted, of course-- that has drifted beyond recovery. At bottom they both mean living in a museum.

In conclusion, Clausen asks:

Now that most of the old guide posts have rotted away, will individuals who have been emancipated from every authority but their own personalities start to rediscover some stronger basis for harmony and mutual respect than a bland refusal to judge.?"

And:

...the negative qualities of the post-cultural condition are a deformed version of the good ones--the sentimental narcissism of those who recognize no demand but self-satisfaction, emotional exhibitionism, a substitute religion of products and celebrities, a smug indifference to the cause of conflict in the world.

In his concluding paragraph, Clausen tacks-on a hopeful note--something of a well, this is just who we are, and as shallow as it is, it sure beats the alternative rationalization. Personally, I find this to be unconvincing--he did too good a job convincing me otherwise.

Three from the Times

Several articles caught my attention in today's New York Times.

First, there is this on my favorite television program, Morning Joe, the only show I try to watch with regularity.

And this is why I tune in:

Some guests, used to the formulaic structure of other programs, have been confused by the program’s improvisational format. “We had one guest that kept coming on the set, saying ‘What are we talking about today, I didn’t get my talking points?’ ” Joe recalled. “And finally Mika turned to her and said, ‘It’s in the damn newspaper, and if you read it, you’ll know what we’ll be talking about.’ ”


Then there is The Ghosts of Gandamak, on the first Anglo-Afghan War. The writer is William Dalrymple, author of From the Holy Mountain. He is a great favorite of mine and, I suspect, of many other visitors here as well. He is researching for an upcoming work on the history of the First Anglo-Afghan War. An excerpt that speaks for itself:

The course of that distant Victorian war followed a trajectory that is beginning to seem distinctly familiar. In 1839, the British invaded Afghanistan on the basis of dubious intelligence about a nonexistent threat: information about a single Russian envoy to Kabul, the Afghan capital, was manipulated by a group of ambitious hawks to create a scare about a phantom Russian invasion, thus bringing about an unnecessary, expensive and wholly avoidable conflict.

Initially, the British conquest proved remarkably easy and bloodless; Kabul was captured within a few months and a pliable monarch, Shah Shuja, placed on the throne. Then an insurgency began which unraveled that first heady success, first among the Pashtuns of Kandahar and Helmand, then slowly moving northward until it reached the capital.

What happened next is a warning of how bad things could yet become: a full-scale rebellion against the British broke out in Kabul, and the two most senior British envoys were murdered, making the British occupation impossible to sustain. On the disastrous retreat that followed, as many as 18,000 East India Company troops and maybe half again as many Indian camp followers (estimates vary), were slaughtered by Afghan marksmen waiting in ambush amid the snow drifts and high passes, shot down as they trudged through the icy depths of the Afghan winter.

The last 50 or so survivors made their final stand at Gandamak. As late as the 1970s, fragments of Victorian weaponry could be found lying in the screes above the village; even today, the hill is covered with bleached British bones. Only one man, Thomas Souter, lived to tell the tale. It is a measure of the increasingly pertinent parallels between the events of 1842 and today’s that one of the main NATO bases in Afghanistan is named Camp Souter.


And finally, there is the article on Julian Castro, the squeaky-clean, 35-year old, Harvard educated mayor of San Antonio, Texas. Some tout him as our future First Hispanic President (sorry, George P.) He is the son of longtime La Raza Unida activist Rosie Castro. His advisers see the path to national prominence as going through the Texas Governor's Mansion (its been done before.) While our demographics are changing, Texas is still very much a GOP stronghold, at least for the next 6 to 8 years. To break through, the Democratic candidate will need every vote in the Rio Grande Valley. To assist in this, Castro's advisers have quietly arranged for him to be tutored in...ahem...Spanish. That's right, the Latino son of a La Raza Unida leader is taking Spanish lessons from a Ms. Bronstein so he could pursue his national aspirations. Only in America, folks!

Orthodox Turks

Notes on Arab Orthodoxy is a favorite blog of mine. I was interested to see a recent post there concerning Turkish converts to Orthodoxy, found here. From all accounts, there have been a number of Turks who have become Orthodox Christians in recent years--perhaps a thousand or so. This has been occurring below the radar screen, as can be well imagined. To be sure, this is not a major trend in Turkish society, but the fact that it is happening at all, given the nature of Turkish nationalism, is itself noteworthy. As I have noted time and again, interesting things are taking place in Turkey--a country which defies simplistic categorization. An excerpt from the interview with 2 Orthodox Turks:


—Ahmet, probably your desire to become a Christian arose while you were living and working in a Christian country?

A.: No, the ground had been cultivated much earlier. Unfortunately, Christianity in Turkey is viewed as something that comes from the ”outside.” This is a mistake, because Orthodoxy is a part of our land's history. This can be seen from the privileges that Mehmet the Conqueror gave to the Constantinople Patriarchate.

I had some idea of Christianity from childhood, although it was through the prism of Islam. Many Moslems have great respect for Christians, which is bound up with the fact that the Koran accepts Jesus as a prophet. In general, Moslems also respect the Most Holy Mother of God. I think that you have seen the crowds of faithful Moslems who gather in the Romeian churches of Istanbul in order to venerate the holy shrines, and ask for help. In Turkey, we are prepared to accept the message of Christianity.

If there are problems, they are bound up with the education that both sides receive, and with ignorance. For example, many Moslems do not understand the meaning of the teaching on the Holy Trinity and think that we worship three gods, and that Christianity is a political religion. I do not say this as a criticism of Islam, but only present the fact as an example to show how uninformed they are.

—Necla, did your search also begin in Turkey?

N.: Yes, when I was studying in the university. My family was on the whole religious, but without following all the precepts of Islam to the letter. I considered myself a Moslem until I began to distance myself from Islam during my studies in Ankara. My parents allowed me the freedom to decide my relationship to religion. While I was in Islam, I felt an emptiness that demanded fulfillment. I read, and searched. I entered upon a path that led me to Orthodoxy.

—It would follow that your path to Orthodoxy was the result of ”local” experience, without any influence from outside of Turkey?

A.: Any influence from American or European Christianity can only do harm. I never felt comfortable with the Christians there. They repelled me from Christianity by turning it into psychotherapy. They go to church on Sundays to talk. However, religion has an aim of filling a certain other emptiness. In Europe, Christianity has been relegated to holidays without any connection to religion. Take the Nativity of Christ, for example. Many people greet each other with the words, ”Happy holidays,” instead of Happy Nativity.” In Europe, people have a superficial connection to Christianity, without an understanding of its spiritual meaning.

The post also has great links to Orthodox churches in the Hatay, that region around Antakya (Antioch) that was part of Syria until 1939.

And while the subject of Turkey is at hand, a young Turkish writer reflects on the Armenian Genocide (really), here. This is a must-read.

Tarnished Silver

Mary, a good friend and member of our little mission here, is back in the blogging business, I am happy to say. I particularly enjoy her latest posting, found here. Sitting at the kitchen table late at night, while polishing an old silver service, triggers memories of Kentucky and a difficult grandfather. I find it to be very well done. If you like that sort of thing, be sure and visit her blog.

Me and ZZ

Last Friday night, I attended a ZZTop concert. I offer up the same excuse as did Adam--it was my wife's idea. There are few people less likely to attend a rock concert than myself. I have not been to one since...well, actually I have never been to one. I guess I am just not much of a music person. And while several of their songs are clever, I was never interested enough to actually buy any of their music. In short, this is nothing that I would have ever, ever done on my own initiative. I would have been just fine, sitting at home with a good book.

My wife is much more of a music person than I am, and was enthused about seeing ZZTop's performance. The venue was a local auditorium known as "The Oil Palace" (how Texan is that?) Her enthusiasm aside, my wife is not exactly rock concert material, either. I suspect that she was the only woman there in pearls, wearing Merle Norman cosmetics. Also, as she is a absolute teetotaller, I was the one who was more in sync with the, ahem, festive nature of the crowd (and yes, you do meet the friendliest people in a beer line.) We both enjoyed ourselves--as much from people-watching, as from the music. And it's kind of like the opera--after you've done it once, you don't ever have to do it again.

A good friend of mine likes to lament the downward trajectory of our nation ever since LBJ, Vietnam and the 60s. I suspect this crowd would supply ample ammunition for his premise. But I thoroughly enjoyed this crowd--friendly, fun-loving and gregarious. There are worse things.

I do not like to be in a crush of people, so we waited until most had left the auditorium before we started to leave. The clean-up crew was already at work, sweeping the aisles clean of the hundreds of beer bottles laying about. They had their work cut out for them, as everything had to be spic-and-span for the next day's event. Our local tea-partiers--Grassroots America--We the People (GAWTP for short, and yes, they use that acronym themselves.) had a big rally planned at 4:30 Saturday. Then at 6, Governor Rick, local Rep. Leo "Birther" Berman, U.S. Rep. Louie Gohmert were expected to fire up the crowd in anticipation of the headliner, none other than Glenn Beck himself.

I would venture to guess that there was virtually zero overlap between the Friday night partiers and the Saturday night patriots. The GAWTPers were a well-scrubbed bunch decked out in red, white, and blue, fervently worshipping the Trinity of Freedom, Faith and Free-Enterprise, rared-up and ready to "take their country back." The coverage in the Sunday morning paper did not disappoint. Rep. Berman told the crowd that "Obama was God's punishment" on America. Glenn Beck challenged these latter-day Patriots to ask themselves some searching questions, such as : "Do you believe this is God's land?" and "Do you believe our Constitution was divinely inspired?" He reminded the 4,500 in attendance that "the American flag is a symbol of God's Freedom." In my little corner of the world, it is craziness such as this that passes for conventional wisdom.

I am afraid that as a nation, we are beyond saving. And as a culture...well, I think we are pretty much screwed, as well. But as John Lukacs has noted, living at the end of an age is not such a bad thing, if you are aware of it: So living during the decline of the West--and being much aware of it--is not at all that hopeless and terrible. If I have to go down with the ship, I think I will cast my lot with those Friday night rockers, rather than the Saturday night patriots.

Larison on Un-Christian Delusions

Daniel Larison, here, takes to task Michael Novak and First Things, and their neocon-servative lunacy found here. The subject at hand is Novak's plea for a proposed pre-emptive strike on Iran. Daniel notes:

It is bad enough that Novak invokes Niebuhr (!) in support of this mad call for unprovoked, unnecessary war, but when he says that the “most dreadful war of all time is just ahead of us, is already well begun” we can safely say that he has lost all touch with reality. WWII remains the most dreadful war of all time, and nothing on the horizon even remotely compares to the loss of life and destruction that occurred in that war. So there is nothing realistic at all about Novak’s “Christian realism,” and neither is there anything Christian about it if that word is to have any connection to the teachings of Our Lord.

There is no justification for destroying what peace exists to satisfy our irrational fears of a deterrable and containable threat. There is no conceivable justification for initiating hostilities to attempt to stop the potential future acquisition of a weapon that the other state is very unlikely to use against us or our allies. To start a war for such a reason would be a crime against God and man.

The message is quite clear: if you treasure the sacred places where God revealed Himself, you will endorse my monstrous proposal, and otherwise you probably don’t really care about these places or the revelation itself. The proposal is horrible, and the manipulation being employed to advance the proposal is simply despicable.

As usual, I find myself in total agreement with Mr. Larison. The comments are of interest, as well, including the observations of David Lindsay, who writes:

Why does Zionism play so well among many (not all) Evangelicals? It is not usually because they subscribe to Dispensationalism....No, it is because they either do not know, or do not want to know, about Levantine Christianity, much as they either do not know, or do not want to know, about the Sub-Apostolic Fathers. They do not wish to be confronted with entirely matter-of-fact descriptions of all things “Romish” existing during the lifetimes of the Apostles and providing the context that the New Testament text presupposes. Nor do they wish to be confronted with the entirely matter-of-fact existence of communities of that kind which have been present continuously for two thousand years, right there in the Bible Lands.

Christian communities that go all the way back to the Day of Pentecost are problematic enough in themselves for them....Evangelical theology is increasingly looking beyond the nineteenth and twentieth centuries to its earlier and more cerebral roots, and thus to a place within the older, broader and deeper Tradition. Approaches to the Middle East are starting to reflect this shift....But most churchgoers, and indeed most clergy, are not academic theologians. So, for the most part, the attitude continues to be essentially the same as that which has since the nineteenth century maintained the completely made-up Garden Tomb because those who invented it did not like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and did not want people to know about it.

An Oversight

Somehow, I missed the news that the Ora et Labora blog was up and going again. I have a lot of catching-up to do, it seems.

In Funky Town and Around

Every Spring I help chaperon 20-30 college students from our area on a field trip to the General Land Office in Austin, Texas. It does me good to venture beyond the Pine Curtain from time to time. This year, I took off a couple of days early to poke around in the Texas Hill Country, the absolute best region of our state.

Friday:
I left at 4:00 AM and by 8:30 I was having breakfast at the Bluebonnet Cafe in downtown Marble Falls, still going strong after 81 years. From there, I charted my path for that day: a long, sweeping, counter-clockwise loop around the edges of the Hill Country, then back to Austin for the night.

My first stop was to check out a few ghost towns northwest of Llano--Valley Mills, Pontotoc and Katemcy, and do a little bit of genealogy along the way. This stretch of road--from Llano to Mason--had the most spectacular bluebonnets I saw. This area is less frequented by bluebonnet-peepers than the areas closer in to Austin and Fredericksburg. Unfortunately the standard practice is to pull you car off to the side of the road (onto the bluebonnets), tromp out (across the bluebonnets) and sit down cross-legged (amidst the bluebonnets) to have an informal family portrait made. I feel fortunate that I saw them when I did. In another week's time, all that will remain will be smushed bluebonnets.

Nothing much remains of Valley Mills, except a modest stone school house and the picture-perfect hilltop cemetery. Two siblings of my great-granddad's lived here in last quarter of the 19th-century. The families of both moved on to Junction about 1900, but the aunt and some infants were buried here. I found the grave of one of the infants and the probable spot of my aunt's now-unmarked grave. I added her name to my list of graves to mark "one of these days."

I had no family connection with Pontotoc, the next vanishing rural community. The only reference I ever heard of the community was the the tragedy associated with my granddad's best friend and cousin, and his fiance who was from Pontotoc. Both drowned in a 1913 boating accident on the Llano River. Many of the homes and buildings here seem to be constructed from a dark stone, unique to this area. You can tell that at one time, this community was a going concern.

Nothing is left of old Katemcy except a boarded-up church. I stopped at the Bethel Chapel Cemetery nearby to visit the family plot of a distant relative. William Flemon Cowan (1808-1890) was a first cousin to my great-great-great-grandfather. They were about the same age, but chances are that they never saw each other past the time when they were very small children, for their parents' migration patterns went off in divergent directions. But, after the Civil War, my great-great-granddad settled in the same small Central Texas neighborhood as his dad's first cousin. This implies to me that these extended frontier families somehow kept in better contact than we perhaps imagine. Later, William Flemon moved out here to Katemcy, where his son had a mercantile business.

From Katemcy, it was a bit of a stretch out to Junction, but I enjoyed every mile of this new territory. Somewhere past Junction, the Hill County ends and West Texas proper begins. The brother of my great-granddad (though a generation his senior) moved out to this area at the turn of the last century. My dad remembers his aged great-uncle visiting their home in the early 1920s. The man was a rock mason by profession. He and Aunt Hester had six sons. Most of them died as bachelors and there were no grandchildren. In my mind, there was a story here to be uncovered.



Junction is the kind of town where they lock the courthouse doors during lunch hour. Except for the fact that I needed to check some deed records, I kind of liked that pace. While waiting for it to reopen, I went over to the county library. There, I made a discovery that was worth the drive. For in Volume II of the Kimble County History, I discovered an article about this uncle and his family. This made me even more curious, as there were no surviving family members to write it, though the story obviously contained material of a personal and affectionate nature. But beyond that, it contained a detailed account of the Skirmish at Cates' Flat in 1869. This uncle only barely escaped with his life in this Indian battle. His older brother, my Uncle Marion, was not so fortunate. The tragedy is old family lore, but I had never heard about the particulars as outlined here. Apparently, Uncle Marion--anxious for a fight and with the precipitousness of youth--initiated the fight. They had not yet been seen by the Indians, until Marion whooped to get their attention. Only then did they discover the party to be much more numerous than thought. From all accounts, he was dead before they fled the scene, but his cry of "Boys, don't leave me here," haunted them for the rest of their lives. When the news reached my great-great grandmother, they say her wails of grief could be heard across Backbone Valley. Later, a neighborhood party returned to retrieve the body, and of course he had been scalped.

The nice ladies at the library informed me I needed to talk with Frederica over at the County Museum. So after my courthouse run, I stepped over to the local museum to meet her. Every county seems to have someone like this--usually a woman, history-obsessed, who knows every county story and where all the bodies are buried (literally.) Her face lit up when I asked her if she knew my uncle's family. She was old enough that her life overlapped with the children of an uncle born in 1850. She was well-acquainted with the bachelor sons, who all lived together. And as a Cates descendant, she had an uncle in the Skirmish of Cates' Flat. This shared experience cemented a bond between her family and my uncle's. And it was she who penned the article on my uncle's family. I had to chuckle over the obituary of one of the bachelor sons that she had in her collection. It state that he enjoyed submitting articles to the local newspaper, usually on the weather and religion. I bet he did.

From Junction, I headed down to Bandera. Traditionally known primarily as dude ranch central, and increasingly as home to the swankiendas of San Antonio's moneyed set. The city cemetery contains the lone grave of my great-great-grandfather, whose name my father and son share. Born on the Cumberland Plateau of Tennessee, he migrated to Arkansas with his family as a teenager. By the advent of the Civil War, he lived on a small farm south of Fort Smith, with his parents and siblings living on the adjoining place. The war presented a dilemma to the family, as they were all Unionists, and outspoken ones at that. My great-great-granddad's brother and brother-in-law slipped across the border into the Indian Territory where they joined up with Federal forces. My ancestor, with a with and children, decided to try and ride it out. After the Conscription Act of April 1862, he was drafted into the Confederate Army. Meanwhile, the situation back home became increasingly untenable. The family home became a refuge for those of like sentiment avoiding the Rebel authorities. His father was imprisoned and threatened with death, and their crops and livestock were raided repeatedly. His sister suffered a mental breakdown and eventually died after being raped by Confederate bushwackers. After Federal forces occupied Fort Smith, the rest of the family moved into the town for protection. On Christmas leave, in 1862, my ancestor loaded his family and slipped across the border into Indian Territory, leaving Arkansas and the Rebel Army behind forever. My great-granddad told of their crossing the Red River into Texas, when a fall into the water caused his buckskin clothes to shrink past wearing. Within a few years, the family settled on a 200-acre farm near the distant kin earlier mentioned. Some 30 years later and now elderly, they still lived on the place, along with a widowed daughter-in-law and their young grandson. Another son and his new wife lived on the other side of the farm. But all that changed in 1898, for the daughter-in-law gave birth to another child, some 5 years after her husband's death. My great-great grandparents continued to support her, and the infant bore the family name. A month later, they sold their farm and moved to a small house in Bandera, 100 miles away. The reason is not hard to ascertain. No doubt, neighborhood gossip made their continued residence in the area uncomfortable, and they sought a new home where the two young children could come of age untouched by the scandal. My great-great granddad earned money as a teamster in the area. But within two years, he was dead, and the family soon moved elsewhere, having no desire to remain in Bandera. Later on, a family member apparently planted a speria bush at the foot of his grave. Over the decades, the bush consumed the entire plot. So, every few years, I stop by, trim back the shrubbery and leave some flowers. For the first time, I noticed the inscription at the base of the stone: He is not dead, but sleepeth.

From Bandera, I skirted around the north side of San Antonio and made the long trek up the interstate to Austin. I checked in to my headquarters when in the city, the Austin Motel. This old travel court dates back to 1938. It's a quirky little place, but perhaps because of this it stays booked weeks in advance. Austin now promotes the South Congress Avenue neighborhood as "SoCo," but I just call it Funky Town.

Anyway, I quickly showered and left to meet my cousin for drinks and supper. She is another great-great grandchild of the man buried in Bandera. But we are only 3rd cousins, her granddad being a first cousin to mine. An only child who has never married, my cousin is a no-nonsense type of person. She has a distinguished nursing career, while also having cared for both parents in their declining years. My cousin also owns the last 150 acres of her great-granddad's once extensive holdings in Lampasas County. She makes the 70 mile drive twice a week to check on things at the farm. The place was always prone to rattlesnakes, and she says she puts her snake chaps on the gate, before she ever enters the property. I think we have something of a mutual admiration society, and I believe I am the executor of her will.

Saturday:

After the long day before, Saturday progressed at a somewhat slower pace. Truth be told, I did not go to bed immediately after supper with my cousin, as would befit someone of my age. So, Saturday morning found me a bit sluggish. From my motel, I walked through the back neighborhood for about 3 blocks and came out at the Bouldin Creek Coffeehouse, a makeshift affair with outside seating and hippy-dippy waiters with Phd's and tattoes--just what I needed to regroup. After several cups of strong coffee and a light breakfast, I was ready to face the day.

My first stop was the Holy Archangels Monastery in Kendalia, Texas. Over lunch today with a good friend of mine, I was reminded that the non-Orthodox do not really understand our penchant for visiting monasteries. The assumption is that if one visits a monastery, one is contemplating taking vows themselves. I assured him that this was definitely not the case. But I am not at all sure that my explanation clarified the issue any at all. I ended by simply saying it is what Orthodox people do. We go to monasteries.

Most people in the region have no idea that this incredible monastic complex even exists. Perhaps that is a good thing. But for those who seek it out, it is well worth the effort. I am pleased to see that the 40,000 sq. ft. dormitory (that can eventually house 50 monks) is nearing completion. Just as one usually doesn't expect to find an extensive Greek Orthodox monastery in the Texas Hill Country, one does not usually expect to find an Islamic cemetery on monastery grounds either. The property had once been a Sufi Muslim retreat center that ran into legal problems. The center closed, and the Orthodox acquired the property a number of years afterwards. Left behind was a 12-grave Muslim cemetery, now cared-for by this monastic community.

My primary reason for visiting the monastery was to visit the grave of my friend, little Jamie Wingerd (Memory Eternal.) I spent some time at his grave and left some flowers there. The two rows of wooden crosses, marking the resting places of about 26 of the faithful here on the monastery grounds, speaks as eloquently as any of the brick and mortar on the property that the Holy Orthodox Church is here to stay.

At different times, both Fr. Ephraim and Fr. Michael encountered me as I strolled around the grounds. Each insisted that I stay for luncheon with them. This fit my plans exactly, as this is one of those places where you linger and put off leaving as long as possible. I ate the simple, but filling meal in the back dining room with 4 or 5 of the monks and novices, and a couple of men staying there at the time. Afterwards, I helped clean up in the kitchen. Holy Archangels Monastery is one of the most peaceful spots one can imagine. I am anxious to return when I can stay longer.

From Kendalia, I headed north to Fredericksburg. This old German town is ground zero for Texas Hill Country tourism, and at no time more so than in the early Spring. No need to stop here, unless I wanted to fall in line with all the other gawkers trudging up each side on the main drag, glancing in all the shops and boutiques at all the stuff they do not need. Not interested. What I was aiming for, however, was Enchanted Rock, about 16 miles north. This is huge, rounded granite outcropping--a mountain, if you will (in the Texas sense of the word, not the Colorado sense of the word.) Enchanted Rock is something of a touchstone with me. I have been climbing it every few years or so since I was 20 years old. I tell myself that if I can still climb Enchanted Rock, then technically, at least, I am still young. Well, at least relatively so. I knew it would a tougher climb this year, as I was a bit winded by the time I reached the end of the parking lot. Thankfully, there was a concession stand just past, so I fortified myself with some Blue Bell Ice Cream before ascending the peak. I set my pace at a consistent mosey, and started my climb. I reached the summit in better time that I anticipated. I had to think, however, how something done to prove my (relative) youth had, in fact, made me feel so damn old.

A number of climbers milled around the peak. I found them to be a good cross-section of our evolving American cultural mix. Sure, there were plenty of white-bread folks like myself, but I was actually surprised to see the large number of Asian-Americans, Hispanics and Blacks doing the mountain. I am glad. My hope is that this place becomes as much a touchstone for them and their children as it is for me. The sun was beginning to set, so I laid down on the west face of the Rock and soaked-up some sun while it was still there. I had also stuck my Psalter in my back pocket, so I used this opportunity to read the kathisma for the day. If I had an overseas visitor, and I if I had to take them only one place that exemplifies Texas, this would be the spot. Standing on top of the rock, I would say, "Forget Houston. Forget Dallas. This, my friend, is Texas." On the way back, I stopped in Johnson City, hometown of perhaps our most infamous president, and had a chicken-fried steak and a beer. I allow myself 2-3 chicken-fried steaks a year. Back in the motel, I did not do anything but go.to.bed.

Sunday:

I attended Divine Liturgy at St. John the Forerunner Orthodox Church. One of our young parishioners, at school in The University, joined me there. While there were some elderly parishioners in attendance, most of the crowd of 100-110 were young people. This is an Antiochian church, so I picked up on a few differences in practice than in our OCA mission. Overall though, it was much the same. They are in their new building, though really it is just their future hall whenever they build their temple. I think this may be the wrong approach, as churches that build halls first often spend far longer in them than they intend. But then again, they didn't ask me. But I will say this--the acoustics were incredible. And for those Orthodox keeping score on these types of things--no pews.

My fellow parishioner and I had a nice lunch at the Brick Oven, and then she went back to her studies, while I found a New York Times to read. Back at the motel, I swam a few laps in the pool, and then explored the neighborhood some more. I stopped by to visit with Ed, the pot-bellied pig, who lives in the front-yard of a nearby residence. He will let you scratch him. Late in the afternoon, I drove about 15 miles south of town, to visit with another cousin and her husband. They are a generation older than me, but do not act the part. Last summer, they celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary by a trip to Venice--all on money raised from their fruit stand in their front yard. If sales are good enough this year, they'll take off for somewhere else, once the tomatoes stop making. We had a great visit. Back in Austin, I walked over to Freddie's Place, the quintessential Austin neighborhood beer garden, about 4 blocks from my motel.

And so ended my free time in the Austin area. On Monday morning, my students would be arriving and I would have to switch into responsible teacher mode for 2 days. But before they left, I made sure I had introduced some of them to Ed.

Judeo-Muslim Values

The term "Judeo-Christian" has been tossed around quite a bit during my lifetime. I always viewed it with suspicion, its use generally marshaled in support of some politico-religious agenda, usually accompanied by bombast and flag-waving. A cursory examination of the history of the phrase reveals that its meaning has evolved quite a bit since first coined in 1939. A recent column by Dr. Paul Gottfried, here, reveals that there is even less than meets the eye with the term.

Jewish himself, Dr. Gottfried makes a number of important points. First, he bemoans use of the term in "unqualified generalizations about adherents of Islam." He finds that he has more in common and feels safer with his Muslim friends than he does, with say, American Pentecostals. Beyond that, he notes, the following:

1. The issues Jews had and still have with Christians are theological and cultural....the central Christian beliefs, that God became man in Christ and atoned on the cross for human sins, are utter blasphemy from a Jewish or Muslim perspective.

2. Muslims have never represented for Jews the religious problem posed by Christianity because the theological and ritual differences between Jews and Muslims are far less significant. Maimonides (pictured above) pointed out in the 13th century, Jews may pray to Allah because the Muslim and Jewish conceptions of the Deity are the same.

3. Until the eruption of hostilities between Jews and Muslims over Israel, Jews in the West continued to speak far more favorably about Muslims than they did about Christians.

4. Jewish organizations here and in Europe view Christians as people whose exaggerated guilt over the Holocaust can be channeled into support for the Israeli government. Prominent Jewish groups...show nothing but indifference or hostility to the continued existence of Christian institutions in what used to be Christian countries.

Gottfried concludes that Jewish distaste for Christianity is so deep-seated that it cannot be written off as a legacy of Christian anti-Semitism. Indeed, he finds more real meaning to a common Judeo-Muslim rejection of core Christian teachings than he does any alternative reality Jude0-Christianity used to demonize all Muslims.

Well said.

Why I Shouldn't Read the Newspaper during Holy Week

Well, for starters there is this: Easter eggs and over $1M in prizes at S. Texas megachurch. Bay Area Fellowship of Corpus Christi, Texas is giving away over one million dollars worth of flat-screen televisions, skateboards, guitars, and 15 cars as a special Easter promotion. Pastor Bil Cornelius, pictured here, says "We're going to give some stuff away and say, 'Imagine how great heaven is going to be if you feel that excited about a car.'" They are expecting double their usual numbers for Easter.

This is so wrong, on so many different levels, that I do not even know where to begin. So I won't. But it does sort of beg the question, "Would you buy a used car from this preacher?"

Checking in with Mustafa

From time to time, I have promoted the blog of a young Turkish writer, Mustafa Akyol. I continue to do so. In his March 9, 2010 post, Akyol address the Armenian Genocide. While most readers of this blog would take great exception to his conclusions, Akyol does articulate, as well as any, the basic Turkish line on the issue. In fact, you might even say, that in Turkey, his position passes for moderate enlightenment. But his defense is thin indeed, and will not stand much scrutiny. The one comment posted illustrates why such a position is ultimately unconvincing, ahistorical, and satisfactory to no one outside of Anatolia. In his March 12, 2010 post, Akyol tackles the question of gay marriage (yes, in Turkey.) Having no desire to get into that issue, I merely find this a good insight into modern Turkey. The debate is being played out within the AKP, the "Islamist" party in power. And it seems to me that Akyol raises the right questions, not only for Turkey, but for other nations as well.

Conversations on Grace

In recent weeks, I have visited with an old Church of Christ acquaintance from the bad old days. We always used to enjoy discussing the myriad problems in the church. And we were as full of "solutions" as we were full of ourselves. Anyway, we have not talked to any great extent in over 5 years, and I enjoyed reconnecting with him. He feigned ignorance of my now being Orthodox, though I suspected his inquiry into where I was worshipping to be, in truth, a lead-in to broach that very subject.

Though I am usually up for anything, his opening question took me back a little. "Now, the Orthodox Church....is that some of the old and some of the new?" Huh? I had absolutely no idea what he meant by that, but at least I knew how to answer--"it's none of the new!" The extent of American unconcern and ignorance about anything other still slays me sometimes. But I went on to briefly describe, as best I could, the nature of my faith. I am usually pretty abysmal at this. He said, "I just want to know one thing. Do you believe you are saved by grace?" [This was always his big item, which makes his sticking-with the Church of Christ all these years all the more incomprehensible.] I answered affirmatively, but noted that it was probably not in the same meaning he applied to the phrase.

My friend had read up a little bit by our next conversation. He was prepared to take me to task about "issues"--Mary's perpetual virginity, intercessory prayers, the condition of souls in Paradise, apostolic succession, our ascetical labors being "self-absorbed," etc. Much of what he said I now consider blasphemous, but was tempered in my response by the memory that this was exactly the type of conversation I used to delight in. I did not really engage him as he would have liked on these concerns. I knew the conversation was not going anywhere, and if it were to do so, it would not be this way.

He wanted me to read a book that had changed his life, and I agreed to do so. I have not read anything like this is years--So You Don't Want to go to Church Anymore? I actually felt guilty doing so, particularly during Great Lent, as the book was silly, ultimately sad and a near waste of time. I found the book to be full of angst and frustration and hand-wringing, as this particular author laid out his plan to fix the unfixable (house churches, the best I can tell.) My friend asked me what I thought of it, and I told him, hopefully without being too harsh or condescending.

At one point in our conversations, I suggested that if he read one online source to learn about Orthodoxy, to make it Fr. Stephen Freeman's Glory to God For All Things. I hope and pray he does so. Meanwhile, I decided to take my own advice. Fr. Stephen's posts are always excellent, but the last few weeks have been some of his best. Following are excerpts from two in particular that hit home with me.

Just-showing-up-and-the-work-of-grace

There is no denying that grace is a free gift and that it is the true means of our salvation. But what if our problem is not to be primarily understood in legal terms? What if that which needs saving about us is not our guilt before the law of God, but the ravages worked within our heart and life from the presence of sin and death? This is probably the point where many discussions about salvation fall apart. If one person has in mind primarily a forensic salvation (I go to heaven, I don’t go to hell), while the other is thinking primarily in terms of an ontological change (I am corrupted and dying and were I to go to heaven I’d still be corrupted and dying). The debate comes down to a question of whether we need a change of status (forensic) or a change within our very heart.

Orthodox theology, has largely been nurtured in the understanding of salvation as a healing of our heart and a transformation of the whole of our life.

It is difficult for Christians of any sort in our modern world to grasp what it means to be saved by grace, if grace is indeed the very life of God given to us to transform and transfigure us – to change us into conformity with the image of Christ (Roman 8:29). The difficulty with this understanding is that, unlike a change in status, a transformation is slow work. We do not live in a culture that is particularly patient about anything.

The life of grace means that I have given myself to Christ and to the means He has provided for my salvation. I will confess my sins and embrace the life of repentance. I will approach the Cup of His Body and Blood with faith and with trust in His promise of Life. I will be patient as I await His coming to me – as forgiveness – as healing – as transformation from the death of Adam into the Life of Christ. All of which requires that we “show up” – not in the casual sense of the term – but in the sense that we truly struggle to make ourselves available to God.

And from the comboxes:

I cannot have absolute certainty of my eternal destiny. And why is absolute certainty impossible? Because I cannot guarantee my own faith in and love of God. In practical reality all I can do is cry out to God, “Love, have mercy,” in confidence that he is indeed merciful to all who ask for his mercy. And therein is my hope–not absolute certainty … but genuine hope.
.

Ontologically and transformationally, we usually have no clue what we are doing to ourselves by continuing in our sins. It is those deep and hidden wounds that Jesus heals so that we are able to even approach loving one another. I must also pray that my enemy also be healed of his deep and hidden wounds because it is the combination of my wounds and his that make us enemies.


The Nature of Things and our Salvation

1. It is the nature of things that man does not have a legal problem with God. That is to say, the nature of our problem is not forensic. The universe is not a law-court.

2. It is the nature of things that Christ did not come to make bad men good, but to make dead men live. This is to say that the nature of our problem is not moral but existential or ontological. We have a problem that is rooted in the very nature of our existence, not in our behavior. We behave badly because of a prior problem. Good behavior will not correct the problem.

3. It is the nature of things that human beings were created to live through communion with God. We were not created to live as self-sufficient individuals marked largely by our capacity for choice and decision. To restate this: we are creatures of communion, not creatures of consumption.

Much of my experience as an American Christian has been an encounter with people who do not see mankind’s problem as existential or ontological – but rather as moral. They have seen that we behave badly and thought that the primary task of the Church (following whatever event was considered “necessary” for salvation) was to help influence people to be “good.”

The nature of things is that people die - and not only do they die – but death, already at work in them from the moment of their birth, is the primary issue. The failure of humanity is not to be found or understood in a purely moral context.

The importance of these distinctions (moral versus existential) is in how we treat our present predicament. If the problem is primarily moral then it makes sense to live life in the hortatory mode, constantly urging others to be good, to “take the pledge,” or make good choices. If, on the other hand, our problem is rooted in the very nature of our existence then it is that existence that has to be addressed.


And so if we will live in such communion we will struggle to pray, not as a moral duty, but as the very means of our existence. We pray, we fast, we give alms, we confess, we commune, not in order to be better people, but because if we neglect these things we will die. And the death will be slow and marked by the increasing dissolution of who and what we are.

Hitchens on Hitchens

Christopher Hitchens is something of an intellectual celebrity in this country--always up for a good quote, a reliably outrageous guest on the talk and lecture circuit. My reading of Hitchens fell off markedly once he became such an unabashed cheerleader for American interventionism abroad.

[My Six Degrees of Separation with CH is this: During the summer of 2003, my son remained at college in Tennessee and, I am told, worked at the campus post office. He bunked with another student in the basement/workshop of one of their professors. Hitchens visited the campus to deliver a lecture. Before the night was out, he somehow found his way to my son's basement room, where he remained for some time. My son remembers that he either drunk, or well on his way to being so, and that he thumped cigarette ashes on anything and everything.]

With the release of God Is Not Great, Hitchens is now perhaps this country's most famous atheist. Less known in this country is his brother, Peter Hitchens, a noted columnist and author. In How I Found God and Peace with my Atheist Brother, Peter Hitchens writes of his slow road to faith, his sometimes prickly rivalry with his older brother, and their public and private debates. And, the younger Hitchens has himself just released The Rage against God, which chronicles his personal struggle out of atheism.

The fact that these two brothers, both intellectuals, would follow wildly divergent paths is not so rare, I suppose. But their story is a fascinating one, and I recommend Peter Hitchens' article. If nothing else, it introduced me to Rogier van der Weyden's remarkable The Last Judgement, partially shown here. A h/t to Milton.

Road to Emmaus

I have let most of my magazine and journal subscriptions lapse the last few years. Somehow, life continues on. But I am hanging on to an incredible little journal, the Road to Emmaus. I consider their articles almost essential reading for American Orthodox. We struggle to find our footing here. We fret about our self-consciousness. We debate as to what constitutes a natural, organic Orthodox culture. In that context, I know of no better place to start than Road to Emmaus.

Their latest issue certainly justifies the cost of subscription. The lead article is a lengthy and insightful interview with Alice C. Linsley, who should be familiar to anyone who frequents Orthodox blogdom. The following articles, including one on the Holy Wells of Wales, look promising as well. There are only 4 issues a year, but I guarantee that you will want to keep them.

The Empty Mosques of London

Arab Orthodoxy links an interesting interview with a former Muslim preacher who recently converted to Orthodoxy in Great Britain. The story is a bit counter-intuitive, as one is so accustomed to reading of Europe's empty churches and creeping Islamization. From the perspective of the newly-illumined Daniel, a different story emerges. Not that Western European Christianity is not anemic--it is, but rather that the supposed Islamic community is far weaker in faith than generally understood.

Daniel was born in the U.K. and has traveled and studied throughout the Islamic world, engaging in Muslim missions in a number of countries. Oddly enough, he claims he first desired to study the New Testament while standing in front of the Kaaba in Mecca. Even with the strict prohibition against Christian literature in Saudi Arabia, Daniel maintains that with modern communications, "it is not difficult for those who are looking to find the Word of God." He was encouraged by the strength and conviction of Christians he talked with secretly in Saudi Arabia.

Daniel first encountered the Orthodox faith in Sarajevo. After waiting for a group of Imams to pass by, I went into the Serbian church and I felt the astonished look of the Serbian priest when I made the sign of the cross in the Orthodox way and I made a prostration onto the ground. Then I knew that Orthodoxy was, of all the Christian confessions, the closest to me.

Daniel maintains that the Christian West does not understand the true status of Islam.

Muslims of today are rather less religious than people in the Christian world believe. In Muslim countries, there are many mosques and they say prayers there five times a day, but besides on Friday no one goes to the mosque.

In Muslim countries, many people search for truth and it’s because of this that the Christian mission will grow....In general, many Muslims distance themselves from Islam and this is especially visible in Western countries. In Great Britain, many Muslims have converted to Christianity. In the Anglican Church, Muslims who have adopted Christianity are estimated at a hundred thousand people. Many of them are Pakistanis. They have their own Christian churches and are forced to hide because of the danger of reprisals from the Muslims.

Most Muslims won’t ever go to a mosque. The young people have effectively left Islam, even if they say that they’re still Muslims.

...it is to the advantage of certain people to present Islam as an immense force. If one takes the list of mosques in Muslim publications, for example, in West London, we find that there are twenty mosques and much free space in each of these mosques, even though the number of people of Muslim origins in London is such that they would need even more mosques if a majority went....In general, believers are very rare in mosques and most are children who bring their parents. When they grow, they disappear. Christianity offers a free choice, thus it is much better adapted to life in a climate of tolerance, and Islam is unable to pass this test.

I was a part of the Islamic mission to the British and I can say that the number of converts is minimal. At Friday prayers in the center of London, the number of British Muslims at the mosque is maybe one percent. Outside of London, they don’t even reach this number. All the Muslims know the real number of converts to Islam.

When some Muslims say that Islam is the fastest growing religion in the world, London imams say that this growth is primarily because of the fertility rate, but there is no real mission. I do not doubt that Christianity is much stronger in terms of mission.

...there are very many [converts to Christian faith.] This happens without any publicity.

...many Muslims simply abandon their faith and become unbelievers. Unbelief is an illness common to all. Certain Muslims try to present atheism and the absence of religion as characteristics of Christian civilization, but Muslims themselves, even more than Christians, lose their faith in the Western world.

However, there is the very good example of Russia and the other Orthodox countries where the Church is growing, even with freedom of choice. I hope one day to go to Russia, but in the meantime I need to rebuild my life as an Orthodox Christian.

In Turkey, at least, one sees many near-empty mosques, even on Fridays. And I would not say that the situation was markedly different in Syria. And Daniel does have a point, even in Islamic countries, mosques are not chock-a-block in the way churches once were in Christian countries. But here is where I would draw a distinction: I do not believe that an empty mosque has the same meaning for Islam that empty churches do for the Christian faith. Empty churches speak ill for Christianity. Poor mosque attendance does not necessarily mean that its adherents are any less loyal to its teachings.

But maybe I am wrong. I would particularly like to hear from Muslims in regard to Daniel's claims.

Striking at Cultural Roots

Before there was Dick Cheney, there was this guy.

With the current turmoil in Greece, I found the following Kissinger quote (1994) to be of interest.

"The Greek people are a difficult if not impossible people to tame, and for this reason we must strike deep into their cultural roots. Perhaps then we can force them to conform. I mean, of course, to strike at their language, their religion, their cultural and historical reserves, so that we can neutralize their ability to develop, to distinguish themselves, or to prevail; thereby removing them as an obstacle to our strategically vital plans in the Balkans, the Mediterranean, and the Middle East."

Spooky.

A h/t to Liturgical Energies for this quote.

Life Without Television

Our television set died last weekend. Oddly enough, its demise occurred unnoticed and unlamented, in the midst of a crowded house. One minute there was the overture from Doctor Zhivago on Turner Classic Movies and then next time we checked, just a horizontal white line, a faint buzzing and the odor of burned electronics. How such a death could go unnoticed requires some explanation, as there were 12 of us in the house at the time--myself and wife, our son, and an assortment of 9 in laws. Our den is in a separate room off a hallway, so that one would have to go to that room to watch television, and more importantly, the noise from same does not intrude into the rest of the house. After the meal, my wife and her family remained in the kitchen, engaging in one of their favorite past times--nostalgia. From their telling, the golden age of our little community apparently occurred during their youth, and they never tire of revisiting their schooldays. While I have a passion for history, at some point in my life I realized that I have absolutely no appetite for sentimental nostalgia. And as I now know these stories better than they do, my son and I quietly slipped off to the front of the house where there are books and armchairs. It was during this period--our eyes averted--that our television gasped its last.

Faced with a dead television on our hands, I suddenly realized, as I approach the shady side of middle age, that I have never actually purchased one. My parents bought me a set when I left for college, I think. It sat on one of those metal rolling stands. This set got me through college, bachelorhood and well into early marriage. At some point, my in laws decided we needed a better television and presented us with a new set for Christmas. My sister-in-law was incredulous that we did not have a VCR player, so one of those ended up under the tree, as well. Thus endowed, the wife and I sprung for an old-Englishy-looking console to house our new technology. As we lost the remote within the first year of ownership, we continued to change channels and volume the old-fashioned way--by pushing the buttons. I suppose these buttons were not meant to be pushed, for they all fell out after about 10 years or so. We discovered that you could stick a pencil in the hole where the button used to be and that this would work just fine. During the Christmas of 2000, my nephew brought Fiance' No. 1 down from Virginia, on a meet-the-family visit (Sadly, neither she nor her successors have been able to transition from fiance to Mrs.) I think he was a bit embarrassed by his eccentric uncle and aunt who changed the channels on their television with a No. 2 pencil. So, that Christmas Eve they went into the city and returned with new television set, the now lately-departed.

In theory, my wife is much more of a television person than I am. In actual practice, however, I am more culpable. She enjoys relaxing on the sofa in front of the television before bedtime. She also enjoys watching the Hallmark Channel, Lifetime Channel, or that perverse channel that seemingly shows Grey's Anatomy 24 damn hours a day. None of these channels were meant to be watched by men, so I usually return to the study and my books. My wife watches one of these channels before she falls asleep--which is 10 minutes at best. (She is the same way on airplanes, being sound asleep before we can even taxi to take-off position.) So all told, she logs slightly over an hour a week with the television.

My television time is mainly in the mornings. I enjoy watching Joe, Mika and Willie go at it on MSNBC's Morning Joe. I catch snippets of this show, while sitting in my wife's grandmother's rocker, all the while balancing a newspaper, coffee, oatmeal and toast. During the 2008 election, I watched far too much talking-heads on MSNBC, but since then my enthusiasm for this sort of thing as fallen off markedly, now confined basically to Joe and Mika. I follow the Glenn Close mini-series, Damages, on FX. I am also a sucker for Masterpiece Theater on Sunday nights, though their historical adaptations are increasingly rare. So, in a week's time, I probably spend more time in front of the televisional box than my wife does.

Our interests converge when it comes to classic movies. We spent the night of "Superbowl Sunday" watching one of my all-time favorites, The Pink Panther, on TCM. If we watch anything together at all it is usually along these lines--that sort of thing, and of course Diners, Drive-inns and Dives on the Cooking Channel.

I have been interested to see how our schedules have changed these last few days by the absence of the box. There's clearly more conversation and more reading by each of us. The first night we were both in bed early, she reading Pat Conroy and me reading Boris Akunin. Last night, I seemingly had endless time. After my prayers, I read an entire book. I could get used to this schedule.

I suppose I will eventually have to replace the television. There is a satellite dish on our roof and a monthly payment for same. In time, my wife will probably insist upon it. Me....I am holding-out for someone to buy us another one.

Good Reading

Some favorite readings, of late:


The powers and principalities are no longer represented by uncouth tyrants like Stalin and Adolph, Mao and cannibals like Pol Pot and Idiot Amin: they are sophisticated patrons of the modern arts, faceless combines and congeries, publically held and traded, destroyers, like Shiva, of nation states and family farms, sponsors, like the old Caesars, of celebrity prostitution. And besides, we Older Sons know that the jihad is the new Assyria – a historical moment that calls not for the Arms of Cheney so much as for repentance, justice for the poor and creation, salvation for the fetus and embryo, the old and alien.

This plucked from the midst of Fr. Jonathan's latest, here.




It is difficult to say whether birth doles out to us an equal need for friendship. It most certainly does not dole out an equal capacity for it. Coleridge had both, and the need sometimes crushed the capacity. Dr. Johnson had the capacity. Jonathan and David apparently did. Horatio, never passion’s slave, proved he had it when he said, “you will lose this wager, my Lord,” and for it a sweet Prince held him in his heart of hearts. All of these and all the great friends that song and story bequeath to us knew well what another in that noble lineage understood: “No mind was so good that it did not need another mind to counter and equal it, and to save it from conceit and blindness and bigotry and folly”—so Charles Williams, again from The Place of the Lion.

On Friendship, by Jason Peters, here.




In so many areas of life today, it is obvious that our problems derive from our incapacity for self-governance, in the formal discipline of self.

What we need today is not a generation that is “spiritual, not religious.” I would argue that what is needed is the studied capacity to be “religious, not spiritual.” Let’s make that the new buzz.

Patrick Deneen, here.

To listen to talk radio, to watch TV pundits, to read a newspaper's online message board, is to realize that we are a people estranged from critical thinking, divorced from logic, alienated from even objective truth. We admit no ideas that do not confirm us, hear no voices that do not echo us, sift out all information that does not validate what we wish to believe.

I submit that any people thus handicapped sow the seeds of their own decline; they respond to the world as they wish it were rather to the world as it is.

Leonard Pitts, here.

Georgian Monastery Tour

The Fifth Annual 2010 Georgian Monastery Tour is now taking applications (details, here.) I have never been a real "tour person," and I generally still hold to my reservations about them--but this undertaking is the shining exception. I highly recommend the monastery tour led by my friends Luarsab Togonidze and John Ananda Graham. Those who have had the great fortune to visit Georgia are invariably changed by the experience. In one sense, my own life can be divided into 2 parts--before I visited Georgia, and then everything afterwards. We are all suffering through some very tough economic times. But Georgia remains one of the best travel bargains around, and this tour is simply the best of the best, in my book. I'd better stop now--I'm starting to gush.

On Forgiveness Sunday and Great Lent

It may not be appropriate to express a preference for a favorite service of the church year. Even so, for me it must be Forgiveness Vespers, from which I have just returned home. And while I am in great need of all the services of the church, by the time this one comes around, believe me, I really need it.

I recommend Aaron Taylor's recent article on Great Lent published here in the Guardian, no less. Congratulations, Aaron.

I also recommend Fr. John Parker's homily, here, in Glory to God.

Also from Glory to God, Fr. Stephen on the Great Fast.

Forgive me, my brothers.

Ruth's House

This picture was drawn 100 year ago this month, by a 13-year old girl named Ruth. This depicted her home, which she drew and colored in her mother's autograph album. Ruth was my grandmother.

I never knew my grandmothers. One died in 1934 and the other in 1947. The two women could not have been more dissimilar. My paternal grandmother comes across as an almost sainted figure in the family saga: a light-hearted, joyous and compassionate Christian; musically accomplished, a woman who sang in the kitchen; who was first in the community with food for the sick. She and my granddad made a good team--her practicality and management being a needful brake on his pride and enthusiasm for risk. The Depression caught up with them, and they lost the farm and everything they owned, quickly followed by her sudden, tragic, far-too-early death. The children were soon out on their own, supporting their dad, infant brother and each other. Growing up in the egalitarian Hill Country of central Texas, it was only then that my dad realized that they were actually poor, for the quality of their lives had been anything but. Never did they see themselves as victims, or pitiable. This was my grandmother Lillie's legacy to her children.

But that is not the story I am telling. My other grandmother, Ruth, was another matter altogether. She grew up poor, and never saw herself as anything else. Her dad was the illegitimate youngest child of a 40-ish widow whose husband had died in the Civil War 4 earlier. With no known father, he was orphaned young and raised up among older half-siblings. The only thing my mother ever heard about him was that he was a "hard man," and that he had been "brought up hard." He married a local girl from down on the Lavaca River, whose circumstances were somewhat better by comparison. But it made no difference, the dye was set, so to speak. She bore him 12 children and buried 5, as they moved around the state, seeking greener pastures. By 1908, they inexplicably found themselves in East Texas, far from their previous homes and connections. Here they settled-in and sharecropped for a large landowner who owned a gin, store and some 900 acres of good cotton land.

I have an old picture from about 1912, with the whole family lined up on the front porch of this sharecropper's house. In fact, I remember the house--somewhat falling down--from my own youth. At that time, Ruth was about 15 or so, and there was already something a little disturbing and not quite right about the set of her jaw, as if she has already locked herself in against a world that she believed was set against her. The family had a deserved reputation for stubbornness and hard-headedness. But with my grandmother and her 2 sisters, it went somewhat farther. I knew my great-aunts. Between the 3, they ran the gamut from simply eccentric to wildly eccentric to crazy-mean eccentric. My dad never talked about his mother-in-law, but once let it slip that she was, in his words, a "hellcat." None of the stories passed down about her had any of that Norman Rockwallish grandmotherly sentimentality. One cousin remembered that she could be nice as you please one minute, and cuss you like a sailor the next.

Her father died in 1914, and within a few months, Ruth had run off with their landlord's grandson, she being 17 and he 16. She clashed with her mother-in-law from the beginning. the fact that her husband's grandfather was well-fixed was of no bearing, as there were about 30 grandchildren altogether. So, they set up house-keeping and sharecropped in the community, as she had done all her life. Perhaps things could have worked out--there are faded pictures of my mother in a white Sunday dress, wearing black buckle shores and holding a doll. But even these family pictures reveal part of the story. There were never any of those hard-backed family portrait-type pictures that nearly every family of that era--no matter how poor--insisted on having. A cheap Kodak was my grandmother's one extravagance. If there were to be any pictures taken, she took them with this.

Children came quickly--six while they were still in their twenties. And things never came together. Both of these grandparents were hard workers, but poor managers. They were simply never able to get ahead. And with the Depression, they were barely able to feed and clothe their children. I think the only way they survived at all was due to my great-grandfather's death and my great-grandmother's quick remarriage, which allowed my grandparents to move into his parents' house on the old home place.

But this in itself, does not explain what happened to the family. Lots of people were poor. My grandfather was a good, but weak man. Ruth was of a domineering nature and mercurial temperament. And as she got older, her eccentricities became more pronounced. After the arrival of the youngest 2 children, it was almost as if the oldest 4 were largely forgotten. The older children, particularly my mother and her older sister, suffered considerable abuse, while the youngest two were petted. I have long attributed it to mental instability on my grandmother's part. My mother rarely mentioned her, and would certainly oppose thinking of her in that way--but really, that is the most charitable face one can put on it.

Basically, all three of the daughters ran away from home--my mother being the only one with any respectability attached to it. My dad had come for her and was waiting in the yard. Ruth followed her out to the car, scolding her that "if she left with that man, not to ever come back." Of course she left with him. He was her ticket out.

Ruth never warmed up to my dad. About 15 years ago, I heard an anecdote which offered insight into both their characters. I had carried my mother to the funeral of a cousin. We were in the cemetery, and my mother--already very weak--was resting by leaning against her great-aunt's tombstone. While she was regaining her strength before walking back to our car, another cousin told me the story about Ruth. It was in 1937, and she was over at his parents' house, cussing-out my dad up one side and down the other. My dad and mom had moved back to East Texas, and my dad was jobless, with no prospects. Ruth had made him a cotton sack, so he could pick cotton. When she gave it to him, he looked at her and said, "No. I don't know what I am going to do, but I do know I am not going to do that." My dad realized that whatever the future held for him, it did not involve picking cotton. Convinced that my dad thought himself too good for picking cotton, my grandmother was still fuming when she visited my cousin's house. She noted with biting sarcasm, "I don't know what John is going to do. We already have a Governor and a President." My dad made his way quickly in the world, and in a few years time had built Ruth and my grandfather a new house. And during her long, lingering illness, they moved in and cared for her. Despite this, she never came around to liking my dad. And while my mother was caring for her night and day, Ruth talked on to visitors about her youngest daughter, the "pretty one."

But that is all water under the bridge, as she died so long ago. Except that it isn't. Ruth's way lives on, in varying degrees, in her progeny. The exception was my mom's next youngest brother--a thoughtful, studious and gentle man who died at age 31. On a superficial level, my mother's life was, I suppose, relatively "normal." And yet, she could be subject to the same extremities of temperament, the same paranoia, the same violent and suspicious nature that plagued her mother. The less said about the rest of the bunch, the better. My dad and mom supported all these siblings, in one way or the other, for the rest of their lives--and not a few of the next generation, as well. That was not resented on our part, but nothing good really came from it. It is a sad train wreck of a family, generation after generation.

From my earliest memories, I recall my parents having to deal with this alcoholic aunt or uncle, or to get a cousin out of another jam. It was always something. And as I came to better understand the family dynamics, I know I tended to blame it all on Ruth. And I realize I have been harsh in my estimation of her. Life can be hard, and hers was harder than most. But it is this picture that gnaws at me. There was a time in her life when Ruth had a vision of a happy home--a home with blue curtains in the window, and yellow and red flowers in the yard. What happened? The better question is--What happens to us all?