Dilution of Madonna...

Hey you.

This post may be disturbing, especially if you have been involved with a traumatic situation in your life.

This is the story of a song, a song a schoolmate is using in a set of dramatic monologues... in fact, I should be memorizing my monologue at this very moment.

But back to him... he liked the song "American Life", and how it asked "This type of modern life, is it for me?"

Madonna's music video of this is pretty brutal and gruesome.

But this American Life includes both what we see at the mall AND what we are doing with our government's policies and what modern life does to people, so why not show them all?

(You need Flash to see videos on YouTube. Click to open up another window)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R55xDxaXw5E

Here is a bizarrely different version, cleaned up, with a somewhat different effect. What is shown, what is now hidden? How is the focus changed from society to be personal?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HN_vQIYuXdA

Did you notice how all non-fantasy images of soldiers and blood are removed from the second one.

And, it seems Warner released a third version... if you just want to hear the song, look at this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S3Z_Z899kPA

Pumpkin Carving!

I thought you might want to see what I was up to yesterday. I had some friends from school over, and attacked some vegetables.

Here's a shot of Luke... he is working with a special scraping tool


These two guys are Kent and James. Kent is asking "do you feel what I feel?"


Never try this at home...


James again...


My creation complete with acne:


So we put them on display...


Turned out the lights...


And took a picture...

Happy Halloween!

Student Sermon...

Last spring I composed this sermon for a class in Homiletics. It isn't perfect, there was some good feedback on things I could improve, but I thought I'd post it, in hopes that someone read it and comment on it here. The proposed audience was those at my seminary, though I suspect it applies to your church or social group as well.

So, without further ado:

Eyes Right
HM - 4002 Introduction To Preaching, Sermon #2

Our reading this morning is one of the most violent, most cruel passages in the Hebrew Bible.

It's an odd passage, in that it was not in the King James Version of the Bible-- it was only discovered in the 1940s, when the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered.

Perhaps some copyist accidentally deleted it, or perhaps some ancient scholars decided it was too violent. Whatever the reason, we now have it in modern translations and it fits with today's sermon.

It is from the Book Of First Samuel, Chapter 10 verse 27 following

Now NA-hash, king of the AM-mo-nites, had been grievously oppressing the GAD-ites and the REU-ben-ites.

He would gouge out the right eye of each of them and would not grant Israel a deliverer.

No one was left of the Israelites across the Jordan whose right eye NA-hash, king of the AM-mon-ites, had not gouged out.

That's all I'm going to read. You get the idea.

------
Eyes Right

I'm very sorry to have selected such a cruel reading for today. But when I red it, I saw us. I saw myself. I saw a message that needs saying.

There are several ways to use this reading. The blind leading the blind might have worked--- but the people of GAD and REUBEN aren't completely blind.

I could have talked about the way that people have blinded themselves with sorrow, or with love, or with drugs-- that might have been an interesting angle--- but they would be situations where individuals blind themselves, rather than having blindness inflicted on them.

In the reading, the Gadites and Reubenites lost a battle against NA-hash, and chose a life of semi-blindness over the alternative, which probably would have been death.

So, I am thinking of a situation where a nation loses a battle, and chooses blindness. Can you imagine what I'm thinking of?
----
Sadly, you are right.

Let's take a straw poll... How many of you have thought about this statement today: "our nation is at war"? ...
How many of you have made the war an important part of your day?

"America At War" is the headline... or was four years ago.

The United States of America is at war, in Iraq and in Afghanistan.
Forgive me, I'm going to use a popular shorthand, and I'm going to call the USA "America"-- as millions of us Americans do.

Sadly, these are real wars. Real people are fighting them. Real people are going half way around the globe, serving, and either returning or dying... and WE put them there.

Do you notice?

Every morning, as you shower and load your iPod with the day's music, a completely invisible part of our nation awakes to war. The war is the first thing on their minds, and every night, as they try to sleep, the war is the last.

But for us here at our seminary, where is the war? Like the tribes of Reuben and Gad, we have lost our vision in that eye. We don't see the war, we don't taste the war, we don't pay the bills of the war.

Indeed, I lament our current situation. I lament my own blindness, I lament our school's blindness, I lament our community's blindness.

Laments are important, but eventually weeping must change to resolve.

So I think the answer lies in this morning's reading.
Or maybe it lies in your heart.

Here's how I see it.

Plenty of people will tell you that we need to OPPOSE this war.
I'm here to tell you that we need to BECOME A PART of this war.

Let me repeat this point.

Plenty of people will tell you that we need to oppose this war.
I'm here to tell you that we need to become a part of this war.

And opposing something isn't the same as being a part of it.
I'm not going to say if the war is right or wrong. I'm saying it's ours.
-----
Now there are three foolish things in how the American public engages with the war, and there are three remedies.
-----
Let's go back to the reading to help frame this.

The reading described a time when Israel had no single leader. Instead each tribe lived for itself.

The story involves the tribes of Gad and Reuben. Most of the twelve tribes of Israel were west of the Jordan River, but Gad and Reuben were out there, EAST of it, in what is now the Kingdom of Jordan.

Now [NA-hash], the king of the [AM-mon-Ites] had defeated the two tribes, probably in battle, nobody knows whose fault it was... nobody knows if the tribes attacked NA-hash or if NA-hash attacked them first, but we do know that NA-hash won.

Now King NA-hash just wants peace, and he wants the income from the farms. To get the income, NA-hash wants the Reubenites and Gadites to be passive vassals.

To make sure they don't rise up and object, he has them all blinded in the right eyes. This is actually better than earlier battles, when victors simply killed all the losers-- you can read about the battle of Jericho, if you want a real bloodbath. So we could say that NA-hash is a compassionate innovator.

Think about it for a moment. If you hold your sword in your right hand, and you don't have a right eye, can you see to fight? Nope. You will be blindsided.

You can't do anything but submit to those in power. Sure you can still plow fields, you can still milk cows... but you have been effectively passified.

I'm sure you are all wondering about how the story turns out... do the good guys win?

Not really. The other tribes of Nation of Israel come to help. In the end there are tens of thousands of bodies rotting on the face of the earth. And after a generation or two, they have another war, and more are killed.

YOU KNOW THE OLD SAYING: There are only three types of people in a war: The living, the injured and the dead.

OK, enough physical violence for one morning. End of lament.

Let's talk about the three foolish things I mentioned.

The first one is obvious. It is the myth of separation. People talk about this being a "red state war" or a "blue state war". People claim that because they elected a Congresswoman or Congressman or Senator who voted in the minority on some authorization bill once upon a time...
That this somehow makes it somebody else's war. It is foolish. The war in Iraq and in Afghanistan is everyone's war.

I'll bet you've figured out what the second one is... It is that we are blinded. Some of you will assign blame for the blindness, but I don't want to go there.

Suffice it to say that somehow, and I don't care about why, we have been blinded, become passified milkers of cows, passified plowers of fields unable to raise an effective sword, or even an effective pen. Our number has been are disconnected. We don't see the soldiers. We don't see the families. We don't see the coffins, or injured, or abandoned.

The third foolishness is that we think we are doing something.

Sorry to seem so down, but protests come and go... vigils burn lots of candles, contributing in their own small way, to global warming.

Do you think that last week's protest rallies changed the course of history?

Sad to say, I doubt it.

But that's not true of all the protests. Let's think of why some are different.

In the summer of 2005, a mother named Cindy Sheehan and members of the "Gold Star Families for Peace"-- they are families of those who had died in the war-- began a protest.

The protest, outside President Bush's ranch in Texas, was effective because the people protesting weren't Berkeley college students-- they were people involved in the war.

They were worthy of attention because it was, and still is, their war.

Without participation we are powerless. If we don't make the war our war, we can neither support it nor oppose it.

I don't care if you think the war is a crime, or if you think declaring war was right. I just want you to turn your remaining good eye and see the situation for what it is. I want our whole nation to do that.

For the past four years we have been dis-involved... intentionally.
- We pay no taxes for the war,
- We attend no funerals, and see no caskets,
- We knit no woolen caps for the sailors.

That's a story worth remembering. It was a big thing in WWII... my Grandmother and all of the ladies of South Orange, New Jersey did that... They would each spend four hours a day knitting... they get together weekly, turning in knit woolen hats for the war effort.

To knit a cap for a merchant seaman on a freighter going across the North Atlantic was to have a personal interest in the cargo.

And when you had knit the cap as an act of love, that sailor was your cargo.

Each Nazi torpedo was aimed at you.

You know, this war has been sold to us as free, fought by volunteers-- volunteers who see signing up as a way out of poverty, or gangs or dead-end living.

Volunteers who bought the dream of civics class,

Volunteers who answered GOD'S call to defend the country.

Whatever the reason, we sold it to them. WE, our government, our nation.

These wonderful volunteers keep our war out of our sight, out of our mind.
-------------
They say that if there were a draft, if it were our brothers, and perhaps our sisters, in a literal sense, who were fighting in the desert, our vision would be restored.
------
I think it's time we hear the words "One Nation" and understand that it really is "Indivisible"... and start thinking of those being killed or injured as OUR brothers and sisters.

Only by opening OUR eyes and embracing OUR responsibility can we BE a part of the solution.
----
And I'm proposing three remedies.
----
To me they don't involve forming committees or public policy study groups. They don't involve pointing fingers and assigning blame.

The solution is in the word "Indivisible." The solution is in becoming one nation again.

The solution is to re-engage, with voice, hands and hearts with those who are part of the war.

The men and women fighting under the American flag in Iraq and Afghanistan have the same blood types as we do. Their brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers and children cry in the same way we do. The broke and broken soldiers worry about the rent, and face fear just like us too.

To be engaged with them, they get our respect, our support, our love and prayers.

Our principles speak of worth and dignity.

How might we show them that they have worth? Perhaps by insisting that persons in harms way be well paid, be well cared for if injured and that they have guaranteed, professional emotional support after return to the routine of life.

Ya know, they did their duty for us. We need to show them that they are worth-ful. This is going to cost us money. It should. The Veterans Administration hospitals should provide the best care, not the worst care in the nation, and
Playing economic politics with those who are disabled is simply unconscionable.

It's time we taxed ourselves to pay for this war.
----
But the men and women fighting under the American flag in Iraq and Afghanistan need more than the promise of care when they return. They also need support.

Our hymnal speaks of mutual support-- we need one another.

Here's where America is divided. In conservative circles it is seen as a religious duty to support our troops.

The men and women fighting under the American flag in Iraq and Afghanistan can have all their support from conservative Christian groups, OR they can have support from all of our nation. Which should they have?

How might we show support for those in uniform?

Now being in the US Army in Baghdad is very different from being a kid at sleep-away summer camp, but a friend who is just back from there reports that "Care Package Day" was always special for his unit. School kids, church groups sent a taste of home, and for an hour or two, it was like they were family.

But back home, there are fewer care packages. Their families are often strapped for cash, strapped for time, struggling for resources. Do we contribute to relief organizations? Do we know how to offer personal help?

This needs work... we need to better learn how to support our troops... our web of mutuality needs to include them.

But beyond support, the awareness of love is the greatest gift.

Our Judeo-Christian tradition speaks of LOVE

And this is most important, the men and women fighting under the American flag in Iraq and Afghanistan need to know that they are loved.

They certainly have heard the stories of LIBERALS spitting on soldiers returning from Viet Nam. I know, none of you actually spat. But that's word on the street.

They have been prepared to be hated. Can we change their perceptions?

They already have prayers from those who believe in vengeance, why can't they have love and prayers from those who know that God is Love? Why can't they know that the entire nation sees them as worthy and loved?

AND How could we express love? I have a few ideas...

If each day we here at the seminary stopped our routine. If, for the duration of the war, we stood for one minute, our thoughts and love inclined to them, how could we stay blind?

What if, for the duration of the war, we honored the dead of the week in our chapel service, as if they were our fellow students, how could our hearts not go out to the families and those they loved?

These are both wonderful practices (if I do say so myself), but they don't invite the rest of the community to see... to fight their blindness.

What about if we erected public prayer stations, so that as we walk to classes we could pause along le Conte, or Ridge Road. For the duration of the war, we might pause to pray for, or simply remember people in the many different groups involved in the war: Army soldiers, Navy Sailors, Marines, members of the Air Force, Families, Contractors, affected civilians, families of the dead, the injured. If we could erect simple wooden signs-- each with a name of a group on it-- as public prayer stations, placed around the GTU like stations of the cross. Then every day we could draw our hearts to the many facets, the many human faces, the scope and scale of this war, would that be love?

Would these things involve us in the war?

Would being involved like this teach us, as individuals, help us grow in understanding? Would it get us away from the variety of opinions we hold AND INTO a different place, a place INDIVISIBLE?

In spite of the way this war has been orchestrated,
and blinded as we are, can we learn new ways to see?

Can we learn new ways to go beyond milking cows and become a nation again?

Could this restore our nation's ability to see the war? Could our actions spark others to put up prayer stations across the country. Could they give focus and help the general public becomes aware, aware of the many human dimensions of the conflict?

I don't know, but I can't see another way to do it. And I don't see anybody trying.

Only with our respect,

Only with our support,

Only with our love and prayers... do we have a chance to influence the future.---- Though we may only see the problem with one good eye, the answer has to be with us.

This must become our war.

Well, not quite PKs...

The soon-to-be-released movie "Preacher's Sons" (http://preacherssons.com/) is going to be interesting, and, I think, wonderful.

The name is a play on the term "PK", meaning "preacher's kids". Perhaps you know some of them... I knew one or two when I was growing up. They have two lives they must live, the public one related to their parent, and then, there is their life. It's a heavy burden. I knew one who was perfection itself-- football, public speaking-- but to look in his eyes was the only way to see the him that was inside. Another PK was wild, played electric guitar, etc.

So now we have Stillman and Greg's kids-- all adopted-- all former foster kids. What's inspiring to me is that being a PK is a step up for them.

So I am looking forward to seeing it this autumn.

Poem "Almost"

Almost


It's a simple system, really.
In dots and dashes all words can be expressed
All things communicated.
A simple system of talking 'round the world

And you may think it's a joke,
But even numbers say certain things
To most, seventy-three is just a number,
Who knew it meant "Best Wishes"?

Or the much more amorous eighty-eights,
Old and married men feel no shyness,
When saying "Love and Kisses"
To twenty year old women.

But these were meant for telegrams,
And not for signals bounced,
like super balls, in the atmosphere.
For distant strangers, faces unseen.

Some nights the solar wind is steady,
and signals come through strong and clear.
A chat of dashes spaced with dots.
You weep to hear his syncopation.

Reclined, around a crackling fire,
Ensconced in weathered leather.
Speaking with your fingers,
And listening with an open heart.

Two strangers were never closer.
"My daughter's getting married"
"I've got a new job"
"They want to try more treatments"

Our sun's afflicted with flares and spots,
and earth is full of storms.
Crackles overpower the beeps,
Chats become struggles, and nothing is clear.

Gone are armchairs and the personal beat,
Thunder crashes pain the ears,
Stripped of nuance, it takes your all,
To tell him "I am here!"

And even after he is gone,
And the radio is put to bed,
Antenna disconnected, grounded wires
It seems the beeps live on.

In the shower, can you hear it?
Was that an "L"? Was that a "V"?
Was he talking to me, in the
rushing of the water?

You listen for words from the dryer,
Or hope from the dispose-all
The rumble of traffic holds an eight,
or perhaps just a seven...
... and was there a second number?

-CBD

More Memorial Day bits...

Three photos from the USS Hornet museum. I think this area is being developed for a "Women at Sea" exhibit.

More Memorial Day bits...

Three photos from the USS Hornet museum. I think this area is being developed for a "Women at Sea" exhibit.

Memorial Day...

From the very messy desk of Charlie...

It's Memorial Day, and I'd spent many years working on the Battleship New Jersey... but now I'm in Berkeley... so I can't go down to Camden!

So I felt especially driven to go the aircraft carrier USS Hornet, in nearby Alameda. I took the bus... the 51 to the 63.. which took an hour, it being a holiday... and got there about 12:30 PM.

Here is the USS Hornet:


Now most of you would say 'wow, big ship'... but I took this picture because there are four white antennas on the right hand side... it's the ham radio operator in me!

Here is the view from the "island", looking forward. The Oakland hills are in the background.


And here's our tour guide, explaining what we were about to see:


And this is what we were about to go see, the flight control center:


I had a few more pictures, mostly of radios and the like. I won't bore you with them.

After that I went below decks to the hangar deck. This was the Memorial Day ceremony:


I missed most of the speeches, but caught the blessing. Next, the wreath was brought outside (sorry about the blur):


And everyone was offered a flower:


After a blessing by the chaplain:


Then we threw our flowers overboard:


I tried to think of who my tulip was for, but in the end it had to be for everyone-- yesterday, last week, last year, last war.

Rest in Peace.
---

That was my day.
Peace,
Charlie

(Taps)

But, Well, You Know...

But, Well, You Know

I had an odd dream last night... yea, I know-- when has anybody had a dream that isn't odd-- but this one was interesting in being uninteresting.

In the dream I was waiting somewhere. Maybe I was in an airport lounge, or maybe I was waiting in line at a Stuckeys or one of those other restaurants they have near the interstates in the south... I know I was in the south, though, and I was waiting.

I'd struck up a conversation with a family. Mother and father were in their late 30's, maybe early 40's. She was taller than he was, but he was a substantial man, possibly a farmer, with well groomed, black hair. There were maybe three or four school-aged kids, staying close to mom and dad, but not saying anything, and looking rather bored.

Dad was saying: "When I have off we like to go see things."

Then, after a pause he added: "Normally we'd go to New Orleans, but well, you know..."

That was it. I woke up.

"But, well, you know" Those were the last words.

Now Jung and Freud would probably explain this dream as having something to do with unresolved childhood issues, but fortunately, I'm not up on all that. Instead, as I slowly woke up, I thought about what I would have answered. "But, well, you know"... in fact I didn't.

I thought about that maybe the father was trying to say "there are homosexuals in that city" or "there are Negroes there", but, well, there has been racial diversity and visible Lesbian and gay businesses in the Crescent City for generations, so why would he say "Normally we'd go to New Orleans"?

In fact, NOLA is less racially diverse, it's "Whiter" today than it was a decade ago, thanks to the disproportionate loss of housing in majority-black neighborhoods. But that wasn't the conversation I was having... in my dream.

"But, well, you know" If my mind hadn't made that phrase up, I'd be very offended. I certainly have heard others use it, it's a common conversation stopper. And maybe that's the whole point. It's like those big steel bumpers they put on railroad sidings... you know, to keep boxcars from going off the end of an incomplete track. It might have meant "I don't want to go any further." But, I'm the type of guy who wonders what's around the next bend. Where would the conversation have gone, if I'd pressed on?

What if I'd said something like: "I'm not sure I understand, tell me more." What would he, or his wife, have said?

In my mind, I see them saying something like: "Well, you know, they had some trouble down there." Can you imagine someone saying that? Maybe you've said it. "Some trouble", and more importantly "they". Another level of conversation stopper... like a big block of iron, welded onto the rails... "this should stop any boxcar that rolls down here, and maybe a runaway locomotive too!"

So I searched the faces of the people in my dream. The kids were easy, the older teens were looking at the floor or off into space, bored. They were so familiar with dad's attitudes, they'd heard it all before. And they were not happy that he'd taken them away from town and their friends, but they'd become resigned to a month of motels or RV parks.

The younger ones, the ones who still looked up to the parents, were still trying to make sense of the world, and dad clearly understood the mysteries of life, though they weren't sure why he was talking to strangers. They told volumes in their posture and clean double-knit shirts.

Dad himself was at ease. Probably a church-going man, he had a job, maybe in sales? Probably in a small town. One could imagine he sold propane or combines or ran a carpet installing company. Something needed, something conventional. The mom might be a teacher, or she might homeschool the kids. She wasn't going to interrupt her husband, and besides, she thought the same thoughts he thought.

I've met these people a hundred times in a hundred places. They are good people... as they say.

So why the "But, well, you know"?

Since I dreamt them, I can continue the conversation any direction I like. And today I think I'll go somewhere biblical... not my usual style, but as I was waking up I realized I was trying to apply a passage about caring for the sick, and visiting those in prison.

The triplet in the bible: Clothe the naked, care for the sick, visit the imprisoned is an interesting one to try to fit into the situation. The scene isn't a charity scene, it's a vacation. New Orleans, Louisiana isn't a town to be pitied... it's a city, a city recovering from a flood, and recovering from the attitudes and platitudes of the flood recovery. NOLA is a city that knows what it means to be dismissed, to be quietly made a non-place. Well, you know.

So when Jesus talks about the three actions that will get you into heaven, clothing, caring for and visiting, you would think he wasn't talking about summer vacation.

It isn't just because it's called "The Crescent City", but I'm imagining NOLA as a sort of woman with breast cancer. The sudden diagnosis of a lump is a shocking thing... To bring the men into this, imagine finding a lump on one of your testicles. I hope you never do. But this lump, wherever it is, is not good. It is going to kill you. It needs to go, and you need radiation and chemotherapy too. It is going to make you very sick for several months, longer than you expect. But someday, you are likely to be cured.

Cured is an odd thing for a woman who has had a breast removed. It might be similar for a man who has lost a testicle, but a woman is reminded of the whole episode every day. Even on vacation.

When it comes to clothing the naked, most post-breast-cancer women experience shame-- and that's a pity. I, for one, think a woman who has survived is as beautiful as one who has never experienced adversity. And I'm not just saying that because my mother was one.

So the phrase "Clothe the naked" can mean various things... It could mean that they should be hidden away under layers of muslin, veiled, keeping secret the effects of the cancer, keeping up appearances. But it doesn't have to mean that. It could also mean keeping our recovering friend warm, giving them a place of honor and a fine new outfit.. perhaps a new swimsuit that shows off their new figure, rather than pretending that it is the old one.

Here's where the testicular cancer analogy doesn't work that well... I don't think I'd advocate the creation of custom Speedo bathing suits for the 'one testicle man'... so we'll leave that thread, ok?

But we need to get back to New Orleans. Why does our friend shy away from visiting the Crescent City? Is it because he is un-Christian? Is it because he fears his children will have nightmares, nightmares of abandonment and panic? Or is it because he's decided NOLA is a "they", not an "us"? Has he decided to shun 'them'... But, well, you know... because they don't fit his family's lifestyle? Is New Orleans the breast tissue cut away with the cancer?...simply lumped with the lump, made non-existent to protect the health of the rest of society?

I'm left this morning without a good answer. It was, after all, only a dream. I'm left with no words to say to my nocturnal friends to make them see that "But, well, you know" is not a Christian way to end the conversation; it is not Christian for the happy and healthy family to restrict their view to the happy and healthy parts of the world, to imagine that shivering nakedness, sickness and imprisonment only happen to the unworthy.

But the dream is over. I can't go back and tell them, they are gone. And in real-life I'm not sure I'd do much better. In real life there would be excuses, reasons to visit an aunt in Florida, or a new vacation community in the Ozarks. And real life families are never so perfect. He's worrying about the new boss, their son's friend died suddenly, maybe she's recovering from cancer. In real life, I probably wouldn't even be having the conversation, and that's a pity too.

Oh, I went back to sleep for a bit, and had a second dream... it involved pecan pancakes, and lots of syrup and two eggs over easy, and sausages, deep fried sausages. And of course grapefruit juice, because I'm on a diet.

More Our Glass.

(Note, first word pronounced as the locals do...)

Louisiana
Gentlemen
all just
love
deer
meat stew-
venison
Jambalaya.

Our Glass Poetry

Ok... so it's an art form!
In a couple of recent poems I noticed my tendency to juxtapose lines with successive lengths... and with "Uncle" I wrote the whole poem that way...

It seems rather like a 1920's parlor game, and maybe someone invented it long ago, but, in case they didn't, I hereby dub this "Our Glass Poetry"

And that means rules... like haiku rules.

1) The poem's first and last lines have the same number of syllables.
2) Each line has one fewer than the previous, until
3) Two lines with one syllable words.
4) These two words must have the same meaning in some sense...
5) They do not have to be used to mean the same thing
6) They can be visual synonyms, or aural synonyms, or actual synonyms.
7) Then each line has one more syllable than the previous.
8) Ok, simple?
9) Syllables are the way you hear it... rhythm has 2, spelled has 1.. or two if you want to sound Elizabethan.

Examples

How you
cook
toast
matters

To our
cook!
Toast
your glass


And in the
midnight
hour,
time
can be
so cruel

It is
our
time
to shine

Shed a
tear!
Rip
your shirt!

Enough examples... enjoy!
Charlie

Uncle

I love Walter Cronkite!
His short clipped mustache,
Eyebrows that jut,
And the way
that he
looks
sees
so much.
Decades of
America.
War, death and pain,
Fraud and impeachment,
with a crinkle cheeked smile.

Happy Pesach from the Dominican School!!

Happy Pesach...
I went to the Dominican school for a Sephardic Passover service tonight...
Here are the kids doing the four questions:


Here are some schoolmates studying the Haddadah:


More friends...


Good fish balls, good music, good matzohs (round ones)... and macaroons! And since it was Sephardic, we had green beans and hummus with dinner.

It turns out that the Dominican School had a hall the right size, that's why we had it there.

Noisy New Year to you!

What are these people waiting for?




It was the Full Moon, and that means it was time for... not just earthquakes, but since it is also New Years in the Chinese calendar, it's time for a Big Parade in San Francisco.


Sorry about the dark pictures, it was... um... dark. Here's an immortal favorite:


Guess what year it is?


Planes, cablecars and automobiles...


And the boys in the band...


I wish my pictures of the Boy Scout Marching Band, or of Miss Laos came out better, but they didn't... so you are lucky to have another float picture:


And dozens of groups with dragons... these folks cheated a bit, putting it on a float (but it was well lit!)


Well, gotta go catch up with my parade!

-Charlie

Stations of the Nations Prayer Site

I'd like comments on this.

I can think of several UU Churches or Congregations that might be good locations for such a prayer site.

I am sad that so many of us ignore the state of War that exists in our country, and maybe this could help to bring it into community consciousness. Notice that nothing here is specifically UU or specifically pro- or anti- War. I like that. The War is everyones responsibility. Note that, with the exception of the word "prayer", there is nothing which people could consider religious about the Site, and nothing explicitly Christian.

Charlie




The Stations of the Nations Prayer Site

This is a proposal for a temporary Prayer Site for prayers related to the War declared by the United States in Iraq and Afghanistan. These Prayer Sites should be open to the general public, and in a public place. They might be placed on the grounds of a church or other religious building.

The Prayer Site can consist of a series of "Stations", with a place for one or more persons to sit, stand or kneel.

Stations can be as simple as a series of wooden signs at eye level. More sophisticated Stations could be made with two sturdy vegetable crates-- one for sitting, and one with the name of the Station inside it (to keep the wind and rain off of any words or images).

Each Station should draw the attendee's attention to an aspect of the War. Stations could be identified by the name in simple block letters. It could also include simple pictures or graphics (for example, a Navy flag) and other information (for example, the number of Navy personnel currently deployed into the War Zone.) These are places of prayer, not reading rooms. Offensive decorations should be avoided.

Stations should allow for prayer, and not block traffic or be otherwise intrusive.

While stations may be combined, we suggest that Stations be established for:
U. S. Army Personnel,
U. S. Navy Personnel,
U. S. Marine Corps Personnel,
U. S. Air Force Personnel,
Other U. S. Government Personnel,
State Military Personnel
Local Military Personnel deployed overseas,
Contractors and their Families,
The Families of Military Personnel,
Military Personnel from Other Countries,
Military Personnel who have died due to the War,
Contractors who have died due to the War,
Civilians who have died due to the War,
Children orphaned,
Military Personnel injured due to the War,
Civilians Injured due to the War.
The Families of those dead or injured
Persons in love with those dead or injured

If you wish, and depending on local religious practice, a Prayer Site might include:

Management and Owners of Corporations providing Contractors
The Earth

Some faith traditions require that even one's enemies must be prayed for. These might be included:

Enemy Combatants
Persons financing Enemy Combatants
Enemy Combatants who have died due to the War

If all Stations are not fully accessible, a Station with the list of Stations might be included as well.

The Prayer Site should include an explanation, such as the following suggested text (If several languages are common in the community, translations should be posted as well):

-----
This Stations of the Nations Prayer Site has been established for the duration of declared War.

Different Stations have been set up to focus attention on different groups involved in or affected by the War.

1) It is a place of prayer and meditation. You are welcome to visit, even without praying.
2) You may select one, several, of all of the Stations, and may visit them in any order, taking as much time as you wish. You are free to skip Stations.
3) Different traditions pray in different ways, please feel free to pray in whatever way you feel is appropriate.
4) Please be respectful of others and their prayer and meditation practices. In some cases, this may require you to skip Stations or change your order of visiting.
5) If you have no tradition, you might say: "I turn my mind to (name of station), and acknowledge the wish that they might be safe and healthy at the end of the War" or "I acknowledge the deaths of these men and women"
6) Please do not add religious symbols, decorations, incense or candles
7) Go in peace.
-----

A poem.

Legion


The gray haird man in the Legion Hall
Wasn't really talking to me, or to my beer,

It was the air, perhaps, or something on the wall
An old team photo? A plaque? A faded dream?
Or maybe the olive drab they'd painted the ceiling
Some wag with surplus paint.
A sky of green, faded, peeling.

Once I snapped-- the winning point,
Back, before the war.
Once I blocked-- gave him time to escape
To get off that bullet.

And we were the victors.
We were.
We were victorious
I was a part of it all
I was a part
A part.

-Charlie

Bless Snickers!

The folks at M&M Mars have done a wonderful thing. Think about it.

The release of Brokeback Mountain was a noisy interval in the history of the United States. Theaters across the nation had that **shameful** movie's name on the marquee... and everyone had to walk by. Lots of folks talked about it, but many more were able to avoid the subject.

But at the Superbowl something amazing happened. Perhaps 50 Million men saw two auto mechanics kissing... kissing in the process of sharing a Snickers Bar. A simple fact. And more amazing, if we assume 10% of all men are gay (whether they know it or not), perhaps 5 Million men who are physiologically gay saw the kiss.

Even if the numbers are wrong, millions of men actually saw an act of homosexual affection, saw it before they could look away.

What followed was a few seconds of 'cultural compensation'. The two men attempted to act macho by ripping out their chest hair in an attempt to compensate for their socially unacceptable act.

The folks at Snickers have done a wonderful thing, may blessings be upon them. But all blessings have consequences, and all joy has sadness.

We live in a culture of lies, and when one is exposed to us-- when something that touches our vitals-- an image of an execution on the streets of Saigon, or poverty in the dust bowl or Biafra, or death in so many places, we are, in the twinkling of an eye, changed. In an instant the denied reality shines through. And hiding in the midst of a Superbowl commercial was a bit of reality, one denied by a huge fraction of the public in the USA. A shocking truth wrapped in humor.

What about the men who suddenly discovered something about themselves? What comfort will those five million men have? Their lives are topsy. If they are married, they now see themselves living a lie. If they are near one of those highway rest areas, they can destroy themselves, their wives and their families with unsafe, anonymous sex. If they are rich they can hire an escort. If they are not, they can drink themselves to death. Perhaps they can give their lives, or their life savings to organizations that teach hatred. Perhaps they can kill themselves.

Every joy has a sadness.

The gay rights movement did the right thing too. The hooted and hollered about the unfairness of the ad. The complained bitterly about the self-destructive macho behavior that followed the kiss. Why did they do that?

"If I didn't hit ya, he was gonna. And he's a whole lot bigger than me!" I'm not sure what movie that line is from, though I think John Wayne said it to Jimmy Stewart... obviously after Wayne knocked Stewart to the ground. The attack from the gay rights movement was a framing attack. It put the commercial into the news, but it put the second half of the spot on the spot, and robbed the affection-control elements of society from asserting the evil of Snickers' subversive act, for to do so would be to agree with the evil gay rights fringe! Further, it put out the message that one need not react self-destructively, that there is another way.

There is hope.

So we have a story with legs... Did you see the Snickers ad? Did you see those men kiss? Did they really kiss, or was it technically not a real kiss? If the ad had been placed in another event would it have done as much? The Rose Parade? Ellen? Queer Eye? No. There is no place else in the television schedule where a commercial will be seen by more men than the Superbowl. Someone understood that, and exploited it perfectly.

Brokeback Mountain exposed many people to the very existence of men kissing-- normal men-- mechanics and cowboys. But the act itself, and the demonstration of the physiological brain reaction was kept safely away, like the Playgirl covers on the top shelf at the airport, you have to seek them out to see them. Snickers found a way to bring one bit of truth into fifty million middle-American homes, while they were looking.

It was, in fact, brilliant. It was, in fact, a public service. It was, in fact, a blessing.

A bit of a party...

Here's a quick update... As I said, last week was the start of the term, and now I'm in the groove. First week, first book down. Last Saturday I took a course in Biblical Research, learning how to read various biblical study tools... good things to know, but it ate up my Saturday. This weekend I don't think there is anything but Feast Night at school.

So Starr King doesn't have a big pile of traditions, but one happened last week, the "Mustache Party". The rule was that everyone had to come with facial hair, or similar. Judging was going to be in 4 categories: Fisherman, Mister Potato Head, Fantasy and overall.

Here I am, being a hairy fisherman:

The costume consisted of ink-jet printed fishing lures, held onto the hat with safety pins. And yes, that's mascara darkening the facial hair.

I came in second in the fisherman category, but, probably out of pity, I won the Mister Potato Head category, and came home with a lovely Sigmund Freud action figure!

Not bad for a 30-minute costume.

Term has started... unexpectedly.

I know what you are thinking, Thursday followed Monday or April followed May... no, the unexpectedly part of the title is what's happening this term.

Monday I brought a big pile of Marti Gras beads to my class I'm taking next door (to Starr King) at the Pacific School of Religion, called "Interpreting Sacred Texts", or "NTOT" in the rather archaic terminology of the school. The lecture has sixty students, and so it was easy to spread the gifts around. A few of the guys were shy about taking beads... but many were fine with it, including a couple of PSR folks who have become my friends. Mostly the women enjoyed it, though I had to think about a couple of rejections-- was this a political statement about the wearing of ornamentation? Was it an unwillingness to receive gifts? Was it a cleanliness issue? or was it that they wanted nothing to do with me?

Well, the beads weren't the unexpected part. The class went normally, and enjoyably, just like "OTNT" last term.

Monday afternoon I have "How Did We Survive This?", taught by Rev. Dr. Dave Sammons, or simply "Dave". It's a survey of events in Unitarian and Universalist history, concentrating on the ones that almost sank the ship-- from the Dedham Case to LRY. I took a class with Dave last term, and so I think I know his style, and what's expected.

Tuesday morning I went to "Introduction to Preaching", with Rev. Alma Crawford. Alma is both a UCC and UU minister, and the class spans denominations from Catholic to Wiccan. It's oversized a bit, 24 of us, but the diversity will be fun. I have to preach three times for this class. Lots of reading, lots of writing, lots of speaking. Again, I expected this.

Then it was time to pay the bills. I had my once-a-semester chat with the Registrar, Becky Leyser, and she asked if I would take my New Orleans experience and do a "Write Up" for credit. I really didn't think of NOLA as school work, in fact I was overjoyed that it had no readings, no papers and no sitting and listening. (not that those are bad...) I thought maybe I'd get a sermon out of it.

So what should I do? Spend time reliving my two weeks, in hopes of coming up with something very distinct from this blog? I left a good number of loose references in the blog, for me, not for you the reader. If I left those breadcrumbs, shouldn't I go and follow them? Hum!

The administrative assistant for student services, Trudell Webster, is actually relocated from the Crescent City, so I spent a good while talking to her about my trip... it made me feel better about the questions above...

Becky also noted that Starr King School for the Ministry has a minister this term! I'd noticed a face in Tuesday's chapel, but assumed he was a 3-rd or 4-th year student, back from internship. Nope, it's Rev. Sean Parker Dennison, who has his own blog... read all about him!

Sean and I had been chatting before my apointment with Becky, and we talked more after. I'm glad he's here. The SKSM staff is very protective of the professors-- always reminding us to not take up their time with non-academic matters (we got another memo on this last week). Fall term I got the feeling of being a mouthless child in a candy store... ministers behind every door, but a rule that they were not to act like ministers to me. Rev. Sean will have plenty of work to do... plenty of human interaction and listening.

This brings me to the unexpected part.

I came back to school for my evening class, mysteriously called "Spiritual Companion:Artist" As I came in the door I saw a circle of chairs and several students I knew. I chatted with one guy from San Francisco Theological Seminary, and some others from SKSM. But just as the class was starting I learned that I was sitting in "Intro to Islam" or something like that. My class was meeting downstairs in the reading room.

And I am the only student.

Seated at the table is an old Irish woman, Dr. Dorothy Donnelly. The class description said that the class would be learning do's and don't's of pastoral listening, allowing the Spirit to guide us. The first crisis is: should we even have the class? The second crisis is: This is a bad time, when should we have the class? The third crisis is: How should the class be taught? Dotty, as she is called, lets me decide these, maybe... or maybe she just wants to read my eyes.

We go through a long process of talking times and days and methods, while I am still uncertain what the class was going to be about... I have fallen down a rabbit hole.

So now we will meet for tea on Mondays, and she will assign readings for me, so she doesn't have to simply talk to one student for three hours a week.

Homework: I am to pray for her, and to pray for myself. This may end up being the hardest class this semester.

Time to say adieu to the Big Easy! I took Friday off, and went into town for what was, in hindsight, a rather mild good bye.

On the bus in, a very Forest Gump-like man was sitting across from me. He had many bags filled with beads... several years worth of collected beads, and was putting them on, and telling me, and anyone else who would listen, when he'd gotten them. It was a cheery monologue, and I couldn't catch many of the words over the rumble of the bus, but he was obviously a parade junkie. He also told me that there would be a parade in the French Quarter at 2 PM. I didn't quite know whether to believe him, but what the heck... I'd look for it.

As I entered the Quarter I heard a very loud calliope! Where was it? Block after block it got louder-- not like the usual music that floods out of the stripper clubs! I walked about 10 blocks before seeing it. It turns out it was on the Natchez, a paddle-wheel steamboat at the waterfront. This was their pre-departure concert... a very effective crowd-getter for their river tours.



After that ended, the riverbank became more quiet, almost contemplative.



But I had to find that parade... It turns out it was for a new musical opening at Harrah's Casino-- "Hats"



This woman, it seems, just jumped into the start of the parade-- and was having a fine time strutting along... The drum major was fine with this, and even loaned her the baton.



Of course the music was the important thing...




and the very simple, horse or tractor drawn floats, where they threw beads... I wish they'd had coins too, but for an off-season parade, this was pretty good. I ran out of pocket space to hold red and purple beads.



The parade went through the Quarter, then up--and down Canal Street. By the time it got there, nobody much cared, and I had had plenty of beads thrown at me.



With that out of the way, I could have gone to a museum, or a Gray Line tour... I decided to do the cheap thing, and take the free ferry across to Algiers-- the part of New Orleans that is south of the river. Once there, I could have toured the warehouses where they assemble the Mardi Gras floats, but I was getting hungry, so I turned around and took the ferry back.



Here's a view of the French Quarter from the boat:



And the obligatory streetcar shot... not quite Desire, but something.



I spent the next four or so hours visiting bars, eating more beignets, poking my head into shops. There were large groups of volunteer workers... Presbyterian, Catholic, and a group of guys with "CAW-TCA" on their shirts and caps-- I'd seen one of them at the Rock-n-Bowl, so now I had to ask. It turns out they are all Canadian Auto Workers. It's true that volunteers are what's keeping the economy afloat, judging by the way these guys shopped.

I ate at the same place I'd eaten on the first night-- though this time I didn't have the fried food, I had some sort of sandwich with olives and ham and other meats... and it was VERY GOOD. Wish I could remember what it was called.

The day made me look at the French Quarter from a different angle-- as a place, rather than an amusement park. It's full of residences, some very elegant, as well as topless and bottomless shows, bars and souvenir shops. At one narrow sidewalk I yielded right-of-way to a nun who was late for 5 PM mass... she was heading down the street in a white habit, at full speed! Maybe it's that aspect that makes New Orleans real and wonderful and Las Vegas so plastic.



But, like the entire New Orleans adventure, my day too, had to come to an end. I took the bus back along St. Charles... I couldn't figure out where the South Claiborne bus stopped on Canal, or if it still ran that late at night.

Forest Gump wasn't on the bus, but there was a large man with large round glasses, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking like a character out of Confederacy of Dunces, or perhaps an oversized Truman Capote... He pulled out a book of expert cryptic crosswords and started in working. Oh I love this town!

Saturday morning I woke up and packed. Thanks to Sharon and George who drove me to MSY-- the New Orleans airport. I got back to Berkeley about 7:30 PM... almost ready for the term to start.

It was a great two weeks... good bye New Orleans