If I thought anything President Trump and his administration are doing was based upon facts, or even informed observation, I'd be more likely to be giving him a chance.
For example, his actions yesterday regarding the environment and global climate change: the vast majority of experts in those fields are convinced that those actions fly in the face of facts.
(Disclaimer: majorities can be wrong, and the "vast majority" of environmental and climate change experts might be wrong. But the rigors of the scientific method, which include the verification by others of observations and conclusions, have proven over time to provide reliable information, information upon which we can base informed decisions. Yes, new information can alter or even disprove previously-held conclusions. That's the way of science. But in many situations we must make our best decisions now based upon what we know now, because the future can't wait.)
So, whose verified or at least potentially verifiable research did the Trump team cite to justify pulling back on President Obama's environmental policies or reopening the way to increased use of coal and other fossil fuels? Who is saying that pumping more CO2 into the atmosphere will not hasten the onslaught of the most drastic effects of climate change, evidence of which we are already seeing around the globe, not to mention in our own backyards, this March of 2017? Which economists (those practitioners of what someone once called 'the dismal science') believe that government deregulation will revive the struggling coal industry?
The rest of the world, including even China, is positioning itself to move toward a future of cleaner energy, while the United States seeks to revive the towering smokestacks that once dotted our skylines and filled our lungs with deadly particles and poisons.
I believe we can protect the environment, can possibly manage climate change, and can create and maintain good jobs. But not by increasing our use of fossil fuels. Trump's actions encourage the fossil fuel industry that helped elect him and they encourage the short term interests of people like me who prosper when the markets go up. But they are not good for our children or grandchildren. And the coal fields of Appalachia will remain as depressed as they are.
Today's Plain Dealer reports that a Cleveland City Councilman is on his way to Washington to try to counter the planned near-destruction of the EPA by President Trump and the Secretary of the Late EPA. What better messenger can there be than one whose city's "burning river" proved to be the flame that ignited the largely bipartisan environmental protection movement that cleaned up the Cuyahoga River and much, much more?
Your thoughtful and informed responses will be welcomed.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Gunboat Diplomcy
We probably will not see any large demonstrations in favor of restoring cuts in State Department funding to the budget President Trump has sent to Congress. Who cares about a bunch of diplomats putting in their time on foreign affairs when we've got the USA to take care of?
There might be a few little shows of complaint about cutting back on "foreign aid." But again, who wants to give anything to anybody but us, even the teeny, tiny little bit we presently give? Let them take care of themselves.
There no doubt will be (and is already) quite a hue and cry regarding the massive increase in "defense" (i.e., "war") spending, but we really, really need that...or do we? Does that 10%/$54,000,000,000 increase have any verifiable rationale behind it, or is it just a number that sounded good to the folks in the White House? It will certainly play in Peoria, and wherever tanks and boats are made.
So, we cut back on our ability to know and analyze what's happening around the world, to craft strong AND thoughtful responses to challenges when necessary, to make friends by showing ordinary people in faraway lands that we are generous nation, to do the hard work of making peace...and then, when we end up with no apparent option but military force, we blame everyone else for forcing us into wars that sacrifice American blood and waste American treasure.
All this, like so much else these days, makes no sense whatsoever, and is a disgrace for our nation.
There might be a few little shows of complaint about cutting back on "foreign aid." But again, who wants to give anything to anybody but us, even the teeny, tiny little bit we presently give? Let them take care of themselves.
There no doubt will be (and is already) quite a hue and cry regarding the massive increase in "defense" (i.e., "war") spending, but we really, really need that...or do we? Does that 10%/$54,000,000,000 increase have any verifiable rationale behind it, or is it just a number that sounded good to the folks in the White House? It will certainly play in Peoria, and wherever tanks and boats are made.
So, we cut back on our ability to know and analyze what's happening around the world, to craft strong AND thoughtful responses to challenges when necessary, to make friends by showing ordinary people in faraway lands that we are generous nation, to do the hard work of making peace...and then, when we end up with no apparent option but military force, we blame everyone else for forcing us into wars that sacrifice American blood and waste American treasure.
All this, like so much else these days, makes no sense whatsoever, and is a disgrace for our nation.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
Song of the Earth
Song of the Earth
I write about an experience that I really cannot put into words. That experience was at a concert of music that perhaps 99.9% of the population does not know.
I do not intend to sound "elitist" in making such a judgment. Indeed I, despite having been aware of the music for decades, never understood it in the way I understood it at that moment. I barely understood it at all. Nor did I feel what I take to be its "message" until that night, that moment, at that concert. (Even these words are inadequate.)
I will begin with a confession: I've always had more than a little trouble with Christian teachings on the resurrection. I know I should have always been certain about resurrection–both the resurrection of Jesus and the resurrection of individuals–because I have, in my role as a pastor, often stood firm on the subject in the presence of others. People no doubt thought I was certain. Fortunately, there are biblical and liturgical words as well as prayers that make it easy to sound certain, because they sound certain. I just had to read them with conviction.
Unfortunately, from my standpoint, much of what has found its way into our prayers and into our liturgies and into our common cultural understanding of resurrection is either quite unbiblical, or at best a tiny minority report within the greater biblical witness. It is also hard to make sense of.
I have great problems, both theologically and personally, with the soul-body dichotomy that comforts many. I cannot wrap my mind around notions of a heavenly dwelling place for disembodied spirits somewhere "up there." I struggle with the idea that eternity has the wherewithal to judge lives bound by constraints of time and space. I don't know what eternity with "all the saints" would actually be or feel like (should I make it into that great company), and seriously doubt that I would have the patience to live with so august a gathering for that long. And though I like to sing, I would hope there are long breaks in the rehearsals and concerts of the heavenly choirs.
I've gone from fairly serious to fairly silly in the above, but you may get the idea: I am not comfortable with somehow being split in two so that the two halves of me end up forever totally separated from each other. I am not comforted by the thought of being thus divided. I think, I feel, I know that soul and body are each integral to who I am. Resurrection without both (or all) parts of me makes no sense to me.
Anyway, the concert I speak of was by the Cleveland Orchestra last month. Under the direction of guest conductor Donald Runnicles, and featuring mezzo-soprano Michelle DeYoung and tenor Paul Groves, the Orchestra performed Gustav Mahler's Song of the Earth.
If I haven't lost you yet, hang on, and I will do my best to keep you in the fold.
Gustav Mahler wrote really long, really complex music in which he tried to sort out the meaning of life and of death. Song of the Earth was composed in 1908, and takes around a hour to perform. Its words are from the works of a German named Hans Bethge, who creatively reworked them from "classic Chinese poems." In Mahler's hands, Bethge's poems are about life and death...no, they are about life that dies. Or about death that lives. In the earth.
Here's another confession those of you who do know Song of the Earth will probably chuckle over, because it reveals how limited my appreciation of music can be: I've had recordings of Song of the Earth for maybe 40 years: an old, old LP, and a much newer CD. I've listened to it now and then and tried to follow it and understand it, but never really got into it until last month. Maybe I wasn't ready for it until that night I sat still for an hour and concentrated on it (concentration is a life-long problem of mine).
I listened hard to it, and this is what I think I heard: The hope for us is in return to the earth, in return to the soil, in return–body and soul–to the land from which we came. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," as the liturgy says, reflecting the Genesis 2 creation account, and the New Testament assurance of the redemption of the earth, of "all things," in Jesus Christ.
Or, as the priest assured me Wednesday night as he crossed ashes my forehead, "From dust you have come; to dust you shall return."
The final words of the Mahler's Song of the Earth are these, sung exquisitely last month by Michelle DeYoung:
Where am I heading? I go, I wander into the mountains.
I seek peace for my lonely heart.
I go to my native land, my home!
I shall never roam in distant lands.
My heart is quiet, and awaiting its hour!
The beloved earth everywhere blossoms forth in spring and greens anew!
Everywhere and forever the horizon brightens to blue!
Forever...forever...
As "forever" (German ewig) faded, I felt a comfort about my place in eternity that I cannot recall ever before feeling, a comfort and a peace about death that I cannot put into words. Did hints of the texture and smell of the good, rich soil of my native Iowa make their way into my subconscious? Was that the peace beyond my understanding? I do not know. I cannot put it into words.
Does what I have dared confess and affirm in this essay cast doubt on my identity as a Christian? I don't really think so. The claim–my lifelong conviction–of God's incarnation in Jesus the human being makes me think that what I am questioning and finding is very much Christian.
I have no illusions that I've experienced anything new (as evidence, the Wendell Berry quote at the top). But that experience and the way I felt it was and is new to me. It comforts me. I am consoled.
The soil is the great connector of lives, the source and destination of all. It is the healer and restorer and resurrector, by which disease passes into health, age into youth, death into life. Without proper care for it we can have no community, because without proper care for it we can have no life.
Wendell Berry
I write about an experience that I really cannot put into words. That experience was at a concert of music that perhaps 99.9% of the population does not know.
I do not intend to sound "elitist" in making such a judgment. Indeed I, despite having been aware of the music for decades, never understood it in the way I understood it at that moment. I barely understood it at all. Nor did I feel what I take to be its "message" until that night, that moment, at that concert. (Even these words are inadequate.)
I will begin with a confession: I've always had more than a little trouble with Christian teachings on the resurrection. I know I should have always been certain about resurrection–both the resurrection of Jesus and the resurrection of individuals–because I have, in my role as a pastor, often stood firm on the subject in the presence of others. People no doubt thought I was certain. Fortunately, there are biblical and liturgical words as well as prayers that make it easy to sound certain, because they sound certain. I just had to read them with conviction.
Unfortunately, from my standpoint, much of what has found its way into our prayers and into our liturgies and into our common cultural understanding of resurrection is either quite unbiblical, or at best a tiny minority report within the greater biblical witness. It is also hard to make sense of.
I have great problems, both theologically and personally, with the soul-body dichotomy that comforts many. I cannot wrap my mind around notions of a heavenly dwelling place for disembodied spirits somewhere "up there." I struggle with the idea that eternity has the wherewithal to judge lives bound by constraints of time and space. I don't know what eternity with "all the saints" would actually be or feel like (should I make it into that great company), and seriously doubt that I would have the patience to live with so august a gathering for that long. And though I like to sing, I would hope there are long breaks in the rehearsals and concerts of the heavenly choirs.
I've gone from fairly serious to fairly silly in the above, but you may get the idea: I am not comfortable with somehow being split in two so that the two halves of me end up forever totally separated from each other. I am not comforted by the thought of being thus divided. I think, I feel, I know that soul and body are each integral to who I am. Resurrection without both (or all) parts of me makes no sense to me.
Anyway, the concert I speak of was by the Cleveland Orchestra last month. Under the direction of guest conductor Donald Runnicles, and featuring mezzo-soprano Michelle DeYoung and tenor Paul Groves, the Orchestra performed Gustav Mahler's Song of the Earth.
If I haven't lost you yet, hang on, and I will do my best to keep you in the fold.
Gustav Mahler wrote really long, really complex music in which he tried to sort out the meaning of life and of death. Song of the Earth was composed in 1908, and takes around a hour to perform. Its words are from the works of a German named Hans Bethge, who creatively reworked them from "classic Chinese poems." In Mahler's hands, Bethge's poems are about life and death...no, they are about life that dies. Or about death that lives. In the earth.
Here's another confession those of you who do know Song of the Earth will probably chuckle over, because it reveals how limited my appreciation of music can be: I've had recordings of Song of the Earth for maybe 40 years: an old, old LP, and a much newer CD. I've listened to it now and then and tried to follow it and understand it, but never really got into it until last month. Maybe I wasn't ready for it until that night I sat still for an hour and concentrated on it (concentration is a life-long problem of mine).
I listened hard to it, and this is what I think I heard: The hope for us is in return to the earth, in return to the soil, in return–body and soul–to the land from which we came. "Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," as the liturgy says, reflecting the Genesis 2 creation account, and the New Testament assurance of the redemption of the earth, of "all things," in Jesus Christ.
Or, as the priest assured me Wednesday night as he crossed ashes my forehead, "From dust you have come; to dust you shall return."
The final words of the Mahler's Song of the Earth are these, sung exquisitely last month by Michelle DeYoung:
Where am I heading? I go, I wander into the mountains.
I seek peace for my lonely heart.
I go to my native land, my home!
I shall never roam in distant lands.
My heart is quiet, and awaiting its hour!
The beloved earth everywhere blossoms forth in spring and greens anew!
Everywhere and forever the horizon brightens to blue!
Forever...forever...
As "forever" (German ewig) faded, I felt a comfort about my place in eternity that I cannot recall ever before feeling, a comfort and a peace about death that I cannot put into words. Did hints of the texture and smell of the good, rich soil of my native Iowa make their way into my subconscious? Was that the peace beyond my understanding? I do not know. I cannot put it into words.
Does what I have dared confess and affirm in this essay cast doubt on my identity as a Christian? I don't really think so. The claim–my lifelong conviction–of God's incarnation in Jesus the human being makes me think that what I am questioning and finding is very much Christian.
I have no illusions that I've experienced anything new (as evidence, the Wendell Berry quote at the top). But that experience and the way I felt it was and is new to me. It comforts me. I am consoled.
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