Music to My Ears

Two selections from the Writer’s Almanac speak to me, so I want to share them with you.

Today’s poem asks what “far-off and half-forgotten country” within us is waiting for us to visit. What will we hear there? Who waits for us there?

Music 

by Anne Porter

When I was a child

I once sat sobbing on the floor

Beside my mother’s piano

As she played and sang

For there was in her singing

A shy yet solemn glory

My smallness could not hold

And when I was asked

Why I was crying

I had no words for it

I only shook my head

And went on crying

Why is it that music

At its most beautiful

Opens a wound in us

An ache a desolation

Deep as a homesickness

For some far-off

And half-forgotten country

I’ve never understood

Why this is so

But there’s an ancient legend

From the other side of the world

That gives away the secret

Of this mysterious sorrow

For centuries on centuries

We have been wandering

But we were made for Paradise

As deer for the forest

And when music comes to us

With its heavenly beauty

It brings us desolation

For when we hear it

We half remember

That lost native country

We dimly remember the fields

Their fragrant windswept clover

The birdsongs in the orchards

The wild white violets in the moss

By the transparent streams

And shining at the heart of it

Is the longed-for beauty

Of the One who waits for us

Who will always wait for us

In those radiant meadows

Yet also came to live with us

And wanders where we wander.

A few days ago I was struck by two lines by Nicaraguan poet Ruben Dario (1867-1916). They too lean toward something hidden within us that we can, perhaps, only welcome:

Pity for him who one day looks upon

his inward sphinx and questions it. He is lost.

You don't HAVE to say everything you CAN say

The following lines from an opinion piece by Michael Gerson (Washington Post Writers Group, and published in last Sunday's Cleveland Plain Dealer) are worth sharing and considering. They support my decision to block certain links suggested by some of my Facebook friends: as if the posts they tend to "like" are not disrespectful enough in and of themselves, the comments those "likes" generate are worse.

"While the protection of blasphemy is required by democratic values, it does not exhaust those values. Civility is also an important democratic value. Our ideal of democracy is not an endless cable television shouting match. It is a free society in which citizens have a decent regard for the rights and views of others. This requires a measure of self-restraint; something we teach to our children as tolerance and manners. And such self-restraint is not self-censorship; it is respect. A free country should unapologetically defend the right to jeer and taunt. This does not require everyone in a free country to find jeering and taunting admirable."

What do you think?

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

       (Alfred, Lord Tennyson - 1850)

The Drive Home

My favorite moments of Christmas for more than four decades were those moments I was driving myself home after the final Christmas Eve service. The world–my world–was, at last, quiet.

I am a retired Presbyterian minister. During my ministry I felt responsible for helping Advent and Christmas-season worshippers experience the power and mystery of God's birth in human flesh. Our Christmas Eve services were the culmination of the drama played out the four Sundays previous, the season of Advent.

Churches fill the weeks before Christmas with special events: extra musical presentations, greens and poinsettias, cookie exchanges, outreach and service activities, giving opportunities, classes, and always one or two other things someone thinks would be so nice to do this year. Worship planners walk a fine line between doing what they've always done and trying something new, hoping telling the story in a new way might capture worshippers' frequently divided attention.

I never did all of it myself, but I was expected to know about and support it all. On top that, I am a married man with a family, so there was all of that to think about and do, too. My wife and daughters were busy with their own activities, some in the church and some not, plus we made time to do special things together. Because my wife is an excellent organizer and executer of family events, we and our daughters always made it to Christmas Eve in one piece, even if the My Little Pony castle still had to be assembled.

I approached leading Christmas Eve worship in high anticipation. On that night the sanctuary is unnaturally beautiful and full, old friends greet one another with special warmth, hassled people relax, visiting grandchildren are proudly displayed, college students and service members away from home for the first time are excited to see each other, the music is familiar and yet startling, and the candles glow as we sing "Silent Night," lifting them heaven-ward on "wondrous star, shed thy light."

And then it is over. The crowds file out. Partially burnt candles are collected for reuse next year. Ushers double check to make sure no candles have been left burning. The offering is stowed safely away. Little by little the place empties and usually, in the smaller churches I served, I am left alone in the building. I turn out the last lights and lock the doors, and walk out into the night to drive home.

I love that drive. It is so quiet, too quiet even for music. Traffic is light. Most businesses are closed. Lights sparkle on houses. It is as if in that moment the world has finally stopped, and there is hope that perhaps, this time, it will finally hear and absorb the promise of "peace on earth, good will to all" that the angels sang.

That drive home was always my own, personal Christmas moment. I've been missing it ever since I retired.

Who Has the Big Picture?

If Abraham Lincoln gave his Second Inaugural Address in 2014, would it stand a chance of being remembered at all, much less 150 years later?

If Martin Luther King, Jr. shared his dream in 2014, would it survive the onslaught of opinions to which we'd all be subjected immediately after it?

These questions come to mind as I reflect on a piece by Samuel Wells in the August 30 Christian Century (p. 31). Wells is the vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields Church in London. He writes about the upcoming Scottish vote for independence, but one paragraph sounds as if it should be exported across the ocean to our USA:

"What the [independence] debate has exposed is a vacuum in British society as a whole. Not only is no one able to offer an aspirational picture of a whole society where there's a place for everybody and the various identities enrich and bring out the best in one another; beyond that, our public discourse no longer even permits such language or such a vision. In the absence of an inspirational large canvas, it's inevitable that minority rhetoric will sound more compelling and exciting. But that can only mean splitting into smaller and smaller groups."

Suppose there were a political leader in our nation who possessed rhetorical skills perfectly matched to our times and media, and who had a vision of an "ideal" American society in which all were respected and honored both in words and in actions. Would we allow ourselves time actually to hear and absorb and reflect upon her or his vision before we let someone else tell us what had been said and what it really means?

Probably not; in fact, many of us would likely turn to some trusted commentator to tell us how to think about what we'd just heard before we'd consider it ourselves, on our own terms, from our own point of view. We'd likely go to someone with a stake in dividing us into manageable and compliant factions, and allow that organization or person to determine the validity and credibility of what we'd just heard.

There may be such a leader of vision out there, but I am not hearing his or her voice. Or am I limiting my options only to those I've come to believe are worth hearing?

In any case, it's not a good way to be a democracy.

Israeli Divestment and Presbyterians

Anyone who dives into the dark waters of the never-ending Israeli-Palestinian conflict risks being drowned. Not drowning, but being drowned: someone will surely try to hold the poor soul’s head under water until breathing stops. And should said diver express any uncertainty about who is right and why, he or she will likely be pushed under by at least two someones. There’s no room for doubt in this pond.

So, “I am who about to die, salute you.” I can see this whole mess both ways…actually, in fact, many ways. Sorry, but it is complex, at least in my mind, with few clear good guys and, except for of the most radical, few clear bad guys, either. Just warring groups of people pumped up be religious fervor trying to find security and peace and enough to eat and drink on a small piece of real estate that happens to sit where three great continents.

Into this morass the Presbyterian Church (USA) took a dive at its General Assembly (i.e., national) meeting in June. The commissioners voted, by a hair, to withdraw the denomination’s Foundation and Pension Funds from three US corporations–Caterpillar, Hewlett-Packard, and Motorola Solutions–that do business with Israel. The concern that guided the Assembly to take this action are the “human rights violations and suffering resulting from the Israeli occupation of Palestine.” (quoted from the denomination’s “Frequently Asked Questions: Divestment” link at www.pcusa.org.)

I am not going to offer more detail than that, suspecting that if you’ve read this far, you know all about the matter anyway. If you do not, go the website just cited and check it out.

I admit I am conflicted about this action. (One moment, please, while I take cover.) I understand it in many, many ways, and I believe the issue it identifies is absolutely right.

On the other hand, I am distressed when I read and hear justifications for it that barely acknowledge the threats to Israel’s existence posed by its enemies, threats grounded in rhetoric calling for Israel’s annihilation. (As in the afore-mentioned FAQ as well as in a letter in last Sunday’s Cleveland Plain Dealer by a fellow Presbyterian minister.)

The facts of Palestinian oppression are set forth with hardly a nod to the reality that much of the Palestinian leadership has turned every opportunity to solve the conflict into a means of strengthening its own military’s ability to destroy Israel, and seems to care little for the well-being of the people it is supposedly serving.

This is not to excuse Israel and its leadership for the opportunities it has missed. The illegal settlements should have stopped before they were started. It’s almost impossible to see turning them back now, which creates a corner Israel can’t get out of. But it is to make the point that the way Israel treats Palestine has happened in a context that must be recognized if there is any hope for peace.

Some of us Presbyterians apparently do not want to see or acknowledge that context. Eager to do anything, we did something. Now we justify what we did with a carefully selected set of some of the realities. If helping achieve peace with justice for all is the ultimate goal (what else could be?), then will what we did get the world there? Seems to me that if you look at only part of what’s to be seen in making a decision you risk deciding the wrong thing. In this case we risked fracturing the church for a mistake. And put us at odds with Jewish neighbors with whom many of us share long and positive relationships. To break the will of Israel and/or Hamas? To force Caterpillar, HP, Motorola Solutions to their corporate knees?

And now comes John Buchanan, editor of the Christian Century, and one of Presbyteriandom’s respected elder statesmen. Buchanan wrote a scathing editorial on the divestment decision in the July 23 issue of the Century. Two sentences in his editorial leap out at any Presbyterian who likes to think we do things “decently and in order.”

First, “The national Presbyterian Church individuals who provided resources for the committee [that considered the divestment proposal] made no attempt at neutrality but advocated for divestment at every opportunity.” Is he talking about denominational staff members here? I hope not.

And then, “Committee leadership, which is supposed to remain neutral and ensure balance, did not do its job.” True or false? If true, shame on us. If false, John Buchanan’s in a lot of trouble. These are about as damning words as one Presbyterian can say about and to another.

I am troubled by all of this, but not troubled as much as I am by the spectacle of suffering inflicted upon the people of Gaza by Israel as it seeks to root out the terrorists who are lobbing missiles its way from sites located amongst civilians. It’s a mess, and it’s getting messier. If what we Presbyterians decided to do in June makes making peace easier, praise God. If not, we will have only ourselves to blame.

Orwell vs. Huxley

from the July 26, 2014, Writer's Almanac:

Brave New World is often compared with George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four (1948), since they each offer a view of a dystopian future. Cultural critic Neil Postman spelled out the difference in his 1985 book Amusing Ourselves to Death:

"What Orwell feared were those who would ban books. What Huxley feared was that there would be no reason to ban a book, for there would be no one who wanted to read one. Orwell feared those who would deprive us of information. Huxley feared those who would give us so much that we would be reduced to passivity and egoism. Orwell feared that the truth would be concealed from us. Huxley feared the truth would be drowned in a sea of irrelevance. Orwell feared we would become a captive culture. Huxley feared we would become a trivial culture. ... In short, Orwell feared that what we fear will ruin us. Huxley feared that our desire will ruin us."

A bit disconcerting to think about nearly three decades later.