My family - the Warbling Wonders?

As far back as i can remember, my dad has sung, and my mom has not. Mom says when i was a baby, i generally preferred Dad over her because of this. I'd be all whiny and fussy (although, naturally, less verbal about it than i am now), and Mom would do anything and everything to quiet me. But all Dad had to do was sing to me, and i would soon calm down. My favourites tended to be the songs he composed to my stuffed animals – “Whitey the Seal” to the tune of “Winnie the Pooh,” for instance. When my brothers and i grew a little older, Dad recorded himself singing on cassette tapes for us to listen to at night. And of course, he taught us all the classics, such as “Great Big Gobs of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts,” “Mrs. Murphy’s Chowder,” and “What a Friend We Have in Cheeses.” Much to his dismay, we taught ourselves “This is the Song That Never Ends” and “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.” In church, my eldest brother especially would sing proudly, and loudly. I was incredibly embarrassed by this, especially when people would come up to him after the service and thank him for his enthusiastic singing. At that time i was too busy to step on his toes, as Dad needed curbing of his own - he insisted on showing off his command of accents. “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” was German, “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow” was British, “Amazing Grace” was French… Needless to say, i had no effect other than to exacerbate the problem, but i think the elderly ladies who always sat behind us enjoyed the show. We all have an embarrassing tendency to sing in public, especially around Christmastime. It’s just that the season is simply too short to sing all of the good songs if we don’t, and we also often feel the need to purge ourselves of the updated translations. I mean “God Rest You Merry Christian Folk” has nothing on “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” and “set your minds on things eternal” simply does not evoke the same imagery as “ponder nothing earthly minded.” Fortunately for the public, my father and my brothers can carry a tune fairly well, so as long as i stay fairly quiet, nobody feels the need to relieve themselves of rotten produce (an Alto singing with three Basses doesn’t generally stand out very much, anyway). In fact, we often get quite a few nods and smiles, and some people look like they’d like to join in, but so far no one has. Probably because they don’t wish to embarrass us with their superior singing ability. We also have to be careful regarding whom we watch our favourite musicals with. It is practically impossible to be silent while watching Congress sing a rousing song about opening windows (1776), or Maria teaching the children how to sing (The Sound of Music), or Yenta matchmaking (The Fiddler on the Roof). You try it sometime. But you musn't think we wait for Christmas or musicals to inflict ourselves on the public; we’ve also been known to break out in hospital waiting rooms, or while walking the dog, or waiting for the 4th of July fireworks to start, or in the middle of dinner, or at the grocery store, or while waiting in line at the veterinary clinic… For some reason, people are much less forgiving when they’re not filled with Christmas spirit. Instead of nods, we get odd looks, and people subtly moving away, and acquaintances crossing the street – especially when we try to harmonize. However, in most cases we’d rather sing than talk to them, anyway. It is a simple fact that some days, it is absolutely imperative to inquire of the world if they are going to Scarborough Fair, and exclaim about the glories of goober peas, and inform Aunt Rhodie that her old grey goose is dead. Yes, i know - my poor mother…

Moving, Part V

This was probably the most enjoyable move. We weren't leaving anyone, simply moving on base. And in any case, moves with Italian movers are bound to be exciting. There were very few actual mishaps, as i remember, but the potentiality... Almost having ID's (required for entry on base) packed away, bowling balls placed in pitcher bowls without even any paper b/w them, fragile items practically tossed off the balcony. There's a scene in The Hobbit where the dwarves taunt Bilbo Baggins by singing this while cleaning the kitchen - very apt, if i do say so myself. The house on base looked just like all of the other houses on base. It was a pale yellow one-story structure, divided in half. However, we had the loveliest trees in our backyard (unless you talk to my mother, who did our laundry) - some lovely eucalypti and an absolutely gorgeous fig tree. One of the eucalypti even had a sort of treehouse attached, and a ladder, and a hammock. If we didn't feel like climbing those, there were some pine trees acrost the road. We could (and did) walk to church, to the commissary, to the school, to the track, and to the creek behind the hospital (to catch tadpoles)... And it was safe. My friends and i biked and rollerbladed all over that base so that even i couldn't get lost if i'd wanted to. Halloween was amazing - we'd all get dressed up, and the people that lived off base would set up in the parking lot, and all of us kids would go trick-or-treating while the adults rested from having to assemble knights, ghostbusters, princesses, zombies, and legomen from the thrift store and packing cases. I still remember that boring, cookie-cutter old house (which is no more, i've heard - they bull-dozed that part of the base, so all of our beautiful trees and favourite haunts have made way for the new hospital, or something practical like that) as a place of beauty, not because it was of any aesthetic value, but because living there was beautiful. Okay, so i rhapsodized about living on base instead of actually talking about the move, but the move was even less interesting. Trust me. If you are insanely bored, links to all the other parts can be found here.

On Why I Go to Church, Part II

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, the Creator of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only begotten Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilot, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended into hell. The third day He rose again from the dead. He ascended in to Heaven and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty. From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe in a Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the Body, and the Life everlasting. Amen. In case you haven’t noticed yet, i have been raised in the Christian Church, and am myself a confessing believer. This is the second post which concerns my motivations, not for my conversion (which is a completely different story), but for my involvement in the institution of the Church. It is written more for my own satisfaction than anything else, so if rather incoherent introspection does not interest you, i recommend that you skip them. Otherwise, part I is here. The negative impression I mention in Part I of these reflections was furthered by my work in the church archives. One of my tasks was to put together a database of all the pastors. Among other things, i had to look up which article of the church order was used to depose or separate preachers who were deposed or separated. The number of deposed preachers has skyrocketed in the last twenty or so years, and generally the cause is extremely ambiguous. My father currently pastors at a church where the previous preacher was deposed, for reasons that were not made public. Rumours abound, and it is very difficult to get the congregation to trust him and each other, not to mention the other churches in the area. Even the congregations of the same denomination are reluctant to work together. My grandfather, albeit unintentionally, also encouraged my bitterness. He is officially retired, and does interim pastorships at churches that lack a minister. These congregations are often troubled, and suffering some recent great divide over some triviality, such as which hymnal to use or the colour of their carpeting. Most have had some difficulty with their pastor, too. I could give you a list of churches all over the country that have split up for some reason or another, some grievous but often ridiculous. And so i looked forward to college as a chance to escape church. I was sick of church. It didn't do a thing for me, and i figured i had better give it a rest. I believed that Church embodied all that was wrong with Christianity and even (considered historically) humanity. Although i could see this worried my parents, and my father sometimes asked me unpleasant questions, no one directly opposed my resolve. I note here, as an aside, that i have never had what is known as a conversion experience. I have a not altogether unwarranted skepticism of conversion experiences. Yet… i can no longer completely discount them. There is an evening church service on campus. I attended a few times, as a counter-irritant to my heathen sensibilities (i.e. to make my mother feel better). One night they served communion. I have no idea what the sermon was, and i don’t believe i knew then. Understand that because of my qualms i had never made any public declaration of my faith, and therefore had never partaken of the Eucharist (this is very unusual in my denomination – most people would have done this years ago). After the service i went for a walk in the back parking lots, simply to escape the crowd. But I could not stop thinking about the Communion – about the Sacrifice poured out not just for me. I had the most astounding and blindingly obvious of revelations. Church is not about me. It wasn’t the Church that was irrelevant, but I. My withdrawal from the Church no longer seemed a noble and superior form of faith, but stupid and hypocritical. And i wept, though out of joy or regret i do not know. As for this particular church, well… I could no longer in conscience wait around until I found a church that “fit” me. I called my father who recommended a couple of friends who might serve as mentors and counselors, one of whom had been the preacher during the service i have just mentioned. Upon being informed of my intentions, she suggested i go to church with her sister the next week, as she knew the pastors there and it would be convenient for me. So i did, and spoke to the pastor, and joined the choir, and attended the catechism classes, and at last made a profession of faith. And God, in His grace, selected for me a church that suits me far more than anything i have come across before. It is a large though simple structure composed of red brick. There is not an overwhelming population of college students, which i very much appreciate (most of my close friends are nearer my parent’s age than mine; besides, I hate being labeled and herded). The congregation is, on the whole, well educated and responsible. Besides all this, they have an organ – a real pipe organ. Instrumentalists and singers abound, and the choir’s music selection is beautifully diverse. I would be incredibly surprised if more than a couple dozen of the congregation would know my name or even recognize me, yet, these people are my people. Their song is my song, their griefs my griefs, and their joys also mine – not for what they do but to whom they do it. Here, with these my people, I will worship our God.

Sea Kittens ?!?

I'm sorry, but i just don't believe this is real. It has to be a spoof, right?

On Why I Go to Church, Part I

I believe in God, the Father Almighty, the Creator of Heaven and Earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only begotten Son, our Lord, who was conceived by the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary. He suffered under Pontius Pilot, was crucified, died, and was buried; he descended into Hell. The third day He rose again from the dead. He ascended in to Heaven and is seated at the right hand of God the Father almighty. From thence He shall come to judge the quick and the dead. I believe in the Holy Spirit. I believe in a Holy Catholic Church, the communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the Body, and the Life everlasting. Amen. In case you haven’t noticed yet, i have been raised in the Christian Church, and am myself a confessing believer. These posts concern my motivations, not for my conversion, but for my involvement in the institution of the Church. It is written more for my own satisfaction than anything else, so if rather incoherent introspection does not interest you, i recommend that you skip them.

Some months ago, my grandmother asked me why i attend the particular church that i do. She had heard some people complaining about its lack of a pastor (we just got one this month after over two years). It is a more traditional church, though not particularly conservative, and there is not much geared towards “young people.” Although there are several reasons, i could not give her an articulate answer. The truth is, i still can’t, but i had to try.

The first question is, of course, why go to church at all. Let me start by giving you a (hopefully) short history of my involvement with the church. My father is a pastor. My mother’s father is a pastor. My father’s uncle is a pastor. My father’s father’s father was a pastor. My father’s second cousin is a pastor. All of them are in the same, rather small denomination.

However, my father was also in the Navy. For many years we had not the luxury of a church in our denomination (which is a rather small branch of the Holy Catholic Church - it is often said that the Jehovah's Witnesses know that only 144,000 people will be saved, and we know who they are. Not particularly funny perhaps, but this denomination is known for its stolid respectability and emphasis on academics, not for its great wit). My family is of a very Reformed (Calvinist) background, but my best friends were Catholic, Mormon, or Agnostic. We discussed our various faiths with each other in much the same way we discussed our various tastes in food and clothing - with curiosity and politeness, and a complacent certainty that it was our family who were "right."

And so it is perhaps not completely presumptuous to say that i have had a good deal of experience with churches of all shapes and sizes. I have attended a rural church whose congregation met in a small Northern town (population 20), where they seemed to have only two surnames to choose from. I have attended an American chapel on a military base in a foreign country, as well as services in Spanish, Italian, Latin, and Dutch. I have attended Roman Catholic, Mormon, Baptist, Gospel, Presbyterian, Reformed, and Non-denominational services. I have participated in services performed at a megachurch (which was attached to the school i attended at the time), at a moderately sized church in drained swampland of the rural south, at a small church in a huge metropolitan area, and I am starting to sound like Dr. Seuss.

The two stereotypical reactions to this upbringing are prim purity and self-righteous rebellion. Fortunately my parents were always fairly balanced, and so was my reaction. Being a PK (pastor’s kid), i was privileged to see what goes on behind the scene. I was fortunate enough to know of all the petty squabbling and back-stabbing, the snubs and the cliques. Though my cynicism was necessarily restrained in public, given my family’s position, i had a difficult time believing good of any church and gave my parents rather a hard time. I swore i would not attend church once i left the house.

Each denomination, each individual church, believes itself to have all the answers. Each individual in the congregation expects the pastor to be their exact ideal of perfection, and when he isn’t they feel betrayed. The pastor thinks of himself as the most important person there (always, of course, excepting my father), and believes that the congregation is going against the word of the Lord when he doesn’t get his every desire. Sunday School for the younger children is entirely about the various wives’ power plays. The older children are taught by people trying desperately to be hip and coming across as even more juvenile than the students. There also seems to be a prevailing belief among youth workers that sexual promiscuity and drug abuse are the only issues anyone over 13 ever thinks about. The lessons were obvious, thoughtless, clichéd, and sometimes just plain wrong. The music is either by some pathetic garage band who has taken all of the poetry out of the lyrics, or by a choir who faints with shock if any song younger than their geriatric director is sung. Church is, at best, totally and completely irrelevant. The phrase “Catholic Church” is the height of irony, the best of oxymorons.

Part II

My Solution to World Peace, or How Werthers Echte Saves Lives

Once upon a time there was an ornery little girl. She had two ornery little brothers, two annoyed parents, and two amused grandparents. They were all in the process of completing an ordinary little road trip. This little girl was a very clever little girl – she knew better than to ask the banal “Are we there yet?” Instead, she inquired as to the length of the journey, and number of miles currently covered, the speed with which they were traveling, the amount of gas in the tank, and the hunger of everyone else in the car. About twice every hour. For hours. And hours. Upon being informed that there had been no significant change in status since the last time she had posed her queries, the ornery little girl began to feel put upon. No one, she felt, was taking her seriously. Least of all her ornery little brothers, who seemed more concerned with reaching the last verse of “This is the Song that Never Ends.” The air was tense, and an explosion seemed imminent. Fortunately, the not-quite-as-amused grandfather, with remarkable presticogitation, bethought himself of a simple solution. He asked all of the ornery children and annoyed parents to listen up, as he had something that would make everyone much more comfortable, and then he produced the Happy Pill. Taking this pill would, he told them, make them happy. He immediately popped one in his mouth and began to beam a glorious smile. The ornery little children were, as i said before, rather clever. They knew something was up, and gazed at their grandfather with suspicion shining in their eyes. However, the grandfather had already raised four children, and so informed the children that unfortunately, there weren’t very many pills, and perhaps they would be willing to sacrifice their share for the good of their poor parents, who were, after all, the ones doing all the work. The parents and the grandmother thanked the children for their generousity, and they, too, began to smile, and laugh, and sing, and generally have a very good time. That did it. The children clamoured for their fair share. After that, the ornery little girl and her two ornery little brothers were never ornery for very long. They knew that all they had to do was take a Happy Pill, and eventually everything would turn out all right. Waits seemed shorter. The offense of skipping or not skipping 67, 66, and 65 bottles of beer by going straight to 64 seemed completely unimportant. Stomaches were less empty, and bladders less full. Everyone agreed on what music to listen to, and that the orange punch-buggy was seen first by the littlest brother made no impact. And all were happy, because they believed they were.

stories...

I don't know why, but people tell me the randomest things, sometimes... Like the fact that "He was a chaplain for 30 years, and when he retired he became a part-time (paid, but full-time work) pastor at a church, and now he's thinking about retiring from that, only he's worried about having to move back here and he'll lose his network of people. I think that he'll be fine - there are still lots of people here that he knows and that care about him." Still, i understand the nervousness - we moved away from a city for just one year, and it was still an awfully uncomfortable fit returning. You can't go back. Or "she lived less than one block from the house she was born into, until she was over eighty. Then she felt like she'd rather be closer to at least one or two of her children, so she moved here." That has to be pretty strange. People talk about "finding themselves" as if there is only one answer; as if you can discover one way to define yourself for the rest of your life. Some people use geography, others relationships, but in the end, we all discover that nothing in this life is stable enough to attach us permanently. Still, to leave your place of birth after 80 years - to break all those ties and associations and memories - that's an awfully brave thing to do, i think. Or "she had a beau who absolutely adored her - she could do no wrong in his eyes. This annoyed her, and besides, he wasn't popular. So on prom night she threw him over for the popular kid, only to find out that the popular kid had a midnight curfew and so they couldn't go to the unofficial parties. Later, she hooked up the popular boy with one of her best girlfriends. They ended up getting married, he became a pastor, and they moved to California." How many hundreds of chickflicks are not based on stories just like this one? This is actually a story about my great-aunt, and my great-grandmother can't understand why she wouldn't stick with the boy who worshipped her. Personally, i sympathize with my aunt - anybody who thinks that way about me has to be pretty stupid. Or "my grandfather immigrated to the states because he was closely associated with Queen Wilhelmina, and had to escape the Nazi regime." I know WWII happened very recently. But at least here in the states, we seem to have escaped the worst of it and hence have escaped the memories. Our nightmares are of Korea and Vietnam. Or "he needed a chair with arms, so he could get up out of it - he was nearly 100, after all. Of course, a chair could not officially be provided, as the whole circle of sages (a.k.a elderly men meeting for coffee and gossip) was completely unofficial anyway. So a tattered green chair was pulled out of a dank storage room somewhere, and unofficially commandeered. Less than a year later, he died. His fellow philosophers viewed the chair mournfully, and decided the best thing to do was drape a black scarf acrost it. Of course, it gets awfully crowded in that tiny break room and there weren't enough chairs before. But no one wants to sit in his chair, so a replacement must be found. However, no one would want to sit in the chair that replaced his chair, either, so it has to be exactly the same as his chair, only not." I can understand that this would be annoying if you were the one that had to deal with the chair. But i also wonder how i would feel, if a good friend - who was also greatly revered within our circle - passed away, and i knew i wouldn't be far behind. Actually, i've always kind of liked the idea of public mourning - that you wear something to publicly acknowledge your grief for a proscribed amount of time, and then you can put it away and get on with your life. Of course, i know you can't just pack up your emotions and forget about it. But to, as a society, recognize that there is both joy and grief in life - a time for mourning and a time for dancing - seems to me important. In my experience we tend toward existential nihilism or utopian pollyanna-ism, both of which strike me as dangerously impractical. Or "i know it says budget, but actually, it's where we keep all of the coffee supplies." Is this not brilliant? There's some deep irony in here i haven't discovered yet, but i do know it's brilliant. Or "oh yes, they can! In fact, i used to own a dog that could climb trees. Only, he couldn't get back down. So he would bark up there until we came and got him." ... okay ...

RJN

“The entirety of our prayer is “Your will be done”—not as a note of resignation but of desire beyond expression.”

My Christmas Holidays…

So… My brother and i go to school a few hundred miles from my parents home – in clear weather and on good roads, this trip takes 12 hours to drive. Of course, this was the first time my brother and i had driven our new vehicle for any length of time. It is also my first winter driving up North, and was his first time driving at all in some months (and i know my tense changed, but i think it makes more sense that way. I’ve never understood why people freak out about tense changes). If you live in the states, and have been paying any attention whatsoever to the national weather… It took us 45 minutes just to get out of the neighborhood. We had to shovel approximately 10 inches of snow out of the driveway, and then i drove while my brother followed me with a shovel. If the postman hadn’t been stuck and willing to help us, i think we would have stayed there until the thaw. It took us another 45 minutes to get out of the city proper, and on the highway (or expressway? There’s a difference, i think…). About 3.5 hours later, my brother expectorates – or explodes, take your pick. While driving. On icy roads. In heavy traffic. Of course, it could have been worse – he might have eaten more than an orange for breakfast. Guess who got to drive the entire rest of the way? Oh, and guess who couldn’t eat because someone else couldn’t stand the smell of food? On the drive back, some poor transportationless sucker was talked into coming along and assisting with money for gasoline. She didn’t realize at the time that the way my brother and i stay awake is to sing. We spared her our jazzy/operatic/harmonized/rap/just-plain-weird version of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall (which kills about 1.5 hours, if you’re curious), but she was forced to listen to us “singing” along with Ella Fitzgerald, Louis Armstrong, Julie Andrews, Nickle Creek, and the Beatles. I think she must have decided it was best to simply humour us, as she joined in our impromptu (and improvised) hymnsing, and even attempted to harmonize with our attempts at the melody. In fact, if my dearly beloved brother had not driven 50 miles off course before noticing… I just realized i haven’t written about my actual holidays at all. So i guess my title line kind of mislead you. I’ll imagine you are all absolutely panting to read about my Christmas vacation, and you imagine i’m desperately apologetic, and we’ll get along fine. Or not.

Did you know that the two most terrifying words in the English language are “what” and “if?”

People think that i don’t care, but the truth is: i do. People think that, because i am somewhat eccentric, i am free from the fear of popular opinion. The truth is: i am not beautiful or smart, and i am afraid fitting in too much. People think that, because i don’t mind losing i am a good sport. The truth is i am so afraid of trying and not winning that i decided not to try unless no one knows i am actually attempting anything. People tell me i can write, but the truth is: what if i can’t? People tell me i am too cynical, but the truth is: i am afraid to hope for uncertainties. In fact, i am afraid to hope for certainties – what if they are wrong? People think i am their friend, but the truth? You terrify me. What if i say something stupid? Or don’t say something kind? Or eat too much? Or see the wrong movies, or listen to the wrong music? What if? The truth is: i am afraid to care, because what if i’m wrong? What if it hurts me? What if i hurt you? I know what i deserve, and it is less than nothing. What if you know that, too? Do you know that i agonize over every email? Tremble after every conversation? Feel sick to my stomache every time i click publish, even though i know that no more than three people will actually ever read it? People think that i have a clue about my life, but the truth? I am a blind, crawling worm, afraid to move lest i make a mistake, and afraid to stay still lest the sky fall on my head.