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.

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

Nacirema

(This is for my sociology class, based on this article by Horace Miner.) This study is merely a natural continuation of Mr. Miner’s excellent and groundbreaking piece on the Nacirema culture. I myself have observed the Nacirema, and I have found that his work is accurate in every respect. In addition to their unnatural obsession and dissatisfaction with the human body, they are also infatuated with all things new. In most societies and throughout history, the word “traditional” is used in a positive sense. It denotes trust and dependability, safety and stability. However, the Nacirema have almost completely rejected this meaning of the word. They react to the label “traditional” in the same way a skittish horse reacts to laundry hung on a line – it is suspicious and probably dangerous. Those Nacirema who sell and market food know this, and take advantage of it to an absurd extent. It is not even necessary that the food actually be different, although that is definitely a common selling point; merely, the food must look new (shape, size, and/or colouring). It is not at all exceptional to see a package labeled “New Look, Same Great Taste!” These “New Looks” are purported to be more economical, environmental, or fun. For instance, a favourite sauce of the Nacirema – supposedly derived from tomatoes – is generally red. One of the primary purveyors of this sauce marketed it in the colours of green and purple, and it sold well. Margarine companies also will occasionally release “new” exciting colours such as pink or blue. Of course, food vendors are not the only Nacirema to recognize this – most other marketable businesses also make use of this fact. Those who retail technology (yet another Nacirema fascination – that plethora of paradoxical devices which allow the Nacirema to remain isolated from any intimate contact with another human, yet anonymously connected to millions) are always releasing something new. “Bigger, Better, Faster!” seems to be their mantra. Also those who sell the charms placed in the household shrine, and those who sell furniture, and soaps, and laundry baskets, and apparel – in fact, to the Nacirema mind, it is possible and desirable for anything and everything to be “New and Improved!” This is also seen in the way they dress. While it is usual in other cultures to wear the same clothes three days in a row, the Nacirema find the idea of wearing anything other than a coat more than one day in a row to be completely repellant. A person coming into work wearing the same clothes worn the day before, or even two days before, is mocked. For the Nacirema celebrities, it is a tragedy to be seen at an event in the same clothes as another person and even worse to be seen in the same outfit twice. This is especially true of Nacirema women – it is considered uncouth to always wear one’s hair in the same style, and to have less than six pairs of shoes. Even in their temples – the latipsos – tradition is most decidedly not a virtue. The Nacirema are always on the lookout for the newest procedures and up-to-date techniques and most modern facilities. They will often switch temples if they find one to be newer than another. If their treatment is so new that it is all but untested and incredibly risky, the Nacirema are that much happier, for they have almost complete trust in their latipso and believe that the newer must be better. This is, in fact, true of all their religious systems. The churches of the Nacirema are continually writing new creeds, redecorating their buildings, and searching for younger worship leaders. One of the most popular holy books – the Bible – has been translated innumerable times and there are uncountable versions of it, with more coming out every year, each claiming something new has been uncovered, clarified, or fixed from the previous versions. The Nacirema also reveal this fixation on the new in their educational system. Events that occurred within the living memory of teenagers are covered extensively in history lessons, while culturally defining events from a century ago receive little more than a paragraph. To receive college or university degrees, it is often a requirement that the student have new studies and provide original research. Nacirema educationists firmly believe that filling their places of learning with the latest and greatest technology, with exciting new methods, and with innovative presentations of ideas will speed up the intellectual development of their youth, despite continued evidence to the contrary. Indeed, it has come to the point that the concept of “evidence”, being traditional, is scorned in favor of more immediate appeals. With Mr. Miner, I must confess surprise that this society, with its rejection of anything that could be called old, has survived as long as it has. It is a culture of constant struggle, with “the future” held out before it as a mirage to a man dying of thirst. Until the Nacirema learn to look to the past, they will never be able to face the future.

Grow Up!!

I turn on the tube and what do I see A whole lotta people cryin’ ’don’t blame me’ They point their crooked little fingers at everybody else Spend all their time feelin’ sorry for themselves ... You wallow in the guilt; you wallow in the pain You wave it like a flag, you wear it like a crown Got your mind in the gutter, bringin’ everybody down Complain about the present and blame it on the past I’d like to find your inner child and kick it’s little ass Get over it Get over it All this bitchin’ and moanin’ and pitchin’ a fit Get over it, get over it - the Eagles ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ It's election year here in the States. The first one in which i am old enough to vote. Which i won't. I have proclaimed myself officially apolitical during my college years. I'm proud to be apolitical. Perhaps this is rather silly of me, but i've been stupid before. If anyone thinks they have a decent argument to the contrary i'm perfectly ready to listen, and be persuaded. And it's not solely because i am lazy, or because i have completely lost track of which state i'm now a resident of, or because the greatest difference i see between the candidates is the colour of their tie (although all of these things are true). It's because of Hurricane Katrina, a council of elders, my grandfather, my seventh grade Civics/English teacher, and several other small incidents which would be of even less interest to you than these (why, you may ask, if i think these events will interest you so little, are you writing about them? well, i may answer, i've got a lotta work to avoid and i'm desperate). The year i was in the seventh grade was also an election year. Civics was in the curriculum, and my teacher Mrs. Twinkletoes thought she would get us involved. The whole Mr. Smith Goes to Washington principle - don't get me wrong, i love the movie. Maybe it would've worked better if it hadn't been small, private, Christian school. She, along with the majority of the class, supported one particular candidate. One girl stood alone against us, and while we all liked her we all also treated her as deluded. Mrs. Twinkletoes included (i had other issues with her, and i hated to agree with her, but there it was). I simply couldn't understand how anyone could think differently than my father. Anyone who did so must be incredibly stupid, or evil, or both, and were therefore frightening. This whole time, my father and grandfather were also discussing the election, from opposite points of view. They seemed to get quite het up towards each other. This, also, frightened me. I couldn't imagine talking to my dad the way he was talking to his father*, simply over the state of the Union. Over the state of the Bathroom/Laundry/[insert disagreeable task here], well, that was a different matter entirely. The war happened. My father was in the Navy at the time, and i know several other people in the Military. The huge gulf between the information i was getting (and am still getting) from the general media, and the news from the actual soldiers, increased my distrust of any news source i was not personally aquainted with. Hurricane Katrina hit. It was immediately publicized. Everything was the result of a government-wide conspiracy by the other side. Some extremists linked it to other natural disasters such as a recent tsunami, claiming that nuclear bombs set off in the middle of the ocean were the obvious cause of all of this. If only the government was more environmentally friendly, or had given more money to the levees, or had remembered school buses, or had more affirmative action plans, or had surrendered in Iraq - whatever the pet projects of that particular party were. The whole situation was reported as Lord of the Flies-like as possible. It was ridiculous. Even worse, though, were the discussions i came acrost on the internet a few days later. One particular person reported seeing a van pulled over on the side of the road. A mother, with two young children. It appeared they had left hurriedly and it was in the vicinity of Katrina. This person had been going to pull over and offer assistance, but upon seeing the bumper sticker of a candidate they disagreed with, sped up and drove off. They later expressed regret at not running the lady over, or at least snatching her two children, so they wouldn't have to be raised by such a misguided individual. Several people expressed support. Other, similar, stories circulated, and on both sides of the political spectrum. It was too prevalent to be some sick joke - whether the original story was true or not, all the comments could hardly be faked. These people really saw those ideologically opposed to them as less than human. During the next election cycle, a church group regularly attended by one of my family members, met. An ostentatious event! A man stood up and said that he did not see how anyone could vote for an opposing candidate and still remain a Christian. He firmly believed that all people in the other party were going to Hell. Since then i have heard several similar sentiments expressed, also by people from both sides of the political spectrum. My father is a pastor, and while he has very strong political convictions, he takes great care never to speak politics from the pulpit. I have found that he is the exception rather than the rule. The most gentle, generous people i know will get involved in a political discussion, and suddenly everyone is out to get them. Conspiracies worthy of X-files abound and scenarios that wouldn't make the cut for the Twilight Zone are passionately believed. The "other" side is completely doltish, ignorant and behind the times. Yet these same people, once in power, are remarkably clever, incredibly devious, and in control of oil prices, foreign potentates, weather, the courses of the planets and the seasons of the moon. Please, people. Just get over it. UPDATE: The Anchoress is much more coherent on this subject in her post on Obama's prayer. _____ *In case you're wondering, my father and grandfather loved each other very much. They just disagreed with each other's political attitudes and alignments.

The Day I Met Jane Austen

UPDATE: Welcome, AustenBloggers. Thanks very much for coming. I have read a lot of literature, from many time periods, genres, cultures, and so forth. One of my favourite authors remains Jane Austen. As with most such opinions, i am not entirely sure why. As a little child (oh, be quiet, boys - just because i'm shorter than you doesn't mean i can't still beat you up!), i used to hate going to bed. This is now incomprehensible to me, but so it was. My brothers and i would camp in the doorways of our rooms and whisper to each other across the hall, inching as far out of our rooms as we dared, so our parents could trip over on their way up to bed. I always felt especially pathetic when i knew they were watching a movie, or having a party.* I remember at least one time when i tried to stay awake all night, to convince my parents that it was cruel of them to keep me up in my room while they were having fun, since i wouldn't sleep anyways. I used any excuse to get up and join the fun. One night, my parents decided to host a murder. By the purest stroke of luck, i fell off the couch and hit my head on the table. That doesn't sound like much, but when mom found blood on her fingers, they had to take me to the emergency room to get my head stapled. I've still got a scar, under my hair (cool, eh?), and left some authentic blood on the carpet (a clue!). Once it stopped hurting, i thought it was pretty fun. I got to drink lemonade and sit at the table with them. (Where is Jane Austen, in all this mess, you ask? To be quite frank, i'm not absolutely sure, but in the next paragraph or so, i promise.) As i got older, i came up with what i thought of as a very clever plan for movie nights. i would wait, dozing, for half an hour or so for them to get settled. Then i would be thirsty. I would dawdle in the background and eventually, or so i thought, they would forget about me. Depending on the movie, and on whether it was a school night, my parents would put up with this, as i soon fell asleep anyway. I was probably about eight when i used this tactic to watch the last half of Pride and Prejudice. The BBC, Colin Firth and Jennefer Ehle, 6 hour version. Much to the bemusement of my parents, i loved it. They re-rented the first half, and i watched that too. The elegant language, the elaborate hair and dress styles, beautiful houses, and gorgeous soundtrack... In the same way i watched the last half of Emma, and then the first. This was how i learned about hypochondria, noblesse oblige, prejudice, premarital intercourse (i remember the first time my dad explained to me exactly what it was that Lydia had done, and what threatened Georgiana), inheritances, et cetera. We lived in Sicily at the time, perhaps the book wasn't available. My dad printed it off of the internet for me and put it in a black three ring binder. I didn't think it was completely perfect - how could Lydia be the tallest? That didn't even make sense. And Mr. Bingley seemed somewhat of a fool. I simply couldn't like him. It wasn't until we got back stateside that i learned of Northanger Abbey, Sense and Sensibility, Persuasion (my father's favourite), and Mansfield Park. I read them all, but Pride and Prejudice was, i decided, my favourite. I did not understand Mansfield Park at all. Eventually, although i will always have fond memories of Pride and Prejudice, i began to value the quirkiness of Emma above Pride and Prejudice. Emma was made much more aware of her faults than Lizzie, who only suffers through the actions of Lydia and Wickham. I gave Mansfield Park another try - dad seemed to pick up a copy everytime he went on cruise, so there were several copies laying around the house. It began to grow on me. The theatre scene, which for many people is completely ridiculous, was one i could completely identify with. I hated talking to people - still do. Fanny's fear and shyness, and her strength in spite of these, is something i perfectly understand. And while the impropriety of a private theatre seems incomprehensible today, with my own father often gone i could understand the evils of spending my father's money on activities he would not approve of and which would put considerable strain on already tenuous relationships. Other books are cute or amusing or probing or intellectual or adventursome or romantic or realistic. These books contain aspects of all of these, but mostly they are about Life. Her bit of ivory was nonetheless beautiful for being small. These are people one could meet (and indeed, i believe i have met) walking down the street anytime, and anywhere. Reading these books, i get the same feeling of delight as when i was a little girl and allowed to stay up past my bedtime (though without the headache). I get to catch a glimpse of a life other than my own, yet very like it - a "grown up" world, foreign and familiar, in which (in spite of appearances) I might just fit. ...... *a small clarification, as one must be careful - my dad was the pastor of a church at the time, so these parties were hardly raucous. the only alcohol was the caffeine in coffee, and the rowdiest game played was How to Host a Murder.

Bliss

She is waiting. Her father is gone. Getting shot at. Or whatever. She knows that more people die every year in California in car accidents than die Over There. In the Sandbox. If she had been marking days off a calendar, like some people did, she would know that her father was supposed to have been back by now. She would be impatient and anxious. She was glad she didn't do that. Wasn't anxious. He had told her mom the new date of return. But it would probably change, too. Always did. Better not to know. Perhaps it was today. She could go inside, but then she'd have to talk to people. She'd rather wait outside. The air was brisk, but the sky was rosy and the birds were singing. She looked around. One of the hanging plants had fallen, and someone had placed it in the rocking chair. There was a nest in it. Dead baby birds. It had landed on the mama bird. Bird brains. Well, can't do anything about them now. Don't look. It's just a couple of birds. There's a reason "bird-brain" is an insult. Don't care. Birds are singing. Birds are singing abnormally close. She glances back at the nest. One left. Ugly little thing. About the size of her thumb. About the same colour, too. You're not supposed to pick up eggs, 'cause then the mother won't return. Well, mama won't be returning. And it must be cold. She can see right through it. And it can't see a thing. She looks at the door. Talk to people. She tells them. Asks for something to put it in. She will bring it to school with her, to the biology teacher, Mrs. Pattern. Mrs. Pattern will understand. Will help. They bring an empty jewelry box. The poor thing looks so alone, so cold. It can't grip the slick cardboard. She holds it in her hands. Keeps it warm. It seems to understand, to trust her. It quiets, and lays still. She can see it breathing. Feel it's blood beating against her hands. It's an hour to school. The bird brain stays asleep. He's rather cute, really. In a Smeagol sort of way. Mrs. Pattern hasn't come yet. School doesn't officially start for another hour, and she has choir practice. He will probably like their singing. Make him comfortable. Anyway he's still asleep. He sleeps through most of choir practice. A few kids ask her what she's holding. She shows them, carefully. She doesn't want him to wake. They laugh. She gets someone else to put her folder away, and rushes up to the biology lab. Oh, good! Mrs. Pattern is here. She reveals the bird. Mrs. Pattern gets out a heat lamp, and a towel, and calls the animal people. Mrs. Pattern tells her she shouldn't have touched him. And tells her to come back every hour to feed the bird a few drops of water. At the end of the day, Mrs. Pattern will take the bird to a rescue agency. She leaves class early to feed the bird. Sneaks into the back of the lab. Still breathing! She gets out the dropper, and watches him drink. She can see him swallow - see the water go down his throat and into his belly. His belly gets bigger and bigger throughout the day. There is an air bubble in it. He is still calm. Other kids have heard about him. Come to see him. Mrs. Pattern decides to let a couple other kids pick him up, after they have washed their hands. She is worried. At the end of the day Mrs. Pattern gives her an email address where she can write to find out if he survives. He probably won't, you know. She knows. She gets home. Math, ugh. Dinner time. Clean the kitchen. She turns on the computer. "Dear Dad, Hey. How are you? Is it very hot? I found a bird today. Got my math test back - B. It's cold here. Bye. Love you." Click. Send. She stares at the address. Slowly... "Dear Rescue Agency, Hello. I found a baby bird today. My teacher, Mrs. Pattern, brought it in. She said I could send to this address to find out. So I was wondering how he was doing. Thanks. Bye." Click. Delete. Better not to know.

A Tale of Perspective

Once upon a time a family sat down to dinner. The Father paid for the Meal, the Mother prepared the Meal, and the Elder Sister, assisted by her Younger Brother, cleaned up the Meal. There was also a Youngest Brother, but he, by virtue of being the youngest and the cutest, was generally allowed to get away with simply eating the Meal.

Now, there were various chores associated with cleaning up after a Meal – for instance, clearing and washing the table, washing the dishes, and vacuuming the floor. It was the custom for the two siblings, out of concern for each other’s welfare, to give to one another the tasks they considered most challenging, and therefore the most character building. They did this by attempting to take care of all of the most mind-numbing chores themselves, and leaving the more intellectually burdening tasks for their sibling. They were also very prompt in advising one another, as to allow such a close relation to continue in error would be beneath contempt.

On one such occasion, when the children were nearly done (having, out of a zeal towards building character, spent several hours performing what would be approximately twenty minutes labour if Mother had succumbed to the temptation to “help”), all that remained was to shake the rugs outside and then replace them along with the chairs which had been removed for vacuuming purposes. Each child was convinced that they must sacrifice themselves by staying inside on that cold, blustery day thus forfeiting their chance to improve their own Moral Fiber in favour of their sibling.

Now, the Sister insisted that it would be quicker to place the chairs on the side of the table nearest the walls first. The Brother thought it would be better to place the chairs on the other side of the table first. Not wanting to let her Brother languish in his incorrect and uninformed opinions, the Sister kindly informed the Brother of her superior method. He resented this evidence of the Sister’s doubt in his Intelligence, and would not be dissuaded. This persistence in folly troubled the Sister, and she was compelled to use physical force against her Brother in order to place the next chair correctly.

At this point in the proceedings the Mother of the two children beat a prudent retreat up the stairs, and called out reinforcements in the form of “Daddy.” As any good husband would, Daddy made his way downstairs and found his two eldest in a physical discussion on the all-important matter of the Proper Procedure for kitchen chair placement. Reluctant to have any dialogue over such an inflammatory subject take place in an area where breakables were stored, the Father removed the discussion to a more appropriate setting – the back deck.

Although he appeared to recognize their dispute as an important contribution to the world-wide debate on after-dinner cleaning, the children suspected the beginnings of an amused gleam in his eye. They felt insulted and betrayed. Left alone on the back deck, they glared at each other, until suddenly they realized they could detect the same amused glint in their sibling’s eye.

That did it. The children couldn’t help themselves. They fell to the ground, giggling madly.

When Mommy returned, the kitchen was clean and her two eldest seemed to be on remarkably better terms than when she left them.

Both children now recognize the triviality of their debate, and Kitchen Arguments have all but vanished from their household. Nevertheless, to this day the Brother maintains he was correct in the matter under dispute, while the Sister has wisely concluded that the cost of imparting wisdom to the willfully unlearned is sometimes simply too high.

When I Grow Up...

I want to be... It's the all-important question - you are asked it from the time you are four to the time you are fourty-four, and after that. What do you want to be when you grow up? What are you plans for your future? What are your goals? What are you working toward? What do you want out of life? You need to take control of your future. You need to prepare. You need to take your life into your own hands. I remember the first time I was asked what I wanted to be when I grow up. We lived in North Dakota at the time. I attended the local middle school which was about four miles down the narrow, gravel road. There were 25 other children attending the school. There are less, now. I was probably in first grade at the time. I remember the teacher, Miss Briss, was calling us up to her desk one at a time. She was filling in some sort of form, which would be turned into a project to make the parents smile and sigh. It must have been a sunny day, because her desk was in front of a window and I remember how bright the sun was shining in. I blinked. So she smiled at me and asked, "Now Dana, what would you like to be when you grow up?" I didn't know. After carefull consideration, I announced I would like to be a fairy. Maybe a tooth fairy, maybe not. I wasn't picky. She smiled and nodded, and bent her head to write it down. Then she looked up at me again. I still remember the look of incredulity on her face. I remember feeling a little taken aback - she had asked me what I wanted to be hadn't she? not what I thought I could actually be. I knew faeries weren't real. She asked if there was anything else I would like to be. "Well..." no, I thought. But I remember feeling vaguely sorry for her, because she had outgrown the possibility of magic. And the next best thing to magic, I realized, was money. So I told her I would like to be the person at the store you took your money. Then, I said, I would get very rich. She looked at me, still slightly exasperated, which I could not understand. She wrote down salesclerk. The next memory I have of that question I was in the 3rd or 4th grade. I was living in Sicily, and was being homeschooled. I had now experienced the world. I knew now that cashiers didn't keep the money they took, and that fairies were dorky. I said I would like to be an artist. I dreamed of Da Vinci, and Michelangelo. By the time I had reached middleschool, we had moved to Virginia Beach. I started attending school again, and I was something of a cynic. By that time I knew that growing up was something to be avoided at all cost. But I knew I would have to be something, and I was by turns a busdriver, a veterinarian, a photographer, and a librarian. It was not until highschool that the question really started to annoy me. I didn't know where I was going to be next year - how was I supposed to know what I was going to do in five years? or ten? I turned to Ecclesiastes, and told everyone I was leaving it in God's hands, as mine were full at the moment. My senior year of highschool was the first time I took the question under serious consideration. It was the first time I really prayed about it. By the grace of God I chose a school. I chose some classes. I got a job. I still haven't the faintest clue what I want to be when I grow up. I'm ashamed to say I don't really care. I am leaving it in God's hands, as mine are full at the moment.

Something From Nothing

The four earnest looking faces glanced distractedly towards my guest. “Hey guys. This is my cousin, Alex. I told him about our club, and he was interested so I invited him along for today.” Francis sent a glare at me through her glasses. She’s an engineer, and doesn’t believe in such a palpable disregard for the rules of etiquette. However, “Alright. Hurry up and be seated. You’re late.” Perhaps I should explain our club before I proceed. There are five of us – Francis, Paul, Jacob, Robert, and me. We all met one day over an otherwise regrettable incident involving a tall caramel macchiato and two straws at a small coffee shop strategically placed on a street corner within walking distance of all three colleges. During the ensuing discussion we discovered a mutual dislike of that infamous philosopher, Mr. Kierkegaard. This united us against the forces of justice and we decided to meet there every Thursday at 5:46 precisely to discuss all things philosophical. We synchronized our watches and went on our merry way. The Guachamocha (where we meet) has since christened us the “Do ye weirds,” an unfortunate pun which nevertheless produced an interview in the local newspaper. The resultant gawkers cause us some discomfort, but they do give us free coffee. So we don’t complain. “So, to get back to our discussion…” Paul never was one for introductions. I took the opportunity to inquire as to today’s topic – Something. “I don’t believe you ought to so completely disregard Galileo in this matter. Although not technically a philosopher, science and philosophy are so intertwined as to make them, in essence, the same thing. As Galileo says, ‘I have never met a man so ignorant that I couldn't learn Something from him.’” “Do you believe there is no theological basis for Something, then?” asked Jacob. He’s a great one to be a pastor. I suspect his attendance of the seminary down the street may have something to do with it, although he would never admit it. He continued, “I mean, if Something can be learned from every man, it must inhere in the very essence of man. And the essence of man is his soul.” “I think you gentlemen are in danger straying too far from Something,” I inserted quickly. This could get ugly. “We are here to discuss the philosophy of Something.” “Yes. What do you think, Alex? I think we should focus more on the metaphysical properties of Something.” “Umm… I mean, yeah. Whatever,” stated Alex definitively, and with great presticogitation. Francis and Robert glared at me and made no effort to disguise their disgust. “No! Not ‘Whatever.’ We already settled Whatever two weeks ago. We’re trying to discuss Something here.” “Edwina can get you the notes on Whatever, if you like,” added Francis in a more kindly tone. In spite of her rigidity she is rather softhearted. Besides, she was determined to show me that no matter the barbarity of my behavior, she would endeavor to remain civilized. I took the cue and told Alex I could e-mail them to him – I’m the group’s recorder. “Oh. Umm… Thanks.” “But even Aristotle states that Something is in Everything – ‘In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.’” This is Robert’s province. I think he was brought up on Zeus and Hera – no Winnie the Pooh for him. Seriously, if you asked him who he wanted to meet most in the world, he would say Aphrodite. I swear. “So, can we take it for granted that God created Something in the beginning? Or did it come after the Fall?” “You’re getting lazy, Jacob. We can’t use ‘It is, and God made it so’ as the answer for everything. The point of this club is to restrict ourselves to Natural Reason in the discussion of Something. We can, in the vein of the Scottish Realists, accept some common sense aspects about Something, but stick to Reason and leave Revelation at seminary.” “Even so, we really can’t completely disregard the theology of something. Even Edison recognized that you can’t put Something in a box.” “Ah, yes – the famous ‘Hell, there are no rules here-- we're trying to accomplish Something.’ quote.” Perhaps you may not have heard of that quote. It is the rallying cry of the most famous eccentric in the three colleges, Professor Mordeson. He is Paul’s hero, and is referenced at least once in every conversation. “We mustn’t forget Nietzsche’s philosophy, either: ‘A thinker sees his own actions as experiments and questions--as attempts to find out Something. Success and failure are for him answers above all.’” “Aren’t you completely ignoring what Hagel has to say? Everybody knows that to get Something you must first combine Everything and Anything – evidence of the dialectical process which is part of any real truth.” “We must find out where the seat of identity of Something lies. Is it part of the essence of humanity, or is Something added on? An extra, so to speak.” “Wise men talk because they have Something to say; fools, because they have to say Something. – Plato” Ah, good. Alex is getting the hang of it. Robert looks pleased. “That just shows Plato’s support for the theory that Something is a necessary part of human beings. It must be built in if even fools have it, not a result of society or civilization.” “What about Gandhi? A great moralizer if there over was one. He seems to imply that Something is a choice.” “Elaborate.” “ ‘Indolence is a delightful but distressing state; we must be doing something to be happy.’ In fact, Something is an action, not something inherent in ourselves.” “And FDR, too. ‘It is common sense to take a method and try it. If it fails, admit it frankly and try another. But above all, try Something.’ ” “You know, if we’re going to discuss Something seriously, Nothing is really important.” “Nothing is irrelevant. ‘Above all, try Something.’ No Nothing, there, is there?” “As it relates to Something, we need to take Nothing into consideration.” “Hey. umm...guys? This is a coffee shop, after all. Mind if I get something to drink?” Dead silence. Knew I should’ve left him with Grandma. “That was the worst pun ever inflicted on my ear. If this is what our society has come to, I’m leaving.” She stalked off. We all turned to Alex. He appears completely befuddled, poor thing. “Well, whatever,” he mumbles to her retreating back. “I just wanted a cup of coffee.” I’m sure Alex has plans for something else next Thursday at 5:46.

To Knit...

I have a confession to make. You scare me. Actually, it’s not so much you who scare me as the prospect of having to converse with you – or worse, be called upon to speak up in class. It wasn’t until high school that I had a conversation with a teacher. I’m not sure what, precisely, we spoke about, but afterwards it was if a sun had risen in the darkness, for what dawned on me in that instant was the truth that teachers are simply people. Until that time, teachers were AUTHORITIES – representatives of a divine power that was waiting to catch me in a moment of weakness and publish abroad my humiliation. To be sure, teachers were still authorities. The realization that adults were neither demi-gods nor demi-gorgon, however, but merely human beings with all the pluses and minuses that entails was a liberating concept. This revelation was indeed timely, for my brothers were both in after-school band. That may seem safe enough, but my father was deployed and my mother worked, so it meant that twice each week I had to stay at school an interminable two hours after the last bell. The shear, inescapable boredom of it at length drove me to take my life into my own hands. The PE teacher, Mrs. Rook, was in her office. I loathe PE. Indeed, it was difficult for me to believe that anyone who enjoyed it enough to teach it could be wholly human. Even so, she seemed harmless enough. But what if this was diabolical duplicity intended to lull us into insensibility before she struck? I walked into the room with bated breath… and walked out of it rejoicing in the prospect of learning to knit in just a few more days. I envisioned all the beautiful blankets and soft scarves I would soon be making. There was nothing I couldn’t do and no one I wouldn’t talk to – except, perhaps, the principal. Well, and maybe the janitor. And the guy’s PE teacher …. My first scarf was made with a size seven needle (unbelievably small, as I later discovered). The yarn had a cream base, but had a sort of autumnal mottle effect going on. I was shocked at the simplicity of the thing once I got started – a series of loops, nothing more. In fact, after a while, I didn’t even have to watch what I was doing. I could simply feel the pattern. I began to take my knitting with me everywhere. I would knit during movies, during lunch break, during class, in the car – everywhere. It was something practical, useful, and aesthetically pleasing. I was absurdly proud of the scarf, showing it off to the most unsuspecting persons. Oddly enough, I found that it caught on. People admired my ability to do this simple thing and even wanted to emulate me. Complete strangers would come up and talk to me about it. People who could already knit came out of the closet; the click of needles was everywhere. My Latin Class talked our teacher into taking a day off so we could all learn knitting. I taught them. A little startled and definitely more than a little scared, yet I did it. In fact, the entire wrestling team started to knit. The trend lasted the rest of the year, though the wrestling coach asked his team to stop bringing their knitting to meets. I was forced to put this newly won confidence to the test when I moved the next year. The gorgons and gods reappeared in new form, like ghosts that reclaimed their material form. This time, however, I had a new weapon. I knit at them. And they knew they were beaten. It allowed me to strike up a conversation without having to say anything. I merely pulled out the needles and then others would talk to me and I could respond in kind – or not. The interesting thing about it was that people simply assumed I was listening when I knit. I became a confidante, a counselor to the very beasts that had so frightened me, and all I had to do was knit while they spoke. There were other knitters here, too, I found – a community of woolly sages into which I was readily accepted. The art teacher caught me at it after I had finished a required project and, in addition to offering me some pointers, asked me to join her with a group of other students in teaching some of the un-knitting faculty. The idea of me aspiring to instruct the instructors, was still terrifying. To merely converse with them seemed easy in comparison. The flattery of the invitation, however, overcame my fear. To paraphrase Caesar, “Veni, trexi, vici” – I came, I knit, I conquered. You still scare me. Pretty much everybody does. Sometimes life itself frightens me. But that’s okay – I can knit.