One More Song

10/9/2008, 9:30 am -- by | No Comments

I\’ve had a song stuck in my head for a long time now. It\’s an old song — I don\’t know how old, maybe 4,000 years or so. It\’s from the Bible, Psalm 137, and it was written by a Jew carried away captive by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon. I’ve never heard the tune and I don\’t even know all the words, but every time I read the Psalms, it catches me again, like a burning bush, an enigma I cannot turn away from.

It’s about a musician among the captives who sat down by the river and wept when he reached Babylon. The Babylonian soldiers taunted him, asking for a song about his homeland Zion, but he flung his harp into a willow tree along the bank of the river and refused to sing. All he could think about was his devastated life and revenge toward the ones who had hurt him. He was in no mood to sing.

But somehow, with it all so fresh in his mind, he managed to write one more song.

In that song, he simply poured out his anguish and anger, with one bright spot: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill! If I do not remember you, let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth ”” if I do not exalt Jerusalem above my chief joy.” In the midst of his anger and bitterness, his complete brokenness, he reaffirmed his destiny. His purpose — his whole reason to exist — was bound up in Jerusalem, and he could never forget that.

I read that in 1948, when Israel won its independence, Jewish refugees streamed into the new nation by the thousands, fleeing the horrors of the Holocaust and the persecution that had followed them throughout Europe. They came by train, by boat, by plane; when they arrived at the coast, they took whatever transport they could find to get to Jerusalem. One convoy of rusty trucks rolled into Jerusalem with that verse on the front bumper of the lead vehicle: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem…” If that man’s words, written some 4,000 years before, could still inspire the hopeless in those times, it’s no wonder that they can still reach me on this dark, rainy Alabama day in early October, 2008.

How can we read that psalm and fail to understand that what we do matters? Every time we pick up a pen to write, or post to a blog or a journal, or pick up a guitar to play and sing, we must surely know that whatever we do for God’s kingdom is eternal! Even if all you can do is recount the grief of your last setback, and affirm that nothing will keep you from God\’s plan for your life — do it! Whatever it is that you do in the Kingdom, it matters for eternity.

Pick up your pen; write another post. Pick up your guitar. Sing one more song.

Bweinh! Goes to the Movies — An American Carol

10/6/2008, 11:30 pm -- by | No Comments

Low expectations get an undeserved rap. Think of how helpful they are! They help us endure torturous high school musicals, they operate as a bulwark against corrosive despair in the workplace, and they singlehandedly keep nearly 3,000 Arby’s restaurants all across the United States in business.

I brought my own well-worn set of low expectations last weekend when I went to see David Zucker’s answer to the Hollywood left: An American Carol. In my mental budget, I had already allocated my $9 ticket as a “political contribution,” rather than “entertainment.” I don’t particularly like going to the movie theater: movies are expensive, and if I wait a few months, I get to watch them for what feels like free when Netflix mails them to my apartment. But for the first time since The Passion of the Christ, I wanted to buy a movie ticket to make a monetary statement.

The nagging problem was that I knew what kind of movie it was likely to be. Zucker, acclaimed director of Airplane! and The Naked Gun, reviled director of BASEketball and Scary Movie 4, is not known for subtlety. I’ve enjoyed the over-the-top political ads he’s produced since 9/11 made him a conservative, but like everything else these days, they’re designed to entertain people who already agree. No liberal watches a commercial that shows Madeline Albright painting a terrorist cave and comes away thinking, “You know, maybe I was wrong about Iraq — and I’m suddenly queasy about embryonic stem cell research too.”

And as much as I hate to be proven right, that was the biggest problem with this film. Much of the first hour made it impossible for anyone but rock-ribbed Republicans to take anything of value from it — and at times its tactics turned me off too. Just so you know, I strongly agree with the film’s main premise. Evil men exist, they are committed to killing us, and we must learn the lessons of history and show the fortitude needed to stop them from doing so. Hear, hear.

But I’m not comfortable with a running gag where all Muslims are named “Mohammed Hussein.” I don’t want to see an “alternate history” where a pacifist Lincoln caused Gary Coleman to be born into slavery. I’m not a big fan of the ACLU, but I also have no interest in firing shotguns at its members. These and other edgy gags simply weren’t as funny as they needed to be to overcome their bad taste, and an audience ready to roar in subversive laughter was left squirming in its seats instead — and worse, wondering about the guy in the back who found all the racial humor way too funny.

There were some amusing moments and some deep moments — on the whole, I’m glad I went. But Zucker’s overbearing attempts at satire only ensured that its targets could safely ignore and marginalize the film as just another right-wing hit piece. I can only hope my $9 donation was enough to earn us another shot. Maybe, for once, I can leave pleasantly surprised.

I give this film a “Bwe” out of “Bweinh!” (3 out of 7).

Playing Chicken with God

10/5/2008, 8:30 pm -- by | No Comments

I don\’t know how if this is true today, but when I was younger, we played “chicken” a lot. Two people would hurtle toward each other on bikes (or cars) to see who would swerve at the last second to avoid the crash. I played the bike version — and another type, where two of us pushed our forearms together and dropped a lit cigarette between them, to see who pulled away first.

I\’m 47 now, and when I play chicken these days, I play with God. I never start the game; He does. And to be honest with you, I hate to play — it’s nerve-wracking.

It always starts the same way. I have bills due, and I am either owed a commission or I have a large sale that I can close. But then the deal or the check, whatever it is I need, gets hung up somehow, but I find I can still do something shady to get my money. Maybe it’s telling a white lie, maybe it’s fudging — or forging — some paperwork. Either way I get the money now instead of next week.

No one gets hurt; I get my money; I lose my soul.

I\’d like to say I’ve never given in to the temptation, but at times I have. A few years ago, God started to deal with me about it when a young girl confronted me about some paperwork that had to be undone because I had lied. I was horrified, I apologized, and I repented. She was a backslidden Christian who eventually came back to the Lord and even credited the way I handled the situation for helping to turn her around. Yeah, what a great guy I am.

We’re playing chicken again this week, God and me. My boss offered to give me a commission check today if I would agree that he should forge a document we could correct on Monday. Seeing the consternation on my face, he said, “We could do it another way if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

I said, “No. I\’m not comfortable with any of this. I don\’t want anything to do with any of it,” and walked away.

So come on, God, do your best! You could have provided this on time, but instead You chose to get in your car and head right toward me, to see if I’ll swerve off the road into sin. I\’ve been here before, though, and like David said: “Let me fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is very great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men.” I\’ll take my chances in a head-on crash with God, rather than swerving off the path of righteousness.

P.S. — My boss just came in and told me he had decided to wait and do things right on Monday.

P.P.S. — He called me in and paid me anyway. I win again! Praise God!

Four Weeks (Part Seven)

10/2/2008, 7:00 pm -- by | 4 Comments

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

A pleasant woman from American Airlines stopped me as I handed her my boarding pass. “You won’t be very comfortable in this seat. Are you okay with moving to an exit row?” You bet I was, all six and a half feet of me! A sign of smooth travel ahead, I hoped, and I enjoyed the extra legroom all the way to Dallas, where I landed to a voicemail from Josh Tate — who told me he and his family had just left the house, and might be a little late picking me up.

But I wasn’t supposed to land for another six hours.

I called back and got his wife, who couldn’t stop laughing once we figured out that they had read the time of my East Coast departure as the time of my West Coast arrival. They would simply make a day of it in Palm Springs; it was a welcome opportunity to come down the mountain and enjoy civilization.

While they waited in the desert heat, I took off from Dallas strapped into a over-the-wing window seat, behind a fully reclined snorer, beside two of the sort of teenage girls who buy three glossy fashion magazines, then find something to loudly discuss on every perfume-scented page. It felt right somehow when the plane started shaking. I was probably shaking too.

Turned out some of those important flying-type parts weren’t working quite the way they should, so almost two hours into the flight, the pilot announced that although he could still fly the plane just fine for the time being, it might be best for everyone if we landed early, you know, while we still had the choice. But not in Palm Springs (we were almost halfway there), and not in Albuquerque (just a slight diversion north). Back in Dallas. Meanwhile, the girl next to me took out a preschool “Fun Book” and a Ziploc bag full of crayons, and proceeded to meticulously color a smiling fish. I began to seriously wonder if I was still asleep on the subway.

We waited for the plane to be “repaired,” but when I heard the gate agent give out the toll-free reservation change number, I dialed immediately. A wise move, as I beat the loudspeaker announcement by enough time to get my choice of California flights — none of which, I quickly learned, were headed to Palm Springs. LAX it was, ultimately making the Tates’ journey both ill-timed and unnecessary.

My lucky luggage, on the other hand, was already on its way to Palm Springs; no one was certain, but chances were good that it managed to sneak aboard a flight with no empty seats, but plenty of room in the cargo hold. I asked around, but I did not have the same option.

I was nearly picked up in Los Angeles by Lisa and the Barrs, who were in the neighborhood, but lacked a sixth seatbelt. It was probably for the best — my skill at meeting people is hard to understate, even on days when my plane doesn’t almost crash. And so instead I met the longsuffering Josh at the airport and dined with him at In-N-Out; after a 2-hour drive to collect my wayward luggage (temperature: 99) and a 1-hour drive back up the mountain (temperature: 72), the day was finally, mercifully, done.

A Brief Note

10/1/2008, 12:00 am -- by | 1 Comment

Hello, friends. Happy October.

The past month has brought significant change to Bweinh!, and I wanted to make you aware of some of the details.

First, please join me in thanking Chloe and Erin for all of their fantastic contributions, which have, unfortunately, come to an end. Their insightful perspectives and well-fashioned prose, which enlivened so much of the site, will truly be missed.

Second, we are currently in a time of transition, and it may result in slightly more sporadic updates. The weekly Bible discussion will continue on its regular schedule, but articles and Clashes may be slower to appear at times. I’m not quite sure what this transition will bring, or when it will be complete, but I can tell you that the site will neither disappear nor fade away.

Third, there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that tremors in the overseas credit markets will lead to our acquisition by a larger, more established website, or even the United States government. Allow me to assure you that we are as solvent today as the day we began; your money is as safe with us as it is with any group of random strangers who enjoy the finer things in life. Oh, and I earned this Maserati. I intend to keep it.

Fourth — well, there is no fourth. You can leave early! But please feel free to email me with any suggestions or comments, about anything at all. And thanks for visiting.

Adventures in Puppyhood!

09/28/2008, 10:12 am -- by | 3 Comments

Meet Reagan! (And Gorby the duck)

Meet Reagan! (And Gorby the duck)

Official Wife Karen is a glutton for punishment. Whenever we would visit the mall, she would always make sure we stopped at the pet store to look at the puppies. I like dogs, so naturally I agreed to LOOK at the $1,000+ puppies in the mall, but never, ever, ever, ever, ever in a million years would we buy one there.

As much as I love her, Official Wife Karen is what you could call impulsive. So seeing puppies in the mall made her want them, checking account balance notwithstanding. Combine her impulsiveness with her gluttony for punishment and you have a recipe for disaster. I want that puppy, I want it now, and if you loved me you wouldn’t show me puppies we can’t afford.

We had been looking through ads in the newspaper to see the prices for different puppies for sale and had decided that we wanted a chocolate lab puppy named Albert Q. Einstein and a beagle puppy named Sir Isaac Newton. And of course, since we live in an apartment with a no-pet lease, we’d get them once we bought a house.

Yesterday morning, she wanted to look at puppies at the SPCA. LOOK at puppies. Look at puppies. Look, look, look, look, look.

Look, not buy. Continued here!

A Faithful Witness

09/26/2008, 4:52 pm -- by | 1 Comment

“Poetry too is a little incarnation . . .”
C.S. Lewis

Anything that I have ever written, if it was written well, seemed to me not something I created, but rather something I uncovered. Anything possessing real beauty or wisdom is surely an absolute, which existed long before I penned the words or captured the thoughts to put on display. So it is imperative when I write to be faithful to recreate what I feel or see in my mind. It can\’t be written to appeal to a certain person or demographic. I can\’t alter what I see or feel: I can only write and re-write until it comes as close as possible to what I saw or felt.

To illustrate this point, I have always intended to write a short story, about a boy who lives by the sea and discovers a shipwreck, filled with immeasurable treasures, too heavy to bring to the surface. At first all he can do is dive down and glimpse them, but in time, he trains himself to hold his breath for a longer time, until he can stay long enough to memorize their appearance. Eventually he is able to reproduce the wondrous treasures in pictures to show the village.

The crisis would come when people begin to buy the pictures, and he is tempted to listen to suggestions for improving the appeal of the pictures for others. Through the struggle, he would ultimately come to understand that he must stay faithful to what he sees — although no one else had developed their lungs and braved the depths to view the treasures, at some point they might, and he would be found to be a liar. He would be found to have been false to what he saw; false to himself.

And that is why and how I write.

Best of Bweinh! — Is Belief Offensive?

09/25/2008, 11:00 am -- by | No Comments

Originally published March 29, 2007.

This week on my campus, the several Christian groups have all participated in a campaign called “I Agree With Craig.” Junior Craig Jones printed a statement of faith as an ad in the campus paper on Monday, hundreds of signs were posted, Christian students wore “I Agree With Craig” T-shirts all week, more ads were taken out where students, faculty, and staff said why they agreed with Craig, and several events have been, or will be, held — including a praise celebration, Craig’s public testimony, and a forum discussion on Christianity.

This campaign has unified the Christians on campus, many of whom were not aware how large their numbers were, or who else in their classes believed as they did. But naturally, the campaign has also caused a bit of controversy. Today’s “point-counterpoint” section of the newspaper concerned the campaign, and the featured columnist argued — well, I’ll let you see just what he argued. Go ahead, check it out. I’ll wait.

 

*twiddles thumbs*

 

Wow, huh? Pretty stunned? So was I!

Let’s go through this guy’s argument. First of all, public displays of personal faith — apparently ranging from street preachers to written testimonies to unobtrusive clothing — make him “anxious,” much like you might squirm at the sight of face-sucking on the bus. Fair enough so far. But what’s his solution? Well, it’s not to get a thicker skin, or to engage the actual ideas involved — no, this brave and brilliant gentleman has a problem with something far more fundamental — the very right of others to express what they believe in a public place, provided it has anything to do with the “binary” message of right and wrong. A full-blooded assault on at least two of the First Amendment’s underlying themes!

In Ben Peskin’s world, any statement you make, any belief you have that someone might reasonably disagree with, is best saved for your bedroom, late at night, behind closed doors, maybe even under your covers with a flashlight — and even then you ought to whisper it, because there’s a chance he might overhear and get a little uneasy down in his tummy. I’d love to see him teach a math class. “Class! Everyone got an A again, unless, of course, you don’t think that particular symbol represents an A, in which case you got whatever grade you want! Yes, 3 times 3 equals whatever you want it to, provided of course you don’t arrogantly stand up for your answer as right!”

Metaphysics and religion are different from mathematics, but closely examine Ben’s argument. He’s not arguing Craig is wrong; he has no interest in even considering Craig’s beliefs. His problem is strictly with the fact that Craig, and thousands of other Christians, stood up and shared them. Apparently in Ben’s world, it’s better to actively silence any messy discussion of religion, morals, diet soda or (one would imagine) politics, than allow such conversations to be shared publicly — through any means. Just think of all the Pepto-Bismol Ben would need if people were allowed to argue! It’s much better to just stay home and stay quiet, Christians, rather than “rolling around nude on the quad making out” with your four-word T-shirts. For Ben’s sake. Please.

Is it arrogant to share your beliefs, as Ben suggests, especially if they imply that others are wrong? I don’t think so. But if it is, then lo and behold, Ben is the most arrogant — after all, he’s the only one with both the courage to take a hard position and the intellectual confusion to order his opponents to just shut up and obey.

Why We Believe: Vol. 10

09/23/2008, 1:00 pm -- by | No Comments

At long last, on this, his 30th birthday — we present Josh’s testimony, the latest in our testimony series.

Of all the things for which I have to be thankful in this life, there is one unparalleled: the faith of my parents. What would prove to be the very foundation of my own life, my earliest understanding of God, that He is and who He is, was rooted not in the fact that my parents told me about Him (although they certainly did that), but in that they live their lives as though He is an absolute certainty.

Not that I never doubted. I distinctly remember when I was about four years old, wondering if the whole thing was a conspiracy. Those books in the back of the pew could be made up, and my parents could be in on it. Even my childish mind soon came to the conclusion that the thought that God does not exist is far more preposterous than the thought that He does.

Not that I fully understood. I was told that church was God\’s house, but I wasn\’t sure where He was, since I\’d been all over that building and never once run into Him. I finally figured He must spend most of His time in my mother\’s office, the one room I wasn\’t allowed to enter. I passed by the door with great reverence.

But I knew that God could make His dwelling in my heart, if I accepted the gift of His Son. And so, as a little boy, I said the sinner\’s prayer, and that little boy received salvation.

Of course, that little boy isn\’t here anymore. He\’s been gone for some time now.

I was 16 the first time I realized that I took my faith for granted, that the God of salvation accepted by a young boy would have to be accepted by a young man. As my understanding increased, as my person matured, as my life changed altogether, I would have to decide anew for whom that life was going to be lived.

The Lord continued to place people in my life to give me the love, encouragement, and instruction I needed to point me to Him, to keep growing, to keep surrendering. The fellowship of believers has reflected Him to me, and I am privileged to be a part of that fellowship, to reflect Him to others.

And so I seek after the Lord, and I find Him faithful. I seek His will, and He directs me, He sustains me, He supplies my needs. I stumble, and He restores me. I walk with Him today, and by His grace I will walk with Him tomorrow.

Tension and Balance

09/22/2008, 10:00 am -- by | 7 Comments

“It is the sea that shapes the sailor, and the land that shapes the sea . . .”
Rich Mullins, “The Breaks”

While we were checking out of Wal-Mart on Saturday, the subject of Sarah Palin came up, and I was astounded to find out that my son-in-law had no idea who she was. He had not even heard of her yet. I guess all that really means is that ”” as pervasive as coverage of her has been ”” it has not yet filtered down into the virtual environment of World of Warcraft.

Perhaps it\’s not so astounding. It started a good discussion about politics and presidential candidates, though, and eventually he asked me to explain the difference between liberals and conservatives. After considering and discarding various statements, I decided to fall back on the standard explanation that liberals basically favor more government involvement in our lives, while conservatives seek less.

I know that is an oversimplified statement of the opposing views, but in our country it is pretty accurate. Both views are necessary. Obviously no one wants to live without government oversight and regulation of society. I like to know that the bridge I\’m driving over has been engineered and built to some kind of safety standards, and I actually welcome government interference when my neighbors are partying in their driveway till the wee hours of the morning and I can ask a policeman to go by and have them turn the music down.

On the other hand, while some people are talking about the government hitting the oil companies with outrageous windfall profit taxes, I ask myself, “Would I want the government to step in when I have a good month at work and take another 30% of my profits ”” in addition to what I already paid?”

No, I wouldn\’t. I don\’t want them to have so much control over things that they stifle productivity and initiative by removing the rewards that come with hard work. That thinking has always led to failure in communist or socialist societies.

The chief impetus for civilization is the ability to pool our resources and create a system that gives us access to services and benefits that we could never afford on our own: libraries, courts, police, military. To accomplish that, we surrender some of our wealth by paying taxes. It also makes it possible to care for the poor among us. Our nation functions best by maintaining a good balance between the two opposing views; the tension keeps us from going off the deep end in either direction.

Liberals force conservatives like me to do a better job of helping the poor, protecting the environment, and being proactive on health care and other social issues. We force them to understand how a free market system works to generate the wealth necessary to perform the costly services that they want society to provide. In this country, we also serve to remind them that there is a God who has standards. We are committed to seeing those standards reflected in our national psyche, even when they run afoul of the liberal ideas on abortion, homosexuality, and other social issues.

We ended up having a good conversation, and I feel confident that my son-in-law at least has an inkling of who Sarah Palin is. And who knows: maybe now the Republicans have a shot at the 17 World of Warcraft electoral votes in November.

Best of Bweinh! — Scared of the Dark

09/18/2008, 12:30 pm -- by | 2 Comments

11 years ago tomorrow, Rich Mullins died in a car accident. He was a singer, a songwriter, a poet and a prophet, an honest and authentic man of God. He was 41.

Two days before he died, he wrote my favorite poem of all time, reprinted below. It was the last piece he wrote before his death.

Scared of the Dark
Rich Mullins
September 17, 1997

i don’t remember meeting Him
He had just always been there.
when people ask me, “how did you meet the Lord?”
i don’t know how to answer.
meeting Him seems unavoidable
recognizing Him can be tricky
loving Him seems impossible.
people often ask that too — “do you love Jesus?”
and again i’m stuck for an answer
i know the right one — the answer you’re supposed to give
i know that it presupposes so many things that it could hardly be honest
so i say,
as much as i love,
i love Jesus.

if love was easier, i would love Him more
but then again
if love was easier, it would hardly be worth the little it would ask
if i was stronger, i would love Him more
or maybe
i would more know how little i love

we grow slowly,
and love takes time . . .

Continued here!

Best of Djere: Ethical Immorality

09/16/2008, 3:00 pm -- by | No Comments

Originally published, July 2007.

unethical — not being in accordance with the rules or standards for right conduct or practice.
immoral — deliberately violating accepted principles of right and wrong.

The terms are used almost interchangeably these days, and I don’t know just how fair that is. In case this is your first visit to the planet, welcome to America, land of moral relativism.

Morality speaks to the inherent right-ness or wrong-ness of a given action, thought, or behavior. Regardless of the current pulse of the nation or flavor of the week, Morality exists and has existed from beyond the beginning of time.

Ethics are different. The problem with ethicality is that it changes from person to person, culture to culture, and time to time. I define ethics as the application of your values.

values — the ideals, customs, institutions, etc., of a society toward which the people of the group have an affective regard. These values may be positive, as cleanliness, freedom, or education, or negative, as cruelty, crime, or blasphemy.

Think of the things you value — freedom, money, family. The application of your values — which values take priority over other values — now that’s where you create your ethics. If a business organization places a high value on integrity or truthfulness, part of their code of ethics will reflect that importance. If a member were to deal unfairly with an associate, his actions would be unethical — contrary to the values of his organization.

Personal and organizational ethics are derived from values. Values are based upon two things — both a little farther removed from the lofty ethical ideals we think of as right and wrong. First, we base our values on likes and dislikes, two things which interact, change, morph, and ebb and flow as the years pass. Second, we base them on our experiences and observations.

Likes and dislikes, experience and observation give us the why behind the values which gives us the why behind the ethics. Like a pyramid, many experiences and observations combine into our likes and dislikes. Many likes and dislikes combine into our values. Several values combine into our ethics. The truest state of our ethics come from the bottom up, percolating from our past into our future.

Standing alone are morals. Being a Christian, I cannot believe anything but that morals are absolute. There is absolute supreme truth, and it is real and substantial. If morals are the thing, ethics are the shade, the shadow, the human approximation.

With the regeneration of ourselves through the redemptive work of Christ *should* come the regeneration of our code of ethics. Working in the hearts of men, the Holy Spirit Himself transforms us from the top down.

Nothing can change your past — your experiences, your observations, your hurts and past sins. What changes is your response to them, the forgiveness you receive, and hopefully, your values.

Four Weeks (Part Six)

09/12/2008, 2:00 pm -- by | 1 Comment

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Josh delivered me to the Staten Island ferry terminal deep in the middle of the night. I walked up the stairs through a deserted station to the waiting area, where my two bags were reasonably sniff-searched by a friendly officer and his taciturn dog. The boat itself was near-empty, containing the usual suspects: sleeping homeless men bound down for the next in a series of 30-minute naps; a few Type A white collars, off to put an early chokehold on the workday; small groups of nocturnal young men in gold chains.

I remember the exceptions very well. A 40-something black woman comforting two young children. The occasional solitary young woman, with omnipresent iPod and steely, self-reliant New York eyes. The unkempt man who screamed nonsense at the top of his lungs: like many of us, very angry about something he couldn’t quite express.

On my quarter-mile walk to the subway station, I slung my carry-on around my neck and struggled to smoothly heft my suitcase. Rolling bags were not designed for those of two-meter height. Lumbering down the sidewalk, I was startled by a horn from the street. Ten feet away, a cab had stopped in the middle of the road. Its driver looked at me expectantly, eyes and mouth open wide, gesturing to the back seat like a taxicab Messiah. “Behold! Thy salvation cometh!”

I let him down as gently as I could and descended into the bowels of the city to catch the 4 train north. The crisp, cool harbor air quickly gave way to the humid, sinister dankness of the underground. I took out my voice recorder to both capture and fight off the eerie noir. I felt safe because the setting was so impossibly clichéd. True evil hides.

I switched to the JFK-bound A, boarding a car containing three other passengers, which seemed perfect. No large drunken groups, no danger from solitude. You may not always be able to count on help, but some chance beats none. If I’d been in the car with that hammerer, the story would have ended differently, one way or another. All it takes sometimes is one person who acts.

But if your troubles are more pedestrian, you may not want me in your car. We neared JFK and my closest neighbor was an elderly Chinese woman clutching a small suitcase. Both of us had been sleeping, but she had not awakened. I didn’t know if there was another JFK stop, or if she was headed elsewhere, or if she spoke English, or (God forbid) if she had died — so I took the cowardly middle ground, making as much noise as I possibly could without touching her. I slammed my bags, I cleared my throat, I even faked a sneeze. Nothing.

I got off alone. I watched the subway slide down the tracks; it still held the woman, who, still, held her suitcase. The sun was rising, and before the workday ended, I would be in California. I hope she got where she was meant to be.

Statistics and Lives

09/11/2008, 11:30 am -- by | No Comments

I read an article that noted a surprising consequence of high gasoline prices: a drop in US traffic deaths, producing the lowest figure in nearly a decade. 42,708 people died in traffic accidents in 2006; the total dropped to 41,059 in 2007. 1,649 fewer people died last year, in part because gas prices rose, people drove less, and fatal accidents occurred at a diminished rate. Statistics can be so cold and calculated.

It isnʼt a crisis of faith that prompts me to think about this. I know God holds us in His hands — I’m the first to agree that we enter and leave this world on His timetable — but something about the thought of whimsical economic forces defining the boundaries of my existence baffles me. After all, you or me — either of us — could be one of those 1,649, now still free to touch and affect others in myriad untraceable ways. I guess it gets all mixed in with chaos theory, the “butterfly effect.” A dictator flaps his mouth, and on the other side of the world, 1,649 more people stay alive.

Why do I care so much about this? 43,510 people died on the highway in 2005; that’s another statistic. But one of them was more than a statistic to us. His name was Bobby, and he lived in Florida. He was 78; he had a wife; he died in an accident because my wife didnʼt see his car and pulled out in front of him.

I got to pray for him and tell him, through tears of grief, how sorry she was. We shared an emergency room together — Bobby with internal injuries, my wife with a fractured neck.

Itʼs been almost three years now, but sometimes the shadow of that grief passes over my wife again, and I can see it. A scene from some movie, or an offhand comment, can bring the whole thing back, and I try to comfort her. I remind her that there were extenuating circumstances. The intersection was under construction: barrels, equipment, confusing signs. Her accident was the second that day at the intersection, the sixth in two weeks. Someone was rushing her, vigorously motioning from the far side of the intersection for her to hurry up. She looked twice, both ways, and saw no one. The gentleman was speeding.

I remind her that there was an investigation, and no negligence was found. She was not speeding, talking on her cell phone, or using drugs or alcohol; in fact, in over 30 years of driving, she never had so much as a single speeding ticket on her record.

I remind her that it was an accident.

It passes eventually, and sheʼs okay again. Itʼs just life, and if Iʼve learned anything in life, Iʼve learned that everyone has to learn to live with pain. Every family has a statistic or a skeleton that can jump out of the closet at any moment and reopen old wounds.

It just seems so capricious; so arbitrary. Gas hits $4 a gallon and 1,649 people live who would have died.

But 2005 is history; unchangeable.

On Thought; On Thinking

09/10/2008, 10:00 am -- by | No Comments

“If I have a book to serve me as my understanding, a pastor to serve as my conscience, a physician to determine my diet for me, and so on, I need not exert myself at all.”

Because, frankly, who wants to exert themselves?

I am at that point in life where we\’re supposed to take our beliefs and make them our own. We all have this sense of independent thought, this underlying ethos of self-determined path. I. I. Just the assertion of such bespeaks incredible audacity. I am saying this. It has come from me, and, further, I am worth listening to. I live and breathe and participate in life. I have a voice.

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” Is this true? It has to be. Who could deny it? Rational, thoughtful consideration of what we\’re doing and why we\’re doing it. Intentionality ”” purposefulness. Are we thinking? Am I thinking? Are you my responsibility? Spinoza said that his happiness was contingent on persuading others to think as he did. If I attempt a thoughtful life, and find it even marginally satisfying, isn\’t encouraging the same in you the least I could do?

Mental exertion. Laborious. So hard to ascend the mountain. Why do it? Why do anything? I mean, really now. Why expend so much energy to rise up out of sensual, physical comfort? Why get out of bed in the morning? Why rip off the cozy comforter and spring up into the spare clear air bare and awake?

Why not?

That\’s the thing about thinking. You begin thinking that thinking is a waste of time; unproductive, nothing to show for it in the end, that sort of thing. But you do it long enough and you realize that without it, nothing else has worth. I got out of bed this morning. I went surfing this morning. I am going to be late to my Intro to Philosophy class if I don\’t finish this soon. I am going to rip off my unexamined blanket of beliefs and plunge into the cold clear water, inky grey-green obsidian glass, and paddle.

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